Warriors of God

by William Christie

  Welsh made a last trip to the bathroom, grabbed his gear, and locked the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Lance Corporal Jim Craig was cold, tired, and pissed off. It wasn't enough that he was stuck guarding a load of ammo at night in the middle of the boonies—he had to be doing it with Corporal Davies. And Corporal Davies was a shitbag, pure and simple. Craig didn't doubt for a minute that Davies had fucked something up and was out there for punishment, same as him. Having to be dragged out of bed past reveille three days in a row, on top of failing an inspection, were the causes of Craig's exile to the K-305 range, where he was freezing his balls off.

  It really wasn't fair, Craig thought. They told us it was just a uniform inspection. How was I supposed to know the captain was going to open up my wall locker?

  When the company commander had popped the handle to open Lance Corporal Craig's wall locker, a week's worth of unwashed laundry and accumulated possessions had exploded from it at impressive velocity, to the keen embarrassment of Craig's platoon commander, platoon sergeant, squad leader, and fire team leader. Understandably, the ass chewings worked their way down the chain of command until they came to rest on Craig—to use the Marine terminology, the shit rolled downhill— and Craig found himself living in the valley. Along with other and sundry tasks and punishments, some quite creative, he was banished to the field to guard ammunition in the spring frost It was almost midnight, and it was fucking cold—a weather phenomenon well known to infantrymen.

  What the fuck, thought Craig, pushing his boots nearer the fire. Just the same old shit. He was stacking more wood on the flames when Corporal Davies crawled out from the tent and rummaged around for his canteen cup. Typical, Craig thought bitterly. The motherfucker spends all day in his fucking sleeping bag and only comes out now that I've built a fire. The pile of wood began to catch, and the heat forced him to back away.

  Davies placed the canteen cup of water at the edge of Craig's inferno, glancing up as Craig walked around a pile of wooden boxes stacked together thirty feet from the crude campsite. "What's going on, Craig?"

  "Nothing."

  "That's, 'nothing, Corporal Davies,' Lance Corporal."

  "Nothing, Corporal Davies," Craig parroted.

  "If you want, Craig, instead of sleeping tonight, you can dig all the fighting positions the company is gonna need."

  "That's okay, Corporal Davies." The chickenshit son of a bitch made corporal on barracks duty, some rear echelon motherfucker job, and out in the bush he didn't know his ass from a two-hole shitter. Craig had been on two deployments and was still a lance corporal. The injustice was almost too much to take.

  "Hey, Corporal Davies, why don't they just draw the ammo from the dump tomorrow, if that's when we're going to shoot? That way we wouldn't have to sit out here."

  "Because the lieutenant told me the ammo dump doesn't open 'til 0730, and it would take until noon to get all this stuff loaded, checked out, and moved across the river. The captain wants to start shooting at 0700, so that's why we're here."

  "Okay," said Craig as he walked back around the ammo pile. The dumbshit wouldn't know whether it was right or wrong, just that the lieutenant told him. One thing was right though, it was a shitload of ammo. There was 5.56mm ball and tracer for M-16s, a lot of 5.56mm linked in belts for the squad automatic weapons, linked 7.62mm for the machineguns, 60mm mortar shells, AT-4 antitank rockets, and 40mm high-explosive dual-purpose rounds for the M203 grenade launchers. There was a can of smoke grenades and hand-launched pop-up flares. And on top of the pile were six cases of frag grenades, thirty grenades to a case. Craig momentarily brightened at the thought of them. With that many grenades they were probably going to shoot on the close combat ranges. The ranges were shit-hot: You threw live grenades in rooms and followed up with live rifle fire; there was a simulated city street with pop-up targets; and a live-fire obstacle course. Craig imagined they'd shoot everything else here on K-305. Then his funk returned; they'd probably stick him on radio watch.

  Ammo for training was a much lower priority in the budget than expensive weapons. The ammo pile Craig was babysitting contained much more ammunition than a rifle company would normally shoot at one time. But the company had been on regimental guard duty and hadn't gone out to the field for a while. The new fiscal quarter was approaching, and the company commander was going to use this ammo up before the next quarter's allocation wiped it off the books. Craig arranged some ammo crates into a seat and decided to relax. There was still an hour before Davies took over the duty and Craig could grab some sleep.

  Craig must have been dozing—he was startled by a loud snap in the brush that separated K-305 from the next range. He stood up and listened carefully. Hearing nothing else, he sat back down and lit a cigarette, shivering from the cold. He was acting like a damn PFC. He walked over to the nearest tree to take a piss.

  Craig slung the M-16 across his back, but it kept banging on the tree branches. He finally rested it against a nearby tree—didn't want to get piss on it. After fighting with the buttons of his fly, he leaned back and grunted with pleasure as the warm flow hit the cold tree trunk and steam began to rise.

  Karim's team had spent thirty minutes making its way through the short treeline. It wasn't easy; the ground was covered with sticks of dry pine that popped like firecrackers if trod on. One of the Guards had just stepped on one. The Sergeant Major, who had been leading, stopped the column to have a few whispered words with the offender. Halted in the tangle of trees and undergrowth that separated the ranges, they were close enough to see the campfire burning but far enough away to communicate without being heard. Karim took the opportunity to call Ali on the walkie-talkie. "Team 1 to Command, we are in position. Over."

  Ali's voice came through: "I read you. Stand by." He was with the pickup trucks, parked half a mile away on a tank trail. "Security 1, report."

  "All clear," reported the first two-man security team, watching the north side of the road that led to K-305.

  Ah pressed the talk button. "Very good. S2, report."

  "All clear," came the answer from the two-man team watching the road south of K-305.

  "Understood," Ali replied. "Team 1, clear to go. Over."

  "Acknowledged," whispered Karim. "We are proceeding."

  Karim pushed the microphone back under his chin. Musa had been listening over his own headset and gave Karim thumbs-up. The Sergeant Major quietly led the two Guards to positions just inside the treeline, where they could cover the movement. Then he and Karim quickly checked their weapons, made sure their gear was tight, and began crawling slowly through the tall dead grass toward the fire.

  Preoccupied with his task, Craig didn't notice a figure move behind a tree to his right. Then, as the stream trailed off, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision. The shape moved up on him incredibly fast. Craig forgot to yell a challenge while diving for his M-16 and tearing at the magazine pouch, trying to get a loaded magazine out and into his weapon. The shape turned into a man who kicked him in the solar plexus. Craig tried to yell but couldn't get any air out. All he managed was a rattling wheeze. The Sergeant Major grabbed at Craig's hair, but it was too short for him to get a good grip. He compensated by getting a hold on the forehead and pulling Craig's head back. Musa punched his bayonet into the side of Craig's throat, slashing forward and out. There was a cascade of blood and terrible gurgling noises as Craig's windpipe and carotid artery were cut. He could not shout, and would be dead in less than a minute. Musa dropped on the Marine's back to stop the final desperate thrashing. He listened carefully to discover whether the struggle had attracted the other Marine's attention.

  Corporal Davies had been gazing into the fire. He heard a noise and needed a moment to remember exactly where he was. He stood up but couldn't see Craig—the tarpaulin-covered ammo pile blocked his view. "Goddamn Craig, fucking around again," he grumbled. He walked around the fire and raised his voice. "Hey, Craig! Where the fuck are you?" There was no answer,
and a wave of anger surged through him. The little shit was behind a tree sleeping. Craig was like the rest of them, trying him out because he was new. Well, he knew how to be an NCO, and Craig was going to find that out.

  Corporal Davies was perfectly silhouetted as he walked in front of the fire to get his rifle and go tear Craig a new asshole. Karim had swung around to Musa's left and was lying quietly in a depression near the observation bleachers. He aimed at the Marine's knees; held his breath; and gently squeezed the trigger of the suppressed Uzi, quickly releasing it and squeezing four more times. He got off five five-round bursts in less than seven seconds. Of the twenty-five 9mm rounds, ten hit Corporal Davies from the right thigh to the left chest. The rest flew unnoticed downrange. With the suppressor the firing noise was only slightly louder than an air rifle. The only other sounds were the rapid clicking of the Uzi's action, the thump of the bullets' impact, and the popping of burning wood as the Marine fell into the fire. There was no muzzle flash.

  After making sure Craig was dead, Musa had rolled behind the tree. He waited for a moment to be sure Corporal Davies didn't move, and then got up and trotted over to the fire. As he approached he snapped his fingers at Karim, so as not to be mistaken for a target. Karim had inserted a new magazine and was covering the area near the fire. He snapped back. Musa moved cautiously to the fire and examined Corporal Davies. Davies was alive, but only barely, and his camouflage jacket was smoldering in the coals. Musa pulled the Marine out of the fire; Davies, at the edge of consciousness, smiled gratefully. Unstrapping the webbing that held it tight against his body, Musa brought out his Uzi and fired two rounds, single shot, into the corporal's skull. The Sergeant Major slung his weapon and felt the fading pulse. When it stopped, he took out a blue-filtered flashlight and blinked twice at the treeline. The two Guards trotted onto the range and moved to cover the road.

  Karim walked up and unlimbered the walkie-talkie. "Command, this is Team 1. Springtime. Over." It was the code word that signaled success.

  Ali's jubilant voice came over. "Understood. Security teams, any movement?"

  "S1. Negative."

  "S2. Negative."

  "Understood," Ali radioed. "Team 1, we are coming in."

  "Acknowledged," replied Karim. He got Musa's attention and motioned toward the two Guards. "Our people are coming in." Musa nodded, and walked over to relay the news.

  Five minutes later the trucks pulled onto the range, headlights off. The drivers parked them behind the observation bleachers, out of sight from the road. Ali jumped from the cab of the first truck and greeted Musa and Karim. "Excellent, work," he said, surveying the scene. "Just excellent." He turned to Karim. "I want equal amounts of each type of ammunition spread between the last two trucks. Put two cans of rifle ammunition in my vehicle. Oh, and wrap the bodies in the sheet that covered the ammunition and put them under these seats." He gestured toward the bleachers.

  "At once," replied Karim.

  Ali took Musa by the arm and led him over to the truck. "Were there any problems?" he asked quietly. "No, none."

  Ali nodded and spoke into the microphone of his walkie-talkie. "Team 2, this is Command. Over." There was no response. With a look of concern on his face, Ali tried again. Still nothing. On the third attempt he received a whispered reply.

  "This is Team 2. Over."

  Ali breathed a sigh of relief. "Status report. Over."

  "In position in ten minutes," came the whispered reply.

  "Understood," Ali replied. "Keep me informed." He called the recon team watching the Marine bivouac. They reported that, as far as they could tell, all the Marines were present and there was very little movement in the camp.

  "We will just have to wait," Musa said. "There is no sense in rushing their movement." Ali nodded nervously; he hated being exposed out on the range. He walked off a few steps and urinated on the sand, paced for a moment, then sat on the hood. Musa rested on the sand, leaning against a tire.

  A few minutes later Karim came over with Hafiz to report that the trucks were loaded. "Very good," Ali said. He motioned toward the two Corpses. "Did you get their weapons and ammunition?"

  "Yes," said Karim.

  "Are you clear on the rendezvous?" Ali asked him, ignoring Hafiz, who walked over to the bodies.

  "Of course," said Karim, not sensing his commander's anxiety. There was the sound of retching. Hafiz had obviously pulled back the tarpaulin.

  "Then leave now," Ali said. He pointed to Hafiz. "And take this with you. I do not think he can stand the sight of blood." Then, haltingly, "God go with you."

  "And you also," said Karim.

  A few minutes later the walkie-talkie static broke four times. "They are ready," Ali said.

  "They have sense," said Musa, climbing into the driver's seat of the pickup, "not to speak when they are so close."

  "Are you ready?" asked Ali, trying to hide the fact that his hand was shaking. Musa nodded and started the truck. Ali called the assault and security teams and told them the trucks were moving.

  They stopped at the road to pick up Security learns 1 and 2, which had been watching the road on either side of the firing range. The four Guards climbed into the truck bed, leaving the rear hatch open in case they needed to get out in a hurry.

  The three trucks sped down the dirt access road until they came upon an asphalt road. The drivers switched on their headlights and turned right, toward the second objective of the evening.

  CHAPTER 20

  First Lieutenant Paul Ramsey leaned back against a dead log and wrapped a poncho around his legs, trying to stay warm while he waited for his platoon commanders to show up.

  Echo Company was bivouacked for the night in two-man tents, arranged in four neat rows in the middle of a large clearing. Ramsey thought it was Mickey Mouse bullshit, but the company commander wanted it that way—end of discussion. Off to one side of the clearing was the company command post, its centerpiece the captain's CP tent, big enough to hold four cots with ease. Ramsey wanted to throw up every time he looked at it. That goddamned tent! Captain Pleister, the last company commander, had been a real hard charger—travel light and move fast, tactical all the time. Everyone carried only ponchos and quilted nylon poncho liners for protection against the elements. And the company's CP tent had gathered dust in the supply warehouse.

  The present commanding officer—CO—of Echo Company, Captain Doylan, had recently arrived from Quantico, Virginia, and Amphibious Warfare School. It had been six long years since he'd served in an infantry battalion. As the company executive officer, the second in command, Ramsey had tried to convince Doylan not to take the tent. The captain told him that, after ten years in the grunts, he wasn't going to sleep on the ground if he didn't have to. So the troops slept on the ground and the captain and the company gunnery sergeant slept on cots. The gunny was a good man, but he wasn't going to fight the new CO. It made Ramsey seethe. What bullshit.

  In the early days of Doylan's command, Ramsey thought the captain was just establishing his authority. After all, everyone had different ways of doing things. But now Ramsey had come to the conclusion that not only was the captain a lousy leader, he was also an incompetent pussy. The first time Doylan led the company on a forced march, it had taken him four hours to go only eight miles, a humiliating pace. Afterward, Doylan was so wiped out that he had retreated to his tent for a nap while the platoon commanders conducted the training. Now the company rode trucks to the field whenever it could be arranged. The lieutenants were appalled. Not only did Marine officers consider weakness the worst human disease of all, but it had been branded into them from the first day of their training that officers led from the front and set the example. And here was the company commander, the standard bearer, bringing up the fucking rear.

  The first day of training had been uneventful. Today was a little different. Early in the afternoon the captain had taken the Humvee utility vehicle to the rear for a couple of hours and observed the training when he'd returned. It
hadn't escaped the Marines' attention that he'd showered and changed clothes. One of the first things Ramsey had learned as a boot lieutenant was that nothing of that nature ever escaped a Marine's attention. Now the CO and the gunny were asleep in the tent—Captain Doylan didn't like to do much night training—and Ramsey decided it was time to have a little talk with the platoon commanders. They'd been grumbling lately, and it was time to get them squared away.

  The platoon commanders approached him in a group.

  An ominous sign, it meant they had already been talking.

  "XO, we've talked this over, and we want to request mast," announced 2d Lt. Bob Hartman, the Weapons Platoon commander. He had obviously been appointed the group's spokesman.

  Ramsey was incredulous. They had to be bullshitting him. "First of all," he said quickly, "keep your fucking voices down. Now, who are you idiots planning on requesting mast to? The battalion commander? The regimental commander? Maybe the division commander? Or are you going to cut out all the deadwood and go right to the commandant?" He was smiling; they weren't.

  "We're not kidding," 2d Lt. Al Hanna, the 3d Platoon commander, said angrily.

  "Sit down," said Ramsey, trying to sound reasonable. They didn't move. "Sit the fuck down," he said. They sat.