* * *
The chatter on the intercom picked up. My team was on their game. We made it onto Route Packers safe and sound.
We passed the market in the village of Yusufiyah, then the outlying shops and derelict structures that bordered the street. It was not out of the ordinary to see women dressed head-to-toe in their black burkas walking next to donkeys pulling carts, while a gaggle of men sat under the shade of the buildings watching them work.
The locals were mostly immune to the sight of American Humvees, but they took instant notice of CSTC’s armored Range Rovers. Some of the men reacted as if they’d seen spaceships.
I called back to John Paul Kennedy in Rhino 4. As usual, everyone had already noted it.
“Roger, boss—I got it covered. Break. They’re still sitting there. Rhino 1, anything ahead?”
“Negative, Rhino 4—we’re about seventy-five meters behind the convoy,”Oliver replied.“It opens up about fifty meters ahead. Nothing but an old garage on the north side. You should be passing it about now. Over.”
Oliver Smith was as cool as they come. The six-footer looked like NFL Hall-of-Fame linebacker Lawrence Taylor. During a fight he had ice water in his veins.
The sun was high in the sky and the temperature must have been about 120 degrees as we headed north along Route Steelers.I could see the huge cooling towers of the old power plant ahead. We made it there in just over an hour.
“Okay, kids, we’re here,”I said over the intercom.“Rhino 1, just follow these cats wherever they go. Break. I’ll get out with the PC and link up with you all once I figure out what’s going on for the trip home.”
As the vehicles came to a stop in the parking area, I gave one last command.“Go make some friends—and don’t let anyone steal our shit. Meg and I will be back in a few.”
I turned to William McKay and Travis Hunter, the two junior VIPs wedged in the back seats, and waited as they unfolded themselves.
“Congratulations, gentlemen, this leg of the journey was a success,” I announced.
They’d been upset at the prospect of traveling with us before, but now they were proud of their first trip off the Forward Operating Base as part of Team Rhino for the day. Though their L.L. Bean rugged outdoor clothing was drenched in sweat, Hunter and McKay posed happily in front of the Range Rover.
Meg and I left our gear in the vehicle and headed off to find the major.
CHAPTER 12
Russian nuclear power plant
Icould hear the distinct sounds of Black Hawk helicopters in the distance. Two helicopters were designated for transporting the general and his crew, while four others served as armed escorts. I was certain the fast movers were also on standby.
The F-14s and British Tornadoes would be able to drop a ton of bombs and cannon fire on any unfortunate creature attempting to make a statement. I’d put money on other government agencies also being out in abundance, and countless hordes of infantrymen set up in concentric circles of security around the plant.
Nothing unexpected was going to get near, let alone inside, this place in the next four hours. I saw silhouettes of the guards in their tower perches and knew anyone trying to move toward them would suffer certain death from one of the .50-caliber sniper rifles.
Meg left my side to find the command center to check in with the intelligence officer. She knew the ropes; she almostalways returned with some golden nuggets of information that higher echelons had purposely denied us. She was like that.
I was feeling a bit out of place with all the soldiers around. It had been different when I wore the uniform. Now I was an outsider.
In Baghdad I had spotted a few familiar faces around the FOB from time to time, but today I recognized only Chris Miller, the command sergeant major. As the senior enlisted guy, he was the big cheese. And he was a warrior for sure.
Miller stood about six foot eight and lived on coffee and tobacco, yet he could run a six-minute mile without breaking a sweat. I heard he got a Distinguished Service Cross for a fight in Afghanistan on one of his seven deployments. Across the globe, it was leaders like Chris who made sure American soldiers remained in good hands.
Given all the shit Chris had going on today with the dog-and-pony show, I stayed out of his way. I found a chair in the back of the meeting area and took a seat.
The press pool was in one area, the sheiks in another, the soldiers all around. And then there was me. I could feel more eyes on me with every passing moment. My baseball hat bearing the embroidered rhinoceros must have been the giveaway that I was “one of those.” Half of those assembled saw me as a special operator; the other half thought I was really cool.
I almost fell out of my chair when someone barked at me loud enough to be heard in Baghdad: “What the fuck are you doing in my AO?”
I looked up to see Command Sergeant Major Chris Miller speaking directly to me. I could feel my face flush as I reached for a witty comeback.
“Sergeant Major,” I said with a grin, “I have those little blue pills you ordered.” A private standing beside him did a double take and tried to stifle a smirk.
“You,” Chris said, pointing a large finger at me, “had better drink some water, since the heat has obviously fucked up your cranial algorithms.” The Alabama native gave me his best Chattahoochee River smile. “And you,” he said, switching his focus to the hapless private, “do some fucking push-ups till I get tired.”
