CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Trips to combat zones normally are preceded by long and extensive buildups, months of exhaustive training, equipment and personal preparation, country orientations, updating of wills, and so forth.

On the plus side, this affords you the knowledge, the mental outlook, and the expert training to survive-with a chance to tidy up a few loose ends in case vice versa happens. On the minus side, it condemns you to months of restless nights filled with anxiety and cold fear.

So in a way I was happy with only seven hours of notice; in a larger way, I was unhappy with any notice. Speed, however, was the ticket. Mr. bin Pacha might be the paranoid type who hops beds every night, or he might feel secure inside Falluja and get sloppy. We were banking on sloppiness and hoping for the best.

So Phyllis allowed me five hours to go back to my apartment, rest, shower, pack some field uniforms and incidentals, and then I returned to the office for two fast hours of briefings. What this entailed was a rough sketch of a plan that, in Phyllis's words, was still "evolving, still being perfected," with an advisory that "an update will be provided upon your arrival."

I thought about this and replied, "Said otherwise, I'm jumping out of a plane without a parachute, hoping the ground moves before my landing."

"Don't worry. Only the good die young."

"You'll live forever."

She smiled, sort of. She then instructed, "Once you arrive in country, we can't risk telephonic contact. You can't imagine the number of collection systems operating inside and over Iraq these days. It is, of course, our number one collection priority, and our friends at NSA are as likely to intercept your emissions as the enemy's. Once you're in country, you're on your own."

I was already on my own, but kept that thought to myself.

Bian, I should mention, did not make an appearance, nor had she left me a short note wishing me good hunting, bon voyage, have a nice funeral, or whatever sentiment applied. Well, it didn't really matter as the plan was for her to join me in Iraq in a day or so, unless she had an onset of common sense in between.

An elderly CIA doctor with quirky bedside manners administered three shots for diseases I've never heard of, issued me a bottle of malaria pills, and warned me to stay away from the local food, which wasn't going to be a problem since, as I mentioned, pickles on hamburgers is for me adventurous gourmandism.

He pressed into my palm a box of prophylactics containing twenty-four rubbers, which I stared at in surprise. I'm as overconfident as the next guy, but I would be in country only two, maybe three days, max.

I asked, "Are these the largest size you have?"

He laughed, and even managed to act like this was the first time he had heard that line. It was a stupid joke, but those about to embark on suicidal missions tend to be humored. He informed me, "Hell, boy, these aren't for your nozzle. Nobody over there gets any poon. These keep dust and rust out of your weapon's nozzle. Ha-ha."

Ha-ha. He was very funny. Seriously.

Phyllis then pulled me aside and offered a few parting words that were brief, yet so emotionally heartfelt and moving that I actually choked up a little. She said, "Don't screw this up, or I'll have your ass."

Anyway, next stop was the parking lot, where an Army Black Hawk helicopter awaited. I climbed aboard, and we lifted off and departed for Delaware, a flight that lasted nearly an hour.

We flew at low altitude, and rather than dwell on the unhappy future, I occupied my mind observing the countryside below. America-truly, it is an amazing land, an inspiring land. The countryside was peppered with massive homes, many with large swimming pools, and what appeared to be outhouses, though probably they were cabanas or artists' studios or secondary residences where the crazy aunts and aging parents are kept.

Like every society, ours is a confounding mixture of rich and poor, of haves and haveth-nots. And yet, I think, what makes us different from most is that here the poor can become rich, and the rich can become stinkingly richer or blow it all and end up cleaning all those swimming pools. This, I think, accounts for why we have so far limited ourselves to one revolution. Yet I also think we take for granted that because America has survived for over two hundred years, it will last another two hundred, ad infinitum. But the foundation is not as sturdy or impervious to harm as we once assumed, as nineteen homicidal maniacs showed us on September 11. That was supposed to be a wake-up call, the klaxons warning that bad people are out there, that they own the night, and we must, by courage, wiles, and force of arms, take it back. And yet here we were only three years after the fact, the lines at the recruiting stations had dwindled, and the sad but vacuous story of an over-the-hill pop star accused of diddling little boys had drowned out what brave men and women were doing in Iraq and Afghanistan.

It struck me, too, that this war has produced no galvanizing heroes, or none the American public has ever heard of-no Audie Murphys, no Doolittles, no Schwarzkopfs. As a nation we no longer glorify war, which, for a society, is probably healthy and good. But when we fail to honor our warriors, I wonder.

Not that Sean Drummond was harboring thoughts of returning a hero. The first time I went off to war, my father offered me one good piece of blunt advice: "A dead hero is still dead. Come home, son."

Well, I was three for three so far, with a few nasty nicks on the last one, which was either a warning or a new lease on life. But every time you push it, you wonder if the fates are thinking, "Hey, this clown thinks he can beat the house odds; let's lower the boom."

There was no need to go through the usual passport or customs nonsense, nor did I require an updated visa or passport. The boarding ticket was my military ID with a set of freshly minted, albeit phony, orders, and the plane was a shiny United Boeing 747 on contract to Uncle Sam's Air Force that was departing from Dover Air Force Base.

The flight was filled with about two hundred soldiers and a few Marines, men for the most part, a few women, nearly all young, most of whom had already endured six months in Iraq, were granted two weeks of stateside R amp;R-rest and recuperation-and were headed back. Picture two hundred people who had just spent two weeks screwing and drinking their brains out. This was not a happy plane.

I took my assigned seat beside an Army captain with the crossed rifles of the infantry on his collar and a nametag that read Howser. For the first hour, he said not a word-on his lap was a thick photo album he was flipping through, over and over, gazing thoughtfully at pictures of his lovely young wife and two little girls, twins actually, who were as cute as puppies.

With nothing better to do, I ogled the pictures over his shoulder. This intrusion did not appear to bother him, though eventually he did look up and ask, "Not married, sir?"

"Nope."

"Maybe that's better."

"Maybe."

"Nobody to worry about."

"You mean nobody to worry about you."

"Yeah…" Whereupon Captain Howser launched into a long, rambling discussion about his wife-Sara-his daughters-Lindsey and Anna-and how they had spent their two weeks of peaceful respite together. Very nice. Two guys, side by side on a long international flight, killing time with fond reminiscences and sappy anecdotes: Lindsey's first steps, Anna's first trip to the potty-her first successful trip-how Sara never complained about his absence, never lamented how lonely she got, never mentioned the anxiety attacks every time the doorbell rang with the possibility of bad news on the doorstep.

Indeed, this was what distinguished this flight, and certainly what separated these passengers, from any of the other half million international travelers flying over the world's oceans at that moment. These passengers didn't want to be here, weren't looking forward to the destination, and nobody had a guaranteed return ticket.