“Fuck. We take out their spook, we’re painting a bull’s-eye on ourselves.” Chronister folded a Kleenex, held it up to his nose and breathed through it. “You know I actually typed up a resignation letter the day I heard the president authorized Cambone and that born-again whack-job Boykin to round up a bunch of soldiers and start playing I Spy. I predicted this was going to happen-us tripping all over each other. You know the Pentagon’s real goal is to shut us down and corner the market on intel. Those fuckers spying on us is just another goddamn brick in the wall.”
“If they learn that one of their Bushmen has started playing ball with the tangos, they might take care of him for us.”
“Not without asking a lot of questions. And I have a lot I’d like answered-like how deep has Zulu penetrated Rubicon.” Chronister shined a penlight on the file and thumbed through it.
“You have to burn him with Zulu. Make them doubt everything he says.”
“Let me keep this.” Chronister tapped his fingers on the file. “I can fuck him up with Zulu.” A picture fell out of the file and fluttered to the car floor. Chronister picked it up. “Hey, I know this motherfucker. He was engaged to someone I used to work with. You know, I might be able to help you out with a silent solution after all. You ever meet Camille Black? She’s a real ball buster, in the best kind of way.”
Chapter Five
“Anbar is controlled by terrorist groups,” said Sheik Yaseen Gaood,[Iraqi] deputy minister of the Interior overseeing the western provinces. “The Anbar government has no authority. The ministries of Interior and Defense have no influence there.”
– The Los Angeles Times, June 11, 2006, as reported by Megan K. Stack and Louise Roug
Anbar Province
As Hunter drove out of the gates of the camp and into Anbar province, he gritted his teeth and immediately felt pain. His tongue checked on the tooth, still tucked into the side of his mouth. He had to get it back in the socket soon.
Like he had earlier in the night on the way to the raid, he turned right toward Ramadi. His unit had worked out an emergency exit plan for him-the only problem was he had to get to the insurgent stronghold, Ramadi. The escape plan had been set up before the insurgents had returned there yet again and no one in the Pentagon had ever gotten around to modifying it. He knew an American armed only with a SIG Sauer and a little over thirty rounds wouldn’t make it far on the dusty roads of Anbar province. A goat in an Afghan mujahedin camp had a better chance of dying a virgin.
He had to go local.
The guys at Rubicon were constantly leaving things in their trucks but a quick scan of the back of the Navigator confirmed what he already knew-Camille Black ran a tight ship. A break-down kit was in the back along with ammo cans he’d check out when he got a chance, even though he was sure it would be 5.56 rounds for assault rifles, not 9mm for his sidearm. What he wouldn’t have given for a stray rifle or even a different vehicle, one outfitted for a trunk monkey-a machine gunner with a mounted weapon designed to punch out the back window with the first round and surprise the road hazard with the following ones.
With one hand on the wheel, he reached under the driver’s seat, hoping something useful had escaped inspection, but he found nothing. Leaning over to the passenger seat, he patted the floorboard and his hand bumped up against something, but it rolled away. A water bottle. Hopefully it had a few swallows left in it. The tooth was driving him crazy and he had to do something about it. Already on the edge of Ramadi, he pulled over to the side of the road, unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the water bottle. It was half full.
He turned the overhead light on and opened the door. He poured some water into his hand, he spat his tooth into the palm, then swirled it in the water. Although he had stitched up comrades more than once and had even carved a bullet from his own thigh, teeth were different. He’d rather face a horde of tangos than a dentist. It was all he could do to force himself to look at it. At least it seemed to be free from dirt.
Careful not to touch the roots, he picked it up and turned it around as he tried to figure out which way it went in. The water rolled out of his hand onto the ground. He leaned back into the truck to look into the rearview mirror to find the hole. Checking one more time to make sure the tooth was turned the right way, he took a deep breath and shoved it into the socket. Pain zinged his mouth. After another measured breath, he bit down firmly, pushing the tooth farther down. He jumped from the jolt.
He swirled warm water in his mouth. As he leaned out the door to spit, a knife thrust toward him. He jerked out of the way and yanked the door shut to the sound of bone being crushed. A man screamed and the knife fell to the ground. Unsure if the carjacker had buddies with him, Hunter threw the SUV into gear, grabbed the arm and held onto it. This was the break he needed and he wasn’t about to let go.
The man howled as he was dragged alongside the Navigator. Hunter glanced into the mirror and even though he saw no accomplices, he still wanted to get a little distance from the carjacking site, just in case. The man was going for a short ride. Hunter sank his fingers into the guy’s hairy forearm, digging his fingernails into the skin, but he couldn’t get a good grip. The arm slipped away. He hit the brakes, came to a stop, then sprang from the vehicle.
The young man lay unconscious in the dirt, his arm twisted into an unnatural position. Hunter yanked off the assailant’s headband, headscarf and beanie and dropped them onto the hood of the SUV. He wrestled with the body for its clothing, a dishdashah, the traditional white man-dress worn throughout the Arabian Peninsula. He worked the skirt above the man’s hips, exposing his genitals. Keeping with local customs, the carjacker wore no underwear. Hunter averted his eyes.
“This is why guys in Detroit never go out carjacking free-balling under a dress. It’s not only the cold,” Hunter said as pulled the dishdashah over the man’s head. He wadded it up and grabbed the headdress. He smiled when he found a small wad of cash. It wasn’t much, but would be enough to get him by for awhile before he could sell the gold chain necklace that he always wore for such emergencies. He jumped into the Navigator to drive back to where the guy had lost his slippers.
The dirt streaked across the front of the white cotton garment would draw some attention, but even so, the man-dress would help him blend in a lot better than his 5.11 pants and Under Armour T-shirt. Back on the tango turn-pike to Ramadi, he yanked off his shirt and undershirt, then pulled the dress over his head and down to his waist. The Velcro crackled as he pulled the sheath off his leg and lay his knife on the seat beside him. Steering with his knee, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his ankles where they got stuck around his combat boots. Peeking up over the dashboard just enough to see the road ahead, he untied his boots and took off his pants. For a few moments he debated with himself whether he really needed to lose his jockeys, but knew he had to do everything he could to blend in. His knife could have been a spoil of war, he told himself as he strapped it back onto his bare leg, but as much as it pained him, he would have to leave the firearm in the SUV. He had no way of concealing it and passing as an Iraqi was a far more powerful defense than a single bullet.