“What are you doing working for me since you obviously don’t have a very high opinion of women?”
“I love girls. Nothing sexier than a goodlooking chick who’s packing.”
“Enough bullshit. Why aren’t you working for boys you respect over at Triple Canopy or Blackwater?”
“Seriously?” He stood and walked toward the built-in closet. “Is this where I’ll find your sweats?”
“Yeah, second shelf down. How’s your ass, by the way?”
“Sore, but nothing that’ll slow me down. Want to see the stitches?” GENGHIS tossed her the clothes.
“Pass.” She slipped on the black sweatshirt, pulled it down as low as she could, then put on the sweatpants with some modesty. “Thanks. So, seriously. Why are you working for me? We all pay about the same, though I like to think I have the best operators and best war gear.”
“The top operators are split between you and Triple Canopy-Blackwater, too, to an extent, though you have a slight edge. Iggy pulls in a lot of them and the mystique of Camille Black lures the rest.”
“Something tells me you haven’t fallen for the je ne sais quois of Camille Black since you probably remember her in diapers.” GENGHIS and some of the older troops knew her real identity because of her father, but as true operators, they were silent professionals.
“Don’t underestimate yourself. I’ve seen you in action. You’re good. You still have a lot to learn, but you’re young.” He walked over to the door, opened it and spat tobacco juice. “Skoal’s a nasty habit.”
“You want something to drink?”
“I don’t drink when I’m working and I think I’m working right now.”
“I have sparkling water, some fruit juices, tonic water.” Camille opened the fridge.
“Plain water.”
Camille handed him a bottle and took one for herself. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed a glass and ice. “Answer my question. Why are you working for me?”
The expression on GENGHIS’ face suddenly became serious and he sat there for a few moments looking at her before speaking. “Charlie Hawkins was the best warrior I ever met. He saved my ass in places I don’t remember. No matter what I said a couple of days ago, I know he raised his little Stella to be one of us. The military won’t let women do this kind of black work, but I figured I’d give you shot. I owe it to Charlie.”
“I vaguely remember you and dad arguing about his work for the Agency.” The truth was that she barely remembered him, but she wanted to probe his attitude toward the Agency to convince herself one last time he wasn’t the mole.
“We might’ve. I’m a soldier. There’s no love lost between me and the OGA. What’s it to you?”
“You ever consider working for them?”
“No.”
“Come on, every man has his price. What would it take for you?”
“You trying to recruit me? If you are, pull off that sweatshirt because you’d have a lot better shot in that little clingy number. I don’t want money. I have all I need. All I care about is staying in the game.” He opened the water and drank the entire liter bottle without a pause, then crossed his arms and looked her in the eyes. “It’s been fun playing around with you, but I’m getting bored. What’s this interview all about? What do you want?”
“Someone to watch my back.”
“Consider that pretty ass covered.” He pinched a fresh wad of chewing tobacco and stuck it in his cheek. “You seem like a gal who likes to take care of herself, whether it’s a good idea or not. Someone threatening you?”
“I don’t know where this is all going, but I need someone I can count on at my side when it’s time to play ball. The only ones I can really trust are Iggy and Pete. Iggy I need running the show and Pete’s not an operator.”
“Iggy’s a good man. I’d trust him with the lives of my children.”
Someone knocked on the trailer door. GENGHIS drew a SOCOM pistol and aimed at the entrance.
Pete stepped inside.
“You chicken shit, put that thing down,” Pete said, then turned toward Camille before GENGHIS lowered his gun. “We know where he is. Abu Ghraib. The Rubicon compound.”
“We have men in and out of there all the time,” Camille said.
“Is the intel good?” GENGHIS said, chewing a pinch of tobacco.
“Iggy and Virgil actually agree on something. Both say it’s actionable. The problem’s going to be deciding which one of the Rubicon snitches gets the million bucks. We nearly had them lining up outside the front gate.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
[Private military corporations] structure their organization very much like the military-giving employees “ranks” based on experience and training. They own military equipment such as Kiowa Warrior helicopters and train their pilots to fly them in Iraqi skies, Smith said. They deploy for months on end, train at military installations and work daily with U.S. commanders in any given war zone, he said.
– The Chicago Tribune, April 2, 2004, as reported by Kirsten Scharnberg and Mike Dorning
Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad
When Camille rushed into the Black Management war room, her senior operations officers were arguing around a conference table littered with laptops, blueprints and satellite images. As soon as they saw her, they stopped and stood. She was never sure if it was out of respect for rank, or old-fashioned chivalry, but either way it made her feel uncomfortable. She was the owner and president of the company, but she knew she wasn’t in the same tactical league as her generals. That’s why she kept her call sign as LIGHTNING SIX, the six denoting a field commander. She was comfortable calling the shots in a skirmish, but she left the war planning to those trained by the big military.
As usual, her Chief Operations Officer, Iggy, was wearing 5.11 tactical shorts, showing off his shiny new right leg. The Black Management dress code for employees in Iraq allowed khaki shorts, but senior staff usually wore full-length Royal Robbins 5.11s. Iggy was no bleeding heart liberal, but he was determined to convince the spec ops community that the loss of limbs didn’t necessarily mean loss of combat readiness. At Walter Reed, before the wounds on his amputated arm had healed, Iggy had already broken his first prosthetic hand from too rigorous a set of push-ups. Over the next eighteen months he relearned how to field-strip an M4, parachute from planes, build improvised explosives and even insert an IV needle into a wounded man’s arm. Despite the blisters, he ran for miles with full gear weighing down on his stump. Camille had seen him swap ammo magazines with one hand faster than most men could with two. He lived by the mantra: mind over matter-if he didn’t mind, it didn’t matter. Although he had exceeded all physical requirements for his old job, the CIA had offered him only a desk.
A few years earlier when they were both in the CIA, Iggy had certified Camille as meeting all standards for the Agency’s Special Activities Division operators. He had been willing to make her the CIA’s first female paramilitary operator until Joe Chronister had pulled some strings and blocked her transfer. In the late spring of 2003, when Camille had heard the Agency had written Iggy off as an operator, she recruited him. Camille wanted his strategic mind, but gave his body a chance, returning an old favor and sweetening it with a minority stake in Black Management.
Even though he didn’t need to for his position, Iggy had passed the company’s rigorous physical tests for tier-one operators and he again met all Delta Force black book certification standards. When things were quiet, he went on runs with the boys to maintain his combat skills. Despite his old Agency ties, she knew his loyalty to her was unwavering.