“Okay, I’ll start pressing harder from this end. How’s Mado doing? Staying out of people’s hair?”
“I always thought it was a joke about having a well-laid look. The general’s got it. We don’t see much of him.”
“Sounds encouraging, I’ll be talking to you.”
When the call from Cunningham’s office came five hours later at 8:30 P.M. Stansell hurried out of the basement and up the long corridors to E ring, to the offices of the Air Force Chief of Staff. He found Cunningham sipping a cup of tea. Somehow an incongruous brew for Sundown. “Sorry for the delay, Rupe. I’ve been putting out a forest fire today — some congressmen haven’t got a clue. Okay, Dick tells me you’ve got a major change to WARLORD.”
Cunningham was relaxed and alert. The hard-driving profane front was gone, a sign that Stansell had been accepted by the general into his command inner circle. Stansell outlined the changes Locke and Trimler were proposing, plus Dewa’s concern about the POWs being traded off within the next few days.
“You trust her judgment?” Stansell nodded. “Anyone else agree with her?”
“An analyst in the Watch Center, Captain Don Williamson.”
“I know Williamson.” The general noted the surprised look on Stansell’s face. “One of my jobs is to identify promising officers and see that they get the right sponsorship. This Air Force is full of people like Simon Mado — competent as hell, in many cases the work they do is absolutely indispensable. The way he’s arranged to get Task Force Alpha into Turkey is brilliant. But his kind still tends to be more concerned with developing a political base for promotion and bureaucratic games than the mission.”
“And General Mado has chosen the JSOA as his political base,” Stansell observed.
“Exactly. Rupe, I’m tired of seeing rational, well-balanced colonels go off the track the moment they pin on stars. It tells me we’re promoting the wrong people. I remember an old saw about the best colonels never get promoted. I want to change that. That’s why I look for people like Williamson. But for now, Mado is the best man I’ve got for the job. Like I said, he’s done good on this end. He may be a bureaucratic animal but he’s qualified for command and deserves his chance.”
The general did not mention that having Mado as the joint task force commander was also a bureaucratic gambit that accomplished two things: it appeased Leachmeyer while it gave him access and some control over Task Force Alpha. Cunningham also had to play bureaucratic chess, and Simon Mado was one of his pieces. Stansell knew the general made sense, but he wished Mado had seen combat and been shot at for real.
“Enough of all that,” Cunningham went on, “let’s take a hard look at where we’re at.”
An hour later Cunningham jabbed at a button on his intercom, summoning his aide. “Dick, we need to set up a meeting with the President tomorrow. The subject is the POWs. Get Mado here tonight and contact Ben Yuriden. Tell him it’s urgent I see him ASAP.”
The general spun his chair and looked out a window. “We’re done playing games. I want the POWS out and I don’t give a damn who does it. But Task Force Alpha is now going to be a real option for the President to consider.”
CHAPTER 28
The children scampered around Carroll as he walked around inside the walled compound on the outskirts of Saqqez. The ZIL-157 trucks were parked haphazardly in the yard, mostly against the back wall, and no one had made many attempts to organize the Kurds. The women had carved out whatever space they needed, cooking fires had been started, and a semblance of Kurdish tribal life magically mushroomed in the large one-storied structure that served as a garage, warehouse and parking lot.
Carroll estimated that about half of the group had been dropped off in villages and farms once they had crossed the border into Iran. Mustapha said they would stay in Saqqez until it was safe to return to Iraq and then would pick up their people and arms caches on the way back. The Kurds were casual when it came to doing the impossible — like sneaking across the border by driving the trucks at night through what looked like an impassable mountain river gorge. Of course, they did everything with endless chatter. Carroll liked the Kurds.
But Zakia … she seemed to possess an independence and special position that was outside the flow of normal tribal life. Maybe it was because she was a doctor. Carroll wandered over to the room she had appropriated for a temporary infirmary and her quarters and found her bandaging the hand of a man he had never seen before. No reason to be suspicious, she had, after all, treated many Kurds along the way, but this man seemed to be in a hurry to leave once she had finished and did not join with the men in any conversation.
Carroll looked around the room, the largest in the compound. A charcoal fire was burning in the corner fireplace. “They treat you special,” he said.
She ignored the remark. “Stay if you’re hungry. Food is on the way.” A few minutes later a woman brought in two sticks of shish kebab and some of the pizzalike, thin round bread that he loved when it was freshly baked. He pulled the meat off the skewer and folded it up in the bread. Zakia did the same and they ate in silence. “Bill, please come and see me later this evening when things have quieted down….”
The compound was mostly settled in for the night when he returned to her infirmary and found Zakia sitting on a rug, her back against a chest in front of the slowly dying fire. She had brushed out her hair, the glow of the fire catching the highlights when she turned toward him. She patted the spot beside her, sharing a blanket.
“You’re not one of them,” Carroll said.
“Why do you say that?”
“The women are open and friendly but still very much a part of the family. If you were Mustapha’s cousin or a member of the tribe we would never be left alone together.”
“It took you long enough to figure that out. You are very slow at times.”
“Zakia, about that night …”
“I know,” she said in English, surprising him. “It was a moment. We both had a need. I doubt it will happen again.” The fire flared, catching their attention … “Bill Carroll, what are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story …” He stared into the fire. How could he tell her about the mix of emotions that lay behind any answer? Would she understand what drove him on? Who would believe that a sense of duty and commitment could blend with a hunger for revenge, and love, too.
“My commander at Ras Assanya, Colonel Waters, ordered me out during the evacuation …” Slowly he then told her about what happened at Ras Assanya. “When I finally got to safety, I followed the last order Waters had given me. I was going to do my damndest to help the POWs …”
“What could one person do?”
Carroll shrugged. “My job was intelligence. I saw the way my Wing was hung out to dry as a political pawn and didn’t like it.” He choked down the bitter taste. “If I can do anything it will be something. Besides, some of the POWs are good friends — Doc Landis …”
“And the woman.”
Carroll could only look at her in surprise.
“You talk in your sleep … Never mind, I have a message for you from your government—”
“Big deal.”
“Please listen. There is something you can do. They want to rescue the POWs and they need trucks or buses waiting outside the prison at Kermanshah for transport. The Kurds will help — you helped them — and I can get you money, gold …”
“The Kurds will get into more trouble with the Iranians—”
“You haven’t heard. The Kurds have more motive than their debt to you. The prison commandant wanted to clear out the old barracks behind the walls. There were five Kurdish families living there. They were poor and looking for a place to stay during the winter. The guards lined them up and shot them — men, women and children. Mulla Haqui will help. He understands revenge.”