by Peter Nealen
“That’s the way of it out here,” I said. “We’re never going to see the kind of US forces out here in the shit that our mentors did, and even if we did, the odds of them helping us out would be pretty fucking thin. The locals are what we have to work with.”
“Or we’re what the locals have to work with,” he pointed out. “They’re paying us, remember?”
“True, but when it comes to combat, I don’t think like that. I can’t.” I stuck out my hand. “Be safe, brother.”
Mike clasped it hard. “You too.”
We separated and headed for our trucks. Bryan was already up on the PKM, Paul was in the back seat, and Larry had squeezed his bulk into the driver’s seat. Windows were rolled down and rifle muzzles out. There wasn’t going to be anything covert about this morning.
I climbed into the passenger seat, checking that the map was taped to the dash, and the callsigns and freqs were all written on the windshield in map pen. Paul had one of our heavier-duty radios in the center console, and I pulled out the handset. “Kemosabe, Hillbilly. You ready to roll?”
“Let’s do it, brother,” Jim replied. “No time like the present.” Which with Jim was another way of saying let’s get this the fuck over with.
I looked over at the Iraqi trucks, and got a wave from Daoud. Time to go.
Hussein Ali led out, followed by his personal bodyguard in three trucks. We followed, with the rest of Hussein Ali’s guys and Daoud’s militia coming after. It was a pretty impressive armed convoy. It was also overt enough that I was absolutely certain that we were going to get hit long before we got to the first target. I was right.
Hussein Ali forged north, up the eight-lane main highway, toward Saad Square. The cloverleaf at Saad wasn’t exactly the best choke point, but it was the place the PPF tried to put their first check on us.
I could see them even over the top of Hussein Ali’s Ranger, which was bristling with armed men, to include the guy on the Kord. There were two ILAVs on the overpass, their turrets trained down the road. Several clusters of up-armored Humvees squatted on the side roads, similarly armed.
The terrain sucked. There was no cover easily accessible aside from a single long building on the left side of the road. A weird, modernist shark statue was in the middle of dusty nothing on the right. It wouldn’t provide cover, either.
There wasn’t time to skull out the tactical implications of it all. The ILAVs opened fire, their turrets lighting up with huge muzzle flashes that were visible even in the morning sunshine. Massive tracers floated by overhead or smacked dirt and grit into the air when they hit the ground. The noise was horrendous.
Trucks scattered, trying to get out of the line of fire. Larry wrenched the wheel over, following close behind the SUV we were following, doing an admirable job of keeping them between us and the heavy machineguns. Not that it was going to make all that much difference when one of those rounds could probably go through the SUV long-ways and hardly slow down. I’ve been shot at by heavies before, and it’s never a good feeling.
The SUV suddenly swerved toward us as massive rounds punched into its engine compartment, and the glass in the windows shattered under more impacts. There was a loud bang as one of the rounds hit the rear of the Ranger. It would have hit further forward, but Larry mashed the gas and sent us bouncing and roaring toward the scant cover of the single one-story building that sat closest to the square.
I twisted around in my seat. “Everybody all right back there?” I yelled.
“So far,” Paul replied. “We almost lost Bryan, but he grabbed onto the gun mount in time.” Paul had his rifle out the window, but didn’t have a target.
“Larry, stay behind the wheel,” I said. “Paul, you’re with me.” I piled out and ran around to the back. Bryan was still in the bed, leaning into the PKM, pointing it just past the corner of the building.
“Dude, I’ve got no shot right now!” he yelled.
“You’d barely scratch those fuckers,” I replied. I rummaged in the gear in the back until I found the RPG-29s we’d gotten from Hussein Ali. I hauled them both out and shoved one at Paul, who grabbed it awkwardly with one hand while he tried to sling his rifle onto his back with the other. “Cover the flank and make sure we don’t get shot in the back,” I hollered at Bryan, then clapped Paul on the shoulder and headed back toward the road.
We’d gotten lucky, getting out of the line of fire as fast as we had. Right in front of me, one of Hussein Ali’s trucks hadn’t made it. It was sagging on its tires, its hood and windshield smashed, as it started to burn. Pulped, shattered corpses lay in and around it, their blood soaking the pavement. One of the militiamen was caught by his gear on the PKP mounted on the roll bar, still half-standing, the top half of his head a macabre mess, dripping brains and gore into the bed.
The gunners were still hammering away at the road, though our militiamen were starting to return fire. The enemy’s elevated position was making it hard to try to suppress the gunners, and still would have even if our guys had been better shots. The only thing we had going for us was that the gunners were just as bad as our militia. If they’d known what they were doing, we’d all have been turned into hamburger already.
I took a knee, manhandling the 41-pound, 6-foot launcher onto my shoulder and lining up the left ILAV. “I’ve got left!” I yelled at Paul.
“I’ve got right!” he acknowledged. I didn’t wait to try to coordinate our shot or anything. I armed the weapon, checked my back-blast area, got the sights on target, took a breath, and fired.
The concussion of the shot rattled my teeth. Just because a weapon is “recoilless” doesn’t mean you don’t feel anything when you fire it. I was instantly engulfed in a cloud of smoke and grit. I had fired before Paul; he waited until the cloud had dissipated enough he could see, then slammed the next round downrange.
My target was burning, its gun gone silent. I was able to see Paul’s round hit, his target momentarily disappearing with an orange flash, quickly eclipsed by a huge puff of black smoke. When the smoke cleared, the entire front end of the vehicle was just gone, a twisted, mangled mass of metal and fiberglass, belching dark smoke.
The up-armored Humvees on the flanks were already moving, trying to get away from the crazy bastards using weapons that could take out a T-72 with a single direct hit on lumbering armored trucks. Even as I was moving back to the trucks, a near-miss with an RPG smashed concrete out of the side of the overpass. Both sides were dumping automatic weapons fire at each other now, neither doing a lot of aiming.
In a few minutes the firing started to die down as the PPF withdrew out of the square. I knew better than to think that was the last we’d see of them short of the police station that was our first target. We had over a mile to go, and in built-up areas that could be a long way.
I ran over to Hussein Ali’s truck. Two of his men had been hit; one obviously had died instantly, his upper chest and shoulder smashed into shredded meat and shattered bone by a direct hit from either a 12.7mm or a 14.5. Hussein Ali was bent over the other, who was rapidly fading, his hands quivering around the blood-soaked bandage another militiaman was trying to wrap around his midsection.
Hussein Ali looked up as I crouched down next to him. I realized I didn’t have Hassan with me, but as I looked up he came running over. The guy was better at keeping track of me than I was of him.
“We can’t just keep pushing up this road,” I told Hussein Ali through Hassan. “They’ll be waiting for us, and they might just be better prepared than this bunch was.”
“He agrees,” Hassan interpreted. “He does not want to leave the vehicles behind, but he does think that we need to proceed with greater caution, and along a less obvious route. He is concerned, however, that some of the less-experienced militia may become lost.”
“It’s only a kilometer and a half,” I pointed out. “If they pay attention they shouldn’t get lost, especially if they are from this city.”
Hussein Ali listened politely, t
hen replied curtly. “He says that the combat situation will disorient some of them. He says that they will have to move much more carefully and slowly toward the target.”
So our timeline was already fucked. That wasn’t my biggest concern, though. What I was worried about was giving the enemy more time to get ready and hit us again. We needed to move faster, not more slowly. We’d already let the pressure off by letting them pull back while we got our shit together.
“Hassan, you stay with Hussein Ali,” I told him. “Make sure you have radio contact with me at all times. I’m going to take our teams up ahead, on foot, to clear the way as best we can. We cannot leave the opposition with too much time to get their balance. We have to keep pushing.”
Hassan rapidly explained the plan to Hussein Ali, who nodded emphatically when he understood. “He says it is a good idea, but says not to get so far ahead that the enemy gets between us.”
No shit, I thought but didn’t say. Over-penetrating was a good way to get cut off and killed. I had no intention of letting the bad guys into our rear. But we needed to move, and quickly, or we’d lose any momentum and initiative we might have left.
I clapped Hassan on the shoulder, shook Hussein Ali’s hand, trotted back to the truck, and climbed in. “Push,” I told Larry, “but only to the far side of the square. We’re moving on foot from there.” I gave a quick rundown of the new plan, sending it over our team tac channel at the same time.
“I like it,” Larry said. “We were sitting ducks in these vehicles anyway.”
“I’m bringing the PKM,” Bryan hollered through the open window in the back.
“You’d better not leave your rifle,” I told him.
“I won’t,” he replied, barely audible over the sound of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires as Larry led the way at high speed across the open ground, trying to get us to the buildings on the far side of the cloverleaf before we could take more fire. We bounced up onto the hardball road with a bone-jarring shudder, then back down onto the dirt and then we were in among the ramshackle brick buildings set haphazardly in the swampy low spot below the road.
We all piled out, grabbing rifles and go-bags as we did, as the other trucks bounced and rattled up to join us. I ran over to Mike’s HiLux, and found him levering himself out of the passenger seat. “You handrail Route 8, and we’ll take Tamuz Street,” I suggested.
He took a look around as he thought about it, placing the routes in his head. He nodded. “Sounds like a plan. We’ll keep in radio contact; if one gets in a furball, the other team can hook around and come up on a flank.”
“That works.” I punched him in the shoulder. “Good hunting, brother.”
He grinned. “You too, man.” I jogged back to where Jim was checking that we hadn’t left anything vital on the trucks. Bryan was standing by the bed, his OBR across his back, the PKM held in his hands, and several belts of linked 7.62x54 draped over his kit. It looked a lot heavier than I’d want to carry.
“You sure about carrying all that shit, Rambo?” I asked him. “We’re going to be moving a lot.”
“I’ll take the weight if it means having the firepower,” he said. “This is the second time somebody’s shot at me with one of those fucking cannons, and I want to fuck up their shit for once.”
“Fine, I won’t argue with having more firepower. But if you can’t keep up, you dump that fucking shit in the nearest canal, understood?” He nodded with a smirk. Bryan was in pretty good shape; I wasn’t too worried that he was going to get worn down anytime soon. On the other hand, urban combat can be a bitch, even lightly loaded. And we were wearing plates this time, thanks to the closer quarters.
I got the thumbs-up from Jim. By then, the entire team was in a rough perimeter, mostly in the prone or on a knee at the corners of buildings, covering 360 degrees, or as close as we could get under the circumstances. Mike was still getting his team together. I called Hassan on the ICOM I had stashed in a cargo pocket. I needed to find a better place for it; I didn’t want the damned thing banging against my knee for the rest of the day. “Hassan, radio check,” I called.
“I hear you, Mister Jeff,” he replied. “Our contact is good.”
“Roger,” I said. “If we start losing contact, I am going to stop and strongpoint until the militia can start to catch up. We have to stay coordinated. That also means I need you to keep me informed about where Hussein Ali and Daoud al Zubayri are taking their men. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” he said. “We will stay in contact, Mister Jeff.”
“Good.” I signed off and dropped the radio in my dump pouch. It might get in the way when I had to drop spent mags in it, but it was better than a cargo pocket. We had to get moving. I pointed to Nick, since Bryan was loaded down too much to want to put him on point, and gave him the go ahead. He nodded, got up, and led off.
The back streets were quiet and empty. Parked cars and trucks still lined the streets, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Most of the area was somewhat industrial, but there were some houses around the corners. None showed signs of life, except for the odd furtive glance out a window that was promptly covered as soon as they saw one of us looking back at them. The locals were spooked; at least the ones that didn’t want to get caught up in the slaughter.
The emptiness of the streets didn’t mean things were silent. Gunfire burst out, then faded. An explosion echoed somewhere off to the west. The city was restive; our own sortie was only part of the violence brewing between at least three general movements. This was going to get ugly.
We were moving more quickly than the militia would have, but that didn’t mean we were rushing or getting sloppy. We paused at every crossing, swept every door and window. Every movement was planned and executed, every danger area covered by at least one rifle.
My radio crackled in my ear. “Hillbilly, Speedy,” Mike called. “We’ve got a mix of PPF and irregulars setting up over here by the Y-intersection with Route 6. It looks like they’re going to try again, this time with better cover.”
No sooner had he stopped speaking than Nick, who had moved to a corner to get a view down Tamuz Street, looked back and signaled to me. It didn’t take much to get his message across.
“Roger, Speedy,” I replied. “We’ve got another element moving down Tamuz Street right now. Looks like they’re going to try to pincer the militia. Can you handle the ones on your side?”
“It’ll get rough,” he replied. “I’d rather have some support to hit this many. We’re talking more than platoon strength.”
“Then stand by to hit them when the militia come within striking distance,” I said. “Let’s use what misdirection we can. These fuckers are moving, we’re going to slow them down a little.”
“Roger. Good luck.” Mike signed off. I reached back and pulled out the ICOM. “Hassan, this is Jeff. Mike has found the PPF forces that drew back from Saad Square. They are setting up defensive positions in the buildings north on Route 6. Mike is prepared to hit them from the flank as soon as your lead elements make contact.”
There was a pause as Hassan relayed this information to Hussein Ali. “Hussein Ali says he understands, and will approach the area with caution. He says to let his men fire first, before you attack.”
“We will,” I said, leaving aside the fact that Mike was the one in position, not me. “There is also another group advancing south along Tamuz Street. We will take care of them before they can come around on your flank.”
Again, Hassan translated, then said in reply, “Understood, Mister Jeff. Allah watch over you.”
“Thanks.” I took the prayer for what it was. I stashed the radio back in my dump pouch and moved up next to Nick. I leaned around the corner and leveled my rifle, cranking my scope all the way up to 8x for a better view.
There were four PPF trucks coming down the road, slowly, their mounted guns tracking to either side of the street. The men in the beds were facing outboard, their rifles ready. I squinted. They
didn’t look like AKs or M4s. I let it go; there wasn’t time.
“Bryan!” I hissed. “You’re humping that damned thing anyway, get over here and get set up on the long axis of the road. Nick, you and I will stay with him. Jim, take the rest and get spread out along the side of the road. We’ll let ‘em get close, then waste ‘em. Hold fire until we open up.”
Jim nodded, then vanished into the back alleys with Juan, Little Bob, Paul, and Larry. Bryan jogged over, those ammo belts flapping ridiculously, and dropped down in the prone just beyond the corner, where he could see most of the way down the street. Fortunately, there weren’t any vehicles parked on the side of the main drag. That meant our line of fire was clear. It also meant we didn’t have much in the way of cover or concealment.
I knelt down next to Bryan, keeping my eyes moving, watching for any outriders or anybody else who wanted to come crash the party. “You’re initiating, on my go,” I told him.
He mimed wiping away a tear. “You love me, you really love me,” he said.
I punched him in the shoulder. “Shut up, you goofy bastard, and just get ready to kill some people.”
He grinned and settled down behind the machinegun, shifting his body to get as much of himself behind the bore line as he could. That would cut down on the recoil, and let him keep the burst tighter. I glanced over to see Nick covering our six. This would be a really bad time for somebody like Jaysh al Mahdi to stumble over us.
I kept back from the street, relying on Bryan to keep track of the PPF convoy. My earpiece crackled. “Kemosabe, in position,” Jim reported. I broke squelch twice to indicate I’d heard him.
A moment later, Mike called, “This is Speedy. We have eyes on the militia. Contact is imminent.” Another double squelch-break. Then there was no more time for talking, as Bryan opened up with a long, twenty-round burst.
I leaned out into the street, bracing my off-hand against the wall of the compound we were hiding behind, and lined up the lead truck, which was a bare half a block away. Bryan was working it over, starting to sweep his fire from side to side; there was no one moving on that vehicle. The truck rocked as his bullets shredded tires and sparks and smoke started to belch out of the engine compartment. The windshield was gone.
