Chapter 16. Forensic Accounting & Other War Irregularities

Sometimes that petty little thing called cash...IS the smoking gun

A good soldier can hit multiple targets, yet fire a single shot. Will it be heard, around the world?

Chapter 16. Shukran, Afwan, ‘akh. Love, Bella

26 June 2025. It has been 15 years since I buried the memories that should have stayed there, like pirate booty on an island in the Caribbean. As I recall them today, I fast forward, trying to play through, to the end of the round. I can fill in the spaces between the lines later, for those who want to keep reading.

I don’t have many real friends, maybe I’m just not nice Bella anymore. I’m warm but a little hesitant, a bit secretive. I like to keep the conversation light and the voices down, but I will always feed you. I am the “cookie lady”.

Telling it all, now, is the most difficult experience of my life because it is Groundhog Day again, or PTSD, you name it. I will wake-the-fuck-up, though. I hope someone is reading. Very closely. At least, I hope you enjoy the story, because it is detrimental to my health and one or two have asked me, is it worth the price? 3.2b. I am not the judge of that.

Pursuant to FISA Section 702, I declare that I am an American citizen living abroad. Don’t spy on me, IC [intelligence community], it’s illegal.

Dear Island ~ If this is the first chapter you’re reading, you might want to go back to the beginning. Before Chapter 1, I told you what I was going to tell you. But, this was before I even knew, what “it” was. The story will make more sense if you start where An American Woman’s Journey to Afghanistan begins. It was a Contract With the Enemy, but who signed it? Numbers speak to me; they tell me their secrets because I speak their language fluently.

“Every little thing. I remember every little thing…” ~ from the song, “Every Little Thing” by Carly Pearce

(if I was really there) The Accountant’s Checklist.

101. Intro to Forensic Accounting

1.	Until further notice, you ARE the auditor.  They just don’t know it.
•	Sometimes you need to start with the petty stuff to see the big picture.
•	Who is “Miscellaneous”?  How many times has he stopped by, and why?
•	Look at the reports, the expensive ones to reimburse.
•	How did key people get their jobs? Is there a common denominator, or more linked-in?
•	How did underlings get their jobs? Is there a Harris root cause?
•	Everyone needs a vacation, who hasn’t taken theirs?  Who provides cover for them, their proxy?
•	Who recently took a more permanent vacation? Flip the coin to find out why.
2.	You have new best friends to go meet and greet.
•	The mail clerk, the one everyone else thinks is weird but who is really smart. #1 Friend for sure.
•	The drivers, logistics, and security, in all forms. #2 But don’t talk, just watch and listen.
•	Not the secretary. #3 She is a backchannel ten-ways-to-Sunday and info flows both ways.
•	The supply clerk.  #4 He knows where the bodies could be buried, so to speak.
•	The intelligence (I/T).  #5 How does the system, or the machine, work and who pulls the strings?
3.	You have some interesting questions to ask, nonchalantly if you can.
•	Allow the pause, it makes people uncomfortable, and they can’t help but say…something.
•	I’m new here, honestly what makes you shake your head and say, “Huh?”
•	What do you keep track of, you know… separately?
•	Just so I don’t make the same mistakes, what was one of the worst decisions you’ve seen lately?

[FLASHBACK 2009] When Eric recruited his best friend Paul, I knew my suspicions were warranted. They were both Kabul Cowboys. Paul was supposed to keep track of, follow the money over there, to supervise and relieve the staff accountant during his required vacations, his insanity R&R.

During his pretty-boy-meets-toupee-wearing-good-ole-boy interview, I asked Paul, “What is the difference between a balance sheet and an income statement?” I scanned over his well-padded resume which read like a University of Phoenix® website. Mine was the most basic question for a seasoned professional with financial oversight. Paul had difficulty describing either one, but Barry hired him anyway. I will show you the difference.

My heart sank with a sense of foreboding. After all that happened with the Kabul Cowboy’s Season 1, I still went back again for another job, Season 2.

“I’m haunted by the memories… of Every Little Thing” ~ from the song by the same name

A balance sheet is like a picture, a moment snapped on island-time. A picture is worth a thousand words.

An income statement is like a movie or a play, between the still pictures.

Witness this.

Two income statements are better than one, for another angle to the action.

A Hor-rible low blow to watch.

A final photo is required to complete the story, another balance sheet at the end. For some, the show must go on. But no, this picture is worth more than a thousand words, my brothers in arms.

“The high, the hurt, the shine, the sting… of every little thing.” ~ from the same song

Dear State.Gov ~ Thanks for the memories. I knew, even before I contacted you last year directly, and then through the back channel “secretaries”, numerous times for both, that justice is sometimes a dish best served cold. The U.S. State Department did not come to the AID of the people or for me, just when they were needed most.

A pen, left in the hand, is a powerful weapon.

https://www.foxnews.com/video/6374622311112

https://www.newsweek.com/usaid-spending-money-list-potential-cuts-2029572

link: [file not found] ……. Who do you believe?

I knew that someday, they’d shut that fucker down. The website used to say “USAID works with a diverse group of partners worldwide”

Define diversity, equity, and inclusion please? Follow the Money “from the American People”.

My accounting checklist is merely an introduction to other characters along Jalalabad Road. Forensic accounting finishes the clean-up, the rest of the job. I held more than one position in Afghanistan with innocuous titles. Now I only have one job to do.

“I remember, every little thing…I'm haunted by the memories… of every little thing.” ~ from the same song

[a FLASHBACK of a flashback. July 4^th.] I don’t like fireworks anymore, don’t bother asking why or trying to “fix me”, because it’s insulting. On July 4th, just a few years ago, I invited two former-military friends to enjoy a late night of good food, better wine, and acoustic guitars in the bunker. It was quiet down there and we were safe; the flashbangs were far away from the four of us. The dog was happy to join the air-conditioned fun. Nobody was watching the perimeter; we had let our collective guards down. I won’t make that mistake again.

He was playing my Taylor® guitar, singing tenderly to his wife and me. She and I sat on the plush sofa, lost in our own thoughts or memories or drinks. From the far corner of my left eye, a shadow hazed the window beyond the locked glass doors we were behind. No sandbags. My eyes grew wide, and I shot the look at the soldier sitting next to me before I bolted up and ran for the back door, the one the intruder had no way of knowing about. Money well spent on island concrete. She followed me instinctively, but I don’t think we spoke a single word until we got upstairs to higher ground. Her husband stopped playing the guitar and the big girl woke up but neither knew what was going on. There was no time to waste.

I grabbed the little gun from its not-so-hidden spot behind the bar and palmed it to her, the effective decoy. I ran further up ~ I trained for this. Once I’d armed myself well and scanned the property below me for additional target(s), I moved quickly through the remaining rooms. When executed, I yelled down to my comrade, “House, clear”. She copied, something close to “Main Level, clear”. Her husband had exited the bunker through the same back door and was pacing the pool deck, probably wondering why the heck his wife and host were playing Army, at this late hour.

She and I assembled, covered in arched entryway; where was the intruder? Given that the guard dog was now on high alert, I surmised the man with the curly black hair had high tailed it back over the fence into the jungle below. I pointed before I told her, “I’m going to fire off one warning shot”. I made my hollow point; the serpent in the warehouse would not return.

I am not a snake-charmer on Jalalabad Road. You’d better get a bigger gun, because I Am Bella. […ok, that’s just for comedic relief…]

The next day, after dear local friends (thank you, Lu Lu) and even strangers came by to make sure I was still alive, my gardener and I walked the fence line. There were no cuts, no openings, and all gates had been locked. It was not my PTSD imagination, as my brain was now trying to tell me. Lenin showed me the clear foot indentations up the chain link and the spread of the Concertina wire above. I installed more pokey plants and my bougainvillea is growing taller now, winding along the razor-sharp steel. I put up the beware-of-owner sign, forget the dog. Part of me wanted to walk over to the berm I’d fired my weapon on last night, just to see if I could smell his shit. The mound was just beyond where the fence jumper had exited my property rather quickly. Without knowing, I’d fired directly at him; no buzzards flew overhead.

The bullet was left over there somewhere, but I have the shell casing.

There is an ongoing stray dog problem here. Most of the gringos adopt or support the causes; we do our best to be the animals’ angels. More than one 501(c)3 non-profit corporation has been an oxy-moron though. Another story, not mine.

When an island puppy got dumped at my property years ago, Sherri came by to provide free flea/heartworm treatment. I asked what we should call him. She answered, “Well, you found him on your jobsite, so maybe you should call him Job (Biblical pronunciation).” If you name it, you claim it.

Dear Island ~ I accept the consequences of my tale, just like I accepted The Coin. I will name them, and I will claim …this is the truth, so help me God.

“They say time is the only healer…God, I hope that isn’t right.

“‘Cause right now I’d die, to not remember… every little thing.” ~ from the same song

Love, Bella

P.S. ~ My next chapter is for paid subscribers only. Chapter 17, Level 201. “Bucketfam Eli - Connecting the Dots”. Grab a few friends for the party, Jimmy, Jack, and John. After that, I’ll be back for any other readers to hear a few more war stories. Leave me a comment or note to let me know you’re out there. The Reading Lines.