With nothing better to do, I ogled the pictures over his shoulder. This intrusion did not appear to bother him, though eventually he did look up and ask, "Not married, sir?"
"Nope."
"Maybe that's better."
"Maybe."
"Nobody to worry about."
"You mean nobody to worry about you."
"Yeah…" Whereupon Captain Howser launched into a long, rambling discussion about his wife-Sara-his daughters-Lindsey and Anna-and how they had spent their two weeks of peaceful respite together. Very nice. Two guys, side by side on a long international flight, killing time with fond reminiscences and sappy anecdotes: Lindsey's first steps, Anna's first trip to the potty-her first successful trip-how Sara never complained about his absence, never lamented how lonely she got, never mentioned the anxiety attacks every time the doorbell rang with the possibility of bad news on the doorstep.
Indeed, this was what distinguished this flight, and certainly what separated these passengers, from any of the other half million international travelers flying over the world's oceans at that moment. These passengers didn't want to be here, weren't looking forward to the destination, and nobody had a guaranteed return ticket.
I sometimes envy guys like Howser; they have somebody to come home to, somebody who wants them home. For some odd reason, Bian and the photograph of her beloved fiance, Major Mark Kemble, popped to mind.
My gut instincts said that Bian's seemingly illogical enthusiasm for this mission had something to do with him, mixed, perhaps, with a lingering feeling of injustice over her father and Vietnam, a war lost, ultimately, because America lost faith in the cause. These are powerful furies to carry in your heart and your mind-love and ghosts, the living and the dead, the man she loved today, and a war that stole her chance to love her father.
In the words of Tennessee Williams, the heart is the most stubborn organ. About women, that sounds about right. About men, he definitely overlooked a more stubborn organ.
Which opened the question of what motives placed me on this plane, headed off as I was to do something my instincts said was foolhardy, my legal judgment said was wrong, and in my professional judgment, bordered on suicidal.
I recalled my father's favorite admonition: Never let your dick write a check. Good advice, Pop-but like most good advice, the devil is in the details.
In truth, Bian Tran had made a strong impression on me. Were I completely honest, I was a little smitten by her, and maybe a wee bit jealous of Major Mark Kemble. Indeed, this was a unique and spellbinding woman, a personified American dream. Arriving on our shores as a young child, impoverished, confused, homesick, and bereaved by the recent death of her father, she mastered a new language, absorbed a new culture, worked hard, marched through four years at that uniquely American institution, West Point, and, I suspected, were I to check her military file, her officer efficiency reports would be uniformly sterling.
In short, this was an intellectually gifted, forceful, driven lady. Also, as has been my experience with other immigrant children, I suspected that Bian Tran was a little hyperpatriotic regarding the ideals of her adopted land, inebriated by her sense of duty and, maybe, by her willingness to sacrifice for those she loved. It's interesting. Over 10 percent of American soldiers in Iraq weren't even U.S. citizens, just hungry young people trying to earn the dream.
Those of us born with the silver spoon of citizenry in our lips, I think, tend to be more convinced that we deserve our American birthright, particularly its fruits and indulgences over its labors and burdens. I did not think, though, that Bian was a mindless fanatic; in fact, I was sure that something else, something more-perhaps love, perhaps guilt, perhaps both-was driving her. I would have to keep an eye on that.
Also I didn't trust Phyllis. Well, I didn't trust the CIA. In my months in this job, I had found these were good people, patriotic, courageous, and enormously talented, who nearly always do what they think is best for the Republic. The problem is, they do it behind a curtain of smoke and mirrors; this isn't always a temptation to good judgment, or worse, good results.
Anyway, Captain Howser recognized a pal at the front of the plane and excused himself. This apparently required an exchange of seats, as, shortly afterward, a man, large and burly, with the stripes and diamond of a first sergeant on his collar lumbered down the aisle toward me. The name patch on his chest read Jackson, and he looked at me and said, "You mind, Colonel?"
"If you have a photo album, I mind a lot."
He laughed. "Divorced. Twice. How about I tell you what complete bitches they were?" Whereupon he fell into the seat and stretched out.
On his left shoulder, I observed the patch of the First Infantry Division-his current unit of assignment-and on his right shoulder, that of the Third Armored Division, a unit he served with in a previous war, or on a previous tour in this war. He was a combat veteran several times over with that weary, deromanticized, been-there-done-that look of somebody who was too tired to talk about it.
He said to me, "You're JAG." His eyes moved to my shoulder where there was no unit patch. "Where you assigned in Iraq?"
"I'm not."
"Then why-"
"I'm a tourist. Maybe you can recommend a good hotel. A pool and spa would be nice. A good, well-stocked bar would be more than nice."
"You're nuts." He laughed.
"Me? Who's coming back a second time?" I informed him, "It's temporary duty. Just in and out."
"Oh…" I thought for a moment he was going to knock me out with his beefy fists and trade uniforms.
"Meeting a client," I told him. That, in fact, was my cover, and should anyone ask, that's also what it said on the phony orders in my breast pocket. Good covers are always based on fact, and in reality, there was a prisoner facing charges, though he hadn't yet been assigned counsel. I had even briefly studied his case file to substantiate my cover; the guy didn't have a prayer.
"What's his tit 'n a ringer for?" Jackson asked.
This seemed like a good chance to practice my cover, and I replied, "Mistreatment of an Iraqi prisoner."
"They're real sensitive about that these days."
"Sure are."
"Ever since that Abu Ghraib thing."
"Yep."
"That was a bunch of wacko idiots, you ask me. What the hell were they thinking?"
"They weren't. They were just doing."
After a moment he asked, "Your guy, he do it?"
"Never touched the guy."
"Uh-huh."
"But I think the seven witnesses and the victim's broken jaw from the rifle butt might prove a little tricky in court."
He laughed. "I can see where that could be a problem."
That about covered everything I knew, so to change the subject I asked him, "So how is it over there?"
He took a moment to contemplate this question. "Sucks."
Any soldier who is happy in a war zone needs his head checked. I asked him, "But is it worth it?"
He understood what I was asking and replied, "Is now."
"Why now?"
"You know Tennyson?" After a moment, he clarified. "Alfred… the English poet." And then he quoted, "'Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.'"
" 'Charge of the Light Brigade,'" I replied.
"Says it all."
"Bullshit."
He laughed. "Complete bullshit." He twisted sideways and faced me. "A month ago I sent home two of my kids in body bags, and I damn sure give a shit that my soldiers are dead." He soberly contemplated his combat boots. "Now it better be worth it."
I looked out the window at the expansive blue sky, at the marshmallow clouds below, and off in the distance, I noted a jet contrail headed in the direction we had just come from. Possibly that sleek silver container also was filled with soldiers, their year at war over, their minds choked with memories of long, tedious days, of comrades wounded, mangled, and worse.