The title is a bit ambiguous, but this is a role-play about the conflict specifically in Al-Karmah, Iraq. It is a story involving a United States Special Forces detachment, a group of what are commonly known as Green Berets, operating within Karma to disarm the heated clashes of different drug gangs, tribes, as well as combating the complex insurgent problem. I would prefer that the people role-playing have some idea of who the Green Berets are or have some knowledge of tactical gear/weaponry, but all are welcome to join. Be aware that USSF is an Army detachment that deals specifically in social networking, human relations, and unconventional warfare. The SF's main job in Karma was to train the New Iraqi Army and police force. Before posting your first post, please write a short biography like the one I will provide below. SF Operators are often permitted to bring or use customized weapons or kit, so almost nothing will be off limits (unless gaudy or obviously unrealistic). Al-Karmah has been known to be one of the most violent cities in Iraq. The story takes place in the year 2005, the height of the conflict within Karma so far…..

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Name: Kenji Vatallani
Race: Caucasian/Japanese
Birthplace: Sacramento, California
Age: 32
Detachment: 5th Special Forces (you can use the same, or play as the Indigenous Iraqi Army or Police force)
Rank: Sergeant
Weapons: A heavy load out including a Stoner SR16 IWS CQB, a Mossberg Shotgun, and a Marine issued MARSOC 1911 pistol.



It was a barren and dusty day as usual. Dozens of plastered green helmets bobbed up and down as hands rose to clap and went back down to the sides of dirty brown uniforms. It was as dry as one could ever imagine. Dust and sand exploded from worn Iraqi Police uniforms as the jumping jacks were completed. Their helmets had to have been from the last century and they wore old US armored vests. It was obvious that the middle aged weapons sergeant before them had his work cut out for him.


Light brown eyes, standing a solid 6’1, and having a well grown beard, it was no secret who was running this training regiment. There was no armor upon his back or ballistic helmet shielding his vunerable head, just a long head of hair reaching his upper back and shaggy hair lining his chin. Oakleys, tinted a deep red, shielded his eyes from the unforgiving sun and only added to his intimidating gaze. A tan under shirt dawned his mid section and his issued desert camouflage BDU trousers kept his lower body protected from nothing more than insects and sand. It felt good! Compared to the average grunt, he could do whatever the hell he wanted, and he knew it. A grunt wouldn’t be caught dead without armor on less he wished to be chewed a new one, or worse…..

In a pile by a pillar holding up the balcony of the ragged building that was their headquarters lay a large armored vest, a rifle, and a shirt. The name tape on the vest itself would show that it was his own, reading “K. Vatallani” and his blood type to the side. His stoner SR16 had more gadgets than a Swiss Army knife. It was a short weapon much like an m16 or an m4, but was specialized for close quarters. A shotgun rode the back of his plate carrier vest and a small .45 pistol slept in the holster at the side. Everything was ready to go if something unexpected were to occur.

“Stop!” he would yell, followed by a translator’s banter in Arabic to the working police. They would immediately stop but were so undisciplined that talking and even bickering began instead of standing at attention. Kenji had only started his classes in Arabic when he was deployed to this place, so he often relied on the other sergeants within the unit to provide translation. Too bad all of them were inside planning for the next operation while he was stuck here. He would aggressively scold the aloof police force for being so loose with their discipline. “What the hell is your problem? We come to your country to help you shape up and this is what you want to do? This is why the Al Mahdi army targets you guys! They know you are easy prey! Stop being a bunch of pussies and shape up! How are you going to change your country if you cannot learn how to police your own local streets?” As soon as the translator was done following up, there was dead silence. They would fall in line, rusty forty year old Kalashnikov rifles holding still from their slung positions.

“There is only one objective I have, that is…” Kenji’s speech would be swiftly cut short by the explosion of an RPG-7 launch to which the poorly guided rocket would pass over their complex. You could feel the heat wave pass over your skin. Everyone immediately would prone to the ground and crawl up to the side of the wall. The staccato gun fire in the streets would reach a climax and roar deafeningly. Kenji moved swiftly on his belly to his gear and slipped it on haphazardly, switching the safety off of his Stoner rifle. Peeking through a small hole in the wall, he placed his barrel outside of the port and began firing. Another RPG would fire and hit the wall 3 meters down, sending sparks and brick everywhere, but injuring no one. A reload of his rifle later, he was back in action. He reached for his IBH helmet which had his headset was in and began his report. “Contact all sides of the 12 o’clock position of the structure! Requesting immediate assistance, over.” He would wait for his buddies, fellow Special Forces operators to begin pouring out of the building or at least shoot from it. He would look back, awaiting their arrival.

(This is where you come in! Choose an Operator position or an Indigenous police or army position)

i will join later if it's ok .

Hey, I'm Ylanne, and I write crime fiction, particularly material dealing with terrorism. I tried to start up a similar roleplay several months ago, but it died after about a page or so of posts.

Name: Yaran Bakoyan

Race: Caucasian / Middle Eastern / Kurd

Birthplace: Suleymaniyah, Iraq

Age: 37

Detachment: Iraqi Police Force

Rank: Captain (oversees operations in a quadrant of Al-Karmah)

Weapons: A Glock .22

Languages Spoken: Kurdish, Arabic, Farsi (Persian), English

I'm not sure what you mean by biography, but here goes:

Once working in army intelligence, Yaran Bakoyan had left the army after witnessing seven comrades blown to pieces by a roadside bomb, leaving all but him dead. Yaran sometimes serves in an interpreting capacity because of his unique ability to speak fluent, accentless English. He has a series of ugly scars across his face and upper torso from the attack, which make him seem frightening.



I'm so sorry. . . I am suffering from writer's block right now. That was terrible. . . Mmm. . . you want a post, like yours? Let's see what this bombed-out brain can churn out:

* * *

The fruit seller stared, like everyone else, at the scars marring what had once been a fairly attractive face. Yaran Bakoyan counted out the coins and put them in the old man's hand, and the man handed him a bunch of grapes, full and round. "Shukran," said Yaran and he felt the fruit seller's eyes on him as he walked down the street. A distant explosion rocked the bazaar, but the people continued about their business, resigned to death, Yaran thought. Or maybe numbed out, worn down from the violence. One child began to cry openly, grabbing her mother, and Yaran turned away. Not today.

He chewed a grape thoughtfully, walking through the bazaar to head back to the heavily guarded police station -- there'd been another attack this week, an IED again -- the juice of the grape sweet and sour all at once in his mouth. Then the earth was on fire.

Yaran watched as a fiery inferno engulfed the bazaar, heat waves passing through him, and the screams and crackling tongues of flames were all too familiar. . . He ran back into the bazaar, one man fighting through the crowd of those who had lived, running to escape with their lives, to live again, longer, for another day. . . There, buried beneath the rubble of a vegetable seller's stand, a pair of legs, and a woman in a burqa tugging at them, screaming, tears falling from her face.

He pushed her aside and began to move the heavy wooden beam, grunting with the exertion. . . Finally, it was gone, and it crashed to the side, where tongues of fire licked at it greedily. The sun's heat was overpowered, Yaran thought, by the flames. . . He picked up the little girl, the frightened girl, the same one he had seen earlier, and he staggered away from the bazaar, her mother following, anxious to get the child away from the fire. . . She was unconscious, her face badly bruised, he saw, blood coming from somewhere. . .

When the emergency response team arrived, it was too late, and the girl died in her mother's arms, and she wailed, tearing her hair and beating her chest, walking in circles with her daughter's body in her arms. . . And Yaran walked away with the police inspector, his voice soft as he issued a series of orders. . . The Americans were already here. . . And the junior officer nodded, almost too eagerly, and he ran off to god knows where, to coordinate the rest of the scattered Iraqi policemen. . .

And Yaran weeped openly beneath the sunlit, dusty skies of Al-Karmah. . . Death would never stop moving him.

The sun-bathed city had no walls. It was a haven for insurgents of all kinds and both the weapon and drug trade was flourishing. The most desperate of militants seemed to just flock to this city and make themselves known to everyone. It didn’t help that the powerful Al Mahdi army helped this reality remain in position. They switched sides from time to time but overall, caused a major headache to all United States forces and its allies.

The roar of the firefight would not cease for some time. The calm demeanor of the sergeant would not change in the face of the gun fight and his attention was only broken when a large explosion could be heard from the bazaar. Time would almost freeze as Kenji would listen out, raising his head just above the wall to obtain a better bearing on where the explosion came from. This mistake would cost him his trust Oakleys as a round zipped over the barricade and smashed into the very tip of the frame, shattering it within a cloud of pulverized plastic. It would startle the sergeant no doubt, staggering as if he had just taken one to the temple, but he would regain his composure with an upright sense of anger. He mouthed “My glasses….my fucking…..my…” and would turn back to his port and empty his thirty round magazine, jump starting the firefight back to its original volume.

Those glasses were designed to withstand a .22 caliber round, but it would do little to protect him against the large 7.62 bullet from even the oldest Kalashnikov. He would notice that the police officers were hitting absolutely no one. Their traditional ways of shooting from the hip aided them in killing nothing more than the occasional rock or a camel spider. “Wonderful!” Kenji thought to himself as he pulled his Bolle tactical goggles over his eyes to replace his tragically lost sun glasses. This was the fifth attack on either the US complex or the Police station next door this week. He would scream to the nearest police officer in broken Arabic “Captain Bakoyan……where?” and would motion with his hands in a questioning manner. Before anyone could answer, a young man dressed in a chicom vest and holding a cheap Chinese SKS would charge Kenji, to which he would stand only for a moment and fire the last two rounds of his Stoner into him. One round would strike his chest and the second find its mark on his head. Blood would begin to soak the dirt below him and the wheezes of the last breaths escaping the already spiritless body could be heard by anyone nearby. The young man's face had been covered by a schemagh which was now soaking in his blood. The attack was just inches from the other side of the short wall. Grim followed the young sergeant in every walk of life, where ever it took him. Wiping the spray of crimson from his Bolle’s, he would lean down and call for his fellow operators once more.

"Allahu akbar. . . Allahu akbar. . . Ashadu Allah illahah illallah. . . Ashadu annah Muhammadar rasulullah. . . Hayyah 'alassalah, hayyah 'alassallah. . . Hayyah 'alalfalah, hayyah 'alafalah. . . "

The call to prayer rose unbidden from every part of the city, the mullahs awakened from drugged stupor and frightened scampering, to voice at full volume the adhan that remained one of only a few reminders that life went on in this ravaged city. . . The combined voices of the mullahs rose above the sounds of explosions, and screams, and tears, and a distant firefight, the sound of real bullets being exchanged between real people, and death. . . They were strong, and clear, and called the faithful to pray with some sense of urgency, as everyone knew now that life was uncertain, that they might be the next day's victims, that they might increase the numbers in the statistics reported callously in foreign newspapers. . .

He wore jeans and a t-shirt, another modern Iraqi man, his gun hidden in a shoulder holster. A group of men in Arab dishdashas smiled as he passed by, sitting at their tables outside a restaurant, where across the street a bombed out building lay in rubble. . . The gunshots sounded nearer. He could smell smoke in the air, spent ammunition. . . With increasing concern, Yaran Bakoyan jogged over to the next street, unnoticed in the crowd of Iraqi men and women heading to masjid, and children darting in and out of the crowd in the public place, and he caught sight of the police building, another attack. . .

Kenji Vatallani, that was the name of the man herding the raggedy Iraqi policemen back into the barricaded walls. A bloodied, mangled body lay nearby, and Yaran could make out distinctly Turkmeni features on the young boy's face, after bending over to inspect the body. . . An American diplomat, an older man, stepped out of a limousine that had pulled up to the U.S. complex, and he seemed meek and cowed by the evidence of the gunfight a few moments ago. . . But he straightened his black coat and glasses, and met Yaran's eyes and nodded before disappearing into the guarded compound. . .

And the sun burned down, merciless, the heat rising in waves to smother the already suffocating city, that same city threatened by drug addicts and drug lords and angry young men with guns in their hands and extremists willing to perish in flames for someone else's cause. . . And the people began to trickle from the mosques, their prayers completed, and the trickle soon became a wave, and for an instant, Al-Karmah seemed a lively city, a city full of life and hope and bursting with people and culture, but in a moment, the people disappeared into their homes and returned to their miserably, frightened lives, and only the same non-religious, or perhaps apathetic, men and women remained in the streets. . .

And Yaran felt strangely alone.

As quickly as it had started, only the chants of "God is Great" would be heard throughout the streets. Non-consecutive cracks of AK-47 fire could be heard as the aftermath of this seemingly daily occurrence. Rookie police officers were moving back into the Spec Ops building and their own police station next door, some slipping haphazardly on spent rifle casings as they helped their comrades up from the dusty ground. The ground......it looked like a detonated gold mine now....Brass that shined brightly in the beating sun covered every surface imaginable around and in front of the two tall buildings. The smell of cordite was as common in Karma as the scent of cooked food and it lingered here, thick and palpable.

Kenji eyed the now deserted sector in which he stood. Luckily, they had suffered no casualties this time. It seemed to him like it was luck and so arbitrary. One day these inexperienced band of men could be unscathed and kill or arrest dozens and another, a blast could kill just as many in an instant while they bunch around and smoke cigarettes or eat. These men who attacked them however,...not so lucky. Kenji could clearly see five bleeding bodies in the street, all wearing arm bands with green flags; Al Mahdi army militia...Attacks from them were not as common, but they were much more organized than the forign insergent forces. Though the rest of the force had fled, one man crawled back from a gunshot to his left leg which had left a crimson trail of blood in the street. Kenji would begin his treck through the hole in the police wall that had been caused by the rocket propelled grenade before. He passed the young man he had just shot, along with the other four who had rather large gruesome wounds . He approached the wounded Mahdi militiaman but stopped short of the walk way as a long black vehicle pulled up.

What a place this was......Karma. Kenji's almond shaped eyes would focus on the limousine stopping just in front of the compound and give a sigh of annoyance. THe diplomat was not here to see him of course. He wanted to speak with his commanding officer most likely and so he paid little attention to him. His eyes would follow his gaze from the glance given by this man in the black coat to an Iraqi man off to the corner of the road. "Captain Bakoyan..." he would lip to himself and make his way over. His goggles and CIRAS were still smeared with the blood of the young militia man and though he would need to clean it soon, he needed to speak with Yaran now. His eyes never left the wounded man and by now the green helmets were all over him, arresting and treating him with the help of an SF Medic.

His eyes, outwardly cold but still containing a warm gaze deep withing, met with the captain's and out of respect for Yaran(and also out of cockiness aimed toward the enemy), the young weapons sergeant would remove his IBH helmet. "Al Salamo Alaykom" he would greet in perfect accented speech, even though his knowledge of the language was limited.

(OOC: A grammatical note. You repeatedly utilize the verb form of "would then verb" which is the conditional. You use this to describe past actions that often occurred (i.e. Every Sunday we would drive up to the prison to see Uncle Sherman) or something that has not yet happened and might not (i.e. If I won a million dollars, I would give it away to charity). Don't use this form. The first time you used it I was very confused because of its standard usage. Use simply "The young weapons sergeant removed his IBH helmet" or "The young weapons sergeant removes his IBH helmet". In a roleplay, use a simple active present or past. Also, you can refer to your character and mine by name, if not at every reference, by some. Also, the "ellipse" consists of three periods (. . . or ...) and is used to denote an excerpted quote, a trailing off in speech, an unfinished thought or action, or an uncertain statement. Sorry, I'm an editor and can't resist. )

"Wa alaykum salaam," Yaran Bakoyan replied, his mind removed, watching himself as though from a great distance, or one of the American military choppers they saw far too often these days. . . "Greetings to you too." Yaran shook the sergeant's hand, speaking perfect English. His eyes swept the dusty ground, the sorrowful gaze falling upon the five bloody bodies. . . Lives lost, wasted, destroyed of their own volition. Isn't that what "suicide bomber" meant, anyways? Someone who detonated a bomb with the intention of being one of the victims of its blast. . . Strange, Yaran thought the "bomber" was more a victim of himself than of the bomb he wore. . .

"What happened here?" he asked, indicating the sad remnants of the fight that had gone on moments before, though he knew in his heart already what had happened. . . Anger, and hatred, and a twisted love for God. . . He watched from his position next to Kenji as the surviving insurgent -- terrorist? -- was taken into custody and wheeled into an ambulance. Yaran wondered who would conduct the interrogation of the young man, and how long after that gunshot wound was treated. How long until he was handed over to the Americans and one of their secret prisons, and tortured until the pain of the bullet in his leg was forgotten. . . And who was he? Just another casualty of war. . .

"I was over in the marketplace, the bazaar, and we were attacked there too. A bomb of some sort, likely an IED. A series of RPGs would have been more prolonged, and there would have been several explosions, but there was only one. Then I heard the gunfire from over here, and I hustled over to the American quadrant. Is the situation under control?" As he spoke, Yaran stood alert, his hand gripping his gun, his back to the compound wall. . . Another diplomat appeared from the door and hurried over, completely ignoring the Kurd as he hurriedly shook Kenji's hand.

"Sergeant Vatallani," said the thin man, brushing back his oily black hair, "the ambassador wants to see you, now. Please hurry on inside." The American was a nervous little man, bursting with energy, glancing excitedly up and down the street and shifting his weight between his feet, rubbing his hands together and against his well-made coat. Yaran stared; the diplomat managed not to acknowledge him.

Yet still the blood flowed into the street, staining desert sand forever red, marking it with slaughter, and the sun burned down, pressing the gruesome reminder in like a permanent tattoo. . . irreversible, irremovable. . .

((OOC: Hey! Great! This isn’t intimidating! I’m role-playing with an editor! Joking of course lol! I appreciate it though as I have been out of it for a while and you pointing that out really helps me. I’ll keep it in mind! I understand where you would be coming from.))

Kenji’s now matted hair waved long in the silent breeze. The gunfire had stopped by now and people were still cowering within the security of their homes. He seemed unphased by the all the violence Al Karmah could offer, still as stone and ready to move on. “It seems it was an organized attack by the Mahdi Army. It seems as if they wanted a police response to the bomb in the market and were waiting to ambush your men. Lucky for us their timing was off, but everything is under control.” Though Kenji was a seasoned veteran of war and a diplomat himself as a Green Beret, there was a youthful ignorance that surrounded his voice. Anyone with half a heart happening upon the bloody scene would have felt their soul writhe and realize, no one here was lucky.

Kenji turned to watch the young man who was already being treated by his fellow SF, a medic. The Iraqi police, enraged, were trying to beat the young Mahdi militia man with their rifle butts but were being pushed back by the young army sergeant. Kenji didn’t bother to interfere however but did notice the hand that slept over the grip of a hidden Glock and slight bit of concern only barely shown on Yaran’s face. “I cannot control where he goes after we talk to him Captain. I will do my best to keep him with us and take what information he has our way, but if he gives me nothing, I will have to pass him on the higher ups.” Special forces operators were not known for their use of torture. Anyone who dealt with diplomatically sensitive operations knew a tortured man would tell you anything you wanted. They were there to win hearts and minds. They would not be doing it by being cruel.

Again, Kenji was caught off guard by the second diplomat. Before he even had a chance to make out what the man looked like, his hand was taken up and shaken. “I will be inside in just a moment, please let the ambassador know.” Would come his reply. With that Kenji turned back to Yaran, motioning with a respectful head nod. “Captain, assemble your men and debrief them with the commanding officers that were left here with me. I will see what this is all about.” With that, he headed off inside, strapping on his helmet again.

The smell of upper management was starting to fume out of the wood work. Blood always seemed to draw them, but of course this was after the fighting was done. The smell was strong…tt was the smell of complication.

(OOC: Some inconsistencies. Actually, first, in your first paragraph you use the verb "seems" way too many times in a row. Change it up a bit! Now for inconsistencies. How can Kenji be a young sergeant, 32 years old, and yet not only be a seasoned war veteran (in what war, Afghanistan, Kuwait?) but also a Green Beret (special forces) AND a diplomat? Also, long hair on a military man? Then, in your second paragraph, you use the passive voice WAY too much. :/ The only other thing here is "slight bit of concern only barely shown on Yaran's face". I find this rather wordy and unnecessary. A principle is to either SHOW how he seems concerned -- tightening of the eyebrows, clenching of the jaw, etc. or simply "and Yaran's concerned look/face". Then in the third paragraph, you use 'would' again. Hope this helps! )

Captain Yaran Bakoyan nodded at Sergeant Vatallani, ignoring the nervous American diplomat's blatant racism, as both Americans disappeared into the compound. He waited until the man had disappeared, and then walked towards the scattered Iraqi policemen, some of whom had waited out the fight, others cowardly fled, and a few heroically remained, shooting down the insurgents along with the Americans. As he approached those by the police building, Yaran passed the Iraqi policemen attempting to beat the living daylights out of the downed terrorist. He stopped beside them, and, speaking softly, said "God sees all that you do. He would not have you hurting an injured man. Neither would I."

The ringleader of the three policemen glared at Yaran, but all three allowed the Special Forces sergeant to take the terrorist away, offering due respect to their captain, who continued towards the others. "Please, gentlemen, please gather around. What has occurred is another in an unfortunate series of bombings that do not seem to end. Insurgents, terrorist, whatever you wish to call them, have been attacking this police station and the American compound increasingly with IEDs, RPGs, suicide shootouts--like the one you just saw, and suicide bombers. We need to increase our alertness and response times, as well as the coordination of a response to attacks like these."

Yet somehow, Yaran was not sure anyone heard his words, much less cared. . .

((OOC: Points taken. You will have to take me from the stand point that I am not as much a fluid writer as you are. As for the inconsistencies in my character, however, none are unrealistic if you understand who SF operators are. Firstly, the primary job of a the US Army Special Forces operator is diplomacy. Training within diplomacy is what makes the operation "special". This is what sets them apart from infantryman and US Army Rangers. The only way to be permitted to even enter the training is to already have copious amounts of combat experience, whether or not that is in a conflict publicized as a war, or not. So Kenji's experience in war could have come from Afganistan or possibly the drug conflicts in South America during the 90's.

Green Berets are one of the only military occupations to go under modified grooming standards, especially in the Middle East. Someone as well researched in such things as yourself should already know of the beard and hair culture among men in countries such as Iraq and Afghanistan. Many SF operators wear their hair and beards long so local men will take them seriously and look at them as men; integrate themselves in the culture so they may "turn" whole communities against whoever they are fighting. That is the job of the SF. So the long hair and beard is actually quite normal. As for his age, 32 is very young for a GB sergeant, while most don't enter in until about 38-42 ish. This is why I stated him as a "young sergeant" but I can understand the confusion. As for the grammar and structure, you will have to be patient with me as I have far less experience. I do hope this clears things up, but if you still see inconsistencies, let me know))


There was SF sitting all around. In a normal military setting, the infantry would have been noisy and boisterous. Green humor would have been prominent and no doubt there would have been talk about what hadji had just been shot and how, or who got the highest kill count. There was dead silence and only the motivated stares of twelve special forces operators, all waiting for instruction. Kenji was still following the very active diplomat. He passed many of his squad-mates, a few of them now seeing this was mainly meant for Kenji. Three began to strip off their gear, heading over to where the police were holding the prisoner to obviously ask a few questions. They would not begin until he was healed, however.

"Do you mind letting me know what this is about? We have a prisoner currently and I would like to get to him before he has time to think straight." He would bark, anxious to interrogate the Iraqi. They needed results and the quickest way to learn the trading routes of weapons, drugs, and people was simply to ask. It was just how one did the asking that counted most.

(OOC: Okay, points taken! I know a massive amount about the culture, history, and religion in the Middle East (and English grammar!), but very little about the military. BTW, mind if I play the captured Iraqi suicide shooter? I'll hold off on that til you give me an okay or a not-okay.)

"Yes, yes, Sergeant," said the anxious diplomat, ushering Kenji through another set of doors and up the stairs down the hall to the ambassador's private office. "The ambassador wants to speak with you immediately. It's, uh, it's about what just, erm, happened, sir."

"Well, Nicky, don't leave the Sergeant just standing there," boomed the dignified voice of Ambassador Jeremy Rowe. "Please, escort him inside."

"Of course, Ambassador," Nicky said, opening the door wider with a shaking hand for Kenji to pass through. The Ambassador was seated at his desk, a man with silver hair combed neatly back, and a long, grey beard. The name tag on the desk said "Urmiah" in Arabic letters, Jeremiah's name in Arabic. Rowe wore a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, and was, at the moment, staring at a single sheet of paper which he laid down on his desk.

"Sergeant Vatallani," said Ambassador Rowe, as he rose to greet the younger man. "I would say a pleasure, although under the circumstances, it is hardly. . ." He gestured to a chair at an angle to his desk. "Please have a seat." Rowe held up the paper he had been reading a moment ago. "This is a communique from the President. Here, read it."

Due to increased militant activity in Iraq, I have issued an executive order stipulating a twofold response. Firstly, diplomatic talks will continue, and efforts to draw up a cease fire agreement will be increased. Secondly, I have deployed twenty thousand additional ground troops to arrive over a period of the next five weeks.

* * *

Yaran Bakoyan disappeared into the newly built and newly damaged police station without a further word, and slowly, the Iraqi policemen trickled in after him. The prisoner, he was told, was being held in the infirmary, further into the building, under armed guard. The chief, Yaran's superior, was refusing to hand him over to the Americans. They were demanding him already? Yaran thought, but dismissed the thought immediately. Of course they were. He had attacked their compound as well as ours.

He wanted to see this man. Yaran made his way down the hall, trying to ignore the banter in Arabic between policemen and secretaries and interpreters, and the hum of fluorescent lighting, and the sound of printers spitting up too many documents. . .