Weapons of Mass Destruction (11 page)

“There’s a defensive breach in the line,” Sinclair reported into his headset.

“Where?” Radetzky asked.

“Pretty much everywhere. ING is lagging behind.”

Radetzky passed Sinclair’s warning on to Captain Phipps.

“Can you pick up the slack?” Captain Phipps asked.

“We’re already spread too thin,” Radetzky said.

“Offense is the best defense. Keep pushing forward.”

The squads continued to clear compounds with unprecedented speed, almost without incident. There was nothing to report, nothing to shoot, nothing to do except anticipate the worst hiding behind the next closed door. Lack of resistance had become sinister, as though Fallujah were a monstrous house of horrors, a psychological as well as military threat. The platoon’s anxiety wormed its way up to Sinclair’s perch. He detected it in their maneuvers, which were uncharacteristically jumpy. They kept looking over their shoulders. Suspense alone prompted them to open fire.

The platoon’s momentum gratified battalion headquarters. Paranoia, among other things, didn’t register on their computer screens. Not that modern warfare was a glorified video game. Civilians were far more susceptible to the perils of simulation than military men. Officers in particular were trained to resist the numbing effects of technology. But training itself was a kind of virtual reality, once removed from actual combat. Battles were primarily conceptual unless you actually fought them, in which case you were never invited into the war room. Nothing would ever really bridge the gap between strategy and execution.

To a certain extent, commanders have always relegated war to the abstract realm of ideas. Even barbarian generals mapped their maneuvers with sticks in dirt. But historical comparisons were misleading. The degree of abstraction multiplied exponentially with each technological advancement, along with the speed and size of weaponry. As a result, the War on Terror was waged as much in cyberspace as in the real world. There was no there there, no need for real weapons of mass destruction when the idea alone catapulted the nation into war. Enemies were equally elusive, hailing from politically fabricated countries that appeared on maps one year and disappeared the next, if terrorism prevailed.

“Attention Kilo Company. TOC is modifying rear-echelon support.”

Out of the blue, Colonel Denning’s voice invaded the airwaves. Radetzky must have opened the tactical operations center frequency so the whole platoon could hear Colonel Denning’s latest decree. He was like the Wizard of Oz, the man behind the curtain pulling levers attached to hundreds of men, thousands of weapons, with untold numbers of lives in the balance. Often as not, his orders seemed counterintuitive. The reality of war waged by boots on the ground seldom reflected the virtual reality of op plans. The gory details of actual combat were tragic, but not relevant.

“No more relay teams,” Colonel Denning continued. “Just ammunition runners and medevac units, as needed.”

“What about confiscating weapons caches?” Radetzky asked.

“Too risky. You’re in the eye of the storm, whether you know it or not.”

“Should we blow them or just keep moving?”

“Step on the gas, Radetzky. Floor it.”

“What’s the timetable?”

“Major Linville is expecting you at Phase Line Freddy by sundown tomorrow. You know how he gets when you’re late.”

The platoon had unwittingly crossed a strategic threshold. The fact that they hadn’t encountered a single enemy outpost since the bombardment was immaterial. From then on, their contact with rear-echelon units would be limited to carrying ammunition in and wounded men out of kill zones. They were on their own, with the formidable exception of big-gun support. Bradleys and tanks lurked within striking distance. Cobras and F-15s could make the trip from desert airstrips to what was left of Fallujah in less than five minutes.

In global military circles, Americans were accused of hiding behind shields of technology and superior firepower. The quintessential example was Hiroshima, an act of unconditional cowardice. Whether justified or not, pushing buttons was a far cry from pulling triggers. Anticoalition forces begrudgingly admitted that Operation Iraqi Freedom was less egregious than Desert Storm. At least the infantry made an appearance, if only to topple statues and plant flags. More than any other branch of the military, US Marines resented insinuations that they shied away from nitty-gritty combat. They still believed that wars were won by boots on the ground, not Pentagon generals clicking and dragging virtual troops across simulated battlefields. Bigwigs always overestimated the role big guns played in successful campaigns. Obsessing about weapons of mass destruction had prompted more than one disastrous invasion.

Whenever the topic of WMDs came up, McCarthy went ballistic. All the hype was yet another publicity stunt, a way to rally hawks and silence doves. At this rate, it would be déjà vu all over again, another stinking Cold War complete with paranoid politicians and prissy Pentagon brass who cared more about public opinion than winning battles.

“Since when was the decision to wage war a popularity contest?” McCarthy demanded.

“Since Vietnam,” Trapp said.

“Apples and oranges,” McCarthy said. “As long as there’s no draft, public opinion is just background noise.”

If Washington would just let the armed forces do what they were trained to do, the War on Terror would have a beginning, middle, and end instead of spanning the new millennium. The beginning had been 9/11, the middle was Iraq, and the end would be nigh when marines were finally let loose in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Meanwhile everybody was pussyfooting around so-called weapons of mass destruction like they were the be-all and end-all of military might. When was the last time a WMD won a war? They were more like bogeymen than actual weapons. The very definition of the term was an affront to the infantry.

“What are we?” McCarthy said. “Chopped liver?”

Mass destruction was being perpetrated by American soldiers on a daily basis, thank you very much. Marines had toppled more than concrete facsimiles of Saddam and his Royal Guard. They had stormed his palace and brought Baghdad to its knees. They had flushed him and his Ba’athist rats out of thousands of desert holes, one by one. Insurrections in Ramadi and Mosul had been smashed by yours truly, and they would do the same in Fallujah. To date, the Marine Corps alone had killed tens of thousands of insurgents and leveled countless recalcitrant towns. The fact that United Nations inspectors couldn’t find WMDs proved one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. They couldn’t tell their asses from their elbows.

Real weapons of mass destruction had human faces. They were swift, silent, and just as deadly as their nuclear and chemical counterparts. Not that McCarthy or anyone else thought US Marines occupied an exalted position in the pantheon of warriors. They were the ultimate grunts, and proud of it. In their version of military history, leathernecks were the first in and last out of every major campaign since Belleau Wood. Nations declared war. Platoons fought them. Without boots on the ground, the conflict played out in the press rather than on the battlefield. Virtually every marine motto attested to their dedication to the art and ethics of close combat. Real war, not virtual war.

“One shot, one kill.”

“Gun control is hitting your target.”

“Don’t run, you’ll just die tired.”

“Never forget your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.”

The Marine Corps’s reputation for doing more with less was a badge of honor. They prided themselves in beating the odds when everyone else folded. This was precisely why Sinclair joined the marines rather than the army or the air force. He understood the necessity of artillery and air strikes in a pinch. Commanders couldn’t afford to squander valuable human resources, especially in an all-volunteer infantry. But what he liked best was fighting face-to-face. No tanks or jets or white phosphorous, just rifles and automatics. Or better yet, knife against knife, the ultimate measure of courage. One man pitting his strength against another. No frills.

Snipers like Sinclair routinely scored more kills than gunners. But his relative distance from targets made him eager to join the action below. It was just a matter of time. Every block they cleared tightened the noose. The sheer density of fighters packed into smaller and smaller quadrants would eventually preclude long-distance sharpshooting. The sooner the better. House-to-house combat was always up close and personal. When they finally penetrated the heart of Fallujah, it would be downright intimate.

Colonel Denning proved to be right about their proximity to the eye of the storm. The platoon started encountering more and more munitions stockpiles, none of which they were authorized to confiscate. Their only option was to blow them to smithereens. If and when the Iraqi National Guard got their shit together, Radetzky would trust them to watch their backs. In the meantime, insurgents could easily reoccupy cleared areas, helping themselves to any weapons left behind. Not on his watch. He assembled both squads, to make damned sure everyone understood the game plan.

“You heard the colonel,” Radetzky said. “Full speed ahead.”

Having issued the official order, Radetzky switched off his headset. What Colonel Denning didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Letting speed take precedence over prudence would put his men at risk, something Radetzky only did when absolutely necessary. The bottom line was that they were expected to clear their way to Phase Line Freddy by sundown on the third day of the offensive. How they got there was their own business.

“While you’re at it, destroy every single weapons cache you can find,” Radetzky continued. “Our objective is twofold. Get to Phase Line Freddy on time. Without getting our asses blown off.”

The platoon breathed a collective sigh of relief. They were willing to follow Radetzky through the gates of hell because he never betrayed their trust. The squads peeled off again. They picked up the pace, working double-time to avoid falling behind. Whenever ordnance was discovered, they loaded it into abandoned cars and trucks. Everyone took cover while Percy did the honors, blowing the whole kit and caboodle sky high with his SMAW. It was nerve-racking work, especially for Sinclair. From a distance, Percy’s controlled detonations sounded an awful lot like random IEDs, which squads were encountering with increasing frequency in abandoned compounds. Every time he heard a big bang, Sinclair held his breath until his buddies emerged unscathed.

Weapons caches told them a great deal about who was arming the insurgency. They were like miniature history lessons, documenting military conflicts spanning more than half a century. There were Cold War rifles from Czechoslovakia. Iranian FAL rifles. German Mausers and Heckler & Koch assault weapons. Soviet-era machine guns. Good old-fashioned hunting shotguns from local factories ranging from Pakistan to Afghanistan. Russian SVD sniper rifles no more than a year or two old. Even World War II Garand rifles manufactured in the United States. AK-47s were ubiquitous. International trade in weapons was a big business, with less official regulation than the manufacture and sale of children’s toys.

The fact that East Manhattan was armed to the teeth should have precluded the persistent presence of civilians. But Fallujans were either inured to the risk of cross fire, or they had grossly miscalculated the scope and duration of Operation Vigilant Resolve. The platoon started confronting more and more women and children. The strategic net, designed to capture insurgents flushed out of other sectors, was also catching their families. Sinclair wondered why they hadn’t slipped through the mesh. Every day they tarried would be more dangerous than the day before.

Time and again, squads kicked open front doors, and civilians rushed out the back. Women in burqas usually shepherded larger groups, traveling in teams with two or three families in tow. They moved calmly and quickly as though they had rehearsed their escape routes thousands of times over the years. Even the youngest children seemed preternaturally composed, seldom horsing around or making a fuss. There were a surprising number of babies. Sometimes they cried out, but the running and jostling soon pacified them. Sinclair scoped them all, visually frisking even children, who had been known to smuggle, if not wield weapons. They wound their way through streets and alleys, never bothering to take cover. Eventually they staked out another house or sought refuge in a mosque.

“The area is crawling with civilians,” Sinclair reported to Radetzky.

“And insurgents,” Radetzky responded. “We just nailed three in a laundry. Heads up.”

“Roger that.”

Sinclair felt left out. He hadn’t even heard the kills over his headset. For the umpteenth time since deploying, he regretted being such a crackerjack shot. All morning long, he’d been stuck babysitting women and children, missing all the action behind closed doors. The only potential threats he identified were occasional teenage boys interspersed among families. One in particular looked like he might have a handgun tucked into his belt. He was disarmingly clean-cut and well dressed, almost preppy. The bulge could just as easily have been a cell phone. The fact that he had the same nose and deep-set eyes as the lead woman tipped the scales in his favor. He obviously wasn’t masquerading as a family member to escape detection. This didn’t necessarily guarantee his innocence. Even terrorists had mothers.

The other children were considerably younger, but the woman seemed most protective of her eldest son. She kept close to him, presumably shielding him from adulthood and its attendant dangers. The older the child, the more likely he would be targeted. Teenagers who might have vandalized cars in Iowa planted roadside bombs in Iraq. But this kid looked more like a bookworm than a punk. Sinclair scoped him until the family disappeared into a house the squads had not yet cleared. He probably should have taken him out anyway, to play it safe.

Maybe next time.

Then Sinclair knew he was in trouble. The word
maybe
didn’t exist in military vocabulary. Never before had uncertainty reared its treacherous head in Iraq. He blamed the boy’s mother. Talk about a lame excuse. He had learned to stanch his fear of IEDs and even suicide bombers. Surely he could withstand the sight of a woman without losing his nerve. His boot camp commander, Sergeant Troy, had warned them about the dangers of ambivalence. He hammered home his point with graphic examples, shouting at point-blank range to make sure it penetrated their thick skulls.