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Detour to danger

Antony Lineberger, a fuel truck driver for years, has a new route - halfway around the world in Afghanistan, where the money is good but life is cheap.

By LANE DeGREGORY
Published January 23, 2005

[Times photo: Bob Croslin]

The protestations of friends and family could not keep Antony Lineberger from packing his bags for the Mideast to work for Halliburton.

	Antony Lineberger is flanked by sister Kirste, right, and a friend at his recent going-away party in Treasure Island.
	At 42, Lineberger is ready for more money and more adventure. But he doesn’t have a death wish: He figures Afghanistan is safer than Iraq.

TREASURE ISLAND - Out on the porch, the party is starting. The pizza man is delivering dinner. The disco ball is spinning.

Antony Lineberger's brothers and sisters, dad and stepdad, and friends he hasn't seen in years are pouring in to say goodbye.

He's not ready.

In the back bedroom of his dad's house, Antony is trying to stuff an orange parka into his new suitcase. A second suitcase is already packed with T-shirts and combat boots and CDs. His old dog, Prince, is sprawled across the pillow, pouting. His brother Ian leans in the door.

"You got everything?" Ian asks.

"The only thing I couldn't find was winter gloves," Antony says. Imagine that. No winter gloves in Florida. "But I found something else that might help." He pulls out a 6-inch hunting knife, stabs the air.

Ian isn't impressed. "That's it? What about guns? What kind of guns do they give you?"

"They don't let us have guns," Antony says. "They give us Kevlar helmets. Same as the soldiers." His answer sounds like an apology. "And bulletproof vests. Oh, and chemical-biological weapons suits."

Ian shakes his head. He stares at his brother. "Where you're going," he says, "you'll need more than that."

The sun is fading on this warm Saturday in January. A salty breeze is blowing across the darkening beach. Through the open windows of his room, Antony can hear his guests.

He sinks onto his bed, between the suitcases. Reaches over and rubs Prince's silky ears. "Don't worry, buddy," he tells his dog. "I'll be back."

Antony is 42. For 14 years, he has taken the black chow with him to work, driving a fuel truck from Tierra Verde to Belleair Beach, delivering gas to big boats. Tonight, he has to hug Prince goodbye.

He's flying to Houston tomorrow, to take a job with Halliburton.

This time next week, he hopes to be living on a military base in Kandahar and driving an oil tanker across the desert in Afghanistan.

He plans to be gone for three years. But where he's going, you never know.

That's why he gave up his apartment, stacked his furniture in storage and moved in here, with his dad. That's why he sold his share of the family fuel business to his brother.

And that's why, three days ago, in a tiny cubicle at the courthouse, he slipped a Wal-Mart ring around the finger of a girl who used to be his roommate and said, "I do."

Antony had known Kathleen O'Hara for more than a decade, but they'd never dated. Over the last couple of years, they'd lost touch. So when she called him just before Christmas and asked if he'd like to catch a movie, Antony told her about his plans. They got along so well that night, they went out again. The next week, over the phone, he asked her to marry him.

"I heard if you die, Halliburton gives your wife half your pay for life," Antony says. "So I told her, "If I do die, at least some good could come of it for you."'

At first, Antony says, Kathleen thought it would be bad karma, marrying a man in case he dies. But Antony kept pushing, and on New Year's Eve, she gave in. The ceremony was Jan. 4. The next night, they had an impromptu reception at the Green Iguana.

She's missing his going-away party to attend a family reunion in Virginia. She won't be back until he's gone.

"I don't know if I'd ever have gotten married if I hadn't been going," Antony says. "But I do have strong feelings for her. And, if I do come back, I plan to live with her. It would be nice, at my age, to have someone to come home to. And if not, well, at least someone will get the death benefits."

They tried to talk him out of it. They plagued him with horror stories about sleeping in sand, being bathed in bugs, shivering through 10-degree nights, melting on 130-degree days. They warned him about armed insurgents, booby traps and boys with machine guns.

And they showed him news stories about Halliburton.

Every week, Halliburton flies 500 to 700 potential employees, like Antony, to Houston for psychological and medical screenings. Kellogg Brown & Root, the Halliburton subsidiary Antony will be working for, has more than 40,000 employees in Iraq, Kuwait and Afghanistan, more than the combined number of soldiers in Iraq from every country except America. "Never before has any contractor worked in as dangerous a situation as they are," Halliburton's Web site says.

So far, 69 Halliburton employees have been killed in the Middle East, including four dining services workers in Mosul, Iraq, on Dec. 21, and five truck drivers. The drivers' fuel convoy was ambushed by insurgents near Baghdad on April 9. Halliburton's Web site posts each obituary.

"Don't go," Antony's family and friends kept pleading. "Please don't go."

Why would you want to go, everyone kept asking.

Only his dad and his best friend, Clark, understood. Clark even wanted to go with him.

Tan and broad-chested, not quite 6 feet tall, Antony has a square jaw, high cheekbones and mischievous eyes the color of the sea. He wears Patagonia shirts, board shorts and flip-flops. For more than 20 years, his sandy hair hung past his waist.

He chopped off his ponytail this summer, before his job interview. He figured Halliburton didn't hire hippies.

Before this week, he'd never been married. Until last year, he'd never voted Republican.

"Some folks here tonight might not recognize me," he says, running his hand through his cropped hair. "I guess I have changed. The whole world's changed."

A free spirit, third son of a St. Petersburg actor mother and international sailor father, Antony was nearly born on a sailboat. His dad roared ashore in Jamaica, just in time. He and his brothers and sisters grew up on boats, gliding around the world, setting anchor only for a few years in Costa Rica.

As a teenager, Antony went to boarding school on a 173-foot square-rigger called the Flint School. Clark O'Neil was his cabin mate, his roommate, his soul mate. Together, they were going to explore the world.

Antony moved to Florida for his final year of high school. He went to St. Pete High, like his mother and grandmother. His dad promised to get him an appointment to the Air Force Academy.

Antony had always dreamed of being a fighter pilot.

In his senior year, though, during a physical for the military, Antony learned he had a heart murmur. Fighter pilots can't have heart murmurs.

His wings were clipped before they even unfurled.

He tried studying political science at New College in Sarasota. But after a year, he was restless. He'd seen many exotic places but knew nothing of his own country. He went on the road to join his mom, who by then had divorced his dad and married a man who ran a traveling musical act.

For the next three years, Antony - "Tono" - sang and played guitar in the "Good Vibes Medicine Show." Carnivals and county fairs, even the 1984 World's Fair in New Orleans. He and his mom, stepdad, brother, sister and girlfriend motored the highways from Florida to Michigan.

Antony drove.

Around 8 p.m. he emerges from the bedroom, Prince trailing at his heels. He runs his hands through his cropped hair. Surveys the party from the hall.

Two dozen people are packed on the porch. Kids wired on soda are weaving through the living room. Someone had the nerve to put Sentimental Journey on the stereo.

"Got my bags, got my reservations/ Spent each dime I could afford/ Like a child in wild anticipation. ..."

Antony ducks into the bathroom. His head is pounding. His stomach is churning. He needs some aspirin - or something.

Finally he makes it to the living room, carrying a Coke.

"You okay?" asks his sister-in-law Kelli. "You look pale."

Antony forces a smile. "I think I'm getting the flu," he says.

He swears he's not worried. Not about the danger, the dying. After the medicine show packed up, he raced motorcycles "until I broke enough bones I needed a new hobby. Nothing's more dangerous than that," he says. Except, maybe, being shot at.

Antony has never been in a fight. The only combat he has seen was years ago in a St. Pete Beach bar, when three Coast Guard guys tried to steal his girlfriend, then beat him up.

So what can he do, what will he do, if he gets ambushed? "Drive fast and duck," Antony says, laughing. "And if I get caught, tell them I'm Canadian."

He'd been searching for something for years. After 9/11, after watching the twin towers fall, Antony - like so many Americans - found himself re-evaluating the world and his place in it.

A lifelong Libertarian, he voted for Ralph Nader in the 2000 election. But after hearing President Bush vow to get the terrorists, Antony found himself agreeing with the Republicans. For the first time since high school, he thought about joining the military.

"But I'm too old for that now," he says.

When he heard about the hijacking, he knew he had to go.

In April, Antony read about American truck driver Tom Hammill being caught and held captive, then escaping, in Iraq. Hammill wasn't a soldier. He was a fuel rig driver, just like Antony.

"My first thought was: "What's an American civilian doing driving trucks in Iraq?"' Antony says. "My second was: "How can I get a job like that?"'

He went online and found an application for Halliburton. He learned that he'd work 12-hour days, seven days a week, driving gasoline in convoys of up to 20 trucks. He could work in Iraq or Afghanistan, drive from Kuwait to Pakistan, live on a military base, sleep in a tent with 10 other workers, eat in a mess hall. He could come home every four months, for 10 days at a time. And, if he lasted a year, his income would be tax-free.

He found out he could earn $85,000 a year.

"That's $1,600 a week - about four times what I make right now," Antony says. "I figure if I last three years, I can save at least $200,000. Maybe take my wife on a honeymoon - or travel somewhere safer than where I'm going."

But money isn't his main motivation.

After a while, when you're moving in circles, even though you're moving, you start to realize you're not getting anywhere. Up and down the beaches, pumping boat fuel day after day, for 17 years.

After a while, you have to escape.

Especially when the world snaps and your country comes under attack and your mother dies. And everyone around you is married, owns a house, complains about their kids. And you're still alone.

What's left to hold on to? What's holding you back?

Money. Adventure. One long, wild road trip.

The American dream.

That's why Antony is going to Afghanistan. He figures it will be safer than Iraq.

Out on the porch, the party is winding down. The pizza boxes are empty. The disco ball is still. Everyone is hugging Antony goodbye.

He's not ready.

"Wait, wait," he calls, as his brother Ian starts to leave. "I want to get a picture."

He ducks into the back bedroom of his dad's house, where Prince is snoozing on a suitcase. He grabs a disposable camera, plants a kiss on his dog's shaggy head.

When he comes back to the porch, his oldest sister, Wally, is sobbing. She throws her arms around Antony and wets his T-shirt with her tears. "Be careful! Please be careful," she begs. "Please, please come back to us."

Antony rubs her back for a second, then untangles himself gently. "No crying, now," he says, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine."

He lines up everyone for a photo: his dad, Bill; brothers Miles, Nick and Ian; sisters Wally and Kirste; brothers- and sisters-in-law; his stepdad, Brian; and his friend Jeff, who will be taking care of Prince.

Everyone is here. Except Clark.

For 25 years, Antony kept up with his best friend from boarding school. Clark settled in Florida too, and the former roommates saw each other often. Besides Antony's dad, Clark was the only person excited about Afghanistan. Clark wanted to go too.

Then he died. Just before Thanksgiving, a blood clot burst in Clark's chest.

"I'm still taking him with me," Antony tells his sister-in-law Kelli at the end of the night. "Check this out."

He slips a chain from his neck. In his hand, he cradles a silver bullet-shaped vial: Clark's ashes.

"His mom sent me this, when she found out I was still going," Antony explains. "She thought maybe he'd protect me."

He clasps the chain back around his neck, settles the charm against his heart.

"Come on, Clark," he says. "Time to go traveling again."

On the Web

For more information about Halliburton, log on to www.halliburton.com

[Last modified January 20, 2005, 10:29:06]