Dick Couch - Out of the Ashes

When Hibah Nawal learned of Saudi Arabia’s intention to build their oil pipeline through Syria’s desert, he saw opportunity. He jockeyed for position with the leaders of Syria’s other Bedouin tribes and secured a contract to provide services and labor to the army of engineers and construction workers who were building the pipeline. The contract was extremely lucrative for the Rulawa tribe and secured the long-term loyalty of his kinsmen who had elected him mukhtar. It had also allowed him to skim money off the top and reward himself with perks like this expensive SUV.

“Feroz, this pipeline is a big project, and it is not our job to manage it. Our job is just to help build the temporary quarters for the workers, deliver supplies to them at each of these base camps, and when they need our help, assist them with some of the construction.”

“Yes, I know that, Mukhtar. The pipeline is complete here and now we will be paid just to provide security, but the next segment of the pipeline is being built almost due north and we should be moving this temporary barracks north for the workers.”

“You think too much, Feroz. Our instructions are to help build a brand new barracks to the north and just leave this one in place here. Now we need to drive over there,” the mukhtar said, pointing in a westerly direction.

Feroz Kabudi just shook his head as he stepped on the accelerator and followed instructions.

Laurie Phillips and Sandee Barron sat in their tiny stateroom aboard Normandy, each chugging a Powerade sports drink, sweat dripping on the room’s deck as they both recovered from a ninety-minute workout. A midafternoon respite from flight operations had opened up the ship’s flight deck to joggers. After spending almost an hour running in endless circles on the flight deck they had hit Normandy’s tiny weight room in the bowels of the ship. Even in March, the arid, ninety-degree temperature in the region had dehydrated them both.

“Didn’t know if there’d be any way to work out on a Navy ship, Sandee. This isn’t bad, though that flight deck isn’t much of a track.”

“No, it’s not. It’s easier when we deploy on an aircraft carrier like Truman . A four-and-a-half-acre flight deck makes it much easier for running.”

“Didn’t you tell me you were a runner back at the Naval Academy?”

“Yeah, back in the day. Cross country.”

“Enjoy it there?”

“Nice place to be from. Hey, why don’t you hit the showers first? I’ve got to slam out an e-mail to my hubby back in Norfolk. He needs constant reassurance the guys on the ship aren’t hitting on me, or if they are, I’m ignoring them.”

“I’ll testify all you’re doing is flying, working out, and sleeping. Tell him to send more pictures. Your two daughters are too cute!”

As the easy banter between the two women continued, Sandee Barron reflected on how different their backgrounds were and how liberally Laurie had shared her unique life experience with her.

Born and raised in Des Moines, with an IT degree from a junior college, Laurie Phillips enlisted in the Marine Corps after she was jilted in an affair with a married man. Smart and good with languages, she was accepted into the Marine Corps Cultural Support Team program and trained to interface with local Afghani women in the battle space.

She did two tours in Afghanistan and was decorated for heroism, but an affair with a deployed Marine during her second tour went badly as he, too, was married. Sadly, a latent eating disorder forced her from the Corps when she was unable to control her weight, ballooning to well above Marine Corps weight standards and failing her semiannual physical fitness test. She continued on this bad eating path until finally converting to the South Beach diet and undertaking a workout regimen that she followed with near-religious regularity. She regained control of her life, and returned to school for a four-year degree in IT.

After graduation, she gravitated first to the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), then to the Center for Naval Analyses (CNA) as places where she felt she could be recognized and rewarded for her skills and strong work ethic. When the CNA accepted her application for this important shipboard position, it helped provide that recognition she so wanted. Now it was her job to make it work.

Now fit and modestly attractive, she was working mightily to guard against her eating disorder, which, like an alcohol addiction, was always present. She vowed never to go back there, and she packed much of her own chow for this deployment. Every nook and cranny of their stateroom was jammed with food she brought aboard or had shipped to her.

While she didn’t talk much about her personal life, she had revealed to Sandee she had a long-standing, on-again, off-again relationship with a techie friend from her days at NRO.

“So, Laurie, other than working out and sitting here e-mailing folks back home, we hardly see each other much.”

“Hey, roomie, you’ve been flying your ass off day and night. Did that waiver to fly more than a hundred hours in a month ever come through for you?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking. It did, just last week. How about you, though? Things working out the way you wanted them to for you professionally here?”

“Yep, pretty much. The playbook for CNA analysts on ships like this is to park in the ship’s Combat Direction Center for the deployment and take in as much data as you can. Some analysts I’ve talked with have had productive and satisfying tours doing this and some not so much.”

“And for you?” Sandee asked.

“For me, so far so good. I think it helped that our ops boss, Lieutenant Commander Watson, served with a CNA analyst on one of his previous ships. He seems to have the big picture of where I fit into his operation, especially in the Combat Direction Center.”

“Sounds pretty good. How’s it working out with the captain? I know he’s usually camped out on the bridge, but do you talk with him when he comes through CDC?”

“No, not really. He usually banters with the tactical action officer or the petty officer managing the Aegis tracks on the display. I’m pretty much below the noise. He says hello, but it’s kind of perfunctory.”

“With the captain, that may be a blessing. Hey, every time I come through there to get the flight brief I see you at one console or another doing what looks like interesting stuff.”

“Yep, I’m learning a lot. The watch team leader usually slots me into either one of the track management consoles or the Global Hawk consoles and I think I’m getting pretty good at both.”

“Global Hawk!” Sandee exclaimed. “Hey, you’d better keep those toy airplanes from T-boning my bird when I’m flying,” she continued, only half in jest.

“Tell you what, roomie. Just keep that eggbeater you’re flying below sixty-five thousand feet and you’ll be just fine.”

Laurie Phillips was, in fact, feeling accomplished in her work aboard Normandy . She just hoped it would keep up for the entire deployment.

Chase Williams sat at his desk catching up on paperwork, e-mails, and other messages when his N5, or planning director, arrived at his door for their scheduled meeting. “Morning, boss, ready for our meeting or should I come back?”

“Let’s do it, Rich. What do you have for me today?” Williams said as he motioned his N5 to a chair next to his desk.

“Well, I know you pay me to look way ahead, so I thought I’d update you on some of the intelligence trap lines we’ve got going. We’re trying to anticipate what this surge of U.S. military forces to the Mideast might precipitate.”