Misdemeanor Trials (24 page)

John looked and Raintree, and quietly said, “I’m going down.” John walked toward the vehicle, with the Kalashnikov hanging from his shoulder.  As he got closer he could see that it was a technical.  The headlights were still on and he saw the bodies of four men.  He climbed down the hill and approached the closest man who was lying on his back on the ground, a few feet from the truck.  It was the bodyguard.  The bodyguard had a semi-automatic in his hand and was groaning.  John reached for the gun and saw a large gash in the neck of the bodyguard and blood was bubbling out.  He took the automatic and pointed it at the bodyguard’s chest, as the anger began to grow in him.  “Don’t mess with me, asshole.” He pulled the trigger.  The blood stopped flowing from the bodyguard’s neck.  John walked over to the second man who groaned slightly.  John put the gun to his head and said, “Don’t mess with me asshole.” John pulled the trigger.  He walked over to the third man, who had half his clothes burned off and was obviously dead.  But John couldn’t stop.  His anger was consuming and out of control.  He raised the gun to the dead man’s head and said, “Don’t mess with me, asshole,” and fired.  He walked, blinded by rage, over to the last man.  The man was on his back.  Half of his face was burned.  His left leg was broken and separated at the knee.  His foot pointed wildly away from his body.  John recognized him.  It was Darby.  He was still alive.  John took the belt from Darby’s tailored suit and wrapped it around the stump that had been his leg.  “You are not going to die, Darby.  You will only wish you could die.” John tightened the belt, and the bleeding in the leg stopped, and John pulled out his gun again, and shot Darby in his knee of his other leg.  “You are going to live, Darby, but you’ll never walk to the shitter without help.” John turned to walk back up the hill.  He saw Raintree with the car.

“I heard shots,” yelled Raintree to John who paused a moment at the bottom of the riverbed.

“Payback,” replied John.

“Who were they?” asked Raintree.

“Darby.” replied John.

“Anybody alive?” asked Raintree.

“Only Darby,” answered John.

“You left him alive?” asked Raintree.

“Barely,” replied John.

“We have to take him with us.  He’s intel,” said Raintree. 

“Where are we going to take him when we're here in the middle of the desert.  He's going to die soon enough,” said John.

“Take him,” Raintree yelled.

John grabbed Darby by the collar of his jacket and pulled Darby up the incline.  Darby screamed with pain for a few  minutes and then passed out.  John searched him for a cell phone and weapons.  He found a Glock, fully loaded, and a cell phone.  He turned the cell phone off, removed the battery and threw the cell phone and Glock in the front of the car.  He lifted Darby, who was now dead weight, into the back seat of the car.  John got in the driver’s seat with the AK-47 and Raintree got into the passenger seat.  Raintree asked John, “You got your extraction phone?”

“Yeh,” replied John.

“Use it,” said Raintree.  John pulled out the extraction phone, wrapped inside his thigh, and turned it on and pressed the pound sign.  He heard the whine he was told to expect.  When the whine stopped he said his number, 16869.  There was silence for a moment, then to his surprise he heard, “Mother’s maiden name?”

John said, “Lewis.” Then he heard “Three hours,” and the phone went dead.  A moment later he received a text with what were obviously coordinates.  “What was that?” asked John.

Raintree looked at the text.  “They took our position from the phone and gave us the closest extraction point.  We’re going to Semnan New Airport.  Drive on 44 to Semnan, then Highway 36.  It will take about two hours.  I can last.  If I can last, I think Darby will last.  I’ll tell you where to go after that, but I’ve got to rest right now.” John began to drive.  The road signs were far between, and it was completely black without a moon.  The signs were mostly not in English.  But he could read 44 and when there was a sign with an arrow and a 36, he was confident he was on the right track.  After two hours he nudged Raintree who had been out for the entire trip.

“We’re close,” said Raintree.  “Turn right there.” John turned off onto a dirt road.  He drove slowly in the dark.  Then he was driving on hard pavement.  “We’re there,” said Raintree.  John could not see anything in the pitch black moonless night.  There were no buildings or any indication of an airport, except for the pavement.  “We’re at the East end of the airport.  Move off to the side and we’ll wait.” They had been waiting an hour when he heard the sound of an airplane in the distance.  He could hear it getting closer, and he looked in the sky but could not see it.  When the sound of the engines got quite loud, he could hear that the airplane was landing from the west.  The landing light was turned on when the plane was very close to the ground.  The plane landed and he heard the sound of the thrust reversers as the plane taxied to the East.  At the east end, a hundred feet from their vehicle, he recognized the V-22 Osprey with no identifying markings, the helicopter hybrid that could land anywhere.  The plane turned 180 degrees on the runway and the engines continued to run.  The back ramp of the plane lowered and two men ran to his vehicle.  One went to the driver’s side and told John to run to the plane.  The driver got in and slowly drove it up the ramp into the cargo area.  It barely fit.  The two cargo masters tied the car down, the plane began to roll for a takeoff to the west, and the door came up.  The entire loading process took three to five minutes.

One of the cargo masters came to John and yelled over the roar of the engines, “What’s the status?”

John yelled a reply.  “The guy in the back seat is a hostile, and is badly injured.  The passenger is a friendly and both need medical attention.” The cargo master spoke into a microphone and moments later two uniforms came from the front of the airplane with a bag which was obviously a medical kit.  The cargo master told John to go up front where he could sit down.  The plane lifted off from the runway.  John moved to the forward part of the airplane and sat on a bench.  John saw a headset and put it on.  He could hear the pilots speaking to each other.  When there was a pause in the conversation John asked, “Where are we going?”

“Camp Buehring Kuwait,” heard John.  “It's about a four hour flight, and we'll have to stop for gas.”

“Where do you stop for gas?” asked John.

“At 30,000 feet,” was the reply.

“I thought this was the sovereign nation of Iran and you guys aren't supposed to fly in their airspace,” said John with an inquiring voice.

“Yeah, well, we just do,” said the voice from the cockpit.  “Anyway, we are flying over the central desert, the most barren, lifeless part of this Godforsaken country.  No one lives there and their radar doesn't extend that far.  If we do run into problems, and we never do, we have some angels overhead.”

About three hours into the flight John snapped out of a quiet doze when he felt a rush of cold air.  He saw the door at the back of the plane slowly lowered.  The crew was busy working with the tethers that held the small vehicle in the airplane.  The vehicle began slowly rolling backwards and out the door.  “What's happening?” asked John over the intercom.

The pilot answered, “I guess you left three DB's in the desert somewhere.  Best thing is to leave no evidence at the Semnan so we can use the airport again.  We're dumping it in the Persian Gulf.  We're about ten minutes out from Buehring, fasten your seatbelts.”

“There are no seatbelts,” said John.

“Oh,” was the reply, followed by silence. 

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

BASE CAMP

“People like us are we.  Everyone else is they.”

--Rudyard Kipling

An ambulance and a transport truck followed the plane on the tarmac as it slowed to a stop.  John was taken to a barrack building, given a set of fatigues with no name and no insignia, and told him debriefing would be in the morning.  John woke the next morning to a small room with no windows.  He looked at a clock next to the bed.  It said 9:00.  He had no idea if it was morning or night.  He opened the door and looked down the hall.  There was no one there.  He walked to the door at the end of the hallway and opened it to daylight.  It was a typical military installation built in the desert.  The color of the camp grounds were brown, sandy, with signs pointing to the shower, the head, and the mess hall.  Dressed in crisp fatigues John found the mess hall, downed an acceptable military breakfast, and then made his way to Headquarters.  He knocked on the door, entered and identified himself.  He was ushered into a room where he was confronted by a Lieutenant Colonel and a civilian.

“Good morning, Mr. Trader,” said the civilian, “I am the liaison with Homeland Security and we are trying to find out what the situation is.  We don't yet know who the hostile is that you brought here.  He told us his name is Nasar Khalili, and we are following up on that.  At this point we don't know the value of the hostile.  You will be here for a few days until we figure it out.  It shouldn't take too long.  However, there is one thing that does give us some concern.  Nasar Khalili said that your group ambushed his car in the desert, he was hurt and could not move, and you shot him twice for no apparent reason.  You are well aware that is strictly against the rules of engagement.  Can you respond to that?”

“Khalili has a vivid imagination.  I guess you'll have to ask the witnesses,” responded John.

“There were none,” replied the civilian.

John knew the government rules of engagement said that every killing of the enemy must be justified, since in their minds, being the enemy is insufficient justification for killing.  Most soldiers, every now and then, after a bit of pressure, give up and relate to interrogators the fury of the moment in combat.  They admit they killed merely because they are the enemy, with no immediate justification.  A few, because they have seen it all, and because don't give a shit, just don't answer, don't reply, don't explain.  These are the ones for whom war is not over, and probably never will be.  These are the ones you can't push around, whether it is because they wear a beard, or the wrong uniform, or don't salute.  And if you push them, you had better be ready to go all the way, because if you don't, they will take you there, and it’s a place you don't want to go.

The Lieutenant Colonel glared at Trader and said, “We don't wear uniforms without insignia here.  Go to the quartermaster and get it.  What rank are you?”

John felt his anger beginning.  He knew his face changed to express how furious he felt, but he responded calmly.  “I can't tell you that, sir,” answered John.

“Where are you based?” asked the Lieutenant Colonel.

“I can't say,” Trader said pleasantly enough.

“Where are you from?” asked the Lieutenant Colonel.

“I am not from around here,” replied John.

“What were you doing in Iran?” asked the civilian.

“Sorry, I can't tell you that either,” said John.

“You're getting yourself in trouble, soldier,” said the Lieutenant Colonel.  “Who's your commanding officer?”

“Right now, I don't have one,” said John.

“Listen, soldier,” said the Lieutenant Colonel with restrained anger, “I want you back in this office this afternoon in uniform with insignia.  I am going to find out who you are by this afternoon, and I am going to make sure you get to know the inside walls at Leavenworth.”

“I won't be here, sir,” answered John.

“You are dismissed,” said the Lieutenant Colonel.  John turned and left.  John did not return to Headquarters that day or any of the next ten days.  He visited Raintree in the base hospital.

Raintree was in a hospital bed at the base, with his right arm bandaged.  He had IV's running to his left arm.

“How you doing, Raintree?” asked John.

“Better.  Whatever they gave me for pain sure works.”

“Are you being treated okay?” asked John.

“Hey, I get all the blood I need.  The food's not bad, but then, no one comes to the hospital to dine.  Drugs, blood, and food, what else could I ask for?” replied Raintree.

“When are you shipping out?” asked John.

“They say tomorrow.  I think they are keeping me here because it's too much of a hassle to get me a bed at the barracks.  They also said they wanted to keep me on IV antibiotics to avoid any possibility of infection,” said Raintree.  He continued, “I guess I will have to give up my plans for a major league pitching career.  But there are advantages.  If I ever get arrested, the cops will have tough time handcuffing me.  Downside is I will probably be assigned to a desk job somewhere.  I don't know if I could do it after eight years in the field.  But right now I have more pressing problems.  I'll have to learn how to pick my nose and masturbate with my left hand.”

“You certainly won't be able to do both at the same time,” said John.  John grabbed Raintree's left hand with his and said, “It was a short time, Raintree, but I learned a lot.  You are a pro.  Thanks.”

“You've got some great qualities, John.  It was good to know you.  It was good to have you at my back,” said Raintree.  They looked at each other for a quiet moment, and John turned at left.  He felt his eyes well up, but no tears came.  It wasn't the right place.

The day was hot and boring.  John finally was able to get a haircut, and noticed that his roots were showing his true hair color.  He wouldn't be adding die to hide them anymore. 

That night John walked over to the Officer's Club, sat down in the bare bones temporary building with linoleum on the floor and plastic chairs at the table.  There were a few officers in the club, music played quietly in the background.  John ordered a beer from the bar and walked over to a table.  John looked at his beer on the table for a moment before he took a drink.  He saw the shadow of an approaching person and he looked up to see the Homeland Security civilian, who had a beer in his hand. 

“Mind if I sit down for a moment?” he asked.

“Sure,” responded John.

He sat down, put his beer on the table and said, “For your information, the Lieutenant Colonel called to find out who you are.  He called the Pentagon for your records.  The Pentagon called him back later and said there weren't any records.  Someone from NSA called him about an hour later and asked why the inquiry.  The Lieutenant Colonel explained.  He was told to drop the issue, and they hung up.  You must be the son of a Senator.  Anyway, thanks for what you are doing.  I won't ask you where you came from or what you were doing.  You'd probably tell me you just came back from a speed climb of Kilimanjaro, but it's obvious you have some solid military experience.”

Not often did John want to remember the challenges he had in the Military.  There were the decisions every day to kill or be killed, where adrenaline ran so high that it interfered with any idea of thinking about what he would describe as philosophical nuances.  If you were in the bush and you saw something move that was unfamiliar, you fired, whether it was a goat, a camel, an armed fighter, or a teenager tending a herd.  You never gave it any thought in the bush.  Only later, at home, in camp, or in the hospital, did you think about some horrible things that had been done.  And you were conflicted.  Only others who had been there understood, and understood that preserving their life and the life of their buddies was more important than the mission, and that the intensity of self-preservation was not something you sought, but knew you would never regain or experience outside of staying alive in the bush.  It made the life outside of that experience seem less important, if not unimportant.  But John knew he had to survive outside of the military, and put on the robes of civilization and self-respect.  He forced himself to re-assimilate into the seemingly shallow conventions of the culture at home.  He knew he had to do it to survive, but once in a while, the memories appeared, and he had to say something, if not so much to the person he was talking to, as much as to himself. 

John answered, “The military did offer opportunities for travel, and face to face introductions to various Middle Eastern tribes, but the tour was a bit stifling.  The brass were more concerned about collateral damage than killing the enemy.  We'd get back from a mission and the first thing they asked was about collateral damage, not how many of the enemy we killed.  I guess it was the same during Vietnam when no one asked who was winning, only the body count.  The enemy’s rules of engagement, on the other hand, were simple.  Win the fight.  Ours were so complex and restrictive, that we junked them.  We made up our own in our small recon assignments.  Mainly those guys we killed were animals, fighting since birth.  They have been fighting among themselves for hundreds of years, maybe thousands.  Then they slowed their tribal wars and started to fight the Moghuls, the Persians and the Sikhs.  The British started fighting with them about 1839.  In 1978 or 79 the Soviets got involved and the Mujahedeen was born.  For the last hundreds of years they have grown poppies, gotten high, and gone to war and into battle.  They don't know anything different.  It's in their DNA.  The only way to stop them is to kill them.  Even that's tough.  They reproduce like rabbits.”

“I guess the rules of engagement were the worst part,” said the civilian.

“No,” said John.  “We chucked the rules of engagement.  The worst part was being thirsty.  We tried to plan our supplies, but water was unpredictable.  We had access to supplies.  Earlier patrols buried caches, sometimes with water, and they would mark the cache with a gps.  We would arrive at a cache and watch and wait, getting thirstier by the minute.  We didn't know who knew about the caches, so we waited and we watched.  And sometimes there was a feeling you get that it's not good, and even though you can barely move, you move on to the next cache.”

“How long did you guys stay in?” he asked.

“Usually no more than five days, sometimes a little longer,” replied John.

“I was never in a war,” he said.  “I guess you guys smelled pretty ripe.”

A small smile began on John's mouth.  “We didn't shower for a week before we went in.  Soap or cologne is a dead giveaway in the bush.  Our best defense was to smell like a goat or a camel.  And we did.”

After a little more than a week, John was in the mess hall when he saw the Homeland Security guy walk through the door and look around.  He walked over to John.  “We've been told to send you out tonight.  Eight o'clock.  Be at the airstrip.”

“Where am I going?” asked John.

“I am not privy to your final destination, but the flight is to Germany,” he answered.

That evening John showed up at the airstrip's temporary hut that served as a terminal.  He was dressed in his clean utilities and carried a small duffel bag.  After ten days of uninterrupted boredom and three thick novels, he was ready to leave and he arrived early at the hut.  He was directed to a C-40B aircraft, which looked a lot like a 737-700.  His name was checked off a clipboard list when he climbed the stairs to what looked like a normal passenger airplane, which was half full of military clad personnel.  When the flight took off he was told by the pilot that they were headed for Wiesbaden Airfield in Germany and it would be about an eight hour flight.

The landing at Wiesbaden was a bit hard in the moonless night of Western Germany.  The plane taxied over to a large hanger.  The hanger rollup doors were open and the lights inside were bright.  There were military types walking around in the hanger.  Three passenger vans rolled up to the passenger door.  The line to leave the aircraft was slow as each passenger was cleared by two clipboard carrying military personnel at the bottom of the stairs, directing each passenger to a van.  He finally reached the exit door to the stairs and entered the chilly night.  Slowly he descended the steps behind a line of people as they were matriculated by the two living, breathing clipboards.  John looked around at the activity in the hanger and saw the baggage and cargo unloaded from the airplane.  He looked in the far corner of the hanger and he saw a woman dressed in military fatigues.  The body movements were familiar, and in the distance the face was familiar.  It was Sarah Todd.  She was standing in a comfortable pose, most weight on one leg with the universal clipboard in her hand.  She was talking with two suits who were standing a bit stiffly.  They were listening like they were taking instructions.  When John got to the bottom of the exit stairs he gave his name, but did not take his eyes off of Sarah.  He was told to get into the front van to get on another airplane.  He asked, “Can I have a minute to say hello to an old friend?”

“No, Mr. Trader.  They have been holding a DC-9 for you for about thirty minutes.  You have to come now.”

John raised and waived his hand and called out, “Sarah, Sarah.” He could feel his heart beat a little bit faster.  She slowly turned in his direction, and put one hand in the thumbs up position, and went back to instructing the two men who were with her.  John got into the van, and for no particular reason felt himself coming alive, and a smile crossed his face.  He spent the 9 hour flight to Washington, D.C.  in an exhausted reverie in a flight filled with military personnel.  At Andrews Air Force Base, more than exiting the airplane, he wandered off the airplane into a warm Washington morning, half conscious after too many uncomfortable hours on an airplane from half way around the world.  He was lodged in the Bachelor Officer's Quarters and told someone would be around that afternoon.  John slept the whole day.