Drone Threat

21

The sun burned high overhead and the air shimmered with stifling heat. The twenty-four newly minted Shia recruits from nearby Samarra stood ramrod straight in the courtyard, roasting alive beneath their brand-new Iraqi army uniforms. Their young, stern faces beamed with pride and glistened with sweat as Representative Clay Chandler droned on with the help of an overly enthusiastic translator.

Pearce muttered a curse through his bearded lips as another drop of sweat trickled down his collar. The barrel of his carbine was blistering hot even though it hadn’t been fired in days. Bad enough to be out in the middle of this heat. But it was security he was worried about. He and Early stood a nervous watch over the ceremony taking place at the palace — one of maybe a hundred Saddam had built for himself after the first Gulf War. It now served as the headquarters for the regional commander of the Iraqi army, General Ali Majid, a Sunni from a nearby province.

“How much longer with this guy?” Early said. The hulking Ranger whispered in his comms set.

“He’s begging for a mortar round,” Pearce said. He was linked to Early on a secure channel.

“From us or the bad guys?”

Pearce laughed. “Roger that.”

“You should be ashamed.” A thickly accented Kurdish voice whispered in their comms. “He is one of your countrymen.” Tariq Barzani was the third man on the team. Two more team members, Luckett and Rowley, were back in Baghdad for the day.

“Your problem, Mother, is that you Kurds haven’t yet mastered the subtleties of democracy,” Early said. “It’s our constitutional right to hate our elected idiots.”

“And if you ever run short of idiots, we’ve got extras we can send you,” Pearce said. “Plenty more.”

Tariq laughed. “Trust me, we have more than enough of our own.” His hearty laugh filled their headsets. The Kurdish translator had grown close to Pearce and Early since their arrival. The battle-hardened peshmerga was a decade older than they were. He was out beneath the blistering sun with them, working the perimeter. Tariq watched the Americans like a hawk, constantly worrying for their safety. He knew Early and Pearce had fought with Kurdish forces in the liberation of Kirkuk in 2003. This made him feel even more protective of the men he called his “sons.” They returned the favor by calling him Mother, but they were big fans of his, too.

“We’re walking point in the hottest, sweatiest sphincter of the known world — no offense, Mother. Hard to believe that Babylonian civilization was born here,” Early said.

“Babylon was founded by Nimrod, the grandson of Ham, who was cursed,” Tariq said.

“That figures,” Early said.

“Stay frosty, Mikey.” Pearce kept his head on a swivel, scanning the rooftops and perimeter through his Oakleys. He shared Early’s concern. The general’s own troops were stationed at regular intervals outside and inside the palace compound, but he didn’t trust them. They were as likely to turn their guns on the Americans as they were to drop them and bolt like scalded cats if any real trouble came loping through the gate. Tikrit was in the heart of Indian country, the nutsack of the Sunni Triangle. Worse, it was Saddam’s hometown. Every swinging dick seemed to be an angry cousin with a murderous grudge against somebody, especially Americans. All of them were secretly armed or had access to weapons. An AK-47 rattled off a few rounds in the distance. Not unusual.

Pearce didn’t put much stock in the six private contractors the general had hired on as personal bodyguards. They were mercs, straight up, all ex-special forces beholden to no one but the general. An Aussie was in charge. One Brit, one American, one South African, and two Russians rounded out the complement. Pearce trusted the Russian mercenaries the least. It wasn’t unusual for them to do double duty for the SVR. Today the mercs stood in loose knots in the shaded areas on the periphery, content to the let Pearce, Early, and Tariq do all the heavy sweating.

Pearce checked his watch. Chandler’s speech was running twenty minutes late. An American press photographer snapped endless photos of Chandler and the recruits. Publicity photos for his upcoming Senate campaign, Pearce surmised.

“He must not have counted on the time it would take to translate,” Pearce said in his comms.

“Especially with a translator like Elmer Fudd over there. Nothin’ like a cousin with a stutter.”

Despite himself, Pearce burst out laughing.

Six of the dignitaries sitting in the shade were scowling Sunni tribal elders. Seated across from them were their counterparts, a half dozen glowering Shia elders. Seated between them in the place of honor was General Majid in his desert camo BDUs, jaunty black beret, and Saddam Hussein mustache.

“And finally, let me just say,” Chandler said, pointing at each of the recruits, “while the future of Iraq belongs in your strong and capable hands, never forget that America will always be here as your faithful ally and reliable friend. We will never abandon the Iraqi people. We have willingly shed our blood in your sand and we will do so again in the future to ensure democracy and freedom for Sunnis and Shias alike.” Chandler turned to the general and dignitaries. “Congratulations to all of you on this historic day. Sunni and Shia joining hands in the fight together against the forces of tyranny. It’s a fine down payment for the price of freedom. You all should be very, very proud.” Chandler began clapping his hands.

General Majid took the cue and stood, clapping. The other dignitaries rose and clapped as well. The photographer dashed over just as Chandler and Majid clasped hands, then followed Chandler as he shook the hands of each tribal elder.

“Is he running for mayor?” Early asked.

“Yeah. The mayor of Bartertown.”

“Who… run… Bartertown?” Early asked in his Master Blaster voice.

“Master Blaster runs Bartertown!”

They both laughed. Pearce and Early had a running gag about the similarities between the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movies and postwar Iraq. They called Majid’s palace the Thunderdome.

“Gentlemen, please,” Tariq said.

General Majid barked an order and the Shia recruits finally relaxed. Chandler waded into the middle of them, shaking more hands, photographer in tow.

“Criminy,” Early said. “How long is this Gomer going to take?”

Pearce shook his head. “Good thing they pay us by the hour.” He scanned the roof again. He couldn’t shake the feeling his skull was in somebody’s crosshairs, but three tours in the Sand Box did that to a guy. He and Early kept moving, walking an irregular circuit on the periphery, cutting in and out between whatever obstructions they could find.

On the last turn, Chandler was standing back beneath the shadowed portico, wiping his dripping forehead with a kerchief, and chatting earnestly with General Majid. Chandler glanced over at Pearce and Early. The general nodded and left, heading past the guarded bas-relief bronze entrance doors. Chandler waved Pearce and Early over with his hand.

“You’re Troy Pearce,” Chandler said, extended a hand. “CIA, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you must be Mike Early. U.S. Army Rangers.”

“Yes, sir. At least, that’s what the dog tag says.”

“Well, I appreciate you guys. I saw you out there in the hot sun. I hope I didn’t go on too long.”

“Hadn’t noticed, sir. Just trying to keep an eye on things,” Early said.

“I’d like the two of you to come inside and join me for a cold beverage.” Chandler glanced over his shoulder at the two wary Russian mercs standing back in the shadows. “And I’d like to have a private word with you.”

Pearce and Early glanced at each other.

“Of course,” Pearce said. “Can we bring our translator?”

“No need. It will be just us Americans talking.”

“Our translator is as thirsty as we are,” Early said. “And the sun is just as freaking hot on him as it is on us.”

Chandler shrugged. “The general has informed me that the Kurd isn’t welcome inside. I’m sorry. But you know how it is around here. When in Rome.”

Pearce started to protest but held his tongue. Chandler might have a legit reason to keep the meeting small. “You’re the boss.”