Razor's Edge

268

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“As soon as the place stops spi

High Top Base now looked like a small city, albeit one made almost entirely from tents. Whiplash’s two bulldozers, along with a small Marine vehicle, were working on the southern slope, grinding it down into a depot area to accommodate some of the supplies two C-130s had brought in for the Marines. Gators—revved-up golf carts with military insignia—charged to and fro with stacks of gear. Two platoons of Marines were extending the defensive perimeter along the road below; another company was erecting a temporary metal building twice the size of the Whiplash HQ trailer at the far end of the aircraft parking area to be used for maintenance work on the planes.

The runway would soon total three thousand feet; CentCom was hoping to use it as an emergency strip. In the meantime, air elements of the MEU(SOC)—six Harriers and six Cobra gunships—were due in late tomorrow or the next day to provide support for any Marine ground action in the Iraqi mountains to the south.

That might come soon. The rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance. The Iraqis were moving against their civilian population in the north. Unlike 1991, there had been no exodus of Kurds from the towns—an ominous sign.

Besides the Marines, a dozen technical people from Dreamland were due; they had been rerouted to Incirlik on the MC-17 to look after Quicksilver. As Da

The experts believed this confirmed that it was using a barrage pattern to saturate an area based on minimal or primitive radar coverage. They also said it was possible that the laser had been thrown off by the partly stealthy RAZOR’S EDGE

269

profile of the big plane, or even the presence of the Flighthawks. In any event, Quicksilver would be back at High Top and available for action within a few hours.

Da

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Da

The man gave no indication that he understood anything Da

“Can you examine him like that?” Da

“I guess. He doesn’t seem to be hurt.”

“Get him something to eat and drink. Try and be as friendly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you guys have an Arab speaker?” Da

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“All right. Go easy with him.” The man looked like he was in his late thirties or forties, but Da

The man held up his shirt gingerly as the corpsman approached with his stethoscope. His ribs were exposed; he had several boils on his back.

“Take pictures,” Da

“Yes, sir,” said the corporal in charge. “What do we call him?”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Call him ‘sir.’ Be as nice to him as possible. Nicer.

Treat him like your brother.”

“I thought I was supposed to be nice.”

Da

“Are my people hearing this right?” said the major.

“You have an Iraqi?”

“That’s right,” said Da

“You went into Iraq and kidnapped an Iraqi citizen?”

“I captured a prisoner. We believed he was part of the laser operation. Our guys think his site may have been coordinating the radar operations, but it’s too soon to—”

“Did you clear this with the lawyers?”

“Lawyers?”

“Taking the citizen.”

“He’s a soldier.”

“Did you clear it with the lawyers?”

“Why the hell would I do that?” asked Da

“Who approved this mission?”

“Look, Major, you don’t have the clearance for this conversation.”

Da

RAZOR’S EDGE

271

Dreamland Command Center

29 May 1997

1622

“DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT,” DOG TOLD DANNY. “I’LL HANDLE

CentCom. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing over there. Send the prisoner to Incirlik as we said.”

“But what’s this bullshit about lawyers?”

The colonel stared at Da

“Major Heller or Peelor, or whatever his fucking name, is accusing me of kidnapping an Iraqi citizen. Are we fighting a war here or what? What is it with these guys?”

Dog reached down to the console for his coffee. The cold, bitter liquid did nothing to relieve his own fatigue, but the pause let him consider what to tell his captain.

The absurdity of modern warfare—you needed a legal brief before taking prisoners. And all sorts of sign-offs and findings and cover-my-ass BS.

“I don’t know what Peelor is talking about,” said Dog.

“You don’t have to worry about it. You work for me, not CentCom. You proceeded on my authority, and you followed a lawful order.”

It was the mildest response Dog could give him, but Freah still looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“The prisoner goes to Incirlik to be debriefed and processed,” said Dog. “Quicksilver has been patched up and should be en route shortly. We’re pulling together everything we have on the site you hit. We’re pretty sure it was networking the radars, but we won’t be positive until the NSA analyzes the gear you took. Whether it’s related to 272

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

the laser or not, at this point no one knows. You did a good job, Da

Dog clicked the remote control in his hand, cutting the co

“Better get me General Magnus,” Dog told the specialist at the com board.

Over Turkey, en route to Incirlik

0400

JED BARCLAY THUMBED THROUGH THE PAGES OF SATELLITE

photos on his right knee, looking for the latest batch from the sector north of Baghdad. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled the sheets to the top, then compared them to radio intercepts culled by Raven the previous day and balanced on his left leg. Under his chin were troop reports provided by CentCom, but what he really wanted now was the preconflict CIA assessment listing likely commanders and their call signs; that was somewhere in the briefcase near his feet, unreachable without sending a flurry of papers through the cabin of the C-20H Gulfstream.

“Son, you look like you’re cramming for an exam,”

said General Clearwater, looming over him from the aisle.

“No, sir, just trying to work out some things.”

“And?”

“Well, sir—” A sheaf of papers fell from his left knee onto the seat next to him, starting a chain reaction of cas-cading paper as they knocked several files and an awkward pile of maps onto the floor. Jed looked up from the mess helplessly; the general stared at him as if he didn’t notice.