“Dude, your trucks are blocking the gate and need to be moved. My boys will take care of your boss. Why don’t you head over to medical and check up on your guys?” said Trotter.
The other lieutenant regained his focus. “Yeah, I need to go check on my guys,” he said. Then he headed across the street to the Combat Outpost. The truck that had been hit stayed behind.
Trotter sat down on a concrete barrier and stared at the vehicle. He was pissed. Who the fuck would drive their entire battalion leadership through checkpoint 296 in broad daylight? Not to mention that they didn’t know where the nearest aid station was. How could such a large group of officers be so careless? What Trotter didn’t know was that 3/6 had arrived in Iraq ten days earlier. Plus, they were stationed out of Habbaniya. Nobody they transitioned with had ever driven through 296. To them, it was just another intersection on a map.
A couple of EOD soldiers showed up. They began to do an analysis of the blast hole and the shrapnel in the vehicle. What they found shocked Trotter. The shrapnel was from an 82mm mortar round. The angle indicated that it had been fired directly at the vehicle, not in the conventional indirect method. The insurgents had somehow turned a mortar tube into a cannon. From an elevated position, they had fired this homemade contraption and hit a moving target. Pretty impressive for a bunch of dudes in black pajamas.
Now I stared at another lieutenant who was willing to make a similar mistake. I was enraged not only by his carelessness but also because I was beginning to realize how easy it was for the enemy to take advantage of new, inexperienced units.
After a few more questions, the soldiers began to disperse and head for their vehicles. As they did, I couldn’t help but think that Pathfinder cleared the IEDs for us, so what was the point in their existence if we didn’t wait for them to go out? Once most of the soldiers were gone, I introduced myself to the other lieutenant.
After we’d learned each other’s names, he started to ask me where I was from. I ignored the personal question.
“What the hell are you leaving before Pathfinder for?” I asked.
“They are slow and drive with white lights; we would be sitting targets if—”
“Listen to me, you boot-ass mother . . . Pathfinder will save your and your boys’ lives.” The other lieutenant’s eyes grew wide, shocked that another officer would speak to him in such a manner. “Don’t be in such a rush to get your men killed.”
The sergeant first class opened his mouth, saying something about how if Pathfinder found an IED, we would be stuck stationary on Michigan for the enemy to light us up. I didn’t bother to look at the man. “You got a map?” I asked the lieutenant.
“My Blue Force Tracker . . . I don’t have a . . .”
I picked up three rocks from the ground and laid them on the hood of the humvee. They formed a straight line. Then I professionally asked the sergeant first class to go away. When it was just the two of us, I started.
“Corregidor, checkpoint 296, then 295, in the order we will hit them,” I said, pointing at each rock. “Now, this is a similar principle to displacing your machine gun teams in a firefight: you echelon them.”
“Right, separate their movement by time, keeping continuous fire on the enemy, but I don’t see—”
“It is a different relationship; the enemy now is the road, not a man, and you don’t want continuous fire but continuous observation after Pathfinder clears it,” I said.
The concept wasn’t sinking in.
“Listen, Pathfinder clears the route every night for a reason. The enemy is constantly low crawling to the side of Michigan and pushing new IEDs out there,” I said. The other lieutenant started to look nervous.
“I’m not following what you want me to do,” he said.
“Stage your convoy on Michigan outside Corregidor,” I said, pointing at the rock that was Corregidor. “Then get on the battalion net and listen for Pathfinder’s radio check saying they cleared checkpoint 296. Then switch over to 1/6’s battalion net and listen for when they reach checkpoint 295. When they get there, you leave. This will ensure that only about twenty minutes have elapsed since they cleared the major intersections. And after 295, if you get stopped it doesn’t matter; the tribes in that area are neutral.”
“All right, that makes sense,” he said.
I told him I needed one of his soldiers to ride shotgun in my seven-ton and take my place so I could ride in his lead humvee. Then I headed back across Michigan to get my detainees. Albin was finishing up with the paperwork when I arrived. Luckily, he knew what he was doing; I didn’t have time to review any of it.
After maneuvering the truck to its position in the convoy, I headed to the lead vehicle. Pathfinder’s massive vehicles crawled down Michigan toward Ramadi as I walked. Their large mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles made our convoy look like a column of ants.
At the first humvee, I was surprised when neither the sergeant first class nor the lieutenant was in the vehicle. Instead, there was an ancient staff sergeant with wrinkled features and graying hair. He and the other two soldiers in his crew were on edge. It was their first 296 experience. But unlike the lieutenant, they had been here awhile and knew what 296 entailed. The soldiers’ determined faces made me wonder what I had looked like before I drove through the checkpoint for the first time. I remembered Trotter’s comment about the desperate housewives. For him to crack such a corny joke meant one thing. I had been just as on edge as these men were now.
I got in the humvee behind the staff sergeant on the passenger side. We sat in the dark for ten minutes before I noticed that the Blue Force Tracker (BFT) screen was blacked out. I assumed that he had the screen in blackout mode, but over time I became curious. I pulled out my flashlight and shined it on the switch that provided power to the computer monitor and the Dagger GPS. The stream of white light indicated that the digital mapping system was not turned on.
“LT, what are you doing?” asked the staff sergeant. He was shocked that I would turn on my flashlight inside his vehicle.
“Why isn’t your BFT on?”
Though we sat next to each other, we spoke over the M1114 intra-vehicle communication system.
“That crap? It doesn’t even work half the time, and we don’t even have to turn off Michigan; it’s a straight shot,” he said. I didn’t know what to say. Checkpoint 296 was anything but a straight shot. Scores of Americans hadn’t died at the damn place because it was easy to navigate. I was in his vehicle for a reason. I leaned over and flicked the power switch.
“What the hell, LT? It’s going to light up my entire truck.” The statement revealed the staff sergeant’s true ignorance.
“You can black out the screen,” I replied.
We waited on the side of the road, 20 meters from the wall surrounding Corregidor. Just before the BFT was powered up, a flash of light and a concussion shook the distance. It was checkpoint 296. Pathfinder was doing their job. One less IED for us to deal with.
I wondered, with me in the lead vehicle, whether the now-detonated IED would have killed me or some of the other men in the vehicle. I was glad I had stopped the other lieutenant from leaving before the engineers. But I also became extremely nervous. I prayed for Pathfinder to hurry up and get to checkpoint 295. The sooner they did, the less time the insurgents had to reseed any blast holes.
Twenty minutes later, with the BFT blacked out, we sped toward the city. We passed the Y in the road leading north to Entry Control Point Eight. The buildings started to get bigger and closer together. On the left was the Mila’ab District; to the right, OP Hotel and the industrial area. Two hundred meters after that, we entered 296.
To some people, the word checkpoint elicits thoughts of a stationary roadblock manned by a few soldiers. In the modern era, however, the military term checkpoint isn’t referring to a red-and-white pole that blocks your convoy’s movement. Nobody is going to be there to check your ID. Instead, it is a prominent and easily identifiable point on a map that is used
to relay a convoy’s progress over the radio. Unlike its usage in previous conflicts, the word doesn’t denote any form of control over the terrain.
Our vehicle came to a halt just short of the first Y in the road. “Which way, Staff Sergeant?” said the driver.
The older soldier took a few seconds to stare at either path. At the junction of the Y and separating the two routes was the checkpoint’s always-identifiable water tower. Behind it was the Saddam mosque. The convoy commander, the new lieutenant, asked over the radio why the convoy was coming to a halt. The staff sergeant turned his head halfway back to me. “Sir?” he said.
“Left, south of the water tower,” I replied. This was the easy direction through the checkpoint. If the staff sergeant had turned on his BFT, he would have easily been able to see this for himself.
The vehicle roared past the water tower. Then it came to a screeching halt only meters from the Saddam mosque.
“This can’t be the right way!” declared the driver.
“It’s blocked off, LT, can you see it?”
“That’s the way, Staff Sergeant,” I replied. I sat up in my seat, trying to see past the BFT’s monitor. Eventually, I could see out of the windshield. Sure enough, Michigan was blocked off by a wall of concrete barriers where it intersected with Y-road. I started to second-guess myself and looked out the window. This was the right way, but the barriers were clearly visible. I realized what was happening, or rather what wasn’t happening: cross-boundary coordination. The barriers were in 1/6 ’s AO. Tarheel was probably redrawing their barrier plan for the upcoming Mila’ab offensive and hadn’t informed 1/9 of the changes. Now I, the guy who was supposed to know where to go, was confused.
“Cut across the median and check out the other way,” said the staff sergeant.
Before the driver started to move the vehicle, I interrupted. “At least tell the rest of the convoy to hold its position before you start searching for the right route,” I said. “We don’t need ten vehicles doing a three-point turn in the middle of 296.”
The staff sergeant took my advice. The other vehicles stayed on the path that was usually used. We skipped over the median and roared over the ground between the water tower and the Saddam mosque. It wasn’t a very safe thing to do, but Michigan was barricaded. At least that was what I perceived.
The M1114’s massive tires dropped back down on the other side of the large median. The vehicle was now oriented down the road north of the mosque. Unlike the south side, the road was clear and the engine groaned as the truck accelerated.
“Stop!” I shouted into the headset.
The vehicle halted. Nobody said anything.
“Turn on the BFT,” I ordered.
The staff sergeant hesitated. I lunged forward and did it myself. The screen confirmed what my eyes recognized. It was Racetrack in the opposite direction.
“Turn around and go back.”
“It was barricaded, LT,” said the driver.
“Trust me; go back,” I said. The staff sergeant reached to turn off the BFT. I’d had enough of the games. I wasn’t driving one more inch down an unclear route. “Leave it on,” I said. The words were accompanied by my left hand on his shoulder.
The vehicle sped in reverse. Then it jumped the median and went back to our previous position. The BFT put us back on Michigan. It was the only way.
“Tell the convoy to follow us,” I said.
The staff sergeant did as I asked, and we roared past the mosque and into the intersection with Y-road. The usual M1 Abrams tank was manning its vehicular OP. Our speed began to decrease as we drew closer to the concrete barriers. All four of us in the truck realized the obvious at the same time. The barriers weren’t continuous. Somebody had set out a serpentine farther than usual to slow traffic on Michigan in front of OP Horea. I felt stupid.
After Fire Station Road, the Government Center, and checkpoint 295, the convoy was essentially over. We made it to Camp Ramadi without a shot fired.
At the Ar Ramadi Regional Detention Facility, I had left Albin in charge of turning in the detainees. When I got back, he informed me that Mullah Qahttan was in our custody. I didn’t know what to say. It was a huge development. Capturing a living al Qaeda regional commander changed our momentum. After our first mission with the scouts, morale had plummeted. Firefights, rockets, and mortars were a daily threat. We suffered our first KIA. The deployment was extended by another month. Only a handful of scouts came back for a second mission.
All of this was negated when we captured Mullah Qahttan. Senior levels of command took note of Rage Company’s effort. They even got fully behind Captain Smith’s plan to transition the scouts into a police force. Somehow, we all sensed that it wasn’t going to be our last tangible success.
Personally, I was pumped that we got the Mullah but felt like an idiot because I hadn’t even known. The next morning we followed Pathfinder back to Corregidor. I was anxious to relay the news to the scouts. Surely, such a success would propel their guerrilla movement. They were officially a force to be reckoned with in Julayba.
13
BY WAY OF DECEPTION
February 20, 2007
Richard Jahelka was wrapping up his usual morning routine, checking on each of his squads via the platoon radio. He sat inside Rage Company’s newest static position, Observation Post Shocker. The building was huge. It also offered natural protection. The open fields surrounding the house, along with its concrete wall, were very defensible, and the roof overlooked Route Michigan. This latter fact gave OP Shocker its purpose: ensure that 1,000 meters in both directions on Michigan remained clear of IEDs.
On that morning Lieutenant Jahelka was uneasy. His platoon, Rage 3, was spread out over three separate and not mutually supporting positions. Before Captain Smith had taken over the OP, he had informed all of the platoon commanders that the company’s next objective was to clear the area surrounding the Risala mosque on Orchard Way. It was the next step in the strategy Captain Smith was employing. The platoons were systematically surging into various sectors of Julayba. In doing so, they effectively identified the ones controlled by al Qaeda. The Albu Musa and Albu Bali tribal areas in the east were confirmed as hostile. The tribes north and west of the Gixxer-Nova intersection were seemingly neutral.
The Risala Takedown: The scene of multiple skirmishes in late February 2007 and a region with a historically strong al Qaeda presence.
Risala was different. Everyone knew it was bad without going there. The intersection of Orchard Way and Michigan was a notorious IED hot spot. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the now-deceased leader of AQI, had been known to preach at Risala. A few intel reports even said that the current head of AQI, Abu Ayyub al-Masri, had preached there in the past. To Captain Smith, the area was infected, and the staff dubbed his plan to cure the contaminated region the “Risala Takedown.”
During this takedown, Rage 6 was going to surge elements from two platoons into the area known as the Sijariah crossing, where, on the map, the Euphrates dips low and almost touches the Nova-Orchard Way intersection. To isolate the area, the respective platoons would establish checkpoints at Orchard Way’s northern and southern intersections: Nova and Michigan. This would effectively cut off any vehicular escape. Then the Marines would sweep the area for HVIs who were known to live in the area.
To set up the Risala Takedown, Captain Smith had ordered Jahelka to position two of his squads in over-watch of the company’s quickest route to the area. The squads had moved into position during the previous night. Conley’s second squad was overlooking the intersection of Red Road- Irish Way, while Ahlquist’s watched Red Road-Orchard Way. It was the route the QRF would take from COP Melia in the event of a sustained firefight. At the moment, the roads in the vicinity of Risala were not clear. Pathfinder had not made a visit in almost two weeks.
Lieutenant Jahelka finished checking up on his squads. He tried to relax but found his attempt fruitless. A few solitary gunshots rang out. They came from the vicinity of t
he Risala mosque. Sergeant Ahlquist’s squad was closest to the area. Rather than soliciting information, Lieutenant Jahelka waited for his squad leader to report the situation to him. Moments later, the platoon commander was informed by the sergeant that one of his Marines had been shot.
On the roof of the home that was now Sergeant Ahlquist’s fighting position, Lance Corporal Cody Hadden had been shot in the upper torso. A 7.62mm bullet had struck above his small arms-protective insert (SAPI plate) on the right side. The injury was sustained while Hadden sat exposed, maintaining a watchful eye to the north of the squad’s position. Unlike in Qatana, there was no ballistic glass to protect the Marines on the building’s roof.
Blood was splattered against the gray cinder-block wall. The other Marines on the roof immediately rushed to their comrade’s assistance.
The event put Ahlquist in a dangerous situation. Hadden was wounded and required immediate care, but the injury was not currently life-threatening. It didn’t merit the QRF’s driving on uncleared roads to get to his position. Under the circumstances, the safest option for the QRF was for Ahlquist to physically escort the casualty to the nearest cleared intersection. The sergeant instantly directed his team leaders on his course of action. He would lead two fire teams to the intersection of Orchard Way and Michigan. There, about 600 meters away, Rage Mobile would pick up Hadden. Then Ahlquist would head back to his position, where his other four-man fire team remained. All of this would take place with enemy snipers still lurking in the distance.
At OP Shocker, Lieutenant Jahelka approved Ahlquist’s plan, then headed for a humvee. The platoon commander was going to link up with Ahlquist at the casevac point. Next, he would assess the situation and attempt to flush out the sniper team that shot Hadden.
Rage Company Page 33