Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (50 page)

He looked past the communications consoles in the middle of the room and spotted Joseph “Bono” Calton, a dark-skinned captain who was one of his very best friends.

Bono was a poster boy for the twenty-first-century soldiers fighting an unconventional war—fluent in Arabic and German, an expert marksman, equally good with a sophisticated GPS computer and in hand-to-hand combat with a knife. And he seemed to have the endurance of a mule—he could hike for twelve hours without stopping to rest. Most important, with his dark skin and dark eyes, he could blend in perfectly with the local populace. Sam had always wondered why his friend was so dark-skinned, but once he had seen a picture of Bono’s mother, a beautiful Moroccan his father had met while spending a summer in Northern Africa, he understood.

Six years out of college, the captain had just celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday, though he looked a bit older, with his dark face and sharp eyes. Having grown up in Los Angeles and graduated from one of the rich-kid high schools they made prime-time soap operas about, if anyone had an excuse to be spoiled, Bono certainly did. Sam knew that his dad had made a zillion dollars in the dot-com craze, getting out when the getting was good and settling down to a life of tennis, margaritas, and investing his cash. But when it came to money, Bono seemed completely uninterested. The only thing he really ever talked about was his family, and sometimes Sam got tired of looking at pictures of the two beautiful blondes, one his daughter, one his wife. Maybe he was only jealous—it was painfully clear the captain had something special that he did not have.

Like a lot of guys in the unit, the captain had several nicknames: “Sniper” (for his marksmanship), “Abu” (his dark features), the “Mule” (his flat-foot plodding). But most called him “Bono” for his inexplicable attachment to a mysterious brand of South Korean running shoes that you could only buy in the back alleys in Seoul. Still, he was such an imposing figure that none of the enlisted guys dared call him anything but “captain” to his face, and in a formal setting or in combat everyone called him “sir.”

It hadn’t taken more than a few days for Sam and Bono to become very good friends. They were alike—dedicated, fearless, with a bit of attitude, and both were in the Army because they loved the fight and believed in the cause. Sam knew that Bono could have followed in his father’s tracks, taken over his business affairs and spent Wednesday mornings on the golf course and Friday nights at the club. He also knew that Bono would just as soon drive splinters of wood under his fingernails as spend his life behind a desk.

In this one thing the two men were the same. They were driven by ambition, but not for ambition for cash.

Bono hadn’t yet noticed Sam standing near the doorway, so he kept his head down, concentrating on his work. In the quiet of the empty Operations Center, Sam’s thoughts drifted back to the first time they patrolled together.

* * *

Sam’s Delta unit had been bouncing in and out of Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan (as well as several “non-host nations,” where they had not been invited and were
definitely
not supposed to be) for more than three years. As one of the U.S. Army’s most highly trained and versatile units, the Deltas went where they were called, which meant they spent a lot of their time on the road. While most army combat units in Iraq were eventually assigned more-or-less permanent facilities for their living quarters—early during the war, some of the more fortunate ones even ended up in former palaces of the ruling elites—the Deltas were not usually so lucky. Knowing they were far more mobile and in high demand, they didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about their living conditions. That seemed fruitless and wasteful. They were Deltas, after all—they didn’t need air conditioning or swimming pools. They needed clean weapons, lots of drinking water, and a mission every night.

Bono had been assigned to Sam’s unit just five months before. Sam clearly remembered the day he had been tasked to pick up the new captain at the airport in Afghanistan, where he watched Bono climb down the makeshift ramp from the enormous 747 airplane, a contract carrier ferrying soldiers in and out of the country. Sam took him to Camp Lenard and showed him his tent (which had become suddenly available when the previous captain had been killed by a sniper while out on patrol), then helped him unpack his gear and showed him around.

On the afternoon of that first day, Sam sat in the corner of the Operations Center, watching the young captain work.

Like any organization, the U.S. Army had its share of weak, cowardly, selfish, ignorant, and truly bad officers. But such men never made it into combat positions, or, if they did, they were quickly removed. Men’s lives were on the line, the chain of command understood that, and no one suffered fools in a combat zone. Indeed, the men who volunteered for and achieved the status of combat officer were some of the best that the United States had to offer. But still, there were variations in their capacities to lead. There were good officers and great officers, brilliant leaders and others who were not as talented or creative. Sam was instantly curious which kind of officer the new captain would be.

It generally took the men a few days, maybe even just a few hours, to evaluate their new leaders, and their first impressions almost always proved to be uncannily accurate. Sam better than most at evaluating his fellow officers—he knew he would be working with the captain for the next eight months or so—so he set about to study him and learn what he could. He watched how Bono took care of his equipment, how he spoke to the senior officers and the men under him. Sam listened to Bono’s tone of his voice and the things that he said. Sam noted the things Bono carried around in his pockets and the optional equipment he had.

On the evening of Bono’s first day, the regiment commander pulled Sam aside. “What do you think?” he whispered, nodding toward the newest captain in his outfit.

Sam stared at the back of Bono’s head. “He keeps a military-issued Bible in his chest pocket all the time. He collects knives and switchblades. Got more than a dozen in all. He’s got a drop-dead gorgeous wife and he pulls out her picture every chance that he gets. And he’s got a tiny, pearl-handled .22 strapped to the inside of his calf, a cheesy little thing that isn’t going to kill anyone unless he shoots them square in the eye at point-blank range. Looks like something he might have picked up in Spanish Harlem for thirty bucks and some crack. But it’s only three inches long and real easy to conceal.”

The commander waited, not knowing. “So . . . ?” he pressed.

“I like him,” Sam answered. “In fact, I like him a lot. He’s thorough. He’s careful. But he’s not afraid to act. He cares about his wife and little girl, and that keeps him from being way stupid, but it’s pretty clear he’s not afraid to get in a fight. This is a guy I would go to battle with.”

The lieutenant colonel nodded and smiled. “Good. You got him, then,” he said. “Show him the ropes for a few days. I’m not screwing up your own team, I just want you to work with him for a while, is all.”

“Sure, sir. But then, if it turns out that he and I work well together, maybe you would consider assigning the two of us to . . . .”

“Not bloody likely,” the commander shot back. “You’ve got a good team. Not going to screw with that. Bono or Mule, or whatever he goes by, will have to take one of the other teams and figure it out. I just want you to give him a bit of head start, that’s all. Things are screwed up as it is, Lord knows this freakin’ nation—if you got the nads to call this rat hole a nation—has killed enough of my guys. Don’t want to make it any easier for them, that’s all.”

* * *

Three nights later, Bono had been sent on his first patrol. As his unofficial trainer, Sam stayed close to his side.

It was just after sunset. There were four of them in a battle-hardened Humvee
^®
, the standard military personnel transport that had, since the first year of the Global War on Terror, been reinforced with thick armor walls and floor. Years before, when the United States had first invaded Iraq, the soldiers had been forced to compensate for the inadequate armor in the original Humvee design by piling sandbags on the floor and strapping scrap iron to the sides. It was the only way they could think of to protect themselves from the unstoppable roadside bomb attacks that occurred every day. The terrorists had proven ingenious, even brilliant; the U.S. generals had been forced to admit. Taking the path of least resistance, the terrorists (Sam refused to call them insurgents; anyone who primarily targeted innocent Iraqi civilians—women, schoolchildren, old men sweeping sand off the streets, young mothers carrying their babies while waiting for the bus—was clearly a terrorist and not worthy of any other name) had learned how to hide among the civilians, how to hit and then run. They had two primary weapons: suicide bombers and, for those not yet willing to have a face-to-face conversation with their Maker, what the U.S. press called IEDs, for improvised explosive devices, or simply roadside bombs. The local troops called them dead REDs, for remotely exploded devices. These ingeniously improvised roadside bombs could be made of almost any explosive material, including old mortar shells, plastic explosives, grenades, and nails packed around TNT. Most of the detonators were activated through cell phones, and the battle tactics were simple: plant the device, hide, wait until a U.S. convoy or Iraqi government vehicle drove by, dial the cell number, and watch the enemy get blown to bits. On Sam’s first tour in Iraq, the terrorist cells had turned back to using dead REDs again. In fact, on Sam’s first day in the country, even while riding from the airport, his convoy had been attacked by a roadside bomb. No one had been hurt, but a lot of sand had been blown in the air. A quick investigation of his good fortune revealed that the terrorist had panicked and called the cell phone number too late, causing the powerful, double-packed mortar shell to explode after the convoy had passed. Phone records would indicate he had nervously dialed two wrong numbers before finally getting it right, allowing time for the convoy to pass. But still, the sound of the explosion had proven a lousy welcome to the country.

Although Sam and the others would laugh about it many times, each of them, inside their guts, hated to wonder.

Two wrong numbers and they had lived. One good dialer and they might have died. How many of their nine lives had been sucked up on that one?

It was all so unpredictable.

That first night with Bono, while driving away from their base camp, Sam had slapped the side of his new Humvee as he drove. The Humvee was heavy with its extra armor and a full load of weapons and fuel, and it felt slow and cumbersome under his hand.

With the new captain sitting at his side, Sam kept his eyes moving, his head constantly swiveling from one side to the other. The sun had set, and it became dark as only the desert can be, a sort of eerie, moonlit twilight that emphasized the shadows and created fleeting ghosts of gray and black that seemed to run across the road.

Earlier in the day, a couple of Apache attack helicopters had reported that a single anti-aircraft missile had been launched toward them from a small cluster of shacks and tin-roofed, cinder-block shanties on a tiny peninsula near the Tigris River. There hadn’t been reports of hostile action in the area for several years—the small village was inhabited by dying fishermen and their old women, the younger generations having been taken either to serve in the army or to be servants in the city many years before—and none of the Apache’s defensive systems had detected the presence of a radar-guided missile, but things were deteriorating quickly now and everyone was on edge. No way were they going to let the security situation get out of hand. One of the pilots had insisted he’d seen a smoky trail coming toward him before falling out of range. That was enough to get everyone’s attention. Bono and his team were sent to investigate.

The men approached the village along the winding, dirt road that followed the bends in the Tigris. The land was marshy here, with cattails and reeds growing higher than a man could see, and the water was slow, brackish and heavy with silt. The fishing had once been good here, but that was years before, and the small village, never more than an Iraqi
dinar
above the poverty line, had fallen into abject destitution over the past generation or so.

Approaching the village, Bono asked Sam to bring the Humvee to a stop before venturing onto the marshy peninsula. It was maybe three thousand meters to the village. Bono got out of the Humvee and stood near the front wheels, studying the village through his night vision goggles. Sam opened his door and followed until he was standing at his side. Staring through the goggles, Bono could see the common fire flickering between the shanties and a few old men standing around, but that was about all. He dropped his glasses and listened. The birds had fallen silent, but they never cried at night, and the only sound to be heard was the water lapping gently against the marshy shore.

Bono turned to Sam. “You realize, of course, there’s no way to approach them without announcing our coming.”

Sam nodded as he studied the sandy road that led to the village. It was pitted with mud holes and deep ruts, with broken branches and dead palm leaves lying across the rough road. Years might have passed since a vehicle had been driven down this road, and it would take them some time, maybe five or ten minutes, to navigate across the marsh to the village. He glanced back at the Humvee. It was a great machine, powerful and heavy, but very loud. Built to carry men into combat, there was nothing stealthy about this vehicle. Its enormous diesel engine belched like a locomotive, maybe louder, and with sometimes more smoke.

“Think they’ve heard us already?” Sam asked the other captain.

Bono shook his head and nodded at the night air. “Wind is blowing toward us. They haven’t heard anything.”

“We could hoof it to the village.”

Bono thought. “Don’t think we should,” he said. “We need the protection the Humvee has to offer. Especially since there’s just four of us and being out here, where there’s no cover but this reed grass. We’ve got no backups, no artillery or air patrols. Who knows what we’d be walking into. According to the Apache pilot, there’s an entire battalion of surface-to-air missiles hiding in the village. Do I believe that? Not at all. But I’m not willing to bet on the lives of my men.”