After driving 40 minutes over roads of unreliable composition, I begin to wonder if I am still on the Victory Base Complex. I haven’t seen a tactical military vehicle for a while. There are plenty of civilian SUVs and pickups, and a few large commercial trucks.

I’m driving a Suburban. It’s not my choice; I’m always worried I’ll back that dirty pig into a wall. Other than the windshield, the Suburban is covered with dirt (here’s the relevant base guidance: “Stop non-essential vehicle washing. Essential vehicle washing is limited to safety concerns such as visibility through the windshield, back and side glasses, mirrors and lights, or when it is essential to perform repairs on a specific area only”).

Did I wander off the base? I did pass through an odd checkpoint a mile back manned by TCNs (Third Country Nationals), but they just waved me through – out apparently into Baghdad.

I continue down the road. To my relief, I finally see a sign pointing to Camp Striker, my destination.

Camp Striker, actually located on Victory Base Complex, is the closest thing to a Forward Operating Base (FOB) one can encounter. I feel like I am in the middle of the Mojave Desert, even though Baghdad International Airport is just a couple of miles away.

Camp Striker is a bit rustic and the soldiers walk with a bit of a Wild West swagger. It is so “remote” that they can’t even find a barber to work out there.

I peek into the post exchange. It offers the same selection as every other small exchange. Later, someone referred to it as the camp museum, because you can always find exotic merchandise, such as flat-screen televisions. But never anything you need, such as shaving cream.

Some of the merchandise has been on the shelves for a while.

I move to the d-fac (dining facility – chow hall) and lean against a wooden rail. Feeling rather conspicuous – no Marines or colonels in sight – I hope that I won’t have to wait long.

Within minutes, I see a familiar face. I know this face from Somerset, but it sits atop a younger body.

Capt. Jordan Sembower, son of Lois and Hank Sembower (retired colonel, Army National Guard), approaches with a big smile and a welcome handshake. We’ve only met once, briefly, and exchanged a couple of e-mails, but the common military-hometown experiences are bonding.

Sembower commands Alpha Company (the “Assassins”) of the 1st Battalion, 3rd Aviation Regiment, 3rd Combat Aviation Brigade (CAB). He has two primary duties: Flying combat missions and leading soldiers.

Some of those soldiers are older and have more years in the Army than him (especially the crusty ol’ chief warrant officers), but he is responsible for the unit’s readiness and the soldiers’ welfare.

Sembower flies the AH-64 Longbow Apache attack helicopter. Usually at night. He hunts bad people doing bad things. I have a personal appreciation of his effort, because each mortar or rocket team he exterminates reduces the number of rounds the insurgents are able to lob in my direction.

The weapon of choice in an urban area is the Hellfire missile. Whether launched from an Apache, Cobra or Predator, the Hellfire is a precision-weapon system that takes out the bad guys while minimizing collateral damage.