Ghosts of Babylon Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Rob Mathis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1478130091

  ISBN 13: 9781478130093

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62112-857-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911543

  CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC

  This book is dedicated to all those who serve our country. It is also dedicated to the families who have waited patiently, prayed ceaselessly, and cried countless tears for their loved ones in harm’s way. Let us always honor their sacrifices, for they are made on our behalf.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Into the Abyss

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  The Devil’s Due

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a debt of gratitude to those who helped to bring this book to life. Readers Cindy Vassar, Kim Moore, Bill & Patsy Williams, Claire Crouch, Steve Eldridge, and Dr. Robert L. Williams of the University of Tennessee helped with their comments, questions, and recommendations. And thank you, Sue Townsend, for motivating me to “put pen to paper.”

  Thanks to Russell Lee Klika for generously granting permission to use of the cover photo (which he took during our Iraq deployment).

  Special thanks to Carolyn Boling who worked long and hard to convince me to clean up my prose and trust readers to understand nuances that didn’t need explanations. Thanks also to her husband, Dr. Edward Boling, for his patience while she spent so much time on this project.

  Thanks also to Frank Weimann for his help, suggestions, and belief in the project as well as Elyse Tanzillo for her kindness, patience, and professionalism.

  This book would still be a work in progress if not for my story consultant, writing coach, and developmental editor Jay Wurts. Words cannot express my appreciation for his tireless efforts in getting this manuscript ready for publication and instructing me in the writer’s craft.

  To my copy editor, Emily Ball, thank you for beating the bushes and chasing the bugs (that I put there) out of the manuscript.

  Thank you to my parents and brother for their love, support and help both in Iraq and at home and living what they teach – God and family always come first.

  Most of all, I am eternally grateful the support my loving wife, Missy, and our three children who wait patiently, pray ceaselessly, and love unconditionally in both war and peace, good times and bad. I love and treasure you all more than words can say.

  IRAQ

  MAP OF TUZ AREA OF OPERATIONS

  He who battles monsters take care lest he become a monster and if you gaze long into the abyss the abyss gazes into you.

  - Friedrich Nietzsche

  INTO THE ABYSS

  Northeastern Iraq

  Spring 2005

  Nobody really believes in Hell – until they get there. Stuart was a believer now, cowering behind a boulder as bullets ricocheted all around him. The arid, craggy landscape echoed the sounds of war like a primeval conductor directing a chaotic symphony of death. A round impacted the rock inches from Stuart’s head, peppering his face with gravel and grit.

  It seemed like half of Iraq was trying to kill him. Stuart expected death to come any moment. So this is how it ends. Knowing he’d volunteered to come here made it even worse. What the hell was I thinking? I’m an archaeologist, not a soldier. The benign lecture hall and comfy bed he left only two weeks ago seemed like another lifetime.

  An Iraqi boy clung to Stuart for protection. Clutching the boy tightly, he thought of his own daughter and wished he could see her just once more. Not that he’d ever been much of a father to her. Chalk up one more regret.

  An attacker darted into their refuge. He was so close Stuart could smell his sweat. The rank assailant raised his assault rifle with a savage grin. Stuart shielded the boy with his own body and closed his eyes. A shot rang out. No pain. Stuart opened his eyes. The intruder was dead. But who shot him? More shots. Two more foes went down.

  Stuart turned to see an Army captain gripping a smoking pistol. The soldier produced another handgun, pressed it into Stuart’s hand and said, “Make every shot count.” He pointed to a Humvee sitting a few hundred feet away. It looked like miles to Stuart. The captain shouted, “Let’s go!”

  Stuart grabbed the boy’s hand and the three of them bolted toward to vehicle. The captain went down after a few steps. Stuart sent the child on and rushed to help the fallen soldier.

  He dragged the wounded man a short distance before a searing pain shot through his leg. The limb collapsed. He crashed to the ground.

  Stuart sat up and examined his leg. A jagged shard of bone protruded from a gaping wound in his thigh, but he felt no pain. He didn’t feel much of anything. The cracks of the guns and the screams of the men around him were muffled and distant. He looked up at the chaotic scene. None of it seemed real. Just a terrible nightmare.

  There was a noise in the sky. He looked up, but saw nothing. The air crackled as if filled with invisible lightning. The hair on Stuart’s neck stood on end. Someone yelled, “Incoming!”

  Then the world exploded in a maelstrom of fire and steel.

  1

  Two Weeks Earlier

  The University of Tennessee

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  “Politics and religion. Two sides, same coin.”

  Dr. Stuart Knight, hands clasped behind his back, paced the aisle of the packed lecture hall like a tweedy cop on a familiar beat. “Archaeologists are often caught between these forces. Politics is another word for corruption. And don’t get me started on religion! Why must humans always prove that our imaginary friends are better than our neighbors?”

  The class chuckled, but a few disapproving glares told Stuart he had hit the mark.

  Good. He smiled. The truth is supposed to hurt!

  “Case in point: Iraq, formerly known as Mesopotamia. The cradle of our civilization. Home to the earliest known settlements in the Western world. Politics and religion have kept archaeologists like me out for a generation. We’re in danger of losing a huge piece of our cultural inheritance to thugs and looters, if we haven’t lost it already. During the illegal American invasion of Iraq in 2003, the Iraqi National Museum was sacked by a rag-tag mob of bandits. Over 170,000 priceless artifacts disappeared, perhaps forever. Our military, by the way, didn’t lift one finger to stop it.”

  Stuart clicked the remote gripped in his pudgy fingers and a statue of a winged bull with a human head appeared on a projection screen at the front of the hall. A tall crown and long, braided beard lent the ancient creature a regal bearing.

  “The god-king, Nebuchadnezzar—gone missing after the invasion. Where do you suppose he is? In hiding? In paradise? Melted down for scrap? The copper alone is worth enough to feed an Iraqi family for months.”

  Stuart stopped next to the screen. “But all that’s about to change. Three months ago, I asked the State Department for permission to go to Iraq. Yesterday, I received their reply.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Tomorrow I leave for Mesopotamia.”

  There was a smattering of appl
ause.

  “Once there, I will to do everything in my power to save your inheritance.” He shook his head. “God knows the Army won’t to do it. And it looks like the world’s finest military needs all the help it can get!”

  The class laughed again.

  “I’m going to miss you, this campus, morning lattes at the University Center,” Stuart smiled wistfully, “but when you joust with the devil, you’re gonna get a little dusty. If reason doesn’t battle corruption and superstition from time to time, it becomes just another meaningless catechism, and the world already has enough of those. Consequently, this will be my last lecture.” He quickly added, “At least until next semester!”

  The students burst into polite applause.

  “I’ll miss you all very much!”

  The ovation followed Stuart to the exit.

  He said over his shoulder before leaving, “Doctor Abramson will be here on Thursday to finish the semester. He’s tough! If I were you, I’d stay two chapters ahead. One sacrificial lamb from this class is enough. Goodbye and good luck to all of you!”

  Minutes later, Stuart sat across the desk from his department chairman.

  “Damn it, Frank!” He slapped the only open spot on the cluttered desk. “I’m going to Iraq! I’ll be the only spade-and-brush man in the whole damn country doing field work in the war zone. That’s gotta be worth something!”

  The chairman shook his head. “Stuart, you’re preaching to the choir. I admire your moxie, I really do, and I was happy to endorse your proposal. But it doesn’t change a thing. Tenure is out of the question. This is your last semester. Dead issue. Case closed.”

  “Right. Not enough field experience. As if half the professors in this department ever got their fingernails dirty –”

  “I said it was one reason. You haven’t published in two years. Your Tas teach most of your classes. And since you brought up the other professors, yes – they say you’re impossible to work with. You hardly attend committee meetings and when you do, you just piss everyone off. Trust me. I get the complaints!”

  He paused, looking out the window. “And then there’s the drinking…”

  Stuart stared at the floor.

  The chairman leaned forward, his voice a whisper, “What happened to you, Stu? You were so promising. So damn talented. We stole you from Stanford because we thought you’d set the world on fire. You just fizzled! Look, you’re barely forty. It’s not too late to save your career. Just start playing the game, okay? And damn it, play by the rules!”

  “I’m sorry. I know I’ve disappointed you. But I also know I can do something special out there. And when I do, at least reopen my file. Frank, I can put this school on the map!”

  Frank gave Stuart a hard stare. “Okay. I’ll keep you on sabbatical while you’re gone. We’ll reevaluate your position when you get back. But, beyond that, I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thanks, Frank. You won’t be sorry.”

  “Make sure I’m not.” They stood and shook hands – not as old friends, but like two boxers after a match.

  “And Stu-”

  Stuart paused in the doorway. Frank continued, “I served in ‘Nam. I know something about…well, what’s waiting for you out there. Nothing can prepare you for what you’ll see. Nothing. Just be careful, Stu. Come back in one piece. Tenure isn’t everything.”

  Late that night, Stuart shuffled back and forth between drawers and bags in the warmly lit study of his spacious house in Sequoyah Hills, an upscale suburb of Knoxville. It was Stuart’s crash pad after a nasty divorce and the loss of his prestigious teaching position at Stanford. As newlyweds, Stuart and his ex-wife traveled through the Smoky Mountains and were beguiled by the area’s natural beauty and Old-Confederate southern charm. He fell in love with this place like the secret rebel he was – victim of that same bellicose mix of blind loyalty and rugged individuality that had cost him tenure, his wife, and the bright future in academia he viewed as a lifetime get-out-of-jail free card, or at least a hall pass excusing him from the harsher side of reality.

  That grand horizon now seemed farther from him than ever. He wasn’t sure, looking down at his army surplus duffel bag, if he had what it took to cross back over the River Styx to the land of the living…and tenured.

  Mentally, he went through the few things he still had going for him. The U.S. government paid well for civilians who spoke Arabic, Kurdish or Farsi. They needed battlefield translators and cultural instructors and even the “non-tenured” could apply. Stuart’s Arabic wasn’t great, but he knew ancient Middle-East history better than most Muslims. He’d had offers to do field work in Cairo and the Sudan, mostly from second-tier non-profits, but could never bring himself to abandon the privileged life of academia to seek absolution in the desert. And purification – of biblical, koranic proportions – was exactly what he needed now. Professionally. Personally. Desperately.

  He glanced again through a whisky-induced fog at the State Department pamphlet governing per diem, subsistence, and baggage. One checked bag and one carry-on? For three whole months? As for the checked bag, he’d already filled the duffel to bursting with shirts, jeans, underwear, toiletries, a thick book titled The Archaeology of Ancient Mesopotamia, and twenty pairs of socks. Frank, the chairman once told him that, next to his rifle, an infantryman’s best friends were dry feet. Hidden among the socks were another rifleman’s lifesaver: three half-pint bottles of Jack Daniels Black – purely for medicinal purposes. No booze in Muslim countries. He shook his head.

  He tried to close the bag. No go. He tried again, mashing down with his knee as he worked the clasp, but his fingers gave out before it caught. He flopped into the wheeled leather chair behind his desk and loosened his belt. Story of my life!

  An antique grandfather clock struck two. Five hours until takeoff. Stuart poured himself a drink from a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark he’d saved for such an occasion. He downed the drink, grabbed the phone, and punched in the area code for Palo Alto, California. It took three tries to get it right.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Babe! It’s me, Stu.”

  “Stuart? What do you want?”

  “Just wanna talk. Are you busy?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock on a Tuesday. I’m in bed.”

  “Sorry. I wanted, you know, to tell you some things…Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “I’m leaving for Iraq tomorrow.”

  “Did you join the Army?”

  Stuart laughed. “Nah. I volunteered to be a translator.”

  “Why in the world did you do that? I thought you hated the war.”

  “Long story. Listen, can I talk to Rachel?”

  “She’s asleep…Jesus, Stuart! Have you been drinking?”

  “How is she? How are you?”

  “Like you suddenly give a damn after three years? Whatever’s going on, it’s not about Rachel. Or us. It’s about you…As usual.”

  “I just want to tell her goodbye. It might be my only chance.”

  “You’re not doing this, Stuart. You’re not doing to her what you did to me. She’s only five. Besides, you’re drunk.”

  “Damn it, I’m not drunk!” He lowered his voice, “I just want –”

  “You don’t know what you want. You never did. You’re a selfish asshole!” She sighed. After a long pause, she said, “I can’t do this again. Be careful, Stu. I gotta go.” Dial tone.

  Stuart slammed down the phone and kicked his desk. He gritted his teeth and went back to the bag, trying again to shut it. Nothing. He punched the clasp until his knuckles bled. Some things, he guessed, you just can’t force.

  He collapsed into his chair and poured another drink.

  2

  Northeastern Iraq

  Hadi was doing what he did best – exploring the moonlit hills east of his father’s poor farm. Of course, these evening ventures were secret. What father permitted a ten-year-old son to climb alone in those dark, jagged rocks –
a sacrificial lamb in search of an altar?

  To Hadi, though, it was all high adventure. He especially loved finding new caves. Whenever he entered one, he knew he would find the lost treasure of his hero, the Kurdish warrior Salah ad-Din. Like other proud Kurds around the city of Tuz, Hadi knew the legend was no myth – just another forgotten truth.

  The sun glinted in Hadi’s hazel eyes as he knelt at the opening of his latest discovery. Cool air from the cleft flowed onto his face. He switched on his father’s old flashlight and watched the beam disappear in the floating motes. The opening was narrow – just large enough for a slim boy to squeeze through. He put the light in first. Next went his head.

  The small crack in the crusty ground opened into a chamber so vast it consumed the feeble light and left him breathless. His heart raced. Adrenaline ignited his spindly limbs like kerosene on a desert fire.

  He squeezed through the entrance. His sandaled feet found gritty dirt. He crept through the void, following the flashlight’s narrow spot until reaching a wall. It was cool and rough. He followed it to another corridor. This one branched off, going deeper. More cautiously now, Hadi edged onward.

  The walls closed around him. The passage opened to another chamber, this one with walls smooth as his own goose-pimpled skin.

  The heart of the mountain!

  He scanned the room with the flashlight, feeling the presence of something ancient just outside the beam. Something old. Something sublime and unsettling. Something staring back at him.

  Hadi dropped to his knees. The flashlight rolled against a polished wall. He touched his forehead to the floor between outstretched hands.

  “Insha Allah. Insha Allah!” he whispered, chanting like his life depended on it. “God wills it! God wills it!”

  Camp Doha

  Kuwait

  Stuart wondered if the troop seat in the crowded, stinking cargo truck lumbering toward the airfield was made of steel or concrete. One thing was sure: the specs called for whichever was harder. He took a crumpled letter from a cargo pocket. It bore the gold-embossed letterhead of the U.S. State Department. Stuart read it for the hundredth time.