“You okay?”
“More or less-how far away do you think the road is?”
“Couple miles. Not too bad. I can carry you, if you don’t think you can make it.”
“I’m okay. But one question, what do we do when we get to the highway?”
“Hitchhike.” Hunter gave her a thumb’s up. “Except we won’t use our thumbs-that gesture can get you in trouble in these parts. It’s the local version of giving someone the bird. And I’ll have to ditch the AK first.”
“And how do you think we can get Americans to stop for us when we’re wearing these things?” She tugged on her dishdashah.
“They won’t, unless you do something crazy like pull your off dress. They’d probably stop for a naked lady. We’re going to have to hitch a ride with the locals and take our chances.”
“Then I’m stripping.”
Chapter Twenty-One
In the documents, which cover nine months of the three-year-old war, contractors reported shooting into 61 vehicles they believed were threatening them. In just seven cases were Iraqis clearly attacking-showing guns, shooting at contractors or detonating explosives.
There was no way to tell how many civilians were hurt, or how many were innocent: In most cases, the contractors drove away. No contractors have been prosecuted for a mistaken shooting in Iraq.
– The News & Observer [Raleigh/Durham, NC], March 23, 2006, as reported by Jay Price
Anbar Province
Purples and oranges lingered in the sky when Hunter and Jackie spotted a Chevy Suburban leading a convoy of SUVs, American contractors zooming back to a green zone before nightfall. From the several different makes of vehicles, he guessed several companies had banded together for safety. White signs in English and Arabic on each vehicle warned: DANGER. KEEP BACK. AUTHORIZED TO USE LETHAL FORCE.
“Here’s our big chance,” Jackie said as she started to pull up her dishdashah.
“Don’t.” Hunter grabbed her arm. She shook him off, surprising him that she suddenly found so much strength.
“I’ll do whatever it takes.” She pulled the garment over her head and waved it at the approaching vehicles. “Help us! We’re American! Help!”
The headlights of the first vehicle shined on her naked body. It slowed down, then stopped with the doors cracked open and barrels of assault rifles sticking out. Hunter whispered to her. “This could be a problem for me. Follow my lead.”
“What the hell are you talking about? We’re saved.”
“Hands in the air.” Two contract soldiers wearing body armor and carrying AKs hopped out of the Suburban, their weapons trained on Hunter. The doors to the others were partially open and even though he couldn’t see the gun barrels, he knew every one of them had an automatic weapon pointed at him. Whistles and shouts came from the convoy.
“Shake it, baby,” someone shouted.
“Put your clothes on, Jackie.” Hunter drew out his words, feigning a Southern drawl.
“I said hands in the air,” the soldier said. “You, too, honey.”
“Get dressed now. Slowly.” Hunter turned his head toward the soldier and shouted. “Roadside strip show’s over. She’s had enough humiliation.”
She slipped the dishdashah over her head, but the catcalls continued.
“Look, we need a lift. You can tell we’re no threat to you. Feel free to frisk me or I can strip off my man-dress and give everyone another cheap thrill.”
“I’ll pass on that one.” One of the soldiers patted down Hunter. “I don’t suppose you have any ID on you. What are you doing here like this?”
“A mission went south. We’re lucky to be alive.” Hunter looked over the vehicles. There were three Ford Expeditions, a Lincoln Navigator and a RhinoRunner. He knew Stella had several Navigators and some Rhino-Runners for VIP transport. But the Ford Expeditions concerned him. They were Rubicon’s signature vehicle.
The soldier radioed his supervisor, then lowered his weapon. “There’s room in the second vehicle. Welcome back to civilization.”
Jackie tugged on an Expedition’s reinforced steel door, but it barely moved. Hunter reached around her.
“I got it. These armored things are a workout.”
Hunter boosted Jackie into the backseat and two men scooted over to make room for her. Two others sat in the third row of seats. All were dressed in khakis and ruby red T-shirts, Kevlar body armor and photographer’s vests stuffed with ammunition. The real hunters usually didn’t go out until late at night, so he guessed most of these guys were probably bomb disposal experts at the end of their work day. Elvis was blaring from the CD player. Hunter kept his head low, trying to shield his face as much as possible, hoping that whatever he had discovered about Rubicon, they wanted to keep extremely quiet and had not issued a general alert to all their troops. He only wished he knew what the hell the big Rubicon secret was that he supposedly knew. He kept racking his brains for clues and he didn’t even have many of those except Ashland, the spy he recognized in the tango safe house.
Hunter pretended to check on Jackie, pulling down her lower eyelid, even though it really was too dark to tell if the whites of her eyes were as jaundiced as he assumed they were. She needed more fluids and he could use this to keep the attention on her and reinforce that they were together because Rubicon was searching for a lone runner. “You fellas got a medic kit on you? I need a saline bag to get her hydrated.”
“Sure thing. We’ve got a medic in the other truck if you need one,” one of the guys behind them said as he reached for a med kit and passed it to Hunter.
“Thanks, but I can handle it right now.” Hunter unzipped the soft case and set an IV bag, a needle packet and an antiseptic wipe on his lap. He handed the kit back.
One of the men in the backseat said, “Jimmy, you got any of that Gatorade left?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy sat twisted to the side, looking out the window, his gun ready for action. He stuck his hand over the seat without turning away. “Here. It’s pretty warm though.”
“Thanks,” Jackie said. “Any of you guys have a cell phone,” Hunter elbowed her, but she ignored him and continued, “that I could use to call-”
He put his foot on top of hers and tapped it, then pressed with increasing force.
“You bet,” the guy next to her said and flipped open his Iraqna phone.
“I’m only going to tell him we got out alive,” she said in a low voice as she punched in a number. Hunter reached over and hit cancel.
Two of the men glanced at each other, noting his odd behavior.
“Sorry,” he mouthed to Jackie. She flashed him a disapproving look, but seemed to be playing along. Hunter rubbed the alcohol wipe on Jackie’s arm, then attached the needle to the IV bag and inserted the catheter.
“What the hell happened to you two out there?” The team leader said from the front passenger seat as he turned down the music.
“Just another day at the office.”
“Not at liberty to say, huh?”
“Sorry. It would make things a lot safer for us if you’d forget we were ever here.” Hunter squeezed the IV bag to force the saline to flow faster as he monitored the traffic ahead. It was heavy and classic Third World style: every man for himself. Signs, regulations and even lanes were treated as suggestions to be ignored. It was a giant game of chicken at seventy miles an hour on roads broken up by bombings, tank treads and neglect.
“I don’t know how you spooky types do it. I’ll take working with bombs any day. Hell of a lot safer.”
Hunter wanted to get the conversation off them fast and the best way to distract an EOD guy was to get him started talking about bombs. “So do you guys run with ECM?” Hunter knew the vehicles of the best contractors were all equipped with electronic counter measures which would send out signals that detonate any radio-controlled roadside bombs ahead of them.