Fives and Twenty-Fives (9 page)

No one laughed.

The convoy bounced around Lake Habbaniyah, vast and green. The long route around, too. We crept into the shadows of the Taqaddum plateau, the long-forbidden place where Saddam had kept his air base. We turned sharply at the dusty cliffs before drifting back to the river, the green fields, the palm trees, and the reeds.

Finally, the truck made a hard left onto a paved road, almost hidden, and we started up the maze of bluffs. The river fell away. The engine noise grew frantic and the tires slipped once before finding their grip on the road. A gate appeared and the flat mess of the old air base grew beyond it.

The eyes of the old men became wide. They were pulled to the edge of the bench and then to their feet, straining to see through the veil of dust and exhaust into the place where the great man had kept his fighter planes and bombs. Where friends of theirs had long ago been taken in the night and made to disappear. Where the Americans now lived, gazing down at the river and their spoils.

I kept to my seat and stared back over the tailgate to the river winding north, to the ribbons of green holding fast to the bank and to the dirt and the horizon besieged by it. Then the truck kicked, turned a corner, and the river was gone.

We stopped again for a young marine to come aboard the truck and check our new identification cards. Sweat poured down his pale face, but he did not bother with it. The green canvas of his chin strap soaked it up.

The old men offered their identification with both hands, thumbs and forefingers gripping the corners. They held the cards just below their faces and peered over like schoolboys, nodding and trying to smile like Americans. All teeth and no shame.

The marine put a gloved finger on each card while using his other hand to steady the rifle slung across his chest. The old men dug through the documents we had been given at Ramadi for something more to offer the young marine, even after he had passed them, satisfied.

I waited my turn and, as he approached, pulled the card from my hip pocket and held it over my head, slow and cool.

The marine tapped my card with one finger, put his hand over his heart, and said,
“Shukran.”

“That is right, man. My name is MCA, and I have a license to kill.” I heard that once on a Beastie Boys album and had always thought it sounded cool. It made the young marine laugh, anyway.

The truck jumped into gear and idled through the gate. We passed a line of American trucks waiting to leave the way we came in. A dozen cargo trucks and several Humvees. Men, and a few stern women, leaned against them. Tan jumpsuits covered them head to foot. I watched them put on their hoods and helmets and seal themselves inside their armor, wondering what they were going out there to do. Kill someone? Someone I might know?

Our convoy broke apart. The escorts with the mounted machine guns sped away toward their own corner of the plateau. Our truck turned a corner and arrived in America. Men in desert camouflage strolled with rifles draped across their backs. Fat civilians in collared shirts and khaki pants pushed through the hot wind with their heads down.

We passed helicopters parked in neat rows behind razor wire and an empty field becoming a city as we watched. A heavy crane unloaded metal living quarters, five meters square, from a line of waiting flatbed trucks and arranged them into neat rows. Carried five to a truck, these boxes looked able to accommodate two beds, keeping the lucky Americans inside well cooled with individual air conditioners. Those Americans without nice, air-conditioned boxes lived in long, plywood huts with a dozen others.

A dump truck followed the crane with gravel, which foreign laborers, Pakistanis I imagined, raked into walkways while armed guards watched them from all around. The field hummed with generators, compressors, air movers.

A cargo plane took off. I smelled the exhaust, felt the heat of its engines, and missed the river.

Eventually, we came to a cluster of concrete bunkers, isolated behind their own wire and gate on the far side of the base. These deep bunkers were made for surviving bombs. An American in khaki pants and sunglasses opened the gate for us. Our truck stopped and the brakes exhaled. The old men ripped open their tight flak vests and gasped, their lungs for the first time in hours free to inflate fully.

The tailgate fell away and a man called out in Arabic, “Leave your flak jackets and helmets on the truck. They go back to Ramadi. You get new ones here.”

I stripped off my gear and jumped to the ground, taking the six-foot drop like a boss, slapping the dirt. The Americans would teach me to say that—
like a boss
—and laugh when I said it inappropriately.

“Help each other from the truck,” the man yelled. “If you need more help, wave to a marine.”

I put my hands in my pockets and smelled the air. I stepped away from the truck, walked in tight circles, kicking dirt clods and small rocks as Americans crowded the tailgate to help the old men down.

“Don’t wander. Line up here, in front of me. I need to check you in.”

I searched the crowd for the voice, imagining an Arab in an ankle-length shirt. I assumed he would have an olive complexion, at least.

“Directly to my front! Have your identification ready!”

There I found him, with his expensive sunglasses and his marine’s uniform. He looked just like an American, and not much older than me. He waved a clipboard over his head. But despite his uniform, I could tell instantly that he was not a marine. Dark hair spilled out from under his hat, and his trouser legs hung straight to his bootheels. Real marines would tuck the loose trouser fabric neatly away above their boots. And they always trimmed their hair very, very short.

I walked alone toward him while the old men shimmied over the tailgate on their bellies, looking for the courage to let go.

“Let me see your identification,” the man said in English.

“Sure, man.” I dropped my identification card onto his clipboard.

“Thank you.” The man checked my name on his clipboard and put the card under the silver clip. He pulled a new card from his pocket. “This is your new identification.” The card already had my picture. “I keep the old one. From now on, you only get your old identification when you go home on leave. No name on your new card. Just a number. This is for your safety and your family’s. Now, go down those stairs.”

The man pointed to the door of the nearest bunker.

I leaned in close and smiled. “Might I ask you a question, man?”

“Sure,” he sighed. “Quickly, though.”

“Where are you from?”

He shrugged. “That’s not really something you ask around here. But, what the hell? America. Michigan.”

“I’m sorry. I was not clear. I meant, you know, before then.”

“Lebanon.”

I laughed. Who was he trying to fool? The Americans? Believing Lebanon somehow sounded better than the truth?

“Okay, man.” I said, walking to the bunker. “Try that on the ladies.”

“What?”

“Syria—that’s what you meant, right?” I reached the door and called over my shoulder. “When you get back to Damascus, though, tell that to the ladies. Lebanon! Invite them to the beach.”

“Michigan,” he said sternly.

“Yes, and I went to Jordan once. But I will always be from Baghdad.”

The door opened to dark, steep stairs. I saw lights at the bottom and heard men laughing and speaking English. I dragged my hands along the walls and moved one step at a time while feeling for the steps’ edge with my right foot. I reached the bottom, turned the corner into a bright room, and understood at once the original purpose of this bunker. It was not some dirty hole, meant for simple storage. It was a luxury place built by Saddam, so his officers could shelter themselves from American bombs in their customary grandeur. And now, in this new Iraq, Saddam’s old adversaries had found it and made themselves quite comfortable.

“Schlonak,”
an American exclaimed.
“Assalamu alaikum!”

My vision returned fully, and I saw a civilian in cargo pants, boots, and a collared shirt with an embroidered corporate logo. I made special note that he did not wear a pistol. He was middle-aged but still in good shape, hands planted on his hips, his chest puffed out.

A marine about the same age stood behind him; an officer, I guessed, from the shiny metal on his collar. He smiled and waved, as well.

“Take a seat anywhere,” the civilian said. He gestured to the plastic chairs, in neat rows on the marble floor.

“Okay.” I shrugged. I put my hands in my pockets and considered my options. The curses and heavy breathing of the old men coming down the steps grew louder.

The officer spoke again. Just to me. To me alone. “Safe trip?”

“Yes. Fine.”

Deep in the bunker, down the long hallway behind the Americans, a man shouted. Angry Arabic words exchanged in the dark.

“No worries,” the civilian said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “Just, it gets a little loud back there sometimes. Don’t stress.”

Out from the dark came an Arab man, older, fat, and mustached. He wore a marine’s uniform, but like the man with the sunglasses and the clipboard upstairs, he was not a marine. He stormed past the officer and his friend.

“Liars.” He hissed, “No more liars today. Going to smoke.”

The officer laughed and patted the angry man on the shoulder. “You’re a saint, Cadillac.”

I remained still. Cadillac brushed against me on his way up the stairs.

The officer turned to me. “Please, please.
Min fadlak!
Relax.”

I did as he asked.

And now, the old men came in, one at a time, breathing hard. When we were all seated, the civilian with the broad chest spoke. He greeted us in polite Arabic, as though he had practiced the one phrase all day. Then he switched back to English.

“First, let me compliment your bravery. Even for what we pay, it is understood that you are heroes for this.” He stopped to look us each in the eye. “True Iraqi heroes. Also, let me say we know the dangers your families face. This is
why
, once you leave this bunker, you will not
use
your real names. Not to me. Not to Colonel Davis. Not to the marines you
work
with. We will provide each of you with a nom de guerre.” He shook his head and frowned. “Sorry. A fake name, that is.”

I looked around the room. The old men nodded as though they understood any of this.

“Okay.” The civilian examined his notes. “We need to discuss classifications. At Government Center in Ramadi, you were all classified by the intake marines. Category one, two, or three. Category two and three have provisional security clearance, and the ability to translate as well as interpret.” He looked down at his notes and frowned as if he somehow disagreed with his own words. “I say provisional, because clearances are usually given only to American citizens. But with your demonstrated abilities and loyalty you are, uh, granted provisional status.”

The old men smiled.

“Okay,
so
; category two and three interpreters will live in this bunker and work with intelligence personnel. Talking to detainees. Translating documents. You will never leave Camp Taqaddum unless you’re being escorted home for personal leave.” He asked the officer softly, “We got any category ones here?”

The officer nodded and held up one finger.

“Category one cannot be granted provisional clearance, for whatever reason. So, if you are category one, you will work with marines in the field. Going out on patrols. Living with them. All right, then? Everyone check the cards Frank gave you upstairs.”

We all looked down.

“Any category ones?”

I saw it on my card, a big green digit in the corner. I raised my hand.

“Great. Go ahead and stand up. We’ll need you to leave now. Just head back up those stairs and talk to Frank, okay? You’ll get a brief later. The rest of this is just for the cleared interpreters.”

The civilian smiled like he was my friend.

I stood, my knees a little weak, and found the old man with the gray mustache in the back row.

“Uncle,” I said in Arabic, “enjoy your time here. I hope you ask many good questions.”

“I look forward to making your acquaintance,” he replied.

I walked across the room and up the stairs.

Behind me, I heard the civilian ask, “Okay, anyone hungry?”

Back on the surface, Frank, the man in the sunglasses, the man from Michigan, laughed. “Back so soon?”

“Category one.”

“No kidding,” he quipped as he turned pages on his clipboard. He stopped on a page with three long columns of words, most of them scratched out with pencil. “Let’s see what we have left.” He moved his pencil down the page until he found a name he liked.

“Dodge.” He smiled. “From now on, your name is Dodge. Understand?”

“Fine.” I did not know what it meant and did not ask.

He told me anyway. “A type of car. A good, dependable car.” He waved for me to follow him over to a line of white Toyota trucks, brand-new.