Weapons of Mass Destruction (3 page)

A few hours into evacuation patrol, Sinclair started noticing a pattern. Car doors opened, and no one climbed in or out. Shortly thereafter, gangs of teenagers carried things away from the site, disappearing down side streets. Insurgents were evidently taking advantage of the exodus to disguise ammunition drop-offs. Sinclair signaled McCarthy.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Time to teach those punks a lesson.”

Sinclair radioed Lieutenant Radetzky for permission to pursue.

“Request denied,” Radetzky said. “The offensive isn’t scheduled to begin until 0500 hours.”

“By then they’ll be armed to the teeth,” McCarthy said. “Let’s take them out now. Before they dig in.”

“Sit tight, gentlemen,” Radetzky said. “You’ll see plenty of action tomorrow. And then some.”

Identifying insurgents was particularly tricky in Fallujah. If they were out there, they were adept at blending in. Or not. To the extent that they expressed the collective ill will of the evacuees, they would be indistinguishable from them. Sinclair had learned to be wary of people with cell phones, especially if they kept glancing in his direction. Looking back, he wished boot camp had taught him to read body language. Military training still lagged behind innovations in the War on Terror. Marines were accustomed to fighting armies, not jihadists playing the part of civilians. He wondered if monitoring body language figured into their training in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. He imagined hooded men indoctrinating bearded acolytes.

“Avoid direct eye contact with American soldiers.”

“If they accost you, act like you’re glad to see them.”

“Pretend you’re escorting a group of women and children.”

“Trim your beards. Dress inconspicuously.”

Many of the older men wore dishdashas, but T-shirts and trousers were more common overall. Those engaged in suspicious activities were just as likely to be wearing tennis shoes as sandals. Someone in a police officer’s uniform lugged away what looked like a carton of AK-47 cartridges. It was impossible to tell whether he was confiscating or stockpiling them. Uniforms were a fickle sign of affiliation in Iraq. They had a tendency to stray into the wrong hands. In Ramadi, marines had even encountered insurgents fighting in army fatigues. Such blatant violations of the most basic rules of engagement were what separated terrorists from soldiers.

Police and National Guard uniforms were hot items on the black market. Most of them came from Anbar Province where desertions were rampant. Even when they didn’t decamp, Iraqi security forces were notoriously unreliable. The American military was well aware that their involvement in strategic offensives was cosmetic, at best. The Pentagon was committed to the political imperative of joint efforts, which gave the impression that Iraqis were beginning to take charge of their destiny. In places like Fallujah, where Ba’athist militias sided with Saddam Hussein, entirely new security forces had to be trained. The United States poured money into recruitment and training.

“They might as well pour it down the drain,” Wolf said. Staff Sergeant Wolf was second in command in the platoon. But he was always first to pipe up when official policy threatened the safety of his men.

“Marines can barely afford body armor,” Wolf said. “Meanwhile Iraqi soldiers have brand new equipment. Compliments of Uncle Sam. What’s wrong with this picture?”

Lieutenant Radetzky seldom openly criticized military policy. He was a commissioned officer, not an NCO like Wolf, more circumspect by necessity as well as training. But when Wolf started ragging on coalition security forces, Radetzky couldn’t resist chiming in. The Second Battalion of the Iraqi National Guard was slated to participate in Operation Vigilant Resolve. He was afraid their involvement might be counterproductive, putting his platoon at risk.

“Don’t hold your breath, men,” Radetzky said. “Even if they show up, watch your backs. When the going gets tough, they’re usually long gone.”

Iraqi National Guard retention rates were miniscule. Often as not, their officers had clandestine connections with deposed Ba’athist party leaders intent on recovering control of Anbar Province. The more ardent their expression of allegiance to the coalition cause, the less likely they were sincere. In Sunni strongholds like Fallujah, suspicion was prudent. Loyalty often masked an insidious intent to use American resources to subvert American interests. Sinclair’s platoon had learned this the hard way.

When the First Marine Expeditionary Force arrived in the city, they were committed to changing the dynamic between civilians and military personnel, the first step toward reconstruction. Locals complained that the army had imposed martial law. To reverse this impression, Radetzky’s men paired up with Sunni police officers for joint patrols. Like so many initiatives in Fallujah, the plan looked good on paper and fell flat in the field. Their Iraqi counterparts showed up once or twice before succumbing to pressure to quit. Nobody outside of Washington was operating under the illusion that they had enlisted out of love for the coalition interim government. The paycheck was hard to resist in an economy devastated by war. But there was no use putting food on your family’s table when no one was around to eat it. Journalists weren’t the only ones being abducted, or worse. Under Saddam, Iraqis had become accustomed to being caught between a rock and a hard place. Nothing much changed when the Americans showed up.

The army may have had the right idea after all. There were telltale signs that martial law was the only real option even before the mob scene on Brooklyn Bridge. Security force defections were the tip of the iceberg, if such an intrinsically American expression made sense in the broiling sands of the Syro-Arabian Desert. So many things were lost in translation. As a result, even civilians turned on them. If you extended a helping hand, chances were someone would bite it.

The worst was the soccer fiasco. Sinclair’s platoon spent a week constructing a playing field out of a wasteland just north of the industrial quarter. Neighborhood kids were thrilled. Their parents seemed pleased, if a little subdued. Trapp orchestrated a ribbon-cutting ceremony. He and Wolf officiated the first game, an epic contest between the Jolan Giants and the Askari Argonauts. They even supplied official uniforms, red and black T-shirts with Nike logos on the sleeves. The Argonauts prevailed in overtime.

The next morning Wolf’s squad swung by en route to patrol duty in Queens. The goal nets had been torn down and garbage was strewn over the recently graded surface. No one claimed responsibility, but the motive was unmistakable.

“Talk about kicking a gift horse in the mouth,” Wolf said.

“More like kicking kids in the teeth,” Trapp said.

Trapp was visibly upset. His buddies looked the other way while he recovered his composure. Nobody loved kids more than he did. He had four of his own and had a hard time accepting how war robbed children of their childhoods. Every warrior has a chink in his armor. Trapp could twist a knife blade in a fedayee’s gut without flinching. But the thought of disappointing the Jolan Giants was too much for him.

“Let’s rebuild it,” Sinclair said. “We can probably salvage these nets.”

“Good idea,” Wolf said. “What do you say, Trapp?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Trapp said. “Operation Kill ’Em with Kindness.”

“There’s more than one way to fight a war.”

“In your dreams,” McCarthy said under his breath. He didn’t want to add to Trapp’s disappointment. But as far as he was concerned, winning hearts and minds was a slogan, not an op plan. This wasn’t the first or last time Iraqis would sabotage the peace process.

Sinclair was also shaken by the incident, though he would never admit it. He understood war and retribution, but not gratuitous violence. Vandalism was one thing. At least it followed a kind of sick logic. If you couldn’t keep up with the Joneses, the next best thing was to trash their property. But wrecking your own stuff was like turning the knife against yourself. Or the gun, as the case may be. The worst were suicide bombers. People always said it was an Arab thing. But Sinclair witnessed the same willful self-destruction back home in Montana. His best friend, Pete, had ruined his high school graduation present from Grandpa, a brand new calf-leather saddle. He hacked it to pieces with a hatchet and threw it in a pile of manure behind the stables. A week later they found him dead in the mountains. He blew his head off with his favorite shotgun.

Sinclair had traveled halfway around the world, thinking he could make a fresh start. But everything reminded him of Pete, especially the bond he shared with his buddies. They were brothers in ways that far exceeded the mere accident of birth. They shed blood together. With Pete, it had been the blood of animals. When Sinclair killed his first deer, Grandpa plunged his hands into the carcass and smeared the steaming blood on his face. They inherited the ritual from Pete’s great-great-grandfather, a Sioux scout who corralled the first wild horses bearing the Sinclair brand. Grandpa repeated the ritual when Pete killed his first buck, washing his face with blood as though he were his own son. That’s why it was so awful when things went south. They were like family.

It seemed to happen overnight. One day they were boys roaming the hills with their rifles. The next Pete was busting things up. He played hooky and started hanging around with dropouts on the reservation. He disappeared for days at a time. Even Sinclair couldn’t find him.

“He’ll end up in the slammer if he doesn’t watch out,” Sinclair’s father said.

Almost every night over dinner, they tried to figure out what went wrong. Sinclair’s sister, Candace, was uncharacteristically quiet during these conversations.

“Must be a guy thing,” Candace said, excusing herself from the table.

In hindsight Sinclair wondered whether his sister withheld information that might have saved Pete’s life. Nothing at the time made sense. Grandpa tried to explain that Pete struggled with things Sinclair took for granted. The Swan family had seen better days. They lived in one of the migrant-worker trailers down by the river. But Pete spent most of his time with Sinclair, eating meals in the big ranch house when his dad was on a bender. Grandpa had all but adopted him, even offering to pay his way through college. Sinclair assumed they’d ultimately run the ranch together.

“Pete’s proud,” Grandpa said. “Too proud to accept handouts.”

“Takes after his dad,” Sinclair’s father said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sinclair asked.

“He’d sooner shoot himself in the foot than take a step forward.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Grandpa said.

“Why else would they live in that ramshackle trailer?” his father asked. “The foreman’s cabin is there for the asking. Always has been.”

“You can lead a horse to water,” Grandpa said. He thought better of finishing the adage. Pete’s father could never be accused of refusing to drink, that’s for sure.

“There must be something we can do,” Sinclair said.

“Fact is we may have done too much.”

“You can’t save people from themselves.”

But something didn’t add up. Sinclair knew Pete would never shoot himself in the foot just to make a point. He wouldn’t have shot himself in the head, either, if he hadn’t been completely demoralized. They said it was an accident, but Sinclair knew better. No one handled a gun like Pete. If he were in Iraq, he’d head up the sniper squad, not Sinclair.

It defied explanation. You tried to help people, and they lashed out. Apparently gifts were easier to give than to receive. They carried an unseen burden, a kind of backhanded slap in the face. If even soccer fields gave offense, imagine the perceived aggression of liberating a country from sectarian tyranny. In Iraq, if not in Montana, freedom translated more readily into vandalism than Saturday afternoon team sports.

They should have seen it coming. Allegiances changed overnight in Fallujah, like shifting sands in the desert. Marines adapted to the climate, manicuring soccer fields one week, evacuating the city the next. They were in it for the long haul. There was something satisfying about pitting yourself against the region’s timeless resistance to stability. If it took fifty years to usher the Middle East into the twenty-first century, so be it.

The evacuation was taking longer than anticipated. Sinclair started doubting whether the exodus would be over in time for the offensive. Highway 10 was still packed with people, mostly on foot by late afternoon. Car bombings and munitions smuggling had finally convinced the tactical operations center to restrict vehicular traffic. Civilians were forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Most of the more affluent citizens were long gone anyway. According to official reports, the poor lagged behind, inexplicably reticent to leave their homes. From the vantage point of boots on the ground, they looked more resigned than reticent, too accustomed to being trapped to imagine an alternative. They lacked the resources, either emotional or financial, to escape the red tide of war. In order to flee, you have to have somewhere to go.

A man in a bulky jacket approached Sinclair. The temperature had climbed another ten degrees, and he was conspicuously overdressed. Sinclair confronted him, his weapon at the ready.

“Back off! Hands over your head.”

In the heat of the moment, Sinclair forgot the few Arab phrases they’d learned in boot camp. If he had an Achilles heel, it was his phobia of suicide bombers. Improvised explosive devices were a far more pervasive threat, but he took them in stride. At least IEDs made sense, instinctively as well as strategically. Killing the enemy meant safeguarding yourself, your platoon, your country. War itself was an extension of this collective will to survive, not an excuse to indulge self-destructive impulses. Blowing yourself up sullied the ethics of war with senseless violence.

The man looked more perplexed than intimidated. He kept gesturing toward the moving throng of refugees, repeating the same words over and over.

“
Ummi
.
Kalb
.
Kalb
.”