Prologue
“It is well that war is so horrible. We should grow too fond of it.”
-Robert E. Lee
Bobby loved Jenny, perhaps a little too much. (He was ill equipped to lose her.) They had met in high school and had fallen in love almost immediately. After graduation, they moved in together. They didn’t have much money for school, so Bobby joined the local National Guard unit. Not wanting to be left alone a weekend a month wondering what Bobby was doing, Jenny joined too, and that’s how they ended up together in the same unit. He soon became an assistant squad leader and she became his driver. He started vo-tech learning to be an auto-mechanic and she got a job at a local box store. They were happy. Then the war started in Iraq, and Bobby and Jenny got the call from Uncle Sam. Drop everything you’re doing and go fight in the desert.
At first they were coy about how to be with one another without anyone knowing it. It was a game that wasn’t worth playing, since eventually everyone knew anyway. That’s how it was with units serving together, it was a tight knit community. Everyone knew everything going on with everyone else. And so, they stopped playing the game and making pretences. They made love in private when they could, and on the road in their convoys from Kuwait into Iraq, they made do without privacy.
And so, on their last convoy together, they made love in a tent made for 8 people, shielding themselves from the prying eyes of their bunk mates behind a poncho hung from the rafters of the tent, like a partition. They covered themselves with an army sleeping bag that moved with their bodies, an army poncho liner they used as a blanket was already discarded on the floor.
As Bobby grinded his hips into Jenny, he heard her soft moan, and felt her breath on his face as she clutched him, her legs wrapped tightly around him, her soft arms around his neck. He could smell the scent of her hair. He felt the pleasure sweep over him then and he embraced her tighter as he finished. They were relatively quiet in their lovemaking, careful not to wake the rest, who largely ignored them by covering their heads with blankets and pillows. One of them did not.
“Oh Bobby!” she moaned. He grunted, and then it was done. The couple lay still.
From across the darkened, air-conditioned tent, a pillow came flying, glancing off the camouflaged mass near where the thrower perceived the couples’ heads to be.
“Oh, god! Bobby!” the thrower mocked. “Jenny! Oh Jenny! Every night, my god, I am sick of riding with you people!” Bradley, seeing that the show was over for another evening, and feigning his disgust, unzipped himself from his own sleeping bag and proceeded to dress. He was pulling on his boots before his team leader could come back with a rejoinder.
“You’re just jealous ’cause you’re not getting any!” Exclaimed Bobby, slightly winded.
“Oh na!” Bradley said. “I’m getting some, soon’s I get back to the base. I’m gonna get me a nice ’un when I get home. And she’ll be big and black and sleek like me, and she’ll have ripe melons for tits, she won’t be flat and pale like our Jenny here.” He quickly finished tying his boots and hurried to leave the tent before Jenny could respond, but he wasn’t fast enough. He caught a pillow the girl had hurled at him, the same one he had thrown at her.
“Asshole!” she complained. “I’m not flat!”
Bobby chuckled. “You better be nice to her, Bradley!” he said. “She’s our driver for another 30 and a wake up. You continue on that track, she’s libel to steer us into a canal or into oncoming traffic and kill us all.”
Bradley’s smile was ear to ear, exposing his exquisite white teeth, the only feature visible in the semi-dark tent amidst his shadowy complexion. The idea of the trip home to the real world sent a shiver of excitement through his body. He had goose pimples rising on his arms.
“Won’t that be nice, 30 and a wake up and the freedom bird home?! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Bradley dropped the pillow on the nearest bunk and exited the tent. Sunlight streamed in through the open tent flap.
Bobby peered in the semi-darkness of the tent, attempting to get his bearings. His crew was on convoy from their base in Kuwait traveling north to Baghdad, a CET ( Convoy Escort Team) of heavily armed gun trucks escorting civilian semis loaded with supplies along the treacherous roads to the Green Zone. They had stopped at Camp Adder, also known as Tallil, due to a vehicle breakdown. Maintenance took a long time and Lieutenant Elkhart, the platoon leader, saw fit to stay the night. That meant the convoy team members were required to stay in tent city, a shabby collection of these air-conditioned dwellings meant to sleep eight unhappy transient campers apiece.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Bobby began to pick out features in the terrain. Eight bunks lined up one next to the other in military dress right dress, and four other campers at odd intervals still sleeping, snoozing and snoring. (There would be more but many in Bobby’s crew didn’t appreciate taking part in the active love tryst between their team leader and his driver.) That was the only indicator of military discipline, other than the tan and brown military gear. The tent was a disarray of equipment; clothing, shower shoes, towels and weapons, dumped in piles indicating neither rhyme nor reason.
Bobby sat down on the edge of his bunk and started pulling on his clothes. He could hear Jenny breathing, and feel the soft caress of her skin as their bodies made brief contact. He felt her hand on his elbow then.
“I’m not flat, am I Bobby?” she said, “You think I’m pretty, don’t you?” Jenny spoke quietly so that no one else could hear.
“You’re fine,” he said more gruffly than he meant to, not looking at her. He pulled on his tan DCU (desert camo uniform) slacks and then his tan jungle boots. Jenny would not be ignored and gripped her boyfriend’s arm tighter than before.
“Really? I’m just ‘fine’?” she asked.
He could recognize that disagreeable tone in her voice, and looked at her, mustering all the sincerity he could. He didn’t want a fight this morning. “Fine like silk. Understand? Now hurry up and get dressed. I wanna get out of this shit hole.”
Jenny let him go, but she continued to talk, continued to vie for his attention.
“I’ve been thinking about us, y’know? What our lives will be like when we get back.”
“Yeah?” Bobby finished with his boots and stood up to look at her. The sun was rising and the light streamed through the open tent flap. Still, the light was not complete and the tent was wrapped in a graying haze. Jenny was sitting up, letting the covers slip down, exposing her breasts. Bobby could barley glimpse the pink of her nipples in the dark.
“Why do you play at bein’ friends with that nigger?” Bobby was caught off guard with the bluntness of the question. He was expecting more talk about marriage, commitment and moving to the suburbs. That was normal, but this was a totally different track. Things between him and Jenny had been getting much more serious as their tour in Iraq neared its end. Since being in the unit, Bobby noticed that Jenny was a bit of a racist. But he ignored it because he loved her. He was sure she could change. That being said, while he and Bradley were friends, Bradley seemed a bit off. He didn’t like the way Bradley looked at his girlfriend, or for that matter, any of the other women of the platoon. Bradley seemed like the kind of man who didn’t take no for an answer, and that bothered Bobby.
Bobby tried laughing the comment off, “Jenny, you’re such a racist. Why do you wanna go on like that? Bradley’s fine.” He lied.
“No he’s not. Well, maybe over here he’s a great gunner, but what about back in the world, back in Detroit? It’s not like you’ll be friends there. You’re gonna get a job at your dad’s shop and finish your schooling. I’ll use my GI bill and go to the community college, and we’ll move out to the suburbs like we planned. Bradley’ll go back to the hood, get involved in the gangs, get drunk or high and end up in prison or dead in less than a year. You gotta think of our future, Baby! You can’t keep trash like that hanging on to us? It’ll bring us down too!”
Bobby was getting irritated. Hands on his hips, he glared down at her. “What if it’s not like that? Bradley could pull himself out of the ghetto just like the rest of us. He could go to college and become a banker or something! You just don’t know!”
Jenny softened her tone; obviously the aggressive track she was applying was only getting Bobby riled up. She switched gears. “You know I don’t have anything against black people in general, Baby! Hell, maybe we’ll have a black man for president one day, but the people who make it generally start out in the middle class. There’s a chance Bradley could pull it together, but the odds are against it. You gotta look to yourself, and to us!”
Jenny tried a smoother tone. “Baby, I’m sorry if I make you mad. I just want to have a life, the two of us, together. I don’t want anything to hold us back.” Jenny pleaded.
Bobby sniffed and an uncomfortable silence followed. Jenny, attempting to look coy, smiled slyly. It worked to ease the mood and Bobby smiled. Reaching for her, he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her lips. She sighed with approval.
“We will have a life, everything we want. Just 30 more days. We just gotta be careful,” Bobby said.
“You got it boss!” Jenny replied, giggling again. She closed her eyes and kissed him again, harder than before. Bobby loved the taste of Jenny’s moist lips on his.
Bobby stood up again and went to find his shirt, which he put on, and then his rifle, which he had dumped in a corner of the tent near their cot.
“I’ll be back shortly. Get dressed. I wanna find out when Lt. E wants his ‘safety briefing’.”
Jenny sniffed, “His I-Love-Hearing-Myself-Talk-Anything-But-Brief briefing you mean?”
“Whatever. Bubbles! Wake up. Get dressed for chow!” Bobby had gone to the next nearest bunk; the one Bradley had deposited a pillow on and used that same pillow to strike the sleeping occupant.
A moan issued from deep beneath the covers and there was some movement, but nothing more. Bobby struck the sleeper again.
“Bubbles, you bitch, get the hell up! I’m not going to tell you again!”
Another moan and then a few words barely audible were heard from within the sleeping bag. “Five more minutes.” Billy Jean, aka Bubbles, known for her bubbly personality, was not a morning person. (Where her given name came from was anyone’s guess, but many speculated that her parents were big MJ (Michael Jackson) fans.) That part of her personality only showed up between the hours of 2200 and 0300 and involved Bubbles laughing and talking incessantly while consuming large amounts of alcohol.
Bobby was used to her morning lethargy and felt no compelling sympathy.
“Whatever bitch! Suits me just fine if you don’t have time enough to get to the DFAC (Dining Facility) in time to get breakfast before we hit the road. I won’t stock candy bars for you if you don’t have the ambition to get them yourself, so don’t come whining to me.”
“Fine.” Came the reply. And, “I’ll be up, shortly.” Meanwhile, Jenny had used the interchange as a chance to start slipping into her clothes. When Bobby turned around she was standing barefoot next to her bunk, her pants were on, and she was just strapping on her bra. Her smooth pale skin made her all the more beautiful to him, even in the dim light. Moved again by her good looks, he allowed himself a grin. She caught the look he hadn’t intended for her to see.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing, just hurry up. And make sure your battle buddy gets her ass up. I don’t want to be dragging along her dead weight today.” With that his smile vanished like smoke and he exited the tent into the day light.
Emerging in the light, Bobby squinted as his eyes adjusted. Following the relative comfort of the tent’s shelter, the heat was oppressive. Even early in the morning it must have been over 90 degrees. It would be well over 110 by mid-day. Sweat was beading on Bobby’s skin already. The wind would be no comfort because it would feel like a hot hair dryer blowing in your face, with coarse, cutting sand mixed in. It would be a miserable day. At least it wasn’t raining mud as it sometimes did, in the rainy season.
He wiped his brow and then reached into his cargo pocket on his slacks, fishing for his ballistic sunglasses and his booney hat. These he put on, thus protecting his head and eyes from the oppressive sun. He slung his M-4 rifle over his shoulder, muzzle down, and took in the view. Then, having gotten his bearings, he strode off towards the Dining Facility to get some chow. He would have to stock up on plenty of Gatorade and water. Convoys ran with coolers filled with ice-chilled drinks and candy, much of which was tossed overboard by the gunners to placate the pathetic Haji children that lined the MSRs (main supply routes, highways) between Tallil and Baghdad. He would remind himself as he walked that he would not pack any for his lazy fellow soldier, Bubbles. She would have to pack her own.
Omar Qatin was a child of the desert, born in Palestine; he fought the Intifada, the rebellion started by former Palestinian Leader Yassar Arafat that was meant to crush the hated Jews once and for all. Instead that campaign ended in failure and he was forced to flee to Egypt. That is where Omar met Jihadis sympathetic to his cause. Sheik Usama Bin Laden’s loyal men furthered Omar’s training there and saw his potential. He trained with enthusiasm as he learned how to build powerful roadside bombs to kill the infidel. He trained in hand-to-hand combat and he learned how to use a rifle. Omar had become a very proficient marksman and explosives expert. He was also developing the capacity to become a leader himself.
His training done, Omar was sent to Iraq to fight the American infidel that had occupied that place. Omar was pleased to be given a leadership role in a campaign to destroy the little Satan and their foot soldiers. He was given charge of a small company of men and settled in Al Taqqadem, an area of Iraq known to the Americans as “The Iron Triangle” There Omar killed many Americans, who he found were too soft and reliant on their tanks and equipment. Never were the Americans brave enough to engage the Jihadi man to man, they prefer to use their powerful weapons to destroy whole cities, not caring who they slaughtered there.
Eventually the Americans grew tired of Omar’s hit and run tactics and they increased their military presence there in a campaign the Americans called, “The Surge”. Omar’s small band of freedom fighters was overwhelmed, and all were killed, except for him. Disappointed by grief at the loss of his men, Omar vowed to fight on, even to his own death, if that was what was required. But his leaders had other plans for him. They ordered him to travel south to An Nasyiriah where he would train a new group of men. The military presence there was of a totally different variety, and it was perceived that Omar would have much more success there. The soldiers there were not the battle hardened Marines and Army soldiers Omar was used to dealing with. Reservists, National Guard, occupied this area. These people were plumbers and carpenters, they were not real soldiers and it was thought that Omar would strike at the soft underbelly and kill many infidels occupying the land. Again, Omar threw himself into his work with enthusiasm.
One particular day, Omar was training his troops, teaching them how to employ the EFP, explosive force projectile. It was a more fearsome weapon than the traditional IED or improvised explosive device or roadside bomb. This device employed a copper plate, vaguely conical in shape inside, as it’s primary weapon. This was formed on a metal lathe and placed in a metal or PVC tube with explosives behind it. In an explosion the copper would be super-heated to its melting point and shot forward towards its target at great speed. Nothing could stop it, no armor defeat it. It would cut through the heaviest armor like a hot knife through butter. It was a great tool with which to cut short the lives of the filthy infidel. Omar was teaching his students in a classroom on how to employ these devices, and they were asking questions.
There was one student in particular who was just a little too questioning in Omar’s opinion, asking questions unrelated what so-ever to the topic at hand, which Omar found terribly annoying. Today the student, Kasim, seemed more interested in the rifle Omar carried than on the lesson at hand. He was testing Omar’s patience.
“Brother,” Kasim asked. “What is that rifle you carry? I have not seen one quite like it. Where did you acquire it?”
The rifle, a long bolt-action weapon with a detachable magazine and painted the color of the desert was laying on the table at the front of the room. Omar picked it up and handed it to the student. “It is an American rifle which the snipers prefer. It is very powerful. I killed two of the American Marines, the infidels’ strongest warriors and I took this from them,” Omar explained.
Kasim nodded in approval. “It is very heavy. But wouldn’t you prefer a more powerful weapon brother? This one appears too simple, and carries too few bullets. Wouldn’t one of the automatic rifles be of more use?”
Omar shrugged. “Every weapon has its uses. The sniper uses this weapon to kill his enemies many meters distant with one shot only. The infidel uses this weapon to kill in surprise, where the victim is helpless to defend himself.”
“Isn’t that rather cowardly?” asked Kasim.
“The infidel is a coward, but he is not stupid!” Omar shot back. “The sniper has killed many of my men with this rifle. And so before I left Al Taggadem I laid a trap for him and exposed him. When I saw where he was hiding, I slaughtered him like an animal. I keep his rifle with me, to remind me of my hard won victory over my enemy and as a reminder of all the men who gave their lives for Jihad!”
“Will you teach us how to use weapon’s like this brother to kill our enemies?” Kasim asked.
Omar nodded, pointing at the bomb components lying on the table in front of the class. “First learn this task,” Omar said. “Then, once you have mastered it, I will teach you the other!”
Bobby emerged from the crowded dining facility; his cargo pockets crammed full with extra water and Gatorade bottles. He bumped shoulders with a captain at the gate, but fortunately the officer did not stop him and demand a salute, he was too busy to notice the offense. Instead he was concentrating on clearing his weapon, a 9 mm pistol, at the clearing barrel, a tradition enforced by the DFAC guard. Bobby had long ago stopped wondering how many negligent discharges had occurred at the dining facility-clearing barrel because of that tradition. Officers and soldiers often failed to clear their weapons properly as required, accidentally firing a bullet into the barrel, an offence that would then be reported to superiors resulting in non-judicial punishment for the offender. Bobby was at the point in his tour of duty that he didn’t sweat the small stuff.
From the DFAC he took a right down the busy sidewalk, in the direction of the PX, (post exchange), and the motor pool where his trucks were parked. The sidewalk was as busy as the DFAC was, and Bobby snaked his way in a long line like a parade as soldiers and airman walked to and from chow and their duty stations. Bobby, who had been carrying his weapon in his arms, slung the weapon barrel down over his shoulder. As he passed by a group of officers, he saluted as required but said nothing. The officers, who were busy conversing, failed to notice him and passed by without saluting. Figures! Bobby thought. It was better to salute than to get balled out for not doing so, or catching an Article 15. Different rules for different people, that’s the Army way, Bobby thought.
After 10 minutes of walking Bobby reached his next destination, the Post Exchange. Like the DFAC, it was a large sheet metal building surrounded by Texas barriers, large standing concrete slabs eight to ten feet high designed to protect against rockets and mortars. The PX was open and a line was forming outside. Bobby got in line. When he got to the gate he cleared his weapon again at the clearing barrel outside, then he showed his military ID to the bored guard standing sentinel at the gate. The guard waived him through.
Inside the protective enclosure of the Texas barriers was a small compound of trailers converted into concession stands surrounding an open courtyard. In the center of the courtyard was a wood picnic shelter complete with picnic tables. The courtyard was busy as soldiers and airmen, both from the US and other countries, lined up to avail themselves of the Green Bean Coffee shop, the Taco Bell, and the Burger King, preferring to pay their hard earned cash rather than eat for free at the DFAC.
Bobby was not interested in any of these, but instead turned left into the main building. The PX at Camp Adder was a converted gymnasium complete with stadium seating. Just within the entrance, a local vendor was selling cheap touristy items like Afghan rugs, paintings of mothers and girlfriends copied from photographs, cigarette lighters shaped like guns, sun glasses and other junk. Bobby ignored the Haji salesman and continued into the main building. Bobby lucked out this morning because it appeared that the shelves were actually stocked. Many times he left PXs disappointed. It’s hard to find items you want when the shippers have to transport their wares in a combat zone. This time though he found what he wanted, shaving cream and blades, a new brown towel, sunscreen, more Gatorade and candy bars.
Standing in line for the cashier he noticed a cabinet selling watches, he was reminded that he needed a new one, his old watch had given up the ghost. He pointed to a TCN (third country national, a non-Iraqi Arab come to Iraq in search of work) and indicated the watch he wanted. The TCN handed him the watch and Bobby, with his items, got back in the queue waiting his turn at the cashier. Another TCN rung up his items and he handed him his cash. He hoped the Haji wouldn’t notice that his pockets were stuffed with other items he stole from the DFAC. He didn’t and Bobby left with all of his items.
From the PX gate Bobby took another right and began walking again. After another 10 minutes of walking he arrived at the motor pool. Actually there were multiple motor pools lining the road and Bobby had to remind himself which one his trucks were in. Was it number 7 or number 6? Fortunately for him it was the closer one and Bobby found his gun trucks. Four dilapidated Humvee ten-twenty-fives with machine guns mounted on top. No one had messed with them; Bobby was pleased to see. He found his truck, identifying it more by the color and number of dents rather than the bumper number, and threw his items on top.
Some of the crew had already gathered and were doing PMCS (preventative maintenance checks and services) on their trucks, getting them ready for the morning commute to Baghdad’s Green Zone. Bobby was not surprised that Bubbles was not amongst them.
Jenny was there. She had the hood of her truck open and was checking the oil. The dipstick was in her hand and she was checking the line, wiping the oil away with a rag. She saw Bobby and smiled.
“Why do you always stuff your shit in your pockets?” she giggled. “You know we’re just going to drive the trucks over to the DFAC to get the coolers stocked. You’re so single-minded!”
Bobby shrugged. “I like the walk, nobody else around. It clears my head. We got enough ice?”
Jenny shook her head. “Nope. It’s melted.”
“Where’s Bubble’s?”
“Where else? We’ll have to swing by tent city to look for her on the way out the gate.”
Every day it was the same. Crew at the trucks doing their thing, checking fluids, radio checks, booting up the Blu-Force Traker (BFT), oh and where’s Bubbles? Nowhere to be found, sleeping off another hangover no doubt. You would think that it would be hard to get booze in a supposedly dry country, but not so. General Order Number One admonished US troops to abstain from alcohol, gambling and sex, but that didn’t stop anybody. It was an Article 15 if you got caught, but most soldiers knew how to lay low enough not to be caught, unless they were really stupid, or unlucky. Coalition forces were not under the same restriction and carried plenty of spirits. The Hungarians, Brits, Ausies, and especially the Italians always had plenty and would trade souvenirs for bottles of whatever they had. Most US soldiers traded their extra pair of boots or other items that weren’t accountable. Bubbles just traded sex, that’s why she was so popular with the Italians that she loved. She’d go get laid and come home blitzed. Then, she would sleep late and get picked up by the crew and sleep off her hangover en-route to the next stop. Bobby wondered why she never got knocked up. Fortunately for her, there were always condoms sold at every PX in country.
The crew finished their PMCS, identified which trucks needed fuel and ice. The ones that needed fuel went to the fuel point to gas up, the ones that needed ice went to the DFAC. Bobby’s crew would go for ice.
Jenny was just shutting hood of her humvee when Bradley showed up. She had never liked him and resented his friendship with her boyfriend. She just found him smarmy and secretly felt his eyes on her every time he was near. It made her feel uncomfortable.
“Where ya been Bradley? Been jerkin’ off?” Jenny sneered.
“Every morning during the peep show, white bitch!” Bradley replied grinning. Bradley’s straightforward voyeurism always raised the hairs on the back of Jenny’s neck. Jenny snorted in disgust.
“Pervert!” she said. “Sleep in somebody else’s tent tonight!”
The crew was ready to go. The trucks were lined up and the crews were gathered in a semi-circle around the lieutenant ready to brief the morning safety brief.
Lt. Elkhart, a young butter bar just out of the basic course, cleared his throat. Eleven months of convoys had made this 24-year-old junior officer into a veteran, and he knew what he was doing. Regardless, he always felt nervous before a mission. It hadn’t gotten any easier. The platoon sergeant, a 20-year lifer and veteran of the first Gulf War stood at his elbow, ready to back him up. But he wasn’t needed. The Lt had it covered.
“All right,” Elkhart began. “Guntruck number two was fixed last night in the maits shop and we’re ready to pull out. Order of march today is 3, 2, 1, 6, 5, 4. Truck three you’re in the lead today so make sure you’re monitoring the platoon freq as well as the Sheriff’s net. Double check your BFT and make sure you know where we’re going. We should be in the Green Zone by tonight. We’ll turn and burn and hopefully be back in Arifjan by tomorrow night, provided we don’t have any more maintenance issues. Everyone deploy their RINOs and their Warlocks and make sure they’re working. The IED (improvised explosive device, roadside bomb) threat is still moderate and I don’t want to take any chances because we forgot to deploy our electronic counter measures. Remember to keep your intervals.
“I’m assuming everyone had a chance to get fuel and ice before this meeting? Yes? Good. Does anyone have anything to add before we take off?”
Bobby raised his hand and the Lt. acknowledged him. “We have to pick up Bubbles, Sir.” Bobby said.
“Where’s she at?” the lieutenant asked.
“Uh, back at tent city I think.” Bobby replied. It was embarrassing to make excuses for his troop at every meeting.
The lieutenant was clearly miffed, but not surprised. Bubbles had been late plenty times before.
“See me after this meeting, Sergeant. Then go get her and meet us up at the TCN truck pool. We’ll be in Aisle 11.”
The platoon sergeant interjected. “I’ll take care of this, Sir!” he said.
“Fine,” Elkhart conceded. He did not want to deal with soldier tardiness this morning. “See the platoon sergeant after this, pick up Pickles. . .”
“Bubbles, Sir.”
“. . . whatever, and meet us. Don’t dawdle, Sergeant.”
Bobby saluted. “Yes Sir!” The lieutenant returned Bobby’s salute and turned away sharply. The meeting broke up, every soldier returning to his or her trucks. The platoon daddy was on Bobby’s elbow a moment later and was leading him sternly away from the rest of the group to have a private heart to heart.
“Listen here troop,” the platoon sergeant rasped. “I’m sick of playing babysitter with your team mate, and I’m sure you are too. Get yer shit together. I want to see you taking TC (track commander) of truck 2 and put Bubble’s in truck 4. She’ll be my gunner. The fresh air will do her good and she can puke off the side all she wants. It’s about time she was forced to stay awake on a convoy rather than sleeping in the back of your truck grabbin a nap.”
“Who’ll be TC in truck three then?” Bobby asked. Normally he was TC of truck three, with Jenny driving. He wasn’t comfortable with taking Truck Two, which was a dog always on the verge of breaking down, and he always played moderator between Jenny and Bradley, his gunner. He knew his gunner and driver hated each other’s guts, but failed to understand the reason why.
“Tommy Meuller’s my gunner. He deserves a break. He’ll TC truck three with your girlfriend. Meanwhile you tell that little ass-dragger Billy Jean Buttfucker, Bubbles or whatever you call her that if she doesn’t straighten up and fly right then next time she’ll be riding in the trunk with the rucksacks. Clear as mud, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Bobby replied. He was about to pull away, the platoon sergeant had been gripping his elbow pretty tight, but his escape would be delayed. The senior NCO (non-commissioned officer) refused to break his grip and it was clear he had more to say to his subordinate.
“Listen up, sergeant. I’ve tolerated your little fling between you and your girlfriend because you’re a good NCO. Got a good head on your shoulders, most of the time. But don’t let your passion cloud your judgment. Get your house in order, or I will. The last thing you want me to do is micromanage. Those stripes on your blouse ain’t tattooed on. They come off real easy. Got it?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” Bobby could feel the blood rushing to his face. It was embarrassing to be browbeaten by his superior in this fashion, and he felt like a private soldier again. He felt his ears burning. The senior NCO released his grip and headed back to his truck without another word. Bobby did the same. Time to pick up Bubbles.
“Tiny Bubbles,” Bobby sung to himself, attempting to lighten his mood as he walked. “In my wine! Makes me happy. . . !” Bubbles was right where Bobby thought she’d be, her ass on her rucksack out in front of the hooch where they’d spent the night. Bobby pulled Bubbles aside and relayed to her the message the platoon sergeant had given to him, word for word. Bubbles was clearly not happy with being made the platoon daddy’s gunner, but Bobby didn’t listen to her excuses. It wasn’t up to him. He was already way too upset himself to deal with her whining. The roster change would mean that he would not be able to talk to Jenny all day, not until they reached Baghdad. There were hurt feelings all around.
The crew drove in silence to the TCN lot. Coalition forces in Iraq escorted thousands of civilian semi trucks up and down the MSRs to the different FOBs, (forward operations bases) every day. Those trucks brought supplies up from Kuwait that were used to rebuild the Iraqi national infrastructure that was all but destroyed by multiple wars including the American and coalition “Shock and Awe” of 2003. Drivers from all over the third world, drawn by the promise of a paycheck risked their lives to drive those trucks despite the risk of roads infested with IEDs. The fiduciary reward outweighed the risks in their view and they sent the money they earned home to feed their families.
Many of the TCNs failed to speak English. Despite this fact, many of the convoys did not have interpreters. The combat units who used them to gain valuable intelligence in the cities snatched language experts up before the convoy commanders could get them. Convoy commanders had to make due with pointing and shouting louder. As a result, lots of TCNs learned how to make sense of the Americans pointing, gesturing and loud, abusive language.
Bobby’s crew found their queue and the crew parted their separate ways, each finding their new assignments. Bobby didn’t feel good about leaving Jenny, but she was a good driver, and Tommy Meuller would be a fine TC. He shouldn’t have been worried, but he was. Bubbles trudged off to truck four with her gear while Bobby and Jenny kissed goodbye, then he too trudged off to find truck two. The driver and gunner, Bill Weiss and Reginald Denning, were there to greet him.
“What up, Sarge? Sombody get fed their own ass for breakfast this morning?” Weiss asked cheerfully. Weiss was always an up person, which didn’t help Bobby’s mood.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He said.
Weiss was unperturbed by the sergeant’s gruffness and offered encouragement. “Don’t worry about it. Bubbles should be the one to worry, but she don’t give a shit. Platoon sergeant just picks on you because you know better. That’s all. Doesn’t mean a thing. Thirty more days and this will all be an unhappy memory.”
“Suits me. Making changes doesn’t bother me. I like to change things up. Makes the conversation more interesting. Throw your gear to me Sarge and I’ll stow it for ya.” Bobby threw Weiss his ruck and took his place in the passenger side of Weiss’s truck.
Weiss’s BFT was up and running. The BFT is basically a computer module resembling a laptop mounted in the truck on the passenger side where the TC sits. The computer is connected to an antennae and a GPS, global positioning system. Using it, the TC can see where he is on a virtual map and he can also see not only the other trucks in his convoy, but every truck in the area near him. The icons displayed differentiate themselves between trucks in his convoy and trucks in other convoys as well as distinguishing one from another, by number. Bobby selected Jenny’s truck on the touch screen and pulled the keyboard closer to him. Using the keyboard, with Jenny’s truck selected he typed in a short message. He wrote, “I love you Jenny. Don’t be mad. Try to get along with Bradley today. Be careful.” And hit send.
A few minutes later the reply came back, “Ok hun. Take care.” Moments later they were on the road. Jenny’s truck led the way, followed by several semi trucks. The gun trucks interspersed themselves in between the semis in order to offer protection and better control them. The convoy began to lengthen as it got underway. The lieutenant placed himself in the middle of the convoy, the third gun truck back. The platoon sergeant took up the rear in the last truck. The old man was already scolding Bubbles, admonishing her to pay attention up in the gun turret. She snorted her derision but said nothing. After winding its way through the streets of the FOB, the convoy finally arrived at and negotiated the main gain. Another few miles and they were on the open road, in Indian Country.
Omar’s team consisted of about eight members, including a little shepherd boy they hired as a look out. They gave him a cell phone and a couple of bucks and told him to call when he saw the first convoy. The boy, bored as he was with his sheep and goats, wasn’t going anywhere. He agreed and kept a sharp eye out, and his position in the desert right next to the main road gave him the perfect vantage point.
The plan was simple, but the weaponry sophisticated. The boy would call when he saw the convoy coming. The bomb Omar would be using against the Infidels was going to be remote activated, victim detonated. He had rigged a laser from a garage door opener as the trigger. The triggerman would receive the call from the boy, then he would use the cell phone to activate the laser. The convoy would pass, crossing the laser and activating the bomb. Seconds later, the explosion.
The main feature of the bomb was the copperhead EFP, but there were several traditional IEDs rigged in series. All of these were aimed at different angles, creating a shotgun effect. This guaranteed that the weapon struck at least some portion of the lead vehicle in the first convoy. Omar didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
The Quds Force officer who was his handler instructed him to video tape all of his attacks, so he dedicated one of his men to do the videography, Kassim, the one with all the questions. The propaganda value of the videotape, especially on the Internet, was tremendous, both as a tool to demoralize the enemy and recruit new followers to Jihad. Omar was happy to comply.
Once the explosion hit and the first vehicle was disabled, the rest of the convoy would stop to render aid. This point was critical. Omar, as the leader would evaluate the enemy’s strength and decide whether it was feasible to launch a complex attack, ordering his men to fire with their rifles and grenade launchers, or not. If the odds were not in his favor, Omar would continue to have the scene videotaped, and then his men would slip away undetected, thus preserving his force to fight another day. Omar had done this particular maneuver at least 50 times.
The cell phone began to ring and the triggerman answered. It was the shepherd boy. The triggerman nodded to his commander. The Infidels were coming.
Tommy Meuller was very talkative that morning and it was getting on Jenny’s nerves. An avid football fan, Tommy bombarded his crew mates with talk of the vital statistics and important game plays of his favorite team, the Detroit Lions. Jenny’s eyes glazed over as Tommy rambled on and on, everything he was saying rolling in one ear and out the other. Jenny silently wished she could turn off her earphones.
“Do you follow football, Jenny?” Tommy asked.
“No,” was her curt reply.
“What about you, Bradley?”
“Uh, I’m a Steelers fan,” the gunner replied.
“Steelers. . .?” Tommy exclaimed in horror. “Why they haven’t won a division championship since I don’t know when. Now the Lions on the other hand have a great team this year. The offensive squad this year added . . .”
Blah, blah, blah, it was all lost on Jenny. Her boyfriend sometimes talked about sports, but he was a hockey fan. Jenny tolerated it because she had always believed skating was graceful, even though she could do without the fights often associated with hockey. The boys argued back and forth about which teams’ quarterback was better and Jenny inwardly reached for that non-existent mute button. She was tempted to take off her headphones and plug in her iPod, but she refrained. She wanted to listen to the platoon net this time. Being in the lead made her nervous and she wanted to pay extra special close attention, in case something happened. In the middle or back of the convoy she could just unplug and listen to her tunes, but bad things happened to the lead vehicles, and she was especially tense today.
Plus, she was bothered about the discourse she had had with her boyfriend that morning. She regretted some of the things she said. She so much wanted to tell Bobby how much of a creep Bradley really was, but it had all come out wrong. She wanted to tell him about the times she had caught him masturbating in the dark outside the women’s shower, about the times she had run into him lurking about her can, (trailer housing unit for soldiers). He made her feel uncomfortable and irritable. Things had been getting serious between her and Bobby and she wanted so much to make it a happy ever after thing. She so much wanted the happy ever after to not include Bradley. He was such a pervert. She wanted to make Bobby understand. Why had she brought up the whole racial thing? That wasn’t it at all. Bradley was just a bad man, and she did not want anything to do with him. That was all.
The convoy had come up on a curve in the road and was forced to slow down as it merged onto the main highway. Jenny touched on the brakes. Bedouins were camped in their shanty tent villages and hovels along side the road and seeing the poor pitiful folk living there always broke Jenny’s heart. Barefooted Bedouin children came out of the desert then, shouting at the convoy and begging for goodies. Bradley had set up a stack of water bottles, Gatorade, pop and candy along the edge of his gun turret specifically for that purpose. He stopped arguing briefly about sports so he could toss the items down at the children, the heavy bottles kicked up dust at the children’s feet. He was long out of things to throw, but still the children who weren’t lucky enough to get anything continued to chase the already speeding convoy.
Jenny’s truck rounded the curve and approached the straightaway that would bring her to the main road, MSR Tampa, the four-lane highway that would take them all the way to Baghdad. She pushed the accelerator, pulling away from the children chasing her. She never saw it coming. Usually she was wary of unidentified piles of dirt that could have hidden a roadside bomb, or a stick in the ground that could be used as an aiming stake, but there were none of those indicators this time. Omar had hidden the EFP well, and the laser negated the need for an aiming stake. The right front tire of Jenny’s truck broke the beam. Three seconds later, the bomb went off.
Tommy was looking out the passenger window and waiving to the children when the bomb exploded. The copperhead plate of the EFP, superheated to 5,000 degrees, was hurled at the speed of sound as a molten blob of red-hot liquid. It sliced through the pope glass of Tommy’s window and sheered his face off, leaving his lower jaw hanging. Bits of bone, teeth and gore struck Jenny in the face, splattering her side of the vehicle. The molten metal continued unimpeded through the cab of the humvee, striking Jenny in the left forearm, separating her hand from her arm. The molten metal continued to travel at mach speed, slicing through Jenny’s window.
Jenny lost control of the vehicle then, but in her shock she neglected to pull her foot off the accelerator. The humvee continued on its course to the main highway, accelerating as it went. The humvee careened into the median, was launched headlong into the southbound traffic lane where it crashed into a civilian cargo truck. The humvee spun around, rolling and tumbling back into the median, coming to rest back on the wheels.
Bradley, the gunner, who was half out of the turret when the bomb went off, was crushed to death as the humvee rolled over. His upper torso was sheered in half by the metal of the gun turret’s protective screen normally meant to shield the gunner from incoming small arms fire. The gunner’s blood smeared the top of the vehicle. The centrifugal force created when the vehicle rolled tossed the gunner’s lower half out of the vehicle and onto the roadway where it came to rest in the northbound lane. A civilian trucker trailing Jenny’s gun truck was unable to stop. He ran over Bradley’s legs.
From his vantage point further back in the convoy, Bobby saw the whole horrible scene, the bomb exploding, Jenny’s truck hitting the median, part of what looked like the gunner being thrown out, and Jenny’s truck rolling in the median after hitting another truck head on. It all played out in slow motion in Bobby’s mind, and would play over and over again years after Bobby left Iraq.
The convoy stopped. Soldiers piled out of their vehicles, kneeling by the roadside and aiming their weapons towards the direction of the blast, gunners turned their turrets and aimed their machine guns, ready. The sudden explosion equally shocked the villagers as some of the children lay dead along the roadside, also made victims of the blast. Civilians ran in fear or raised their arms in surrender, hoping the Americans wouldn’t shoot them. The civilian truck drivers drove further down the road, attempting to clear themselves of the kill zone and pulled over, waiting for their protectors to accompany them on their journey north. Mother’s wept for their slain children who lay mangled by the roadside.
Jenny slowly came to her senses. She had struck her head pretty hard against the steering wheel and blood flowed down her face. Tears mixed with her blood, and she could barely see. She turned towards Tommy to see if he was ok. He lay slumped over, unconscious or dead, his blood pouring out the gaping maw where his face had been. Jenny started screaming in horror, her lungs aching, her voice sore from the effort. Her neck hurt her and she couldn’t see where Bradley was. She reached for the door handle, trying to release the hatch, attempting to escape the wreckage, but she was unable to work the latch, her hand was missing and she was unable to open the door with her bloody stump. She reached over with her other hand attempting to work the latch, but it didn’t budge. The heavy armored door was jammed; the bars connected to the latching mechanism were bent beyond repair, useless.
She struggled with her seatbelt, maybe she could get out through the gunner’s hatch, but she couldn’t find the seatbelt release. As she struggled in vain, her senses began rapidly returning. She began to smell the acrid scent of smoke billowing in the cab of the humvee. The truck was on fire. Her screams subsided into gentle sobs as she realized that if she could not extricate herself from the burning gun truck then she would die in flames. Tongues of fire began to lick up from the engine block and Jenny began to feel the heat through the floorboards.
Her sobbing increased as panic enveloped her. Her last thoughts, as she struggled with the uncooperative seatbelt were of her boyfriend Bobby. The quiet home in the suburbs, the dog and the kids, the working man, her loving husband, with grease-stained hands and cheeks, all of her dreams were just that, just dreams. It was not meant to be.
“Oh Bobby!” she said out loud, sobbing, but resigned to her fate. “I loved you so much!”
Bobby was on his feet, throwing the humvee door open, running as fast as his feet could take him. Without his weapon or Kevlar helmet, he rushed towards the burning truck where his fiancé lay trapped. But fast as he was, he was not fast enough. The truck exploded in a fireball, engulfing the humvee in a flames and dark smoke. The shock of the blast knocked him flat on his back in the middle of the roadway. The breath was knocked clear out of him and he gasped heavily as he tried to regain his feet. Lieutenant Elkhart and his driver came rushing up to him then. They had been in the truck behind Bobby’s and he had seen the whole thing. Together they grabbed the bereaved sergeant, preventing him from rushing headlong into the fire to perish with his girlfriend.
Bobby was screaming, struggling with the men restraining him. “Jenny, we gotta help her! Jenny! Jenny! Let me go, Goddam you!”
“She’s gone, sergeant!” the Lt screamed above the din. “You’ll only get yourself killed. Lay off! Let her go!”
“No!” Bobby screamed. “Noooo!” He crumpled in a heap there in the road, sobbing uncontrollable and would not be consoled.
The platoon sergeant came running up then, from all the way in the rear of the convoy. He was being followed by several soldiers, all carrying fire extinguishers. Gun trucks hit by EFPs always burn, without fail, and the platoon daddy knew it. It must have been the super-hot molten metal that ignited the flames. Whatever, it was devastating. The old man knew it was probably hopeless, but he couldn’t stand by without doing something. He was the platoon daddy. It was up to him. He had gathered as many soldiers as he could and ordered them to bring their extinguishers. Maybe, just maybe, they could quench the blaze before it got too bad.
“Move your feet Goddam you! Come on you slackers!” the platoon sergeant yelled, encouraging his men. But it was too late. He had come from too far and when he got there, the truck was already ablaze. Try as they might they could not contain the fire. The truck and all its contents were reduced to molten mess. The Platoon Sergeant called for more extinguishers but it was not enough. The fire burned for over an hour, long after the fire extinguishers were completely wasted.
Bobby watched his platoon sergeant and his fellow soldiers as they valiantly tried to put out the fire. His screaming subsided and was replaced with deep sobs. His lungs hurt from the effort. He felt sick to his stomach and vomited several times, emptying his belly onto the pavement.
“Oh God, Jenny. My Jenny!” he wept. “I loved you.”
Seeing that his sergeant wasn’t going to destroy himself vainly attempting to rescue his lover, Lieutenant Elkhart released his grip on him. He began instead to give instructions to his driver and gunner, who were at his side.
“Call the Sheriff’s net,” he ordered the driver. “Tell them we’ve been hit and request medevac and a wrecker. We need to get back to Camp Adder.
To the gunner he said, “Organize the men. Maintain security and prepare for complex attack. It might not be over.” The soldiers ran in different directions, executing their platoon leader’s orders.
Lieutenant Elkhart was alone then, next to the sobbing sergeant. Tears welled in his eyes as he observed the tragedy taking place before him. He had been lucky so far, he reminded himself. Hadn’t lost a single soldier under his command in 11 months. In another week he would be doing his left-seat, right-seat rides with the incoming unit that would replace him. Two weeks after that they would be winging back to the land of the big PX, the United States, and home. It was bound to happen, had happened to many other platoon leaders. He had just hoped that it would not happen to him. He had had close calls before, but nothing like this; and he realized painfully that his enemy, though not as well armed, knew his business as well as the lieutenant did, and would do everything he could to destroy him and his men. Today they got lucky. Elkhart vowed then he would do everything he could to save those men and women under his command who remained.
“Goddam you Haji,” Elkhart said under his breath, “And Goddam your worthless country!”
Omar observed the scene with satisfaction as his cameraman continued filming. The triggerman tugged at his sleeve, eager for a fight.
“Shall we attack them, commander?” he asked.
Omar shook his head. “No,” he said. “Let the Americans suffer. We will attack them again another day. Let them wallow in their pain, and their weakness. Their sorrow will sap their strength more than your bullets.”
“Come,” he said. “Let us go.”
Omar, along with his men, screened from view by the panicked villages, gathered their equipment and weapons and disappeared into the deep desert. There they prepared to fight the infidels at another time and place.
Omar’s team left that day, satisfied with their day’s work. But Omar himself was thirsty for more. In his lust for vengeance, he went out into the desert alone, carrying the Marine sniper rifle to a place where he knew the infidel was waiting unaware.
It was late in the evening, close to sunset when Omar got to his destination. He approached on foot, looking for a place to set up an ambush. Along the miles and miles of open highway in southern Iraq, the Americans set up small encampments, surrounded by mud and concrete walls. There were radio relay points protected by small squads of men. The Americans used these tiny wayfarer posts to build communications hubs that would aid in their radio communications. They were easily marked because of the telltale radio towers that could be seen for miles.
At this particular radio relay point, there was a bridge over a small river. The bridge itself would provide excellent cover for a sniper in hiding. Omar approached from the east, covered in his movements by the elevated road. Underneath the bridge, with the sun low in the west, he had a good view of the fortress. Though he couldn’t see anyone inside the fort, they were covered behind high walls of dirt and concrete, there was one target Omar could easily see. Silhouetted against the light of the dying sun, a lone trooper took his place in a high tower overlooking the wall. It was a lookout tower where a soldier at his post could see all of the areas surrounding the tiny fort. The tower gave the Americans the feeling of security, the ability to see what was coming at them.
It was also their only vulnerability. In the tower, the soldier at his post made a target of himself, which Omar could see perfectly well. The soldier was there, but he didn’t see Omar where he was hiding under the bridge, the dying light obscured his field of observation, while it enhanced Omar’s. The sniper took aim, and he fired.
The soldier in the tower was stunned by a sudden pain in his chest, was driven backwards with incredible force. He went tumbling backwards out of the tower onto the ground 15 feet below. Fortunately, the soldier was wearing his body armor, which protected his chest, and the soft earth of the mud berm cushioned his fall. The soldier would live, but Omar would not learn that. The soldier was hidden again below his field of vision. To Omar, it looked like he had achieved a clean kill.
The fortress was an uproar then, and men came pouring out of the metal gates, armed with their weapons and driving uparmored vehicles in a vain search for Omar. But the sniper was gone, disappearing into the desert from which he came. Omar was a ghost that dealt death to the unsuspecting American Infidels.
