Rogue Forces

The base was immense and very much resembled a small Army post back in the United States. “This place doesn’t look half bad,” Jon Masters commented. “I used to be sorry for you guys being sent all the way out here, but I’ve seen worse Army posts back in the States.”

“We never had a regular Burger King or McDonald’s, like some of the superbases,” Thompson said, “and if we did, the Iraqis probably would’ve shut it down anyway after they took over. Most of the troops here are still sleeping in CHUs because we never got around to building regular housing units. Of course there are no families here, so it’ll never compare to any regular overseas base like Germany or England. But the weather is a bit nicer and the locals are less hostile…at least a little less.”

“CHUs?”

“Containerized Housing Units. They’re a little bit bigger than a commercial truck trailer. We can stack them if we need the room, but as the Army draws down we have more room, so they’re all on ground level now. That’s where we’ll bunk your guys. They’re nicer than they sound, believe me—linoleum floors, fully insulated, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, flat-screen TVs. Two CHUs share a ‘wet CHU’—the latrine. Much nicer than latrine tents.”

A few minutes later they came to a twelve-foot-tall fence composed of concrete Jersey walls and reinforced corrugated metal sheeting topped by coils of razor wire. A few feet behind this wall was another twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, with heavily armed civilian K-9 security officers roving between the fences. Behind the chain-link fence was a fifty-foot clear area. It was all surrounding a plain boxy-looking three-story building with a sloped roof, several satellite dishes and antennae atop it, and absolutely no windows. There were thirty-foot-high security towers near the corners of the building. “Is this the headquarters building…or the prison?” Jon asked.

“Command and Control Center, or the Triple-C,” Thompson said. “Some call it Fobbitville—home of the ‘fobbits,’ the guys who never leave the FOB, or the Forward Operating Base—but we do fewer and fewer missions outside the wire these days so most of us could be considered fobbits. Right about in the geographic center of the base—the bad guys would need a pretty big mortar to reach it from outside the base, although they’ll get lucky and lob a homemade pickup-launched rocket in here every couple weeks or so.”

“Every couple weeks?”

“’Fraid so, Doc,” Thompson said. He then gave Jon a mischievous smile and added, “But that’s what you’re here to resolve…right?”

Security was tight entering the Triple-C, but it was still far less than what McLanahan and Masters had to put up with at Dreamland for so many years. There were no military security officers at all; it was all run by Thompson’s civilian contractors. They were a bit more respectful of Patrick after checking his identification—most of them were former or retired military; and three-star generals, even retired ones, earned their respect—but still seemed to perform brisk, sometimes rough pat-down searches with enthusiasm bordering on sadism. “Jeez, I think I need to use the bathroom to see if those guys pulled off any important parts,” Jon said as they passed through the last inspection station.

“Everyone gets the same treatment, which is why a lot of guys just end up bunking in here rather than going back to their CHUs,” Thompson said. “I think they laid it on a bit thicker because the boss was here. Sorry about that.” They emerged into a wide entry-way, and Thompson pointed to the hallway to the left. “The west hallway is the way to the various departments that make up the Triple-C—operations, air traffic control, communications, data, transportation, security, intelligence, interservice and foreign liaisons, and so forth. Upstairs above them are the commanders’ offices and briefing rooms. The east hallway is the DFAC, break rooms, and admin offices; above them are crash pads, bunk rooms, bathrooms, showers, et cetera. The north hallways have the computers, communications stuff, backup power generators, and physical plant. In the middle of it all is the command center itself, which we call the ‘Tank.’ Follow me.” Their IDs were checked and they were searched one more time at the entrance to the Tank—by an Army sergeant this time, their first encounter with a military security officer—and they were admitted inside.