Rogue Forces (7 page)

“If you don’t mind, Kris, we’d like to get our area of responsibil
ity set up and our first series of flights scheduled,” Patrick said. “I’d like to fly the first mission tonight. The support staff will get our quarters set up.”

“Tonight? But you just got here, sir. You must be beat.”

“One hundred and seventy hits on our plane with one-fourth of them from
inside
this base—we need to get busy,” Patrick said.

“Then we need to go to operations and see Colonel Jack Wilhelm,” Thompson said. “Officially he’s the second in command under Jaffar, but everyone knows who’s really in charge, and it’s him. He’s usually in the Triple-C—Command and Control Center.”

They all piled into another up-armored white Suburban, with Thompson driving. “
Nahla,
which means ‘bumblebee’ in Arabic, used to be a U.S. Air Force supply base,” he said as he drove down the flight line. They saw rows and rows of cargo planes of every size, from C-5 Galaxys down to bizjets. “In Saddam’s time it was set up to quell the ethnic Kurdish population, and it became one of the biggest Iraqi military bases in the country. They say this was the base where the chemical weapons that Saddam used on the Kurds were stored, and so this is a major target for Kurdish insurgents that we deal with from time to time, along with AQI—al-Qaeda in Iraq—Shiite insurgents, and foreign jihadists.

“Early this year Nahla was formally transferred from U.S. control to the Iraqi military. The Iraqis still don’t have much of an air force, however, so they designated it an ‘allied’ air base. The United States, NATO, and the United Nations lease facilities and ramp space from the Iraqis.”

“We build it and then get charged to use it,” Jon commented. “Swell.”

“If we didn’t pay to use it, we’d still be considered an ‘occupying force’ in Iraq,” Thompson explained. “It’s the politics of withdrawal from Iraq.

“The main fighting unit here at Nahla is Second Brigade, nicknamed ‘Warhammer,’” Thompson went on. “Second Brigade is a Stryker Combat Brigade Team, part of I Corps, Second Division, out of Fort Lewis, Washington. They’re one of the last units to do a
fifteen-month rotation—all of the other units do twelve months. They support the Iraqi army with reconnaissance, intelligence, and training. They’re scheduled to rotate out within three months when the Iraqis will take full control of security in northern Iraq.”

“Do we really have half of all American transports somewhere in the Middle East, Kris?” Patrick asked.

“I’d say easily half of the Air Force’s transports are either on the ground in the theater or flying in or out of it, and the real number is probably closer to three-quarters,” Thompson said. “And that doesn’t include the civil reserve charters and contractors.”

“But it’ll still take a
year
to draw down our forces?” Jon asked. “That doesn’t seem right. It didn’t take that long to get our stuff out of Iraq after the first Gulf War, did it?”

“Different plan, Doc,” Thompson said. “The plan is to take everything out of Iraq except for the stuff at the two air bases and the embassy complex in Baghdad. After the first Gulf War, we left a lot of stuff in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates, and we had security locked up tight so we could roll with ease. It took over a year to get all our stuff out of Saudi when the U.S. was asked to leave there, and we just drove it up the highway to Kuwait. Here, we’re shipping all our stuff either home or to new bare bases in Romania, Poland, the Czech Republic, and Djibouti.”

“Still, it can’t take
that
long to get out, can it?”

“We’ve been at it nonstop day and night for almost a year, and another year is being
really
optimistic,” Thompson admitted. “It depends mostly on the security situation. The coup in Iran shut down the Persian Gulf completely for a year, and the few rail lines and highways in and out of the country weren’t secure, so we had to wait for more favorable conditions. Stuff urgently needed elsewhere could be flown out, but taking up an entire C-5 Galaxy or C-17 Globemaster just to fly one or two M1A2 battle tanks out didn’t make sense. And we’re not about to leave over two thousand armored vehicles behind.” He looked at Patrick. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, sir? Improve the security situation?”

“We’ll give it a shot,” Patrick said. “Obviously the Iraqis can’t get a handle on the security situation, and it wouldn’t be politically correct for American troops—who aren’t wanted in the country anyway—to be providing security, so they offer contracts to private companies to do the work.”

“Well, you’re certainly not alone, sir,” Thompson said. “Contractors do just about everything out here these days. We still have a Marine air unit here at Nahla who fly in support of Iraqi missions, and every now and then a Special Forces unit or SEAL team will buzz in and out, but otherwise the troops here don’t do much of anything except pack up the gear and wait for their ride home. Most training and security, intelligence, food service, transportation, communications, construction, demolition, recreation—all run by us contractors.”

“After the American holocaust, it was easier and faster to hire and retrain veterans than train new recruits,” Patrick said. “If you want to do more with less, you have to outsource the support functions and let the active duty soldiers do the specialized missions.”

“I hadn’t heard of Scion Aviation until the Army announced you were coming here,” Thompson remarked. “Where are you guys based out of?”

“Las Vegas,” Patrick replied. “It’s basically a bunch of investors who acquired a few high-tech but surplus aircraft from various companies and offered their services to the Pentagon. I was offered a job after I retired.”

“Sounds like the same deal with my company,” Kris said. “We’re a bunch of former and retired military physical, communications, and data security technicians and engineers. We still wanted to serve after getting out, so we formed the company.”

“Like it so far?”

“Frankly, I started the business because I thought the money would be good—all those stories of companies like Blackwater Worldwide getting these fat contracts were really attractive,” Kris admitted. “But it’s a business. The contracts may look juicy, but we spend the money getting the best personnel and equipment we can
find and offering an effective solution for the lowest price. I can tell you that I haven’t seen a penny out of the business except what it costs me to survive. If there’s a profit, it goes right back into the business, which allows us to do more services, or do a service for a lower cost.”

“Just the
opposite
of the military,” Jon Masters said. “The military
spends
every penny of its budget so the budget doesn’t get cut the following year. Private companies
save
or
invest
every penny.”

“So you don’t have any trouble with these other companies, do you?” Patrick asked.

“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 Ger
many 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 Dream
land 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.”