Reflections from the Hot Zone: Iraq, Part I

Through the glass curtain: out of Africa and back to Iraq

Note: Reflections from the Hot Zone is an essay that allows me to explore the more personal and emotional dimensions of reporting. It is not a daily dispatch, but a place for me to take a step back, think about the people I've met and the places I've been and try to bring into focus the larger picture.

AMMAN, Jordan - At Gate 6 at Queen Alia International Airport in Amman, Jordan, there is a glass curtain: a transparent partition that separates those just arriving from Baghdad from those going.

Four times already I have made that return walk, looking inside the glass, seeing the anxiety, bravado or circumspection on the faces of those about to make the trip.

Usually they are hired American or British security men, decked out in khaki cargo pants and baseball caps with tactical daypacks; journalists toting laptops, flak jackets and bottles of whiskey or vodka in plastic bags from the duty free shop, or Arab businessmen in brown suits and well-worn shoes.

Behind the glass
Those behind the glass, in my experience, tend to look at those on the outside with a combination of relief and envy, relief at the tangible proof that people do return from

Iraq alive and envy that, at this moment, they are not with them walking away from a war zone -- rather than toward one.

Today I am one of those behind the glass. Today I am the circumspect face.

Since the invasion of Iraq in 2003 I've accumulated about 15 months in Iraq, usually three to four months at a stretch working for CNN, NBC and now for Yahoo! News.

I've embedded with 10 different U.S. military units as well as Kurdish peshmerga militia in nearly every region of the country. I've survived roadside bomb attacks, combat engagements, capture by the Fedayeen militia and one of the most controversial video clips of the war.

Now, coming out of six weeks in Africa, I am tired, even after a few down days in Amman. While the Sudan "jungle" rash that covered my right arm is disappearing -- after taking some Keflex that the UCLA Tropical Medicine Clinic prescribed for me before leaving the U.S. -- I've contracted some kind of upper respiratory tract infection that I can pinpoint to the moment a fellow passenger coughed into my "air space" for a frightening 20 minutes straight.

Sin of omission
Regardless of these minor irritations, I need to return to Iraq. I have unfinished business; there are unanswered questions, untold stories and perhaps even some redemption. Not, as my Catholic roots would tell me, for sins I have committed, but for what they call a sin of omission: a transgression that has nothing to do with the mosque shooting video. (Read Kevin's letter to the Devil Dogs.)

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned" -- the words I remember from confession -- "it has been nearly a full year since my last deployment to Iraq." When I left in December I thought that I would never return. Now, at this moment, I know exactly how wrong I was.

Dog tag
In Uganda digging through one of the darkened crevices of my backpack, I stick my hand in and pull out something I have not seen for more than a year: a military dog tag threaded with a piece of parachute cord.

This is how it came into my possession: I was reporting for CNN in 2003 during the initial invasion. While attempting to be the first journalists into Tikrit, my crew and I were captured just 30 kilometers away at a checkpoint manned by Saddam's Fedayeen militia.

One of them fired a shot at the asphalt between my legs. We were forced to the ground with AK-47 muzzles at the base of our skulls. They beat my Kurdish translator and kicked and punched my photographer and security adviser. But for some reason I was the only one they tied up, my arms bound tightly behind my back, from wrists to elbows, with nylon rope. (Read Kevin's full account.)

While my translator negotiated for our lives I saw a glimmer of silver partially buried in the sand. I bent beside it, lifted it from the sand and slipped it into my back pocket.

Only later, after we were released, did I discover what it was, the tiny dots and dashes tapped into an oval metal plate. It was a dog tag for an Iraqi soldier. He had most likely discarded it, along with the rest of his uniform, as American troops and Marines advanced toward Tikrit; an attempt to disappear, blend into the countryside like so many other unwilling conscripts in Saddam's army.

Since that time I have worn it around my neck on successive trips to Iraq as a good luck charm of sorts, and one that I'm happy to have found in time for this journey.

* * *
Queen Alia International Airport has become such a busy transit point for those coming and going that it now has a Starbucks at the entrance to the gate.

And for me it is, by now, a familiar routine. I check in my large duffel that contains two changes of clothes, a cold weather parka (for northern Iraq), rain gear, extra battery chargers, a sleeping bag, a bivy sack, toiletries, a tripod, videotape stock and usually some gifts for Iraqi friends. I always carry my camera, laptop, satellite modem and phones. My strategy here is that if the personal gear is lost I still have my tools and can work, at least for a while. So far I've been separated from my bags twice on this trip for six days total, most recently on my flight from Nairobi to Amman. Fortunately, they were recovered the day before my departure to Baghdad.

After checking in and passing through immigration -- remarkably easy because of the flow of westerners coming and going to Iraq -- I go to the airport's well-stocked duty free shop and buy a music CD, because I won't have anything new to listen to for a while. Then, if I've calculated correctly, I'll use up my last few Jordanian dinars on a decent cup of coffee and a large bottle of mineral water for the plane flight.

I know that on the F28-4000 aircraft, which carries about 80 people, the brave and cheerful flight attendants will pass out plastic containers containing two dry sandwiches on tiny French rolls (one cheese, one bologna). They also serve juice and water but, prudently, no booze.

Today I'm sitting next to an Iraqi man who tells me he has had to leave the country to work.

"If I work with you," he taps my shoulder, indicating that I'm symbolic of westerners in Iraq, "I am in danger. If I work on my own, I am in danger. There is no place safe but to work out of the country."

He has not seen his family in six months and understandably is concerned about their safety. In front of me sit two American security contractors. One looks like a double for the bearded and ponytailed ex-Navy SEAL and "Rogue Warrior" author Richard Marcinko. The other looks like a Pennsylvania State Trooper with a buzz cut, glasses and a gray T-shirt with "K-9" in big black letters on the back.

Behind me two Brits discuss the possibility of Turkey joining the

European Union.

But the most memorable aspect of this flight to Baghdad comes at the end: the "spin down." When preparing to land, instead of the gradual descent most planes do, this flight begins a series of hard-banking left turns from its cruising altitude. The sun passes through the windows on the right, then on the left as the plane spins down like a falling maple leaf until it reaches the hard deck of Baghdad International Airport.

The maneuver is both dramatic and necessary to make the plane a less tempting target to insurgents with RPGs (rocket propelled grenades). One shooter has already proven his marksmanship a year and a half ago with a hit on a DHL cargo plane, which luckily was able to land safely.

We do as well as expected. With letters from my employer and the U.S. Embassy I am able to get an Iraqi visa at the airport for $81 -- double what I paid a year ago, but still a bargain by some standards.

Outside the heavily fortified airport terminal I wait for my pickup. A baggage handler, a 15-year-old boy named Ahmed, strikes up a conversation with me in his limited English. I reciprocate with my very limited Arabic.

I ask him why he is not in school, and he pulls out a wallet filled with Iraqi and Jordanian dinars, as well as U.S. dollars.

"Bakshish," I say, motioning to the contents of his wallet. He nods. "You can make more 'bakshish' if you go to school and study," I say automatically, not completely sure if it is true.

I give him a Hot Zone T-shirt and stickers. From all my time in places like this, swag, I've learned, is often more prized than cash. Ahmed peels the back off the stickers and places them on his chest -- upside down. Somehow it seems appropriate, and I don't bother to correct him.

Soon, a Marine lieutenant from the joint public affairs command arrives and takes me to a staging area, where I will wait for another ride to the Combined Press Information Center. There I will be credentialed and wait for an eventual helicopter to fly me to my embed in Fallujah.

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