Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (52 page)

“NO!” Bono screamed.

The radio crackled and went dead.

* * *

The car bomb had been planted inside the passenger’s side of the door. The terrorist had rigged the device to explode when the window was broken or the car door unlocked. Based on the power of the detonation, the explosives forensic specialist estimated that the bomb was packed with ten to twelve pounds of dynamite, enough to kill everyone within twenty meters of the car.

Four U.S. troops, all members of Bono’s and Brighton’s unit, had been killed trying to rescue the little boy from the car. Another seven were wounded, almost the entire Tiger team, some of them critically burned and scarred. The entire afternoon was spent evacuating them, with medivac helicopters deployed from as far away as Kirkuk. While the wounded were cared for and evacuated, two more Delta teams, Sam’s included, were deployed to the area, where they searched house to house, questioning everyone they could find within four blocks of the explosion. They learned the automobile had been parked and deserted late in the afternoon of the day before. Apparently, the little boy had spent part of a day, a night, and the morning alone in the abandoned car packed with dynamite, and all for the opportunity to blow a couple of U.S. soldiers to bits.

The terrorists knew the soldiers would help the little boy when they found him. No way they would leave him to die in the car.

Although Sam and his team interrogated everyone in the neighborhood, they learned little else and took no one into custody. This was a battle-worn area, with an explosive mix of Sunnis and Shiites, and the locals had learned it was far better, and much safer, not to say anything.

All they were able to find of the little boy was one of his feet, the shoe still attached but split at the toes, which had been blown across the street and through a small apartment window, where it landed on the floor.

* * *

Late that night, Sam lay awake on his cot. His gut burned inside him, and his fists were clenched at his side.

He pictured the scene again and again. His dead comrades blown to pieces. The shoe of the little boy. The fire and the smell.

He cursed in frustration, a rage that boiled over inside. He cursed the whole war. It was pointless and worthless, a complete waste of time. What were they doing, losing good men like this, all in a fruitless attempt to save the population of this stinking country from themselves.

These people simply weren’t worth it.

They should pack up and leave them to rot in their hell, leave them to canker in this cancer they loved so well. They were cowards, afraid to fight for themselves. Leave them. Not look back. Write them off, every one of them.

* * *

As Sam cursed bitterly, a black angel hunched beside him, kneeling, his arms at his side, his mouth pulled into a tight and hideous frown. His teeth flashed, the only white on his face, for his eyes were as dark and lifeless as the black hole in his soul.

“
You hate them
,” Balaam whispered in the soldier’s ear. “
These people are all idiots. Savages. Animals. They aren’t capable of freedom. They’re too stupid, too weak. They aren’t like you, so clever, so capable, and so strong. You are so much better than they are, so much smarter and good. Look at them all. Take a look at this place! Is there anything worth fighting for here? Is there any good in this land?
”

Balaam took a deep breath, thinking as he glanced at the other American soldiers who were sleeping around them. How he hated them all! How he hated what they stood for and the things they had done! How he hated their kindness and the reasons they fought!

* * *

Sam wrestled on his cot, stretching his legs uncomfortably. He felt agitated and angry. Hatred was building inside. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his hands through his hair, his bare chest glistening in the dim, moonlit night. His dog tags hung from his neck, and the chain swayed against his chest as he rubbed his eyes.

* * *

“
You hate them!
” Balaam continued to hiss in Sam’s ear. “
They smell. They are dirty. These people are not like you. They are not as good, not as strong. They are lazy. They are stupid and evil and stubborn and weak. Look at you! Look where you are! This hell-hole of misery! Once the main force pulled out, the entire thing collapsed, leaving not an inch of progress. Then what is all this for!

“These people, they’re not good, they are . . . don’t you know? . . . something else . . . something less . . . something unworthy of democracy and the things you fight for
.”

* * *

Sam shook his head and frowned, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He knew they weren’t true, and he was ashamed for even thinking them.

But the little boy. The youngest martyr. How could he reconcile that?!

He struggled again, trying to force the depressing thoughts from his mind. And though Balaam kept hissing at him, he wasn’t listening anymore.

Yes, there were times when he wondered—times when he had his doubts, but he knew that it was not the Iraqis’ fault. For almost three thousand years, Iraqis had lived through a nearly endless cycle of subjection and strife. The idea of democracy was completely foreign to them. Foreign to their Muslim roots. Foreign to the traditions of their tribes.

But they wanted it or something like it. At least most of them did. It was just that there were enough of the others to make it
so
difficult.

Sam shook his head in frustration, thinking of the dead little boy. That was the real tragedy. All the children. They were innocent. And far too often, they took the brunt of the war. Not from the U.S. soldiers; the U.S. military took exceptional pains to protect civilians and innocents. But these insurgents, these evil men who claimed to be fighting for the people but were clearly fighting for the power they craved, they were all too willing to fight their battles between the arms of another man’s children, using them as shields or as bait, as diversions or screens, taking any advantage the children might give them to spring a surprise.

Maybe because he had suffered as a little boy, Sam had an exceptional soft spot, an almost deadly weakness, for the children he saw. He wondered again, and not for the first time, if there wasn’t something he could do for these innocents. He had see far too many suffer—the little boy in the car, the young woman in Iran, so many others through the last year. If he could just think of something, anything, that might make a difference in even one of their lives.

A blazing sandstorm had wrapped Camp Freedom in a miserable blanket of suffocating brown dirt and sand as fine as talcum powder. It turned the afternoon a dismal brown while coating everything in fine grit, bringing security operations to a slow and gloomy crawl.

Sam stood alone in his tent. He tied a brown handkerchief over his mouth and nose, pulled his combat goggles down over his eyes, fastened the Velcro
^®
collar on his combat jacket, and headed out the tent door. As soon as he stepped into the wind, he felt the sand blowing down his collar, up his sleeves, around his fastened pant legs, and into his ears. He lifted a hand to block the wind as he made his way to the Operations Center. Before stepping inside, he shook off his clothes as best he could, then dropped the handkerchief from his face and squeezed through the door, sliding in quickly to keep the sand at bay. A temporary shield had been put up between the door and the interior of the tent, and he brushed himself off from his boots to his hair, then pushed the heavy cloth back and stepped into the room.

The Operations Center was crowded and noisy. The sandstorm had significantly complicated combat operations, and the officers and senior enlisted men were busy working on their contingency plans. Sam saw Bono sitting at a makeshift plywood table in a quiet corner at the back of the center. Spread out on the desk in front of him were several satellite photographs, his next patrol order, a communications plan, and several other items.

The patrol order included the detailed rules of engagement for the mission: a three- or four-page analysis of the anticipated enemy action, the purpose of the mission, the position of friendly forces, including the location and availability of Air Force fighters for ground support, ingress and emergency egress routes, communications plans, radio frequencies, code words and the meanings of various smoke and illumination signals, and a list of the teams that were assigned for backup and support. Written in large block letters across the cover page of the patrol order were the words “Prepare Now or Die,” a fairly effective means of reminding the squad leaders of the importance of preparing for their patrol. And though reviewing the patrol orders was one of the least liked tasks for most officers, Bono took the responsibility very seriously.

Sam walked toward him, but Bono kept his head in his work. Watching him, Sam thought he seemed to be nervous. Sam knew that another squad leader had been reassigned recently to logistics or chow hall or some other non-combat duty, and that Bono was determined not to make a miserable mistake, though it wasn’t his career he was worried about nearly so much as his men.

Bono was writing notes in the margin of his tactical map; Sam watched over his shoulder as he worked. In the corner of the desk, Bono had placed a picture of his wife and daughter. Most soldiers had some kind of charm or pre-mission routine that was supposed to bring them good luck. Some wore the same color underwear each time, some spit in the wind, some chewed the same gum, kissed a cross, wrote a letter, or listened to the same song. Bono’s ritual was to tape a picture of his family on the wall next to the table while he prepared for patrol. Sam didn’t know why, but, of course, he never asked. It was considered extremely bad form to question another’s pre-combat routine.

Peering at the picture of the beautiful little family, Sam felt a tiny sinking in his gut. He moved toward the picture, looking closely while Bono kept his head down.

Will I ever have this?
he wondered. He could only hope that he would.

Family was something Sam rarely talked about. His biological father, the old drunk who occasionally made a little money as a charter fisherman on the southern Virginia coast, and his mother, who had deserted him to the old man when he was only eight, had never been anything but a stress in his life. Yeah, they were back together now, and it seemed they were getting along, but after years of abuse, it was impossible for him to think of them as his mom and dad. If it hadn’t been for the Brightons . . . Sam hated to even think. They had saved him. They were his family now.

But still he felt, deep inside, that he wasn’t really one of them. The Brightons seemed to have something that he would never have, some innate goodness, some moral bearing that he just didn’t possess. They were as straight down the line as anyone Sam had ever known, and he wasn’t quite like that, though he had really tried. Sometimes he thought there was something inside them, something that ran through their veins, that made them different from him, even better somehow. He had tried. He had tried really hard. He was still trying. But he fell short so often, it seemed it just didn’t work.

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted when Bono finally looked up. “Still blowing out?” he asked wearily.

Sam nodded to the flapping sides of the tent. “No. The wind has died down completely.”

Bono turned, his face still blank.

“No helicopters will be flying tonight,” Sam added as an afterthought.

Bono looked down at his map and mumbled, “That means no air support.” He shook his head.

Bono’s desert fatigue shirt was open, showing the dog tags that dangled from the chain on his neck. Hanging next to the dog tags was a small silver shield. Lots of soldiers wore them. They called the little charm the Shield of Strength.
Josue 1:9
was etched on the back—not the entire scripture, just the reference. Sam, who also wore a Shield of Strength, had the scripture memorized:
“Behold I command thee, take courage, and be strong. Fear not and be not dismayed: because the Lord thy God is with thee in all things whatsoever thou shalt go to.”

Subconsciously, he reached under his fatigues and felt for the Shield of Strength there. Squeezing it, he asked Bono, “You thirsty?”

“Feels like I’ve got half the desert stuck in my throat.”

Sam cocked his head toward the rear door of the Operations Center. Bono nodded, stood up, and followed him through a wooden door that opened up to a wide canvas hallway, then to another tent, which was set up as a lounge for the unit’s soldiers. Once inside the second tent, they made their way to the refrigerator and grabbed some sodas, then dropped onto a couple of cheap, folding chairs. It was quiet here, and the two men relaxed for a while. Bono finished his soda in three long gulps, then took the picture of his family, which he had been holding in his hand, and tucked it inside the chest pocket on his shirt.

Sam watched him. “Do you always think of them?” he wondered.

“You know, it’s funny,” Bono replied. “When I’m out there in the fight, I don’t think about my family. I don’t think about my wife, my kid, nothing like that. I don’t think about going home, the reason I’m fighting, the idea of freedom or America or any of that. All I think about is the guys in the team. Protecting each other. Keeping each other safe.”

Sam didn’t answer. He felt the same way.

“We are the only men in the world who know what that means, to fight and die with your brothers. It’s a huge privilege, man.”

Sam held his cold soda bottle to his cheek, feeling the condensation cooling his skin. The lounge wasn’t air-conditioned; despite the strong wind, it was hot inside.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Bono asked, staring blankly ahead.

“What’s that?” Sam replied.

Bono crushed his plastic soda bottle, walked to the fridge, pulled out another soda, then came back and sat down. “People say American soldiers fight to protect their freedoms,” he started. “Some people write us letters and thank us for keeping them safe. The politicians back home always thank us. Some are even sincere in their thanks. They say we are fighting for their freedoms. But I don’t think that’s true.”