‘Hey, Meat,’ Jason called out.
‘Yo.’
‘Print out those pictures, pronto. I need to send Hazo on a field trip.’
‘I’m on it.’
Hazo came over with a nervous look on his face. ‘Field trip?’
‘You know the locals,’ Jason explained. ‘I want you to take those pictures with you, show them around, figure out what those images on the wall can tell us. And I want you to see if anyone knows this woman whose ID we found melted to that door. No way she was here alone.’
Tentative, Hazo nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. And don’t be long. I’m going to need your help here.’
‘But how will I get to the city?’
‘You’ll fly, of course.’ Jason pointed to the chopper.
While the twenty-eight light infantry troops of the 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Division Expeditionary Force, busily pitched camp, Jason convened with Colonel Bryce Crawford in the makeshift Bedouin command tent. Before he set out to brief the colonel on what had transpired, Jason requested Crawford to loan out his chopper for a critical fact-finding mission. It took some convincing, but Jason was a consummate diplomat. Jason then summoned Hazo inside.
‘Make it fast,’ Crawford warned Hazo. ‘No goofing around out there.’
Jason could tell that the forty-something, no-nonsense Texan — nothing but muscle dressed in crisp fatigues and a soft cap — intimidated Hazo. The Kurd cowered from the colonel’s tough, grey eyes and jutting square cleft chin.
‘Yes Colonel,’ Hazo replied sheepishly. ‘I promise to work quickly.’
‘Then why are you still standing here? Get moving!’ Crawford barked.
Jason watched Hazo scramble out from the tent, down the hill to the chopper.
‘A Kurd?’ Crawford grumbled, shaking his head with severe incredulity. ‘You sure he’s on our side, Sergeant?’
‘Hazo’s been thoroughly vetted. We’d be dead in the water without him.’
‘You guys really do march to a different drummer. If he fucks up, it’s on your head, Yaeger. Not mine. Got it?’
Jason nodded.
Crawford pummelled agitatedly to the Blackhawk pilot that the request had been granted.
They watched as the copilot helped Hazo into the fuselage jumpseat and secure his flight helmet. Then the copilot took his place in the cockpit. The rotors wound up and the chopper lifted into the air, spinning sand in its wash.
The colonel frowned as he scanned the inside of the tent. ‘Christ. How long you been living like this?’
‘Six months, give or take.’
‘Shit, cavemen had it better.’
‘We specialize in dirty work,’ Jason subtly reminded him.
‘Don’t play the martyr, Yaeger,’ he warned. ‘We’re all in the trenches in this shithole.’
Jason let the comment roll.
‘So tell me what we’ve got. I see a lot of blood and meat out there. Any of it ours?’
Jason shook his head. ‘No, sir. Four kills on the hill, eight more on the road. Five more holed up in that cave.’ Then he took a breath and dropped the bomb: ‘And we suspect that Fahim Al-Zahrani is in there with them.’
Crawford’s eyebrows tipped up. ‘Is that right,’ he said with a sardonic grin. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘See for yourself,’ Jason said, moving over to Meat’s laptop and bringing up the side-by-side pictures. ‘Took these myself. Ran facial rec on them. Perfect match.’
Crawford sat rigidly in the chair and gave each image a critical, dismantling stare, his sharp chin protruding outward. Finally, he said, ‘Well fuck my mother. This raghead is supposed to be in Afghanistan.’
‘They were trying to move him through the mountains.’
‘Sure they were. Slippery bastards are probably trying to bring him over the border to his buddies in Iran. Shit.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Heard you called in an air strike. You sure some of that gunk smeared over those rocks isn’t him?’
‘Negative. Called off the strike on his position. I saw Al-Zahrani run into the cave. I’ve got video of that too.’
‘And he’s not buried under all that stone?’
‘Already pushed a Snake through the rubble. All clear on the other side. So far, we’ve seen no blood or bodies. And one of the hostiles managed to smash the camera. We’re pretty sure they’re all still trapped in there.’
Crawford nodded. ‘All right, Yaeger.’ His covetous eyes stayed glued to Al-Zahrani’s digital portrait. ‘I need this fucker alive.’
And there it was, thought Jason — the colonel’s subtle jockeying for claiming the prize as his own.
Then in the reflection of the computer monitor, Jason caught Crawford staring sideways at the cracked-open ID badge casing and its extracted chip which Meat had left beside the laptop. He swore he saw the colonel’s eyes go wide with alarm. It lasted only a fraction of a second.
‘You should know that that’s no ordinary cave up there,’ Jason said.
Crawford stood up, squared his shoulders and crossed his arms tight across his chest. ‘How so?’
Jason told him about the blown-out security door and the strange images carved into the entry tunnel’s wall. For now, he refrained from telling him about the ID badge they’d found — a calculated, risky move.
Crawford took fifteen seconds to mull the facts. Then he said, ‘All right, Yaeger. I get it. So what do you say we go ahead and plunge this toilet?’
13
Thirty kilometres south of the cave, the Blackhawk glided over a lush plain framed by the Goyzha, Azmir, Glazarda and Piramagrun mountains. Hazo peered out the fuselage window to Kurdistan’s economic hub, As Sulaymaniyah. The city was a dense wheel of three- and four-storey buildings, spoked with roadways. He mused how from the air, he could see satellite dishes on practically every rooftop. Kurds loved their television, he thought.
Instead of heading for the international airport a few kilometres to the west, the pilot eased to a hover along Highway 4 and set the chopper down in a vacant parking lot. At the far end of the lot, Hazo spotted the Humvee escort the copilot had arranged while en route. Two severe-looking US marines in desert fatigues and mirrored sunglasses stood in wait, each clutching an M-16.
The pilot killed the turbine and the blades wound down.
The copilot assisted Hazo out from the chopper. As he escorted him to the Humvee, he asked, ‘How long will you be in Suly?’
‘Maybe forty minutes,’ Hazo yelled.
‘We’ll wait here.’ A thumbs-up and the copilot trotted back to the Blackhawk.
Hazo jumped into the Humvee with his two chaperones and provided them with the name of a restaurant located in the city centre, off Sulaymaniyah Circle. Hazo was not surprised that the marines knew its precise location. The restaurant was a hotspot for tourists and US military, thanks in part to its central location and fine Middle Eastern cuisine, but more so for its immaculate bathrooms and chic Arabian decor, which appealed to finicky Americans and Europeans. The marines got chummy when Hazo told them that the jovial proprietor and restaurant’s namesake, Karsaz, was his cousin.
The Humvee zoomed through the busy streets, its massive tyres humming along the potholed pavement. The marines gave Hazo some moist towelettes so he could scrub his grungy face and hands, and blot the blood spatter off his sleeve. He did his best to pat the sand and dirt from his pants.
Hazo was delivered to the restaurant’s doorstep in less than ten minutes. He hopped out and made his way into the foyer, where he was immediately overtaken by the heavenly redolence of cumin, mint, frankincense and rich tobacco. From behind a podium, a pretty hostess in a shiny taffeta dress glanced out the door to the idling Humvee then gave his attire a disapproving once-over. She offered a cautious greeting.