Princes of War (36 page)

“And these terrorist motherfuckers,” Cooke continued, “Deliberately killing women and children—they’re just the latest incarnation of bullies.”

Wynn caught something in his peripheral vision. Gung headed towards them.

“They say we’re the world’s policeman,” Cooke added. “And, by God, the world still does need policing.”

“Sir, the CO is calling for you,” Gung said, now standing beside Wynn’s table.

“Where is he?”

“Back at the company, Sir. He said find you and send you back.”

“OK, thanks.”

Wynn turned to Cooke and said, “I bet it has to do with the brick factory. Hope they got the fly over.”

“Me too,” Cooke replied. “We gotta nail that bitch.”

Wynn admired Cooke’s can-do attitude. Ever ready to go right back at it. The guy was like a fullback who always wants the ball.

“I’ll go see him now, see the latest.” Wynn left. Cooke remained seated, not ready to leave. Wynn sensed Cooke’s eyes on him, a sharp hopefulness in his face. He remembered Cooke wanting to go straight to the brick factory earlier. Wynn, too, was anxious for the mission. Either the UAV over-flight hadn’t happened or it had. And if what the bird saw in the brick factory confirmed possible insurgent activity, that meant a mission to investigate on the ground would follow shortly. He hoped the Wolfhounds would be part of it.

“I’ll be back in my hooch by 2100, Sir,” Cooke, looking at his watch, called after Wynn. “Come see me after. Meantime I’ll knock on some doors.”

By his comment, Wynn knew Cooke intended to go check on the platoon’s soldiers. Cooke, at night, would regularly go door-to-door of the Wolfhound trailers, making sure the men were OK. Wynn thought again about Kale. Maybe Cooke would get some one-on-one time with him.

It was grey dusk outside now, nearly 2000. A thin stripe of orange lay on the horizon, the sun’s final lingering kiss. Wynn watched the slowly sinking orange as he made his way westward across the gravel-covered parking lot and the dirt road bisecting the FOB to the passage leading down the long row of company headquarters buildings. Fine powder from the road surface wafted upward, filling his nostrils with a dry chalk-like scent.

All four battalion companies’ headquarters stood side-by-side on this road. Wynn hurried, pondering options the whole way. If insurgents were hiding in the brick factory, how heavily would they be armed? What would Baumann plan? A night operation?

Wynn’s men had been provisionally released and not scheduled to meet up again until 0630 tomorrow. If something had to happen earlier, he’d have to get the word out. By time he got back, his men might be in bed.

Wynn arrived at D Company headquarters and went inside. Baumann’s office door was closed. Wynn knocked, then opened the door.

“Hold on. Need another minute here,” Baumann shouted from inside as soon as Wynn cracked the door. As he shut the door again, Wynn could see First Sergeant Keith inside. The crusty Keith had an exasperated, plaintive look on his face, as if he was asking for something he knew he couldn’t get. Wynn suspected Keith might be talking to the CO about the unit leave schedule. Soldiers had been rotating out for their two-week vacations back home. Baumann had recently re-juggled the list. That had caused grumbling in the ranks. The numbers of soldiers that could be gone at any one time was restricted, and the guys didn’t understand the timing. Each man wanted leave when he wanted it. Of course that couldn’t happen. Manpower had to remain sufficient to take care of all missions. The approved ratios meant the leave schedule would drag out past the ninth month in country for some of the soldiers. Keith had taken it on as a personal project to get everyone out and back before the battalion reached its eight-month mark in Iraq. Baumann argued his hands were tied.

In less than a minute, Baumann opened the door. “Come on in,” he said to Wynn. The First Sergeant walked out without comment, expressionless.

Wynn saw agitation on his commander’s face. Baumann’s day never ended. Men constantly came to him with problems, looking for decisions. Wynn had more than enough to keep him busy with just one platoon. He shut the door.

“Battalion sent a UAV over the brick factory,” Baumann said straightaway. “It looks like we’ve got bad dudes there. You guys did well. I got to watch some video stream at the TOC earlier. People appear holed-up in the old brick kilns, and maybe in the big building. A couple vehicles parked. And two guys carried some heavy stuff wrapped in blankets out of a car, possibly weapons, inside one of the kilns. Another two guys outside holding AKs. Not a typical family dinner party. Had the look of the usual thugs. The place definitely needs checking out.”

Wynn hadn’t said anything. He listened to Baumann, wondering what would come next.

“Battalion will let me know if they see anything else. They’re going to make several more over flights tonight, and give us any updates. I’m going to sit down now and plan the operation. I want you and the rest of the platoon leaders to come back here at 2100.”

“Roger, Sir,” Wynn said. “I’ll be back then.”

In a few minutes, Wynn was at Cooke’s trailer. Wynn knocked. No answer. He waited by the door a moment. He couldn’t call Cooke on the radio; Wynn’s radio was recharging in his trailer. Only Wynn had an Iraqi cell phone. Cooke must be out doing his door knocking, so Wynn started walking around the company trailer area to see if he would see or hear Cooke. The area was quiet. He saw several men playing cards between the trailers. He walked past the three quads of trailers where his men had assigned quarters and every door was shut. Dim interior light leaked out of curtained windows and between cracks in doors. Cooke might be inside a trailer doing footlocker counseling with a platoon soldier. Wynn decided not to interrupt. These guys needed all the close attention their platoon sergeant could give them. He decided to leave a note under Cooke’s door and went back to Cooke’s trailer. Taking a notepad out of his shoulder pocket, he wrote:
OPORD at 2100. LOOKS LIKE IT’S A GO. WILL COME BY AFTER.
He slid the note under the bottom of Cooke’s trailer door.

Cooke had about finished his rounds. He’d tried to share a gut-check moment with most of the men. Some had welcomed him with distant questioning eyes, stares of men grown tired by unsatisfactory waiting, the desire for something better and more conclusive radiating out of their bones. His response to each man was a positive phrase or two, intended as verbal caffeine, or maybe a head rub—he’d grind his big brown fingers into the man’s scalp—hoping to impart motivation by physical contact. He loved his men. He loved leading them. It was a kind of warrior’s romance.

He’d spotted Kale and Moose walking back from the latrine to their trailers. Cooke was pleased to see them together. The pair stopped when they saw him. Cooke greeted them. “How are my two favorite heathens tonight?” Neither man responded right away.

After long seconds of motionless dancing, while Cooke sampled their vitals with his eyes, Kale blurted, “Moose needed an escort to the little boys’ facilities.”

“That’s bullshit,” Moose retorted, and looked at Kale in amazement.

All three men laughed.

Cooke toyed with them a few moments longer; the exchange of words an obvious attempt by him to take a sample and check reflexes. He wanted them to know, and they knew. Cooke was happy Kale had played a comic card. Things seemed stabler. Reading Moose’s eyes, Cooke concluded that Moose sensed that the platoon sergeant wanted a personal report on Kale.

“Truth is, Sarge, Kale don’t need me to help him pull up his pants anymore. And if he asked me to pull them down, I wouldn’t fucking do it,” Moose said.

Cooke had his answer. Kale remained stable, if guarded.

No man wanted to be on the ground when others around him were walking erect. He felt Kale would keep walking.

Now Cooke sat in the trailer shared by Turnbeck, Pauls and Singleton, and listened to them brief him on the readiness of their trucks and their men. Each man had extra gravity in his voice and Cooke sensed the approach of something absolutely inevitable. He couldn’t stop it, and didn’t want to. Wynn would be back soon. They would have orders for an operation to the brick factory. Then, when the designated time came, the platoon would mount up, the gates of FOB Apache would open, their convoy would ride out, and the men and their equipment would again form into a type of martial projectile to be thrown by U.S. Army at a hostile world.

“Super,” Cooke said, when his NCOs had finished. “This much I know: whatever they have us do, every man will put his whole ass into it.”

Everybody would be OK. Those fuckers in PFA better be saying their prayers. He slid his hand into his left pants pocket and felt Ramirez’s name tape.

24

CPT Baumann had decided to lead the brick factory operation himself, using 2nd and 3rd platoons. Third platoon would take a blocking position south of the brick factory complex, and provide covering fire. The Wolfhounds would conduct the raid.

One platoon of soldiers didn’t give Baumann the manpower he needed to dominate the area. Attempting the operation with too few men increased the likelihood of failure. Baumann wanted the extra assurance of larger numbers. This meant that D Company would have two platoons outside their assigned sectors for the duration of the operation.

After Baumann’s initial comments, Wynn and the others waited in silence while their commander made a final check of his notes and prepared to brief the Operations Order. Baumann now wore glasses, magnifying his blue eyes and making him look older and more intelligent. His prominent forehead had chased his hairline rearward more rapidly than his youth would have suggested. His large mouth and puffy cheeks were swollen like a boxer’s. He must have gotten a haircut today; his remaining hair was mere stubble, giving him the look of a man expecting a very serious appointment. Sometimes Baumann acted aloof, but Wynn didn’t think this was the impression he intended to convey. Wynn believed the captain was a fair man. He was thoughtful. He wasn’t a screamer. Didn’t micromanage. A bit distant perhaps, but fair. The same general description had been used about Wynn.

Wynn was energized by the pending operation, but maintained his usual outer calm. He kept thinking how lucky they would be if the egg lady’s tip proved correct. Could the brick factory people be PFA? Maybe merely squatters. Normally the insurgent cells tried to embed deep in the communities, so they could blend in. Hiding out in the isolated brick factory didn’t fit with that. If they were insurgents, would the group include the female sniper?

Aerial surveillance had confirmed the presence of a small number of people in the brick factory. Vehicular traffic had been seen coming in and out of the complex. Photos showed two cars parked. Two or three structures showed evidence of activity. Most of the structures in the brick factory complex—actually abandoned brick kilns—looked like clay igloos. The kilns were maybe 20 feet in diameter, each penetrated by a cylindrical chimney. Saddam had built a new brick factory on the site in the early 1980s. This factory, which had tall smoke stacks like a power plant, appeared abandoned and stripped. As far as anyone knew, no bricks had been produced in any of the buildings since before the war.

Baumann stood up and walked the few feet over to a white marking board hanging on the wall, and began to sketch with a black felt pen. Each lieutenant already had a map in his hands. Baumann sketched for several minutes as the others waited.

1LT Smith took notes on a pad he held on his knee. He looked especially tired; his bloodshot eyes bulged like mushrooms. He was taking sleeping pills again.

2LT D’Augostino sat back with his arms folded and every minute or so he’d pull his mustache with his lower lip. D’Augostino had prior enlisted service. Wynn envied him for that, because of the extra experience it gave him.

About a minute later, back still turned to the room, Baumann started briefing the formal operations order by describing the enemy situation. He continued drawing on the board.

“In our battlespace the enemy continues to strike at Coalition and Iraqi forces with a combination of improvised explosives, small arms fire, periodic rocket attacks, and direct fire. Recent use of IEDs includes multi-shell explosives. One detonation in 3rd Battalion’s AOR three days ago destroyed a tank. The bomb was constructed of four 155mm rounds stacked vertically, wired to a rudimentary pressure plate. The enemy followed up the IED with small arms fire. About one-third of recent IED attacks involve complex attacks, where a secondary attack follows the first. The composition of the anti-Iraq forces continues to be a combination of religious radicals, foreign terrorist groups such as Al Qaeda, former Saddam regime members, Iranian special militia members, and other criminal elements, with those groups with foreign connections reported to be on the increase. Two days ago Alpha Company discovered a large munitions cache. That cache included several old Soviet anti-tank mines. And, of course,” he paused, “all of you know the purpose of this particular mission is a follow-up on a lead indicating insurgents might be hiding in this brick factory.”

Baumann tapped the board periodically for emphasis. He spoke officiously, without nuance or elaboration, confident that those in the room were well informed. To him it was all business. While Baumann reviewed recent enemy activities, Wynn marveled at the diversity of the forces arrayed against them. It would be so much more straightforward if they had only one enemy, like the Nazis, instead of this assortment of nebulous bad characters. Why did this war have to be so complex? A futile question. It was what it was. You don’t get to pick your wars.

Baumann continued, “The enemy may have emplaced booby traps along our planned routes of march. This could include both remote and command detonated devices. The brick factory complex might be wired with different explosives, and I’ve requested that an EOD team be on quick stand-by. We can expect the enemy to shoot at us with small arms and possibly light machine guns. Observation from positions inside the complex on our access routes is good. They’ll likely see us coming. And you all know they may have a capable sniper on their team. But during early movement, we’ll have darkness on our side.”