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.I couldn t shake it.More and more I felt like I had to go back, al-though when people asked me why I could only respond, I just feellike I need to. 0306817434.qxd 9/22/08 2:09 PM Page 47THE LAST TRAIN 47I hadn t worked in months.Dad was feeling better; the trip,rather than wearing him down, seemed to have rejuvenated him.We talked about taking other trips.Mark and I noticed that Dad smood, which throughout his life had swung from soaring peaks tothe deepest depressions, had remained steady since the diagnosis.He was truly happy and at peace.One day after we got back fromIdaho, I overheard him talking on the phone to a friend about howgrateful he was, about the incredible generosity he had receivedfrom friends and strangers alike.He paused for effect.Then came the punch line: You know, thiscancer has been the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I resumed my life, caring for my son in the morning and atnight, my father during the day.It was a continuous routine of driv-ing, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and sleeping.Occasionally I wentto see a shrink, on the recommendation of my editors after I cameback from the war.My problem wasn t Iraq, she told me.It was thatI had been turned into a crazed housewife. So I plotted my escape: a ten-day trip back to the war to writeabout private security contracting, of which I knew almost noth-ing.The day before I left, Dad and I had lunch on the water and hebegan to cry. Don t worry, Dad, I ll be back in a flash, I told him.We drove back to his apartment and sat holding hands in a picnicarea where he liked to sit and smoke.He started to cry again. Are you worried you re not going to see me again? I asked. No, he told me. I m just sad that you re leaving. I asked him if he wanted me to put off the trip. Oh, no, son, you need to go back to work, he said.He walked me out to the car in his blue bathrobe with hiswalker.He kissed me and told me, I love you, son. I did the same.When I got in the car and wheeled it out of the parking lot, my fa-ther was standing on the sidewalk, smiling and waving goodbye. 0306817434.qxd 9/22/08 2:09 PM Page 484WE PROTECTTHE MILITARYIt took me less time to get to Iraq than it didto get to Idaho.I flew from San Francisco to Washington, DC, then nonstop toKuwait City to meet up with the private security company thatwould take me back to the war.The company was called CrescentSecurity Group, and I had never heard of it until I picked up a bookby Colonel Gerald Schumacher, a retired Green Beret who was alsoa writer and photographer.After the invasion of Iraq in 2003, Schu-macher had become fascinated by the proliferation of contractorson the battlefield security guards, truck drivers, dog handlers,cooks.His book, A Bloody Business, was sort of a how-to for mercs(chapter 3: Becoming a Contractor ).Among other things, it in-cluded a forty-page glossary of companies working in Iraq.The en-try for Crescent Security Group read:48 0306817434.qxd 9/22/08 2:09 PM Page 49WE PROTECT THE MILITARY 49Crescent Security operates a Hybrid Security Company, offeringclients a choice of 100 percent Western Security Operators or a mixof Iraqi and Western operators depending upon client require-ments.Crescent utilizes modified and up-armored civilian vehiclesutilizing the latest technology to provide tracking and communica-tions, ensuring total peace of mind to clients with sensitive cargomovements or VIP escorts.As it turned out, Schumacher lived fifteen minutes from me inthe Bay Area.He was exceedingly generous.He not only intro-duced me to Crescent, he also drove me out into the Nevada desertto teach me how to shoot an AK-47.I arrived late in Kuwait, jet-lagged, the desert pitch black.Cres-cent kept its headquarters at a sandstone villa in a quiet KuwaitCity neighborhood, across the street from a mosque.It was a littlelike basing a paramilitary group in the San Fernando Valley
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