Weapons of Mass Destruction Page 4

  When they reached the northern perimeter of East Manhattan, the Strykers parked at two-block intervals. The trek into the city had only taken twenty minutes, and already the temperature had jumped ten degrees. With one hundred pounds of gear and one hundred degrees of heat it would have felt like two hundred degrees in the shade, if there’d been any shade. Body armor was the worst. It chafed and caused heat rashes that itched like mad.

  “Better scratchier than a dog with fleas than dead,” McCarthy said.

  Better anything than dead.

  Lieutenant Radetzky ordered one last weapons check. Their flak jackets were loaded down with grenades and magazines. They carried sidearms and machine guns. Sinclair packed both a rifle and an automatic so he could alternate between sniper and raid duty. He had also strapped a Ka-Bar knife to his leg and sheathed a more compact blade on his boot. He was equally adept at long-distance marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat, which he had picked up from Pete’s dad. Nobody ever knew whether Eugene learned to wield the blade in barroom brawls or from tutelage in the dying art of Sioux warriors. One way or the other, he could carve up a far sight more than Thanksgiving turkey. Several members of the platoon had Sinclair’s knives to thank for the fact that they were still standing. He was quick as a cat, especially with a Ka-Bar in his paw.

  The weapons check was more ritualistic than pragmatic. It was too late to run back to base camp, too late to retrieve forgotten gear, too late to call off the mission if conditions changed on the ground. Grunts complained that the big shots planning offensives didn’t have their fingers on the pulse of the action. But the trade-off was worth it to Sinclair. What generals lost in proximity they regained in expertise. Nobody could deny that the big brass had seen more action than a flophouse madam.

  The beauty of the military was its unshakable chain of command. When orders were issued, they were almost always respected and virtually always carried out. This was the armed forces’ most powerful weapon, this steadfast devotion to duty. It’s why Sinclair joined up in the first place, along with 9/11. He had been too young to articulate what bothered him about kids at school. The Marine Corps gave him the language to diagnose the problem. Entitlement. His boot camp sergeant claimed it all started in the sixties. Ask not what you can do for your country but what your country can do for you.

  “Hippie chicken shits,” Sergeant Troy shouted.

  He paced back and forth, stopping periodically to dress down individual soldiers. They were all blundering blueheads, but at least they weren’t hightailing it to Canada.

  “Draft-dodging sons of bitches.”

  All day eight days a week he yelled, as though the lives of his men depended on a steady stream of abuse. Verbal, physical, psychological, you name it. Maybe he was right. By the time they deployed to Iraq, all vestiges of entitlement had been beaten out of them. They knew how to fight. Even more importantly, they knew what they were fighting for. Freedom. Justice. When he really wanted to get the platoon revved up, Sergeant Troy ranted and raved about the World Trade Center. It was his rally call.

  “If 9/11 had a silver lining, which it didn’t, at least it nipped that entitlement shit in the bud.”

  The Twin Towers should have been everyone’s rally call. But after the first shock wave, Sinclair’s friends back home picked up where they left off, worrying their pretty little heads over midterms. Sinclair was appalled. America had been attacked on her own soil, and all they could think about were their grade point averages. When news broke that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Grandpa had left an unfinished physics exam on a desk at the University of Montana. Before the end of the semester, he was in uniform and on his way to Algiers. The closest Sinclair’s classmates came to giving a damn about their country was writing college essays about how 9/11 changed them forever. Which it didn’t. They were no different than they’d been on September 10, judging from their indifference to the call of duty. Sinclair couldn’t hide his disdain. He lost a lot of friends that year, not just Pete.

  His parents flat-out refused to let him enlist right away. They forced him to stay in college, as though playing patty-cake with a bunch of frat brats would somehow change his mind about the military. If he’d been a year older, he’d have enlisted anyway, without their blessing. There was no doubt in his mind the American government wouldn’t let al-Qaeda get away with mass murder. It was just a matter of time before they declared war on the guilty parties. The summer before the invasion of Iraq, he joined the US Marines. Somebody had to do it. Heroism wasn’t confined to the Greatest Generation, regardless of how many new millennials took freedom for granted. Sergeant Troy was absolutely right. The War on Terror had given America its balls back.

  Weapons checks were a kind of meditation. Focusing the platoon’s attention on the minutiae of arms and ammunitions was Radetzky’s way of keeping them calm in the face of combat. Then some clown showed up and started snapping pictures, something Radetzky presumably had no control over. They hadn’t hosted an embedded reporter since the Battle of Baghdad. Apparently their missions hadn’t been media worthy since then. So much the better. The last embed had pissed off Sinclair. He was a know-it-all who kept trying to buddy up to them, as though they were all in this thing together. Fat chance. War correspondents were, by definition, nothing more than glorified pen pals.

  To be fair, Sinclair hadn’t given the guy much of a chance. He resented embedded reporters. They were a nagging reminder that Iraq was as much a media war as a military offensive. Half of the time, political types based their decisions on news clips more than official reports. As a result, half of their decisions were counterproductive. If they’d let the armed forces run the war, the notorious mission accomplished declaration would have been a fact rather than a gaffe.

  “Got what you need?” Radetzky asked the embed.

  “I could use a group shot.”

  “Over here,” Radetzky said. He ordered his men to grab their weapons of choice for a photo op. McCarthy made an obscene noise, which he pretended not to hear. A commissioned officer, Radetzky was expected to facilitate what the Pentagon called strategic media coverage. Needless to say, McCarthy called it propaganda. Semantics aside, it played an increasingly vital role in greasing the war machine. Seasoned members of the squad like Trapp were less critical of the press corps. Wounded in the Gulf War, he had spent some time in the VA hospital in Jackson. Vietnam vets there told him the government had learned its lesson at My Lai.

  “Either you control the media or it controls you.”

  Trapp admitted that embedded reporters were a pain in the ass. But they were a necessary evil, not unlike rules of engagement. The American public was being bombarded with negative images of the war, compliments of Al Jazeera and other blatantly biased media outlets. Providing more impartial coverage was the only way to guarantee continued support of the military. Leftist complaints that embedded reporters lacked objectivity were ridiculous. The fact that they shadowed soldiers and even broke bread with them didn’t mean they were really all in this thing together. Shooting pictures was a far cry from getting shot.

  “Men, this is Earl Johnson,” Radetzky said. “Associated Press correspondent.”

  Radetzky left it at that. Last time there had been an elaborate introduction, probably instigated by the embed himself. What a prima donna. Johnson was less intrusive. He nodded and went to work, setting up his tripod with no fanfare whatsoever. He was much older and infinitely less sycophantic than his predecessor. No wonder. Turns out he was a vet. He had almost made the US Marines his career, but opted out to salvage his marriage. It failed anyway. The military saves as many marriages as it destroys, thanks to the inescapable logic of emotional clichés. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Women love men in uniform even more than they hate war.

  Without thinking, the platoon congregated in rows. Guys upfront knelt on one knee. They didn’t really pose. They fell in, taking their places in the endless ranks of photographs that shaped the collective consciousnes
s of military men. Patriotism wasn’t so much a sentiment as an image. Storming the beaches at Normandy. Planting the flag at Iwo Jima and Ground Zero. Uncles and fathers had shown them pictures of Korea and Nam. Sinclair’s grandpa had been less forthcoming, not that it made any difference. Hunting through bookshelves and drawers, Sinclair found the inevitable black-and-white shots of men brandishing weapons, in this case the tommy guns and bazookas of World War II. Weaponry and landscapes changed over the years but never the soldiers themselves. Whether framed by Pacific palm trees or French vineyards, their faces always looked exactly the same. Blank. The unconscious imprint of these photographs inspired many a boy to dream of enlisting. The only way to solve the riddle of those enigmatic faces was to go to war.

  “Must be anticipating civilian casualties,” Trapp said. He was standing between Sinclair and McCarthy in the back row.

  “Why’s that?” Sinclair asked.

  “They’re deploying embeds.”

  “Spin doctors,” McCarthy said. “All the news that’s fit to print.”

  “Give or take a few body bags.”

  “Minor details.”

  “We make a mess. They clean it up.”

  Suddenly the airwaves were alive with logistical commands. Captain Phipps climbed out of his Stryker to consult with Lieutenant Radetzky. Tactical Operations barked orders into their headsets. Phipps looked excited. Radetzky looked like he always looked. Calm. In control.

  “Confirm coordinates after every block,” Captain Phipps said.

  “Yessir,” Lieutenant Radetzky said. He turned to his men. “Split into squads. Keep pace.”

  All along the perimeter of East Manhattan, captains gave the signal and companies slipped into Fallujah. Their stealth, in spite of all their gear, was remarkable. The Marine Corps’s most cherished motto—swift, silent, and deadly—was particularly well suited to urban operations. They disappeared into the city, which seemed to lie in wait for them.

  Radetzky’s platoon was armed with a secret weapon. Sinclair headed up a sniper team tasked with covering maneuvers on the ground. Deploying snipers in searchand-destroy missions was highly unorthodox. Conventional wisdom said they slowed things down, leaving troops more vulnerable to ambushes. But conventional wisdom was as outdated in Iraq as conventional warfare. Perched on high, snipers could pick off insurgents moving from one bunker to the next. They were the eyes and ears of the platoon, providing security and intelligence in equal measure. Sinclair was in constant radio contact with Radetzky, who adjusted his strategies accordingly.

  Sinclair’s team snuck up the stairwell of an apartment complex overlooking several blocks of ritzy single-family homes. The rest of the platoon split up, preparing to clear a pair of compounds under his watchful eye. Lieutenant Radetzky led one squad, Wolf the other. McCarthy’s bunkmate Percy served double duty, backing up both squads with a shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon. SMAWs could level bunkers and smoke insurgents out of structures too well-fortified to storm. In theory, they were portable weapons systems. In practice, Percy was the only one strong enough to carry the damned thing. There were several other college football stars in the company. They looked like featherweight wrestlers next to Percy, who was posted behind a garden wall. Radetzky waited until everyone confirmed their positions. He never rushed their maneuvers. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

  “Prepare to advance,” Radetzky announced into his headset.

  “I’m blind from eight o’clock to eleven,” Percy said.

  “You got that, Sinclair?” Radetzky said.

  “Got it covered,” Sinclair said.

  “We’re right behind you,” Wolf said.

  The two squads rushed single-file across the patios of adjacent compounds. Johnson followed Wolf’s team, his camera at the ready. If a swift kick or two didn’t pop the front door, they blew the lock. On extended campaigns, this tactic saved a lot of wear and tear on point men. Otherwise they had to batter down door after door, all because civilians lacked the common courtesy to welcome them into their homes. You tried to liberate a country, and they locked their doors in your face. Go figure.

  Two men appeared on the roof of one of the compounds. Sinclair zeroed in on them, preparing to fire, and then relaxed his trigger finger. It was Trapp and McCarthy. They made a quick search of the area, checking for weapons caches, before disappearing back down the stairwell. Neither of them looked in Sinclair’s direction for fear of giving away his position. But they could feel his eyes watching their backs. An umbilical cord of energy connected good snipers with their platoons.

  The squads moved on to the next set of compounds. No one anticipated much resistance on the perimeter of the city, but you never knew. Unpredictability was the insurgency’s most lethal weapon. The desert was wired with booby traps and IEDs. Urban combat was even more full of surprises. Every room in every single house was a potential jack-in-the-box. The sheer number bred boredom and complacency. Door after door popped open, hundreds and then thousands of them revealing nothing. Then out jumped Jack with an AK-47, and you’d opened your last door.

  The platoon cleared three full blocks without encountering a living soul. Someone somewhere was trying to lull them into a false sense of security. Telltale signs told a different, more menacing story. Wolf, who had worked in construction before enlisting, was adept at identifying architectural anomalies. He and Evans carried crowbars, yet another secret weapon in unconventional warfare. They found a cache of grenades and Dragunov rifles in the pantry of an upscale house, hidden under a false floor.

  “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.