“Almost two.”
“Bars still open?” Camille swayed.
“You don’t need any more.”
“Are they open?”
“Yeah.”
“Get a dozen men down here immediately.”
“With all due respect, you’re drunk and heartbroken and you look like shit. And that’s coming from someone who thinks you’re one of the most stunning women she’s ever seen.” Pete stood and put her hand on Camille’s back, nudging her toward her trailer.
“Get the boys. That’s a fucking order.”
Pete’s square jaw was clenched. “Yes, ma’am. What do you want? Hunters? Pilots? Spies? Technicians?”
“I don’t care. Whoever’s up. Civilian dress is fine-no gear. I expect them in front of my trailer in ten minutes.” Camille weaved more than she liked as she walked away. She had ten minutes to sober up, print some pictures and try to make herself look like a boss-one who, under the right circumstances, they would follow to their deaths.
As soon as Camille got back into the trailer, she flipped on the computer, grabbed a stack of twenties from petty cash and shoved them into the pocket of her running shorts. While waiting for the computer to boot up, she shoveled the rice and lamb stew into her mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. She would’ve preferred her favorite peanut M &Ms, but she didn’t have time to search for a bag.
The laptop was finally displaying the Windows desktop and the wallpaper was still the picture from three years ago that Hunter had taken at arms’ length of them laughing together, both splattered in Day-Glo fuchsia and orange paintball paint. She smiled this time as she remembered the high of that day. God, they had had so much fun.
She leaned over and clicked into a personal file and opened a more easily recognizable picture of Hunter. She set it to print two hundred copies, hoping to get as many as she could before time was up. On her way to the bathroom to clean up, she stopped to shovel in a few last mouthfuls of food and to guzzle as much water as she could stand. She had no doubt she really did look a wreck. A few splashes of cold water, a Black Management baseball cap and some sunglasses would have to do the trick. At least vodka didn’t taint her breath.
Iggy entered her trailer without knocking just as Camille was putting her hair into a pony tail and threading it through the back of a baseball cap. Papers were falling out of the printer tray. Then he noticed the candles, the empty bottle and the.45. He picked up the gun and flicked the safety back on.
“What’s going on, Cam? Pete told me you ordered her to muster my troops. She also told me you’re sauced.”
“I love you, Iggy, but no time.”
She snatched up the pile of papers from the printer. They all had Stone’s picture on it. She weaved toward the trailer door and Iggy grabbed her arm with his artificial hand.
“Cam, listen to me. You’re drunk. I can’t let you make a fool of yourself in front of your men.”
“Let go of me.” She twisted and pulled away.
Iggy followed Camille outside the trailer, embarrassed for her. A dozen off-duty men stood around in front of her quarters wearing Green Zone casual-skin-tight Under Armour T-shirts, Royal Robbins 5.11 pants and assault rifles. They were a mixture of operators, shooters, spooks and techies. Whatever stunt Camille was about to pull, no way could Iggy contain it. Word would spread like gunfire in Fallujah.
Camille climbed back onto the bottom step. A mortar thudded and whistled across the sky. No one even turned a head. She cleared her throat, then said, “You have a mission. Fan out to all the bars here in the bubble-”
The men laughed.
She continued. “I’m serious. Cover all the bars and the private trailer parties. Tell everyone I’m offering a bounty of one million dollars cash for this man.”
She held up the stack of papers. It was too dark to see anything other than that she was holding the sheets backwards. Jesus. Iggy leaned over to Pete. “Get those from her.”
Pete slipped up beside Camille and took the flyers.
Camille paused, waiting for the whistle of a mortar to stop. “Tangos are sure busy tonight. Must’ve cashed another Saudi check. They always seem to shoot their wad on payday-I’m sure none of you can relate to that.” The men laughed again. “I want you to find Hunter Stone-the one Rubicon captured between Fallujah and Ramadi. Hit the bars, but avoid media hangs-outs. Keep it in the family.”
“Any idea where he is?” one of the computer weenies said.
“No. Rubicon’s got him. Focus on getting word to Rubicon employees. Some of them know where he is,” Camille said.
“Ma’am, with all due respect,” a cocky operator known as COPPERHEAD said. He’d been a SEAL for only four years, but thought he could kick the world’s ass. “That’s not enough money if he’s being held in one of Rubicon’s facilities where they keep the tangos. It would take serious gear, a team of six top-tier operators with support, bribes for information-everyone would need a cut. It’s got to be worthwhile. One million might work if you want some Gurkhas or other Third World mercs taking a stab at it, but if you really want him-”
“I want to turn heads,” Camille said. Like she hadn’t already, shooting after a naked man running from her trailer and now talking to her troops drunk. She was a damn fine operator, but this personal crap was making her lose it. Much more of this and he would take out Stone himself.
“Try five million. That would get my attention,” someone shouted.
“Five it is. I’ll toss in an extra two mill if he’s not harmed in the op. One million for information that leads to his rescue.”
Iggy thought about how things had changed since the early penny-pinching days of Black Management when the Marines let them rummage through piles of seized AKs to arm their troops. Now they had so many government contracts, it wouldn’t even be a challenge for the accountants to figure out a way to bill the government for the five mil-chump change.
Camille pointed to Iggy. “For anyone from Black Management who convinces Iggy they have solid intel and a good plan, I’ll furnish the toys. Spread the word. By noon tomorrow I want every employee at Rubicon dreaming of retiring to Hawaii.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
For help on contracting, the Defense Department sometimes turns to other government agencies, who take on such work for the money, keeping a fraction of the total value of the contract in the form of a fee… After an internal Army report accused a CACI employee [at Abu Ghraib] of encouraging soldiers to set conditions for interrogations and said he “clearly knew his instructions equated to physical abuse,” it took more than a week for the government to track down and release details on the CACI contract, which was originally an Army contract but was turned over to the Interior Department.
– The Washington Post, June 9, 2004, as reported by Robert O’Harrow, Jr. and Ellen McCarthy
Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad
The next day
Camille’s stomach churned and she chomped down on more antacid tablets. The chalky things even tasted pink. She swirled chamomile tea in her mouth to kill the taste, but the combo was even worse. Last night was a blur. She was certain Pete had escorted her back into the trailer and that she had fallen asleep in her clothes, but she awoke in a night gown-the negligee she had bought to meet Hunter in Dubai and had never worn. She didn’t want to ask Pete. It was too strange and she didn’t want to know.
She was now a refugee from the bright Iraqi sun, holed up in her trailer, waiting and recovering. Over and over she kept telling herself she had to rest up as much as she could so she’d be ready when the moment came. She popped more aspirin and pounded water, downing an entire bottle at a time. Across the compound in the operations bunker, Iggy and his staff were studying whatever information they could find about Rubicon’s detention centers and drawing up assault plans for each of them. In addition to small holding facilities at all of their installations, Rubicon ran several prisons throughout Iraq, including the new prison at Camp Cropper and the older facility at Abu Ghraib. Even though the Abu Ghraib complex had been turned over to Iraqi control, Rubicon continued to run one of the five prisons in the compound on the American taxpayer’s dime.