The Bremer Detail Read Free Page B

would be up to the task. Apparently running shoes had evolved into highly specialized designs tailored to weight, stride length, and so on. At my weight, about 210, I was considered a Clydesdale not a thoroughbred and was thus directed toward a small rear corner of the store where a running shoe guru shepherded me through my purchase. And, of course, I bought some decent socks. A man has got to have decent socks.
    I went home, put on my new shoes, and headed out the door. Apparently at age forty-four you really should stretch a bit before running for the first time in ten years. But, in my mind, tigers don’t stretch; we just run out and kill things. I made it almost a hundred yards before I felt an intense pain shooting up my left leg. I (barely) hobbled back to the house, fully convinced I had torn my Achilles tendon. I made it to the kitchen and immediately started icing the injured area. It hurt like hell! This was not good.
    Kim got home from the beach, saw the ice pack on my leg and the bottle of Motrin on the table, and casually asked what I had done. She was somewhat used to the periodic injuries her husband got because he refused to admit he was not twenty-one anymore. Trying to be stoic, I asked her if she would drive me to the orthopedic surgeon so I could figure out exactly how badly I was hurt. She picked up her keys and off we went. I was in extreme pain but was trying to be flippant. If she had not been there, I almost certainly would not have been able to drive myself. As we drove, a hundred scenarios played out in my mind. Complete tear. Rupture. Blackwater. Iraq. Let Brutus down. What was I going to do? How could this have happen? WTF?
    The doctor examined it, took some x-rays, said I had only sprained, not torn, my Achilles.
    Good. I asked about recovery time and chances for reinjuring it. He said this type of sprain usually took about two months to heal. TWO MONTHS????! I had nine days before the running and shooting events were to take place. He said to rest it, ice it, stay off it, and if I wanted, I could see a physical therapist. After I explained my upcoming deployment and schedule, he gave me some heavy-duty anti-inflammatories, made some calls, and got me into a physical therapist later that afternoon. I was beside myself with doubts.
    The physical therapist started immediately with electrical stimulation and massage. He repeated the “rest, ice, elevation, and stay off it” advice. Yeah, like there was any chance this was going to happen! Instead of running I decided the next best thing was to try walking as far and as fast as I could. Kim was supportive and came with me. She only called me a pussy a few times. It was all I could do not to think about the position I found myself in. My ankle and leg hurt like hell.
    I continued the meds and PT every day and started to feel a little better, but the specter of the run was hanging over my head like the grim reaper. And more than a few people thought the injury was a good thing as it would likely keep me from going through with the deployment. These folks clearly did not know me as well as they thought they did. My sole driver was my intention to go, to try out and do the absolute best I was capable of doing. Failure was not an option. Still, I must confess to a nagging worry that I would struggle, that I would not be able to force my way through the pain.
    Blackwater called and set up my travel plans. I didn’t mention the injury. We talked about the pay and the length of the contract. They wanted me to go for thirty days and were going to pay me $600 a day. I quickly did the math, thought 18K was a ton of money, and honestly figured it would be a cakewalk. Study long, study wrong.
    Blackwater’s original contract to keep Ambassador Bremer safe was to supply two men to supplement a protection team supplied by the U.S. Army’s Criminal Investigative Division. I found this odd: two civilian contractors working alongside, for, and with regular U.S.