“Sir!”
“I want to see a plan of action on my desk as soon as possible, outlining an operation to destroy the PKK training camps and facilities in Iraq,” Hirsiz said. “I want to minimize noncombatant casualties, and I want it quick, efficient, and thorough. We know we’re going to get blasted by the entire world, and the pressure will be on to withdraw almost from day one, so it will have to be an operation that is fast, effective, and massive.”
“Yes, sir,” Cizek said. “With pleasure.”
Hirsiz stepped over to Ozek and placed his hands on the general’s shoulders, this time not afraid of looking him in his badly injured face. “I vow,” he said, “never to have one of my generals take responsibility for an operation I authorized. I am the commander in chief. When this operation begins, General, if you’re up to it, I want you to lead the forces that will strike at the heart of the PKK. If you’re strong enough to get out of a crashed plane and then come here to Ankara to confront me, you’re strong enough to crush the PKK.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ozek said.
Hirsiz turned to the other advisers in the room. “Ozek was the only one who spoke his mind to the president—that’s the kind of person I want advising me from this day forward. Put a plan together to defeat the PKK once and for all.”
CHAPTER FOUR
An argument needs no reason, nor a friendship.
Voices in the Tank were much more muted than before; no one spoke except to make a report or observation. If they were not otherwise occupied, the department heads, operators, and specialists sat straight up in their seats and stared straight ahead—no chatting with comrades, no stretching, no sign of idleness.
Colonel Wilhelm entered the battle staff room, took his seat at the front console, and donned his headset. Without turning to face his staff, he spoke over the intercom: “We’ve been ordered to suspend all operations except logistics, reconnaissance, and intel. No IA combat support until further notice.”
“But all that stuff is done by the contractors, sir,” someone remarked on intercom. “What are
“We are going to train in case the shit hits the fan with Turkey,” Wilhelm replied.
“Are we at war with Turkey, sir?” the regimental executive officer, Mark Weatherby, asked.
“Negative,” Wilhelm replied tonelessly.
“Then why are
“I asked the same questions and made the same comments,” Wilhelm interrupted, “and I was told by the Pentagon to pipe down, too, so now I’m telling you: pipe down. Listen up and pass the word to your troops:
“We are permanently on Force Protection Condition Delta. If I see you in the sunshine without your full battle rattle, and you’re not already dead, I will kill you myself. This base will be sealed up tighter than a flea’s poop chute. Woe befalls anyone who is seen without ID visible and displayed in the proper location, and that includes the senior staff and especially the civilians.
“As of this moment, this base is on a wartime footing—if we’re not allowed to defend the Iraqi army that is living and working with us, we’ll sure as hell defend ourselves,” Wilhelm went on. “We will not be sitting idly around with our thumbs up our asses—we’ll continue training as much as we’re allowed until we rotate out. Next, the Triple-C will be turned over to the IA as soon as—”
“
“I said, pipe down,” Wilhelm snapped. “Official word from the Pentagon: we’re not going to be relieved. We’re closing up shop and turning the Triple-C over to the IA. All combat forces are moving out of Iraq, ahead of schedule. The IA is taking over.” It was the day many in that room had been praying for, the day they were going to leave Iraq for good, but strangely no one was celebrating. “Well?” Wilhelm asked, looking around the Tank. “Aren’t you mokes happy?”
There was a long silence; then Mark Weatherly said, “It makes us look like we’re running, sir.”
“It makes us look like we can’t take a hit,” someone else chimed in.
“I know it does,” Wilhelm said. “But we know differently.” That didn’t seem to convince anyone—the silence was palpable. “We’ll uninstall all the classified stuff—which in the absence of detailed instructions will be most of our gear as far as I’m concerned—but the rest will be turned over to the Iraqi Army. We’ll still be here to train and assist the IA, but not with combat operations. It hasn’t been worked out whether their idea of ‘security operations’ is the same as ours, so we may still see some action, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Where’s McLanahan?”
“I’m up, Colonel,” Patrick replied over the command network. “I’m in the hangar.”
“The regiment’s main task now is to support the contractors,” Wilhelm said, his voice dead-cold and emotionless, “because all surveillance and security will be done by them. The Army is now just a trip-wire force, like we were in Korea before unification, and we’ll probably be reduced to an even lower size than we were before we left there completely. General McLanahan, get together with Captain Cotter and figure out airspace coordination with logistics flights, the UAVs, and your spook planes.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“McLanahan, I’ll meet you at the hangar in five. Everyone else, the exec will be meeting with you to discuss removing the classified gear and starting a training program. Oh, one more thing: the memorial service for Second Platoon will be tonight; they’ll be flown out to Germany tomorrow morning. That is all.” He threw his headset onto the desk and strode out without as much as a glance to anyone else.
The XC-57 had been moved to a large tent outdoors so the air-conditioned hangar could be used to prepare the fallen members of Second Platoon for their flight out of Iraq. A C-130 Hercules transport had flown aluminum transfer cases in from Kuwait, and they were being unstacked in preparation for loading. Tables with the remains of the troops in body bags were lined up, and medical personnel, mortuary and registration volunteers, and fellow soldiers moved up and down the rows to assist, pray for them, or to say good-bye. A refrigerated truck was set up nearby to hold the remains of the more seriously decimated soldiers.
Wilhelm found Patrick standing beside one of the body bags, with a volunteer waiting to zip the bag up. When Patrick noticed the regimental commander standing across from him, he said, “Specialist Gamaliel came in last night before the mission. He said he wanted to know what it was like to fly heavy bombers and space-planes. He told me he always wanted to fly and was thinking about crossing over to the Air Force so he could go into space. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and then he left to join his platoon.”
Wilhelm looked at the badly scarred and bloodied body, said a silent
“Vice President Phoenix. I know.”
“How the hell do you know all these things so quickly, McLanahan?”
“He’s flying in on our second XC-57 aircraft, not on the Osprey,” Patrick said. “They’re afraid the Osprey is too much of a target.”
“You guys must be plugged into the White House pretty tightly to pull that off.” Patrick said nothing. “Did you have anything to do with the decision to cease combat operations?”
“You knew you were winding down combat ops, Colonel,” Patrick said. “The Zakhu incident just accelerated things. As for how I know certain things…it’s my
Wilhelm took a step toward Patrick…but this time it was not menacing or threatening. It was as if he had a serious, direct, and urgent question, one that he didn’t want others to hear in case it might reveal his own fears or
