Princes of War (38 page)

Moose liked that. He stroked his hand along the heavy black weapon’s feed tray as if he was soothing a restless animal.

“That’s why Uncle Sam bought this baby,” Moose replied, pointing to the big .50 cal. “Need to get our money’s worth.”

Cooke walked over to their truck. The platoon sergeant looked as if his favorite football team had lost in overtime. Was he angry? Moose wondered. Probably he wasn’t. Just ready to go, bleeding anticipation. The man ate angry for breakfast and was always ready to go, always loaded. He wouldn’t tolerate wasting time. Cooke, sweat already collecting in the deep black wrinkles lining his forehead, eyed Moose and Ortiz and fired a question barbed with paternalism.

“You knuckleheads got my honey ready?”

Nobody answered him.

Moose looked back and forth from Cooke to Ortiz to the truck. Cooke was talking about the truck. It was
his
truck. Everyone considered their Humvee
their
truck. Of course, being platoon sergeant, Cooke had a more authoritative claim than the rest of them. Cooke looked straight at him, expecting an answer.

“Some Iraqi crud eat your tongue overnight, big boy?” Cooke asked, his eyes fixed on Moose.

“Roger that,” Moose sputtered finally, clumsily, suppressing a smile, hoping to avoid more of Cooke’s criticism.

Leadership cared about the things that got maintained and the Wolfhounds couldn’t get anywhere without their trucks. Some guys got possessive about the four-wheeled monsters—hence the lingo of ownership. Trucks typically had nicknames, so D24 was Cooke’s “Honey.”

Cooke now stared at Ortiz. Ortiz finally snapped out of whatever he was thinking about and addressed Cooke. “We due a sacrifice, Papa—my thousand-year-old Aztec blood tells me we gonna get some today.”

Wynn and Cooke briefed the platoon on CPT Baumann’s plan. Wynn spoke without emotion, sternly, rarely looking up, repeatedly pointing to the map and sketch he’d drawn, making sure that the target kilns were identified and understood by everyone. He gave the others time to take notes and make their own sketches. Several times, Wynn looked over the sketches his subordinates were making, checking for accuracy.

Cooke explained who would man the two dismounted teams, and how they would operate. Wynn would lead Wolf One, and Pauls would lead Wolf Two. Cooke would command the gun trucks.

Wynn briefed that Baumann would choose one of two options before reaching the objective. The option chosen would depend on whether the newer brick factory would be bypassed or searched. Either way, the target kilns were the main objective.

The men asked questions about the plan. Wynn answered several; Cooke, the others. Pauls asked about friendly fire. Since more than one platoon was involved in this operation, communication and coordination would be even more important.

Then Wynn and Cooke asked questions, in turn, testing the men’s recall of the plan, making sure they were ready.

After a few more minutes of discussion, Wynn said, “We have a chance to do some real good here today. Ready to go?”

He looked around at the men. Every man returned the look. Some had that flat, distant look men have when the pressure of the group, more than the motivation of the individual, pushes them on. Silent anticipation washed over them all. They were with him. He felt stronger because of that.

He checked his watch. They’d kept within the 30 minutes he’d intended for the briefing.

“I hope we get that bitch,” said Ulricht, as if he would kill her with his teeth.

“HOOAH!” someone shouted.

26

The Wolfhounds left FOB Apache on schedule with Baumann’s truck following their convoy. After they had passed out of the company battlespace, the first four kilometers of road, clean and straight, cut through former agricultural areas. Then came areas of poorer-quality residential construction, the houses not much more than undistinguishable concrete boxes.

Because of the infrequent Coalition use of this particular road, the history of IED attacks was low. Even so, Wynn watched the surroundings closely as the Wolfhounds drove fast in the final 30 minutes before daylight. They made good progress. He remained cautiously optimistic that the patrol would arrive at the final checkpoint according to schedule.

Around a long curve in the road ahead, a car was parked on the roadside. Even from nearly half a kilometer away, Wynn could tell it was a small dark-color car. It appeared empty, probably belonging to a resident on this street. A dilapidated building stood about 30 meters from the car. Wynn focused hard on the car. No radio comment yet from Turnbeck.

Was the car lower to the ground than normal? One VBIED packed ten artillery rounds in a trunk. Ten rounds—that’s more than 500 pounds. That car’s backend must have nearly touched the road. Maybe blankets or boxes or something inside concealed things? The usual tension rose. He had to trust Turnbeck’s evaluation.

The convoy got closer. Turnbeck still hadn’t spoken. Then, very close, the car looked empty.

“Not a problem,” reported Turnbeck sharply, as if hearing Wynn’s question.

D22 passed the car. Then D21. Then the others. Nothing happened.

Wynn concentrated on what was to come. For the next few minutes, he did another methodical review of the assault plan, going over all the important details. Achieving surprise was important. Undetected, they would be much more likely to kill or capture whoever was in the brick factory. He clicked off each requirement in his mind like a man checking a grocery list.

He checked his watch again. 0407. The intersection where they would turn-off the paved road was 5 to 7 minutes away. At that turn-off, Baumann would check with battalion on any new activity observed by the UAV. Baumann would then give final orders to go in.

If the egg lady was right, the Wolfhounds would have to find another way to reward her. Wynn hoped she was still safe. The fact of her revealing this information was interesting. Undoubtedly, something about her relationship with the Wolfhounds had encouraged her to confide.

Moose felt amped as the Wolfhound convoy moved rapidly toward the brick factory: four screaming truck engines, 16 rubber tires grinding away at the road, electronics packages singing and blinking inside each machine, every man in his place, all a part of the motion and purpose and anticipation of the mission. Today was another great adventure, and he was part of it. It always amazed him how the platoon operated as a team, as part of a big team: Team Army. It was as if they’d broken huddle and were on the line of scrimmage waiting for the snap of the ball in a championship game.

He kept focusing on what was coming next, of his part in it, of what might go wrong and how to respond. Any violence encountered was a necessary part of the journey. No reconsiderations. No going back. This was it.

Although it was 0415, the outside temperature was inching up. A thin crack of sun like spilled orange juice seeped out from the horizon. He glanced down inside the truck, wondering what the others were thinking. Then he thought about Kale. Kale, like Moose, was assigned to one of the dismount teams. Maybe Cooke’s idea of a confidence builder. Moose felt resigned about Kale. No matter what, it was up to each man to acquit himself well.

He disengaged the lock on the gun turret and rotated it around to the right, and practiced picking up targets while on the move.

“Anything up?” Cooke asked from below, when he noticed Moose’s movement.

“No. Just getting ready.”

Part of why he’d joined the Army was because it still celebrated the manly virtues. Traits he felt were right for real men
were embodied in the Army. Strength. Fortitude. Courage. Skill under extreme stress.

The convoy approached the turn-off, and Moose could see the lead vehicle begin to slow down.

“Get ready to kick ass!” Cooke said loudly.

Cuebas saw it first: a black blur in his peripheral vision, like a bird taking off. The rocket came at them like a star drilling down, racing, screaming across the sky, passing over D24’s turret. TRUNUNK! Didn’t hit them, he thought. Frantic perceptions tumbled over his sensations so fast he felt dizzy. Nothing obviously wrong inside the Humvee. Did it hit Moose? He was partly exposed out of the turret. Jesus! Bastards are shooting RPGs at us. His sphincter muscle tensed as if he’d been electrocuted. Jesus. Slow enough you could see it fly at you.

Ortiz slammed the accelerator down. The truck leaped. Cuebas wished it would go faster.

PAASACKKK. The RPG skipped off the ground 75 meters past them and exploded. First time he’d had a rocket shot at him. No big fire burst. No mushroom cloud.

Cooke shouted on the radio, reporting the RPG.

Seconds later, Ortiz turned the truck to the right and stopped fast, jolting everyone. He hoped to give Moose a better chance to engage the target, but Moose hadn’t seen a shooter.

“Go. Go. Go…” Cooke howled. “Keep this mother going! What the fuck you doing? I didn’t say stop.”

Ortiz took off again. A cloud of dust rolled over the vehicle from the back, hiding it, as if the temporary disappearance was the desert’s way of chastising a scurrilous American presence. Nobody in the truck could see anything.

Moose, head out of the turret, wearing goggles, sand rag around his mouth, choked in the thick dust. He tasted sand, the atomized grit mixing with his saliva. He ignored it. Didn’t matter. Would just make for a bigger spit when he had a chance. The rolling dust disappeared and visibility returned.

Everyone scanned, searched, questioned.

Moose coughed. And coughed again. Loud, raspy, as if he was suffocating.

“You good, man?” Cooke called up to him, without looking.

Cuebas looked frontwards now, trying to reorient. He felt dizzy, unsure, like he’d been sleeping and someone had cut the lights on. Moose hadn’t answered Cooke.

“Hey, you OK?” Cooke asked again.

Still no answer.

Men in Humvees had been cut in half by RPGs. Cuebas turned to look at Moose. All he saw were Moose’s legs, but no blood or anything to suggest Moose had been hit.

Moose needed to answer. Cuebas slapped Moose twice on the right leg with his hand to see if he was still with the living.

Moose reacted, and looked down straight at Cuebas. His eyes looked like a fat toad’s behind the oversized goggles.

“What the fuck?” Moose mouthed. Cuebas couldn’t hear him, but saw what he said. Cooke saw them communicating; that was enough to let him know Moose was unhurt.

The assault was launched. Any diversion, like chasing down whoever shot that RPG, would get them off track. Quick movement to the objective was their highest priority. For a second, Wynn questioned whether the shooter was even connected to the factory insurgent cell. Maybe some wiseass taking a pot shot. Probably was connected, though. Had to assume the worst. Anyone in the brick factory now knew they were coming.

That was Baumann’s conclusion, too. He ordered the two platoons to switch to the alternate attack plan that anticipated loss of surprise. Wynn put Baumann’s decision out on the platoon net. His people acknowledged.

Gung snorted. Wynn looked at him. Gung was tight and focused in the driver’s seat, his hands firmly on the steering wheel, single-mindedness stamped on his face. Wynn looked frontwards. That men in extremely stressful situations had it in them to remain so focused and purposeful was a marvelous thing. Singleton, standing between the front and rear seats in the gunner position, took a step forward as he leaned into the big gun.

The radio crackled and Cooke confirmed assignments for the alternate plan, clarifying intended truck positions, and reminding the platoon of the increased importance of the dismount mission. He spoke like a coach shouting instructions from the sidelines. The alternate plan called for the Wolfhounds to clear the new brick factory building first, because it lay between the convoy’s approach and the brick kilns. The change would increase the time it would take the platoon to get to the targeted brick kilns, but the delay was deemed necessary in order to lower the risk of being counterattacked from behind.

Ahead, through the gathering light, Wynn could now make out the roofline of the new factory. Close now, less than a kilometer away. Curves in the unfinished sunken road going into the factory area obscured further visibility. When the convoy turned slightly leftward, he could see more clearly. The road surface was powder. Soon a rolling cloud of this powder masked the convoy, blocking their vision. Like driving through a enormous exhaust plume.

Since the first RPG, it had been quiet. Wynn had expected additional small-arms fire by now. So far nobody else shot at them. Then, ahead, through the dust cloud, he saw the factory smoke stacks standing out like giant goal posts, at least 200 feet high. Then he spotted several of the old brick kilns beyond the new factory. In the dim light, the kilns, unevenly spaced, looked like warts on an otherwise featureless landscape.

Wynn squinted and scanned, looking for people or vehicles. Nothing.

“See anything?” Wynn shouted up to Singleton.

“No.”

“Look for those cars.”

Baumann came on the radio, sharply, sounding agitated. “Raptor 3 spots a squirter leaving the area, going south.” Raptor 3 was the code name for the UAV. “He’ll watch him. Break—Dobbie One, car leaving. Pick up the pace and catch
ʼ
em. No one leaves the area!”

The plan called for 3rd platoon to swing westward, secure that flank, and provide overwatching fire. Now Baumann wanted them to catch that squirter. Within the next two or three minutes, once the Wolfhounds were within 100 meters of the brick factory, Wynn would direct his platoon off the entrance road. He got on the platoon net.

“OK, less than a minute out. Wolf One and Two, get ready, move quick. A car spotted leaving the area. We do have company here!” The big factory was now straight ahead, rising up out of the dust like a phoenix. The convoy slowed. Dust enveloped them again.

“22, you split us off!” Wynn commanded Turnbeck.