Mike Maden - Drone Threat

General Majid took the cue and stood, clapping. The other dignitaries rose and clapped as well. The photographer dashed over just as Chandler and Majid clasped hands, then followed Chandler as he shook the hands of each tribal elder.

“Is he running for mayor?” Early asked.

“Yeah. The mayor of Bartertown.”

“Who… run… Bartertown?” Early asked in his Master Blaster voice.

“Master Blaster runs Bartertown!”

They both laughed. Pearce and Early had a running gag about the similarities between the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movies and postwar Iraq. They called Majid’s palace the Thunderdome.

“Gentlemen, please,” Tariq said.

General Majid barked an order and the Shia recruits finally relaxed. Chandler waded into the middle of them, shaking more hands, photographer in tow.

“Criminy,” Early said. “How long is this Gomer going to take?”

Pearce shook his head. “Good thing they pay us by the hour.” He scanned the roof again. He couldn’t shake the feeling his skull was in somebody’s crosshairs, but three tours in the Sand Box did that to a guy. He and Early kept moving, walking an irregular circuit on the periphery, cutting in and out between whatever obstructions they could find.

On the last turn, Chandler was standing back beneath the shadowed portico, wiping his dripping forehead with a kerchief, and chatting earnestly with General Majid. Chandler glanced over at Pearce and Early. The general nodded and left, heading past the guarded bas-relief bronze entrance doors. Chandler waved Pearce and Early over with his hand.

“You’re Troy Pearce,” Chandler said, extended a hand. “CIA, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you must be Mike Early. U.S. Army Rangers.”

“Yes, sir. At least, that’s what the dog tag says.”

“Well, I appreciate you guys. I saw you out there in the hot sun. I hope I didn’t go on too long.”

“Hadn’t noticed, sir. Just trying to keep an eye on things,” Early said.

“I’d like the two of you to come inside and join me for a cold beverage.” Chandler glanced over his shoulder at the two wary Russian mercs standing back in the shadows. “And I’d like to have a private word with you.”

Pearce and Early glanced at each other.

“Of course,” Pearce said. “Can we bring our translator?”

“No need. It will be just us Americans talking.”

“Our translator is as thirsty as we are,” Early said. “And the sun is just as freaking hot on him as it is on us.”

Chandler shrugged. “The general has informed me that the Kurd isn’t welcome inside. I’m sorry. But you know how it is around here. When in Rome.”

Pearce started to protest but held his tongue. Chandler might have a legit reason to keep the meeting small. “You’re the boss.”

Chandler led the way across what seemed like acres of polished red marble floors, past towering green marble columns. It reminded Pearce of a temple in the old Hollywood sword-and-sandal movies, only gaudier. The walls were of patterned stone and the ceilings featured brightly colored mosaics illuminated by expansive crystal chandeliers. The cost of building a pleasure palace like this must have been as enormous as the place was gauche. Clearly the architect was attempting to evoke the grandeur and majesty of ancient Babylon. The aesthetic felt more like Tony Montana than Nebuchadnezzar. Considering whom it was built for, the architect made the right choice. Pearce wondered how many starving Iraqi children could have been fed by the cost of this one palace alone.

They passed through two more sets of guarded, bas-relief bronze doors and into the interior section of the palace where Majid’s personal residence was located. The first room they entered took the gaudy, overwrought architecture of the earlier rooms and exploded it by a factor of ten. A welter of brightly colored marbles, geometric inlays, gold leaf, gemstones, and crystal bombarded Pearce’s eyes, but it was the massive swimming pool and the bikini-clad women who frolicked in it that commanded the room.

Chandler led the way toward a lush banquet table piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and other delights neither Pearce nor Early had seen before. Huge buckets of ice were larded with Cokes and beers. “Gentlemen, help yourselves. There’s plenty to choose from.”

The Sunni elders were piling plates high with food and pulling out drinks from the bucket. Pearce didn’t recognize any of the sullen Shia waiting their turn. The Salah al-Din district was the heart of the infamous Sunni Triangle, and Tikrit, its capital, was strictly Sunni. Samarra, on the other hand, contained some of Iraq’s holiest Shia shrines, even though it was also in the district. The fault lines of the Iraqi Sunni-Shia conflict intersected in this part of the country. Pearce had become friendly with several Samarran Shia leaders in the past few weeks that he’d been stationed in the district. He wondered why they weren’t here, too.

General Majid huddled in the corner with the Russian mercs, the three of them seated in gilded red velvet chairs, devouring their food.

Early stopped at the edge of the pool, his eye fixed on one particular beauty. He nudged Pearce. “Think she’s up for a game of Marco Polo?”

“You can play hide the explorer after we grab some chow.”

“Roger that.”

Early and Pearce sat on a marble bench, finishing their steaks, grease dribbling into their beards. Four empty beer bottles littered the tabletop.

Pearce watched as two of the Sunni elders disrobed and leaped into the pool, their pale white flesh covered in thick carpets of curly black hair. They chased around a couple of the squealing girls, who managed to stay just out of paw’s reach.

Chandler pulled up a red velvet chair and sat down next to Pearce and Early.

“How are the steaks, fellas?”

“Great,” Early said, gnawing away at the last remnants of his T-bone in his thick fingers.

“Wonderful. I flew them in with me, along with everything else. Just my way of saying thanks to all of you out here doing the Lord’s work.”

“Amen, brother,” Early said.

Pearce finished the last of his third beer. “Yeah. Thanks.” He burped.

Chandler forced a smile. “What did you think about our little ceremony today?”

“Good to finally see some Shia in army uniforms,” Pearce said. “If we can’t get these guys all on the same team, this country will collapse into a civil war.”

“I couldn’t agree more. We need them all on the same team, fighting al-Qaeda together. Too many foreign fighters have come across the Syrian border, not to mention Iranians. A unified Iraq is our only chance of stopping the spread of radical Islam throughout the region.”

Then you should’ve left Hussein in power, you flipping idiot , Pearce thought. Sure, he was a murderous dictator, but he kept even more murderous bastards at bay. Now that Hussein was gone, the demons were unleashed.

Chandler seemed to read Pearce’s mind. His smile faded. “My understanding is that the two of you were primarily responsible for training the Shia recruits.”

“Just the small-unit tactics and weapons training,” Early said.

“They’re still pretty green, but they’re all good kids. They want to fight for their country, especially now that the Shia have a chance for a voice in the government,” Pearce said. “I like them a lot.”

“General Majid said you made quite an impression on them. Said that you two were pretty close to them. That’s good. We want to give them our best efforts.”

“Roger that,” Early said.