I knew I had been here before. The cobwebs cleared, and I knew where I was: Kuwait.
The second tip-off was the pilot announcing in that smooth, everything's-just-fucking-fine tone, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying United. For your safety, we were diverted from Baghdad Airport, which is currently experiencing a serious threat from surface-to-air missiles. I apologize for any inconvenience. When you deplane, you'll be met by representatives from the armed forces who will connect you with ground convoys heading north."
This isn't the kind of announcement you hear on domestic routes. But this guy was so slick, for a moment I thought I was on a normal flight and we were about to be promised free food vouchers to mollify our discontentment, or whatever.
His tone then turned funereal, and he added, "It has been our distinct honor to have you on board and . . . and . . . and from the bottom of my heart, on behalf of the entire crew . . . God bless you all."
You could almost hear a collective gulp from his passengers. A simple good luck would've been sufficient, thank you.
Anyway, he parked his big plane in the middle of a large empty ramp, off to the right of the runway where there were no other aircraft, and neither was there a terminal. The night was pitch-dark, yet the airport was well lit, and I could observe trucks moving around, all of them American military vehicles.
I checked my watch, which I had already preset to local time--
4:00 a.m. An elevated stairway was rolled up, and we deplaned and waited in a large gaggle on the tarmac while our duffel bags and personal gear were unloaded down a long rolling ramp and arranged in a long line for pickup.
Several officious-looking types with MP brassards on their arms and clipboards and flashlights in their hands began corralling the troops and loudly directing them to various holding areas, depending on their units and ultimate destinations in Iraq. The Army has a reputation for efficiency that is rarely merited, which is why "Hurry up and wait" is the unofficial Army motto. Except when it's to the Army's advantage; then the anal minds kick in and usually get it right.
First Sergeant Jackson and I shook hands and wished each other good luck. I quietly separated myself from the group, confident that Phyllis had learned about this unexpected diversion and made the proper arrangements.
I wouldn't trust Phyllis with my life. But I definitely trust her to get me where she wants me to be.
The weather was nice, incidentally, mid-seventies, without a hint of rain, almost balmy. Definitely nicer than October in Washington. Bermuda was nicer still.
After a moment of wandering around I observed a soldier using a flashlight to brighten a handwritten sign that read, "LTC Drummond."
I approached him and confessed that that would be me; in response, he offered a sloppy salute and informed me that his name was "Carl Smith . . . PFC Smith, Eighteenth Transportation Battalion," and explained he would be my chauffeur for the drive up to Baghdad.
I spent a moment doing the senior officer thing, asking Smith a few shallow, innocuous questions, as he did his respectful subordinate thing, offering brief, perfunctory replies. The senior officer is expected to show a personal interest in his or her subordinates, regardless of how temporary or ephemeral the relationship. On the surface, this translates as concern, and establishes rapport. But neither has it escaped my notice that the normal nature of these inquiries-- married status, hometown, family, that kind of thing--correspond to exactly the data an officer needs to know for a next-of-kin letter.
Anyway, Carl Smith. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned, and he informed me that he was thirty-two, yes, a little damned old for his rank, divorced--damned happy about that--an Alabamian--damned proud of that--and, like many of his peers, in a fit of angered idealism had rushed into an Army recruiter's station the day after September 11--a decision he now looked back on as damned impetuous.
He appeared unusually fit for a transportation guy, but probably Carl had a lot of free time to spend in the weight room. Booze is prohibited for soldiers inside the war zone, and Arab women aren't turned on by Christian men. When all else fails, you turn to the worst vice: exercise.
He led me to a dust-coated humvee; I threw my duffel in the back, climbed into the passenger seat, and off we went at a good clip. Military humvees,