Weapons of Mass Destruction

by Margaret Vandenburg

  Sinclair finished bolting down his food. He threw the empty containers in the garbage and prepared to leave the kitchen. But something about the woman held him captive. Whether or not she was the dead boy’s mother didn’t alter the fact that he’d been carrying a German Mauser. The more important question was whether she knew he was armed. Johnson was apparently interested enough to forgo sleep to find out. He had finished filing his report and was sitting with his back against the refrigerator, waiting for the interrogation to begin. Sinclair sat down next to him. Johnson’s curiosity, which was purely professional, made Sinclair’s seem less inappropriately personal.

  “Think she was in on it?” Sinclair asked.

  “I doubt it,” Johnson said.

  “They’re all in on it as far as I’m concerned.” Sinclair wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but somehow it made him feel better. “Otherwise why would they be here?”

  Sajad was taking down the woman’s vital statistics. Then Radetzky started conducting the actual interrogation. His knowledge of Arabic was good enough to carry on rudimentary conversations. He must have thought the woman could provide more nuanced intelligence, things he couldn’t comprehend without the help of an interpreter. The fact that her children were in custody provided the kind of leverage Radetzky needed to tighten the screws, if necessary. He spoke in a disarmingly gentle voice, one Sinclair had never heard him use before. Her responses, though barely audible, were remarkably forthright.

  “I’m Lieutenant Radetzky. Please tell me your name.”

  “Afaf Pachachi.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “They told me you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I mean here in Fallujah.”

  “I live here.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “In the Jolan District. Our house was bombed.”

  “What are you doing in this neighborhood?” Radetzky leaned forward. He was obviously modifying his body language in response to the tone and tenor of Afaf Pachachi’s answers. Successful interrogations were a kind of dance, a movement back and forth between civility and coercion, especially when women were involved. If Sinclair had been in charge, there would have been far less give and take. He would have relied more on intimidation than trust, overcompensating in self-defense. Radetzky’s sangfroid was instructive.

  “We’ve been taking shelter wherever we can.”

  “You were told to evacuate.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “My husband—”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He’s my husband. I belong by his side.”

  Sinclair could have predicted her answers, almost word for word. He had heard dozens of women profess what amounted to marriage vows, loyalty till death do us part. The real issue was whether this was an exclusively matrimonial allegiance. Too often, sacred laws shielding women from public life didn’t prevent their participation in guerrilla warfare. Sinclair scooted across the floor to get a clear view of Afaf Pachachi’s face. He studied her eyes for signs of subterfuge. No doubt Radetzky was doing the same.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “In the mosque.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She raised her right hand to adjust her veil, which didn’t need adjusting. Sinclair assumed the gesture was a decoy, a way of camouflaging emotion or deceit. She probably hadn’t lied yet. It was much more likely that she was afraid her husband had been killed. Every able-bodied man in the entire country carried a weapon. If he wasn’t armed, he was dead.

  “You have five children?”

  “Four. The younger ones are mine.”

  “What about the older boy? The one who was shot.”

  “My neighbor’s child.” Her eyes betrayed her feelings again. This time she didn’t brush them away with her hand.

  “He was armed.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were harboring an armed insurgent.”

  “A neighbor. He must have picked up the gun in that house.”

  “Which house?”

  “The one with all the bodies. You must have seen them.”

  “Of course I saw them,” Radetzky barked. The real interrogation began. “I have sent your children back to base camp. They’re safe, but I want you to cooperate with me.”

  “Of course.” A note of urgency crept into her voice.

  “What was your husband doing in that mosque?”

  “What they were all doing.”

  “Stop playing games. What were they doing?”

  “They were doing what you’re doing. Fighting. Making war.”

  “And you? What are you doing here?”

  “I am trying to save my family. I can’t stop my husband fighting any more than I can stop you,” she said, finally breaking down. She bent over in her chair to conceal an unwonted display of emotion, which she considered indecent.

  “Escorting armed teenagers is a far cry from saving your family.”

  “He promised he wouldn’t get involved.”

  “This is war, goddamnit!” Radetzky shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. “You can’t just politely refuse to get involved.”

  “I am trapped,” she said, fighting to recover her composure. “You think I would deliberately risk the lives of my children?”

  “You should have left the city. To protect your children.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” she said. Her acquiescence was barbed with defiance. “But I would rather die than abandon my husband.”

  “That’s enough,” Radetzky said to Sajad. “Get her out of here.”

  Radetzky was obviously disgusted with her blind loyalty. For him the interrogation was a complete waste of time. For Sinclair it was a catastrophe. This woman’s willingness to die for love hit way too close to home. He traveled halfway around the world, trying to elude this kind of passionate intensity, but it hunted him down. Everyone thought he enlisted because of the terrorist attacks on 9/11. They underestimated the impact of Pete’s suicide, the ultimate betrayal. Even now a part of him refused to believe what his fucking sister tried to tell him all along. The crime wasn’t so much that Pete fell in love with Candace but that he was unfaithful to a masculine ideal that transcended love itself.

  The fact that he killed himself in the aspen grove seemed inexplicable. They had performed secret rituals there, cleansing their weapons in the blood of totem animals. If Pete felt compelled to throw it all away for a girl, let alone Candace Sinclair, he should have done it somewhere else. Anywhere but there, on hallowed ground. Fighting side-by-side with his buddies in Iraq, Sinclair recovered a modicum of what he had lost. But it was a tenuous recovery, as susceptible to encroachment as the forest itself, which had once seemed inviolable. Surely men were entitled to be men, unmolested, if only in combat zones. Maintaining military ethics was tough enough without being ambushed by women at every turn, their children’s toys and dolls strewn like booby traps across nursery floors.

  Sajad was debriefing Afaf Pachachi, verifying details before submitting a report to TOC. She kept her eyes trained on the kitchen table, waiting to be escorted back to her children. Sinclair was still sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Johnson, who was fiddling with his equipment. Johnson finally found what he was looking for, a special lens he almost never had occasion to use, given the blistering pace of urban operations. The woman hid her face in her hands, a vain attempt to elude the eye of the camera. The more she concealed herself, the better the photograph. Vanity Fair in particular loved this kind of thing, candid shots of beleaguered modesty. He kept shooting until Sajad escorted her out of the room. Once the show was finally over, Sinclair and Johnson made their way upstairs for some shut-eye.

  “Think she was telling the truth?” Johnson asked.

 
; “About what?”

  “The kid. Not being involved.”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “You’re damn right it matters. Fighting a handful of insurgents is one thing. Taking on an entire country is another.”

  “The whole country’s involved one way or the other. Even if they just get in the way.”

  Sinclair collapsed onto a blanket between Logan and Trapp. The space was so cramped he could feel their bodies against his. The contact comforted him. The squad had crashed in a young girl’s bedroom, par for the course at this point. Sinclair felt like he was being stalked. Pictures of horses painted on black velvet lined the walls, just like the ones in Candace’s room back home. Once she got all frilly in high school, she took down every last one of them. The romance between girls and horses must have been universal, if not the velvet paint sets, which were probably imported from the States. On second thought, Sinclair had no way of gauging whether the room reflected the Western influence excoriated by local imams. Scarves and veils were draped everywhere, looking more ornamental than decorous. A silver comb and brush graced the top of a hand-carved teak dresser, which might have passed for a vanity, had there been a mirror. Brightly colored vases adorned the windowsills, their glass translucent in the sunlight.

  Sinclair must have dozed off because the attack caught his reflexes by surprise. He jumped to his feet before Logan could pull him back down. Streams of bullets were shredding the walls and ceiling. Shards of broken glass were everywhere. They grabbed their automatics and crawled over to the closest window, where McCarthy was already cranking out rounds. Trapp and Vasquez were stationed at the only other window, facing east.

  “I’ve got this one covered,” McCarthy hollered. “See if Wolf knows what the hell is going on.”

  Wolf was in the hallway, trying to reach Radetzky on his headset. Given the danger of keeping all their eggs in one basket, they were almost never in the same place at the same time. Radetzky’s men had moved out the minute he finished the interrogation. They were in striking distance, strategically positioned two blocks away. Almost inevitably, the minute a squad took a catnap, all hell broke loose. Murphy’s Law.

  “We need some backup!” Wolf shouted into his headset. The deafening blare of cross fire made it all but impossible to hear.

  “What are you up against?” Radetzky barked back.

  “We’re outnumbered. The roof’s raining grenades.”

  “Hang tough. We’ve got your back.”

  Radetzky’s squad was perfectly positioned to defend the area from any direction but east. They had cleared the tallest residence on the block, a real beauty with whimsical architectural accents. The parapet was crenellated like a medieval castle, tailor-made cover for gunners. A lot of good it did them. Insurgents were attacking Wolf from their only blind spot, and there was no way to relocate without being bombarded by RPGs. Radetzky radioed Captain Phipps, requesting artillery support. Their only hope was to call in tanks or Strykers, preferably both, provided they weren’t already backing up other platoons. They were in luck. A fleet of tanks was nearby, ready to rumble.

  “Where the hell are you?” Wolf said.

  “We’re hamstrung,” Radetzky said. “TOC is sending a couple of big boys your way.”

  “Better make it snappy.”

  “Ten minutes max.”

  Sinclair could hear McCarthy and Percy cursing into their headsets. Individual words were difficult to decipher in the din, but the gist was clear. Ten minutes was a hell of a long time, under the circumstances. Logan, Trapp, and the rest of the gunners had staked out virtually every window in the compound. They took turns ducking in and out of firing range, timing their rounds to maintain a steady output. Their efforts were purely cosmetic. Without anyone on the roof to pick off insurgent grenade launchers, the chances of actually connecting with targets were practically nil. Their posture was strictly defensive. The best they could do was pin down the enemy, forcing them to maintain their present positions. Any alteration in the delicate balance between offense and defense, and they’d be done for.

  Grenades kept bouncing off window frames before exploding on contact in the courtyard below. RPGs were notoriously difficult to lace through windows, thank god. They hadn’t been so fortunate on their first tour in Baghdad. During an almost identical standoff, a grenade had ricocheted into their stronghold. Instinctively, Private First Class Smythe dove across the room, landing right on the money. They had to wipe bits of his body off their night-vision goggles. Everyone learned something that day. A medium-sized man could completely absorb the impact of a loose frag. Smythy was an ace baseball player, known for executing crazy-ass steals without getting picked off. His example had set the bar very high. Since then they were all prepared to cover the bag in the event a grenade took a bad bounce. Teamwork.

  An explosion shook the entire building. At first Sinclair thought they were taking mortar fire. Then he realized it was collateral impact from their own SMAW. Percy was pummeling the enemy from a window on the ground floor. Sinclair ran downstairs to see if he needed cover. The entire world seemed to shake in its boots when the SMAW made contact. But when the dust cleared, the adjacent compound was still standing. His objective, born out of desperation, was to hammer away until it collapsed, burying the enemy in rubble. But his angle was compromised by cross fire. Sinclair stationed himself next to Percy, spraying a stream of tracers back and forth across the courtyard. Enemy gunners retreated enough to allow Percy to score a direct hit, ripping a sizable hole in the foundation. But the compound was built like a goddamned fortress. Better luck next time.

  Sinclair strained to hear the distinctive grind of tank tractions amidst the melee of explosions. He had a sixth sense that could detect aberrant sounds beneath the white noise of battle. Something must have been holding up the tanks, which usually rolled in within minutes of an SOS. At the very least, TOC should have updated them on their progress. When Radetzky lost his temper and started cussing out Captain Phipps, everyone thought it was McCarthy launching into one of his tirades. They had never heard Radetzky swear like that before, let alone question an order. No one, with the possible exception of Sinclair, was more respectful of the chain of command.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “I wish I were,” Captain Phipps said. “They’ve declared a cease-fire.”

  “Who’s they?” Radetzky demanded.

  “I wish I knew.”

  Someone somewhere had ordered a unilateral ceasefire. Planes were grounded. Tanks were parked on Highway 10. Reinforcements were twiddling their thumbs in the desert less than a mile away. Operation Vigilant Resolve was frozen in its tracks. Sinclair was too patriotic to point the finger at Washington. He blamed Baghdad instead, not without reason. Sunnis in parliament didn’t appreciate the fact that American marines had invaded Fallujah. They threatened to boycott the provisional government if the offensive continued. Sinclair’s buddies, who had less faith in the wisdom of their commander in chief, assumed the White House had ordered the cease-fire. An election was on the horizon, and the president was behind in the polls.

  Sinclair refused to believe that public opinion could sway military policy. This was new-millennial warfare, not a sixties sit-in. He was right about one thing. The days when Washington heeded the voice of the American people were long gone. But he underestimated the power of the press. Civilian casualties were nothing new, but the liberal media were blowing everything out of proportion. The cease-fire was a publicity stunt, not a military strategy. What may have looked good on paper wreaked havoc for boots on the ground.

  “Throw us a bone,” Radetzky shouted.

  “One lousy tank—” “One lousy tank could get us both court-martialed,” Captain Phipps said.

  “Not if the order preceded the cease-fire.”

  “My hands are tied, Radetzky. But yours aren’t.”

  Even unilateral cease-fires made provision for self-preservation. The platoon was authori
zed to defend their positions, if need be, as long as they refrained from mounting attacks. Forget the fact that even the greenest boot-camp rookie knew that offense was the best defense. Fortunately no one was around to monitor whether they were actually initiating or just repelling attacks. Their lives were on the line, and they were in no mood for fine distinctions.

  “Guess that means it’s up to me,” Percy shouted, shouldering his SMAW. Sinclair took stock of their trajectory options. The most effective angle left them marginally exposed, a calculated gamble. On sniper duty, the odds were more predictable. Sheer velocity exposed gunners to multiple, more immediate threats. Sinclair’s M249 fired five times as many rounds as enemy AK-47s, which meant he could probably double the risk without losing his advantage. He inched farther into the window, channeling Sergeant Troy’s training again. His voice still echoed in Sinclair’s ear, a brusque guardian angel forever shouting strategic directives.

  “It’s a game of inches, men!”

  Invariably one of the recruits made a joke about size queens.

  “That’s right, jack-off,” Sergeant Troy said. “Stick it out too far, and you’ll get the whole damn thing blown off.”

  Sinclair edged sideways until his tracers cut off an enemy gunner’s angle. The stream of bullets threatening Percy’s position stopped long enough for the SMAW to waste an entire room in the enemy compound. The fact that Sinclair felt perfectly in control of the situation meant he was being too cautious. He edged out a little more and caught sight of someone crouching next to a garden wall. The man in question wasn’t toting a rucksack or wearing a kaffiyeh in the manner of insurgents. He appeared unarmed, though his jacket might have concealed a weapon. A volley of rounds burst from a window, just missing Sinclair’s head. Shifting his position a full inch had put him at risk of being picked off. He tried half an inch. The window remained silent. He had discovered his optimum angle.