Princes of War (37 page)

Baumann hadn’t looked at them, speaking while facing the white board. Then he turned away from the board, stepping aside so they could see what he’d sketched. Wynn slid his chair over to see. Baumann pointed to three lines on the board sequentially, all of which represented the access roads into the complex.

“These are the access roads. Refer to your maps if you need to. Two—these two
,
” Baumann said, pointing to the roads entering from the east and north, taping the white board with his pen, “appear to be the most used. Twice in the last six hours vehicular traffic was seen using the north route. We know the road is OK on the east route, too, but haven’t seen it used in the last six hours. The exact condition of the south route is unknown, but that road appears to be abandoned. It has a half-broken bridge on it located here, making it impassable for cars.” He pointed to the bridge he drew on the sketch that wasn’t visible on their military maps.

“For Friendly forces, we’ll have an attack helicopter team on stand-by, a UAV in the air, as well as the EOD team. Fox Battery is in support with the big guns. As we close on the objective, as I said, the UAV asset will give me real-time information.

“First Platoon will continue operations in their sector.” Baumann turned to look at Smith, “and will not be impacted by this operation. Battalion QRF remains designated as the QRF, and would be the go-to element—not 1st platoon—if we need more guns. Hopefully we won’t. Any questions so far?”

No one spoke.

Baumann’s eyes circled the room, lingering a couple of seconds on each man. Wynn could see he enjoyed the audience, his own performance, and the control he had over them. Like an orchestra conductor in the middle of a concert, except this orchestra carried guns instead of musical instruments. Power always felt good. Even dangerous power.

“Our mission. Delta Company will advance to objective Endzone, secure it, searching for any insurgent activity in the area, seize the objective, and destroy or capture any enemy discovered. OK?”
Endzone
was one of a number of sports terms Baumann chose as names to identify locations on his sketch.

The commander again surveyed the room, looking at each of his subordinates. Nothing communicated silently from any of them suggested he should stop or restate anything, so he began again.

“We’ll execute like this. 2nd platoon will be the assault force.”

Baumann began describing the details of how they would execute the mission. Wynn listened and watched attentively, ticking off in his mind the things he knew should be addressed, paying particular attention to time schedules, such as departure times, noting the black lines and circles Baumann had sketched on the white board. Both platoons, he ordered, would depart the FOB at 0345, 3rd platoon leading the company convoy. Each would arrive at the route turn-off checkpoints at approximately 0415, then at their respective second checkpoints at approximately 0445. Assault time for 2nd platoon on the objective would then be approximately 0515. Baumann emphasized he wanted 3rd platoon to have enough time to set up their blocking position.

“I don’t want any squirters getting away.”

Wynn tried to picture the operation. The satellite photographs of the ground passed around earlier had helped. Periodically, he referred to the map on his lap. But nobody in the room had been to the brick factory before. Everything they talked about, everything Baumann told them, was all based on maps and aerial reconnaissance. But Wynn wasn’t concerned about that. Neither, evidently, was Baumann.

Baumann now described how 3rd platoon would approach the brick factory from the east route. To do this he used the sketch to show D’Augostino how he wanted 3rd platoon to travel and where it should set up. Baumann moved his finger along the sketch markings like a man examining a big city map. He left the exact positioning up to D’Augostino, and said so, but he mentioned issues and places he was most concerned about. Baumann spoke without notes for several minutes, explaining the terrain and the likely best places for clear observation outward away from the objective and inward towards the objective. Wynn waited patiently for 2nd platoon’s orders.

The Wolfhounds would be anxious to go no matter the dangers. They were hungry to avenge the sniper, hungry to retaliate for the death of that boy, hungry to achieve anything they could rightly call a victory. On most days the platoon was in reaction mode, visiting scenes of calamity, or combing for information or investigating thin leads, which often felt like stumbling around in the dark. This day would be different.

Baumann described the structures in the vicinity of Objective Endzone. “The main building is about one-hundred-fifty by five-hundred feet. We believe it’s been stripped. There are penetrations in the roof and numerous openings in the walls. Speculation is that everything useful was stolen. Aerial observation shows no recent activity.”

1SG Keith spoke up. “Simply because we haven’t seen anyone during the short periods the UAV flew over don’t mean nobody’s home. Might be the best place to hide people or things.”

“Absolutely,” Baumann answered. “We’ll check it out.”

“Walls, brick or sheet metal on that thing, Sir?” Keith asked.

“Looks like a combination. I suspect all the sheet metal would have been stolen.”

“Yeah.”

Baumann continued, “The Wolfhounds will proceed via the north route, passing checkpoint Third Base before turning south towards the objective. Christian, by the time you get here,” Baumann tapped a place on the sketch, “you’ll want to notify your assault teams to get ready for dismount. If we have not encountered enemy fire by this point, you’ll position two of your vehicles here.” Baumann again used his marker to trace this proposed movement on the board. He looked to Wynn for a confirmation, then continued.

“2nd platoon, leaving gunners and drivers in the trucks, will proceed dismounted towards these kilns.” He drew another circle around the Endzone area. “Once reaching the objective area, you will search each of these six kilns here.”

Baumann sharply tapped a few smaller, numbered circles he’d made on the white board sketch. “Here are the six kilns nearest to where activity has been seen.”

“This area about a hundred meters southwest of the factory is where we saw two vehicles. And this one...” He placed his pen on a three-inch diameter circle on the sketch and pressed against it, as if he were holding it in place. “This kiln is the one people were seen coming in and out of.” All the kilns he had pointed to were inside the larger circle labeled Endzone. “Make sure you get the kiln numbers correct.

“This is the area I want you to hit hardest.”

Baumann’s eyes drilled into Wynn’s, seeking acknowledgement. Wynn understood and nodded affirmatively, but said nothing.

“Take the platoon here.” Baumann pointed to an area just north of Endzone, “Confirm with me that 3rd platoon is in position, then hit these kilns one by one. Once you have eyes on, you can use your best judgment which one to start with. I’ll be in my Humvee in your convoy. Keep me informed. I’ve numbered these kilns one through six on the board, starting with this one, going clockwise.”

Wynn focused on the white board sketch. He carefully drew a sketch in his notebook and numbered the kilns, duplicating what Baumann had drawn. Baumann, noticing Wynn drawing, paused briefly.

Wynn wanted to ask when they would get their last aerial report from the drone. He wanted timely information before sending his platoon in, but decided to wait until the end of the brief to ask.

Baumann kept going. “Service and Support by Standard Operating Procedures. Top will have extra Class V in his truck for crew-served resupply. When the Wolfhounds turn here,”
Baumann pointed to the intersection of Route Cherry and the north route into the brick factory
,
“position yourself about a hundred meters in from that intersection and wait. Each platoon retains its organic medics.”

“As I mentioned, I’ll be with 2nd platoon. SOP remains in effect for communications.”

After reminding them of several other standard procedures, Baumann turned around, hands on hips, and asked again whether the group had any questions. His eyes broadcast performance satisfaction.

“Will we get a final aerial confirmation of what’s on the ground at the objective before we hit it?” Wynn asked.

“Yes, I have a bird on target at 0500 to do one more survey. That UAV will be on station until 0600. That should give us the latest information before we arrive on the objective.”

The lieutenants asked Baumann additional questions, then Keith spoke up, a mischievous look on his face, “Sir, I have one more question. If the bitch sniper is there, can we scalp her?”

Everyone laughed. Even Baumann cracked a smile. He looked around the room, thinking about what to reply.

“Sometimes, First Sergeant, we can wish we lived in the eighteenth century.”

DAY SEVEN

25

Wynn woke early, very early. He looked at his watch—0253. He’d slept fitfully, never more than 30 minutes consecutively, feeling suspended between dreams and full consciousness. Details of the pending brick factory operation cycled over and over in his head, hard pieces of information tumbling in his semi-consciousness, like ice from an ice maker. Awake now, guilt came knocking, as if he was forgetting something but didn’t know what. He’d rarely had trouble sleeping, even here. His body always needed sleep, took it ravenously, but never too much. He got out of bed. Still in his skivvies, he cracked his door and looked outside. Soon they would once again face the hot beating sun, each man paying tribute with his sweat.

Every sound around him was manmade. The fans of hundreds of Chinese air conditioners spun. Generators groaned steadily. The ever-present hum of modern technology on the FOB droned monotonously, a long, low echo of industrialization.

Fully awake now, Wynn felt his confidence coming back, measured but there. He and his men would go on the mission this morning because that is what they had to do. It was like that, day in and day out, and why they were here. Part of it was that simple. He knew that each man might ponder it, second guess their purpose—and that wasn’t wrong. He did, too. Inevitably, a worthy man journeyed alone every day on a rocky trail of questions, resolutely, honorably, knowing that what he could control or change was minor, satisfied to take the good journey and stay the course. Sometimes just being there was the main thing.

They had a solid plan today. With two platoons they should have enough firepower for most contingencies. The biggest negative was their lack of familiarity with the ground. During the preceding months, the battalion had focused on the city. Most American units were near larger urban areas, leaving thousands of square miles of rural country relatively unattended. Hence they knew little about large parts of Iraq. Everybody talked about boots on the ground. Not enough boots meant economizing resources, particularly manpower. Developing the Iraqi security forces was the answer. Most questions had one answer: The Iraqis. Need more security: get the Iraqi Forces up and running. Need to improve the local communities’ connection with the government: get the Iraqi Forces to do it. Need to increase information flow between different tribal groups: get the Iraqis to do it. The problem was that the Iraqis weren’t ready. Could they ever be? The same ethnic and religious conflicts that riddled Iraqi society inevitably existed in their Army and Police.

Had to get his mind off the big questions. Can’t debate those ideas right now. They had a specific mission today—their little part of the war. He didn’t know whether all the pieces would eventually come together or not. If they were successful in clearing out an insurgent cell today, then they would have a little victory. Little victories might be all they could get in this kind of war.

“Gimme another rag,” Ortiz yelled up at Moose.

“What—ya eating those things, buddy?” Moose, in D24’s turret, badgered Ortiz while reaching into a box of rags, mostly cut-up pieces of Army T-shirts. He tossed a rag down.

The two men made sure D24 was ready to go. Ortiz checked the Humvee fluids. Moose continued working his .50 caliber. He felt the resistance of the bolt as he pulled and watched the sliding mechanism glide easily back and forth. It was good. He enjoyed a business relationship with his gun. He could feel a partnership in violence in his bones. I take care of you; you take care of me. He closed the weapon cover and did another function check, enjoying the sounds of the devil’s engineering.

Moose looked down inside the truck. Eight green ammo cans. He wanted more. Usually he carried ten. Probably no one had extra, but he would check with the other gunners once everyone was in the motor pool.

Ortiz was now below him in the driver’s seat, checking the vehicle’s lights, wipers, gauges, locks, radios, running the truck through the motions. Moose marveled how the short and stocky Hispanic, a package of spiny arms and legs and slightly overweight torso, moved nimbly about. Inside the truck, Ortiz was like a spider dancing in its web. The spider had already walked around the truck several times, ducking underneath, opening the hood, looking for any indicators of trouble. It had been weeks, fortunately, since any of the Wolfhound trucks had had serious maintenance problems. But shit happened. Three of the platoon’s Humvees had been in country for about two years and each had nearly 100,000 miles. The fourth vehicle, seven months newer, had replaced another vehicle after a culvert roll-over accident.

The Wolfhounds did what maintenance they could on the trucks. More complicated stuff, the maintenance unit and KBR took care of.

“Hey, man, think we’ll get into some shit today?” Ortiz yelled up to Moose. The big gunner was silent a second as he glanced down at Ortiz.

Moose grinned. “We need some, man. My gun’s hungry.”

“Hungry, eh,” Ortiz chortled. “Need to feed it some Hajjis?” Ortiz laughed at his own logic, and his two gold-capped teeth said hello.

“Like an Aztec sacrifice or something? Get some blood for America?” Ortiz offered as answer to his own question.