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.
Meg left my side to find the command center to check in with the intelligence officer. She knew the ropes; she almost always 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.”
The private hit the floor.
After a quick reunion, Chris told me to head over to his command center for a cup of coffee while he gave the last few orders for the Iraqi gala. We’d heard the Black Hawks land during our tête-à-tête, so we knew Congressman Jennings and General Montgomery must have arrived at the helipad.
As Miller walked away, I noticed the private still knocking out push-ups. I leaned over and told the soldier to get up.
“Stay the fuck away from my men, asshole.” Chris Miller had eyes in the back of his head. “Recover, stud,” he ordered the private without missing a beat.
The young man jumped up, straightened his uniform, and went about his business.
Woe to the terrorist who meets this dude in a dark alley, I mused.