He ducked into the first open doorway he found. An old lady was rubbing raw wool between her palms, making yarn while she watched a game show on TV. A horde of kids was playing with a half-inflated yellow balloon. She screamed and the children joined in as they scrambled to get behind the woman.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in Arabic, as he pulled on his pants. He raised his voice and repeated himself so she could hear him over their high-pitched shrieks, then he heard a helicopter moving above the building. It wasn’t as loud as a Black Hawk; it sounded smaller, more like a Little Bird. What was a second helo doing there so fast?
The woman started to settle down and was now breathing hard, trying to catch her breath.
“Don’t hurt us.”
“Give me the biggest jilbab you’ve got and a headscarf and I’ll go. You’re going to be all right. Get me the clothes. Now!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet as gently as he could without losing any speed. Man-handling an old lady got to him, but he had to get a sense of urgency across to her. Women aged so fast here. He told himself she was probably not more than ten years older than he was. But even if they were the same age, it still didn’t make it right.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
The belly of the Little Bird deflected some light gunfire from the locals as it hovered low over the village while Camille and Beach Dog searched for any sign of Hunter. Wherever he was, he was staying put. When she realized the sound of their helicopter was probably making him feel pinned down, she ordered Beach Dog to climb to a safe altitude. Camp Tornado Point was less than fifty kilometers away and it would take the Black Hawks under ten minutes once they were airborne. Beach Dog flew in a high holding pattern while they waited for the Black Management troops to arrive. With any luck, Hunter would chance a dash between buildings and they’d get a bead on his position.
The airframe of the Rubicon helicopter had rolled on its side on impact a few hundred meters outside the village. There was no movement around it, but Camille knew that didn’t mean much. The cabin was a defensible position, offering shelter from the sun, which was already starting to bake. The crew could be sitting inside, waiting for rescue. The downed crew was Rubicon’s problem, not hers. She would help with a little close air support only if the tangos moved in around them in serious numbers.
Using binoculars, Camille watched two helos flying toward them from the direction of Camp Tornado Point. From their last reported position, she didn’t expect to have a visual on them yet, but she guessed that she could see farther than anticipated in the clear desert air.
“Whatcha gonna do about Rubicon shooting down our bird?” Beach Dog worked the cyclic as they circled above the village. “You’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?”
“No way. I’d say they’ve crossed the Rubicon.”
“Huh?”
“The die’s cast.” The two helicopters were now close enough for Camille to get a good look-Russian-made, with diagonal ruby stripes bordered in white: Rubicon. “When Julius Caesar marched his army across the Rubicon River, he knew he was starting a civil war in Rome. Rubicon crossed the line today. I’d say we’re looking at the same thing-civil war.”
Part Two: Civil Wars
Through most of the Bush administration, the CIA high command has been engaged in a bitter struggle with the Pentagon.
– CNN., September 27, 2004, as reported by Robert Novak
“This is a turf battle,” said retired Army Col. W. Patrick Lang, former head of Middle Eastern affairs for the Defense Intelligence Agency. “All of this represents that clandestine human intelligence in the Department of Defense is a growth industry and that it is no longer regarding itself as under the control of the CIA.”
– The Los Angeles Times, March 24, 2005, as reported by
Mark Mazzetti and Greg Miller
Chapter Thirty-Eight
With every week of insurgency in a war zone with no front, these companies are becoming more deeply enmeshed in combat, in some cases all but obliterating distinctions between professional troops and private commandos. Company executives see a clear boundary between their defensive roles as protectors and the offensive operations of the military. But more and more, they give the appearance of private, for-profit militias.
– The New York Times, April 19, 2004, as reported by David Barstow
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
Camille and Beach Dog hovered over the village in the Little Bird and watched the Rubicon Russian-built Mi-8 helos come in low over the field near their downed aircraft, but they didn’t stop. One landed at the side of the village and the other continued on. Camille shook her head. “Un-fucking believable. Rubicon’s going after Hunter before helping their own guys. It really is a war. What do you think? Have you ever taken on two birds at once?”
“You have to waste them now while they’re on the ground and vulnerable. Our guns have a longer range, but Hawks can take a beating Little Birds can’t,” Beach Dog said as he scanned the skies.
Camille radioed her base at Camp Tornado Point and her ops center at Camp Raven in Baghdad to see what was taking them so long and learned that something big had happened a half hour ago near the Syrian border and the Marines were asking for everything Black Management had. Her operations officers were scrambling to redeploy equipment from Mosul and Tikrit so they wouldn’t be left shorthanded. She couldn’t believe that she owned a small army, but when she actually needed it, it was stretched too thin to give her the resources she requested. It was little comfort to know that Rubicon was probably in the same position and couldn’t afford to send many additional helicopters to their private skirmish.
Rubicon troops piled out of the first helicopter while the second one moved into position on the far side of the village. Camille leaned over and read the altimeter-3200 feet. “Let’s show them we’re serious. You up for a high angle strafing run?” Camille wanted to swoop down fast with the machine guns blazing and blast her own line in the sand, daring Rubicon to cross it.
“The Beach Dog’s always game.” He checked the gun switches, then looked down to study the terrain.
“Then let’s add some pep to their step. I don’t want to hurt anyone right now. You see any Iraqis in the way, abort.”
“Unless you’ve done a lot of these, I’d feel more comfortable working the gun, ma’am.”
“All yours, Dog.”
“Got your leash on nice and tight?” Beach Dog tugged on Camille’s restraints. “Initiating firing pass. Hang on, we’re surfing air!” The words had hardly left Beach Dog’s mouth when the nose of the Little Bird suddenly dipped.
Camille gasped as the helo dropped. The angle of attack was so steep, the four-point safety harness was all that held her back from crashing through the windshield and the bubble window of the Little Bird didn’t help steady her nerves-it gave her an unobstructed panorama of the approaching red earth. They were a good thousand feet away from the second Mi-8 helo, still gaining speed when Beach Dog fired a burst and started leveling off. A line of dust and sand puffed into the air, fifty feet away from the Rubicon helo. Beach Dog kept firing, drawing a line almost up to the wheels of the Rubicon Hawk.
“Yeah, baby!” Beach Dog shouted as he broke away from the target with evasive turns that tossed Camille back and forth in her seat.
“Now get us the hell away from here. I want out of range of their guns. As far as I know, Rubicon’s helos are outfitted with old M60s, but we’re starting to go back to Mod Deuces on ours, so keep over two clicks between us at all times just in case they’ve also switched over to the older, longer range runs.” She turned away from Beach Dog, gazed down at the village and whispered to herself, “Hang in there, Hunter. We’ll get you as soon as we can.”