“Three hundred and eleven,” the captain repeated after a while.
“Fifty-four and counting,” Sam answered again.
The unit radio crackled with static behind them and Bono looked at it, expecting something, but no voices came through.
“You’ve got tactical operations center duty all day?” Sam asked him.
“Until noon, that’s all.”
Sam motioned toward the nearly empty Operations Center. Two young specialists were working at computers, and there were some voices from behind the commander’s closed door, but other than that, they were the only ones there. “Not a bad day to have desk duty,” he offered. “You’re not missing any action. Nice and quiet. If you’ve got to sit at a desk, you got a pretty good day.”
The tactical radios crackled again as one of the teams called in their position report. Bono keyed the microphone and acknowledged with a sharp “Roger,” then noted the time on his log.
“Who’s out there?” Sam wondered, nodding his head toward the radio.
“That was the Snowmen. They and the Tiger team are on security patrol around Al-Attina and Tirkish. We heard last night that—”
The radio crackled again. “Breadman, Tiger Two,” a soldier cut in.
Bono picked up the small FM microphone and answered, “Go, Tiger.”
“Breadman, we’ve got something here.” There was an unmistakable hesitation in the radio operator’s voice. “We’ve got a small car,” he went on, “license plate reads Juliet, Romeo, niner, niner, four, Romeo. Take a look at it, will you? Something’s not right.”
Bono sat up instantly and motioned to one of the young specialists sitting at the computer four empty seats away. She had already copied the license plate information and was entering the query into the INMEDS computer, the multi-unit, multiservice database of automobiles, names, addresses, phone numbers, locations, aliases, Iraqi driver’s license numbers, anything that could be used to track an individual or group of people in Iraq.
While the specialist tapped at her computer, Bono spoke again into his microphone. “What’s the situation there, Tiger Two?” he asked. “Do you need some support?”
There was a moment of silence until the soldier came back. “Negative, Breadman. It’s probably nothing. We’ve got a small sedan parked in a private driveway on the south end of the block.” While he spoke, Sam reached over and pulled out a large urban map showing the narrow alleys and crooked roads that made up the small town of Al-Attina, an old industrial town seven kilometers south of the international airport. He slid the map across the desk to Bono, who turned it 180 degrees so it faced him, then tapped his pencil on a narrow alley off one of the main thoroughfares.
“Tiger,” he interrupted, “confirm your location is Twenty-one and Lashihhia?”
“Roger,” the soldier came back. “And, like I was saying, we’ve got an abandoned vehicle on the street. It’s got a small child locked inside. Looks like he’s no more than two, maybe two-and-a-half-years old. The windows are rolled up, and he’s dying in there. We’ve tried to open the doors, but they’re locked. I’ve got some of my guys going house to house along the street here, but so far either no one is home or they claim they don’t know who he is.”
Bono straightened up, his face turning tense. He looked at one of the specialists, who shot a quick look back at him. “Anything in the INMEDS?” he demanded.
“Nothing so far, sir. The license plate isn’t in the database. The vehicle, or at least that license plate number, isn’t associated with any terrorists or insurgents that we know.”
“What vehicle is the license plate identified with?”
She ran her finger down the screen. “An ‘80 BMW 320i. Red. Sedan.
“You copy that, Tiger?” Bono had been holding down his microphone switch, allowing the radio to transmit the conversation.
“Roger that, boss. Ain’t no Beemer here. We’ve got an old Toyota.”
“Which means the car or the plates are stolen.”
Bono released the transmit button and waited.
“Copy that, sir.” Tiger cautiously replied.
Bono dropped his head as he thought. Sam moved toward him, glancing down at the map.
“Breadman,” the radio crackled again. “Stolen or whatever—and come on, half the vehicles in Baghdad are running on bogus plates—we’ve got to do something. This kid is dying in there. It’s over ninety on the street. It must be more than one twenty inside the vehicle. He’s lethargic and sweating. Now he’s just lying on the seat. He’s flushed and dehydrated. We’ve got to get him out of there.”
Bono didn’t hesitate. “No!” he replied. “Do not touch the child! This is a family issue. You’ve got to find his parents. They have to be in one of the houses somewhere.”
The soldier hesitated, and then called back again. “Breadman, we’ve been up and down this block twice already. There’s almost no one home, but you know how it is, most of these guys are too scared of us. They won’t answer their doors, and we don’t want to bust them down. And yeah, I know we don’t want to get involved in some lousy child-abuse thing, but I’m telling you, this is a cute little boy and we’ve got to get him out of this car. Sergeant Brunner is standing here beside me. He’s going to bust the front window, and then we’ll unlock the door. We’ll be careful not to hurt him, but we’ve got to get him out of there.”
“NO!” Bono screamed.
The radio crackled and went dead.
*******
The car bomb had been planted inside the passenger’s side of the door. The terrorist had rigged the device to explode when the window was broken or the car door unlocked. Based on the power of the detonation, the explosives forensic specialist estimated that the bomb was packed with ten to twelve pounds of dynamite, enough to kill everyone within twenty meters of the car.
Four U.S. troops, all members of Bono’s and Brighton’s unit, had been killed trying to rescue the little boy from the car. Another seven were wounded, almost the entire Tiger team, some of them critically burned and scarred. The entire afternoon was spent evacuating them, with medivac helicopters deployed from as far away as Kirkuk. While the wounded were cared for and evacuated, two more Delta teams, Sam’s included, were deployed to the area, where they searched house to house, questioning everyone they could find within four blocks of the explosion. They learned the automobile had been parked and deserted late in the afternoon of the day before. Apparently, the little boy had spent part of a day, a night, and the morning alone in the abandoned car packed with dynamite, and all for the opportunity to blow a couple of U.S. soldiers to bits.
The terrorists knew the soldiers would help the little boy when they found him. No way they would leave him to die in the car.
Although Sam and his team interrogated everyone in the neighborhood, they learned little else and took no one into custody. This was a battle-worn area, with an explosive mix of Sunnis and Shiites, and the locals had learned it was far better, and much safer, not to say anything.
All they were able to find of the little boy was one of his feet, the shoe still attached but split at the toes, which had been blown across the street and through a small apartment window, where it landed on the floor.
*******
Late that night, Sam lay awake on his cot. His gut burned inside him, and his fists were clenched at his side.
He pictured the scene again and again. His dead comrades blown to pieces. The shoe of the little boy. The fire and the smell.
He cursed in frustration, a rage that boiled over inside. He cursed the whole war. It was pointless and worthless, a complete waste of time. What were they doing, losing good men like this, all in a fruitless attempt to save the population of this stinking country from themselves.
These people simply weren’t worth it.
They should pack up and leave them to rot in their hell, leave them to canker in this cancer they loved so well. They were cowards, afraid to fight for themselves. Leave them. Not look
back. Write them off, every one of them.
*******
As Sam cursed bitterly, a black angel hunched beside him, kneeling, his arms at his side, his mouth pulled into a tight and hideous frown. His teeth flashed, the only white on his face, for his eyes were as dark and lifeless as the black hole in his soul.
“You hate them,” Balaam whispered in the soldier’s ear. “These people are all idiots. Savages. Animals. They aren’t capable of freedom. They’re too stupid, too weak. They aren’t like you, so clever, so capable, and so strong. You are so much better than they are, so much smarter and good. Look at them all. Take a look at this place! Is there anything worth fighting for here? Is there any good in this land?”
Balaam took a deep breath, thinking as he glanced at the other American soldiers who were sleeping around them. How he hated them all! How he hated what they stood for and the things they had done! How he hated their kindness and the reasons they fought!
*******
Sam wrestled on his cot, stretching his legs uncomfortably. He felt agitated and angry. Hatred was building inside. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his hands through his hair, his bare chest glistening in the dim, moonlit night. His dog tags hung from his neck, and the chain swayed against his chest as he rubbed his eyes.
*******
“You hate them!” Balaam continued to hiss in Sam’s ear. “They smell. They are dirty. These people are not like you. They are not as good, not as strong. They are lazy. They are stupid and evil and stubborn and weak. Look at you! Look where you are! This hell-hole of misery! Once the main force pulled out, the entire thing collapsed, leaving not an inch of progress. Then what is all this for!
“These people, they’re not good, they are . . . don’t you know? . . . something else . . . something less . . . something unworthy of democracy and the things you fight for.”
*******
Sam shook his head and frowned, forcing the thoughts from his mind. He knew they weren’t true, and he was ashamed for even thinking them.
But the little boy. The youngest martyr. How could he reconcile that?!
He struggled again, trying to force the depressing thoughts from his mind. And though Balaam kept hissing at him, he wasn’t listening anymore.
Yes, there were times when he wondered—times when he had his doubts, but he knew that it was not the Iraqis’ fault. For almost three thousand years, Iraqis had lived through a nearly endless cycle of subjection and strife. The idea of democracy was completely foreign to them. Foreign to their Muslim roots. Foreign to the traditions of their tribes.
But they wanted it or something like it. At least most of them did. It was just that there were enough of the others to make it so difficult.
Sam shook his head in frustration, thinking of the dead little boy. That was the real tragedy. All the children. They were innocent. And far too often, they took the brunt of the war. Not from the U.S. soldiers; the U.S. military took exceptional pains to protect civilians and innocents. But these insurgents, these evil men who claimed to be fighting for the people but were clearly fighting for the power they craved, they were all too willing to fight their battles between the arms of another man’s children, using them as shields or as bait, as diversions or screens, taking any advantage the children might give them to spring a surprise.
Maybe because he had suffered as a little boy, Sam had an exceptional soft spot, an almost deadly weakness, for the children he saw. He wondered again, and not for the first time, if there wasn’t something he could do for these innocents. He had see far too many suffer—the little boy in the car, the young woman in Iran, so many others through the last year. If he could just think of something, anything, that might make a difference in even one of their lives.
TEN
Camp Freedom, Iraq
A blazing sandstorm had wrapped Camp Freedom in a miserable blanket of suffocating brown dirt and sand as fine as talcum powder. It turned the afternoon a dismal brown while coating everything in fine grit, bringing security operations to a slow and gloomy crawl.
Sam stood alone in his tent. He tied a brown handkerchief over his mouth and nose, pulled his combat goggles down over his eyes, fastened the Velcro® collar on his combat jacket, and headed out the tent door. As soon as he stepped into the wind, he felt the sand blowing down his collar, up his sleeves, around his fastened pant legs, and into his ears. He lifted a hand to block the wind as he made his way to the Operations Center. Before stepping inside, he shook off his clothes as best he could, then dropped the handkerchief from his face and squeezed through the door, sliding in quickly to keep the sand at bay. A temporary shield had been put up between the door and the interior of the tent, and he brushed himself off from his boots to his hair, then pushed the heavy cloth back and stepped into the room.
The Operations Center was crowded and noisy. The sandstorm had significantly complicated combat operations, and the officers and senior enlisted men were busy working on their contingency plans. Sam saw Bono sitting at a makeshift plywood table in a quiet corner at the back of the center. Spread out on the desk in front of him were several satellite photographs, his next patrol order, a communications plan, and several other items.
The patrol order included the detailed rules of engagement for the mission: a three- or four-page analysis of the anticipated enemy action, the purpose of the mission, the position of friendly forces, including the location and availability of Air Force fighters for ground support, ingress and emergency egress routes, communications plans, radio frequencies, code words and the meanings of various smoke and illumination signals, and a list of the teams that were assigned for backup and support. Written in large block letters across the cover page of the patrol order were the words “Prepare Now or Die,” a fairly effective means of reminding the squad leaders of the importance of preparing for their patrol. And though reviewing the patrol orders was one of the least liked tasks for most officers, Bono took the responsibility very seriously.
Sam walked toward him, but Bono kept his head in his work. Watching him, Sam thought he seemed to be nervous. Sam knew that another squad leader had been reassigned recently to logistics or chow hall or some other non-combat duty, and that Bono was determined not to make a miserable mistake, though it wasn’t his career he was worried about nearly so much as his men.
Bono was writing notes in the margin of his tactical map; Sam watched over his shoulder as he worked. In the corner of the desk, Bono had placed a picture of his wife and daughter. Most soldiers had some kind of charm or pre-mission routine that was supposed to bring them good luck. Some wore the same color underwear each time, some spit in the wind, some chewed the same gum, kissed a cross, wrote a letter, or listened to the same song. Bono’s ritual was to tape a picture of his family on the wall next to the table while he prepared for patrol. Sam didn’t know why, but, of course, he never asked. It was considered extremely bad form to question another’s pre-combat routine.
Peering at the picture of the beautiful little family, Sam felt a tiny sinking in his gut. He moved toward the picture, looking closely while Bono kept his head down.
Will I ever have this? he wondered. He could only hope that he would.
Family was something Sam rarely talked about. His biological father, the old drunk who occasionally made a little money as a charter fisherman on the southern Virginia coast, and his mother, who had deserted him to the old man when he was only eight, had never been anything but a stress in his life. Yeah, they were back together now, and it seemed they were getting along, but after years of abuse, it was impossible for him to think of them as his mom and dad. If it hadn’t been for the Brightons . . . Sam hated to even think. They had saved him. They were his family now.
But still he felt, deep inside, that he wasn’t really one of them. The Brightons seemed to have something that he would never have, some innate goodness, some moral bearing that he just didn’t possess. They were as straight down the line as anyone Sam had ever known, and he wasn’t
quite like that, though he had really tried. Sometimes he thought there was something inside them, something that ran through their veins, that made them different from him, even better somehow. He had tried. He had tried really hard. He was still trying. But he fell short so often, it seemed it just didn’t work.
Sam’s thoughts were interrupted when Bono finally looked up. “Still blowing out?” he asked wearily.
Sam nodded to the flapping sides of the tent. “No. The wind has died down completely.”
Bono turned, his face still blank.
“No helicopters will be flying tonight,” Sam added as an afterthought.
Bono looked down at his map and mumbled, “That means no air support.” He shook his head.
Bono’s desert fatigue shirt was open, showing the dog tags that dangled from the chain on his neck. Hanging next to the dog tags was a small silver shield. Lots of soldiers wore them. They called the little charm the Shield of Strength. Josue 1:9 was etched on the back—not the entire scripture, just the reference. Sam, who also wore a Shield of Strength, had the scripture memorized: “Behold I command thee, take courage, and be strong. Fear not and be not dismayed: because the Lord thy God is with thee in all things whatsoever thou shalt go to.”
Subconsciously, he reached under his fatigues and felt for the Shield of Strength there. Squeezing it, he asked Bono, “You thirsty?”
“Feels like I’ve got half the desert stuck in my throat.”
Sam cocked his head toward the rear door of the Operations Center. Bono nodded, stood up, and followed him through a wooden door that opened up to a wide canvas hallway, then to another tent, which was set up as a lounge for the unit’s soldiers. Once inside the second tent, they made their way to the refrigerator and grabbed some sodas, then dropped onto a couple of cheap, folding chairs. It was quiet here, and the two men relaxed for a while. Bono finished his soda in three long gulps, then took the picture of his family, which he had been holding in his hand, and tucked it inside the chest pocket on his shirt.
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