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.”
“OK, boss, but you realize if we jump in the Humvee and go tooling off across the grass, we’re going to give whoever is waiting in the village an awfully long time to know we’re coming. If they haven’t seen us already—and they might have, it’s amazing how good these natives’ night vision can be—they’ll hear us at least five or seven minutes out. That’s an awful long time to announce we’re coming if there are hostiles hiding there. Lots of time to hide or plan an ambush. Lots of time to lock us in their sights.”
“Yeah,” Bono muttered. “And you know what really ticks me off? There’s no one hiding in the village. I’m sure there’s nothing there. I mean, look at it. If you were an Iraqi soldier and wanted to pop off a couple missiles at passing U.S. aircraft, can you think of a worse place to do it? No cover. No escape routes. No place to hide. You telling me those starving fishermen are going to offer you any help? What have they got to offer? A couple dry fish? I don’t know what our Apache driver saw, but if it was a missile it didn’t come from this place.”
Sam nodded. He agreed. “But you know what will happen if we don’t check it out,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve been around long enough that I figure I do. If we don’t check out the village, if we don’t turn over every stone and look behind every door, those aviation grunts will never relax. Every time they fly over this area, they’ll be on edge. They’ll zoom down and fly low, harassing these poor guys every chance that they get. One of their flyboys saw a missile and it was launched from here, so the first time they see smoke from the village fire or a flash of reflected light in the sun, bang! They’ll come in, their guns blazing to take care of this place.”
Sam nodded sadly. It was true. As a grunt he had learned the value of a pause, the value of evaluating a situation completely before he popped off his gun. But the aviation guys weren’t so careful. Their information wasn’t as good. They flew high and too fast. And because of that, they were much more likely to pull their triggers on their missiles and guns. More, they were so much more vulnerable, sitting like metal ducks in the air. And they never saw the results of their bullets. Sam suspected it was impossible to fully appreciate the ugliness of death when one imposed it from the air.
Sam stared at the village in the distance as he thought. “What do you propose?” he finally asked.
Bono started unstrapping his web belt. He laid it on the bumper of the Humvee, then stripped down to his fatigue pants and boots. “I’m going to float down the river,” he explained as he walked to the rear of the Humvee where the tool kit was stowed. Pulling out a black garbage sack, he wrapped his M4A1 assault rifle, and then secured it with tape. “If I can get into the current, it will carry me across the channel and down to the village.”
“Unless you miss it, and then some oil tanker will find you somewhere off the coast of Kuwait,” Sam replied. He knew the river was fast and deep in the middle.
“Yeah. Unless that happens.” Bono surveyed the gear in the back of the combat vehicle. “I want a blowout kit,” he said as he motioned with his hand. Sam tossed him one of the two medical pouches and watched as Bono strapped it to his belt. “But assuming I don’t drift down to the Persian Gulf, this is my plan. Give me ten minutes in the water, then fire up Bertha and head out across the road. Make lots of noise; gun the engine, whatever it takes to let them know you’re here. I’ll set myself up on the northwest shore, opposite of your approach. I don’t know for certain what kind of cover I’ll have, but I’m assuming there will be marsh and weeds, about like what we have here. I’ll keep in the cover, but get as close to the village as I can. You guys come screaming in. If any bad guys are there, I can cover you from their rear. If they try to retreat, we’ll have them surrounded.”
“Surrounded? With four men? And from only two positions?”
“Whatever.”
Sam looked at Bono, his dark face camouflaged to match the night. “You should take someone with you,” he said.
“No. I won’t need it. I’m only acting as a safety value, you know, just in case it turns out I’m wrong. But I’m sure there are no hostiles in this village. This will be nothing but a cakewalk, a chance for a nice moonlight swim.”
Sam nodded slowly. “You know, Bono, treading water for fifteen minutes in a snake-infested lake while holding a rifle and radio above the waterline to keep them from getting wet is hardly my idea of a good time. But hey, that’s just me. If this is the way you want to do it, then I’m with you, man.”
Bono was slipping toward the water. “It’s cold,” he said.
“Do you want me to—?” Sam started to question, but it was already too late. The captain had already slipped through the marshes and disappeared.
Sam glanced at his watch. Nine minutes fifty seconds to wait. He fingered his radio nervously, and then paced back and forth. He stared at the river, and then watched the village through his night scope. He waited as long as he could stand it, eight minutes, then climbed into the Humvee. “Let’s go,” he said.
“The boss said to give him ten minutes,” the noncommissioned officer answered.
‘Yeah, yeah,” Sam shrugged. He hated his new buddy, a guy he was supposed to be training, being out there alone. He hated waiting. He hated being so far away from the village. He counted to sixty. “Let’s go,” he said.
They fired up the Humvee and headed out across the deeply rutted road. One man rode shotgun, standing at the open hatch at the roof. All of the men were wearing night vision goggles, and they kept their headlights off as they drove. No sense illuminating themselves like a target in case there were bad guys in the village. “Ranger One, what you got?” Sam questioned over his radio, but Bono didn’t answer, and Sam’s chest tightened up. It took longer than they had hoped to forge their way across the swampland, pushing dead tree trunks and palm leaves like a bulldozer before them, but they finally pulled into the village, their engines racing like a drag racer.
They found Bono sitting on a log next to the fire. The village leader was next to him, and the two men were talking like they were old friends. Bono motioned to his comrades as they came racing in. He pointed to the fire, where some fishes were frying on sticks that had been laid across the fire.
The other Deltas got out and walked toward him.
“So . . . I’m assuming there aren’t any bad guys?” Sam started to question.
“Not so much as a pea shooter,” Bono answered him. “And Sayid ell-Marhsif here has assured me that he loves the Americans and would never aid the terrorists. He had four sons; they are all gone, taken by Saddam’s army. He has nothing but his fishing now. No grandchildren. No wife.”
Sam bowed to the old man, who grinned toothlessly back at him.
“And Ell-Marhsif has been kind enough to offer us dinner,” Bono said.
Sam looked down at the fish. “They look like carp.”
“Yeah, but if you cook them long enough, they taste like chicken,” Bono said.
*******
Standing in the Operations Center, Sam smiled as he remembered that first night on patrol. Yes, Bono had proven thorough, ingenious, and ready to think outside the box. He would do anything to get the job done. Put him in a firefight and he wouldn’t hesitate. But he cared about the Iraqis almost as much as he cared about his own, and he had the ability to think about the larger picture at hand. If there was one thing Sam had learned, it was to respect and appreciate the opportunity to work with men like that.
Sam took a deep breath, and then walked toward his friend. “Wh
at’s up?” he asked as he sat on a metal chair next to him.
The other captain looked up. “Three hundred and eleven down,” he replied.
Sam stared straight ahead. “Fifty-four days to go.”
“Yeah, unless we get extended.”
Sam took out a handful of bubble gum, offered one to the captain, then shoved a couple of pieces in his mouth. Double Bubble®. Delicious. He’d been an avid chewer since his days in Little League. “Not going to happen,” he answered after softening the gum in his mouth. “We’re on our way home, my friend. They’re not extending soldiers any longer. They won’t keep us for more than a year.”
Bono huffed. “Regular army, maybe. Air Force pukes—no offense to your old man, the general—may be true as well. Those guys are filling their deployments then heading back home. But you know how it is for us Deltas. They don’t care if it takes us a month, a year, two years. Deltas don’t rotate home until the job’s done. And this is a freakin’ big job.”
Sam didn’t answer for a moment. Bono was probably right. “Life sucks when you’re a Delta.”
“Which is why we fought so hard to get here. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t love you, baby, you know that,” he reached over and slapped a desert cockroach off his knee, “but dude, unless you’re willing to dye your hair blond and start wearing a dress, I wanna go home.”
Sam chewed, blew a little bubble, and nodded his head.
The two men were quiet a minute, both of them lost in thought. Talk of home had a way of doing that.
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