Chapter 2: Intervention

The Call

"How would you like to go to Baghdad?" A voice along with a simultaneous tap on her shoulder caught her off guard.

She swiveled in her chair and looked up. "I’ll go anywhere," she commented truthfully.

"Well," the sandy-brown haired man continued, "It seems the head guy would like you up there." He spoke as he read from the paper in front of him.

“Show up at the flight office in the morning.” He handed her a piece of paper. “Whenever a plane comes in headed north, you’re on it.”

She took the paper. After six months of contract cleanup, any change was welcome. She placed the binder she’d been working on back in the pile and turned to Rhonda. “I guess I’m leaving,” she said flatly.

Rhonda glanced up. “Have fun,” she said, then turned back to her screen.

She deleted her local files and moved everything into the shared drive. Then she created a summary document of her progress and current state, dated it, and saved it in the main folder—for whoever came next. Or, if no one came next, for Rhonda.

She logged off, pushed her chair in, and stepped out into the late afternoon. A few people milled about, and it looked like a decent-sized sandstorm was building. The air was thick with wind and red dust. It was the closest thing to a show they had, as the natural energy built alongside a low current of excitement. Like a rocket hit or burst of small arms fire, it was at least something happening.

She kept her head down as she walked to her trailer. The wind shoved her through the door as she opened it. A twin-sized bed sat against one wall, and a small bathroom at the back held a sink, toilet, and shower. The whole space couldn’t have been more than twelve by six feet. But it was private, and that was all she needed. Her possessions amounted to a few clothes, some toiletries, and a couple of books. With a routine of twelve-hour shifts, workouts, and sleep, there hadn’t been much time for anything else. She packed her belongings in a duffel bag she had and only left out what she would need in the morning.

Lying in her little bed in her little space, she thought about how she had come to be here, how boring the time here had been, and how she should have paid closer attention to everything around her. She had passed through her time, intent on finishing the day, but with little regard for the details. Through the wind outside, she heard a knock on the door and pushed open the entrance to see Jason, a red-haired, light-hearted soul from central Texas. She let him in.

“I heard you were leaving,” he said with a smile. "So, I thought I’d come see you before you were gone."

“You picked great weather for visiting,” she said, smiling. "We won’t be able to sit out on the veranda and have lemonade."

She had a couple cans of Diet Coke left and offered Jason one. He accepted and sat on one end of the bed—the only seating in the trailer. She took the other.

“How did you find out I was leaving?” she asked.

“It’s a small world, and there’s not a lot of news around here.” He took a drink. “Word spread pretty quickly. I mean, going to work for the big boss in the big city.” He grinned. "What are you going to be doing?"

“Oh,” she said, “I have no idea. George just asked if I wanted to go. I said yes, and he gave me a flight authorization form.” She paused and looked at Jason. “I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”

“So what’s your plan, Jason?” she asked, leaning her head against the trailer wall. “You always seem to have one.”

“I figure I can work here another three or four years. After that, I’ll have enough saved to buy some land back in Texas. Build a house. Get a regular job.”

“You think we’ll be here another three or four years?” she asked.

“Most definitely.” He continued with the kind of insight born from practical experience and human observation. “We’ve invested way too much here to leave anytime soon. These Logcap contracts are huge—a way for a whole group of people to catch up and maybe build a better life.”

He was, of course, talking about the mostly American Southerners who filled KBR’s ranks—not the Iraqis. Organisms are innately self-centered. For many, this was a rare chance to gather funds that could improve their standard of living back in the US—if they returned at all. Inherited baggage doesn’t belong only to foreign countries. Legacies of defeatism, a false sense of independence born from helplessness under economic and political control, and a belief in brute force over formal education had all contributed to these contractors’ self-marginalization.

Back home, they worked in construction or oil, as utility and HVAC providers, truck drivers, and warehouse managers. Most didn’t have college degrees, and they clung to the belief that they didn’t need them. Instead, they relied on hard work, common sense, and mechanical problem-solving to get by—believing it left them better equipped than the highly educated, who, in their minds, rarely knew how to shoot a rifle, turn a wrench, track prey, or master any of the sundry, hand-dirtying, back-trying, synapse-building skills beyond the classroom.

“Three to four years feels like a long time over here,” she said, thinking through his plan. He sighed. “It is.” He paused, thinking through the timeline himself. It meant another three or four years of basically putting your life on hold. You weren’t learning much while you were here. You weren’t dating or building relationships. You weren’t part of a lasting community. You weren’t growing a business or cultivating professional connections. If you think the military struggles to stay in touch, civilian contractors have even fewer lasting bonds.

“But,” he perked back up, “that’s my best path to a better future.” He smiled. “If I could think of another way, I would. With the raises you get here just for staying—well, there’s nothing I could do back in the States that would match it.”

“Well then,” she said, raising her can. “Here’s to three or four years and a home in Texas.” He tipped his to hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

“What about you?” he asked, shifting the focus. “What are you going to do?”

She criss-crossed her legs on the bed. Until now, she’d tried not to think about the future. Tried not to make a plan. How are you supposed to make a plan from a place like this? How are you supposed to know what comes next? She was alive, outside of Texas, away from the United States, and had been summoned to Baghdad.

“I don’t have a plan,” she said simply—and they both accepted that as the answer.

Selection

She had only met Bob Lydon once, during a routine review visit to Tallil—a flight that was typically easy from Baghdad and far safer than traveling west or north of the city.

He was slightly taller than her, around sixty, with white hair and a gentle, courteous demeanor. For some reason, during his tour, they’d wandered into her building. She couldn’t imagine why—there was nothing to see and nothing worth showing. Maybe they were just escaping the heat. Or maybe it was calculated—like when a CEO feigns interest with weekly roundtables, or when a three-star general tours a base, chats with a few soldiers about morale, then forgets their faces the moment he walks away. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became it was the latter.

Bob had entered with his entourage—including her supervisor, George—just as the trailer was nearly empty. Rhonda was at lunch with a few others, leaving only her and an older gentleman named Mark, who kept to himself.

She didn’t even turn around at first, just listened as George explained the logistics of truck shipments and repairs between Tallil and nearby Camp Cedar. The group stopped beside her desk. She glanced up, then stood.

“Hello,” Mr. Lydon said, extending his hand. “I’m Bob Lydon.”

She took his hand. “Hello,” she replied politely.

“And what are you working on?” he asked, continuing the exchange.

George began to answer, but Bob gently cut him off with a motion of his hand. “Thank you, George. I’d like to hear from the young lady.”

“Yes, sir.” She glanced at George, then back to Bob. “Well, sir... I clean up contracts.” She gave a brief overview of her work, her methods, and the tools she’d built to track and monitor each contract’s critical components.

“Did someone help you with this system?” Bob asked, his tone edged with curiosity.

“Well,” she glanced at George, “no, sir.” She fidgeted slightly. “I mean, Rhonda—” she gestured toward the empty desk behind her—“she explained what she did. And you all said you wanted a catalog of all the third-party contracts, with details like the company, terms, costs, deliverables, and performance. So I started building a searchable catalog—or database, really. Only, I haven’t built the database yet, because I don’t have SQL or Access.”

She stopped, suddenly unsure if she’d said too much.

Bob smiled, then, without looking away, said to George, “George, we need to get this young lady a SQL or Access license.” George nodded, affirming he’d handle it.

“Very nice to meet you.” He extended his hand again. She smiled and shook it. “You too, sir.”

Since arriving in Iraq as Chief Processing Officer in early 2006, Bob Lydon had steadily climbed the ranks. Five months in, he became the Procurement Supply Manager; four months after that, the Deputy Program Manager for Support for all of LOGCAP III. That was his role when she met him, though within a few more months, he’d be promoted to Principal Program Manager of LOGCAP III—and continue in that role under LOGCAP IV. In total, he would spend over six years in Iraq.

He managed himself—and his people—with quiet confidence, though it belied the barely controlled chaos he faced each day. He woke each day, confronted whatever catastrophe, scandal, or bureaucratic failure surfaced, and came back for more. While his peers—former military leaders and high-level KBR executives—rotated back to the States, Lydon stayed, leaving only when civilian contracts in Iraq came to an end.

Before Iraq, Lydon had been a logistics manager for KBR in the Gulf Coast region, supporting clients like Halliburton Oil Services—KBR’s parent company. He was organized, thoughtful—and going nowhere. He lacked the executive polish, wasn’t shrewd enough for power politics, and had no desire to live in Houston.

So instead of a swamp, he ended up in a desert.

He thrived on the challenge—and with so few willing to take on responsibilities ranging from military relations to safety, security, congressional inquiries, and lawsuits—his competition was limited.

He was, in truth, the civilian equivalent of a general—but instead of green recruits, he commanded legions of surly, middle-aged truck drivers with no baseline training or cohesion. And instead of a human resources infrastructure that ensured vacation time, leadership courses, or a support network of equally prepared staff, Bob was mostly on his own—learning the requirements as he went and solving problems as they came.

There was a core group of KBR leadership in Baghdad, all housed nearby, but their backgrounds varied—and there was no school, civilian or military, that could prepare you for nation-building.

Like so many others, Bob had left a family behind in the States—and like many, he’d used the war as a convenient excuse to do so. Whether from boredom, stagnation, or plain irritation, thousands of men justified their departure with the paycheck—and leveraged their absence for martyr-like admiration back home.

Bob played no such role—not in his mind, and not in front of anyone else. He and his wife had been honest with each other. Their kids were grown, and the two had long stopped inspiring one another.

This arrangement gave them both the time and space to figure out the rest of their lives—and set them up comfortably for retirement when it was all done.

So while his wife doted on their grandchildren, Bob Lydon commanded a projection of force—disguised as civilian operations—unseen since the height of World War II.

Descent

She arrived in Baghdad as all visitors did: in a steep, corkscrew descent—more interesting and far more stomach-turning than any commercial landing. Baghdad and its surrounding suburbs weren’t secure, and the evasive landing maneuver was meant to avoid being hit by a rocket on the way down.

On the ground, she saw the shell of what had once been an international hub—crumbled buildings, with foreign forces securing the perimeter. She walked off the plane and across the tarmac, entering through the ground floor doors where she was screened by the Iraqi military. Afterward, she moved to the area designated for civilian contractors and waited for her transport.

When contractors arrived in large groups—like on initial deployment—the transport was by bus, with blackout curtains drawn tight. The whole process felt comical—it wasn’t hard to guess which buses were hiding behind blackout curtains.

Today’s flight from Tallil to Baghdad was mostly empty. Her fellow passengers—strangers—were likely en route to destinations beyond Iraq, rotating out or heading off for R&R. Sometimes you could fly directly from Tallil to Kuwait or the UAE to leave the country—but today, all roads led through Baghdad.

The flights weren’t military—they were operated by a civilian air service out of the Czech Republic, staffed mostly by Czech and Russian pilots. On her first in-country flight, she’d wondered what time warp she’d stepped into when she boarded one of these strange little passenger planes. The interiors sported various 1970s décor themes, like flying Eastern European nightclubs—one lined in red velvet, another in tiger stripes. Today’s flight flaunted leopard print as confidently as any self-respecting, Miami-based Venezuelan diva.

She imagined the backstory of the planes and their pilots—Russian men in Hawaiian shirts, willing to fly anywhere, under any conditions, smuggling contraband in the bellies of their aircraft. One of them had once crashed during a sandstorm, landing between Tallil’s two runways—allegedly full of illicit alcohol. But no one retrieved the cargo—the surrounding minefield was more than anyone was willing to brave for a few cases of booze. The pilot, however, had grabbed as many bottles as he could carry, made his way to the main runway, and waited for a buddy to pick him up—only to be assigned a new aircraft and sent back to work, both above and below board.

While the aircraft looked like it belonged to a Russian oligarch, the reality was likely less organized crime, more opportunistic hustle. When they weren’t shuttling the latest invader between bases, the pilots flew oil crews to remote sites, maintained routes between scattered Near Eastern cities, and did what pilots do best—flew with skill, and the resourcefulness born of isolation.

In Baghdad, the weather was clear. The new arrivals walked into the airport without ceremony, presenting passports and travel documents. There were no crowds today—no throngs of foreigners clogging the bus bays—and her fellow passengers were all set to depart without needing temporary housing.

She was left alone, waiting. This happened more often than not—she was rarely sure how she was supposed to get where she was going. Sometimes there was a process; other times, she simply waited for the next ride operated by an American affiliate. This was still the era of sole-source contracting for KBR—everything civilian was owned and run by them.

So she sat, and waited, trusting that eventually someone would show up. After about an hour and a half, someone did.

“You need a ride?” a man in a polo and khakis asked, approaching from across the waiting area.

She stood with her bag. “Yes, I do.” She smiled, relieved.

He extended a hand. “I’m Adam. I’ll take you to the base.”

They walked out to the black SUV parked along the curb where the buses usually lined up.

“Hop in.” He tossed her bag in the back and signaled to the driver of the matching SUV in front.

They pulled out in tandem, drafting each other as they sped out of the airport and onto the highway. The driver remained focused as they moved quickly along the familiar route. She looked through the heavily tinted windows at the dull brown landscape. Barriers and blast walls blurred by, making orientation impossible—especially at this speed.

After about ten minutes, they reached the first gate into the palace complex near the airport. The airport was ringed with American bases—fortifying the vital supply routes. She didn’t know it then, but all they’d done was take the airport road, loop around to the east, and arrive at the gate to the Al-Faw Palace complex—better known as Camp Victory.

She’d never gain a clear sense of its layout from the ground, but the complex consisted of palaces, mosques, and avenues, all arranged around a chain of manmade lakes. Built in the 1990s, the main palace and its surrounding villas now housed various military units. She would never see inside the main palace. She only passed it on her early morning walks—a floating figure in a pond, surrounded by the ornate leftovers born of excess and consolidated wealth. A Vanderbiltian ruin painted into the scenery—less arresting than the bottlebrush shrubs that somehow survived here, or the towering bat structures scattered across the complex.

They pulled up to KBR headquarters—a series of modular buildings linked by elevated walkways, home to the core logistics and supply leadership.

“You can leave your bag,” Adam said as he opened the door. They entered the far-right side of the front building, its exterior lined with barrier walls. Behind the second door on the left was a larger office—Mr. Lydon sat inside. He stood as they walked in.

“Hello,” he said, smiling as he approached and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Welcome to Camp Victory.”

“Thanks for picking her up, Adam,” he added.

“Of course,” Adam nodded. “Not a problem. When you’re done, I’ll take her to housing check-in.” With that, he disappeared down the hall.

Mr. Lydon returned to his desk and motioned for her to sit.

“How was your flight?” he asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Uneventful, sir,” she replied, settling into the chair, still unsure of the situation. “Sir, I don’t really know why I’m here.”

He smiled and looked down slightly. “You seem like a bright and capable person. I could always use more of those types here at headquarters.” He took a sip of coffee. “I thought you might enjoy a change from the south and invited you to work for me here.”

“Yes, sir. I like change, and I appreciate the invitation.” She paused, waiting for more.

“I have an idea of what I’d like you to help with, but I need to work through a few more details before I can explain,” he said—less specific than she’d hoped.

“In the meantime, you can settle in and work with Brandy and her team on some administrative organization.” She still had no idea what that meant.

“Okay, sir.” She sat up straighter and met his gaze. “Happy to help however I can.”

He looked away. “Well, good then. Let’s find Adam and get you a place to stay. There’s a long waitlist for private housing here, but we’ll do what we can.”

They walked down the hall to where Adam was waiting. “Adam, can you take her to the housing office?” Bob asked.

Adam stood. “Let’s go,” he said, and headed for the front door.

“I’m so pleased you came to Baghdad,” Bob said softly, with genuine warmth.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Happy to be here.”