Consequence (10 page)

The hiring manager at CACI is reading over my résumé as we speak on the phone. He says he hasn't had time to review it. He's been too busy. They've been sending people over to Iraq every week. He comes across the section on the Bethlehem Police Department. He says, “No one told me you were a cop.” He reads through my military training record. He says, “No one told me you went to SERE school.” He asks if I'd be willing to reapply to CACI as an interrogator. He says, “It'll be more interesting than being an intelligence analyst.”

On paper, the experiences of SERE school and the Bethlehem Police Department have qualified me to do this work. In reality, I know nothing about interrogating Iraqi prisoners of war. But then, neither does anyone else. The Army does not have a significant number of interrogators with real-world experience. They have even fewer who speak Arabic. Those who do have spent their careers fighting fake wars at JRTC and interrogating role players pretending to serve in the Cortina Liberation Front. Some agencies, such as the FBI and CIA, may have experience questioning terrorism suspects, but the task of processing thousands of Arabic-speaking prisoners of war at a time is entirely different. On some level, it feels like law enforcement. And as I speak with the recruiter from CACI on the phone, I allow him to convince me that it's something I'm qualified to do.

In the meantime, I am assigned a desk at the NSA. I am sent to a variety of training classes designed to introduce me to the myriad divisions within the agency. As classes drag into the afternoon hours, most new employees struggle to stay awake. Although the NSA sends a few of its employees to Iraq, I need to complete the two-year training program in order to become eligible. I decide I cannot tolerate two years at the NSA.

4.5

By the time the hiring manager for the interrogation program at CACI calls, I've accumulated dozens of examples highlighting my relevant experience. But I never need them. The hiring manager introduces himself, tells me he was a Marine, says he hates the Army, and asks when I'll be ready to leave for Iraq.

I call a friend from my days in the Army who now works for the FBI and ask for his advice about deploying to Iraq as an interrogator. He tells me not to worry about my qualifications. He says the field interviews I conducted as a police officer are experience enough. He also tells me to be careful about contracting companies. He tells me to stick with the NSA. He says, “Go with the professionals, steer clear of the amateurs.” He says, “Whatever happened to seminary?”

I receive another call from CACI. It's from a supervisor within the interrogation program. He says, “I hear you're our new interrogator.”

There is no interview. There are no calls to my supervisors at the police department. There are no calls to my supervisors at the NSA. There is no medical exam. There is no background investigation. They are determined to get me to Iraq as quickly as possible. They fax me a job offer worth $120,000 a year.

My supervisor at the NSA is supportive of my decision to take the position in Iraq. He says he'd be doing the exact same thing if he were just a few years younger. I offer to give two weeks' notice, but he refuses and encourages me to go home and spend time with my family before the deployment. He shakes my hand and tells me my job will be waiting for me when I get back. As I clean my desk, other NSA employees approach and say encouraging things about the assignment I've accepted. They say, “Stay safe, wish I was going with you.”

But as the country gears up for war, almost no one goes to fight it.

In December 2003, Karin and I talk about logistics. She helps me set up direct deposit. We buy a cell phone with an extra battery. We're not sure how international calls will work from Baghdad. I organize sets of clothing that can be mailed in the coming months as weather conditions change. We decide on the best digital camera to buy. I look for the one with the most storage, in the event I am unable to download the photos. I give Karin a list of numbers for the Princeton Theological Seminary. I tell her she's allowed to open the acceptance letter when it comes.

We do not talk about the police department, the ministry, my heart condition, or Iraq. And I am still too selfish to ask much about her.

4.6

At the end of 2003, my grandmother is living in Kirkland Village, a Presbyterian retirement home where the halls are decorated with yellow ribbons and patriotic balloons. Most of the doors have an American flag displayed. I visit her often in the days before my departure, hoping to hear about relatives who went off to war and the stories of their returns, but instead the conversation is awkward. My grandmother is part of a small group of residents at Kirkland Village, mostly women, who quietly question the war in Iraq. They clip articles from the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post,
then distribute them at their weekly bridge gatherings. My father and I call them the Kirkland Insurgents.

My grandmother hands me the articles one by one and says I should read them. She means it. So I sit in the century-old rocking chair and read articles about the war in Iraq while she sits and watches over me. I respond as well as I can, talking about the need to remove a terrible leader and protect the people who are suffering, but she's not impressed. She says, “Well, Eric, I just don't understand.” When my grandmother says she doesn't understand, she's telling you that you're doing something wrong. She asks about seminary and says she doesn't understand why I keep finding reasons not to go.

As I prepare to leave for Iraq, Karin and I continue to talk about things like direct deposit and digital cameras. My parents talk about retirement. My sister talks about the best way to navigate new security measures at the airports. My friends talk about the Philadelphia Eagles and their nine-game winning streak.

I'm scheduled to leave for Iraq in late December. Saddam Hussein is captured on December 13. There is talk about the conflict coming to an end. Wars don't last long anymore.

 

5

My father drives me to the airport in Philadelphia. He says something about Vietnam and how he remembers visiting the recruiter, and he tells me that story I used to love about how the Army was going to send him to flight school and the helicopters being shot down with tennis balls. He talks about Jerry Zerfass, one of his students at Liberty High School, who was killed in Vietnam. I've heard this story before, too.

Normally, I ask my dad to tell me more about Jerry Zerfass, but not this time. I'm silent, and it's awkward, so my father talks about his newly installed EZPass. Despite heavy traffic on 476, we breeze through the tollbooths at Plymouth Meeting. He talks about how much time he saves with the EZPass. He says I should get one when I come back. We argue about what time zone Baghdad is in.

My father drops me off at the departure terminal. He offers to park and come inside, but I tell him it's best he doesn't do this. We stand on the curb and say good-bye. I say to my father, “I'm tempted to just call this off.” He says, “That's probably a good idea.” Then he opens the car door and says, “Let's go home.” I say, “I'll call you when I get there.”

From Philadelphia, I fly to El Paso. I have paperwork from CACI instructing me to report to Fort Bliss, where CACI personnel will assist in my predeployment processing. At the airport there are signs directing Department of Defense civilians to check in at the Fort Bliss in-processing desk. The desk has a series of clocks that display current times in a variety of cities around the world. It is six p.m. in Baghdad. My father was right. I stand in line with other civilians and wait for an Army sergeant to tell me what to do. The Army sergeant says they can't keep track of everyone who's coming and going, so it's best to just get on the bus and hope for the best at Fort Bliss. I can't find the CACI representative and I don't want to leave for Fort Bliss before checking in, so I let the bus go without me. By the time the next bus is available, four hours later, there is still no CACI representative at the airport.

Like most soldiers, I hated the Army during my time in service but eventually came to respect it as organized and efficient. Assignments and duties were well laid out. But the arrival in El Paso is different. The process is confused and disorganized. There are men in uniform, but it doesn't feel like the Army.

The bus drops me off in front of a barracks complex at the base. A few of the other civilians ask the bus driver where they're supposed to check in. They ask him which barracks they should stay in. They ask him what comes next. The bus driver doesn't know any of these things. We unload our bags from underneath the bus and stack them on the sidewalk. Other civilians pass by and say, “Better hurry, there aren't enough bunks for everyone.”

The man next to me catches me rolling my eyes. We introduce ourselves and make a joke about quitting and going home. He says, “I could be home before my wife goes to sleep.” I say, “Me, too.” This is Michael Bagdasarov. He works for CACI. He is an interrogator. In less than five months we will return from Iraq together, both regretting having missed this first opportunity to go home to our wives.

Groups of people start grabbing their bags and heading into the barracks. Bagdasarov and I stay put and allow the crowd to thin. When it does, there is a young man sitting on his luggage looking lost. This is John Blee. He has been hired by CACI as an intelligence analyst. He likes our joke about quitting and heading home to our wives. He has one, too. She lives in Texas. He says we should just rent a car so we can drive to her parents' house, where they'd be happy to put us up for the night. It's two hours away. John Blee will quit Iraq before Bagdasarov and I do. He'll take a job at Guantánamo Bay.

The three of us are alone. From the sidewalk we watch the other civilians traipse in and out of the numerous buildings within the complex, carrying their gear and looking for bunks. Blee says we should hurry and find a spot before they're all gone. Bagdasarov and I tell him to wait. The group thins as it makes its way from building to building. When the group is done fighting for rooms, we carry our gear and find bunks in one of the buildings they never explored.

In the morning we follow the crowds outside and make our way to an auditorium, where an Army sergeant gives a daily briefing. He tells us that as new arrivals we are required to report to a building where the Army will begin our in-processing. Bagdasarov asks the sergeant about CACI and where we might find our representatives. The sergeant says, “Never heard of them.” At the in-processing building we struggle to fill out paperwork. We say things like “I still don't understand which block I'm supposed to fill in.” There is an Army corporal in charge and he tells us to check with our company representative. We tell him we work for CACI. He laughs. He says, “Oh, right, her, she only works on Thursdays.”

On Thursday, after two full days in the barracks, we meet Michelle Fields. Michelle looks younger than Blee. She was hired three weeks ago. She has never worked for CACI in the past and she has never been to their headquarters in Virginia. She works in town as a dental assistant. She has no answers. We ask her how to fill out the empty spaces on the questionnaires. She says, “I was hoping you could tell me.” She hands us black tote bags that say “CACI.” Inside there are T-shirts, mouse pads, and a travel mug that says, “CACI, Ever Vigilant.” The three of us make more jokes about going home. Randy Kutcher and Mike Henson enter the room. Kutcher and Henson are the most recent CACI hires. They served in the Marines. They decline the tote bags. They make fun of us for accepting ours.

Kutcher and Henson know each other from their time in the Marine Corps. While they never served in military intelligence, they did work in positions that required low-level security clearances. Kutcher, the taller and older of the two, guarded the Navy's supply of nuclear weapons. Henson, whose goatee matches Kutcher's, is in his midtwenties, barely older than Blee. He served as a helicopter mechanic. Helicopters have sensitive equipment. Mechanics are issued security clearances. Both men have long hair. They are adorned with tattoos. They wear hats with iron crosses. Blee says, “How in the hell did these guys get security clearances?”

Later we learn that most of the hiring managers at CACI are Marines. Marines view themselves as a cut above all other military branches. They take care of each other. The Marine hiring manager was tasked with finding individuals with security clearances to work as intelligence analysts in Iraq. Like all hiring managers working for recruiters, he struggled to locate qualified candidates. Like some hiring managers, he got creative. He recruited other Marines with lower-level security clearances, like Kutcher and Henson. Then he convinced the government that these lower-level security clearances would allow contractors to complete basic tasks until a higher-level clearance could be obtained. He also got creative with job descriptions. Kutcher and Henson were not intelligence analysts, but the recruiter molded their experience to make it sound as if they were.

After the meeting with Michelle Fields, the five of us return to the barracks. Blee's suitcase and duffel bag have been thrown out into the stairwell. Bagdasarov and I find our belongings scattered in the hallway, as well. A group of young men from a company called Blackwater has commandeered the wing where we were staying and moved out everyone else's personal belongings. Blee says something to one of the Blackwater employees. The Blackwater employee tells Blee to go fuck himself. Kutcher and Henson happen to be close by. They stand alongside Blee. They dare the Blackwater employee to say something else to Blee. He doesn't. Eventually, we gather our gear and look for new bunks. Kutcher and Henson are there to help us. We find a group of bunks in a secluded corner of the barracks. Then all five of us clear out the belongings of other civilians and leave them in the hallway. When these employees confront us, Kutcher and Henson are there to tell them to go fuck themselves.