Open the Pod Bay Doors, Hal

In the surreal world I now inhabit, war is good. No mention of death
here, other than the reluctant nod to the life insurance booth
parked outside the cafeteria. Yes, they are open Tuesday through
Thursday: “no war zone exclusion” and “easy payroll deduction”
draw forth the fretting few suddenly considering their mortality. No
mention of whether the Iraqis like our occupation, no mention of
anything other than how lucky they are to have us there to teach
them how to run their world in a manner acceptable to the
American government. The project briefing begins not with a tone
of serious reflection, but with blaring music. “God Bless the USA”
screams from the speakers, timed to coincide with a rousing
PowerPoint presentation of photos of 9/11: firefighters putting
down the flag, dust covered firefighters, firefighters removing their
masks, caskets of firefighters. But interspersed are a couple of
photos of mushroom clouds quickly jumped over by the presenter.
Nope. No need to mention those darned WMD’s again.

The fact that “our mission” has morphed into the purely political is
as irrelevant to the presenter as it is to his audience…after all,
there is no need to pretend that we are there for anything more
than the money. Industrial mercenaries we are, every last one of
us. There is no doubting our greed it is the one thing we all have in
common. It is a simple fact of American life that if you throw
enough money at a person, they can be made to perform any task.
Even the ugly ones, the unpopular ones, the ones that are morally
repugnant. Me? I am intelligent, educated, politically aware, but I
cheer with the rest of them as I overcome each obstacle in this
process. “The Apprentice” has nothing on me: this is a difficult,
three week job interview that-we are reminded hourly-can be cut
short for nearly any reason. Test positive for drugs, alcohol, or
contrary opinions? Gone on the next flight out. Done. Finito. Hope
you didn’t already begin to spend the money. I suspected there
would be a test. Of endurance, of patience, of conformity, of the
ability to tolerate every personal and legal indignity. And it has
been interminable lines, confusion, anxiety. The first night began
with a sweaty wait at the airport following a too-long plane ride
next to a fellow mercenary. He’d married a wife he now hated,
survived cancer, and surrendered body parts to Alaska salmon
fishing. Older and presumably wiser, he now embarked on this job…
more to escape the shrieking wife than to collect riches, as he is
confident that she will disappear with it all by the time he gets
back. Luggage is everywhere on the bus. It is in the rear, the
overheads, the middle aisle way, in people’s laps. We were
instructed to bring little, but it is hard to let go of those details of
our lives. We are nomads now, identified only by what travels with
us. For me, it is a backpack and a small Travelpro. I wanted nothing
of this new life to contaminate the old. Upon arrival, we were
issued temporary color coded badges. I, and my fellow travelers are
lime green. The week before us is orange. The colors were finally
explained to me by a nice fellow limey who was kicked out of the
process and sent home to resolve some criminal harassment charges
that she was unaware had been filed against her. She now returns,
is reassigned to the limey group, and is nice enough to show me the
ropes. Criminal charges or no, she will be going as HR. She’s never
worked as HR, and doesn’t know why they placed her in this
position. We share a dinner table after a confusing sign-in process. I
notice that social order has already been established: for the most
part, the orange badges do not eat or talk to the limeys. It is
humorous that even knowing the hell ahead of us once we land in
Iraq we must still adhere to our pecking order, the function of
which still remains a mystery. We are assigned to a hotel, and I
quickly realize that hotel assignment is also related to pecking
order. The Wyndham is at the top, and is generally reserved for
those nearest to departure. For me, at the bottom, it is the Palace
Inn. It is new, has suspiciously stained bedding and a creepy front
desk man. I am told by the bus driver that this hotel is “special.”
He claims it has sparkled ceilings and a black light on the wall. I
refuse to believe him, thinking that this is but one of the many
hazings I must endure in this process. When I check in I am amazed
to discover it is all true….but at least there are some nice clouds
painted on the ceiling to accompany the sparkle and black light.

Monday starts bright and early after a refreshing three hours of
sleep, punctuated by jet takeoffs and jake brakes from the freeway
mere footsteps from my door. Our mission is applauded voraciously,
and we are dispatched to a round of check ins. Line after line, hour
after hour. We are fed, watered, and sent to the next processing
station. Passports, backgrounds, medical, ad infinitum. It takes
nine hours, then another meeting. We are not bussed back to our
hotels until well after 10 PM, easily an exhausting 18 hour day. We
are warned to rest up, for tomorrow is WABI day, followed by
Medical screening. More on that later. Medical processing is one of
those things that become legendary in circumstances like this. The
orange badges pass on stories of people being carted off in the
middle of drug testing, of catheters being placed in those who
claim they can’t give a sample, of those who completely break
down after hours of humiliation. So I try to rest, but find that the
creepy front desk man is partying outside my doorway with his very
large, very loud Indian family. I think I smell curry. Yes, curry. As
11PM approaches, the children are merrily playing on the stairway
and saris are blowing in the humid breeze. My anger flashes, but I
say nothing. They speak no English. Eventually I drift off into a
troubled, broken sleep. We have been fasting for nearly twelve
hours by the time we reach medical. Due to the size of the group,
my group spent the morning at the passport office. Loaded on yet
another bus, delivered via freight elevator to a special opening of
the State Department office. After swearing that I was who I said I
was, I was off to drug testing. Not sure of the correlation, if any.

Two by two, we pee. An officer arrives, along with the “short bus.”
I am told that it is a very bad thing to be hauled away in the short
bus. The process is not tight, with little control over water access,
but at least it is over relatively quickly. Only two hours. We are
then delivered to a large WWII hangar with portables inside. Giant
fans blow the hot air around: it is 95 degrees today. My fingers
tingle: the kind of numb, cold tingle that you get right before you
pass out. The process begins with musical chairs as we slowly
advance to the BP check. I deliberately breathe, trying to ensure
that my already high BP does not shoot through the roof before I’ve
even advanced to the second station. X-ray, spirometry, ECG,
audio, visual. It is true that people pass out during this process, and
that more than a few of us are medically disqualified. Those that
are shuffle to the end trailer to have a “medical consult” with a
“doctor.” Most emerge heads down, lost, confused. For some
reason, I am not disqualified, even following a questionable ECG.

By the end of the day they have drained out seven vials of my
blood, taken genetic swabs of my DNA (to identify me if I die),
spent considerable time standing in a trailer with eight nearly
naked men, and stripped in front of women I’ve barely met. We are
all exhausted, hot, hungry, and questioning why we came here.

Over lunch, new found friends discuss what they’re going to do with
“all that money.” It is a recurring theme. Meetings again take us
past 10PM, and we are up the next morning by 4AM. Time is
becoming irrelevant. I didn’t know it then, but that was deliberate.

Wednesday is filled with briefings, training, waiting. We have now
become more confident: we are ready for NBC. If the WABI didn’t
get us, NBC will. The WABI? The Orwellian psychological test that
became the first stumbling block for 42 of us. It is filled with
questions of dubious validity, and rumors abound as we wait for
results. We are told that we will immediately be escorted off the
premises if we do not pass. We are told that last week ten police
officers were present to ensure that no one went crazy upon losing
their slot from failing the WABI. I look around: no cops that I can
see. We gather, all 450 of us, and the rather grim head of HR begins
the names. It appears to be in alphabetical order, and when Becker
is read, I finally breathe. We don’t know what it means, nor are we
ever told, but we are aware that those of us remaining in the room
have passed another significant hurdle. I debate my answer of
‘agree’ to “I don’t enjoy skydiving or bungee jumping.” I clearly
enjoyed skydiving when I did it. But, at this stage, bungee jumping
does not sound like something I would do: I would likely be killed by
the recoil of my rather, uh, pendulous breasts. So is that a yes or
no? That was the easy one….

When the WABI failures are removed, we spontaneously cheer. It is
clearly now a game show, a competition, and this is but another
audition. The prize? Money. Money beyond your wildest dreams. Pay
off the mortgage, send the kids to college, buy a bright, shiny
Dodge Ram. From the talk, anything is possible. I wonder if any of
these people realize how easily it slips out of your hands…

NBC is an uncomfortable test of gas masks and very hot rubber
suits, overshoes, gloves, and hoods that completely encompass our
bodies until, they say, “the threat has passed.” It is obscenely
uncomfortable, stiff, hot, and scary. The training lasts all day, and
culminates in a full donning that is then duct taped closed. The
temperature is likely 120 degrees inside the suit, the sweat pours
down our faces, our full faced respirators slip amidst the moistness.
It is quite simply, to me, the toughest test to endure, and I
ultimately decided that if biological weapons are ever indeed
launched, I am surely destined to die. A slow, agonizing, blistered
death from chemical agents is far preferential to EVER donning that
suit again. I was not alone in this sentiment. Finally, contract
signing night. We’d given the company everything: blood, urine,
dignity, and now we would finally see what they were to give us.

When they were handed out, following another long wait in line, we
were not given any opportunity to read them. We were taken
through each page and told where to initial, sign, date. Each
paragraph seemed to me to be resultant from prior litigation, a
section on mandatory arbitration, a section on overtime and break
infractions, endless terms detailing numerous offenses that could
result in termination. It seemed a sad contract, one which clearly
defined our desperation to work, our willingness to surrender
everything in exchange for work. I seemed to be the only one to
deliberately scan through all thirteen pages, but I guess it wouldn’t
have really mattered what was in there… and I can’t even con
myself into believing that I would not have signed anything they
placed in front of me. For me, they extended a lifeline that I
eagerly grabbed. For me, it is merely the path back to myself, my
abilities, my confidence.

Friday was the first day off. I slept for six whole hours, and then
attempted to wash socks and be otherwise productive. I was
surprised to get a phone call at 10AM urging me to pack up my
stuff: I was being moved to a better hotel. Things were looking up.
Next was the issuance of the company computer and military ID:
the last lengthy process taking much of one day. Now it was just a
waiting game until my flight was called. Two weeks later, it was.

My bags are packed. Friday we leave.