Outside the Wire Read online

  PRAISE FOR OUTSIDE THE WIRE

  “Gary Edgington’s counter-terrorism investigative experience, coupled with his hands-on involvement in Iraq as an embedded civilian law enforcement advisor for the U.S. military makes his writing all the more genuine and cutting edge.”

  —Gregory D. Lee, US Army (Ret.) Chief Warrant

  Officer 5/CID Special Agent

  “It’s been 19 years since I manned the AF field hospital at the Victory Base Complex and took incoming at Camp Sather. Before the end of the first chapter, Outside the Wire had me back in the fight. Awesome read and deadly accurate!”

  —Stephen Bercsi, MD, Lieutenant Colonel USAF

  “Outside the Wire is a great read—a riveting story told as fiction; or is it? Gary uses his own experience as an embedded advisor in Iraq to look at the conflict with the unique perspective of an experienced criminal/counter terrorism investigator and a highly skilled intelligence officer.”

  —Wayne Rich, US Army (Ret.) Chief Warrant Officer 3, Joint Special Operations Command

  “Edgington has mastered the gritty realism of Iraq: the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

  —Aaron Michael Grant, Staff NCO, USMC (Ret.), Iraq war veteran and award-winning author of Taking Baghdad:

  Victory in Iraq with the US Marines

  “I just finished Gary Edgington’s new thriller Outside the Wire. Having spent a dozen years in the middle east I noted that Gary’s book accurately portrays the bureaucracy, palace intrigue, and local politics that lives in every US Military headquarters in the region. The duplicity, ruthlessness and cruelty of the enemy is also fully exposed. Outside the Wire gives you a first-hand look at the horror, violence, heroism, and humanity of that conflict. Read this book and you’ll know what the war was like.”

  —Denis Flood, Captain USNR (Ret.)

  Outside the Wire: A Novel of Murder, Love, and War

  by Gary Edgington

  © Copyright 2022 Gary Edgington

  ISBN 978-1-64663-924-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  3705 Shore Drive

  Virginia Beach, VA 23455

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  DEDICATION

  To my wonderful family, my wife, Lisa, our daughter Megan and her husband Eric, our son Ryan and his wife Emily, and my mom Donna. Your constant love, support, and encouragement continues to sustain me. And for our newest addition, Declan, your recent entry into this world has reminded me of the real priorities in life. You all fill me with pride and most especially love.

  And, for my father, Corporal Harold L. Edgington, Los Angeles County Harbor Patrol, End of Watch September 30th, 1979.

  For my partner and friend, Sergeant Stephen T. Clark, Los Angeles Police Department 1981 to 2002; Special Agent, California Department of Justice, Counter Terrorism Unit 2002-2010. End of Watch January 3rd, 2018.

  Lest we forget.

  PROLOGUE

  Captain Erin O’Connor, C Company, 722nd Military Intelligence Battalion, reviewed the intelligence report one final time. It was the end of another fourteen-hour day and she was fried. Sending this document would be her last official act as the boss of C Company. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d be on an Air Force C-17 flying back to the States to join her new husband at the US Army’s Intelligence Center for Excellence. Known as the “School House,” it was located at Fort Huachuca, in the arid desert of southern Arizona. Erin was truly sick of the desert but at least she’d be with her new husband Wayne, a retired Army Special Forces chief warrant officer-4. They never got a real honeymoon before she deployed, so they’d be spending a blissful week on the beach in Cancun before she reported for duty. This put a little smile on her weary face.

  Her new posting at Huachuca was officer in charge of the HUMINT (Human Intelligence) training unit. It was a good fit for her. Her instincts and skills had been finely honed during her last two deployments to Iraq. Now it was time to share her hard-won knowledge with School House students.

  Erin knew her decision to send this very preliminary intelligence report up her chain of command was going to be second-guessed by scores of critical eyes. Her unit’s latest walk-in source from the Baghdad district of Sadr City hadn’t been fully vetted or even polygraphed yet. For some reason known only to the stifling Army bureaucracy, polygraphers at Victory Base were now in short supply. Despite all this, Erin’s gut told her this source was telling the truth. She’d watched nearly all the interviews on a video monitor and hadn’t seen any red flags that made her feel otherwise. In fact, his story made sense given the current political climate back home. More importantly, it dovetailed with other little whispers of something big brewing from local street sources. Erin’s people had been able to verify the source’s claim that he had close family ties to top leaders of the Iranian- backed terrorist group the Mahdi Army. This critical bit of corroboration verified the source probably did have the access he had claimed. The rest of his story, the scary part, they were still trying to validate.

  During his debrief, the source said the Mahdi Army was planning a new terror campaign targeting Baghdad area Coalition Forces at the massive Victory Base, as well as Iraqi government forces and infrastructure. He said the campaign was in the final planning stage and was receiving logistical and operational support from an unknown foreign source. Erin knew this “foreign source” had to be Iran. US intelligence had long ago established that Iran was supplying weapons, training, and funding to the Mahdi Army.

  According to the source, the terror campaign was to begin with rocket and mortar attacks targeting Victory Base housing and US air assets scattered throughout the greater Baghdad area. The alarming part was that a key planner was overheard saying the operation would be a multi-pronged attack like the 1968 TET Offensive in Vietnam. The insurgents were hoping these attacks would cause high American, Coalition Force, and Iraqi causalities, leading to a dissolution of the Coalition and an ultimate American withdrawal. This strategy had worked in Vietnam, and in Spain after the devastating Madrid train bombings of 2004. It could work again, Erin concluded. Unfortunately, the source did not know when the campaign was to commence.

  Erin knew this largely unverified intelligence report would be just one of thousands inundating the intelligence community daily. It would likely wind up on some analyst’s desk for a month or two before anyone took a hard look at it. By then, it could be too late. All that said, it still needed to be sent.

  She reviewed the report formatting, classification header, footer, and portion markings. It all looked good. Since her unit was the original source of the information, they had control over its distribution and classification level. This report had been classified as Top Secret/HCS and would be maintained within a Special Access Program code named “Argon-Lancer.” Captain O’Connor pressed the send button on her secure terminal and logged off. It was late and she still needed to pack. She was going home.

  CHAPTER 1

  BUBBLE GUTS

  The medical specialist named Jason pulled the IV needle from my arm and handed me a cotton ball.

  “Mr. Sutherland. Please hold this on your arm
.”

  “You can call me Rick,” I offered.

  Jason bandaged the hole in my arm, and I rose from the examining table and put my shirt back on. This trip to the Troop Medical Clinic (the TMC) was only meant to be a one-week follow-up visit to verify the meds I’d been taking were working for a nasty case of “Saddam’s Revenge.” I was fine, but dehydrated, and the Army physician—a very thorough and dare I say attractive major named Weaver instructed young Jason to plug an IV into me. I’d have preferred an ice-cold Stella, but in Iraq you take what you can get.

  “How do you feel, sir?”

  “Hydrated.”

  Jason smiled. “We aim to please, sir.”

  “Your aim is pretty good, specialist,” I said as I rubbed my arm. “Can I go?”

  “Yes, sir, we’re done, but don’t forget to stop at the desk for your meds and weapon.”

  Reminding a patient to pick up his weapon at the front desk is not something you usually hear at a stateside medical clinic. Over here, it’s the way we roll.

  On my way out I spied Major Weaver in her tiny office and stuck my head in to say thanks. She was on the phone, but waved me in. A quick look around revealed a framed photo of a handsome Army captain in dress blues, wearing the beige beret of the 75th Ranger Regiment, and alongside was a folded American flag in a triangular glass case. A small engraved brass plate on the frame read, CPT Justin Findley KIA 23/09/03, which explained her memorial wrist bracelet. I wear a similar one on my wrist. Then my eyes fell upon something I guarantee you’d never see in Doc Bailey’s office. Standing in a corner behind her desk was a T-shaped wooden rack bearing an Army-issue Kevlar helmet, body armor with rifle magazines stuffed in its pouches, and a shoulder holster complete with pistol. Propped up in the corner was the M-4 carbine that no doubt went with the magazines. I had thought that docs were unable to carry long guns, but this one evidently did. I bet she could shoot it too.

  Major Weaver ended her conversation, looked up, and smiled warmly.

  “Thank you very much, Major. You’ve got a great staff here.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Sutherland, I agree. How are you feeling?”

  “All good and ready for adventure.”

  “Hold up there. You were dehydrated. You need to take it easy for a day or two and drink lots of water. Take the Lomotil for a couple more days just to be sure. The other meds I prescribed are for when you get this bug again.”

  “Bubble guts?”

  “Yep. Everyone here comes down with it at least once.

  “Will do, Major. Thanks again, and see ya around.”

  “Probably.” Major Weaver smiled.

  I stopped by the clerk’s desk and grabbed my meds and pistol, then stepped from air-conditioned comfort into an absolute blast furnace. A large temperature gauge mounted on the wall of the clinic showed a sizzling 120 degrees. I strapped on my pistol belt and started walking back. I didn’t have wheels, so I had to hoof it, and it didn’t take long before sweat was stinging my eyes and streaming down my back. Did I mention I hate this place yet?

  The TMC was a good quarter mile from the center of our small oasis, and my abode was farther still. I planned to get back, grab a Coke at the local Subway, and take a well-deserved break.

  The trek back to my pad here at Camp Victory Baghdad, Iraq, was a badly fractured and battle-scarred path. One errant step and you’d be flat on your face. Truth is, this whole place was a slip-and-fall lawyer’s wet dream.

  As I stumbled along, I spotted a dust-covered white Chevy SUV pull over to the curb about seventy meters ahead. The Chevy, nothing special, had a black plastic GI storage box sitting atop the roof rack. White SUVs were as common here as silver Volvo wagons in West Los Angeles. As the driver sat there, I spotted someone in the back seat and inched closer. The uniformed driver had a cell phone to his ear, and was checking me out through his sideview mirror. The passenger was just a shadow.

  What stuck in my head was the SUV’s plate number, CZ 8008, because my kid Troy got sent to the principal’s office when he was ten for punching 8008 into his calculator while sitting in class. Then the little jokester turned it upside down, proudly showing everyone that he’d spelled “boob.” Smart kid, but Mrs. Tipton was not amused.

  It was probably just a couple of lost soldiers, I reasoned, as I walked past. Victory Base was enormous, and there were no street signs. I’d been lost a time or two myself.

  Just as I dismissed 8008 from my mind, I was startled by a very loud and shrill siren. While I’m no stranger to sirens, this one could have had every mutt in LA howling. Stopping dead in my tracks, I tried to remember what this sound meant. Recognizing my confusion, a young soldier in Army PT gear gently lent a hand.

  “INCOMING! Get your dumb ass in a shelter!” she yelled as she turned and dashed for a nearby berm.

  BOOM! Fifty or sixty meters in front of me, everything exploded in a deadly cloud of flying debris, flame, and choking dust. The shockwave knocked me on my butt. Slowly, I opened my eyes and inhaled a lung full of dirt, smoke, and who knows what. My right ear was ringing—not good. I looked up to see the tell-tale gray smoke of a high explosive detonation, rising from what used to be a housing module.

  As I rolled onto my belly and crawled toward a nearby canal ditch, I felt a sharp sting in my left thigh, which must have been from the fall. My savior in PT gear now got up and ran full tilt for a row of buildings.

  I knew I had to find shelter, too, but where the hell were they? I looked around, moved forward a few meters, and spotted one thirty meters away. Jumping up, I ran toward it for all I was worth, which wasn’t much after the divorce and paying my share of both boy’s college tuitions.

  I long-jumped over a small canal as I raced for safety, but for the life of me don’t know why I didn’t use the bridge. When you’re scared shitless, you do goofy stuff. I cleared the canal and dove headlong into the shelter, landing face-first into the lap of a squatting Navy Judge Advocate Corps lieutenant junior grade.

  The shelters were rectangular concrete cubes open at both ends and on the bottom, and four or five feet high and about the same wide. With little space to move around in, I quickly made friends with the lieutenant as I gathered my composure. She had a welcoming smile and smelled good, which is always a huge plus in Iraq.

  BANG! Another incoming round hit the adjoining housing module. They’re called CHUs (Containerized Housing Units). The explosion blew the roof off, and very quickly the fire spread to the adjacent units. Crazy! The base hadn’t been hit in at least six months. What the hell’s going on?

  A loud buzz saw-type noise kicked in, like a huge high-speed machine gun. “Base Phalanx gun,” said Campbell, the lieutenant junior grade. The Phalanx was an air defense Gatling weapon developed for the Navy, and the Army had apparently grabbed some for base defense. The Army calls them C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar).

  Flying skyward was a line of tracers exploding in a plume of dirty gray smoke, and an incoming insurgent mortar round blown to bits.

  When I turned to look back to where the white SUV had been, half expecting to see a burning heap, it was gone. Lucky dudes, or something else? It was strange. The driver checking me out? The passenger in the back seat? Probably nothing, but what mischief could they have been up to? I dismissed it, needing to concentrate on staying alive.

  It’s moments like this that cause you to take pause and ponder life’s little choices. Okay, what the hell was I thinking? I had retired a year early from LAPD to accept this civilian contractor gig. Though Uncle Sugar was paying me big bucks to be here and share my law enforcement and counter terrorism expertise with our war fighters, for me it wasn’t about the money. It was about finding bad guys and keeping our kids safe. My job over here was to identify bomb makers and terrorist cells and sic the Special Operations guys on them before they could plant their deadly IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices). The A
rmy calls this “getting left of the boom.” Back home we called it “proactive policing.” Same idea, different crooks.

  Catching bad guys is what I do. It’s fun and I’m pretty good at it. I’d worked in LAPD’s Counter-Terrorism Section for years, so I knew a little bit about the local crooks and their playthings. But that was stateside, and this was Iraq.

  I glanced at the unloaded M9 Beretta, 9mm pistol, strapped to my right thigh. Nobody on base, except for the MPs, could have a loaded weapon. Perhaps some Pentagon genius decided military members couldn’t be trusted with loaded firearms. Call me old-fashioned, but in a place where you can get shot, you need to carry a loaded gun.

  That empty pistol symbolized how truly screwed up things were in Iraq, and the war had turned into another American police action. No big set-piece armored division vs. armored division battles now. No massed infantry assaults. Just nasty, pinprick engagements that killed and maimed one or two of our young soldiers at a time. The empty guns, scary rules of engagement, and other nonsense were all part of the same nasty little package.

  Suddenly, the roar of approaching Victory Base fire engines brought me back to reality. I watched as a pair of determined GIs tried to penetrate the wreckage of the CHU, but the flames were too intense. When the all-clear announcement sounded, we crawled out of our shelter. Within minutes, the hose jockeys had the flames under control and MPs were doing their bit.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Campbell and I ran over to offer help as firemen removed a body from the CHU wreckage. He was dressed in civies and looked middle-aged, but he was too blackened from the fire to tell much more. He was laid on a rescue blanket so medics could go to work, but it was pointless. I’ve seen too many bodies.

  As I stood watching, I began to feel lightheaded. Then I felt something dripping down my left thigh. It had to be sweat. My T-shirt was soaked through, and my mouth was dry. Then I noticed blood spreading along my left leg. The MP alongside me looked me over and, seeing the blood, he grabbed my arm just before I hit the dirt.