When Logan answered, John’s only response was simple. “No fucking way.”
“Way,” Logan retorted. “And it means this thing just got a lot bigger, and we have a new player on the board.”
“Are you absolutely sure, as in cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die sure?” John asked quietly, all humor gone from his voice, regardless of the words.
“Absolutely, brother,” and then Logan told them a story that he and John knew well.
PART III
BEFORE THE SANDBOX
CHAPTER 13
March 2004
Ramadi, Iraq
Captain Logan West studied the passing scenery as the three-vehicle convoy turned west and away from the Al Anbar Provincial Government Center situated squarely in the middle of the city along the main Amman–Baghdad road, which the US military renamed Highway 11 when the occupation began in 2003.
The capital of Al Anbar Province, Ramadi lay seventy miles west of Baghdad along the Euphrates River, which, running west to east, served as its northern boundary. Just west of the city, a large canal branched off to the southeast and eventually emptied, ten miles away, into Lake Habbaniyah, making the city look like a giant pointed triangle. The irony wasn’t lost on Captain West, as Ramadi itself served as the southwest corner of the infamous Sunni Triangle. The tip of the city was known as Hurricane Point, a small palace complex formerly belonging to Saddam Hussein and now a combat outpost for an infantry company and weapons company from 2nd Battalion 4th Marine Regiment, nicknamed the Magnificent Bastards by its commanding officer in the 1960s.
From Hurricane Point, the city of four hundred thousand mostly Sunni Iraqis sprawled out to the east and southeast. Orchards of Iraqi date palm trees—one of the main Iraqi exports—were strewn along the river, canal, and throughout the city. Even though it was in the middle of the Iraqi desert—which was the entire country—Ramadi was a habitable environment except for one thing, the nest of insurgent activity that the US army had kicked over.
Thanks to its Sunni population, Ramadi had been subsidized by oil income and blood money from the Hussein regime for years. The patronage system had slowly deteriorated the societal fabric of the city, as normal civic functions such as law, taxes, and the judicial system were used as leverage to control the population. The rich became richer; the poor become poorer—an urban evolution that seemed to know no national or geographic boundary, Captain West reflected as he thought about US cities like Detroit, Chicago, New Orleans, and Baltimore. It’s human nature, he realized, marred by greed, power, and envy.
And now that Baghdad was under reconstruction by a mostly Shia ruling class, the main source of income for the citizens of Ramadi had been cut off. What remained was a city rife with instability and uncertainty, neither of which were good for the US forces charged with rebuilding it.
While the city had been run largely as a tribal society, it was now occupied by disorganized, former-regime military units, large criminal elements, and a blossoming insurgency.
First Marine Expeditionary Force—known as I MEF—was in the final stages of assuming operational control from the US army for all of Al Anbar Province, including the city of Ramadi. During that transition, the commanding general of I MEF had emphasized the need to work with the local tribal leaders in order to help create a stable and safe environment. Every Marine knew a brutal fight was coming, but if working with the local Sunni leaders provided the Marines with even the slightest tactical advantage, it was worth the effort. And Lieutenant General Jack Longstreet was known as a Marine and a man who put in the work required to get the job done. It was also why the general had been willing to personally meet with several tribal leaders at the Provincial Government Center in the middle of the city.
One of the senior sheikhs not only had intelligence on a local insurgent group that was in late-stage planning of a major attack against the Marines, but also reportedly knew of a different group tied to al-Qaeda in Iraq that was involved in an external plot, another 9/11-style, mass-casualty event intended to focus US attention inward and ultimately draw the US out of Iraq.
After 9/11, the US government had pulled out all the stops in investigating any and all threats to the homeland, including incorporating the FBI into overseas operations through Operations Order 1015. In addition to its primary purpose of collection and analysis of all information pertaining to any threats against the US, the order also integrated FBI assets into both deployed military and CIA units in Iraq.
Order 1015 was how Marine Captain Logan West found himself in the backseat of a Humvee not only with General Longstreet, but also with FBI Special Agent Mike Benson, a hulking, muscular African American whose size made the confined space of the all-terrain vehicle look like a clown car. It was his job to vet the veracity and accuracy of the intelligence before reporting it back to Baghdad and, ultimately, to FBI Headquarters in Washington DC.
The meeting had occurred, but the sheikh with the intelligence had failed to show. None of the other leaders had been able to reach him on his cell phone, a fact that had sent Captain West into a heightened state of alert. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and as General Longstreet’s personal security detail for the urban rendezvous, he’d quietly urged the general to shorten the meeting in order to return to the safety of Camp Blue Diamond, the new home of the Anbar Operations Center across the Euphrates River from Hurricane Point.
Unlike many general officers, General Longstreet understood and respected the advice of his subordinates, which was why he’d never questioned Captain West’s judgment, had pretended to receive an urgent text message on his encrypted BlackBerry, and had ended the meeting with extraordinary deference and a display of respect for the tribal leaders. There was no doubt in Captain West’s mind that they had believed the general was being called back to his operations center to handle a crisis. While they didn’t relish the occupation of their city by US forces, they did respect the position of the man charged with overseeing the stabilization and transition.
“What do you think, Captain West?” General Longstreet said as he turned around in the front passenger seat to address the young officer sitting behind him.
“I’m sorry, sir. It doesn’t make sense. No way they go through all this trouble to get a meeting with you and then have the main act not show up for the performance. I don’t like it. The bad guys know we’re here, and what better way to welcome the new kids on the block than to take out their leader?” Captain West replied.
“I agree with the captain’s assessment, sir,” Special Agent Benson said from the seat next to Logan’s. “Although to be honest, I sure as hell hope he’s wrong. I’ve only been in country for two months helping set up the FBI’s Baghdad operations center. This is the first trip I’ve made out here, and I’d prefer it if it weren’t my last.”
Captain West nodded. There was something about the man that set him at ease. After ten years in the Marine Corps, Captain West could spot a professional warrior, whether he or she was military, law enforcement, or intelligence. The man also had a sincerity about him that was hard to fake, and he had volunteered to come to Iraq to the front lines and serve his country. For Captain West, that said everything about the man.
“Is this your first deployment?” Captain West asked the FBI special agent.
“To Iraq, yes. But overall? No. As I’m sure you have, I’ve been to a few places, some of them better, and some much worse than here. The bad guys are global, Captain West, and I go where the work takes me,” Special Agent Benson said.
“Fair enough, sir. I reckon you can handle yourself, then, if this goes sideways,” Captain West responded, and turned back to the passing scenery of the city.
So far, so good, Captain West thought as the convoy navigated a slight turn in the road to the right. It’s a two-kilometer straight shot to Hurricane Point from here, a right turn over the bridge, and home safe.
“Sir, can you hand me the prick-117 handset, please?” Captain West asked, referring to the
AN/PRC-117 radio the Humvees used for internal communications between vehicles.
The general didn’t respond, raised his eyebrows at Captain West, and handed him the handset, extending the cord into the backseat.
“Thanks, sir,” Captain West said, pressed the talk button, and spoke into the handset. “Gunny, you got anything back there? We’re on the homestretch.”
“Negative, sir. There’s a little less civilian traffic, but it’s not totally gone,” Gunnery Sergeant John Quick, Captain West’s Force Reconnaissance platoon sergeant, replied from the third vehicle, which Captain West had dubbed Tail-End Gunny in deference to a World War II British Royal Air Force bomber’s tail. The US military had learned a harsh lesson early in the occupation: a sudden absence of any children, civilians, or other life was a threat indicator that meant there was a very high likelihood of an imminent attack in the immediate area. “It’s just me and the lesser captain, chilling out, enjoying the ride,” he added.
“Gunny, I told you how he doesn’t like to be called that,” Captain West replied. “And whatever you do, don’t call him Captain America. He fucking hates that.”
A new voice suddenly emitted from the encrypted radio. “You know I can hear you, right, Logan?” Captain Steve Rodgers—spelled differently than the Marvel superhero—said. Captain Rodgers was a joint terminal air controller—known as a JTAC—from First Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company at Camp Pendleton, California. “And I was always partial to the Punisher. There’s no give in that guy.”
Logan heard Gunny Quick in the background say sarcastically, “Like most Marines. That’s so cliché. You’re going to have to come up with something better than that, Captain Other.”
“Glad you two are getting along,” Captain West said. “Now stay sharp. I’ll see you back at base. Out.”
“Are they always like that?” Special Agent Benson asked, amusement written all over his face.
“Gunny Quick is, sir. In fact, I don’t know a more sarcastic soul on this planet,” Captain West said. “But I also don’t know a fiercer warrior when it comes to a fight,” he added. “It all evens out in the end.”
“Captain West is one thousand percent correct, Special Agent Benson,” General Longstreet added. “It’s also why I brought him and his sidekick.”
Captain West leaned over the middle of the backseat and said loudly enough for the general to hear, “I’m pretty sure I’m the sidekick.”
“You guys are definitely a rare breed, but at least I know I’m in good—” was all Special Agent Benson had time to say as the lead vehicle suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, the big wheels kicking up dirt and sand as the Humvee slid to a halt.
Sergeant Matthew Childress, the general’s driver for the duration of the deployment, had been momentarily distracted by the banter in the backseat. As a result, when the first Humvee slammed on its brakes, Sergeant Childress reacted too slowly. Realizing his error, he’d managed to swerve to the right as he slammed on the brakes and missed the first Humvee by several feet before skidding to a halt.
“Good Christ, Childress,” Captain West said from the backseat as he leaned forward. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
No answer. What the hell? Captain West thought. And then he saw what had transfixed both the young sergeant and the senior Marine officer in all of Iraq, and his blood turned cold. It was a sight that would haunt him for years to come, but he didn’t know it at the moment. The dream would change, but the helplessness and horror would be constant.
Standing before them, less than ten yards away, was a teenaged boy with an old donkey hitched to a wheelbarrow with leather straps. The donkey looked as beaten as the wheelbarrow, which was covered by a burlap sack, a fact that chilled Logan’s blood even more. But more unsettling was the way the boy eerily pointed directly at General Longstreet in an accusatory manner.
That can’t be good. I hate it when I’m right, Captain West thought. And then what he’d feared the most happened: his day went sideways.
CHAPTER 14
B-BOOM!
The IED inside the covered wheelbarrow detonated, triggering the ambush and tearing apart the donkey and the boy. Chunks of gray, furry flesh were flung in all directions, and there was a loud smack as something heavy hit the windshield of the Humvee.
Captain West found himself staring into the blinking, lifeless eyes of the teenager, his head somehow momentarily suspended against the vehicle’s ballistic glass. The head finally fell away, bounced off the Humvee’s hood, and rolled off into the sand-swept street.
“Go! Go! Go!” West shouted at Sergeant Childress, knowing the worst was likely yet to come. He reached for the radio handset, but he never made it.
A tremendous roar suddenly engulfed the Humvee, and West felt the vehicle lift up and tilt to the right as the sun was blotted out by debris and flying earth. A deafening ringing and buzzing suddenly drowned out the roar, and he realized he’d likely ruptured an eardrum.
The angle of tilt on the Humvee increased, and West braced himself for the impact as he suddenly found himself perpendicular to the street. Here we go, he thought, but the vehicle somehow stopped on the passenger side, standing straight up. That’s one small mercy.
West heard muffled voices through his diminished hearing, followed by a faint pop-pop-pop. And now they’re shooting at us, he thought, a realization that spurred him into action. He reached forward into the front seat to pat General Longstreet on the shoulder to check on his status.
“Are you hurt, sir?” West shouted.
He heard an incomprehensible muffled response but at least saw a thumbs-up from the front seat.
Thank God. Step one—check. Step two—get the fuck out of here before we become target practice.
Special Agent Mike Benson had the same thought, and as Captain West checked on the general, Benson found a foothold on which to stand and opened the rear driver’s side door by pushing upward. Momentum grabbed the heavy door, and it swung forward and away, remaining propped open. Sunlight, dirt, and sand poured into the vehicle all at once.
“Through here!” Benson screamed down into the vehicle. “It’s our only choice!”
The sounds of battle grew louder as the ringing slowly subsided, and West heard the radio erupt with Gunny Quick’s voice. “Get the hell out of the Humvees! We’ve got multiple enemy on both sides of the street. We’ve got to get away from the vehicles. There’s a three-story building forty meters on the left, but you have to get out now!”
The urgency in Gunny Quick’s voice sent all four men into furious action.
“Move! I’ll help each of you up and come out last,” Benson shouted as he reached down and pulled Captain West up and toward the opening.
The sound of small arms fire reached West’s clearing head, and a new sound—a much louder one—joined the fight as the gunner on the Mk 19 40mm automatic grenade launcher mounted on Gunny Quick’s vehicle opened fire.
Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop!
Rough hands gripped his torso and pushed upward as West managed to grab the frame and pull at the same time. His Kevlar helmet bounced off the doorframe, and then he found himself hanging out the opening. A terrifying thought occurred to him: Please don’t let one of these assholes get a lucky shot.
Motivated by fear, he pulled his legs out of the Humvee and flattened himself on the side of the vehicle. Knowing time was running out, he leaned in and shouted, “My M4!”
Special Agent Benson was once again one step ahead of him and already had his modified M4 in hand, passing it to him through the opening.
This guy’s great for an FBI agent, West thought. “Now the general! Hurry! It’s turning into fucking Blackhawk Down up here!” he screamed, referring to the infamous ambush on the Army Rangers and Delta operators in Somalia in 1993.
Gunny Quick’s Humvee had pulled close to the upturned vehicle and was now fully engaged in the fight. West didn’t have time to look around. His only priority was getting the gene
ral out of the Humvee and to some semblance of safety.
Seconds later, General Longstreet, notoriously fit and a former Force Reconnaissance officer himself, was through the opening. West never hesitated. “On the ground, sir, and take this! Shoot anything that moves!” he shouted over the noise of the gunfire and grenade launcher. The initial haze had cleared, and the full warrior that was Captain Logan West was present and accounted for with one thing in mind—pain for the enemy.
He pushed his M4 into the general’s hands. The commanding officer accepted the weapon, grinned maliciously in acknowledgment, his own battle fury now fully engaged, and said, “Absolutely.” He dropped off the side of the Humvee and into the fray.
Moments later, Sergeant Childress, the smallest of their fire team, scrambled up and out, leaping to the ground below, his M4 searching for targets.
“Your turn, Big Man!” West screamed into the Humvee.
Benson nodded. “Here. Take this,” he said, and passed his Kevlar helmet—all four of the vehicle’s occupants had been wearing both Kevlar helmets and flak vests—to Captain West.
West set it aside and concentrated on the new task—helping the enormous, muscular FBI special agent out of the ruins of the Humvee.
Benson struggled through the opening, managing to prop himself halfway out. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to get enough leverage to get his legs all the way out.
West leaned into the darkness of the vehicle and grabbed Special Agent Benson’s tan cargo pants, pulling upward as he yelled, “Scoot forward! You may fall off the side, but it will get you out of this death trap!”
The sounds of the raging battle were slightly dampened inside, and Captain West had a vertiginous feeling as he hung upside down, accompanied by an irrational thought that he’d fall back inside the vehicle, unable to escape.
Special Agent Benson’s legs went flying by his face, and West reverse-crunched his way up to the opening in time to see the big FBI man roll off the side of the vehicle to the ground below.
Field of Valor Page 10
