missing body parts, and in some cases, missing family members. And you know what? They all talked."
I assured him, "You'll talk as well."
Bian added, "How much agony and how many parents and brothers are a few hours or days of silence worth?"
Ali bin Pacha's eyelids were fluttering. You could see he was fighting to maintain consciousness, and you could also see that Doc Enzenauer's magical mickey had already coursed through the IV tube, through his veins, and straight to his evil brain.
He tried to say something and what came out was, "Oh . . . I . . . ugh . . ."
To send him off on the right note, I said, "Ali, you're going home."
His eyes closed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
In a convoy escorted by a platoon of detached military police, we drove for more than an hour from the Army field hospital and ended up at the entrance of a small military base. A metal sign by the entrance read, "Forward Operating Base Alpha"--in military jargon, FOB Alpha.
The base was entirely encased within ten-foot-high concrete blast walls and concertina wire, and if, say, you had forgotten you were in a war zone, this forbidding exterior reminded you that there were two worlds here--the violent, hazardous one outside the gates, and these highly fortified bases, like Old West cavalry forts.
Directly outside the gate on the roadway were five oversize speed bumps and a series of oil barrels filled with sand or concrete, arrayed in a winding maze so you had to slow to a crawl and make about ten short-angled turns. Also there were two twenty-foot concrete towers, from each of which the worrying snouts of big .50 caliber barrels followed our progress.
This reminded me, as I said, of an old cavalry fort, though the occupation of Iraq wasn't supposed to look like this: I recalled the stories Grandpa told me about his occupation after Germany surrendered--of round-heeled frauleins, of beery nights in gasthauses, of a fortune in black-market cigarettes and silk stockings--the uniquely American version of rape, pillage, and plunder. Better still, his natives accepted their defeat. Occupations are supposed to be the fun part of war, but I suspected no one would return from this occupation feeling nostalgic.
A pair of soldiers cautiously approached the lead SUV, and apparently Phyllis handled the entry requirements. Whatever she said, both guards snapped to attention and banged off crisp salutes, ordinarily a sign of respect--not in a combat zone, though. Might as well hang a fluorescent sign around the neck of the recipient for enemy snipers that announces, "NOT ME, IDIOT--SHOOT HER."
During my own combat tours, we actually used to make a point of saluting senior officers we didn't like. We thought this was very hilarious; they looked very aggravated. Maybe you had to be there, though.
Anyway, the guards signaled for us to enter the compound, and our convoy drove at slow speed over the bumps, through the winding path of barrels, and entered the gate.
I rode in the rear of the trailing vehicle, a military ambulance, with bin Pacha, who remained unconscious, and beside me sat Doc Enzenauer, who occupied himself monitoring his patient's vital signs, adjusting IV fluids, and doing doctorly things.
I looked out the side window as we progressed through the base, which pretty much was what you could infer from the title: a small, temporary encampment located in close proximity to the enemy. Inside Iraq, of course, this would be any base flying the Stars and Stripes. As it was, the weapons clearing barrels outside each building and the sandbags covering the roofs dispelled any illusion of an R&R center.
To most civilian eyes, all soldiers appear alike, androgynous beings wrapped in camouflage, with their hair closely cropped and an iron rod stuffed up their rear. But here the troopers mostly looked a little older, they sported the most up-to-date body armor, were carrying the coolest, latest gadgetry, and definitely swaggered more than your run-of-the-mill GIs, who generally look like confused high school kids stumbling around in oversize uniforms.
So this was a base for Special Operations warriors, which made sense because the CIA and Special Forces, which have always been close, after 9/11 have become as inseparable as a hunter and his favorite fetching dog.
After about a quarter of a mile, we stopped in front of a small compound within the compound--also surrounded by concertina barbed wire, and containing five small squarish buildings, each constructed of rough, reinforced gray concrete, ugly and utilitarian. I saw no signs, no windows, and definitely