CHAPTER 13
It was quite the welcome party. The CNN crews were busy trying to get clear pictures of the group, including the diplomatic entourage. The soldiers were standing in formation, trying not to take a peek, and the Iraqis were hanging around trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
I headed off in the direction of the coffeepot in the ops center. Five minutes later, Command Sergeant Major Chris Miller showed up again, shaking his head. I could sense his frustration.
Some things never change. The soldiers in the operations room immediately tried to look busy, hoping to avoid any unpleasant encounters with their annoyed command sergeant major.
We sat down in the air-conditioning and had a cup of stiff, black, Army coffee. Chris was tired. This was his fourth combat tour in Iraq. We caught up on news of friends we knew in common—who was where and who had done what.
With her own impeccable timing, Meg Fuller walked up. She had finished her intelligence-scavenging hunt and saw me sitting with Chris. As I made the introduction, I saw the sergeant major’s slightly raised eyebrow, the imperceptible reconnaissance.
“How do you do, Sergeant Major?” she said as she shook his hand. “I was just over with the S2 guys—super helpful.”
Classic Meg.
Obviously, Chris had not given anyone in the intel shop the authority to speak to her, but there was nothing he could say now other than You’re welcome.
They exchanged pleasantries and took jabs at me for a few minutes before Meg hit Chris with a question: “What’s the latest on the Jaysh al-Mahdi cell in Yusufiyah? Any issues these days?”
Yusufiyah had been the site of some significant firefights.
When the surge came to town, most of the foreign fighters had fled west of the Euphrates.
Unfortunately, the current inhabitants still maintained a risky loyalty to the Shia leader, Muqtada al-Sadr, who also controlled the militant Jaysh al-Mahdi, aka JAM or the Mahdi Militia.
JAM were ruthless killers who followed al-Sadr’s directives to a T.
Outwardly, al-Sadr cautiously supported the new Iraqi government.
But there was always that lingering tension between Shia and Sunnis.
We all knew that if al-Sadr ever gave the word, sectarian violence would escalate uncontrollably.
Chris gave me a hard look out of the corner of his eye, then smiled.
“About two weeks ago, we started hearing interpreter chatter that JAM had returned to Yusufiyah and was setting up a cell for future operations.”
Over the last six months, a ceasefire declared by al-Sadr had held, but it was a tenuous decree. If JAM had reentered Yusufiyah, a mixed village of Sunni and Shia farmers, the chance of violence increased exponentially.
Apparently, the US and Iraqi forces had hosted a sit-down with the local Sunni sheiks.
The thought was that a focus on pacifying the Sunnis would help keep the tension low and the roads wide open for future Iraqi commerce and good old-fashioned nation building.
Unfortunately, when news of the unilateral meeting made its way back to the Shia Muqtada al-Sadr, the lug nuts started to come off the wheels.
Within twenty-four hours, JAM flags and black-pajama-wearing militiamen were spotted throughout the small city.
Nothing good was ever going to come from men in black pajamas, Chris said.
The bottom line seemed to be that everything was fine for now, but the potential for carnage was back on the radar.
The local sheiks were here today to do some damage control without alerting Congressman Jennings to the potential disaster.
Ostensibly, they would talk general peace terms and the usual money issues, but in the off-the-record comments, the sheiks were going to be instructed by General Montgomery’s emissary to get their collective shit straight and keep the peace.
“After three years in this soup, I don’t trust a single one of them,” Chris sighed. He leaned back as if in deep thought and rubbed his temples. Then my giant pal rocked forward on his chair and looked at me and Meg.
“You watch your ass, Nathan, Miss Fuller. This shit is on the edge, right here and right fucking now. It’s been too quiet, and the locals are tired of watching the goons we’re paying off get rich.
I fucking feel it, my friend. Someone in one of these tribes—don’t know which—is going to blow this whole deal right out of the water.
Keep your eyes wide fucking open and don’t take shit for granted. ”
With that, my old friend stood up and said goodbye.
Meg and I looked at each other. We both understood that of all the intelligence she had acquired from the officers, this last bit from Chris, a true warrior, was the most important.