“Tell them to hold where they are, we’re still having trouble with the engine.”
“Roger that.”
The man in civilian attire continued to study Marc. He sprawled in the folding chair with a leopard’s ease. Able to relax anywhere, ready to launch himself at an instant’s notice.
The lieutenant said, “Alex was a good buddy. When he took off, I asked around. They offered to chop me off at the knees.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Embassy types. With enough clout that when I kept asking, they had a general stop by. You get where I’m headed?”
“You want answers as much as I do.”
“What a civvie from stateside can do out there in the Red Zone, I have no idea. But Duboe says, give you a hand. So I’m giving. The official word is, Alex eloped with Hannah Brimsley. You heard about Hannah?”
“A missionary.”
“Hannah was seriously in love with somebody. Not Alex. That I know for certain.”
“Who?”
“Her guy will find you if he wants to. Otherwise, you best leave him alone. You read me?”
Marc nodded slowly. “He’s special ops. His name is his own.”
The lieutenant smiled for the first time. “Maybe you got a chance of surviving the Sandbox after all.”
“What about the missing nurse, Claire Reeves?”
“She and Hannah led a women’s Bible study at the church. Alex ran the men’s.” The lieutenant hesitated, then said, “We’re done with the facts. You ready for guesses?”
“I’ll take anything I can get.”
“The three of them were tight with some movement. Outside the Green Zone.”
“You mean, like a church?”
“I mean, I don’t know. They didn’t invite me because I can’t set foot outside the perimeter fence without written authorization. But I heard them mention it a couple of times. Some secret deal, sounded like.”
“With locals.”
“That’s my guess.”
“Why keep that secret?”
His expression turned ancient. “Give yourself a couple days in the Red Zone. You’ll see. If you survive.”
The phone rang, and the enlisted man at the table’s other end said, “Lieutenant, there’s somebody asking for Mr. Ride Along.”
Marc walked over and accepted the phone. “This is Royce.”
“Okay, sport,” Duboe said in his ear. “You’re on. Tell your new buddies to drop you by the Hotel Al-Hamra.” He spelled the name, then said, “Last chance. Say the word and you can travel home in safety and style.”
“I’m in.”
“Then you enter the hotel cafe and you wait. Either Sameh el-Jacobi will like what he sees or he won’t.” Duboe chewed on the words like he would a mouthful of gravel. “Listen up, sport. You get out there and decide you can’t handle the Red Zone, you hot-foot it to safety. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation can get you very dead very fast.”
– – Marc entered Baghdad in the rear compartment of an armored bakery van. At least that was what the vehicle most resembled. The beast’s proper name was Rhino Runner. The armored troop carrier was packed to the gills.
They followed a slightly smaller vehicle sprouting a mini-cannon from its roof. The troopers smirked over Marc’s neatly starched shirt, his pressed khakis and his loafers, the brand-new backpack at his feet. About as alien as he could get in their world.
Lieutenant Lucky rode in the troop carrier’s front passenger seat. Marc and the troopers sat on padded plastic seats lining the two side walls. Their gear filled the central section.
Lieutenant Lucky swiveled around and shouted over the rock music blasting from the Rhino’s speakers, “Sir, there aren’t any U.S. combat troops left in the Sandbox. We’re sure of that on account of how the president told the general and the general told us. Only problem is, somebody forgot to tell the ’Racks. Can I get me a hoo-ah!”
The soldiers roared their response, grinning at Marc. Lieutenant Lucky was their entertainment. Marc assumed his own role in all this was the straight man. He figured Lucky for a very good officer. His men looked happy, relaxed, and ready.
“We’re leaving Camp Victory. Over there to your right is BIAP. Which is soldier-speak for Baghdad International Airport. What the civvies aim on calling this place once we clear out. Which we hope is tomorrow. Can I get me a hoo-ah!”
Two khaki-colored Humvees waited just past the base’s high perimeter boundary. They swung in behind the two American vehicles. The four-vehicle convoy sped past the tanks flanking the entry road and accelerated onto the highway. Through the inch-thick rear window, Marc saw men in Arab head-kerchiefs manning the Humvees’ fifty-caliber roof guns.
Lieutenant Lucky shouted, “The official line from Washington is, we’re offering support to the new ’Rack guards. They lead, we follow. Only problem with that, sir, is their Humvees aren’t as well armored.” He tapped the vehicle’s roof. “This baby is the latest thing in traffic calming measures. Designed to handle armor-piercing rounds, 155 millimeter airburst, fifty-pound land mine blast to the axles, and incoming bombs up to two hundred pounds. This here’s the safest ride outside Des Moines. Our boys and girls in khaki have shootouts to decide who gets to travel by way of the Rhino. So when we go on patrol, the ’Racks lead from the rear. Let’s give Mr. Ride Along another hoo-ah.”
Marc also shared the Rhino’s compartment with the civilian from the hangar. The man inspected Marc with a singular intensity, his eyes tight slits in a sun-darkened face. As the convoy roared down the main highway into Baghdad, the stranger pulled a checked Arab kerchief from a dusty canvas pack and draped it over his head and shoulders, fastening it in place with the ubiquitous rolled circle. The movements were practiced, easy. He slipped into a dusty shapeless suit jacket, the kind worn by many Arab men. He replaced his army boots with decrepit street shoes. He then secreted weapons all over his body. All the while he seemed to taunt Marc with his eyes.
“Okay, sir, we’re leaving Route Irish,” the lieutenant called out. “That’s grunt-speak for the highway from Camp Victory to the Red Zone.” He pounded the steel wall. “Lock and load, ladies. We go in hot.”
The Rhino’s internal temperature continued to climb. Or perhaps it was pressure from so many cocked rifles and fierce squints. The rifle slots fought the air-conditioning, letting in city smells of diesel and dust and sizzling lamb. And charcoal. And tobacco. And a thousand other things, all of which carried a chili-hot spice of menace.
Marc could see very little of what was going on outside the vehicle. The Rhino rocked and jounced and rumbled forward. Through the rear window he caught still-life glimpses of a yellow world. Then one of the troopers blocked his view, and all he saw was troops in desert camouflage and hot metal and guns.
They pulled into an alley. They did not stop but slowed to a crawl, shifting around a parked truck. The lieutenant peered through the front windows, then called to the trooper manning the roof gun, “We clean?”
“All clear.”
The lieutenant leaned back and said one word. “Go.”
One of the troopers by the rear portal slapped a red button and the door popped open. The leopard squinted at Marc, passing a message Marc was too green to understand. The man slipped out. Marc lifted himself so as to see past the trooper resealing the rear portal. He had a single glimpse of just another Arab man walking down an empty alley toward a sun-washed world.
The lieutenant said to Marc, “You’re next, sir. Five minutes to the drop.”
The time crawled. Marc gripped his backpack.
“You sure you’re up for this, sir? It’s the Wild West out there.”
Marc met the lieutenant’s gaze with his own and did not reply.
They entered another alley. The troop carrier slowed once more. The trooper smacked the button and the portal opened. He said to Marc, “The Al-Hamra Hotel is directly across the street from where you’ll come out.”
Marc gripped his pack and said to the lieutenant, “I owe you.”
“Make my day,” the lieutenant replied. “Bring Alex back alive.”
