The Spirits of Al Faw

By Francisco A. Ojeda

Master Sergeant Deveroe, the operations sergeant for a military intelligence battalion deployed in Iraq in 2006, had just returned to his unit after recovering from an ambush three weeks prior. According to his physicians, Deveroe did not suffer any apparent injuries that would discourage his return to duty. It was Deveroes desire to join his unit to conduct final missions and operations, and then to be redeployed back to the United States. As he proceeded with his duties, Deveroe realized that he indeed may have symptoms of a traumatic brain injury that may endanger his continued service with his unit. With continued issues, Deveroe also suspected that there was more occurring than the result of a possible injury. There seemed to be supernatural forces at work, and Deveroe was being targeted for some reason. During the peak of coalition military operations in Iraq, dangers surrounded the master sergeant and his unit. From insurgents, a wild animal attack, and an unconvinced chain of command, to hallucinations and loss of time, Deveroe had to also deal with unknown forces desperately trying to get his attention for some mysterious and likely dangerous purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543430431

Francisco A. Ojeda

Francisco Ojeda arrived in Miami, Florida, from Havana, Cuba, in 1968, and lived in South Florida until graduating from Miami Senior High School in 1985. He is a 27 year veteran with combined services of the United States Army and the Florida Army National Guard, retiring in 2011. He served as a Battalion Operations Sergeant during Operation Iraqi Freedom from 2006 to 2007 and as a contractor during Operation Enduring Freedom, while stationed in Afghanistan, from 2012 to 2013. He taught Military Sciences at Broward College in Davie Florida. He has a Political Science degree from Miami Dade College, former Miami Dade Community College, and a Business Management degree from the University of Phoenix. In addition, he earned a Certificate of Project Management in 2012, for which he is currently working in that field. He still lives in South Florida. This is his first published book of poetry.

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Copyright © 2017 by Francisco A. Ojeda.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017909462

ISBN:       Hardcover         978-1-5434-3045-5

                 Softcover         978-1-5434-3044-8

                 eBook               978-1-5434-3043-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/15/2017

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

This book was nine years in the making. Within those nine years, there were many joys, sorrows, successes, failures, obstacles and stumbling blocks along the way. As a first novel, it was done with much experimentation, learning, challenges, and enlightenment. With the requirements of a Soldier, husband, father, care giver, and other necessities in life, working on this book was as much of a relaxing pleasure and holistic therapy as it was an artistic endeavor. Subsequently, and fortunately, I had engaged with many people in creating this story. Thus, acknowledgments are necessary.

I acknowledge the military, as a whole, and the dedicated professionals I have known for which this book could not be written without. Even as a work of fiction, this story was written with characters and personalities in mind of all I have encountered during my military service. I tried to recall every Soldier, Airmen, Sailor and Marine, of every rank, gender, race, ethnicity, nationality, and religion I have known in my military career as inspiration for this story. This included those I both agreed and disagreed with. For those that I may have had personality challenges or conflicts, I still hold you all in high regard. I extend my deepest respect and admiration for every member of military I had the pleasure to serve with.

I extend my sincere and overwhelming appreciation to my family and friends for their support, patience and all their contributions to this novel in every way.

I recognize XLibris Book Publishers and their highly qualified and caring staff for their support and assistance to bring this project to fruition.

Special recognition is made to Lina Garcia, whose expertise and dedication in support of this project was immeasurable and greatly appreciated.

This book is dedicated to the memory of all those military personnel and contractors who will always remain in our thoughts. Special dedication is made in the memory of Staff Sergeant Robert ‘Wes’ Campbell of the Florida Army National Guard. Miss you deeply, brother.

Francisco A. Ojeda

Master Sergeant (RET)

U.S. Army/FLARNG

The C-130 began to descend into the military side of Baghdad International Airport. The flight took a couple of hours from Camp Buehring in Kuwait, after refueling from the five-hour flight from Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. Deveroe was tired of flying, but he knew it could have been much worse. He thought how easily he could have been stuck in Kuwait for several days. Even on a good day, it would be like standing behind a public bus while it spewed its fumes. Then, in the evenings, the temperature would drop significantly and feel like it was freezing, the typical climate of a country with a desert environment. Right now, it was the ache in his back from the body armor, the strain from wearing the Kevlar helmet, and the ringing in his ears that had his attention. And even with hearing protection, C-130s were known for being very noisy, if well engineered, and reliable airplanes.

As the plane landed on the airstrip, Deveroe blinked his eyes to focus and then take a good look around the cabin. His eyesight had changed in the last few months, to even be prescribed glasses for recently diagnosed hyperopic. But it was not his farsightedness that made him rub his eyes and blink repeatedly. It was harsh lights entering from the portholes once the aircraft had landed. He looked around the massive cabin and saw a motley crew in the overcrowded and packed plane. Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, Airmen, and civilians were seated throughout the cabin. Each had their assigned Kevlar helmets, with or without camouflage cover, and the standard-issue individual body armor (IBA). Military wore those in combination with their assigned uniforms. Some IBAs were black, while others were beige or sand colored, those mostly worn by civilian contractors and foreign military. Besides that, all military and some civilians had their issued weapon, uniform or civilian attire, combat gear, and private luggage.

The newly deployed first-timers had anticipation in their eyes. They looked around scared, while others just kept their emotions in check. Even with the aroma of aircraft fuels and engine exhaust and the distinct smell of body odor swimming around the air, the occupants tried to maintain a level of professionalism and calm. He recalled how tough he portrayed himself on his first deployment so many years ago, even with so much in trepidation and the fear of the unknown. He kept his anxiousness to himself, much like he was doing at the moment. He had since become better at it. He recognized other steely-eyed veterans preparing themselves to hit the ground as soon as the crew directed them off the plane. Their urgency was apparent as much as their desire to get on the ground and get started. They had schedules to keep, continued assignments, and missions they were likely eager to conduct. Like many of them, Deveroe just wanted to get back into the routine, the familiarity that gave him comfort in an uncomfortable place. But, first of all, he wanted—no, needed to get to his trailer. After three weeks away, he wanted to sleep where he felt he could find himself some comfort so far away from home.

After a long while, the plane eventually came to a stop. Passengers started anxiously moving around in their seats, grabbing at their luggage stowed under their seats, and fumbling with their gear and weapons. Suddenly, there was that familiar alarm sound that proceeded with the rotating red lights, indicating that the tail door will open shortly. The passengers were expecting instructions to be directed at them at any moment. The crew chief situated near the back of the plane swung out of the makeshift hammock that probably gave him some much-appreciated comfort on long flights.

The crew chief stood and stretched with a wide-gaping mouth. The chief reached toward the ceiling of the plane in a long stretch. Deveroe was certain a loud yawn came with the stretch, but the still-rotating propellers and the muting from earplugs drowned out any multitudes of noises. Along with the other passengers, Deveroe looked toward the crew chief, since he was the only one standing at the time. He eventually finished and returned his arms downward. He stared off to one of the panels across the cabin, reached down, and proceeded to dramatically scratch his groin. Deveroe smiled and laughed to himself. Fucking aviation, Deveroe thought. Other passengers sneered, some smiled, and others just looked away.

The crew chief was one of those that were not aware that the other people around him were watching. Or he simply could care less about what others thought. He filled out his flight suit, being tall and stocky, and his face was framed inside the huge flight helmet that balanced on his thick neck. The helmet was one of those that connected to a cable and allowed him to speak to the cabin, the flight engineer, and the pilots. After what seemed like a perversely long time, he finally finished his grotesque groin patting, handled a switch on the cable that led from his helmet to the instrument panel, and stood very still. A second later, he nodded in understanding to whatever was said to him through his helmet.

He quickly disconnected the cable, looked over at them, and smiled. He proceeded to take off his helmet, displaying a bushy head. It was a hilarious display of helmet hair. He placed the helmet onto the still-swinging hammock and enjoyed a rough head scrubbing with both his hands. Once done, the crew chief began to yell the obligatory safety briefing about departing the aircraft and crossing the airstrip to the arrival hangar. Passengers leaned forward and strained to hear the crew chief’s instructions over the progressively slowing propellers. Luckily, Deveroe heard it more times than he can count. Deveroe acknowledged that there would be that combination of those hurrying to get off the plane and those hesitant to get out.

Let’s get off this bird, folks was bellowed from one of the passengers.

It was probably another veteran and probably with several tours under their belt, Deveroe thought to himself. Sounded like an old-timer and likely another senior noncommissioned officer (NCO) like himself. Some passengers could be seen looking around to see who also was in a rush. One of the young Soldiers looked at Deveroe and searched the front of his IBA for a rank. Deveroe looked back at the Soldier and noticed the Soldier was a Private First Class wearing the familiar cloth and Velcro PFC rank. The Soldier lowered his eyes, trying to avoid any expected reprisal from the Master Sergeant. Deveroe mustered a quick, slight smile.

The crew chief began moving toward the front of the plane, side-stepping the knees and bags in the narrow aisle. As he reached the front of the aisle, he turned toward the passengers and pointed to the rear of the plane. The ramp slowly lowered, and a cargo forklift was already in place. Several Airmen quickly jumped onto the ramp and maneuvered their way to the pallets that blocked the exit. Within seconds, the locks and straps holding the heavy pallets of supplies and cargo were removed. They urgently pushed them, one by one, from the plane onto the forklift. Their efficiency was impressive.

Go! the crew chief yelled, finally in a clear and loud voice. Everyone stood, grabbed their gear, and faced the rear of the plane. As Deveroe stood, he looked over at the crew chief.

Be safe, Master Sergeant, the crew chief said with a smile.

The crew chief turned away quickly and disappeared up a ladder. He likely went up into the cockpit. Deveroe didn’t get a chance to acknowledge the courtesy. The chief likely had to prepare the plane, refuel, and then head to their next destination. Deveroe turned back to face the rear of the plane and witnessed that familiar shuffle he had seen on aircraft so many times. It was as if it was an airborne mission and jumping off the ramp was in order. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and proceeded to the back of the plane to catch up with the rest of the passengers disembarking. Once at the end of the ramp, Deveroe stepped out onto the concrete runway.

Outside, dust was circulating like small tornadoes as the brutal, dry, hot air and the much cooler one from the aircraft caused a maelstrom at the ramp’s edge. Deveroe stopped for a moment, blinked, and looked around. His eyes were getting accustomed to extraordinary brightness, for it was approximately 3:00 p.m., on a June day, in Iraq. Both military and civilians were bustling around, either coming or going. Stacks of supplies and luggage were in multiple piles throughout the near side of the runway. This made it a guessing game of which way to get out of there. Deveroe just followed the line of people walking away from the aircraft and toward the arrival hangar. Deveroe followed the line of people and remembered that the designated colored lines on the ground indicated the direction to the arrival hangar for processing.

The sun was high in the sky, but it became apparent that it was not brutal like in Kuwait. Even though Kuwait was a layover, it was the one place one would visit and soon realize they would not likely live there. It felt like it was just much closer to the sun than anywhere else on earth. It was probably a wonderful country if one was not going through there to a combat zone. Deveroe thought of those who were assigned there and did not envy them in the slightest. The Iraqi air did not yet smell like that of burned ash, charcoal, and diesel, but it will soon enough. The air was still more industrial and urban, with the occasional smell of livestock. Occasionally, you get that quick yet distinct scent of the dead.

Along the way to the hangar, Deveroe was greeted with acknowledgment by those attentive enough to notice his rank. He responded in kind, giving them the attention as any Soldier was required by being polite and respectful. He nodded back, whether it was a private or a warrant officer. It was usually a lower enlisted or a fellow Master Sergeant or First Sergeant. Most senior ranks did not pay that much attention, even though there were exceptions. Deveroe entered the hangar and stood in line to process at the counter. When it was his turn, Deveroe provided his identification card and a copy of orders. The airman behind the service counter scanned the common access card (CAC) and stamped the order accordingly. Deveroe turned and went through the front door of the hangar, walking past those waiting to contact unit transportation.

After a few turns, Deveroe stepped back outside and back into the hot Iraqi air. He found himself in the processing hangar’s waiting area. This area was also designated for smoking, so the air was now filled with the pungent smell of cigarettes and cigars. If could be said that Soldiers and contractors were preoccupied with smoking, a way to maintain a sense of calm. Not all Soldiers smoked, but, at times, it seemed like too many did. To the right was the exit into the sandy street. Deveroe passed through a fenced doorway and onto a narrow curb where taxis and minibuses were parked. A multitude of different types of vehicles was coming and going.

On the far right, past the civilian vehicles, was the first four-door high-mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicle (HMMWV) one could see. He then noticed this was a special HMMWV, from the red bandana waving from the top of its antenna. Standing next to the vehicle was a quite familiar Soldier, and Deveroe recognized him immediately. It was Sergeant Guy Rodriguez. He was known as the Rodman for no apparent reason than to make it easier for someone to call his attention. He once explained that people had difficulty saying his name, so he agreed to Rodman the first time he heard someone mispronounce his name. It was just like all those that had to deal with others that simply couldn’t or wouldn’t properly pronounce someone’s name properly. So there he was, drinking coffee from the common oversized silver thermos regularly used by Soldiers. A white thread was noticeably hanging from his ear. It became apparent he was listening to his MP3.

Rodman was young yet an experienced operator. His face was that of an adolescent but with a sharp mind and equally professional demeanor. On occasion, his boredom would get the better of him. It was obvious in this case, since earphones were not allowed while wearing the uniform. One strange aspect of Rodman was that he had an abundance of body hair. Deveroe thought it would keep anyone warm for the winter. But that never deterred anyone from thinking he wasn’t both physically fit and quite capable of handling himself. Like many of the young noncommissioned officers these days, he was also playful with his hair, keeping it midlength and kind of scraggly but still within regulation. He had a good sense of humor, a way of handling tense and difficult situations. He looked good like he had put on some weight and been working out. He also seemed calm and rested, which only means he has gotten used to the place.

As Deveroe watched him, he suddenly stopped leaning against the vehicle and stood up straight. With a very discreet and slight motion, the ear plug fell out his ear, and it snaked into his pocket, a stealthy yet deliberate act of let’s not get caught doing something wrong. Still sensing he was being watched, he slowly turned and looked in the Master Sergeant’s direction. He then quickly pulled open the front passenger door, reached inside, and pulled out a dark thermos travel mug. Deveroe immediately recognized it as his own thermos. Rodman stood very still, holding the thermos in his left hand. He then began walking toward Deveroe, his M4 rifle swinging across his back with the muzzle pointed to the ground. He reached out with the travel mug and handed it to Deveroe. The dark metal container glistened in the sunlight.

Thought you would appreciate some fresh liquid fuel, Master Sergeant, Rodman said, as Deveroe dropped his flight bag into the vehicle and grabbed the mug from the sergeant’s hand.

Thank you, Sergeant, Deveroe replied, removing the cap and taking a deep drink from the warm fluid.

Rodman reached into the vehicle and grabbed the Master Sergeant’s flight bag. It was a polite yet simple instinct that made Rodman collect his supervisor’s bag. Rodman slung it over his shoulder, placing the bag on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Deveroe waited to see the young sergeant open the driver’s door. When the door opened, both removed their weapons from their shoulders, simultaneously placing them in the vehicle. Where the door connected to the vehicle’s frame, there were improvised latches that allowed rifles to be locked in for transport. Fumbling a bit, Deveroe placed his weapon into the latch and then quickly seated himself, placing his thermos between them. Both pulled their seat belts across their chest and waist, snapping the locks in place. All of a sudden, Deveroe heard a convoy vehicle in the distance. Rodman looked out the window to see a series of HMMWVs and five-ton trucks roaring by.

Perfect! said Rodman, quickly turning on the vehicle.

Rodman reached over to the center console and turned on the radio and then the vehicle’s military ground positioning system. Rodman fumbled with the dials and buttons with intent and deep concentration with the GPS. Deveroe then realized that Rodman was going to use the convoy to get back onto the base. This was not standard procedure but was not a violation either. Deveroe thought that Rodman’s experience and unique ability to improvise were worth his weight in gold and then some. At that moment, Rodman was able to identify the convoy’s identifier and frequency.

The Master Sergeant was careful in placing the helmet on his head but also wanted to make sure it was not obvious on how he did it. He had become cautious of how to wear the helmet and that it would take longer to do so. They snapped their chin straps once they placed their helmet on their heads. Any military or contractor in a vehicle must wear both seat belt and helmet. Otherwise, military police would ticket without a second thought. Worst of all, Sergeants Major, not known for their sense of humor, witnessing the violation would likely make an example of the perpetrators. Rodman sat still, waiting for the last vehicle to pass them by. Deveroe watched Rodman with curiosity while still trusting the young sergeant. Deveroe sat calmly and patiently but was reminded of that feeling on his head from the helmet. Kevlar helmets were definitely not made for comfort but certainly for safety.

Deveroe straightened up in the seat and retrieved his thermos. Deveroe enjoyed another sip while watching Rodman doing the same from his own thermos. Placing his thermos between his legs, Rodman placed the vehicle into drive and returned his hands to the familiar ten and two o’clock positions on the steering wheel. Deveroe knew that Rodman was smart enough to take advantage of a convoy headed back to Camp Victory. Rodman has done his homework, anticipating an available opportunity.

As the last vehicle rumbled past them, Rodman jammed the accelerator. The wheels spun, tossing dirt and sand in the air behind them. Rodman quickly joined the convoy, positioning himself at the very end. Deveroe looked over at the young sergeant. Rodman turned toward Deveroe, expecting a look from the Master Sergeant of concern or, worse, disapproval.

Sorry, Master Sergeant, Rodman muttered, barely audible under the roar of the engine. Deveroe smiled, knowing he would have likely done the same.

Let us not get into trouble on my first day back, Sergeant? The Master Sergeant spoke above the noise, echoing inside the vehicle’s cab. Rodman nodded and exposed a slight grin in appreciation for his Master Sergeant’s show of humor.

Rodman trailed slightly behind the convoy, apparently waiting for the opportunity to contact the unit the convoy belonged to. Rodman had a knack with both the military GPS and combat radios. He was able to effectively identify a convoy by their serial numbers, position, schedule, and even route. He was an asset to the unit and daily operations—for that and many other reasons. Rodman was always able to get from one place to another with ease. His greatest skill was his way of figuring out the tricks to get around, at times under difficult and dangerous conditions. He was able to get things done. Deveroe worried about Rodman at times, but he still admired him. Rodman was very good at using any available resources yet found a way to follow the rules and avoid getting himself and others in trouble. This was something an experienced leader would appreciate from one of the Soldiers. And at times, there was always the once-in-a-blue-moon requirement to bend a rule or two.

In the military, especially in a combat zone, the rules can get in the way of doing what was right. It wasn’t about convenience or selfishness but, rather, what was best and necessary. But Rodman never broke the rules, and, of course, that was fine with Deveroe. How Rodman knew the convoy was even going to the base remained a mystery. But Deveroe was certain that he would never do something without being certain he could pull it off, another fine quality in the young man. Like usual, Rodman showed his aptitude to figure things out and find the best solutions.

Rodman typed into the GPS console a request to join the convoy. After a few seconds, the convoy commander replied by asking for authentication. Rodman quickly punched in the correct series of numbers and phonetic letters in reply. After a few moments, the commander replied, affirming that they were allowed to join the convoy. Rodman extended his appreciation, changing frequencies provided by the convoy commander, and continued driving. He produced a smug smile on his face, in obvious satisfaction of his apparent skills. He looked over at the Master Sergeant, who was looking forward and also smiling. Rodman’s smile grew even larger and then sat much higher in his seat.

As the convoy moved along the perimeter road of the Baghdad International Airport, Rodman changed frequencies to a preset on the vehicle’s Single-Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System (SINCGARS). He contacted the unit on the SINCGARS, indicating that the mission at the terminal was complete and he was returning with one other passenger to the unit. Deveroe stared out of the front windshield. He noticed that the main road from the terminal to the main gate was still unpaved, dusty, dirty, and uneven. Dust and dirt swarmed around in the air from the multiple vehicles in front of him. Potholes and ruts were strung all over the road, making certain that traveling was never a comfortable one. Deveroe slightly shook his head, thinking that some things could have been fixed in some way. Eventually, some things would have already happened to get missions done. He imagined that some improvements may occur during his time there. But it seemed that the way things were got in the way of how the country would improve.

He mustered some sympathy for the locals who have been displaced and those still there who dealt with the constant dangers. Deveroe felt appreciation for some of the certainties that Soldiers were subjected to on a daily basis, like meals, water, and protection within the walls of the camp. This was particularly true when thinking about how the lives of locals may seem from day to day. To them, there was likely the uncertainty of their survival. He looked past Rodman and saw damaged clay and brick homes and the stares of those still there as the convoy passed them by. Some were doing work around their dilapidated homes, and others just appeared to have given up, sitting there in their front yards. Their faces had no emotion and appeared numb and indifferent as if waiting just to be put into the ground finally. Some already had the look of the dead.

As Deveroe looked out the driver’s window, Rodman patted the Master Sergeant’s shoulder and gestured to pull out his identification. Deveroe pulled the CAC out of his blouse’s upper left pocket and held it tightly in his hand. He did not want to drop it before arriving at the gate. Wearing an IBA and in the tight confines of the HMMWV, it was difficult to retrieve anything if it fell onto the vehicle’s floor. Not to mention, Deveroe was avoiding any chances of further hurting himself, considering how well he had recovered in the last few weeks. The Master Sergeant returned back to looking out the front windshield and could see the base’s main gate in the distance.

The main gate was a makeshift shack and combinations of barriers, concertina wire, and sharp turns to evade any direct attack. The sentries at the base’s gates were previously a combination of coalition forces and US military police. Now, there appeared to be some changes to personnel and procedures. They were now manned by Iraqi National Police, wearing their standard uniforms with black IBAs and submachine guns. Deveroe watched them intently as Rodman maneuvered the obstacle course of force protection measures. The Master Sergeant did not have much experience with the Iraqi police, only from what he had read. It was usually the occasional criticism and rumors others were more than willing to convey. The rumors Deveroe had heard about the Iraqi police referred to incompetency and sometimes loyalty to insurgent forces. Deveroe paid careful attention so he could have an understanding of entering the base. He also wanted to appreciate how to properly communicate with local authorities.

As the convoy went through the gate and moved toward the safety areas to clear weapons, Rodman sat straight up in his seat. It appeared that Rodman wanted to look as impressive as possible to avoid any possible nonsense from the sentries. He cautiously and carefully moved forward at the end of the convoy. The convoy had pulled toward the gate and stopped, while a sentry curiously motioned them to move past the other vehicle and toward him. Deveroe thought that this seemed different but reminded himself that procedures had changed.

As they moved around the last of the convoy vehicles, the vehicle slowly moved to the adjacent gate. Rodman held out his right hand, and Deveroe instinctively placed his CAC in Rodman’s palm. Once Rodman came to a stop, he quickly pressed both CACs against the door’s window to show the policeman. The sentry stared at them through the window, tightly clutching his weapon strapped to his chest. One could tell he was very nervous, either about them or more likely about being watched by his supervisor.

A US military police Sergeant appeared just to the sentry’s right and watched from over his shoulder. The sentry looked even more nervously and slightly looked away, obviously becoming aware that the MP was there. Deveroe took a deep breath, relieved to see that he had supervision. The MP began to speak in an Arabic dialect of Iraq, and then the policeman appeared to become irritated. The sun beaded sweat on both their faces, and it was easy to tell they have been there awhile. Dust covered their uniforms, and their hands and faces were dirty just from the constant moving of vehicles through the gate.

Another police officer moved along Deveroe’s side of the vehicle with a mirror on a long pole with a handle. He was checking under the vehicle. This was standard procedure for inspecting vehicles for explosives. Deveroe was glad to see that this cautionary move was not taken out of the entry procedures to the base. That sentry was also supervised by another MP, who happened to be female. The sentry with the mirror looked more dissatisfied than the one with their CACs. The female MP reminded Deveroe that he needed to find his friend once he got on the post.

Both the sentries that were looking under the vehicle and the sentry at Rodman’s window were done and waved them through the gate. Rodman nodded and waited at the gate. A huge, heavy metal bar was lifted from in front of the vehicle. It swung straight up in the air, with a huge counterweight dropping at its end. Another Iraqi police officer stood just past the gate bar and looked right at Deveroe. He was standing at attention and rendered a proper salute. Deveroe returned the salute, admiring the sentry’s effort at professionalism. As the vehicle drove by, the sentry revealed a huge smile and maintained his salute. Obviously, someone else was glad to be here.

The vehicle entered the compound and down the long road that was much more improved than the one leading to the main gate. The road had packed gravel and stone and was a much evener surface to drive on. Deveroe noticed that the surrounding buildings and structures were also greatly improved and cleaned up than he remembered. Before, there was this abandoned feel to the place. Still, anything here could be brand new and still have that left along the side of the road look.

Deveroe thought that with the recent surge of troops, things would seem less organized and even chaotic. But all in all, the surroundings were calm, even with Soldiers and civilians walking about. The Master Sergeant supposed that with all the publicity and critiques handed out by the press about what happens here, it would make sense that it would look like they were at least organized. Likely, the government officials stationed in Baghdad and on post had an influence on how things should look like here.

Either way, some improvements were evident, with much less garbage along the roadsides, pallets of supplies were stacked neatly, and even rows of vehicles were lined up properly. Before, there was a sense of confusion and, at times, even desperation for things to get done. Many times, Deveroe thought how the simplest tasks seemed overwhelming and even impossible at times. One would suppose that the sudden attention to the recent consecutive attacks and subsequent injuries and deaths from improvised explosive devices came with the need to at least give the perception that they had a purposeful plan. Being the one who survived one three weeks prior, he knew it was something to pay urgent and critical attention to.

Deveroe saw two UH-60 helicopters rise in the distance and proceeded one after the other.