Past Logic

We used to hate people
Now we just make fun of them
It's more effective that way
-"Dogma", K.M.F.D.M.

“Tell me again, why are we awake so early?” I asked Chanatee, who still looked as if he was asleep.
“Because we’re getting them in to see the Doctor early, so no one will observe.” Even at 7 in the morning the sun was scorching. Small ripples of heat could be seen rising off of the asphalt, and the truck we were driving had the Air Conditioner set to “Icy”.
“Yeah, but, what about Sick Call? You know, where everyone goes for medical attention…The same time we’re bringing them in?” I squinted behind the wheel; even with sunglasses on the harsh light was brutal. Susan, sitting in the back, said nothing.
“You bring this up like I’m the one making the decisions here.” Speeding along at a mere 30 miles per hour, our tires pushed dust ten feet in the air behind us.
“Hah!”

We arrived at the gate slightly late, a planning error on our behalf. The gate was like a long road with barriers on both sides, allowing for only one method of entrance or exit. Guard towers were arraigned sporadically, small dug out rooms covered with cement and sandbags. Weapons pointed in overlaying sectors of fire. A professional job. As we got closer to the meeting site we had to stop for a guard to open a gate, and then again for one to move the wall aside. The wall resembled a truck, with armor, like in Mad Max, “Road Warrior.” We drove past his glares (most everyone at this point was required to have body armor and weapons ready, but we run around with an exception to policy memorandum) and pulled into a little waiting area. And the Contractor called.

Susan answered, spoke for a second, and told us that the Iraqi guards wouldn’t allow him and his daughter entrance to the base.

“Of course not, he’s trying to drive on. Tell him to park and wait there, and we’ll get him in a second.” I pulled out of our parking spot and headed further away from the base. We drove past an Iraqi, who raised a gate for us in our civilian pick up truck, and as we waved thanks to him the realization kicked in.

“Oh shit. We’re off the FOB.” Chanatee met my gaze and looked concerned; we were in Iraqi territory without paperwork, armor, and most importantly, ammunition.

“Hahahaha” We both laughed. Susan, our interpreter, looked unconcerned. I made a quick left into the parking lot the Contractor was waiting in, and we saw him walking with his daughter onto the base.

“Call him up, see what’s going on.” I told Susan.
“No dice, [THING] won’t allow it.” Chanatee reminded me about our [SECRETIVE STUFFs].
“Right…Well, let’s go drive back! Here’s hoping they let us on.”

We drove up to the Iraqi, waved hi again, and pulled back onto the base. He looked at us as if we were crazy. And maybe we were. A couple minutes later we met up with the Contractor and his screaming daughter. He presented us with weird Iraqi style clothes. We gave him a soccer ball. The day would only get better from there.

[Like all Iraqi's, I have inadequate shoes and an American beverage in hand.]