Consequence (23 page)

We're led to the main quad, where students gather in formation prior to dinner. They stand in straight lines and march and shout and run. We are impressed that young people would sacrifice their college years for this type of commitment. We are all very proud of them.

At the NSA, I sit at a desk and read emails from other employees on a classified computer network. The email program allows users to classify messages at a variety of different levels. I write emails about meeting people for lunch or joining the office softball team. I hit the “unclassified” button for these emails. I copy and paste my contact information at the bottom. I'm admonished for including my office's alphanumeric identifier. This is classified. My supervisor sends me to a class on how to properly classify written material.

I also attend a class on PowerPoint. The NSA doesn't call it PowerPoint. The NSA paid someone to develop a program that permits users to produce classified slide shows. I learn to produce these slide shows. There are other classes, too. I report to classrooms at eight a.m. and sit through classified PowerPoint presentations until three p.m. Afterward I return to my assigned office with its classified name and try hard to properly classify internal emails that I send to coworkers.

When I'm not in a class of some kind, I do the work of an intelligence analyst. I read reports from a variety of sources about a variety of subjects. I've signed an agreement that says I can never say what is in these reports or who wrote them. This is exciting. I am ready to see the world unveiled, to understand what's really going on. To get, not vague reports about people running from the scene of an explosion or innocent detainees being suspected of anti-Coalition activities, but real information. It will be in the reports.

I never find any such reports. The reports I do read are familiar. They remind me of the reports I read or wrote in Abu Ghraib and Fallujah. They offer nothing. I ask my supervisor about the best place to find real intelligence reports. He says, “That's why we're so excited to have you in the office. The real intelligence comes from people like you in the field. The real intelligence comes from getting to know these people, getting to talk to them. Like the kind of thing you did. Interrogators get the real intelligence.”

At the NSA, I read about the war almost every day, but I understand it less and less.

8.8

Karin and I begin to make Annapolis our home. We settle into a routine of early-evening walks and late-night dinners. We have favorite restaurants and favorite meals. I take a particular liking to crab cakes. We meet with a real estate agent and shop for houses in the suburbs of Washington.

In October 2004, we host an old friend from Bethlehem who wants to visit Annapolis in order to attend the annual boat show. Boat owners and dealers from around the world dock their private boats in Annapolis and open them to the public. We set aside an entire day to explore the boat show. On Saturday, October 16, 2004, we leave the apartment and head to the car. I forget my wallet. Karin and the friend wait on me while I go back to retrieve it. It is next to the computer. My email is still open. I hit the send/receive button.

Hey Eric

Sorry I have not written in a while. I hope that everything is going well for you. Unfortunately, this letter is not on a positive note. Just found out that Ferd was in the Green Zone Café when a suicide bomber blew it up. He is missing and presumed dead. I hope not and I am still praying that he wasn't there for some reason. Sorry to drop bad news on you but I thought that you would want to know. Other than that I am leaving in 2 and a half months. I can't wait either. Have fun and enjoy the home life.

Mike Henson

It takes investigators two more days to find and identify Ferdinand Ibabao's body.

8.9

Somehow I am embarrassed by Ferdinand's death, as though it might ruin the day at the boat show. I feel ashamed when I tell Karin, and assure her and our friend that we should continue on as planned. I don't want to tell them what I'm thinking. Maybe Ferdinand deserved to die in Iraq. Maybe I deserve to die there, too.

The boat show is crowded. We start our day in the section dedicated to catamarans. You wouldn't think there's much room in a catamaran, but the designers manage to fit entire living areas in the hulls. The rooms are cramped, but everything you could want in a house is there. The same is true of other sailboats. Some of the largest even have movie theaters. But the real highlight of the show is the full-power section. These amazing boats are miniature mansions. We marvel at the luxury. Each room is engineered to maximize space. Nothing is wasted. There is storage behind every door. The beds are comfortable. Each room has a flat-screen television. I sit on the bridge of one of the largest boats and let Karin take my picture.

We eat lunch on the water. I have clam chowder, the New England kind. Our friend from Bethlehem gets crab cakes at an outdoor stand. We tell him there are much better places for crab cakes, but he seems to enjoy the ones he has. We spend another hour or two at the boat show, but when the afternoon sun drains our energy, we return to the apartment and send our friend on his way.

On Sunday, the final day of the boat show, there is a fireworks display out over the Chesapeake Bay. There is a thump, like someone slamming a door. Then more. Then the growl of rockets. They overshoot and detonate out over the water. I return to the apartment and drink too much whiskey.

8.10

The NSA has an internal publication, distributed throughout the agency, with articles by senior managers and career intelligence professionals. There is a special interest section where employees write about their careers and give advice on how best to excel in a career with the NSA. One section in particular introduces new employees. My supervisor says I've been selected to appear in this section. He tells me to write out my bio and list my experiences. This will be the first time I write about Iraq.

The editor of the publication gets back in touch with me and says he's interested in how my experience as an interrogator influences my work at the NSA. He says I should consider a full article. He says it will likely be the lead story. He says, “Short stories, vignettes. Help us to walk in your shoes. Help us to know what you were thinking.” I write the editor and tell him that maybe now isn't the right time to write an article about interrogation. He encourages me to push forward.

The article is published in two parts. In the original version, I question the efficacy of certain intelligence-gathering techniques and wonder whether, for the sake of morality, it might be best to sacrifice some level of tactical knowledge. I was asked to rewrite this section. I cut it completely. Instead, I wrote about how my experience in the interrogation booths had familiarized me with the overall intelligence cycle. The article is well received. I take phone calls from a variety of managers and supervisors who are excited to work with me. Doors at the NSA begin to open.

On Sundays, Karin and I shop for a new church. A friend recommends a Presbyterian church just north of Annapolis, a Presbyterian Church of America (PCA) congregation. This is not the Presbyterian church of my ancestors. We know PCA as the Presbyterians who don't ordain women and who supported slavery. In the bulletin, Karin points out a section about the history of the PCA, specifically the part about the traditional role of women. Women are not allowed to teach adult Sunday school classes in the PCA.

Karin and I stop attending the church.

In November 2004, I submit my name for an opening in Iraq with the NSA. Most new hires are expected to spend at least two years with the agency before applying for an overseas tour, but my experience, combined with the lack of NSA employees interested in deploying to Iraq, has made me a viable candidate. My supervisor says that if no one else applies, the slot will be mine. There are no other applicants. I accept the offer and begin preparations for a return to Iraq.

Karin and I spend Thanksgiving with my parents in Bethlehem. We stay in my old room. The full-length mirror on the closet is still decorated with Boston Red Sox stickers and a photograph of Wade Boggs. From the window I can see Martin Tower, the twenty-one-story skyscraper that served as Bethlehem Steel's headquarters. When I was a boy, Martin Tower lit up the night. Smaller businesses occupy the tower now, but each year fewer and fewer remain. The tower grows darker as more lights are turned off.

I tell my parents about going back to Iraq. My mother rolls her eyes and leaves the room. My father is confrontational. He says he doesn't understand. He says, “Can you explain it to me?” I cannot. He's right. I shouldn't be going back. But just like the first time I left for Iraq, I decide not to listen to him. I don't want him to know what I've done. I want a new experience so I don't have to tell him the truth.

I ride with my father to the farmers' market in Allentown. We buy ring bologna and pierogies. We stand in line for shoofly pie. We decide the wet-bottom kind is best.

8.11

The NSA's deployment process is far more thorough than CACI's. But, like CACI, the NSA doesn't look into my health. No one asks about my heart. There is no reason to. By all appearances, I am healthy. I haven't seen a cardiologist since those last days with the Bethlehem Police Department in the summer of 2003. I don't question the diagnosis, but I remain unwilling to accept that things have changed for me. So I continue on and pretend I am healthy.

On April 1, 2005, a month before I leave for Iraq, Karin rushes into the apartment in Annapolis, sounding concerned. She has been listening to NPR. There was a report about explosions in Vermont. Apparently a downturn in the maple syrup market is having an adverse effect on maple trees. They aren't being tapped for syrup often enough. The syrup is building up inside the trees, causing them to explode.

I want to laugh, but she's quite serious. We head out for an errand. We turn on NPR and the story about the explosions in Vermont comes on again. Robert Siegel is serious and sincere. The report is wonderfully over the top and ludicrous. In the background, there is a cartoonish explosion of an untapped maple tree. Robert Siegel says there have been injuries. Some unfortunate souls have even been killed. I cover my eyes, shake my head, and try not to laugh. Another maple tree detonates. Karin is desperate to believe, but the story becomes more ridiculous. She hangs on for as long as she can before surrendering to the obvious. It is April Fool's Day.

Karin is innocent. She is honest. She thinks everyone else is the same. If NPR tells her that maple trees are exploding, she believes it. I tell her I am going back to Iraq for the right reasons. She believes that, too.

In May 2005, Karin drives me to BWI. As we approach the airport, I think about how long it will take to get to the passenger terminal in Kuwait. That was the last place I saw Ferdinand. My stomach burns and cramps. I tell Karin to pull into a 7-Eleven. My bowels explode as I sit on the filthy toilet in the back.

 

9

Back in Baghdad, I sleep better than I did in Annapolis. I live in a small, opulent building in a secluded corner of Camp Slayer, an American base adjacent to Camp Victory where an array of units with secretive-sounding names have set up shop. Our buildings, which likely housed the most privileged members of the Baath party, are made of marble and stone, adorned with columns and archways. We don't call ourselves the NSA. We call ourselves the Cryptological Support Group (CSG). It's no secret that secret units call themselves support groups. We live next to the Tactical Deployment Support Group, the Combat Logistics Support Group, and the Naval Warfare Support Group.

For a few weeks, I do well, and I'm tempted to think that I just might be able to return from this deployment feeling different. I'm well rested, well fed, and sober. In the mornings, I run the perimeter of Camp Slayer. The camp occupies the grounds of the old Baath party headquarters where a man-made lake serves as the centerpiece for a series of palaces and mansions with boat launches and swimming pools. Most of these have been partially destroyed by Coalition bombs. Some have been reduced to rubble. Chain-link fences have been erected to keep personnel from exploring the ruins, but the fence lines are incomplete, as if someone abandoned the project halfway through after deciding it wasn't worth the effort.

Near one palace is a synthetic mountain made of cement and rebar and designed as a play area for Baath party children, a sort of Disneyland for the kids whose parents knew the right people. The mountain is a labyrinth of tunnels and jungle gyms and hiding places. I make my way to the top of the mountain, where a sitting area provides panoramic views of the entire complex. There are statues of animals for children to climb on. Most of the statues are missing their heads.

I work on Camp Victory. Camp Victory and Camp Slayer are part of the same base complex, so there is no need to travel out into any unsecured portion of Iraq. I am protected by blast walls and guard towers. We make the five-minute drive in heavily armored vehicles. A Marine Corps gunnery sergeant serves as our driver. He says the vehicles don't meet
standards.
These are armored only to level III. Level IV vehicles will arrive next week. For now, we settle for armor that can stop small-arms fire and RPGs, but won't survive a direct strike by an IED. There are no IEDs on Camp Victory.