Fractured images flittered about in Kale’s field of vision, disconnected, gray and indistinct, disconcerting, mostly irrelevant. He passed another outer wall opening and could see the road encircling the factory. To the front and across the road, a scrawny dog scurried around the factory, hugging the wall. Something hanging from the ceiling, maybe 20 meters to his front, started swaying back and forth. He looked at it, unclear what it was. Electric wires maybe. No, too thick. A trip wire? No, too thick for that too. Maybe a rope of some sort, from which something had been hanging. He looked sideways again. A soldier kneeled not five meters from him. Who? Another opening in the wall. Outside, a long thin scrap of paper, possibly a newspaper or a wrapper, danced over the ground. Kale refocused. The inside of the factory looked zebra-striped with morning light coming in through the wall penetrations. He scanned the interior windows and doorways down the hall, hunting movement. Somebody spoke behind him. Kale looked back. Sims was ten meters behind him and appeared to be scrutinizing the pieces of junk equipment inside the building. All that Kale could make out were skeletons of abandoned machines.
Kale saw the Wolf Two team on the far side of the room. He watched the soldier’s dark silhouettes traversing the interior of the factory’s other side.
“Move your ass!” Turnbeck yelled at him, impatient, urgent.
Kale moved forward, uneasily eyeing the way, unsure what was ahead. The tension and the heat combined to make him feel as if he was drowning in air, unable to get enough breath, unable to think clearly. He heard the movement of other men. Boots scraping the ground. Plastic knee pads bumping surfaces. Grunts. Gear slapping. Men moving. Sudden stops. Urgent sharp voices. But no strange language. No explosions. No gunfire. His eyes struggled to possess everything around him. Anxiety and ambiguity consumed him. Still, inside this oxygen-less world, his eyes and mind worked together, like a giant optic vacuum cleaner, sucking in everything seen, but making sense of little.
After a few more short runs, both Wolf teams reached the back of the factory, near a door that looked like an exit. Kale saw Wynn on the far side. He watched the platoon leader as he lay down in the prone position and looked through a gap in the wall, immobile as a statue. Time crawled, each minute an hour.
What’s next? Kale, uncertain, glanced to his rear. Damn, he was breathing hard, as if he’d climbed a cliff. Did others hear him breathing? Did Wynn? Kale saw nothing around him but the empty factory, dark and eerie.
Suddenly, Wynn was moving again. Kale got up and moved. He hadn’t even heard the command, didn’t know what actually got his body going. It was like a coupled train car effect, as if he were physically connected to the other men, pulled where they went without conscious decision. Moving, he heard the jingling of equipment on running men.
Outside again. Kale immediately saw several of the brick kilns ahead, within 150 meters. He stared at them, looking for signs of occupation. The kilns looked like massive ant hills, the scrap of millions of labor hours baking bricks spilled out of their tops, covering the round half-circle structures like crystallized lava. Breathing hard and gasping for air, he looked left and right. Other men ran at full speed, fury in their faces, as if chasing away damnation.
Exhausted, he reached the nearest kiln and dropped to one knee. People shouted, but he couldn’t make out their words. Perspiration soaked him. His underwear stuck to his testicles. He grabbed the fabric bunched around his crotch and pulled. His desert camouflage blouse, flattened against his back by his protective vest, stuck to him like a second skin. His chin was the only place that didn’t feel hot. Evaporating perspiration from his chinstrap cooled it. He struggled to get bearings on where he was and what to do.
Wynn halted behind a kiln. He rested momentarily, breathing hard, feeling as if he’d been underwater too long. An acute sensitivity came over him, as if all the circumstances and demands of existence clamored for his attention. His eyes adjusted rapidly, hungering to absorb everything he could see. Tyson was next to him.
Wynn radioed Cooke that Wolf One was in position, and ordered him to move the gun trucks up to the end of the building to overwatch.
Baumann came on the radio. Wynn pressed the headset closer to his ear to hear. Baumann reported that the Dobbies stopped the vehicle caught driving away. No shots had been fired. Two men and a teenager—who appeared retarded—were in the car, and all had now been flex-cuffed.
“Haven’t seen anyone else?” Baumann asked, seeking confirmation from the platoon leaders.
“Negative,” Wynn reported. Then D’Augostino did the same.
Wynn got back on the radio. “In front of Endzone now. Going forward in two mikes—if the Dobbies are in place,” he reported. Then, realizing his thumb had slipped off the mike-key button, he repeated his report.
“Roger,” Baumann answered.
Wynn waited for confirmation. Either Dobbie One would report or Baumann would.
Baumann’s vehicle should be behind Cooke’s team now. Wynn could not see them. A low rise in the ground to the west shielded visibility in that direction. Cooke would come up on the net when he was in position.
Wynn peered around the kiln edge cautiously, looking for signs that other kilns were occupied. Were those guys captured guys, insurgents? A retarded boy? What was he doing here? Nothing ever made sense.
Wynn twisted around, looking for dismounted Wolfhounds. Two of his men were behind the kiln to his left rear. The other two would be further left, but he couldn’t see them.
A cloud of dust rolled into the sky behind him. Cooke’s trucks must be moving into place.
No other vehicles had been reported. What about the earlier UAV report identifying several vehicles? Had they left? Who shot the rocket? One of the captured guys? Unanswered queries accumulated. They always did. As tension increased, and the mind awaited violence, questions broiled like a volcano nearing eruption. He bottled up parts of his mind to prevent drowning in information overload. Free space for what’s most important. Concentrate. No other insurgents, so far. He hadn’t seen any, and from inside the factory he’d had a good look at the ground ahead, at all the kilns. It could be ridiculously quiet in the buildup to combat, as if impending violence stilled all noise. Did they miss something? Where insurgents hiding somewhere? Inside kilns? Most likely. Other than inside the factory, which they had just finished searching, that’s what the UAV pictures suggested.
Movement caught his eye. In the distance, he saw Dobbie Humvees. Two of them had taken stand-off positions, perhaps 300 meters away, behind a lip of ground. With their large round headlights they looked like colossal desert bugs. Friendly bugs, fortunately.
Wynn still hadn’t received an update from Cooke. Should he call him? No, he’d wait longer. He didn’t want those hearing to sense his concern. He kept his focus forward.
Things happened so fast. So many moving parts. It was like steering an out-of-control car, and he scrambled to slow things down. No time for reflection. What was next? Every man in the platoon waited on him for leadership. They expected that of him. He could not disappoint them.
The plan had been to make sure all the kilns were clear. He crawled along his and peered around the edge. He couldn’t get a good view of the other kilns, each about the size of a one-car garage, but he needed to see. Then he slid backwards, reducing his exposure. He again checked his map to confirm. Kilns number three, four, and five were the main targets, the Endzone objective. Wynn decided to clear number three first, while Wolf Two provided overwatch. According to his map, one kiln was between where he now was and number five, which was perhaps 60 meters away. He took a deep breath and slid forward again, taking nearly a minute to inch far enough around the circumference to see what he thought was the objective. The ground around them was dry, no scrub grass, the soil brittle and impotent. He felt as if he was crawling on the moon.
To his left, other Wolfhounds positioned behind kilns. They waited for his orders.
He took out his binoc
ulars and looked. He refocused, resting his elbows on the ground, hoping to see inside the door of number three kiln, but no door was visible from this angle. As he watched, two black birds flew off the kiln roof. Why? Movement inside? The kiln leaned slightly, as if bent by years of fighting a steady wind. Perhaps it was damaged. Wynn thought he saw cracks in the wall, but not big enough to penetrate into the interior. The door must be on the opposite side. Was somebody inside?
He scanned the other kilns. Then he studied the surrounding ground, looking for signs the area might be booby trapped or mined. Leaning out beyond the edge of the kiln, he was exposed. The binoculars would make him a favorite target. But he had no choice. He had to see what was ahead.
A hollow feeling grew inside him. Maybe they wouldn’t find this sniper today. This fear, more than getting shot, began dominating his mind. The men would be disappointed. But the Dobbies had captured the squirting car. Something was going on here.
Were they interrogating the prisoners already? Baumann had said nothing else on the radio. His last report had been a minute ago, when they’d apprehended them. In combat, what he wanted to know to sharpen his analysis came to him slowly, if at all. Wynn looked back around at his men.
His uncertainty grew like a fever. Was somebody else here? Why wasn’t Baumann giving the go ahead?
Wynn tightened, pressing his lips together as if compressing his thoughts. Everything was very still, waiting. His body was in the eye of the storm.
Suddenly, he sensed movement behind him. The rest of the platoon had worked its way into position. Men positioned themselves around the south side of the factory. Anyone in these kilns could not escape now. The target was caged.
Cooke reported. He was in position. Wynn listened.
Then Baumann said GO. Wynn told Wolf Two to move.
Just as the team moved, Wynn heard gunfire. AK47s: that poison crack in the air they immediately recognized. It was close. Then again.
“TUSSS!” Wynn heard a sound like a punctured tire. Tyson fell hard to the ground. Wynn went down too. Tyson lay with the left part of his face on the ground. His hands covered his mouth, as if he was trying to prevent himself from throwing up. Wynn darted over to him. Blood spurted from the back of Tyson’s neck.
More gunfire. More sharp knocking.
Wynn rolled over and looked to the front. Then back at Tyson. Wynn got up on his knees and shouted. “Medic! Medic!”
Wynn put his hand on Tyson’s neck. Blood coated his hand. Tyson made low mumbling sounds, but didn’t move. Wynn looked back. “Medic!” he shouted again.
Tyson lay mostly on his chest, so his first aid bandage pouch was under his body. Wynn, not wanting to move Tyson hastily in case he had a spinal wound, took out his own bandage, stripped the plastic covering off, unfolded it, and pressed in on top of the hole in Tyson’s neck.
More gunfire. American M4s this time. Then the AK47s again.
Then the knocking sound blended with the gunfire, like someone tapping rapidly on bricks with a hammer. It was the sound of bullets hitting Wynn’s kiln.
Cruz arrived, and slid down beside Tyson.
Tyson’s wounding had sucked Wynn out of the battle for a moment. Cruz worked Tyson. Wynn had to get back to leading his platoon. He couldn’t let a medical emergency divert him.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he heard Cruz say. But Wynn had already turned away. The gunfire continued, the loud air cracks chaotic.
Who was firing? From where? Confusion reigned. He wanted certainty; couldn’t get it. Had to stay calm. A gunfight burned around him. Both AK47s and M4s fired. No heavy guns yet.
Wynn grabbed his radio and called Cooke. “4, this is 1, what do you see? We’re going to need a MEDEVAC. Tyson’s been hit.”
More gunfire hammered.
A .50 cal opened up. It was a 3rd platoon weapon. Wynn rolled back to the other side of the kiln where he could see it. The .50 barked short bursts, spitting fire. Even from this distance, he could see the brass from the expended rounds ejecting like a shower.
Cooke hadn’t answered.
Wynn rolled back flat on his back and called again. “Four, you hear me?” Still no answer.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity. He took a quick glance back at Tyson, who Cruz had rolled over on his back. Weapons kept firing. Intermittent now. The breaks of silence oddly unreal. Then the .50 shot again, smothering other sounds.
The firing was to his left. Wynn had to move there to see better. To see what was happening. But Tyson had been shot there. He’d have to pass Tyson and Cruz to get there.
“Got it,” Cooke said on the radio. Wynn took that as confirmation that Cooke acknowledged his previous message.
Wynn moved. He circled around Tyson and Cruz. He did it on impulse, disregarding the fire, everything in him screaming he had to do it, running full speed to the next nearest kiln to his left, hearing bullets hitting nearby, whizzing past, skipping across the ground. He slid into the next kiln. Then he heard hammering on the back side of this kiln.
POP! POP! POP! A shooter fired at Wynn’s new position. Where were they?
“Moving forward!” somebody said on the radio. Cooke? Wynn thought it was Cooke.
More crew-served weapons opened up. From Cooke’s side now. A 240B this time. A crisp, buzzing sound, stitching across the ground. Hitting something, Wynn hoped.
Wynn moved further around the edge of this kiln, without hesitation, not thinking about it.
He could see Turnbeck across from him, behind another kiln. Kale would be— should be—on his far side.
The gunfire continued. Quieted a few seconds. Then started up again. A kiln stood about 50 meters ahead of Wynn. From there he could see number five better, and number five might be the source of the AK fire. He wasn’t sure.
Turnbeck should have smoke grenades. Wynn looked across the separation between where he was and Turnbeck. Turnbeck looked back.
Wynn called Cooke again. This time he answered immediately, his voice stressed.
“Roger, we’re moving forward. Think Ulricht nailed a few bastards. We’re getting into better position.”
Wynn twisted, taking another look frontwards. Then he looked at Turnbeck again while gesticulating his plans to move. “We go to that kiln ahead! You got smoke, right?” Wynn shouted. He pointed with his gun to the kiln he wanted to move to.
Turnbeck looked startled, but acknowledged.
“Put smoke there, as far out front as possible.” Wynn pointed and shouted, mouthing his words like man screaming behind glass.
Turnbeck again nodded his head, but didn’t act. Was the usually unflappable Turnbeck rattled?
More gunfire. A long burst by the .50 cal, deep and angry.
“Understand?” Wynn yelled again, as loud as he could.
Wynn was baffled by the radio silence. In other firefights the radio had been crazy noisy. He didn’t have time to think about it. Their plan had specified that friendly firing from the Humvees would cease while dismounts cleared the kilns, unless specifically requested. Maybe he should warn them. He got on the radio.
“Wolf One and Two moving. Hold your fire.”
Wynn waited for an acknowledgement. Turnbeck still looked at him.
“Check fire, check fire,” came a command on the radio. Wynn didn’t recognize the voice.
He looked at Turnbeck again. Now Turnbeck, smoke grenade in hand, waited for Wynn’s command.
Wynn made the hand gesture, simulating a throw.
Turnbeck threw the grenade.
Now they moved. As fast as they could. Kale thought he’d never run faster. He ran lightly, imagining he was floating, his body tense for explosions. Then he was on the ground, again. Other Wolfhounds were on the ground, too. They were still moving. Kale started crawling, almost effortlessly, like he was being sucked towards a black hole. He kept checking his extremities. No, he wasn’t hit. He felt the hard weapon in his hands. He looked forward in the
direction of the kilns and tried to get his composure back, grasping for stable thinking, filtering rebounding sensations, trying to make sense of it all. He saw nothing ahead. Smoke from the grenade obscured his vision.
Suddenly he sensed a weird sound suppression. All he heard was moving, grunting men. No .50 cal. No 240B. No more AK fire. Then he noticed a sour smell, like fresh urine. Sand stuck to his left hand. He looked at it. Had to be piss. He was crawling through a place where someone had recently urinated.
Someone fired, a ripping, cutting stream of bullets lasting five, six, seven seconds. A desperately defiant sound. Someone wasted a mag, for sure. He checked his body again, looking for blood. Nothing. Hadn’t been hit. Would friendly or enemy fire feel different? Stupid thought. He kept moving, still crawling, feeling exhilarated. Maybe too much adrenaline to feel more fear. He was calmer now than minutes before. Maybe you reached a sort of combat equilibrium at moments like this.
He looked at the kiln ahead of him.
“Move! Move!” Pauls commanded.
Kale was up on his feet and running before he realized it, his body responding faster than his mind. Maybe the training made that possible. Good training overcomes stress, they’d been told countless times.
He ran full speed toward the kiln’s wall, hard, unthinking, unable or unwilling to slow down, and smacked into the side of the kiln. Smoke rolled into his face, flooding his mouth. Bitter grit coated his teeth and tongue, as if he’d licked sand. He spat and nearly gagged. If not for his goggles, the same grit would be in his eyes.
Princes of War Page 31