Monthly Archives: August 2006

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Information Operations

One of the buzz phrases or buzz concepts that the United States Military is currently obsessing about is one with the moniker of Information Operations. This is something that we here on the ground in Iraq, or more specifically my unit (a combat unit), got in full force once we touched down in Kuwait prior to our arrival at the current base of operations. Looking back, there was an inkling of it at one of the final briefings that we had stateside.

At this particular briefing, we got an introduction to what Iraq was going to be like from some returning veterans. They talked of the operations that they conducted, what the locals were like, particulars of equipment, strategy, tactics, and the like. Near the end, some staffer from one of the higher headquarters asked how much Information Operations played into what they did on the ground.

Dead silence. The baffled looks from the veterans said it all. They had no idea what was being talked about, let alone practicing this idea. None of us in the audience, except for the staffer, had any idea either.

Once in Kuwait, however, we got an introduction to what that staffer was talking about. Right off the bat, however, the lecturer discredited the idea and himself to my mind. Asking about the definition of what Information Operations could be, he comes to the brilliant conclusion that there is no right definition. What he failed to see, though, was that means that there is no definition, and what cannot be defined cannot be studied in rigor or in a scientific manner. Presenting a theory and resulting doctrine of an indefinable is just downright silly.

He presents a picture with no caption, and asks us what we think is going on. This is driving at the idea he is fumbling with, that is that the media plays a role in what we do, that the images and sound bites control the public opinion and the political masters that pull our leashes.

Finally, we settle on calling Information Operations the act of delivering a message to a designated target to achieve a desired effect. Now we are in the business of advertising? Or spin control? To be perfectly honest, a mortar barrage will do the same thing of delivering a targeted message, only the message is something along the lines of “Tag! You’re it,” “Better duck,” or “You’re dead.”

I love the obsession that American management types have with padding more words into a description in an attempt to hide the fact that they do not have well formed thoughts about a particular concept. Why qualify the target as designated? As opposed to undesignated targets?

Realistically, this could actually be a good conception, of entering a competition of ideas. The vast majority of wars up until the 20th century have been wars on a smaller scale, what is now called Limited Intensity Conflicts. Wars of annihilation, like World War II, are actually the exception. John Nagle in his book Learning to Eat Soup with a Knife explores this distinction, particularly with respect to counter-insurgency by the British and Americans in South East Asia. Realizing that our conception of what defines a war is skewed is something that I argue with my comrades about. To them, this is not a real war. To me, it is, and one more in line with what war is the vast majority of the time. But, as there are no trenches or masses of tanks with the skies darkened by aircraft, this must not be “real.”

This is a subtle and key distinction in the perception of war, and how we prosecute it. War is supposed to be quick, violent, and done with before the next celebrity court case comes on the television in the minds of many people. So, as the war progresses into the fourth, fifth, tenth year, the expectations of what it is supposed to be, or more importantly what it is supposed to not be, are not met and the public’s opinion begins to sink into negativity.

In the perception of the proponents of Information Operations, the insurgency is already doing this vaguely defined thing of Information Operations right now. The play on the media in getting out their messages, the influencing of public opinions, and the resulting political pressure that hampers the ability to prosecute the war effectively. This too is flawed. The insurgency is doing no such thing. Media outlets are naturally friendly to the underdogs, or actively hostile to the interests of the Western Governments. In addition, the lack of met expectations with what a war is supposed to look like makes any continued operations a strong negative, or even indistinguishable from a defeat. The only thing that the insurgency has to do is continue on to make the counter-insurgency appear to fail.

There is no concerted effort by “the insurgency” to engage in a media campaign because the insurgency is fragmented and composed of competing interests. This involves a great deal of sectarian violence as this competition is worked out at the business end of a barrel. There is no Middle Eastern version of General Giap that is a unifying and driving force. Al-Zaraqawi was possibly an influential force, but not nearly a unifying one, nor even the most relevant one prior to his death. In fact, the big success of al-Qaeda is that as an organization, it is able to help one group network with other groups that it would otherwise not be able to contact. This cross-pollination of competing groups may make each interest do more that it would on its own, but we are still left with separate competitive elements. The illusion of the media campaign is because of the media’s inclination to favor that particular element, as in the doctoring of the photos by a Reuter’s photographer, not that there is a concerted effort to present a unified manifesto.

In isolation, each group might be seen to deliver a unified manifesto over the area that it operates, but this is a small cell working in relative isolation. That is more along a political movement a la the likes Mao. The small scale local terrorism, the idea that “power flows from a gun” in enforcing the power structure and mobilizing the population base to support the local politics, these would all be familiar to the leader of the Long March. Local politics and sectarian violence are more Maoist in action and implementation than anything else, the pursuit of security through the elimination of any potential rivals. Last one standing is pretty secure, since everyone else is dead.

From this perspective, the conception that the officer was pushing about Information Operations is more political than anything else. I would posit that American frankly suck as politicians, since we have failed time and time again to understand what it is that motivated the rest of world and drove successful revolutions. Marx, Mao, and Deng: they had a conception of what politics was on a grand scale. They were also masters of violence to enforce the political will of the government. Americans are content with the media frenzy resulting from mudslinging and vague allegations of impropriety, not with the larger ideas that drive movements and color world views. But, to their credit, at least Americans are not fans of settling intellectual disputes with gunfire in the streets and mines in the roadways.

Our officer in the briefing regaled us with ideas of how to deliver the targeted message to get the desired effects. The idea was to build relationships, spheres of influence, and then manage, or at least be aware of, second and third order effects. Great talk, but little to back it up with. On the idea of building relationships, there is the fact that we are there for a finite time, whereas whomever we are engaging has to live there. The second and third order effects will be the results of the local history and existing social relationships. Our waltzing in will have little effect on that, other than to throw a new element into the existing system, possibly causing mistrust, or the perception of favoritism. So, the desire not to pick sides in sectarian issues is derailed by the perception that the Americans are helping one group over another, drawing the forces into local dealings whether or not they want to be. The local leaders engaged will know this, since they have had time to perfect their dealings with the previous commanders of forces in the area. Right of, the sphere of potential influence has been minimized, since the American will leave after his tour is up, to be replaced by another starting from zero.

One of the comments that was posed in the middle of this was that we should learn Arabic. Why? Not just to make an attempt to learn some of the local language and reach out in an effort to build relationships, but to make sure that the interpreters are not double dealing. While it is a well known thing that there are some interpreters that play both sides, this is completely unrealistic. Learning a language, particularly one that is a completely different language family than English, is a difficult proposition. Something that is likely to consume more than a year to master, especially the subtleties needed to pick up on mistranslations or plays on words. It would be easier to rely on others squealing on the dirty players, which is another enigmatic can of worms of varying motives and relationships. To simply state that we should pick up another language like learning to read a map or calling for artillery fire is a gross underestimate of what is involved in building relationships or managing expectations.

There are some good nuggets in this conception, the idea that this is a system of relationships and competing interests. But the current proponents of this dogma are sidetracked with the focus on what CNN is putting on the airwaves. Taking a moment to think carefully about what the situation really is and how to approach it intelligently would pay a lot more dividends, instead of approaching this like a greedy investor to an Enron balance sheet.

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Vade Mecum

I got to spend a half a day the other day just relaxing. Being a “down” day for us with no scheduled missions, after I sent the misguided children that make up my crew on their tasks that I wanted accomplished, I settled into my room and enjoyed something that I haven’t had in over a year. Not since I started this deployment.

Uninterrupted internet access in my room.

Yes, it is true. We have installed a satellite internet system in our housing area using our ingenuity, hard work, the inevitable sweat that comes with living in a convection oven, and the Almighty Dollar. The system itself comes from OIF Net, who have been absolutely wonderful in all of this, cheerfully holding hands and answering questions, even when asked for the third time because the answer was there all along, but, well with all the heat and inability to see the obvious sometimes, it wasn’t noticed or paid attention to.

The flashing blue lights of the modem and the flickering greens of the switch and router tell me that all is well with the network. Others are busily pecking away at their keyboards, updating their blogs, emailing loved ones, searching on Google, surfing for porn, or doing whatever they do normally on the internet. My room is basically an armed server room with a bag of black licorice on the desk next to the laptop. I don’t mind the flashing lights; the miasma of technology is a gentle reminder of the real life, the one I will get back to at some point.

Naturally, the first thing that I did was connect and IM The Wife. Actually, I did that simultaneously with checking email, so I suppose technically it was a tie. Still, I like to think that contacting The Wife and having (very nearly) synchronous communication with her was the number one thing on my mind, so it wins by the judge’s ruling. Plus, I clicked the IM icon first, even if the email client loaded faster.

I also got to go skipping around the internet, see some of the old hangouts, and check in on what has happened in my absence. Which means mostly checking all the blogs that I subscribe to on Bloglines. Some are more or less dormant, some had 40 billion new postings, and some I rethought and scrubbed from the list.

One site that I spent a good amount of time on was Joel On Software. He has a number of interesting ideas, and seems like someone would be great to listen to over a couple of beers while he free associates and comes up with novel ideas. Mostly he covers technology, and management of technology, but he is great all around and has some real world experience too. Just when you figure that he is another ex-Microsoft geek, you find that he is also an ex-Israeli Paratrooper. And a pretty smart dude to boot.

I also checked out some older sites that I haven’t kept up on in a while. One I was chagrined to find dormant was Flaneur. The writing there is simply the best. The gem of the bunch, though, is Rachel King. I tripped on this site, particularly her stuff, a couple of years back when they were active. Showing it to an English Lit friend of mine, she mentioned that if there were a female version of me out there with a better grasp of grammar, it was likely Ms. King. Her writing (Ms. King’s, not my friend’s; they have two very different styles) uses a flamethrower of wit to immolate the subject, then pounds out the flames with a thesaurus. I love every word of it. Her Salon reviews are pretty damn good too.

Back to things technology oriented. When I last left the Inter-Web landscape, Ajax was just getting going. It was a novelty, something that makes Google Maps the buzz du jour. It was also something that I was looking into, tinkering with, trying to get my head around. After all, all good techs need that cutting edge thing to have as the subject of their first O’Reilly book. But, too late, there is one already. And Ajax is powering a lot of things, but particularly calendars it seems.

I was at one point contemplating something on developing for PayPal with Java. In my real life, I did a lot of that. Now, who knows? I would have to consult my notes when I get back, not to mention that there are new editions of Java on the horizon. The skill rot with taking time off in technology is amazing. There will be some catching up to do when I get home. However, for now, I have the net at easy reach for at least keeping up to date with news, information, and whatever. And chasing intellectual rabbits down the networked hole to wherever my mind follows.

But, the most interesting part was that the following day, while prepping for mission, I noticed that I felt better, more alive, and more alert. There were parts of my brain that were sparking back up to functionality, parts that had not seen use in the last year or so. Not that some of what I do can be done without any higher thought process. There is a lot that goes on that requires not only thinking, but creative thinking. Which is a nice way of saying making it up on the fly, but you have to know the rules to break them.

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Tough Way To Make A Living

I don’t know what the world may need, but I’m sure as hell that it starts with me. And that’s a wisdom I’ve laughed at…

Roll to BIAP scheduled for today. We are deadheading, so we don’t have to pull trucks down. I try to talk the convoy commander into a run down Route Irish, just to say that we did it once. The worst reputed road in the country. He is thinking Route St. Paul for a little while. Then, later, he decides that we should do Excalibur to check it out first. Okay, that makes sense since it is our outbound route, but it is less fun. Although for a deadhead out of BIAP, we could do another route. We should practice up for the other routes once in a while.

But no matter. We have a new power inverter hooked up in the truck and it worked well last night. So tonight, we have tunes and can crank them through some real speakers for a change. Tunes are key to staying awake on long runs and longer waits.

So, the day I spent doing the network that we have going on here. The site is unblocked on the bird, so all I have to do is get the router and switch working. I manage to get the router to link up, having only the laptop connected. It isn’t set to a static IP like I did the laptop to hook directly to the modem. It worked right off the bat, so I hooked up the switch and then plugged in the laptop to the switch. Then it was weird. Nothing seemed to work, like it would then stop. I was thinking that there might be a bad cable. So, I set the router to a static IP too like the instructions. Then everything worked. Especially when I realized that when I hooked it all back up after moving it to where I wanted it in the room, I hooked it up wrong.

Everyone was on in minutes. That news spread fast. Best of all, the hours flew by while I worked on the system. It was kind of like being home, just warming and wiring the neighbors instead of rooms in my house. But I was tinkering with computers, solving problems and puzzling through things. I looked down at my watch and four or five hours had evaporated. And I was happy.

The downside was that there was little time left until load out for the mission, so it was time to cut it off and run out. I hate that part since I always feel rushed and like I forgot something, even though I have triple checked everything against a list.

I never meant to cause you problems. I’ve got solutions in my head, so I jumped out the window and down the fire escape…

Once it was working, I popped down to Doozer’s room and helped him plug in. I did some updating on his anti-virus and anti-spyware, making sure that he was all square. He ducked out to get the truck up to the pod we live in since time was running short. I finished and headed back to my room. When he came back, he came bounding into my room. “You got to see this. Come.” I come out and immediately the smell hits me. “I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden it started smoking. I’m just glad didn’t burn down.”

The inverter is fried. The smell is stronger getting to the truck and pungent in the air. At least the truck didn’t burn down. But the 2800 Watt inverter is cooked. Damn. Another night with the portable speakers in the truck. But we have a new addition of two Kevlar blankets for the deck of the Hummer, covering the transmission hump and hopefully keeping down on the heat. Plus, maybe it will stop any fragmentation from below, although we have the armor for the undercarriage.

We get in the truck and I make a radio check. The convoy commander tells us to head straight for the gate, don’t bother turning for the KBR yard. I tell him right, just after I splash the tanks with diesel. He sounds perturbed when he gives a roger.

We get to the gate and have a quick meeting. I get my crew on getting out the armor and splashing the tanks. KBR won’t fill the tanks directly with diesel in this base. All other bases will, but not here. So we have to fill up the Jerry cans, then fill the tanks.

The convoy commander is impatient to beat out a convoy that is staged. Nice try, but it starts taking off when we are ready to break. So, we have to wait. He explains that when he put the start time for deadheading, he wants us to show up ASAP ready to roll. The idea is to get out on a quick bounce so we can beat all the shit hitting the fan and getting jacked up in traffic. Gotcha, but that would have been nicer to know earlier.

We are set now, refueling complete as the last of the convoy rolls out. We jump in, the other trucks starting up, trying to get out collective shit together to roll out. I feel rushed again, like we are behind the curve and I am missing things.

Now, don’t have me break this thing down for nothing. I want to see you all on your baddest behavior. Lend me some sugar! I am your neighbor!

Out the gate we go, headed south for the night. We cruise down Route Abner with no problems, the convoy is already a ways out. We get to Route Jaguar and turn south catching the convoy in no time.

They are pulled on the side of the road around checkpoint 149 Alpha and blacked out. We stop. They are searching the fields to the left with search lights, so we are thinking that they are onto something. Then, they cross over the median into the northbound lane headed south. Not long later, they cross back over into the southbound lane. It’s as though they were going around something on the road in the southbound lane. Two goes up and scouts the area. There is nothing there that he can see that would make for a crossover, like something shady to avoid. It’s weird and confusing what they are doing. “If they are going around something that is there, that is fucked up, ” says the convoy commander over the radio.

We cross over in the same spot and stay in the northbound lane headed south when they go back. We head past them and keep going. Both of our units roll through the IP checkpoint at the same time, one in each lane, both rolling south.

Getting past them, we cut back over and continue on. Doozer leans down later and says something about hearing something. “What is it?” I ask.

“Don’t know.”

“Right.” Actually, he is saying something, but I can’t hear him and he isn’t being clear with what he is trying to say. We are bearing down on someone else, some other convoy, on the road while looking out for the inevitable IED or small arms fire that comes with 149A. Incomprehensible bullshit falls to the bottom of the mental task list. This convoy is stopped and blacked out. Something else is up and we need to figure out what it is.

A report comes across the Vigilante Net that there is a complex attack in 149A, RPGs and small arms fire. The grid is given out. Two plots it as about 1500 meters up. “Dude, the convoy in front is that one that got hit,” he says. The report still comes in. More small arms, one tractor trailer down, vehicle is fine, but the driver needs medical attention. They are thinking ground evacuation to Taji, which is just ahead. The tractor trailer went into a Jersey barrier when it was shot up. The vehicle is missing a windshield and a little dinged up, but the driver needs some attention.

More reports coming in over the net. Another convoy is hit with an IED, the grid being behind us about six clicks or so. “That must have been the convoy behind us, the one that we passed,” I tell the crew.

“I told you I heard it, “says Doozer.

“When?”

“Back there, when I told you I heard a boom.”

“You heard a boom? Oh. Fuck, I didn’t understand you.” Fuck. I radio up that we might have heard something passing back, but couldn’t be sure. Fuck. “They have one truck down and need medevac.”

Two is out front, so he is in the best position to see what is happening up front. “One this is Two. Looks like they got hit right in the Iraqi Police checkpoint. One of the trucks is in the Jersey barrier, there are vehicles on both sides of the road. There’s some Bradleys or something up there, so there is shit everywhere. It’s a mess.”

“Right in the IP checkpoint? That’s fucking bullshit. Don’t tell me those fuckers didn’t know anything.”

“I dunno, it was RPG fire. It looks like one of the trucks crashed into the checkpoint.”

“Still, don’t tell me those fuckers didn’t know about the IED, or the shit around them. They’re assholes. Fucking bullshit, those IPs.”

It’s now in front of us, behind us, and we are in the middle of the shitstorm. “Okay, look alive. We’re right in the middle of this shit.” Flares go up from the convoy in front. “Flares, twelve o’clock, ” I call out.

“Got it.”

Two comes on the net. “They are still taking fire up there.”

“Roger.”

Next to us, a light pierces the sky, flashing up like searchlight three times, then going out along with all the lights of the surrounding buildings and houses. “Hey, One, this is Four, all the lights went out next to us. There was some kind of flash three times, then it went out.” Two calls up: “Another IED det up front. They took a secondary about 500 meters farther down.”

One comes back on the air. “Okay gentleman, keep your gunners scanning. This is it.” I lean back so the crew can hear me better. “Another IED det with the convoy in front.”

“Shit.”

The radio crackles. “One this is Two, they have another truck down up ahead. They’re still reporting small arms fire on Vigilante. No report of casualties other than the one driver.”

“They still have small arms fire? Which side?” asks One

“Didn’t say.”

“Gotta love these contact reports from these pogue motherfuckers. Do they need any assistance?”

“Dunno.”

“Did you make contact with their rear element?”

“Dude, it a mess up here. There’s vehicles everywhere, I don’t know what they are doing.”

“They left that down vehicle?”

“No, they have Brads up here, but they are part of some OP or something,” Two says.

“Dude, push up there and see what the fuck is going on, and if they need help. We have four trucks sitting here,” One says.

I’m scanning with my night vision, the NODs, looking where the lights were, around us, looking for movement, bombs, suspicious stuff, movement, anything. I notice my driver doesn’t have his NODs up. He has mentally taken a shit lately and acting completely retarded. Now, he is looking out into the dark without NODs. Fat lot of good that will do, but if I lay into him, he will get all pissy, then everything goes to shit. But I can’t ignore it.

“Where’s your NODs?”

“I put them right here in the bag,” he says tapping the floor of the Hummer. “But they aren’t there now. Doozer says that he doesn’t see them, so I don’t know what happened.” In the darkness he can’t see me look at him like I just saw the most amazingly retarded thing in my life. Here we go with the excuses. Everything is an excuse. “Well, something happened….” or “Well, I was thinking this, that, and the other….” This is beginning to annoy me. But I can’t yell because we will be back to the same pouty, depressed crap as before. They don’t pay me enough for this bullshit.

I flick on my flashlight, pointing it in the back seat. “Doozer, do you see anything back there?”

“Yeah, it’s right there on the floor.” What an unmotivated idiot. I try not to have too much of a pained expression. My driver reaches back. “A little more back. The other side. Right there.” He now has NODs.

“Team Three, this is One. Birds are in the air at the three o’clock.” I lean back. “Guardian Angels in the air at the three o’clock.”

“Roger.”

A little later, Two comes back on. “Okay, the Brads are an OP, and they are pulling security on the truck. The rest of the convoy pushed up to get out and is stopped with the IED ahead. They are waiting on medevac, but the truck is drivable, they are going to try to self recover. You can pull up some more and get on the northbound lane.”

“Do they need our help?”

“No, the Brads have the security and the convoy is farther on down the road. There’s not much for us to do.”

“What’s it like up there? Is there buildings closer to the road?”

“Yeah, right past the checkpoint, there are houses both sides, right on the road.”

“Yeah, that’s a natural chokepoint. We have good position back here. Fall back here and we will wait it out.”

Doozer pipes up. I have been monitoring the radio, but left the speaker off. “Sergeant S, why are we just sitting here? Can’t we go around them on the left?”

“No, it’s a goat fuck up there, vehicles all over.”

“Well, if they are taking fire, why are we here? Let’s get up there.”

“Dude, we can’t. Look around, we have good visibility, not too many buildings. Up there is a chokepoint. Buildings right on the road. You have vehicles and people everywhere and they are waiting on a medevac. So if we went driving through it, it might be fucking up some evac, or just making things worse. The convoy is past, we don’t have comms with them, so there is no way to coordinate with them. The Brads are someone else, and they don’t know what is going on. So if we go running into it, we would be getting in the way and making it worse, then Habibi could shoot us all up. Better to wait in a better position and not get in the way until we are needed. We don’t need to run into the burning house and fuck shit up.”

“Gotcha.”

“Are you saying ‘gotcha’ because you see what I’m saying, or ‘gotcha’ because you are trying to humor me?”

“No, I understand. Makes sense.”

There are lights to our rear. Another convoy is pulling up. “One, this is Four. We have a convoy coming up on our six.”

“Roger, convoy on our six. Is it that one that got hit?”

“Dunno, we are making contact.” The lead vehicle pulls up next to mine. “Dooz, yell over to them and see what they want.” Dooz yells at them: “The convoy in front got hit. RPGs and small arms. Another got an IED. They are doing a medevac.” They say something back. “They want to know if they can pass.”

“Fuck no. The route is red. They are doing a fucking medevac.”

“NO.” Pause. “They are doing a medevac, you can’t pass. The route is red.”

“Are they the guys that got hit back there?” I ask Doozer. He asks them. “No.”

“Hey, find out who the fuck they are, and their net ID, ” I call up to Doozer in the turret. “Hey what unit are you?” he calls over. They call back their unit and net. “Hey, get their call sign too.”

“What’s your call sign?…Your call sign!…On the radio, your call sign, the name that you use on the radio…Comcast 15.”

“Comcast?” My driver and I both say.

“That’s what is sounded like. They say they’re going to Talil.”

“Fuck them.” I call back to One and pass the information. “I have their Net ID and call sign if we have to talk to them.”

“Hey,” calls Doozer. “They want to know if we can pull up.”

“Fuck no, they can go back. Assholes.”

“Damn, he is freaking out.”

“Huh?”

“He is screaming at his lead truck driver. When he came up, the truck followed him. Now the gunner is throwing chem lights at him. The TC is ripping him a new asshole.”

“Must be a helluva group that they are pulling,” I comment. “And Talil is a long run. Damn.”

“Dude, this guy is freaking out.” I snicker and smile. Sometimes things get weird.

Lights from approaching vehicles cut into my vision. A small patrol is coming up, threading its way through the traffic on the road. The lead vehicle pulls up next to my truck and opens the door. One soldier jumps out. I drop my window. His vehicle can provide cover for that side from any effects of weapons, so while I normally wouldn’t do that, I do now. “What’s up?”

“Are you the unit that was hit?”

“No, I’m the last vehicle in this group. We’re the four gun trucks here,” I say waving ahead, “and the next convoy starts behind me. They didn’t get hit. The one that was hit is about six clicks back.”

“Do you know if they need recovery or medevac?”

“They had one TCN vehicle down and called for medevac. I don’t know about recovery. Didn’t hear anything on Vigilante.”

“Any idea where they are at?”

“Um, hold on, I’ll call and see if we have a grid.” I call to Two. He doesn’t have the grid, but Three does. I copy it down, and the unit identifier. “Hey, they are XYZ Armor, and at 234 blah blah blah.”

“Great, thanks.” The guy jumps back in his Hummer and continues on back in the traffic looking for some unit.

“Hey, Vigilante is reporting that a medevac is coming in along Jaguar from the north,” One calls. “Keep an eye out on our six for a bird.” We don’t see anything in the air. Maybe it is still too far out. Maybe it is coming in for the unit behind us and we won’t see it.

Lights are coming up the northbound lane slowly heading towards us. “And what is this circus coming at us, ” I ask over the radio.

“It looks like route clearance coming up, ” calls back Two.

“Um, a little late don’t you think?”

“Yeah, better late than never. I think that the route is cleared now of IEDs now that they blew up.”

They keep coming up and pause by us. They flip on a search light and shine it by my truck, looking at a pile of rags off the road. The route team stops, blacks out their lights, and the one truck comes over the median at it. “Route clearance just went black, ” calls One.

“Yeah, they are playing by me looking at some trash,” I radio back. “It’s only been about 45 minutes and nothing went boom. What a joke.”

The monster truck that the clearance uses for investigating stuff is parked in front of me. Looking at the rags. Finally the lights go out and it pulls alongside. Doozer talks to them. “Hey they are looking for a possible IED around here. Do we know anything about that?”

“No, no reports of possibles, just the one definite behind us. I didn’t hear anything on Vigilante,” I tell Doozer. “No idea,” he shouts back, “don’t know anything about a possible, just a definite one back there that exploded.”

What a night. We wait some more.

Some Bradleys move up to where Two is. A pause. “One this is Two, we can pass on the northbound lane, it’s cleared up enough that we can go.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Well, Lucky always gets me home. With Lucky near, I can’t go wrong…

Lights come on and we cross over the median. In the checkpoint as we pass is the truck that is wrapped up on a Jersey barrier. It doesn’t look too bad, glass everywhere, but possibly drivable. A little later is the remains of the second truck, a bobtail destroyed in the median. The cab is a mess, metal everywhere, looking every bit that it was lumped up bad and partly burned. “Fuck, look at that.” We pass the rest of the convoy, blacked out on the road. Houses are all around, closing in on the road. We scan the night, looking for someone silly enough to mess with us without trucks to mind, looking for the responsible parties that worked this destruction. Nothing comes from the night. All is quiet now on the roadway front. We continue south into the night.

The roll south is now quiet. We are alert now, more so having the wake up call right out the gate. The monster is hungry tonight and all around. But we keep going, the situation being quiet and uneventful in our immediate area. Which is good.

As we are coming down Jaguar, we see a broken Stryker in the opposite lane. Their patrol is halted and pulling security. An entire wheel of the Stryker has come off. No self-recovery for that.

Once we get to the turn off to Excalibur, we fall in behind another convoy. They are right on the off ramp, moving slowly. Then they stop, black out, and wait. “What the fuck?” calls One. “Looks like they are spooked by something.” We stop. They wait for a moment, then slowly pull on the off ramp to Excalibur. “Oh, great. They are probably lost.”

“Spooked and lost, what a great combination,” I call.

“Yeah, and we’re behind them. Great.” One calls for a route status on St. Paul. If these guys don’t get fully on Excalibur, we can still do St. Paul as an alternate. But they pull fully on the road. “Okay Two, let’s still do Excalibur and get around them.”

They pull off, we follow, and immediately cross the median into the opposing lane. Off we go. They are poking along, for all the world lost and confused. Which is bad in Baghdad, especially this neighborhood. “I told you we should have just done Irish,” I call. Irish is notorious for being Bad, Very Bad, with a capital bad. We blow by the convoy, though, and haul through Excalibur. The run into BIAP is quiet. We are looking around intently; Excalibur has been hellacious the last couple of nights.

I ain’t lying, girls be cryin’ ‘cause I’m on T.V…

BIAP is in front of us. We pull into the gate. There is a cute female at the front gate. The Three truck barely touches the brakes and blows through. We slow down to show ID. “Hi there.” She smiles and walks away, job being done. “Note: Three barely slowed down. Gay. Not Metro-sexual. Full out Gay.”

We pick up the trucks, and Doozer checks the trucks. We have a 45 minute turn around, so we can actually check the trucks tonight. One won’t start, there is a last minute substitution. I am talking to the KBR guy getting the information as to what this substitution is. Three drivers are standing around right behind me, literally right over my shoulder. I can’t take it any more and whip around to the one on my left. “MA? [What?]” I growl. He steps back. The guy on my right giggles at the first’s reaction. I whip around on him. “What?!? Sayarek? [Your truck?]” I ask him.

“No.”

My eyes narrow. “Then Imshi [walk away].” He giggles. “Imshi, ” he repeats chuckling. “Get the fuck away from me now!” I yell, my hand moving to my extendible baton. He backs up a bit and the first guy is back over my shoulder. I jot down some information and walk to the truck giving it the quickie once over.

The driver is there, and gets in. I ask KBR Dude what it is hauling. “I think that it is empty.”

“Any manifest?”

“I don’t know.” KBR Dude gets on the radio. “Yeah, we’re changing out one truck on this convoy.” He gives the license information. “Hey, is there any more convoys headed north?” He asks me. I turn to him, his cluelessness beginning to irritate me. “I don’t know,” I reply

The convoy gets started and we start pulling the trucks out. A bunch of other drivers are standing in front of the new truck of ours. “Move, fuckers!” The truck honks. They stay. It creeps. They slowly move out of the way. “Man, do we have a crowd tonight,” I mutter to myself. We get everything out and I jump in my truck. “One this is Four, we’re rolling.”

“Roger, what do we have?”

“Two Zero Victors, two seven packs.”

“What?”

“We have seven hitchhikers.”

“Man. Are we having a night of tards again?”

“No, but the other convoys are going to have a bunch of winners.”

“Yeah, I was wondering if that was our group of re-re’s in front of the other truck.”

“Nah, the other convoys are going to have their hands full. They were almost hood ornaments, but we left them.”

On the road, pulling north. Getting out is a pain, since we have a bunch of twists and turns in the roads coming out the gate. We are spread out and rolling slow. “One is through the IP checkpoint.”

“Three is on Lincoln.”

“Four, St. Paul.”

“Roger, Four, we are spread out pretty good.”

“Two is on Bernard.”

“Roger, Two….wait, Bernard?!? How far….Bernard? You’re on Bernard?”

“Nah, just fucking with you.”

“Damn, I’m used to just rogering what you say. What the fuck?”

We roll. As my truck, holding the rear, comes up to the turn off to Excalibur, we see flares. “Flares, our eleven o’clock,” I radio.

“Roger, that’s One Three One Alpha,” One replies. “That’s a bad area. That’s where the other convoy was hit when we turned off the other day.”

“Yeah, I remember the fireworks display.” We continue on.

Vanish in the air, you’ll never find me. I will turn your flesh to alabaster, then you find that your servant is your master…

There is a convoy ahead stopped. It’s a group of Strykers. “One this is Two. They are broken down and doing self recovery. They said about five minutes and then we can roll. They are going to turn around so we can go by in this lane.”

“Roger.”

“One this Four, I have lights going off to my eleven o’clock. Continuing to observe.”

“Roger, keep eyes on.” Fuck, what a night.

“Hey, there looks like a vehicle in that field.” I pull down my NODs, and the lights are very faint. “It’s like he is parked with his parking lights on.”

“I was just about to say that, ” says Doozer from the turret.

“Keep an eye on him. You see anyone?”

“No, you want me to light him up with a flare?”

“Nah, just watch him. If there is anything weird, flare him.” Doozer puts the spotlight on it. It is behind weeds and hard to make out. He kills the spotlight

“One, this is Four. I have a victor in the field to my ten o’clock blacked out. We’re watching him.”

“Roger, put the light on him to make sure that he knows we’re watching.”

“Roger.”

“Flare him up if you feel froggy.”

“Roger that.” Dude, already on it. I don’t mind the reminders, though. It is a good double check that we are doing the right thing.

Nothing comes of it. No movement, nothing other than it is there. We start rolling about five minutes later.

We pass the broken Stryker going north. “Clear the Crunchies with driver’s licenses.”

“How do you know that they have licenses?”

And the roll north is quiet. Nothing. No reports either, until we get to the gate. I hear over the Vigilante net that Team Five is bringing in human remains. What? I find Convoy commander’ truck. “Hey Tulip, did Team Five get hit?”

“Yeah, they got hit in The Market. Destroyed a tractor trailer and killed the driver.”

“Fuck.”

We escort our trucks in and are chatting in the truck about the dead foreigner. “Hard way to make a living. Come to a foreign country, drive a truck around, and get shot at. I’ll bet there family has no information.”

“Yeah, probably just here to make a living. Feed the family back home.”

“Plus, these guys are subcontractors to subcontractors. They don’t have insurance. And the family won’t know for a couple of weeks or so until the remains show up. ‘Hey, here’s what’s left of Abu. Sorry about your luck.'”

“That’s fucking hard, dude.”

“Yeah, and the truck might be borrowed, so maybe they have to pay for what is left of it to whoever owns it.”

“Fuck.”

Lyrics: Teen Angst, by Cracker. It’s Tricky, by Run DMC. Wrapped Around Your Finger, by The Police. Hey Ya, by Outkast. Lucky, by Secondhand Jive. All copyrights by their respective holder.



Creative Commons License

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

by

But Wait, There’s More

A roll to BIAP is scheduled for today. We hit the KBR yard and pick up the trucks. The drivers seem like a feisty bunch. Constantly, they are following me around as I inspect the trucks, especially in groups. Normally, the driver will tag along, pointing out things, translating the license plate even though I can read them in Arabic. “Mista, good, good. Full, full.” As if. I’ll be the judge of that.

The Convoy Commander gives a brief before we run. “I know that the TOC overuses this, but be careful of what you wish for. If something goes down, it can get bad fast. We’ll get attacked, don’t worry. It’s a matter of when, not if.” Mind you, and it is pointed out in the brief, that there is very nearly a full moon. And that means that activity will pick up. Sizably. In fact, following the reports for the last couple of nights, the attacks have been more regular and frequent.

We hit the road. There is a complex attack at 149A as soon as we head for the south gate to stage. One tractor trailer truck is down, the team requests recovery assets and Quick Reaction Force, QRF. The route is still Amber, though, so push for the gate. We get through and are on Route Abner headed south.

No problems so far, turn left on Route Jaguar, and the routes are still amber. We pass a convoy on the side of the road in vicinity of 149A changing a tire. Is this the hit one, we wonder? No fire from the surroundings. Ahead of us, though, is an illumination mission. Mortar flares are bursting in the sky, slowly descending, lighting the area. We catch up to a southbound recon patrol and fall in behind, crossing into the northbound lane heading south to pass a second convoy on the side of the road.

Finally, we are stopped. Fire is being reported one click ahead of us. We see star clusters being launched from up ahead. Over the radio, more reports of small arms fire, coming from the left side of the road from two buildings. A second illumination mission starts and the surrounding terrain dances with dim shadows.

Ahead, the units are stopped for an IED. Now, we are waiting for an ambush. There is fire ahead, IEDs, illumination missions, broken convoys behind us. This is the soup, and we are in the middle. Any second now, it is going to be our turn. Eyes probe the night aided with vision devices.

A burst of light flashes in front of us down the road, followed some seconds later by a thump. The controlled detonation of the IED is complete. The road is now essentially clear, once the handiwork is checked. Let’s go, let’s get out of here. Minutes later, we are on the move.

Reports come in that checkpoint 136A on Route Excalibur is red. It’s past our turnoff, so it is not an immediate concern. Something to keep tabs on, though, in case this decides to migrate to our area that we plan to be in. We keep rolling south in the northbound lane.

Minor problem crops up now, due to our inexperience with the road. Heading south, we need to be in the southbound before 147A to make the turnoff to Route Bernard. The medians here are curbed, and fully loaded semis are not going to cross them easily, if at all. However, we go south of 147A in the northbound lane. Now, we have to find a spot that has the curbs missing and the median is passable.

To boot, the other convoy that was stopped for the IED is rolling south too. We need to pass them and then cross over with plenty of space so we don’t cut them off. That makes a mess, and is just rude. We’ve had that done to us. But, at the last second, we find a spot that is sort of passable, curb missing, and make do with it. And there is plenty of space for the next convoy to keep rolling at speed by the time we are crossed and start to accelerate.

We gonna do this for a gang bangin’ thug that never saw it coming. (Yeah, Tupac Shakur.) Nah, bitch, I’m talking about motherfucking Falco and shit. (Wha?? Falco?)

Onto Route Bernard, no problems making the turn off, and 136A is now amber. Now we start to have some issues again. The number twenty truck is not happy with the pace of things, so he pulls out to the left and guns it. We watch as he weaves up to the number 13 position. The now number 14 truck is lagging back and getting a sizable gap. I radio up to The Convoy Commander and let him know the situation, then pull out to the left ourselves and hit the red and blue police lights mounted on the front of the Hummer. Usually, the tractor trailers will pick up the pace if they see the lights, or make room for us to pass. This guy isn’t getting it, continuing to lag, the gap growing to a few hundred meters.

“Run up on that motherfucker so we can motivate him!” I scream to the driver. He jams on the gas, and we begin to surge past the trucks. This is taking a risk, since now the rear of the convoy is open to the breeze, but a lagging, slow, broken up convoy is worse. Pouring it on, we come up on the side of the problem child truck. “Doozer, make that motherfucker go!”

“What to you want me to do?”

“Wave a gun in his face! He’ll get the idea!” I pull my pistol also, and point it at the window. I fire the laser mounted on the grip and Doozer does the same, screaming at the driver in Arabic, and waving him on. The driver looks over and pales. Eyes wide, he starts to slow. “No, motherfucker! GO!” The problem child gets the idea, and guns it. The gap begins to close. Anything to get away from the insane Americans. We start to drop back to the rear of the convoy and the other trucks follow the problem child closer to the main body.

“One, this is Four, the problem child has been sufficiently motivated. He’s back with the group.”

Rolling on, we make the turn off for Route Excalibur. And another truck breaks down. Of course it does. The driver is a lone Croat, so none of the other drivers are assisting willingly. They just drive around him and continue on. As though we are going to just leave him and the other drivers won’t have to be bothered.

An interesting thing about the drivers. They tend to stick together along ethnic and national lines. Most of the drivers are Kurds and Turks. Kurds stick with Kurds. Turks help Turks. Philipinos help Philipinos. Indians stick with Indians. It might not be politically correct in the West, but this is how business is done in most of the world, and we have to deal with the facts on the ground. So, one of the things that I look for on the inspection trip is nationality. It’s not the highest thing on my list, but something that I do for mental notes. If a Turk breaks down, his Turkish friends will usually stop with him and help put the truck in working order. Then don’t like to be stopped any more than we do. They don’t have armor or weapons. They make for easy prey.

Now, if someone has no friends, he won’t get help. Which means, if no one else of your nationality is there, you are short on friends. Also, if a guy is a complete moron, his own “group” will ignore him also. A kind of voting off the island, or banned from the tribe if you will.

So, we roll up to the disabled truck and our Three gun truck comes back to provide overwatch. I talk to the driver. He has gas. The truck just won’t start. It cranks, just can’t turn over. It sputters sometimes, but just can’t get it. I yell at him to stop cranking it. In my mind, it is probably flooded from all the cranking, and I don’t need him to kill the batteries in failed attempts. Give it a moment, and we’ll try again in a bit. I hate waiting on the ground, but sometimes some patience is called for. I trot over to the Three truck and update him on the situation and the plan of inaction. “Want to call for recovery?” he asks. “Nah,” I reply, “we’ll be here for hours. If it doesn’t go after a bit, we’ll call then.”

Looking around, it occurs to me that this is the exact stretch of road that we got hit on a few days before. This is a definite Bad Place (TM) to be. To my right, there is a high wall running the length of the road, a bridge ahead and behind, and an open field to our left. The field has high grass and trash that hides the road that runs through it. The only reason that I know that there is a road there is that I remember traffic running along it the couple nights before when we watched the firefight go down with the Bradleys and IEDs eating Hummers. And it occurs to me that I should check the surrounding area on the far side of the tractor trailer to be safe and make sure that there aren’t any surprises waiting for us.

I walked around the front of the truck, play my flashlight on the shoulder of the road, and freeze. On the side is a container. Cylindrical in shape, it is painted a dark color, ordinance green in fact, a square cap on top completing the picture.

With a pin through the cap.

Fuck.

Definitely ordinance. Wait, if it has the pin, it might not be armed, if it is a grenade. I step carefully towards the object, looking around to make sure that I wasn’t looking intently at a diversion. Nothing else around, I looked closer at this thing that was in fact a grenade and right at my feet at this point.

Evidently, an American smoke grenade had fallen on the road, and been run over, probably several times. It was dented, dinged, and mangled. I breathed a sigh of relief, and continued to look around. Nothing else more to look at. Time to get out of this place.

I tell the driver to start the engine. He cranks and cranks, but it is still the same sputtering and the engine will not turn over. He gives it the good ol’ college try, but the truck just is not getting a move on. Time to call recovery. Even though we are close to BIAP, the recovery is likely to take hours. This is going to be a long night.

I trot back over to the three truck and open the door. Burk is inside playing on the MTS. “It’s not going anywhere,” I tell him. “I think it is time to call recovery.” I close the door and turn around to head to my vehicle. The truck roars to life. I turn around and open back up Burk’s door. “Proving that the world does in fact revolve around me, as soon as I said recovery, the truck starts. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

We start to roll the newly started truck forward and reach the back of our convoy. Behind us, we see the lights of another convoy approaching from our rear. Three settles into position, and is cut off by one of the tractor trailers jockeying for a new position. Burk pulls out and runs alongside of the tractor trailer. The driver bangs his two outstretched index fingers together in the universal Iraqi sign for friend and points at the truck in front. He wants to be behind his friend driving the other truck. Apparently it was important enough to cut off a gun truck and possibly incur the wrath of the Americans. Asshole.

Continuing on to our destination, which is within spitting distance now, the other convoy is right on our six. We pull off onto Route Excalibur, and immediately the block goes dark. The trailing convoy is lit up by small arms fire from the surrounding buildings. Tracer fire is going in the air. The lead ASV-19 traverses its turret and begins to pound away with its .50 caliber machine gun, spraying rounds like a firehose on a burning building.

“One, this is Four. Tracer fire to our four o’clock.”

“Roger, they’re probably hitting that convoy behind us. Keep an eye out. That’s 136 Alpha; that’s been hot all night.”

“Oh, they’re getting hit all right. I’m watching the .50 cal tracers in the air. The block went dark right when we turned off.”

“Damn. How pissed do you think Hajji was when we turned off?”

Fat boy on a diet, don’t try it. I’ll jack your ass like a looter in a riot…

We roll into BIAP and drop off our trucks. Time to pick up the next batch and run them home. I set my crew to splashing the fuel tank and getting ready to move. The Convoy Commander gets the manifest and comes out. “Dude, we SP in like 15 minutes.”

“What?” I check my watch. It’s ten minutes now, with the time from The Convoy Commander getting the paper work. We have to roll now to get the trucks and give the fastest inspection ever. “Don’t we get time to shit?” I signal to mount up, and my truck pulls off to the staging area. This is going to be the all time fastest search.

I jump out and head for the lanes, manifest in one hand, flashlight in the other, scowl on my face. I run down the line, checking off the license numbers and yelling for the trucks to get started. The drivers want to do the usual milling about, following me, and generally acting like they don’t have a care in the world. “Get in your vehicle!” I yell, kicking the gas tank of one truck. “Mista, full.” “Shut up and start the truck, ” I holler over my shoulder moving to the next one. Three more guys are tagging along now. “Knock that shit off! Get in and start.”

“Convoy go?”

“Yes, convoy go.” Move, kick tank, lights playing over the tires, on to the next truck. Slowly, they are coming to life, engines starting up, diesels idling, lights coming on. I sprint down the line, light going over the plates, the tires, into the cabs of the trucks.

“Wake up!” I pound on the door of the cab of a truck with no driver. A sleepy surprised face appears from behind the curtain in the cab. “Let’s get a fucking move on! Convoy GO!” And I disappear down the line to the next truck, looking at the chunks of tire missing from the treads, noting the lack of tow bars, hoping that the spares with exposed radials won’t blow right away if used.

I come up to one truck, and the driver notes me as I blur past. He comes to life and hops down from the cab of the truck. “Mista, mista.” Oh, Lord, here we go. Always, when the push is on, the worst things happen, like conversations with plants about inane things. “Mista, come.”

“What?”

He points to the windshield, where there is a small crack. “Taji.” “Taji?” I repeat. “Taji,” he repeats. Then he points to another small crack on the opposite side of the windshield. “Taji.”

“Yes, Taji is very bad,” I say coolly, trying not to rip the guy’s head right off as we are speaking. “Get in your truck; we are leaving.”

He points. “Americans. Taji.” “Jesh Amriki? [American Army]?” I ask. “Taji, Amriki,” he continues. Then he bends over to motion like he is picking up a rock. He mimes throwing a rock, then points back at the windshield. “Taji,” again in the slow drawl that he has been using, “Amriki.” He moves his hands around, like he is sweeping something off a table, or dusting. “Clean…Taji…Amriki.”

Something happened at Taji that involved a rock and his windshield. Taji is notorious for rock throwing, and this is the likely cause of the damage. The cracks are minor and the vehicle is drivable, which is my primary concern. I strike the pose of a thinker, chin resting in my hand, an intellectual adjudicating something for this poor hapless individual. Either he is asking me to have the American Army clean house in Taji, so another windshield is never broken, or he wants the Americans to pay for it. Or something else entirely. But we are very short on time tonight, and figuring out what is the real deal is not my concern.

“Is this your truck? Sayarek?” I ask calm as the sun rising over the desert. He looks at the truck. “Yes.”

“Then get the fuck inside right fucking now or I fucking leave you here!” I scream at the top of my lungs and jabbing a finger in his face. He jumps back half a step, startled by the sudden change of tone and volume. Glancing from the truck to me, he gets back inside, unsure of how his windshield and Taji are going to fare now. One of his friends, who had come up during the conversation and watching how the deal went, whipped around and started jabbering at Mr. Taji, hustling him into his vehicle. I dash off heading for the next truck, fortunately near the end of the line. Almost done the checking.

I wheel around the back of the line and dash up to the front moving at a good clip. Flashing the light over the tires and occasionally kicking a fuel tank, I move from truck to truck, occasionally glancing at my watch to see how much time I don’t have, and the less occasional scream at a driver who just is not understanding that we are going, really going, right now.

A hiss brings me to a halt. One of the trucks has a noise under it, near the tires, one set in particular. A hiss, a leak of an air line. I’m no mechanic; I have no idea how much tolerance we have and how much we can push these trucks. I glance at the lines. They look fine, but I can hear the air leaving them. Moving my head around, I notice that the nose changes in volume a lot and I have to be in close proximity to one line to hear it well. I take the calculated risk that the line is not going to fail and is a slow leak. Back to the head of the staged line of trucks.

The Convoy Commander is already there in his vehicle, geared up and ready to go. I still don’t have my uniform top back on. “We good?” he asks. “Yup, they’ll have to do.” I’m a tad winded from all the moving and running along the rutted ground in close confines. But, deep down, I love this job.

He pulls out and I signal the lead truck to follow him. My role now is to count trucks, count passengers, and let the Three truck know when to move into position so that when we hit the gate, we are all set up and have the right numbers to pass off on the gate people. But, with all the rush, and pulling on my gear, I am able to figure out that there are no hitchhikers and mess up the count of trucks coming out. Damn. I knew that I checked them all off, we don’t have time to count a third time, the previous count will have to do. “One, this is Four. We’re rolling. Two zero Vicks, two zero packs. And, man, do we have a group tonight.”

She says that the angels are her friends. What the hell does that mean?

We get to the gate at BIAP and roll through, out into the wilds of Baghdad. I’m a little tense as we come up on the turn off since there was all the fighting at 136A. It wouldn’t take much for someone to move down a block or so and fix the wagon wheel of anyone coming out. Nothing happens, though, as we pull onto Route Excalibur.

It’s quiet as we continue on and get onto Route Bernard, then Route Jaguar, moving north to home. Nothing. Coming up on 149A, the notorious Bad Place (TM) on South Jaguar, especially now with nearly a full moon hanging overhead, there is a stillness in the air. Still quiet, still moving along. We pass a civilian vehicle heading south on the road. Nothing comes of it, and it’s actually a good sign, a sign that there is not likely to be anything around. As soon as we turn on Route Abner, though, the area of 146A to 148A gets hit. Hard. Recovery is in route to get the downed tractor trailer.

On Route Abner, we find nothing either. There is a route clearance up ahead, so we fall in behind that and poke along the road at a slower speed heading for the gate at home. There is a tendency to slack off on Route Abner, since it is the road to home, but there are many craters to remind otherwise.

About 400 meters from the gate, route clearance stops. They send up reports, and there is an IED right outside the gate. What the fuck! This close to home, and held up for an IED. And how did they get so close? When we worked gates, we pushed out and made sure that the surrounding area was reasonably clear, that it would be hard to pull something like this off. At least with EOD on the base, they don’t have to go far to get this cleared up.

“One, this is Four. Bet since EOD lives right here, we wait even longer to get moving.”

“One, this is Two. You’re never gonna believe this.”

“I don’t know. What?” asks One.

“Curtain call on EOD,” says Two. “EOD can’t be on scene earlier than zero four twenty.” It’s now 3 a.m. “We have to wait at least an hour and a half.”

“I called it, ” I chime in on the radio.

Two continues. “Base Command recommends that we divert to North Gate.” But we are right here! And the road is only two lanes, with canals and ruts. How in the hell are we going to turn around? A few minutes later, Two tells us that Base Command is now saying that EOD won’t be out until 5 a.m. Screw this. Two scouts out a wider spot in the road, and we herd the cats around and get them lined up in the opposite direction.

So, back down Route Abner headed for Route Jaguar. “One, this is Four, this looks awfully familiar. Didn’t we do this route already like this tonight?” On Route Jaguar, we hang a right and head north for the bypass to get to the North Gate. There is a KBR convoy on the road, stopped right before the turn off to Route Abner. It’ll be nothing but at thing for them to turn around. Of course, in end they don’t have to. As soon as we hit Route Meryl and get committed to it, Route Abner goes back amber. I guess EOD was able to make it earlier than the command thought.

Route Meryl is not the way that we want to go if we have a choice. It is a pitted rutted path that is a road only as a technicality. It is also one of the most heavily bombed roads, with constant IEDs. One of the soldiers from our Brigade was killed out here when an IED removed his truck from around him. Anti-tank mines were found a few days prior. But what choice do we have? Sit on the road and wait for The Bad Guys to come get a stalled convoy?

Moving along Route Meryl slowly, we work our way around the craters and potholes. The shoulders are sandy and dirt, perfectly suited for digging up and placing bombs in. The road is a moonscape, potholes upon craters. Some of the craters are enormous, large enough to do damage if hit at any kind of speed. The convoy is able to average about 10 to 15 miles per hour, which is a credit to driving skills.

My truck is moving at about 7 miles an hour, though. Something is wrong. We call over the radio, and figure that the convoy is splitting into two parts. Then, to confirm our suspicions, the trucks in the rear start passing on of their members, who is stalled out on the road. A sure sign that this guy is also lonely and without friends.

“One, this is Four. We’re stopped. Disabled truck.”

“Two, Stop, ” calls One. I pull alongside and scan the earth before opening the door. We have to check constantly before getting out, because we just might be next to a present from The Bad Guys. No use making it easy and walking onto a pressure plate.

The area is clear and the other driver is standing on the ground. The previously passed KBR convoy is coming up on our six. They stop and make contact to see what is going on. We tell them that we have a disabled truck, and they are welcome to pass. They start to thread through slowly the position that I am at. Down the road, however, is the rest of our convoy all over the road since they didn’t have time to move in a fashion to the side of the road. The KBR convoy will stop behind them since they won’t drive on the soft shoulders and make traffic a royal pain in the ass.

I check out the truck. It takes a few seconds and some hand motioning, but the driver tells us that the truck won’t accelerate. The petal moves free since the accelerator cable is broken. This cable connects the gas petal with the throttle body and runs from the firewall, past the radiator, and underneath the engine to parts unknown. There is some shielding on the cable right by the radiator, but the cable is broken right above the shielding, giving only a centimeter or two to work with. The engine is on, however, and he can idle down the road. KBR having fully passed us and Three still a ways down the road coming back for us, I put him in the truck and we at least idle down closer while I call up on the radio what is going on.

The gunner on One recommends we use some parachute cord, called Five Fifty Cord, to tie off the end of the cable. I don’t know if it can work, not really having much to work with, and having to tie a metal cable that has snapped. But, what the hell. The gunner of Three recommends wire ties, but we have none. “Hey,” I call to the crew. “Anyone got any five fifty cord?” Doozer says that he does. Good, we are in business. I have the driver hit the reds and blues and try to wave over the driver. He doesn’t understand, and continues to putter down the road.

We pull out and cut him off. I scan hastily, and jump out holding up my hand for him to stop. He pulls over and makes like he is going to pass us on the shoulder at an idle. I step out and get right in his path. “Hey, fucking stop motherfucker!” He does. I go to town on the cable with the parachute cord and a Gerber(tm) tool. The driver gets out and just stands there, looking at me and what I am doing.

It’s a pain getting into the tight place, pulling on some cable to get some more to work with, getting the cord to hold onto the end. I glance around. The fields are dark and there are craters right where I am working. Off in the distance, the sky glows faintly from the lights at the North Gate. This is not the place to be on the ground for long without a lot of friends. And firepower. My driver comes trotting up with his rifle to provide additional security on the ground. My gunner scans the night on the opposite side. I continue trying to tie off the cord, thinking I have it, hit the petal, and watch the cord fall off. The driver, meanwhile, stands there, looking at me, for all the world useless.

Finally, after a number of failed attempts, I think that I have it, tying off the cord to the remains of the petal lever. He hits the gas. It idles up. Good! Let’s go.

We get going again, and work our way down the road to the two convoys that are mixed up and all over the road. Finding our spot, we get going again down the bumpy damaged road. For a while, we are able to make some good relative speed, roughly ten or so. Then our boy drops back down to seven, and the convoy starts pulling ahead. Finally, we call another halt, the distance being too great. KBR passes us, while we get on the ground.

This time, the hour being so late, or early, and we being on the road so long, I just jump out. Rummaging in the back, I look for the Battle Damage Repair kit, the BDR kit. This time, I am going to use some bailing wire that I know I saw in there earlier. Coming up with it and a pair of pliers, I head for the downed truck, dust choking the air from the well maintained armored KBR tractor trailers passing us. But the joke is on them. They have to stop again because there just isn’t any room to pass on the road. Now they are pissed.

I get to work putting on the bailing wire, wrapping it around the old cable, trying to make this work. Three comes tooling up along the shoulder weaving through the oncoming KBR trucks in the dust. The TC jumps out and comes over to where I am working. “Well, the right shoulder is clear of any IEDs, ’cause I just drove all up and down there. I look at him and we both start laughing.

“You know, we are going to die out here. The closer to the gate we get, the more goes wrong. By the time we get there, all the trucks should be on fire and we will be attacked by eighty foot giants. This night is insane.” We both giggle some more.

Getting back to work, I’m just unable to keep the metal wire on without welding it or having more to work with, neither of which is available. So, screw it, back to the five fifty cord. I impaled it on the ends of the frayed metal braid, and used the pliers to bend over the cable in a J shape. Wrapping it around itself, I am able to pull together something that holds and run it back up to the petal arm. I pound on the gas. The engine races. I pound it again. It races again. I look at the driver. “Get in!” I yell and he does.

The convoy is about one click out, and we go as fast as we can. Soon we are on the tail of the convoy, and moving out again. The KBR convoy is not there at all. I call on the radio, wondering what happened to our friends from KBR. “The got bored, so they drove all over the shoulder.”

“I thought that they didn’t like doing that?” I asked.

“I guess they like waiting even less.”

We finally get to the gate. Right at the shift change. The guys that we know and are working nights when we start coming in, are being relieved and are gone by the time my truck pulls in the gate. The entire time, I am just mentally praying for the truck to keep going, just make it to the scan lane so that if there is a breakdown, it becomes Not My Problem(TM). Also, since we used to work this gate, I know that mortars come raining down all the time here. Wouldn’t it be just our luck that happens when the convoy is coming in. The truck, though, makes it to the gate, to the search lane, and no one bothers to take a cheap shot at us coming in.

My gunner is sitting on the top of the gun turret, fully exposed. “Dooz, you know they mortar this road all the time, right? You used to work here too.” He pauses a moment, then comes back inside.

Four cards down, and two more still to drop…

Today, it is my turn with the One gun truck to “Pull Trucks” as we call it, which is escort the drivers to the badging area and then over to the KBR yard. So, off to the badging office and we wait at the opposite end of the lane. Having worked the checkpoint immediately prior to badging, I know that the drivers will be held as a group until the search is complete. Then they will be sent all together to us. So when the trucks come down, naturally I assume that they have been badged.

Naturally, they aren’t. We pull all the drivers out, and back down the road to the badging area on foot. This is not how things were run before. And as for changes, well, the people still working the gate were the ones who trained us up on it, so they of all people should be doing it the way that they showed us. But, no matter, we badge, we count noses, we come up two short.

I start walking back to the tractor trailers and Tulip comes up. “Hey, thanks,” he says clapping me on the back. “How did you do it?” I told him about the five fifty cord and the Gerber(TM) tool. He chuckles. “Why not run a line straight up to the window and connect it to the throttle body and have a hand throttle that he pulls on? I’ve seen that done before.” I explain that the throttle body was located far on the inside of the engine and I couldn’t get to it. And I didn’t trust the driver yanking on something. And, I just didn’t think of it.

One of the missing drivers is Mr. Taji, who is reclining in his driver’s seat. I almost didn’t recognize him at first, until I saw the cracked windshield. “Hey,” I called. He looks over. I know how to confirm this, and point to the windshield. “Taji?” I ask.

Immediately, his eyes light up and he leaps out. “Taji….American…” and goes through the whole rock throwing motion. “Hey, enough. Passport?” I ask. He holds it up, and I point to the badging office. “Go get badge.” He doesn’t move. “No, Taji…”

“Get the fuck outta my face and go get a fucking badge!” I scream at him at the top of my lungs. His friends, at the far end of the lot, hear me and start waving for him to come over and get a badge and get out of here. He looks suddenly dejected that no one is interested in his Taji complaint as he is. Slowly he shuffles off. Tulip finds the other missing cat and sends him on his way.

Badging handled, we get the tractor trailers started, fired up, and on the road. As my truck cuts the road so that no one can move into the lane and jump into our convoy and possibly confuse our honored guests driving trucks, one military cargo truck with soldiers in the back comes around us and goes on the road in the middle of our convoy anyway. “Hey, asshole!” Doozer yells. We get the last one out of the lot and hit the road. The sun is now well up and I am really getting tired of all this.

“Doozer, get the bullhorn and yell at those motherfuckers. I bet they are going to Jones’s Range.” Indeed they are. And when Doozer pulls up the megaphone to yell at them when they turn off, he hits the music or siren button, and makes a lot of noise, but can’t curse like a sailor at them. Oh well.

We get around the base, at times up to 30 miles an hour, to the yard. The second patch held. So, they are dumped off, and we immediately split. For home. When we get there, Trippy also tells me thanks, and says that he didn’t know that I was a mechanic. “I didn’t know either. I just wanted to get home.” Doc is also there and mentions to me on the side that when Three, whom Doc was riding with, when tearing along the shoulders, Doc was tucked in tight expecting the blast to come any second.

Everything downloaded, I park the truck and go to my bunk where I immediately crash.

Lyrics: Mope, Bloodhound Gang. Insane In the Brain, Cypress Hill. Chemical Smile, Everclear. Great Malinko, Insane Clown Posse.