CHAPTER FOUR: R & R

The missions detailed in the preceding three chapters constituted but a fraction of those undertaken by extra-normal junior operatives throughout the Gulf campaign. These maneuvers were extremely significant in that they added much weight and credibility to Coalition commander and United States Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld's revolutionary theory that a small force with the right gear, intelligence and a little luck could, at times, substitute for the brawn of a three thousand-man brigade – small groups of little kids scoured hostile territory much faster and more effectively than multitudes of troops moving in division strength. The combination of their unusual skills with those of more conventional forces gleaned dramatic results, which could only be judged as spellbinding successes.

The missions had also been part of a test conducted by the Social Welfare Agency and Childville to see how well their young wards could operate in the field largely without their supervisors present – a test that the children passed with flying colors. As a reward for effectively completing their labors, the teams were permitted a one-week period of rest prior to their trip home, Childville having fulfilled its objective of tracking down al-Qaeda's point men in Iraq and the Social Welfare Agency having pocketed its fee.

At present, the bulk of the operatives and their supervisors were resting behind the lines of a Coalition military outpost in Mosul, this locale being where their final mission took place. The mission in question was the last of eight stints with the 75th Exploitation Task Force – a team of Coalition scientists, technicians and special operators established to search for weapons of mass destruction. Our young heroes and heroines were used as WMD 'sniffer dogs' – the benefit of having operatives with ultra-keen senses and immunity to harmful substances like germs, gas or radiation was certainly not lost on the Coalition.

The hunt for Iraq's cache produced nothing substantial in the first post-war month. The superhuman hit-kids traveled from suspected site to suspected site – including the infamous Osiraq nuclear reactor facility and al-Tuwitha bio-weapons research compound – without finding anything significant. On the other hand, they uncovered oodles of grisly evidence of the regime's cruelty toward its own people – mass graves and hidden torture chambers, among many other horrific things – and this realization seriously weakened the position of those parties who had deplored the launch of a war that was seen as an act of belligerence.

"In my opinion, only time will tell whether or not the invasion of Iraq is a case of the end justifying the means," Claes penned the final lines of the latest entry in her war diary as she lay in her hammock under the star-spangled firmament that hung over the aforesaid outpost. "It certainly is a constructive aide memoire to small-sate dictators that there are limits to their tyranny, and I hope that it might be a step towards a resolution of other issues, such as the Palestinian dilemma."

Closing the book, she gracefully rolled off the canvas sheet and strolled away into the gloom. She passed the tents where the children's supervisors were slumbering, outside which the flint-featured Elsa steadfastly stood guard. Ascending a small hillock, Claes paused to savor both the feel of the night breeze and the spectacular view of Mosul that this elevated position offered.

Mosul was a ruined city, but it was ruined in a fantastically impressive way. Claes saw a radio mast that had been blasted to a pile of twisted metal, its jagged ends tangled skyward; but the surrounding homes were untouched. She observed target after target that had been taken out specifically. It was extraordinary. Here was physical evidence of the highly precise nature of the Coalitions aerial blitz on Iraq's metropolises.

After making a mental note to immortalize such scenes in photographs before her contingent went home, Claes descended the knoll and walked on, her ultimate destination being a cluster of abandoned Iraqi fortifications where her other comrades were hanging out. Before long, she reached the area and spotted one of her friends. Angelica was sitting out in the open on a spent howitzer shell and was busy writing her name on every item in her ammunition stock.

"You know what they say about there being ordnance with your name on it?" said Angelica when an amazed Claes asked her what she was doing. "Well, I figured that the items in question would never hit me if I own them, 'cause the chances of me shooting myself are very small indeed."

It was moments like this that made Claes realize how much of a beloved little sister Angelica was to her and the others. "Silly dear," smiled the bespectacled girl, giving her friend an affectionate pat on the back before entering a bunker where Liesel was painting a picture, her labor being closely watched over by Triela.

"How's 'art's greatest moment since the time Mona Lisa sat down and told Leonardo Da Vinci she was in a slightly odd mood' getting along?" asked Claes.

"It'll be done any minute now," replied Liesel, delicately moving her paint-coated brush over the canvas.

"That subtle shading certainly is glorious," commended Claes as she observed Liesel work.

"It's Aharon you ought to credit, not me," said Liesel. "He taught me the technique." Liesel had momentarily stopped painting now, and she looked deeply lost in thought. "After this tour in Iraq, I now know quite a lot that I didn't use to know – this painting method being a prime example. It's amazing what you do end up knowing, I sometimes think. I often wonder what new stuff I'll know."

"Well, you never know."

"Yeah… I know."

Liesel blinked, snapped out of her reverie and finished the job with three deft brush-strokes. She then stood back to allow Claes and Triela to admire the completed masterpiece. Claes wore a mystified expression, while Triela rocked with silent glee.

"What does it mean?" asked Claes.

"The concept came from me, actually," said Triela. "The painting's called 'Bush In Iraq', and it's meant to commemorate the visit that President Bush paid on the Coalition forces in-country yesterday."

"In the painting, I see Mrs. Bush locked in a passionate embrace with Vice-President Cheney on a desk in the Oval Office… but where is Bush?"

Triela snickered. "He's in Iraq."

Claes could not help but let her normally stoic and cool image drop. By the time she left the bunker, from which hysterical laughter still emanated, her stomach was aching from paroxysms of mirth. With some difficulty, she stumbled towards the tent where Aharon was watching television and Henrietta was knitting a pullover for Giuseppe. Just as she reached it, fireworks erupted overhead – the inhabitants of Mosul were celebrating their liberation from the cruelty of the Saddam regime.

"You're going moldy," commented Henrietta upon seeing Claes' form framed in the doorway and illuminated by the green light of the fireworks.

"No, I'm cultivating penicillin," replied Claes, slumping in a corner. "God, I need a drink."

Aharon wordlessly handed Claes a glassful of beverage akin to the one he was slurping. Claes did not reach out to take the drink – she simply stared at it in horrified amazement.

It was a big drink – no, make that an extremely big and long drink. It was one of those special concoctions where each sticky, strong ingredient is poured in with painstaking slowness, so that they layer on top of one another. Drinks like this tend to be called 'Technicolour Taillights' or 'Revenge of the Rainbow' or, in places where truth is more highly valued, 'Hello and Goodbye, Mr. Neurone'.

In addition, this drink had some spinach floating in it. And a slice of lemon hooked coquettishly on the side of the glass, which had sugar frosted round the rim. There were three paper umbrellas, one pink , one yellow and one blue, each with a lime on the end.

And someone had taken the trouble to freeze the ice cubes into the shape of little octopi. After that, there's no hope. One might as well be drinking in a place called The Cocobongo.

"I'll... I'll have a warm milk, thank you," stammered Claes after regaining her composure.

"Suit yourself," shrugged Aharon, pointing in the direction of a small paraffin stove and the fridge in which the milk was stored, before going back to watching MTV.

"Have you seen Rico?" Claes asked Henrietta as she sipped her replacement drink.

"Out with her new bosom buddy," was the reply. "Let's leave those two be – Meir's wonderful company, and giving them some privacy will be the least we can do to show him our appreciation for curing Rico's depression, however he did it. Besides, they do make a sweet couple…"

"Well spoken," smiled Claes, "and absolutely correct."

666

"A child's been born in Bethlehem," chuckled Meir as he pointed to a particularly large and brilliant firework that erupted overhead.

"Triplets," laughed Rico as two more followed in quick succession.

Earlier in the evening, Meir had sat spellbound as Rico gave him an exclusive and enthralling performance on her violin, coaxing heart-stirring melodies from the instrument with her dexterous little hands. Now, the pair reclined under the night sky on a wind-swept hillside some distance away from the fortifications complex and watched the breathtaking firework display. It was an explosion of vibrant color in the same way a cluster bomb explodes, each falling bomblet exploding again.

The duo lingered long after the pyrotechnics came to a close, happily talking about everything and nothing - particularly what they dreamed, wanted and thought. Eventually it was time for them to go back. Meir took Rico's hand in his, and together they walked off through the shifting desert sand, homeward bound.

The two friends' enhanced hearing picked up the faraway sound of music emanating from Aharon's tent, and a warm, fuzzy feeling came over Rico as she comtemplated the song.

Three o'clock in the morning

You're still here with me

We left a trail of destruction

But now after all

I've put you through

I'm starting to see

A world without you

Means nothing to me

Home

I just want to take you home

I don't want to be alone

And I can't believe you're standing here with me

Time

It took me a little time

How could I have been so blind?

And I can't believe you're

Standing here with me

I was looking for blue skies

Wrapped up in my own sweet world

But all I found were dark clouds

But now that you've

Blown them all away

It's suddenly clear,

I need still need you to

Kiss away the tears

Home

I just want to take you home

I don't want to be alone

And I can't believe you're standing here with me

Time

It took me a little time

How could I have been so blind?

And I can't believe you're

Standing here with me

Here with me

Stay here with me

I need you here with me

I need you here with me

Home

I just want to take you home

I don't want to be alone

And I can't believe you're standing here with me

Time

It took me a little time

How could I have been so blind?

And I can't believe you're

Standing here with me

Three o'clock in the morning

You're still here with me...

END OF CHAPTER FOUR