Weapons of Mass Destruction (6 page)

“Where’s Johnson?” Radetzky asked.

“Watcha got?”

“Exhibit A.”

Johnson whistled. Wolf and Evans continued prying open the floorboards.

“Take five,” Radetzky told the rest of the squad.

Everybody broke out cigarettes except McCarthy, the world’s biggest mooch.

“How about a fag,” McCarthy said.

“Looked in the mirror lately?” Trapp said, handing him a Camel.

The entire platoon knew McCarthy would hit them up, sooner or later, so they took turns plying him with cigarettes and chew. It was all part of the deal, the price he made them pay for the pleasure of his company. They stood smoking in the kitchen, flicking their butts into the sink. With the exception of designated lookouts, they instinctively avoided windows. Enemy snipers never took cigarette breaks.

Johnson went to work. This was just the kind of footage the Pentagon used to counteract the damage done by Al Jazeera newscasters. The minute coalition forces mounted an offensive, they started broadcasting graphic photographs of civilian casualties, portraying Americans as ruthless murderers of innocent bystanders. Air strikes on residential neighborhoods. Women and children sprawled across bloody bedroom floors. Sunni officials in the provisional government in Baghdad watched them. American officials in Washington watched them. The whole world witnessed them on the Internet. Dispassionate reports were far less compelling than Al Jazeera’s version of what passed for the truth, complete with incendiary sound bites.

“Mosques Bombed by Coalition Forces in Anbar Province.”

“American Marines Slaughter Civilians in Fallujah.”

The fine line between news and entertainment had long since been crossed. To attract an audience, even Johnson’s photographs would be hyped up with inflammatory captions. “Family Home or Terrorist Cell?” So much for the innocent bystander routine. Since when did housewives shelve grenades and rifles next to cleaning supplies and canned goods? The city was obviously armed to the teeth.

Radetzky radioed company headquarters, requesting a team of runners to transport the contraband weapons back to the base. Within minutes, a Humvee pulled up, and two marines hopped out. They were women, a private first class and a sergeant. Sinclair scoped their faces. One of them was pretty.

“Cover them,” Radetzky ordered.

“Roger that,” Sinclair said.

The arrival of women on the scene confirmed Sinclair’s assumption that the platoon hadn’t yet reached the skirmish line. Rear-echelon support teams stumbled into ambushes with alarming frequency. But the US military still tried to enforce rules of engagement forbidding women to perform combat duty. Technically the real action was on hold until they got the hell out of the way.

Radetzky advanced the men to the next block as the two women finished confiscating the weapons cache. Sinclair covered the Humvee until it finally sped off. By the time he turned his attention back to the squads, they were almost out of range. His team would have to relocate after the next set of houses. He would miss this perch. A convenient ledge allowed him to stretch full length to avoid muscle cramping. Comfort aside, the view was incomparable. There were very few apartment complexes in East Manhattan. Its seven stories towered over the posh homes huddled below. Snipers had a reputation for being notoriously cold-blooded. But it was hard not to get sentimental over such a well-appointed nest. Home sweet home.

The minute he got comfy, shit was bound to hit the fan. Murphy’s Law. A gang of insurgents appeared in the alley bisecting the block. They ran, single file, hugging garden walls for cover. Enemy fighters were perpetually in transit, wary of being trapped and mortared in buildings. Mobility was their best defense against the superior firepower of coalition forces. Sinclair dialed the elevation and zoomed in.

“We’ve got company,” Sinclair said. He spoke calmly into his headset, to avoid disturbing his aim.

Most of the men were wearing checkered kaffiyehs, the insurgency’s unofficial uniform. They carried AK-47s and Dragunovs, the same vintage as the ones in the weapons cache. Their destination was unmistakable, a garden shed at the far end of the block, one of a handful of locations outside Sinclair’s line of fire. Either they knew he was overhead or dumb luck was on their side. They had to sprint across an exposed driveway to get there. Sinclair squeezed the trigger. His first kill of the day.

“Location?” Radetzky said.

“West of Wolf’s—”

Sinclair’s warning was cut short by the sound of rocket-propelled grenades. Insurgents had set up their launchers behind the shed. They kept trying to lace RPGs through the windows of a freestanding compound. Wolf’s men were trapped inside. Even when grenades missed the mark, random explosions blasted debris across the courtyard. The squad couldn’t risk making a run for it. Machine gun muzzles appeared in the windows. Trapp and McCarthy ducked in and out, pummeling the shed with multiple rounds. An enemy RPG hit home and torched the bedroom right next to them. Close, but no cigar. Sinclair crept around the perimeter of his rooftop, trying to improve his angle. There was no way to nail the bastards without relocating.

Radetzky’s squad was hamstrung in a neighboring compound. If they came to the rescue, they stood a good chance of getting blown away. Enemy gunners trained their sights on every conceivable escape route. The scope of Radetzky’s strategic imagination had apparently eluded them. His men rappelled from unseen windows and stormed the shed. Most of the insurgents were picked off before they could even grab their gear. Gunners returned fire over their shoulders as they fled. One stampede of moving targets pursued the other down the smoke-filled alley.

When they reached the adjoining street, an insurgent managed to hurl a grenade before diving under a parked car for cover. It exploded well in advance of Radetzky’s squad, but the concussion knocked a rookie off his feet. It was Sanchez, a new recruit from Tallahassee. Momentarily stationary and vulnerable, he was winged by enemy fire.

“Call a medic!” Radetzky shouted. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“It’s a scratch,” Sanchez yelled back. “I’m good to go.”

Blood stained but didn’t saturate the sleeve of Sanchez’s uniform, evidence enough that he had plenty of fight left in him. The rest of the squad picked up the pace, determined to avenge his wound. But by the time they rounded the street corner, there was no one in sight.

“Enemy combatant under the car at three o’clock,” Sinclair reported into his headset.

“Roger that,” Radetzky said, motioning to three of his men.

They surrounded the vehicle. The insurgent pinned underneath fired wild shots to stave them off. Seeking cover, Radetzky decided to play it safe. He summoned Percy, who didn’t even bother consulting his range finder. Positioning himself behind a nearby truck, he braced the SMAW against his shoulder and fired at almost point-blank range. The car exploded into flames. The squad exploded into laughter and applause.

“Bull’s-eye,” Sanchez said. He felt vindicated.

“All clear,” Sinclair said.

The platoon reconnoitered in the alleyway. Wolf’s squad high-fived the guys responsible for bailing them out. Sanchez’s wound was superficial enough to be treated without wasting time waiting for a medic. Trapp did the honors. Growing up in Mississippi, he used to tag along on his father’s rounds as a country doctor. Ailing farmers paid their bills with chickens and vegetables, if at all. He remembered playing endless games of Kick the Can with kids whose mothers had gone into labor. His father told him a woman’s screams weren’t important as long as her baby came out okay. But Trapp couldn’t help thinking of his own mother, who had died in childbirth. He wondered if she had screamed so much.

Having been raised around illness and injury, Trapp eventually got used to it. His gore threshold was even higher than McCarthy’s, which was saying a lot. Sharecroppers were accident prone or unlucky or both. They seemed to have an adversarial relationship with farm equipment. Grinders and thrashers made mincemeat out of hands and feet in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bandaging Sanchez’s arm was child’s play in comparison. Trapp dressed the wound like a matron changing a diaper. He treated severed limbs no differently than surface wounds. Gently and competently. Nothing fazed him.

Every company in the American armed forces was supposed to have its own medic. What was true in the army didn’t always apply to the Marine Corps. Marines were used to doing more with less, making virtue out of necessity. Wolf’s squad was proud of the fact that they’d spent their own money to equip themselves for Operation Iraqi Freedom. Government-issue equipment only went so far, covering necessities like arms, ammunition, and body armor. The rest was up to individual soldiers and platoons. Pooling their resources, Wolf’s squad hit the sales at hardware stores. They mounted CB antenna, ammunition racks, and extra camouflage netting until their Humvees were battle ready. Radetzky’s men took one look at the competition and went on their own shopping spree.

Back home, budget constraints starved VA hospitals, regardless of how many politicians promised to take care of wounded warriors. In the field, lieutenants took matters into their own hands. Radetzky made sure everyone was trained in first aid. They all carried blow out kits with bandages, tourniquets, QuikClot, and saline IV bags. The so-called company medic, Doc Olsen, trained them to doctor themselves when he was otherwise engaged. Technically he was always on call. Actually he was usually off ministering to the six other platoons under his jurisdiction. Trapp routinely tended to everything except evacuation cases. He finished dressing Sanchez’s wound in half the time it would have taken to locate Doc Olsen, let alone fetch him.

“Sure you’re okay?” Radetzky asked Sanchez.

“Never been better.”

Sanchez wasn’t just acting tough. Boot camp had taught him to believe that pain was weakness leaving the body, and he felt stronger than ever. Radetzky smacked his helmet for the first time since he’d joined the platoon. Sanchez felt like he’d been knighted.

“Move out, men.”

The platoon split up again, clearing two houses at a time. Radetzky’s demeanor reminded them not to let excitement impair their judgment. They worked methodically without taking unnecessary risks. It was just a matter of time before even the most pedestrian search-and-destroy mission hit the jackpot. Another platoon in the company had already stormed a compound crawling with feyadeen. If they were lucky, they’d flush out a terrorist cell, maybe even Abu Musab al-Zarqawi’s hidey-hole. Then there’d be real fireworks—artillery, aerial strikes, the whole nine yards. The search half of the mission could be deadly boring. Destroying what you found more than compensated for the tedium.

The squads were advancing so quickly, Sinclair’s team had to relocate almost hourly. Their optimum position was one step ahead of the platoon, where they could anticipate resistance. Sinclair used his laser range finder to determine when to move. The squads were 748 yards away. He could manage 90 percent accuracy at that distance, provided wind wasn’t a factor. The odds weren’t good enough. They were all committed to giving 100 percent to each other. Sinclair started scouting out his next perch. He spied a rooftop with an imposing water cistern, perfectly situated. Usually cisterns were too exposed. This one had decorative embellishments wide enough to hide behind. It was love at first sight. The view would be drop-dead gorgeous, and there was plenty of cover.

“Range alert,” Sinclair reported. “I need to advance.”

“Can you wait till we secure the next compound?” Radetzky asked.

“Better not.”

“Make it snappy. Things are starting to heat up down here.”

Sinclair’s team threaded its way through the neighborhood. They were able to move quickly in the wake of the platoon’s maneuvers. His team was smaller than the other two squads, consisting of a single sniper and a couple of flankers tasked with rear security. The flankers cleared rooftops and then stationed themselves in windows or stairwells, depending on the layout of the building. To downplay their vulnerability, they referred to themselves as an escort service rather than a combat unit. Sinclair was their madam. Ordinarily he partnered with a spotter, an extra set of eyes behind the binoculars and scopes that magnified suspicious black specks into viable targets. But on search-and-destroy missions, Wolf’s squad needed an extra gunner more than Sinclair needed extra eyes. Evans, his usual spotter, was in the thick of things down below. Sinclair envied him. It could get pretty lonely up there.

Sinclair was still unpacking his drag bag when a dozen or so insurgents converged to engage the platoon. They were better armed than usual, probably former Ba’athist militiamen. The leader of the pack was wearing what looked like an Iraqi police uniform, though Sinclair couldn’t be sure with the naked eye. He grabbed his rifle and zoomed in. Sure enough, the point man was in uniform. He motioned and two groups of five fanned across a meticulously manicured garden. Sinclair confirmed the platoon’s location. Wolf’s squad was preparing to exit an adjacent compound. Radetzky’s was still searching a cellar packed with suspicious crates. Either the home owner was a hoarder or he was hiding something.

“Heads up,” Sinclair said, talking low and steady as he dialed his scope. “Enemy gunners knocking on Wolf’s back door.”

Sinclair centered his crosshairs on the official insignia on the man’s chest. The police uniform gave him pause, but he was used to sorting out Iraqi disguises. The man had probably either stolen the jacket or deserted the force when he caught wind of Operation Vigilant Resolve. Or when his parents disowned him. Or when his wife was threatened one too many times by the Ba’athist underground. Sinclair squeezed the trigger and the man buckled into a flowering acacia. The pack dispersed, taking cover behind a stone wall. A hefty insurgent lugging a grenade launcher lagged behind. Sinclair picked him off, too.

“How many?” Radetzky asked.

“Nine left,” Sinclair said.

Sinclair didn’t think about the two dead men. Emotion of any kind compromised his concentration. McCarthy would have gloated over their deaths, hooting and hollering and slapping his buddies on the back. Sinclair wasn’t fool enough to think his more restrained response made him a better soldier. If whooping it up steeled McCarthy’s mettle, so be it. All that mattered was getting the job done, killing the enemy before they killed you. The decision to wage war was morally complex. But once you stepped foot on the battlefield, the only ethic was survival.