None Left Behind (15 page)

Trucks with loudspeakers drove through, blasting caveats against insurgent activity.

“Attention, men of Kharghouli. Three days ago, there was an attack on an American patrol near here. Attacks like that hurt innocent Iraqis, slow progress, and prolong the presence of Coalition forces in Iraq. You are responsible for security in your town. Provide us with information on those who commit such futile acts and help bring peace to your community. Do not confuse our restraint with weakness. Today we come as concerned friends. Do not make us come back as enemies.”

A bang outside the town signaled another American hummer striking an IED.

As the modern U.S. Army fought with computers and high-tech communications as much as it did bullets, Battalion maintained a section of ten trained specialists to keep all the digital electronics going and everybody talking to everybody else. Companies in the field called it the “geek squad,” no disrespect intended. Computers and Internet or satellite phones were also the Joes' link with home and the outside world, which made the geek squad in high demand when something broke down. The most popular communications specialist in the section, at least in Delta Company, was a nineteen-year-old Speedy Four (Specialist Fourth Class) named Jenson Mariur.

Originally from Palau in the South Seas, the brown-skinned young soldier was forever optimistic, polite, soft-spoken, and eager to help. He could light up an FOB with a single grin. What made him even more popular with Delta was the fact that the soldiers could always persuade him to repair their PCs, video games and assorted other personal entertainment gear.

Mariur's popularity had its downside. The Delta platoon with a problem would jump on the radio and ask for him personally. “Hey, hey, dude. We're having a little trouble. When are you coming out? Just say the word and we'll send a convoy to Yusufiyah to get you.”

The result of which meant another nervous trip running the gauntlet known as Malibu Road.

One afternoon, Delta Company's First Sergeant Aldo Galliano hightailed it in to Battalion with a convoy from Third Platoon to pick up tech support to install some new computer equipment for the Company TOC at Inchon. That naturally meant Mariur, who felt more than a little apprehensive about riding with the Top Sergeant's convoy.

Top Galliano was jinxed, an IED magnet. It seemed his caravan got hit almost every time he went out. Not just his convoy,
his
truck within the convoy. He had been blown up twenty times, so often he began to take it personally. It got where, as soon as he was clear of the explosion, he jumped out of his hummer with his ears still ringing, dust up his nose, and went into a contrived rage, kicking tires, ranting and raving like a bull charging a red flag.

“Them dirty, no-good, ragheaded, shit-eating, Baghdad sons-of-bitches . . . !”

“Tell us how you really feel, Top.”

“I get it every damned time. What's with Herne? They never hit him. What's he doing, bribing 'em?”

Anyone in Delta who failed to experience one of the Top Sergeant's productions was missing an Oscar-winning performance, tales of which circulated among the troops with a great deal of laughter and joking. Men would be passing the stories down to their grandchildren, they were that entertaining.

Galliano was one hard-charging Latino, rather small and short with a broad face, thick shoulders, and a practical-joke sort of humor that made him as well-liked as he was respected. He could chew a hole in a soldier's boxers and make him like it. When he noticed how shaky Mariur seemed about taking the trip down Malibu with him, he really laid it on.

“Mariur, you can ride in the truck with me. I got some technical stuff I want to talk to you about.”

“That's okay, Top. We'll have a lot of time to talk when we get to Inchon. Why don't I ride back here?”

“What's the matter, Specialist? You don't believe all them stories about me, do you?”

“Well . . .”

“What are you so pale about, soldier? When I get hit—”

“When?”

“Well, yeah. Have you ever been blown up before?”

Mariur had a feeling he was about to. He sucked it in and managed,
“Top, I sure wouldn't want to miss seeing you kick the tires out from underneath this old crate.”

Galliano laughed. The convoy headed back for Malibu Road with Mariur seated next to the Top Sergeant behind the driver, the third vehicle back in a procession of four. The crazy road with all its potholes and patched-up IED craters reminded Mariur how vulnerable they were.

It was a lovely autumn day, not so hot as sometimes, with the sun shining brightly, kids in the fields herding shaggy goats, and muezzins revving up their calls for afternoon prayers.

“Any damage you do to government property comes out of your pay,” Galliano noted slyly.

“Pardon?”

“Your ass is chewing a hole in the seat.”

True to form, Top's vehicle detonated an IED just before the trucks reached Inchon. Mariur wasn't even surprised; he expected it. There was a loud bang, a puff of dirt, and pieces of shrapnel chipping at the vehicle's undercarriage. Although the scumbag who put it there buried it too deep to cause any real damage, the concussion was enough to knock the breath from Mariur's lungs. He had never felt more profound relief than when the convoy pulled through the gate at 153.

Aldo Galliano jumped out to go through his usual rant. As he was stomping around kicking tires, he glanced up to see Mariur standing with his hands in his pockets looking solemn and appreciative at simply having survived the trip. His eyes were open wide, the whites in sharp contrast to a patina of “black face” sweat, dust, and smoke. He looked totally out of place in a war zone. All he needed to complete the picture of geek was a bow tie and a pocket protector.

As for Mariur, he chuckled to himself from then on whenever someone described Galliano's hitting another IED. He couldn't help himself—picturing the little Top Sergeant out there somewhere on Malibu Road kicking hell out of his hummer and blackguarding loud enough so every “Baghdad motherfucker” in The Triangle of Death could hear him.

The Triangle of Death was like a house infested with rats and mice. Kill one or two or three, and a half dozen more popped up somewhere else. The Joes of Delta Company sometimes thought they must have tumbled down the rabbit hole into a world of lunacy. It might be better to have had a battle fully joined, such as the Marines fought at Fallujah, than to suffer constant attrition from deadly rodents sneaking and gnawing around.

ROEs dictated that you couldn't shoot an insurgent unless you actually caught him in the act of being a rat. That meant he was shooting at you or engaged in other obvious insurgent-like behavior. Delta's platoons were taking it in the shorts until they learned to use the rules of engagement to their own benefit.

“We have to be smarter than they are,” Sergeant Montgomery said. Being smarter than the bad guys was how Second used Crazy Legs to significantly reduce the number of mortar and rocket attacks from across the river. Two or three times observing Crazy Legs and then ambushing the ambushers had almost put a stop to it. Maybe Second Platoon could do the same thing to those planting IEDs.

Some guy out in the middle of the night with a shovel and pick digging a hole in the road wasn't repairing the road. He was a legal target the moment he started digging, whether armed or not. Heretofore, soldiers had tried to capture them or run them off if they weren't packing heat. Lieutenant Dudish and Sergeant Montgomery, having received permission from Captain Jamoles to shoot to kill, launched a campaign to eliminate as many of these pests as they could. It didn't take long for the tactic to pay off.

Each patrol base posted a night security watch on the road on either side of the outpost. While pulling one of these static watches, Sergeant
Victor Chavez and Specialist Robert Pool were parked north of 152 facing toward Inchon observing through NVs when they spotted two figures slinking from the shadows. Apparently thinking themselves concealed by darkness, the mad bombers scurried onto the road and began digging. Sergeant Chavez radioed Delta for permission to engage.

Pool sat behind the two-forty in the turret. The M240B 7.62mm machine gun came equipped with laser target acquisition, which made for extremely accurate night firing. The range was about four hundred meters, visibility unobstructed through his NVs. Pool beaded in on the two men and felt a sudden attack of conscience at the prospect of drilling a couple of guys unarmed except for pick axes. Of actually killing another human being.

Then he thought of all the times he had been personally blown up by creeps like these, of American GIs like Pitcher who had been wounded or crippled by IEDs. That cleared his conscience.

“Permission granted to engage,” Chavez tersely informed him. “Hammer the cocksuckers.”

Pool did. Red tracers plunged up the center of the road and stitched the two diggers, bursting into a thousand fireflies from impact against bone and asphalt.

“I got 'em—at least one!” Pool reported excitedly.

When they rolled up to the scene, however, there was nothing left but blood trails. Insurgents were sneaky about policing up their dead and wounded. It was hard to get a decent body count where there were no bodies.

Something similar happened to Lieutenant Dudish and Sergeant Montgomery. About midnight, Dudish was at the wheel of their hummer while Montgomery sat in the turret observing the road through a CAS (Covered Acquisition System), a large camera-like device with a special thermal-sensitive laser capable of picking out the wink of a bird's eye a mile away in the middle of the night. So far, no birds were winking.

“I got movement,” Montgomery suddenly whispered. “A bunch of guys underneath blankets. Goofy bastards. I guess they think we can't see 'em if they hide under the covers.”

“Give them time to start digging.”

“Roger that.”

The saboteurs crawled up onto the road bed underneath their dark blankets, resembling giant slugs. Since First Platoon soldiers were guarding an IED crater downrange, Dudish raised them on the radio to give them a heads up.

“One-Six, this is Two-Six. We have a target. You guys hunker down in your trucks. Tracers are going to be zipping.”

“Roger, Two-Six. Good luck and good shooting.”

The range was less than a thousand meters, still a fairly long shot for the two-forty. Montgomery watched, finger on the trigger, eye against the laser sight. Two of the perps armed with shovels threw off their blankets and started digging at the edge of the asphalt. It wasn't like they were out farming in the moonlight.

The laser sight locked on the target; the machine gun locked on the laser. Montgomery took a deep breath, let half of it out, held the rest, and gently stroked the trigger. Every fifth bullet in a belt of 7.62 was a tracer. A stream of red arched through the night sky and plunged into the enemy demolitioneers. One of the men dropped. A woman lookout somewhere in the roadside foliage emitted such a blood-chilling scream that, even at this distance, Montgomery heard it above the deep-throated chugging of his weapon.

It was remarkable how quickly insurgents could bug out. Hajjis appeared from everywhere to drag away their dead and wounded, leaving nothing behind except some tools and blankets.

Damned frustrating—but the campaign seemed to be working. The number of IEDs on Malibu declined, at least somewhat. Subversives began to get in a hurry to accomplish their tasks, get on the road and get off again, which meant carelessness.

Toward evening of one approaching night, when the voices of children at play hung in the sunset of what might have been one of the most naturally peaceful places on earth, the concussive blast of an exploding IED shattered the tranquility. Sergeant Chris Messer and three other Second Platoon members—Specialist Jared Isbell, PFC Michael Pope, and PFC
Chiva Lares—were pulling static security for 151. Reverberations from explosions going off at all hours of the day or night left even those out of the blast radius momentarily stunned and breathless.

Recovering, Pope peeled rubber heading toward the explosion. Anytime an American might be in trouble, those nearest him were expected to respond as backup.

Sliding the hummer around the first S-curve, Pope and his squad confronted a plume of black smoke anchored to the side of the road. There were no American vehicles in sight. Instead, a trio of Baghdads wearing
shemaghs
and
disdashas,
the traditional robes of Arab men, were hotfooting it north down the middle of the road. One held his skirts bunched up around his knees and was really pumping. None were armed, none were carrying digging tools. From the looks of things, they were a bunch of amateurs who had inadvertently set off the bomb they were planting. Only luck kept it from blowing their heads off.

They looked back over their shoulders and saw the hummer bearing down on them. One of them carrying a burlap bag full of something hurled it into the bushes. All three tried to scatter. Not fast enough. Pope almost ran them down. Messer, Isbell, and Lares flung open their doors and bailed out.

“Hold it up, girls!”

Isbell and Lares collared their suspects without resistance. Messer's turned at bay and drew a knife. Sergeant Messer unsheathed his machete and brandished it. “Now,
this,
” he said in his best Crocodile Dundee impersonation, “is a knife.”

The guy's eyes bugged. He tossed the knife aside as though it had burned his hand, dropped to his knees and surrendered.

One captive was sixteen years old, the other nineteen, and the oldest twenty-four. The burlap bag contained wires, fuses, and timers for igniting IEDs. All three were flex-cuffed and transported to Battalion at Yusufiyah for questioning; soldiers in the field weren't authorized to interrogate prisoners. Messer and his squad became Heroes For A Day in Delta Company, as they were the first to capture insurgents in the act of setting an explosive device.