Baquba, Iraq
Carrie Navarro got up early, stepped into her purple Crocs and shrugged on a heavy flak jacket. They didn’t call the place Baquboom for nothing. It was not uncommon for a half dozen mortar rounds to pound the camp each day. It was a short slog from her bunkered CHU-containerized housing unit-through mud and pelting rain to the concrete shower stalls so she decided to carry her towel and toiletries inside her folded poncho. Wind whipped shoulder-length black hair against her sleepy face. Soaked to the skin in her T-shirt, perky little gym shorts, and incongruous flak jacket, Navarro got more than a few raised eyebrows from passing soldiers. She was on her way to the shower. Why shy away from a little water beforehand? Besides, if the solders at Camp Warhorse weren’t used to her behavior by now, they would never be.
For some female reporters, being embedded with a crew like the Alaska-based 172nd Stryker Brigade would be seen as tough duty. Navarro considered it a plum. She ran with them, drank with them, and matched their dirty jokes punch line for punch line. If she fluttered her long, curly eyelashes and pouted her lips at just the right moment, she could even shoot with them once in a while. They were good boys, treating her more like a baby sister than a would-be girlfriend. She supposed the suicide bombings and daily mortar attacks had a lot to do with their desire to lord over and protect her. Most times their efforts were appreciated, but today she had a meeting and it just wouldn’t do to have an armed convoy of overprotective Stryker vehicles dogging her every move.
Almost giddy at the prospect of her interview, she toweled off quickly after the tepid shower, stepping into a relatively clean pair of khaki cargo pants and her favorite sky-blue button-down. Stuffing the pockets of her desert camo photographer’s vest with pens, paper, and a small digital camera, she threw on a rain jacket, then looked at her watch. 0730. She’d still have time to run by the Green Bean and grab a cup of coffee before her ride made it to the front gate.
The stubby black Mercedes box truck slowed to a creaky stop in front of the water station tent. The driver, a nervous-looking Jordanian man named Hamal reached across the seat to fling open the passenger door. He smiled a forced, half smile.
“Please to embark to my truck,” he said in halting, book-taught British English. “No delay…”
Carrie tossed her small day pack full of PowerBars and water bottles into the front seat and climbed in.
The overwhelming smell of cardamom and human sweat hit her like a punch in the face. Hamal was evidently chilled by the rains and had the heat turned to full blast. He smiled at her again, patting the chest strap of his seat belt.
“Please to fasten safety belt,” he said, fluttering dark eyelashes. “American soldiers wish all be… safety.”
Carrie snapped the belt at her waist and cracked the window a hair to keep from suffocating.
“So,” she said. “This Dawud has finally agreed to meet me?” Dawud was a tribal leader in the village of Chibernat, on the outskirts of Baquba proper. According to Hamal, the man was willing to give an interview about how the American presence in this Sunni stronghold was affecting local lives. If it panned out, it would be a tremendous coup and very likely get her promoted to editor.
Getting out of Camp Warhorse proved a lot easier than getting in. Hamal was a regular as was his Mercedes delivery truck. Though the sentries at the front gate gave her some funny looks at leaving the compound alone with an Arab, no one stopped them. One, a freckle-faced, blond specialist named Brennan, tossed her an infatuated wave from his post at the fifty-caliber machine gun.
“Please to cover head, young miss,” Hamal said as the Mercedes sloshed away from the bunkered gates of Camp Warhorse and into the mean and muddy streets of Baquba.
Carrie pulled a navy-blue scarf from her daypack and wrapped it around her head and face. They passed a patrol of “her boys” from the 172nd Strykers. She waved, but didn’t realize until they’d passed that there was no way they could have recognized her behind the scarf.
Ten minutes out of the camp, Hamal began to tap a weathered hand on the steering wheel. Carrie tried to make small talk but got little more than grunts and single-word answers. The Jordanian had always been the quiet type, but this was way outside the norm. A tiny nagging began to push its way to the surface of Carrie’s gut as Hamal turned west toward the winding Diyala River.
She decided to bring up the only thing the quiet Jordanian had ever been happy to talk about.
“I spoke to my editor about your reward,” she said, watching the man for a reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing. He didn’t even look in her direction. Her belly tightened.
“If this interview with Dawud turns out like I think it will,” she baited, “I’ve been authorized to pay you two times our agreed sum.”
Hamal nodded slightly. “Very well,” he all but grunted. This from a man who literally had to lick the drool from his lips when money was mentioned. Something was wrong.
He slowed the truck to make a sharp right onto a deserted stretch of muddy road that reminded Carrie of the scrubby patch of land her grandfather had owned in West Texas. Through the road grime and pelting rain, she could just make out a rough tumble of earth-toned buildings in the distance, half hidden by a lone copse of orange trees. It looked like some sort of dilapidated power plant.
“I thought we were meeting Dawud at a coffee shop in Chibernat,” she said, trying to keep her voice from sounding as shrill as she felt.
“We indeed meet Dawud, young miss,” Hamal said, eyes still glued to the road. “Please to refrain from speak now.”
“Hamal,” Carrie nearly screamed. “I am paying you well. You need to follow our plans or tell me before we leave.”
Now the Jordanian turned to face her. His lips drew back into a cruel sneer. “Plans?” He shrugged bony shoulders under his white dishdasha. “Plans change, young miss. Now, no more speak to me.” His right hand let go of the wheel long enough to punch her squarely in the jaw. A cascade of lights popped in her brain, first blinding, then falling like spent fireworks into nothing but blackness.
Navarro’s manicured nails dug into her jeans again. “That son of a bitch hit me in the face,” she said, eyelids closed but fluttering. “Why can’t I see anything, Doc?”
“You were unconscious. It’s a time for which you have no memory.” Dr. Soto cleared her throat, as if she’d been crying. “Let’s move forward now. Walk me through what happened when you woke up. Remember, none of what happened was your fault, Carrie. It’s important to know you won.”
“Won?” Navarro scoffed. “Is that what you’d call being tortured by a sadistic bastard for month after never- ending month?” Her shoulders shook uncontrollably. “I… I don’t think I can face this today, Doc. I’ve got to stop.”
“Very well,” Soto said, in her ever-soothing voice. “We’ll continue in a few days… if you’re ready. I’m going to count backwards from five, then snap my fingers. You’ll remember everything we talked about, but all your anxiety will disappear…”
Five seconds later Carrie opened tearful eyes. Her entire body shuddered with pent-up sobs. “I know you’re doing your best, Dr. Soto.” She took a tissue from the coffee table and blew her nose. “But after what that son of a bitch did to me… no amount of backwards counting or finger snapping is gonna take away the anxiety I got.”
Marc Cameron
National Security
C HAPTER 16
Mahoney looked skyward, shielding her eyes from the drizzling rain as she watched the flashing strobe lights on the white FedEx 747. It lumbered in from the east and overflew the airport to make a slow, rolling turn over the Everglades and land from the west. Since reporting her conversation with the French Ministry of Health to Admiral
