Alert Apple #4

The ambush came just a two clicks from the U.S. Firebase Delta along Route Jaguars. Our armored H2 rattled like a tin cup as rounds slammed into the driver's side. Mike was rambling on with another of his tall tales about anti-insurgency ops in Guatemala in the 80s when his voice abruptly jerked to a stop in a spray of blood. All I could see was flickering muzzle flashes in the deepening evening shadows of an alley. I rolled out the side door just before the RPG hit.

The smell of burning human flesh is oddly sweet. The corpse on the ground had a surreal Halloween quality, until I recognized Darryl's signature Mets baseball cap atop the blackened face. I managed to roll over before I puked. Next thing I know, I'm looking up at the business end of an AK-47 in the quivering hands of some Iraqi teenager. He jabbed me in the forehead with it, babbling at the top of his lungs until some older ones came over and pushed his rifle away with their own. I tried to raise my hands in surrender -- pulling my 9mm wasn't going to do anything except get me riddled -- but even this motion was apparently threatening. Or maybe they just wanted to beat the shit out of an American.

Calling this place a cell is giving it too much credit. There's a foul shallow depression in the corner, paint covering the small window, and a rusty metal door that looks like it would collapse under the weight of a good Pee Wee hockey check. No good though, I can see four or five Iraqis hanging out in the next room all the time. Hell, maybe they are Syrians, Jordanian or Saudis -- the intel we got from Mike's friend in the U.S. Army G-2 indicated that the local insurgents were being supplemented by foreign "volunteers".

It wasn't supposed to be like this. When I got kicked out of the Army in the 1990s during the post-Gulf War drawdown, security companies like Blackwater were an international sideshow. The media painted us as mercenaries for hire, repeating exaggerated bar tales picked up from South Africans who claimed to have worked for Executive Outcomes in Angola. Hell, maybe some of those were true. Those Afrikkaners were fucking nuts. Mostly all we did was bodyguard work for a few intrepid business guys trying to drum up oil contracts in the lawless Caucusus.

With its chaotic aftermath, the Iraq war was damn good for business. Blackwater expanded its operations by a factor of 10 in just one year after the bombs started going boom and every mujahadeen wannabe converged on Mesopotamia to give it all to Allah. We started landing contracts in the millions to protect contractors building power plants, water systems, and schools. Actually, they usually just kept doing the same shit over and over, since the 'deen blew everything up almost the very night construction finished. Whatev. It paid good.

Yeah, I'm rambling. But I've got lots of time. At least I hope I do. I've been trying all that shit that they teach you in the Prisoner Prep seminars -- build repoire, talk about your family, make them see you as human. The bastards don't even seem to notice. I don't think any of 'em even speak English. When I tried my primitive Arabic, the mean one just laughed and knocked me in the forehead with his AK-47. He likes doing that. Alot. Fucker. I think I caught his name once -- Mahmood. Dark, shiny eyes -- the glare of the fanatic. He only laughes when he's about to hit me. Last week (I think, timekeeping is a problem) he starts laughing and waving this poster at me. It's a still shot from that Berg video, right at the start of the beheading. So now I've got that to look forward to. His buddies think he's hilarious.

The door rattles -- oh looky, its Mahmood with "dinner". I won't even describe what passes for food here. I'm hoping that the fact that I am still alive is a good sign. Maybe this bunch is one of those profit-seeking outfits instead of the religious freaks. Blackwater will sometimes pay ransom.

Something's different this time. Mahmood is alone, no jeering audience. The room behind him is silent. He pulls a cover off the food plate and thrusts it at me. I'm expecting the usual maggots, but there's only...my cell phone?

What the fuck?

I look up at Mahmood. He's twitchy, glancing over his shoulder. He's worried. He suddenly grabs me by the head, shoving me out into the tiny hallway. I snatch the cell phone from the plate in mid-stumble. The outer room is empty, everyone's gone. He says something incomprehensible to me, then repeats it, louder, desperately. He waves with his hands, shooing me forward. Then he brings up his rifle, prodding me out into what must be the main room of the house, then towards a small wooden door. Yanking the door open, he jabs me with the rifle one last time, forcing me out into a deserted street.

I gotta get out of here. I run down the narrow street and into an ally. I can hear explosions in the distance, the sounds of a battle. I dial the Blackwater emergency number. Before I can even hit send, out of the corner of my eye I see a tan vehicle rumble slowly by on the street, followed by another. Army patrol!

I scream and uncontrollably scramble out into the street. The gunner atop the Humvee skews his M-60 to draw down on me. I throw myself down on the street as the patrol slides abruptly to a dusty halt and the call goes up, "American!" Maybe that is just me yelling.

The patrol commander trots over, under the watchful eyes of two PFCs constantly scanning the deserted rooftops and doorways. "Jesus Christ, you guys are a sight for sore eyes! Never thought I would be so happy to see Army pukes again!"

"We got a call about a half hour ago from an informant, reporting an American civilian wandering out on the streets here," the captain says. "This is a really bad area to be, sir. Insurgents pretty much own this neighborhood."

I start to clambor in to the commander's Humvee as the convoy prepared to move again. "Don't I know this, captain. They had me up until about 3 minutes ago."

"Three minutes? So you weren't on the street a half hour ago?" I can see the gears turning. The captain yells to the driver over the growing road noise as the patrol accelerates, "Continue the search. There might be another one." Returning attention to me, he asks, "How the hell did you get out here?"

"Fucker just released me. They've had me for a month." I shake my head, trying to clear it of the sense of unreality that abruptly grips me. "I swore Mahmood was going to cut my fucking head off."

"Mahmood?"

"Yeah, that's what I think his name was. Real bastard. Real hero. I don't fucking know."

The captain yells to the driver, "Send the word. Return to base."

I look askance at his second change of orders in 20 seconds.

"Mahmood's our informant," he says to me. "You're one lucky bastard."