He slipped back into the overcoat and tied the scarf over his head, wishing he had shaved off the moustache and beard when he’d had the chance. Arab women did often seem to have a bit of a five o’clock shadow, but his was really pushing it. He hunched down, bowed his head and waved at the terrified family as he stepped out the doorway.
Chapter Forty-Two
Anbar Province
Camille’s Little Bird intercepted the Black Management Hawks a few kilometers before Ramadi. Camille ordered the lead Black Hawk to set down in a field there, so she could swap places and equipment with her Chief Operations Officer, Manuel “Iggy” Ignatius. Camille knew her proper place was in the Little Bird, directing both air and ground battles, but this was too personal and her passions too dangerous. She was putting Iggy in charge of the skirmish and herself in the middle of it. Iggy was an alum of Delta Force, Gray Fox and CIA Special Activities Division and she could think of no better hands to place herself in, even though one of those hands was made from carbon composites, a prosthetic hand, courtesy of the Taliban.
The Little Bird landed in a field with patches of green, thanks to irrigation waters from the nearby Euphrates. The crop had been harvested and she guessed from the withered vines that it had been some kind of melons. The lead Black Hawk touched down twenty meters away while the other continued on to the village. She squinted her eyes and breathed through her T-shirt, trying in vain to protect herself from the swirling dust and sand as she jumped down from the Little Bird and ran over to the Hawk.
A little less than halfway there, she passed Iggy. He was the only operator she had ever known who wore shorts into battle. He claimed long pants restricted movement in his prosthetic leg, but she suspected he also did it to remind the troops in case they hadn’t noticed his prosthetic arm. She grabbed his new arm as they passed and wished him luck.
The rear crew door of the Black Hawk had been removed for combat. Camille climbed inside. Metallica was blaring “Enter Sandman” over the intercom, thanks to a jury-rigged iPod. She caught the pilot’s gaze, glanced at a speaker and slid her finger across her throat, then pointed her index finger straight up and moved it in circles. He nodded, cut the music and the bird lifted into the air. Someone reached out to help steady her while she held on to whatever her hand could find.
Ten operators and their full combat gear were crunched into the troop space. Several of them were the same ones she had ridden with a couple nights ago in the Cougar, including GENGHIS. She recognized the distant, hardened looks on their faces, warriors headed into battle. This time no one was smiling and joking around like they did when they went after insurgents. Tangos were a ragtag bunch, poorly trained, barely equipped, but Rubicon had equipment which more or less equaled theirs and its soldiers were schooled by the very same American units. And they were Americans.
Camille plugged her headset into the intercom. “You all heard the sitrep, so you know what’s going on.” The ride smoothed out and she squatted on the floor in the middle of her troops. “Rubicon shot down one of our Hawks with our man inside. The guy we’ve been searching for, Hunter Stone, is one of us. He infiltrated Rubicon to find out why they were beating us to job sites and whatever he found out, they want to kill him for it.” Camille pleased herself with her ability to lie on the fly. The CIA had taught her well. She really didn’t like deceiving her troops, but the truth was far more complicated and far less motivational. “I know it has something to do with Rubicon selling arms caches to the muj. Stone survived the crash and he’s on the ground running for his life. Rubicon brought two Mi-8s filled with operators ordered to hunt him down and they have a good ten minute head start. They shot our bird down and they lit me up. You’re authorized to use lethal force against Rubicon. We’re at war, gentlemen. Hunter Stone is counting on us. Let’s go get him.”
“You really going in with us?” GENGHIS said. A pinch of tobacco bulged in his cheek.
“Hunter Stone is one of us and I leave no man behind. Now where’s my gear and the clothes you’re supposed to have for me? I can’t go into combat in a T-shirt and shorts. And someone tell the pilot to turn Metallica back on.”
Suddenly she was very aware that she wasn’t wearing underwear. From the way the guys were looking at her breasts, they had noticed, too. Someone handed her a pair of desert camouflage pants. She unbuckled her belt and shouted above the music. “Everyone close your eyes-that’s an order.”
Everyone complied, except Genghis. He sat there leering at her.
No man was going to intimidate Camille Black. Struggling to keep her balance as the helicopter maneuvered, she pulled off her shorts and paused for a moment. She stood naked from the waist down, glaring at him.
GENGHIS spoke. “I thought you’d be sitting pretty in the Little Bird, ordering us around like your own toy soldiers.” He squinted his eyes and nodded his head, pausing a few seconds before he spoke. “Your daddy would be proud. His little princess has balls.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Jabal Ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
The ground hadn’t heated up yet, but Hunter had already stepped in enough goat turds to be on the lookout for the nearest mosque so he could help himself to some sandals left outside the entryway. One of the nasty little pellets had wedged between his toes and others were smashed onto the bottom of his feet. He heard some occasional AK and M4 fire, but nothing serious. Two more Black Hawks had flown in operators and a Little Bird was hovering overhead. Kids were playing in the streets, running and pointing at the circling helicopters. Locals went about their routine business, apparently numb to helicopter swarms. Hoping to slowly work his way outside of their search grid, he kept his head tucked and did his best to waddle down the dirt road like a very expectant Muslim lady. He laughed to himself. His buddies were right-Stella really was a ball breaker. She had reduced a warrior to the kind of guy his buddies had always insisted that she wanted-barefoot and pregnant.
Gunfire echoed from a few streets away. In seconds, the casual shots turned into a heated exchange. The locals melted into the buildings as one of the Black Hawks dipped down and the Little Bird seemed to maneuver low to get a better view of the action. Suddenly, several AKs fired and the place sounded like New Year’s Eve in Chinatown. The celebration was moving toward him.
Chapter Forty-Four
But if one is sitting at home as an Iraqi, and all one can see are civilian contractors bristling with weapons, it begs the question who are these people? Who ultimately do I turn to if, God forbid, they shoot my son or my husband, who do I turn to? From our own point of view we would find it pretty extraordinary to have armed civilians from a plethora of nations walking our streets, and in certain cases, as has happened in Iraq, setting up vehicle checkpoints and getting involved in controlling the population with no clear legal authority to do so.
– File on Four, The BBC, May 25 2004, interview with Duncan Bullivant, owner of Henderson Risks, a private military company active in Iraq
Jabal Ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
A Few Minutes Earlier
In ’04 Camille had personally joined one of her advance teams, quietly paying house calls to some special residents on the eve of the Battle of Fallujah before the Marines moved in. Together with her operators, she had raided apartment buildings with sarin and VX chemical weapons labs. She had liberated torture chambers and walked through execution rooms right after tangos had finished live internet broadcasts. All of that was preferable to bursting through the doors of innocent civilians, violating every inch of their lives, and having to make split-second decisions as to whether they were grabbing for a gun. Anyone raising a weapon against them was an insurgent, they all told themselves as they squeezed the trigger.