Consequence (24 page)

Before driving to work, we inventory body armor and weapons that are stored in a secure room on Camp Slayer. The body armor is the most advanced style issued to troops in Iraq. I am assigned an assault rifle and a handgun. There are cases of modern holsters and slings and boxes of ammunition. We leave all of it behind. We never leave Camp Victory.

In the summer of 2005, there is less talk than there had been a year ago about the war in Iraq coming to an end. The pace of mortar and rocket attacks has slowed, but only because insurgents have begun to discover the true advantage of IEDs. Iraq's roads are more dangerous than ever, and the route between Camp Victory and the Green Zone in downtown Baghdad has become especially perilous. The Army calls the road Route Irish. Soldiers call it Route Ambush.

As it is for so many organizations in Iraq, protecting against IEDs has become a focus of the NSA. During the day, I read reports about the IEDs that detonate just beyond the walls where I spend my days drinking Gatorade and eating Doritos. I read about how far a vehicle's axle was thrown from the explosion, about debris that lands a few blocks away. I read about the types of injuries that IEDs inflict, and about impact craters, blast radiuses, daisy chains, and artillery rounds. Then I look at the photos. I'm supposed to be looking for indicators that will allow analysts and technicians to begin to take preventative measures, but I'm drawn to the severed limbs and pools of blood. I think the blood should soak into the dirt of Iraq, but it doesn't. It settles in bright red pools, like spilled paint.

I spend a great deal of effort learning about a type of IED called an explosively formed projectile (EFP). The EFP is an ingenious invention that uses explosives to shape a piece of metal in such a way that it can penetrate armor. EFPs are effective in eliminating the driver of a vehicle. The photographs are particularly gruesome. The target vehicle isn't shredded and burned, the way it is in standard IED attacks. Instead, the projectile minces whatever is inside. I read a great deal about EFP attacks, but I eventually stop looking at pictures.

My days are long. Sometimes, I take an hour for lunch and tend to administrative details around Camp Victory. I update my ID badge or attend briefings with other civilians who work for other support groups. After the briefings, I go to the PX and buy more Gatorade and Doritos. I stand in line at the chow hall and stare at the other civilians, wondering if any of them work for CACI. I avoid the soldiers who reek of dirt and sweat, their uniforms stained with oblong salt circles from hour-long convoys on Route Irish. I think of their limbs appearing in the photos that I look at as I work. I sit at a table decorated with red, white, and blue bunting and watch ESPN on a flat-screen TV. Ferdinand and I sat at this table during one of his visits from Fallujah. It's here that we talked about interrogation and the Palestinian chair. Tyner was using it more and more. Jim Fisk was conducting interrogations again. I think of the explosion that killed Ferdinand. I think about where his limbs ended up.

At work I have access to an enormous database of reports and photographs of attacks that have taken place throughout Iraq. The attack that killed Ferdinand is easy to find; it is one of the few cases of a suicide bomber infiltrating the myriad security checkpoints of the Green Zone. I read the reports. I look at the pictures.

9.1

I spend most of my days in front of a computer screen, sending emails and exchanging information in a variety of chat rooms with other intelligence agencies and services. I am the NSA's subject matter expert on intelligence concerns in Iraq. Dozens of analysts, linguists, and intelligence professionals from around the world rely on me to act as a liaison to a variety of civilian and military organizations in Iraq. This is the sort of thing I'll write on my internal résumé. But, like most analysts in Iraq, I spend much of my day playing solitaire and Minesweeper.

In the lower left-hand corner of my computer screen is an icon labeled “Pie Chart of Death.” I don't know whether it's an approved NSA program or just a laugh some analyst snuck onto the computer. I enter my dates of service into the Pie Chart of Death. The program generates a pink-and-blue pie chart depicting how much time I have left in my three-month tour. The pink portion of the pie chart shows how much time I've served. The blue portion shows how much time I have remaining. If you expand the window to take up the entire screen, you can actually see the line on the pie chart move from day to day.

Heavily armed U.S. soldiers secure the compound where I work. They pretend not to know who works on the compound. They search us when we enter and they search us when we leave. Reinforced walls and concertina wire surround the buildings.
There is a small trailer used by a support group with employees who live in places like Arlington, McLean, and Langley, Virginia. I enter this trailer from time to time to share information with this support group. I also show them how to access the Pie Chart of Death.

During the week, civilian contractors from various countries around the world enter the compound to clean the toilets and vacuum the floors. The Army calls them third country nationals (TCNs). The TCNs who clean our compound are from Egypt. As I sit at my computer and update the Pie Chart of Death, a group of TCNs enter the room without warning. This is a major security breach. Classified maps, photographs, and PowerPoint presentations adorn the walls. We are supposed to receive warning before TCNs enter the room. The TCNs have come to change the lightbulbs. The Army insists that the lightbulbs be changed every week. They assign TCNs from Egypt to do this work inside our highly classified compound.

I track down the Army sergeant responsible for maintaining the facility and scheduling maintenance. I tell her that I'd be happy to change the lightbulbs myself. This would prevent further problems with security and TCNs. This makes her angry. She insists that she alone is responsible for making decisions that pertain to the maintenance of the compound. I say something like “Look, be serious” or “Hey, c'mon.” She erupts. I try to calm her down. I say, “I'm like you, I used to be a soldier.” She says, “You're a fucking soldier? What's your fucking rank, soldier?” I say that I'm not a soldier. I'm just an analyst with the NSA. I say the security breach is a big deal and I don't want it to get her into trouble. This makes her angrier. I say, “Look, imagine if we allowed East German nationals to come into the NSA and change the lightbulbs during the Cold War?” Now she's losing it, so I say more things. Every employee of every secretive support group has come out of their trailer to see the angry sergeant get angrier and angrier. From a distance, she must look furious and aggressive. Up close, I see she is about to cry.

Eventually I get the lightbulbs. A few weeks later, there is another security breach when a detail of TCNs arrives to clean our keyboards and monitors. I don't approach the sergeant this time. Instead, I show the TCNs the Pie Chart of Death. I practice speaking Arabic with them.

9.2

The Army has its own secret intelligence unit in Iraq. They don't call it a support group. They call it the Analysis and Control Element (ACE). It's made up of young enlisted soldiers with high-level security clearances who know how to properly classify PowerPoint presentations and emails. I discover that one of the young soldiers from the ACE is responsible for writing the Pie Chart of Death program and loading it onto our computers in the CSG.

The ACE requests information on EFPs and I'm sent to brief them. When I arrive, I'm directed to the officer in charge of the ACE. Like all officers in charge of a unit like the ACE, he is a career military man, a professional employee of the U.S. Army who will likely spend his working life in uniform. Directing an intelligence unit like the ACE is considered a critical step in a professional officer's development. Directing that same office in a combat zone is an invaluable bullet point on an officer's résumé. The position is reserved for the best officers, some of whom will be generals someday. The officer in charge of the ACE in Iraq is a lieutenant colonel. He has over fifteen years in uniform. He went to Dartmouth. He has a graduate degree and a commanding presence. He gives me an impressive officer speech.

The officer tells me he works alongside a civilian counterpart. This person will be my contact at the ACE. He assures me his counterpart is his equal and I should afford him the same level of respect. The counterpart, he tells me, has similar credentials and experience. He has held similar positions in the military. The counterpart is a civilian contractor. He works for CACI. The officer introduces me to Jim Fisk.

When Jim and I go to lunch that day, I tell him he's a liar. He says I should know how this works by now. He says he's just doing what CACI tells him to do. He says he took the job at the ACE because CACI offered it to him. Besides, who else was going to take it?

We sit down for lunch at the same table in the dining hall where Ferdinand and I talked about the Palestinian chair. Jim doesn't want to talk about Fallujah. He spent a few more months there before being called back to Baghdad. By late 2004, more and more CACI employees had quit. Those of us who were hired in 2003 and remained became the most senior employees. As CACI struggled to find suitable candidates for a variety of positions, the company promoted from within. Jim started working at the ACE under the supervision of another CACI employee. When that employee quit, Jim became the civilian counterpart of an Army lieutenant colonel. Jim does not have a college degree. He has less than four years in the Army. But I answer to him.

In the coming weeks, I avoid the ACE. I assign other employees to give the briefings or I send classified PowerPoint presentations through classified email. I warn other NSA employees to stay away from Jim Fisk. They don't. They attend a briefing with him. Jim gives a classified briefing to an Army general. Halfway through, the general stops the briefing and berates the entire team for incompetence. The NSA employees return to the CSG. They say, “You were right.” Jim remains at the ACE, but I never hear from him again.

9.3

For the first six weeks of my second deployment, I enjoy Iraq, my morning runs and my hot showers and my quiet air-conditioned rides in armored vehicles to Camp Victory. I enjoy my ham-and-cheese omelets. The cook with gray hair makes the best ones. He adds just the right amount of ham. I enjoy ESPN, haircuts, Gatorade, and Doritos. I enjoy working sixteen-hour days. I log the extra hours on my pay chart, adding up the overtime pay I'll collect when I get home. I enjoy returning to the CSG at night and playing Ping-Pong on a sheet of plywood. Soldiers draw dirty pictures in the dust from the sandstorms. I enjoy sitting outside, smoking a cigar, and watching the helicopters fly overhead. I enjoy the packages I get from Karin.

In late May, as the heat of the Iraqi summer begins to burn, Karin sends me a package for my birthday. As a joke, she includes a package of edible gummy soldiers. The package bakes in the heat of the afternoon. The gummy soldiers melt and bond together. I send Karin an email and make a joke about the gummy soldiers becoming a cohesive unit. This is the joke I'll tell people when they ask about Iraq. I won't talk about Abu Ghraib, or Fallujah, or Walid and Thaer. I'll talk about the gummy soldiers melting. People like this story.