Chapter 15: The Power of Baksheesh?

There is no free lunch. Period.

24 June 2025. 0145hrs. My island dog barked once, and I was awakened. Something was out there, perhaps someone walked the long road home, drunk. I waited in the darkness for a motion light or another bark, would the big girl wake up too? Nothing else seen or heard; yet I did not go back to sleep. I did not want Groundhog Day, but it had returned, a different set of characters in a scene that still isn’t clear. But I will tell you anyway, maybe it will make sense later. I put on my shower shoes and in my deep purple nightie, I stole outside to the balcony, my high ground.

This flashback did not come in chronological order, like the rest. I had prayed to God, please get me to the important stuff I must do for the Gold Stars, let me fast forward to the end of the story so I can stop reliving all of it. As I write to you, Dear Island, please forgive my language. Since my traumatic brain injuries, I also cannot help what comes out of my mouth. Truth serum.

[FLASHBACK 2009-2010] I squeezed into the back of a crowded van headed for Jalalabad Road. Our front vehicle maintained unsecure radio communication to home base, so they broadcast today’s leading news as we rolled through the steel arm gate at the end of the urban street in Kabul. “Base, base, this is Vector Seven…” I had heard those words before. We were on our way.

Another van was overstuffed with the other half of the important people. A small civilian convoy in a dusty traffic jam, we were armed. It was a dog-and-pony show, proof of mission accomplished. So why did I insert myself into this bivouac? I went because I wanted to know. What was really going on?

I looked at the photo to wipe the opaque filter from my brain…Misc066.jpg for my friends.

Large duffels, a few overnight bags, and some grocery boxes were unloaded, smiling photos were snapped, and men walked around but didn’t look at much. Let me show you, sir. They didn’t wander very far from the boys with guns. Someone invited me to spend the night, but not why you think. I slept alone. Two of us walked away from the group; our boots crunched on the clean gravel, divulging our march. At some distance, we stepped behind a row of freshly painted Conex containers and lit a cigarette nowhere near the fuel tanks. We looked at the barren hills outside the perimeter, and I asked about the bombed-out, rusting vehicles littering the rolling expanse. Most were Russian. I squinted at the watchtower on the hill and put on my sunglasses, encouraging the important pause. And then, he told me. After our safe smoking break, we rejoined the group. Misc_064.jpg for my friends.

I’ve heard many things about the Army’s War College, and I wonder if they teach leaders the down-and-dirty tactics that rural kids use playing fort, or what sneaky strategies street kids learn all too young. Do they read Lord of the Flies and write essays about power? A headline struck me hard when I read about Trump sending B-2 Bombers into Iran a few days ago. Papa Johns® had revealed an uptick in pizza orders near the Pentagon preceding the attack.

I’ve been to the Pentagon; coffee and food were available at any time. Wake up the fucking mess hall staff next time and suck it up. The military industrial complex won again; war is business and business is good. [NASDAQ: PZZA]

[FLASHBACK 2009-2010] The civilian brass exited the SUVs along with the security team and the rest of us who tagged a ride. Some wore their square checkered scarves and aviator sunglasses, others wore khaki business casual. Some were project managers from my employer and others were our customers, making sure their money was well spent. It was a sunny day and not too cold, perfect for a flight jacket near a campfire after dark. The inspectors looked around, I think the cook fed them, but they didn’t stay too long. Nobody drives Jalalabad Road at night if they can help it.

I made my decision; I would spend the night. The other female encouraged me; everything will be alright. The duffle bags had disappeared. These khakis didn’t ask a lot of questions, as I recall. They didn’t seem to be the cowboy type, either. Check the box and get back to a secure location. Only one of them spent the night, a contract manager, I think. His photo is locked in my brain. They worked for USAID.

I didn’t make a lot of friends in Afghanistan, at least not American friends. I had a job to do and an oath to uphold, even long after my service. In many ways, that made ME the enemy, because I was the girl with the money.

So, what is baksheesh? What are the rules of war and the rules for civilian contractors? Are you afraid of the military industrial complex? If not, maybe you should be.

It is 0430 and I hear the roosters crowing over the hill, in the mist covered village below. Since sleep eluded me, I will make coffee and start my day before sunrise. I think of a song, and its powerful lyrics if you replace dad with war… like I did. Emotionless, by Good Charlotte. Now you know.

“I spent so many years learning how to survive…

Now, I'm writing just to let you know that I'm still alive…”

I am no longer afraid. There is no free lunch, but He’s already paid for mine, thank God.

Love, Bella