Rogue Forces

“I see some of these snake-eating ex–Special Forces guys wandering around the base,” Thompson said, “and they’re all decked out in top-of-the-line outdoor clothing, brand-new weapons, the latest gear, and tattoos up the wazoo. A lot of those guys just want to look cool, so they spend a lot of their own money on the latest and greatest. My company is mostly made up of computer geeks, ex–law enforcement officers, private investigators, and security guards. They pretty much ignore us. We get into scrapes every now and then when my guys deny them access, but we get it straightened out eventually.”

“Doesn’t sound like a good way to go to war, Kris.”

Thompson chuckled. “Hopefully, it’s not war,” he said. “War should be left to the professionals. I’d be just as happy supporting the professionals.”

The base was immense and very much resembled a small Army post back in the United States. “This place doesn’t look half bad,” Jon Masters commented. “I used to be sorry for you guys being sent all the way out here, but I’ve seen worse Army posts back in the States.”

“We never had a regular Burger King or McDonald’s, like some of the superbases,” Thompson said, “and if we did, the Iraqis probably would’ve shut it down anyway after they took over. Most of the troops here are still sleeping in CHUs because we never got around to building regular housing units. Of course there are no families here, so it’ll never compare to any regular overseas base like Germany or England. But the weather is a bit nicer and the locals are less hostile…at least a little less.”

“CHUs?”

“Containerized Housing Units. They’re a little bit bigger than a commercial truck trailer. We can stack them if we need the room, but as the Army draws down we have more room, so they’re all on ground level now. That’s where we’ll bunk your guys. They’re nicer than they sound, believe me—linoleum floors, fully insulated, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, flat-screen TVs. Two CHUs share a ‘wet CHU’—the latrine. Much nicer than latrine tents.”

A few minutes later they came to a twelve-foot-tall fence composed of concrete Jersey walls and reinforced corrugated metal sheeting topped by coils of razor wire. A few feet behind this wall was another twelve-foot chain- link fence topped with razor wire, with heavily armed civilian K-9 security officers roving between the fences. Behind the chain-link fence was a fifty-foot clear area. It was all surrounding a plain boxy-looking three-story building with a sloped roof, several satellite dishes and antennae atop it, and absolutely no windows. There were thirty-foot-high security towers near the corners of the building. “Is this the headquarters building…or the prison?” Jon asked.

“Command and Control Center, or the Triple-C,” Thompson said. “Some call it Fobbitville—home of the ‘fobbits,’ the guys who never leave the FOB, or the Forward Operating Base—but we do fewer and fewer missions outside the wire these days so most of us could be considered fobbits. Right about in the geographic center of the base—the bad guys would need a pretty big mortar to reach it from outside the base, although they’ll get lucky and lob a homemade pickup-launched rocket in here every couple weeks or so.”

“Every couple weeks?”

“’Fraid so, Doc,” Thompson said. He then gave Jon a mischievous smile and added, “But that’s what you’re here to resolve…right?”

Security was tight entering the Triple-C, but it was still far less than what McLanahan and Masters had to put up with at Dreamland for so many years. There were no military security officers at all; it was all run by Thompson’s civilian contractors. They were a bit more respectful of Patrick after checking his identification—most of them were former or retired military; and three-star generals, even retired ones, earned their respect—but still seemed to perform brisk, sometimes rough pat-down searches with enthusiasm bordering on sadism. “Jeez, I think I need to use the bathroom to see if those guys pulled off any important parts,” Jon said as they passed through the last inspection station.

“Everyone gets the same treatment, which is why a lot of guys just end up bunking in here rather than going back to their CHUs,” Thompson said. “I think they laid it on a bit thicker because the boss was here. Sorry about that.” They emerged into a wide entry-way, and Thompson pointed to the hallway to the left. “The west hallway is the way to the various departments that make up the Triple-C—operations, air traffic control, communications, data, transportation, security, intelligence, interservice and foreign liaisons, and so forth. Upstairs above them are the commanders’ offices and briefing rooms. The east hallway is the DFAC, break rooms, and admin offices; above them are crash pads, bunk rooms, bathrooms, showers, et cetera. The north hallways have the computers, communications stuff, backup power generators, and physical plant. In the middle of it all is the command center itself, which we call the ‘Tank.’ Follow me.” Their IDs were checked and they were searched one more time at the entrance to the Tank—by an Army sergeant this time, their first encounter with a military security officer—and they were admitted inside.

The Tank actually resembled the Battle Management Center at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada. It was a large auditorium-like room with twelve large high-definition flat-panel screens surrounding an even larger screen in the back of the room, with a narrow stage for human briefers. On either side of the stage were rows of consoles for the various departments that fed data to the display screens and the commanders. Above them was an enclosed observation area for VIPs and specialists. In the middle of the room was a semicircular row of consoles for the department chiefs, and in the center of the semicircle were the seats and displays for the Iraqi brigade commander, which was empty, and his deputy, Colonel Jack Wilhelm.

Wilhelm was a large bearlike man resembling a much younger, dark-haired version of retired Army general Norman Schwarzkopf. He appeared to be chomping on a cigar, but it was actually the boom microphone from his headset set very close to his lips. Wilhelm was leaning forward on his console, snapping out orders and directions for what he wanted displayed on the screens.

Thompson maneuvered himself to get within Wilhelm’s field of vision, and when Wilhelm noticed the security contractor, he gave him a querying scowl and slid a headset ear cup away from his ear. “What?”

“The guys from Scion Aviation are here, Colonel,” Thompson said.

“Bunk ’em down in CHUville and tell them I’ll see them in the morning,” Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes and setting the earcup back in place.

“They want to start tonight, sir.”

Wilhelm moved the earcup again in exasperation. “What?”

“They want to start tonight, sir,” Thompson repeated.

“Start what?”

“Start doing surveillance. They say they’re ready to go right now and want to brief you on their proposed flight plan.”

“They do, do they?” Wilhelm spat. “Tell them we’re scheduled to brief at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning, Thompson. Bunk ’em down and—”

“If you have a few minutes to spare, Colonel,” Patrick said, stepping up beside Thompson, “we’d like to brief you now and get under way.”

Wilhelm turned in his seat and scowled at the newcomers and their interruption…and then blanched slightly when he recognized Patrick McLanahan. He got to his feet slowly, his eyes locked on Patrick’s as if sizing him up for a fight. He turned slightly to the technician seated beside him, but his eyes never left Patrick’s. “Get Weatherly in here,” he said, “and have him supervise the log air departures and take the scout patrol briefing. I’ll be back in a few.” He slipped the headset off, then extended his hand. “General McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm. Pleasure to meet you.”

Patrick shook his hand. “Same, Colonel.”

“I didn’t know you’d be on board that flight, General, or I never would have allowed a VFR pattern.”

“It was important we did it, Colonel—it told us a lot. Can we brief you and your staff on our first mission?”

“I assumed you’d want the rest of the afternoon and evening to rest up and get organized,” Wilhelm said. “I wanted to show you around the base, show you the Triple-C and the ops center here, meet the staff, get a good meal—”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that while we’re here, Colonel,” Patrick said, “but we ran into some hostile fire on the way in, and I think the sooner we get started, the better.”

“Hostile fire?” Wilhelm looked at Thompson. “What’s he talking about, Thompson? I wasn’t briefed.”

“We’re ready to brief you on it right now, Colonel,” Patrick said. “And then I’d like to plan an orientation and calibration flight for tonight to get started on finding the origins of that ground fire.”

“Excuse me, General,” Wilhelm said, “but your operations have to be carefully studied by the staff and then