Chapter 3: Transition

The Assignment

She waited in Mr. Lydon’s office while he wrapped up his morning leadership meeting. The room was larger than most—designed to project his status as Principal Program Manager. He had climbed the ladder since she’d first arrived in Baghdad.

“Good morning,” he said, entering from the door behind her and patting her shoulder. He quickly corrected course, as if the gesture toward her had been incidental—his true destination always the chair behind his desk.

“How would you like a change?” he asked, skipping pleasantries. This environment rarely warranted small talk. It wasn’t pleasant, grounded in reality, or tethered to typical social norms.

This was a purpose-built world—a mission to Mars. No friends, no families, no ties to the local culture. No past, no future, and no certainty. A limbo world, where days dragged under the weight of mind-numbing routine. It held all the brutality of corporate operations, without the balm of happy hours, friendships, holidays, or loved ones waiting at day’s end.

She let her spine relax against the stiff, straight-backed chair. “Always,” she replied with sincerity.

“Do you like what you’re doing?” Bob asked, his gaze steady.

“I appreciate the opportunity, but it’s not particularly challenging.” She aimed for polite honesty.

“Well, we’ve cleared you for the role I had in mind when I first asked you to move from Tallil.” He shuffled through a stack of papers until he found the job profile and her formal approval.

“Congress mandates anti-trafficking oversight with our third-party contractors.” She nodded slightly—acknowledging the words, if not their full meaning.

He shifted in his seat, settling into a more relaxed posture.

“There have been some incidents.” Again, the English registered, but not the specifics.

“Sir—incidents?” she asked, pressing for at least a cursory explanation.

“Employees of our third-party contractors are supposed to have certain rights and standards of living.” He handed her a folder. “The military, KBR personnel, and contractor employees have filed complaints—suggesting that’s not happening everywhere.”

She laid the folder in her lap, saving it for a closer read later.

“I want you to lead the anti-trafficking program for Logcap III. That means Iraq, Afghanistan, Djibouti—and Georgia, if needed. You’ll investigate complaints, document findings, and enforce corrective actions where necessary.”

His matter-of-fact delivery—and her curiosity—had already sealed her fate.

The scope sounded broad. “Yes, sir,” she leaned in slightly. “Just me?”

“For now,” he smiled, “just you.”

His eyes betrayed the absurdity. Leadership didn’t think the role warranted full-time staff—but he sensed she’d take it seriously, even if others wouldn’t.

For months, she’d been tracing connections between third-party contractors and their fourth-order subcontractors—working lists, making calls, sending emails, chasing whispers of under-the-table deals.

The core issue: KBR—and by extension, the U.S. Congress—had no clear picture of who was actually working for the Americans. With the money spigot wide open, companies from the Middle East, Eastern Europe, and South Asia scrambled for a piece—fueling exploitation of both people and resources.

The real reason she’d been handed the role, however, was September—when an unlicensed security group killed over twenty civilians. Everyone demanded accountability: the Iraqi government, the U.S. government, the military—and, inevitably, KBR. The company needed to tell Congress—with confidence—that they knew their subcontractors: who they were, what they were doing, and whether they were abiding by Iraqi, international, and U.S. law. In many ways, this was an extension of that same effort—but it would take her out from behind a desk, which suited her just fine.

“Mr. Lydon,” she smiled slightly, “do you have more information I can read?”

“I’ll send a few reference documents. You’ll have full access—transportation to any site you need, and you’ll report directly to me. We’ll keep up our weekly congressional briefings on this program and the contractor analysis.”

His quiet confidence erased any remaining doubt.

“Sounds good.”

What else could she say? The choice was between getting out into the world—or staying cloistered in the trailers. A faint trace of self-doubt crept into his voice as he shifted topics.

“I’ll be traveling for about a week,” he said, pulling himself under the desk. “You’re welcome to stay in my quarters while I’m gone.”

She was still stuck in shared housing, waiting for a personal unit to open up. His offer struck her as thoughtful—nothing more. The kind of gesture you’d extend to a male colleague or a friend. She considered herself a valuable part of his team. In a place with few perks, this was a simple kindness he could offer—and that’s how she received it.

“Mr. Lydon, you don’t have to do that,” she said politely. “But I’m not going to turn it down.”

She smiled—grateful for both the gesture and the prospect of a few nights without roommates.

“I’ll leave the key on your desk,” he said, looking down—masking his nerves and signaling the conversation was over.

She stood and leaned slightly over the desk. “Thank you.”

The pause in her posture conveyed her genuine gratitude—for both the room and the role. He looked up and gave a small nod, his heart beating just a little faster.

The Invisible Engine

Walking away from the headquarters buildings, she made her way to lunch at the massive Liberty DFAC.

This was a city within a city. In a courtyard along the way, a steady stream of soldiers and civilians bypassed the free, war-funded meals in favor of Subway—its own trailer one of the most visited places on base, dispensing standardized six- and twelve-inch sandwiches with precise portions of meat, cheese, and vegetables.

Between the headquarters and the DFAC stood a large amphitheater, used for special, morale-boosting events.

The dining facility was a vast, single enclosure that funneled every variety of personnel through one entrance and out another on the far side. Weapons had to be cleared into a barrel at the entrance, muzzles down. Civilians couldn’t wear flip-flops, and civilian women weren’t allowed to wear curlers—a rule whose origin she could only guess.

There were surf-and-turf Fridays, ice cream every day, and endless variations of pork, chicken, and beef—home-cooked in appearance, if not in spirit. This excess was orchestrated by KBR and carried out by contractors from Kuwait, Bangladesh, and the Philippines. Just like back home, where Americans gorged on high-fat, high-calorie, dopamine-rich foods, KBR staff and non-combat personnel here fattened themselves like hogs for the slaughter. And just as her days followed a strict rhythm, so did her meals: oatmeal and fruit for breakfast; vegetables and lean protein for lunch and dinner. Boring, yes—but she wasn’t about to fall into the trap of complacency.

She always went alone and always took her food back to the office. The only solitude she found was on the walks to the gym and the DFAC. Sometimes she recognized a face on the path or in the DFAC. More often, she didn’t—and she never looked too hard. Behind the mounds of food stood polite, silent faces—brown-skinned men with blended tones who hesitated to return her nods or smiles, largely invisible to the well-fed, well-protected Americans filing past them. They were her charge now. She paused in line and truly looked at them. Truthfully, she’d never really noticed the people who moved silently at the edges of this constructed world. But thinking about her new role, she began to see it: in every corner, every process, there was a human line holding it up—and only the loudest, most visible ones ever reached awareness.

Back in her office, she ate fruit shipped in refrigerated trucks and read about the standards she was meant to uphold. Every individual must retain their passport and have the option to leave the country. The companies who brought them here must also provide the means to send them home. Each person should have safe housing, medical access, and enough food. They must be paid fairly, with access to their wages and the ability to send money home to their families. No one should face verbal, physical, or sexual abuse—or manipulation of any kind. Work hours should not exceed twelve per day, with adequate breaks depending on duties and weather conditions. Everyone must have access to clean water—for drinking and for bathing.

In many cases, she’d have to rely on individuals to tell her the truth about their status. On large bases, she wouldn’t be able to reach every area. On smaller ones, survival codes of silence could keep people from speaking up. This was a one-woman program—one she’d have to build from scratch. The reporting process was rudimentary at best—and likely unknown to contractors who never interacted directly with Americans.

Tallil had been a rural outpost, where everyone seemed to know everyone else—and the openness of the landscape made hiding things difficult. Work-rest schedules were posted clearly on every building. The largely Bangladeshi contractor group had their own living area, but shared the same type of hooch housing as everyone else. She would later realize that wasn’t standard—and that they had all benefited from a near-bucolic setup in the south.

“When are you going to show me what’s under that shirt?”

Luis’s words cut through her concentration.

It was the kind of offhand comment he—and others—made regularly. She tried to think of a sharp comeback, but instead just looked at him, blank.

She laughed. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other ladies around here happy to provide your nightly jerk-off material.”

“Ah, but you’re the one who plays hard to get.”

He shifted in his seat, his casual stare slipping into something more predatory.

“That’s because I am hard to get,” she said with a smile—not quite discouraging him, but maintaining peace with just enough illusion to keep him at bay.

Soft Power

A new voice drifted through the open door.

“Hello.” She looked up. A tall, silver-haired man with a Northern English accent stood at the threshold, caught between entering and lingering.

“Hello,” she replied, her tone curling upward—half greeting, half question.

“Bob said you could help me,” he continued. “I’m over from the Green Zone. They’ve put me in temporary housing, but I don’t know where I’m going.” He smiled—bright, sincere, handsome.

“Can you help me?”

Luis bristled at the interruption. “I can show you,” he offered, too quickly.

The British man turned from her to Luis. “That’s awfully kind of you. But if you don’t mind,

I’d also like to speak with the lovely lady—about her work, and about visiting our area sometime.”

She stood.

“Of course.” She covered her food, closed her file, straightened her pants. “Let’s see where they put you.”

Next to the headquarters buildings sat a row of temporary trailers for visiting staff. Deputy program managers, leadership from other bases—this is where they stayed.

She took the key from his hand, and he lingered in the doorway. “May I?” she asked, motioning past him. She led him to the side door and down the walkway toward the trailers.

“So, you’re in the Green Zone?” she asked.

He walked beside her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you do over there?”

“Oh, I wear a few different hats.”

“What brings you over here?”

“I’m meeting with Bob and some of the senior team—talking about facilities.” He didn’t elaborate.

They stopped at one of the trailer doors, and she tried the key.The walkways between the cream-colored units were quiet. Only a few were ever in use at once. He took the key from her and propped the door open.

“I’m Brian,” he said, smiling again. “Why don’t you stay for a chat?”

The space between them held a charged warmth.vShe squinted, hesitant, and took a step down the stairs.

“Come on,” he said, relaxing his posture and swinging the door open. “Just a chat.”

She gave in and ducked under his arm, stepping inside.vThe room held two twin beds, separated by a small bedside table.vShe sat on the one closest to the door. He took the chair near the desk at the opposite end.

“Bob said you were in Tallil before this?”

She crossed her ankles and leaned forward. “Yes, I was.”

“I passed through once,” he said with a bright smile. “Not much there.”

“I liked it there.” The thought slipped out before she considered it. As soon as she said it, she realized it was true. “It was quiet.”

“What do you do?” She welcomed the chance to shift the focus.

“What do I do?” He stood and began unpacking his few belongings.

“I used to work in the North Sea oil fields,” he called from the bathroom. “I was a field manager—ran operations on a section of offshore rigs.” He placed a laptop on the desk.

“My company landed a contract here—similar logistics and support stuff.”

He sat back down. “So, now I’m here.”

“Why?” she asked, plainly.

He leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Why?” he echoed with a sideways grin. “Maybe I just needed a break from the world.”

To outsiders, that might not make sense. But to anyone who’d spent unaccompanied time overseas—government, military, private sector—it made perfect sense. All the responsibilities of real life vanished here. No walking dogs, shuttling kids, paying bills, or chasing no-show plumbers. No angry commuters. No indulgent, oblivious public to navigate. Just this insulated world. All the weighty conversations—marriage, divorce, family expectations, career plans—could be deferred.

She nodded slightly. He moved to the bed opposite hers, and she scooted back—feet no longer flat on the floor, knees hooked at the edge.

“What about you?” he asked with a smile. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here because Mr. Lydon asked me to be,” she said plainly.

“Yes, he mentioned that,” Brian said, shifting to the head of the bed and leaning against a pillow.

“What is it you’re doing?”

“I’m going to make sure everyone’s safe.” It was an oversimplification—but it captured how she felt about the role.

He chuckled. “That’s a big job for one person.”

“Maybe,” she said. She knew he was right—even if his comment was stock.

She already knew there was no way she could provide real oversight for most of the contracting companies. If she was lucky, she might reach 10%. She didn’t even have a clear count of how many companies she was dealing with. Some were small. Others were massive. Some operated nationwide. Others were anchored to a single site—or moved constantly.

“All I can do is try,” she said, pulling her thoughts back into the room.

She stood. “I’d better get back.”She took the lull as her cue to leave.

He sat up and swung one leg to either side of her, reaching out to place a hand on the back of her thigh.

“Why don’t you stay?”

His other hand followed—both sliding up to grip her at the hips.

She smiled faintly, running a finger from his temple over the curve of his skull. Lowering her voice, she said, “I have to go back to work.” She twirled a loose strand of silver hair.

“The American taxpayers have to get their pound of flesh.”

He let out a soft moan, his fingers pressing into her thighs.

“One short day won’t hurt them,” he murmured, scanning her body. “And I’m much more appreciative than the American taxpayers.”

She gently took his hands off her and placed them on his own knees.

“I have to go back to work,” she said, grinning coyly.

“You’re killing me,” he sighed with a smile, leaning back.

She slipped out the door with a smile and waved. Once outside, she exhaled deeply and let the smile fade.Hands in her pockets, eyes on the ground, she walked back to the office.

“Where’ve you been?” Luis asked, too curious.

“You know where I’ve been,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Bob left something on your desk.”

She walked past him and sat down.

“You look a little flushed,” he added with a smirk.

She probably was. When you’re navigating the advances of men, your body doesn’t stay neutral. Bob had left the key to his room.Relief swept through her. Tonight, she could be alone—and no one else would know where.

She left the office after a few minutes, too restless to sit still. Back in her trailer, she gathered a few things and headed to Bob’s. She dropped her bag, made a quick run to the DFAC for food, then returned to his quarters as fast as she could. It was huge: a queen bed, a sitting area, a private bathroom. She stripped off her dusty, clinging clothes—and for the first time in months, took a shower without the sound of other women nearby.

She stood at the mirror, brushing out her wet hair. What are we going to do with you? she thought. She pulled on a T-shirt and shorts and stepped into the main room. It was spotless. She wondered if Bob kept it this tidy—or paid someone to do it for him.

Draped across the bed was the kind of impossibly soft Arab blanket that would accompany her at most of the sites she’d visit.This one was deep red, patterned with oversized flowers.The air conditioning was set far cooler than it should’ve been. It belied the conditions just outside the door. She pulled back the blanket and curled up on one side of the bed, careful not to disturb the other.

She thought about Bob—kind, respectful, never making a move.Then Luis, and the others, barely hiding the fantasy reel running behind their eyes. She thought about Brian—whether his advance had come from assumption or instinct. Probably just opportunity.

Finally, she thought of Hawk. It had been a long time. But she let him stay awhile, as the warmth of the blanket seeped into her body—and carried her to sleep.