Weapons of Mass Destruction (15 page)

Al-jihad fi sabil Allah!
Fard al-kifayah!

All who believed were commanded to fight in the cause of Allah. Women and even children were enjoined to do their communal duty. No wonder families were still embedded within the insurgency in East Manhattan. Minaret broadcasts had drowned out coalition injunctions to evacuate the city. The fact that this particular imam was still preaching confirmed that Sinclair’s company was approaching occupied territory.

Radetzky decided to duplicate the strategy that had led to the destruction of the cell the day before. Colonel Denning tentatively authorized the plan, pending the findings of exploratory feints. Five platoons in the vicinity of the mosque were ordered to suspend search-and-destroy missions in order to surround the target. Extra rooftop coverage was dispatched to act as the eyes and ears of the offensive. Sinclair and Logan were stationed together atop a compound with a clear view of the mosque’s palatial entrance. Even when its speakers were silent, its imposing architecture broadcast an unmistakable message. Imams were the keepers of the keys to the city. No one dared challenge the authority of Fallujah’s spiritual leaders.

After the grueling pace of the past two days, it was a relief to be ordered to hold one position. With just the two of them on the roof, it was like being back at the base. They lapsed into their almost domestic relationship, enjoying the familiarity of one another’s company. Logan scanned the area with binoculars, and Sinclair probed suspicious nooks and crannies with his rifle scope. Orphaned cats and dogs prowled alleyways, looking for something to eat. They could hear them pawing through overturned garbage cans, fighting over scraps. Otherwise the neighborhood was conspicuously quiet, not so much abandoned as holding its breath. Even the mosque had fallen silent. Then Radetzky started mobilizing exploratory feints, testing the waters to see what they were up against. Every time a decoy unit of marines advanced, it was bombarded with unprecedented firepower, including missiles and mortars.

“They’ve stockpiled some big babies in there,” Sinclair said.

“Time to roll in the tanks.”

What seemed like an obvious game plan wasn’t forthcoming. The delay seemed inexplicable given the rush to reach the phase line.

“I smell a rat,” Logan said.

“Baghdad?”

“The CPA.”

“Better known as Confused Political Assholes.”

Every time Centcom authorized a mosque attack, the Coalition Provisional Authority tried to pull the plug. They were provisional in more ways than one, allies only insofar as they needed Americans to enforce their newfound authority over sectarian insurgencies. Even then, mosques were sacrosanct, a perennial reminder that Allah was the true authority in the region. Radetzky refused to confirm or deny Logan’s conjectures that the CPA was obstructing the offensive. Even more tightlipped than usual, he ordered his men to hang tight. Sinclair still had faith in the coalition. He offered a more humane explanation.

“Must be evacuating civilians before we launch the attack,” Sinclair said.

They watched the mosque for almost an hour, and not a soul entered or exited the main gate. Like a castle, its drawbridge was already raised for battle.

The militaristic impregnability of the structure impressed Sinclair the soldier but offended Sinclair the American citizen. He had been raised to respect the separation of church and state. The rhetoric of the Axis of Evil notwithstanding, he continued to believe that the United States exemplified this fundamental democratic principle. In Iraq, the conflation of politics and religion constituted yet another permeable boundary that confounded his understanding of an ethical universe of mutually exclusive forces. Good and evil. Democracy and radical Islam. Separation of church and state was right, and everything else was wrong. Occupying a mosque violated more than just rules of engagement. A more flagrantly sacrilegious military strategy was almost inconceivable. Almost. Snipers were notoriously susceptible to the seductions of minarets, whose shooting angles were incomparable.

“How would you say churches compare with mosques?” Sinclair asked Logan.

“I’m not following you.”

“If you had to hunker down in a mosque or a church, which would you choose?”

“A mosque. Just look at that minaret.”

“Churches have spires.”

“Purely symbolic. Churches are never used for military purposes.”

“What about the Crusades?”

“That was a long time ago. And they were Catholics, not Christians.”

“Very funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“Sorry.”

Sinclair had trouble negotiating Logan’s born-again distinctions. They seemed unnecessarily elaborate or alarmingly loose, depending on the context. For starters, the difference between Christians in general and born-agains in particular eluded him. Logan said the determining factor was the believer’s relationship with the word of God.

“You mean the Bible?” Sinclair asked.

“What else would I mean?”

“Catholics read the Bible.”

“Correction. Catholics have their own liturgy. Loosely based on scripture.”

“What about Methodists? And Lutherans?”

“Sunday Christians.”

“But Christians all the same.”

“God will separate the wheat from the chaff on the last day.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re either born again or you’re not.”

To Sinclair it seemed more a question of degree than anything else. As far as he could tell, garden variety Christians talked the same talk, but practiced what they preached less vehemently. He knew better than to say this to Logan, who was virulently opposed to radicalism of any kind. Just look at jihadis, murdering innocent people throughout the region. Even Israel, the holiest of lands, wasn’t exempt from their violence.

“Don’t get me started,” Logan would say.

It didn’t take much. The mere mention of Palestinians elicited tirades about the audacity of Arabs staking claims on the birthplace of Christ. As far as Logan was concerned, their demands defied historical record. Virtually every reliable source confirmed that Jews were the chosen people, the true heirs of the holy land. Jesus was a Jew, after all. The first great convert. Logan sincerely regretted that Jews wouldn’t be saved on the last day unless they accepted Christ as their personal savior. And why not? Technically, they were just unconverted Christians.

When voting in national elections, Logan chose candidates based on their commitment to unconditional military support of the Israeli army. His decision to enlist in the Marine Corps was based largely on the belief that victory in Iraq would help safeguard the state of Israel. Fallujah’s imams apparently agreed, albeit for radically different reasons. Another of their favorite rants, broadcast in the same breath as evening prayers, characterized the American occupation as a conspiracy designed to aid and abet Jews intent on stealing Iraqi oil. Divested of regional propaganda and dogma, the insurgency’s insistence on the intertwined fates of Israel and Iraq was a mirror image of Logan’s viewpoint. Sinclair took this bizarre concurrence as yet another example of the dangers of mixing religion and politics.

Though Logan was highly sensitive to distinctions among Catholics, Protestants, and born-agains, he lumped al-Qaeda, Hamas, Fatah, and Hezbollah into a single monumental terrorist bogeyman, intent on destroying Western civilization. Even Sinclair tended to agree that ideological and sectarian differences changed nothing on the ground. From a purely militaristic point of view, the United States of America was the world’s supercop, cracking down on the latest wave of international crime. Globalism had upped the ante. Twentieth-century fascism and communism had morphed into an even more insidious threat. New-millennial terrorism.

Sinclair was equally committed to taking the fight to the enemy. Skeptics like his father said the conflict in the Middle East was all about oil. The few pinkos left in the world blamed capitalism, as usual. Radicals of all stripes said it was a religious war. But Sinclair knew they were fighting to safeguard freedom at home and abroad—freedom of speech, freedom from want, freedom from religious persecution, the freedom to vote according to the dictates of your conscience—everything his military uniform represented. His war was ethical, not religious. Had Americans all been fighting the same battles, they might have already prevailed.

Logan was all for freedom as long as it didn’t affect prayer in schools. The First Amendment made him a little edgy. It was prone to falling into the wrong hands. The sixties had inspired Congress to outlaw flag burning, among other un-American activities. But the debate over whether the Pledge of Allegiance should include reference to one nation under God still reared its ugly head. When one of Logan’s college history professors claimed the phrase had only been added in 1954, he dropped the class. He made the mistake of recounting this story during one of the platoon’s late-night gabfests. Wolf pounced on every opportunity to alleviate combat anxiety with comic relief. The more humorless the target, the better.

“You’re saying America is a Christian country?” Wolf asked.

“I’m saying we’re one nation under God, and the God in question has a long white beard—”

“Kind of like imams?”

“You didn’t let me finish. And nothing on his head. Not a turban or towel in sight. Just more of that lily white hair.”

“Not even a yarmulke? I thought your God was Jewish.”

In self-defense, Logan eventually adopted the platoon’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy regarding religious convictions. But not before everyone understood that his patriotism was an act of faith. There was only room for one God in Iraq. His. Logan’s condemnation of sectarian militias didn’t undermine his belief that the United States was authorized to wage war in the name of Jesus Christ. After all, double standards were standard fare in religious wars. Mirror images of monotheism were embattled in the Middle East, not that either side recognized their reflection. Sinclair stopped short of equating Logan’s fervor with the fanaticism of the insurgents in the mosque. A lone born-again marine could hardly be held responsible for the apocalyptic tenor of this war. Besides he was very fond of Logan. They had been through a lot together.

They cracked open a couple of MREs, more to stay awake than to stave off hunger. As usual, they swapped food groups. Logan was crazy about chips. When they had access to unlimited ready meals, he opened one after another and scarfed down bag after bag. Sinclair was perfectly willing to trade chips for fruits and vegetables, presumably because his mother had never allowed her children to eat junk food growing up. This was one of several private rituals, nobody’s business but their own. Around the other guys, Sinclair forfeited extra vegetables to avoid being teased. Logan wasn’t the only brunt of Wolf’s goody-two-shoes jokes. In the middle of his second bag of chips, Logan raised a finger as though testing the wind.

“Hear that?”

They both stopped chewing and listened to the distant grind of approaching tanks.

“Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen.”

But still nothing happened. The tanks stopped, just out of artillery range, and even the Cobras patrolling overhead disappeared. Then Radetzky radioed an inexplicable order.

“Retreat two blocks. Reconnoiter in the last cleared compound.”

They had expected to hold their positions to pick off insurgents escaping the mosque bombardment. As many could be killed in flight as were incinerated inside by mortar explosions. This flush-and-plug strategy had been employed to great advantage in Baghdad, where heavy artillery was the backbone of almost every operation. It reminded Sinclair of shooting galleries at good old-fashioned county fairs, minus the Kewpie doll prizes. Logan thought of it more like a computer game with rapid-fire targets. He was disappointed when the plan fell through. Gunners rarely had the opportunity to practice sharpshooting.

“What’s up with that?” Logan said.

“Maybe they’re holding hostages inside.”

“Then turn up the heat. Smoke ’em out.”

“Don’t worry. Radetzky knows what he’s doing.”

They hustled back to the designated compound, anxious to find out their next move. No one admired Radetzky more than Sinclair. With the foresight that separates officers from their men, he had no doubt devised another brilliant plan. Sinclair studied Radetzky’s maneuvers with an eye to emulating them some day. He had originally enlisted because of 9/11, but the longer he served in the Marine Corps the more he considered making a career of it. One in a hundred grunts were officer material. Sinclair certainly had the right attitude. Time would tell if he had the right stuff.

Reunited with the platoon, Sinclair noticed that Radetzky seemed distracted. He ordered his men to lie low until daybreak. All but the most die-hard gunners welcomed the chance to bed down. Insomniacs spent their time cleaning weapons and muttering questions, none of which had answers. The usual flurry of radio transmissions from Tactical Operations was suspended. Periodically Radetzky checked in with the battalion commander. Otherwise he sat brooding, not even consulting his beloved aerial map of the city. Sinclair echoed his mood. They were far more on edge sitting around than they would have been gearing up for battle.

Half of the company was crammed into a single compound. The floors were so jammed with prone bodies you couldn’t walk from one room to another. Snoring competed with the noise of dueling broadcasts outside. A psychological operations team tasked with bolstering morale was stationed nearby. Their loudspeakers sounded like they were inside the room, if not inside Sinclair’s head. Trying to drown out harangues from the mosque necessitated turning the volume up a notch every other minute. As usual, PSYOP’s choice of material was predominantly gothic, as though they had all watched
Psycho
one too many times as kids. They were forever splicing together audio clips from slasher films. The target audience was ambiguous. They were either terrorizing terrorists or trying to pump up guys like McCarthy who reveled in gore.

Sinclair honestly didn’t know which was worse, the imam’s fanatic denunciations or the accompanying maniacal laughter, which sounded like the Joker in
Batman
. Both sides were screaming amplified bloody murder punctuated by the bone-rattling percussion of heavy-metal songs. Dead on Arrival’s “Attack of the Peacekeepers.” “Killing an Arab,” courtesy of The Cure. The War on Terror was the first war with an official soundtrack. The fact that it sounded more like a horror film than a military operation said a lot about the new millennium, none of it good. Guys like Sinclair would have preferred something a little more patriotic, maybe “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” to remind them of what they were really fighting for. Guys like him were in the minority.