Weapons of Mass Destruction (7 page)

“Make that eight,” Percy said. One of the insurgents had hightailed it straight into his SMAW nest. Dumb shit.

“Save some for us!” McCarthy yelled.

Wolf’s squad exploded out the back door. Seconds later, Radetzky’s men caught up with the action. They beat back the attack with superior firepower. This time, when they gave chase, an IED detonated in the alleyway. It was a classic bait and hook maneuver. The enemy must have thought it was worth sacrificing a few men to lure the platoon into the trap. Cowards. Their most effective strategies were almost always suicidal, completely at odds with American values. Real men never fought wars that way.

The platoon had learned to gauge the duration and range of IED explosions. The instant lethal debris settled, they rushed through dust and smoke to give chase. The remaining insurgents had covered a lot of ground, but Evans managed to mow down two more. The rest melted back into the malevolent city, seething with hate in the hot sun. Six down, five to go. Wolf wanted to track them down, but Radetzky was wary of friendly fire. They were verging dangerously close to the adjacent company’s quadrant. It was time to get back to the business of clearing houses.

The minute the squads disappeared into the next set of compounds, a lone figure appeared at the gate of a nearby mosque. He paused at its arched entrance, as though waiting for a sign. Then he started walking across a tree-lined public square toward Sinclair’s perch. Places of worship were strictly off-limits to fighters on both sides. Rules of engagement notwithstanding, minarets were often crawling with enemy snipers. Sinclair thought he detected a flash of light, what looked like a glinting gun barrel. But it could have been nothing more than a mosaic tile reflecting the midday sun. Fallujah’s minarets pierced the heavens like so many sacred spires or dazzling daggers, depending on who inhabited the mosque that day. Huge speakers were mounted on muezzins’ balconies. They were alternately used for prayer or ranting and raving, sometimes in the same breath. Sinclair’s Arabic was rudimentary, at best. But he had heard phrases like
al mout li Amreeka
so many times even he understood them. Once the offensive was under way, the incessant racket of guns and grenades drowned out the sound of holy hate. Thank God for small mercies.

Even before scoping him, Sinclair could tell the man was unarmed. He walked slowly, with almost formal precision, toward the corpses in the alleyway. It was an old man, so frail he had difficulty dragging the abandoned bodies, one by one, onto the back porch of a modest house. At one point, pausing to catch his breath, he looked up at Sinclair. His expression was difficult to decipher. There was sadness, surely, but also pride and mute outrage. It was a look Sinclair had seen often in Fallujah, and never anywhere else.

Sinclair kept one eye on the platoon, the other on the old man. He might very well be a decoy, or worse, using age as a form of camouflage. Iraqis were never too young or too old to take up arms against Americans. But nothing suspicious transpired. The minaret glinted without exploding into gunfire. No one tried to recover the dead insurgents’ rifles. They lay scattered, like so many tombstones, marking the spot where each shooter bit the dust. Apparently the old man’s motives were purely devotional. He stopped and rested repeatedly, swatting flies off the corpses of young men much bigger and stronger than himself. Sinclair was always impressed by the bravery of everyday people, often women and even children, retrieving their loved ones in deference to their sacred duty. They walked fearlessly into combat zones, toiling slowly and deliberately, as though protected by a force field of grace.

Sinclair respected the enemy for venerating their dead. He even respected their dead in a general way. But they were all unknown soldiers to him. They didn’t register as individual casualties caused by individual acts of war, let alone his actions. His response to his kills, to the extent that he had one, was qualified by the fact that they were technically insurgents, not soldiers. Maybe even terrorists. They didn’t serve their country honorably the way he did. They didn’t even have a country, though such dire dereliction was inconceivable to Sinclair, who loved America with a passion he scarcely understood and never questioned. There was no tomb of the unknown terrorist at Arlington National Cemetery or anywhere else. Yet they were treated with utmost respect by the women and children and old men who mourned them not as terrorists but as husbands and fathers and sons.

Sinclair’s grandpa had taught him to respect death above all things. To revere the game you shot was to transform an act of violence into the ritual of the hunt. Animals weren’t trophies to mount and display but noble partners in a primitive dance with death. In the same vein, if you didn’t honor the men you killed in war, the act verged on murder. Were they not engaged in this very offensive because terrorists had desecrated bodies on Brooklyn Bridge? The Battle of Fallujah, if it ever merited the name, would be remembered as a crusade to safeguard the dignity of death itself, a man’s right to an honorable burial. The old man’s ministrations seemed to affirm that even insurgents maintained that right.

“A civilian is recovering the bodies,” Sinclair reported into his headset. “He’s dragging them into a house.”

“Shit,” Radetzky exclaimed. “They’re not supposed to be here—”

“They were warned, Lieutenant.” An imperious voice interrupted Radetzky. “Anyone who chose not to evacuate is a potential threat.”

Periodically the tactical operations center listened in on their radio frequency, monitoring the platoon’s advance. Captain Phipps seldom intervened. When he did, he expected results.

“Roger that, Captain,” Radetzky confirmed.

“No pussyfooting around. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

The whole platoon heard the order loud and clear. It didn’t mean you had to shoot unarmed civilians. It did mean you fired first and asked questions later, if at all. Making the decision to spare the old man had been mercifully easy. But the boundary between civilians and insurgents was seldom so cut-and-dried in Fallujah. When in doubt, destroy. Delay and you get blown away.

With the exception of Lieutenant Radetzky, the platoon was energized by Captain Phipps’s intervention. His blunt aggression fueled their bravado, something Radetzky discouraged in favor of a more measured tactical mindset. Sinclair noticed an immediate difference. They seemed to gather momentum, as though time were speeding up. Combat time, they called it. Even Sinclair experienced it, isolated from the accelerated action below. The first day or two of a campaign proceeded minute by minute like a regular clock. Then something clicked and whole days flashed by, punctuated not by hours but by how many close encounters they survived and how many corpses lay in the wake of their survival. Fatigue also messed with their internal clocks. They were lucky if they grabbed four hours of sleep a night. Even then, they kept one eye open, half an ear cocked, just in case.

Sinclair had gone days at a time without sleep during the Battle of Baghdad. The breakneck pace of shock and awe acted as a kind of amphetamine, real as opposed to synthetic speed. Talk about flying high. Fallujah was tame in comparison, a much more methodical offensive. At least so far. He had plenty of Provigil pills in his ruck, which he avoided taking as long as possible. The last thing the platoon needed was a jumpy sniper. He’d probably have no choice in the long run. Judging from Captain Phipps’s impatience, nobody would be bedding down anytime soon.

Late in the day, Sinclair sighted a rifle team from a neighboring squad, cozy as can be on a penthouse balcony. They scoped each other and nodded gun barrels. Sinclair surfed his radio and found their frequency. The team was led by Lance Corporal Eddy, a sniper he’d met in basic training. They compared notes. The adjacent platoon had seen less action. But plenty of insurgents were retreating across their quadrant, just out of range. It was time to figure out where they were going.

“Spotted any Iraqi police uniforms?” Sinclair asked.

“One about three hours ago,” Eddy said. “Leading a group of four or five thugs.”

“Did you nail them?”

“They keep slipping through the cracks.”

“Must have their own lookouts.”

“Could be a cell nearby.”

“That much traffic?”

“All in the same direction. South by southwest.”

Sinclair reported these traffic patterns to Radetzky. Several other platoon lieutenants had fielded similar reports. Together they were able to map out a web of retreat routes converging on a sector just west of their location. Radetzky contacted Captain Phipps, requesting permission to temporarily suspend independent search-and-destroy missions. He proposed consolidating as many platoons as possible to execute a sting operation. Phipps passed the recommendation on to battalion headquarters.

“Permission granted,” Colonel Denning said. “But you’d better make damn sure it’s a cell and not a sewing circle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Civilian casualties. Bad press. You name it, Phipps. We could use a clear-cut victory to silence the doves.”

“Doves? I thought all the hawks in Washington were on the warpath.”

“Just as many doves in Baghdad. Tell Radetzky to find that cell and make it snappy.”

“Yessir.”

“I’ve got tanks all dressed up with nowhere to go. Let’s fill their dance cards.”

Colonel Denning and Captain Phipps were divided over how to negotiate the persistent presence of civilians on the battlefield. It was up to Radetzky to figure out how to execute conflicting orders. Captain Phipps had all but told them to shoot everything that moved. The colonel’s more prudent approach was more in line with Radetzky’s own disposition. But the question remained whether he could protect civilians while at the same time safeguarding his men. Too often, prudence and safety were mutually exclusive.

Captain Phipps could only spare one other platoon. Its commander, Lieutenant Lloyd, had served with Radetzky in Afghanistan. Both had classical music collections. They bonded over the Ring Cycle. Though neither of them broadcast their love of opera, they were privately gratified when PSYOP units blasted “Ride of the Valkyries” to rally the troops. What their sound systems lacked in acoustics they made up for in volume.

The two lieutenants deployed five squads to form a circle around the suspected cell site. Radetzky attached Sinclair’s team to Wolf’s squad. The action might be too fast and furious to involve sharpshooting. But Sinclair could still act as the eyes and ears of the offensive, monitoring the results of feints designed to confirm the target location. Every time a squad advanced toward what Radetzky called the beehive, a team of enemy drones emerged to protect the queen. What had once been a luxurious townhouse was now a terrorist cell, the sinister version of what marines called tactical operations centers.

Once they advanced far enough into East Manhattan, American troops also commandeered family homes. They were instructed to treat them with respect. Heirlooms were neatly stacked in corners and covered with tarps to protect them from fallout. China closets were searched without breaking a single sugar bowl. This kind of fatuous politesse scandalized McCarthy. Taking time out for what he called tea parties jeopardized men’s lives.

“We’re marines, goddamnit. Not Avon ladies.”

McCarthy was a disciple of General Sherman, an icon of the no-nonsense school of American military history. Declaring that war is hell was his way of acknowledging the brutality of battle. Pretending otherwise tended to exacerbate rather than ameliorate the devastation. One way or the other, precious cups and saucers were bound to suffer collateral damage. Alas. This time around, the platoon was authorized to dispense with gratuitous niceties. It was their first real chance to engage an actual enemy outpost, a welcome relief from the tedium of clearing houses. They were riding high because Sinclair had been instrumental in identifying the target. A little too high.

Wolf’s squad was assigned to the southern arc of the offensive, closest to Phase Line Violet. Only a quarter of a mile separated them from the industrial sector, which had already been targeted by Battalion 1/5. Their position was crucial. If insurgents survived the initial attack, they would probably retreat in a southerly direction toward the area not yet cleared. Wolf’s squad was tasked with cutting off their escape route. Plugging the hole was half the battle. Sometimes defense was the best offense.

“Secure a bunker,” Radetzky ordered. “No telling how many hajjis will show up on your doorstep.”

“We’ll be ready for them.”

Wolf chose the most imposing residence in the neighborhood, presumably the home of a Ba’athist bigwig. Percy and Sinclair staked out SMAW and sniper nests on the roof, a dynamic duo of brute strength and patient precision. Evans was tasked with backing them up. Out of habit, he stationed himself next to Sinclair. It felt right, fighting side-by-side again. Just like the good old days. The other gunners were posted at strategic windows in the compound below. Next thing they knew, tanks started rolling into the area. For good measure, a fleet of Bradleys was deployed to negotiate alleys too narrow to accommodate the big boys. Sacrificing stealth for firepower hadn’t been Radetzky’s idea, that’s for sure. Colonel Denning’s fingerprints were all over the op plan.

The grinding of tank treads on pavement must have alerted the cell. The whole block exploded as insurgents attempted to beat the big guns to the draw. Their survival depended on breaching the circle of squads before mounted artillery could finish them off. Lieutenant Lloyd’s platoon dominated the firefight on the northern perimeter. Radetzky’s men held their ground until Wolf’s compound started taking heat from behind. The enemy had outflanked them. They were surrounded.

“Insurgents moving in from the south,” Wolf reported into his headset.

“How many?” Radetzky demanded.

“Twenty. Thirty. A lot.”

“Hang tough. We’re on our way.”

Sinclair stashed his sniper rifle and grabbed his automatic. Percy launched a series of rockets twice the size of the insurgents’ best stuff. Evans was in his element, simulating an entire legion of marines. But there were only ten of them and untold numbers of enemy grenade launchers, difficult to locate in the smoky glare. If they were lucky, their assailants would overestimate the strength of their position based on the amount of ammunition the squad managed to pump out. Their only hope was to hold out until tanks crashed through the skirmish line.