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.
