Black Knights, Dark Days

by Fisk, J. Matthew;

  In our vehicle’s turret, Chen was focused on threats to the front, so he missed some potential trouble. Wild, who was in another vehicle and oriented toward the left of our route, spotted it first. We had just rolled past a mosque near the intersection of Routes Arizona or Texas—or some such route that none of us recognized beyond map references—when Wild came up on the net.

  “Gun!” Wild yelled to Staff Sergeant Davis as he swiveled his machinegun toward four men standing on the sidewalk. “Nine o’clock at the mosque!”

  Chen checked the indicated direction. “I just saw somebody with an AK…left side…behind a barricade!” We all strained to look left and caught sight of Red 2—Staff Sergeant Davis’ vehicle—jumping a curb to turn around and orient on the threat.

  “Red One, this is Red Two. My gunner just saw somebody flashing an AK.” Trevor’s excited voice blared through our speakers. “We’re turning around to intercept.”

  “Roger!” Aguero snatched at the radio handset to call it in to battalion and ordered Riddell to change direction. “Swing back around and get in behind them.” As Riddell gassed it to find a turning space, Aguero called the TOC and told them what we had seen. “Lancer Mike, this is Comanche Red One.” The lieutenant was calling in a situation report when Riddell found his space and hooked a U-turn that nearly put us up on two wheels. As we reversed, I caught sight of the following vehicles also turning and stacking up about 100 meters beyond the mosque.

  As Chen struggled to maintain his footing behind Ma Deuce, the muzzle of the big weapon swept the road and that brought all civilian traffic to an immediate halt. Chen was giving all nearby drivers the Italian tasty cuisine gesture that meant stop in the Iraqi scheme of traffic signals. As we roared toward the mosque, I was expecting incoming rounds, but we got nothing but stares from the people watching along our route.

  By the time we rejoined, the platoon had stacked up with all three of their vehicles parked beside a row of four-foot-high T-barriers. Riddell nosed us in behind Staff Sergeant Haubert’s Humvee, and Chen swiveled his machinegun to six o’clock so he could guard the rear. The rest of us were out of the vehicle before it was fully stopped. Aguero eyed the street up and down and then focused on the Iraqi civilians standing outside a fairly nondescript building.

  Specialist Wild was covering three men standing outside that building with his machinegun. One of those guys, lurking around behind the other two, had an AK-47 slung across his shoulders. I took a quick look at Wild and saw the intensity in his eyes. His expression was neutral, but I could tell he was ready and willing to blow away all three of the Iraqis in a heartbeat. None of them seemed particularly intimidated as we approached.

  “Great,” Lieutenant Aguero muttered. “It’s a mosque.” I don’t know how he knew that. The building didn’t have any of the familiar trappings like an onion-shaped dome or minarets. Regardless, we were forbidden from entering without a compelling reason—and an Iraqi sentry with an AK likely didn’t constitute due cause.

  As we tried to decide on an appropriate course of action, our vehicles maneuvered around into a herringbone configuration that would provide all-around field of fire. Traffic was beginning to jam up on the main thoroughfare, and a glance at my watch told me we were approaching Sadr City rush-hour. It certainly looked like a bunch of irritated commuters were all trying to leave this part of the city. Swope came trotting up to make his report with Davis trailing him.

  “Sir, Davis’ gunner spotted one of these shitheads who sat there and had an AK. So we sat there and turned around to find out what’s going on.” Aguero just nodded and eyed the trio of Iraqis who were eyeing us and making no move to leave their post.

  “Sir, what’s the restriction on weapons?” Davis pointed at the guy with the AK. “I know every adult male is allowed to have one in his home, but how this guy…”

  Aguero interrupted Davis with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, I know. Everybody can have one, but as far as having them out in the open—they have to be registered. They’ve got to be registered with the Iraqi Police, Force Protection Services, or Iraqi National Guard, something like that.” He turned to our interpreter and pointed at the trio. “Sala’am, ask them if they are registered in any of those capacities. They’ll have to have the card with them if that’s the case.”

  While we deployed our dismounts into a security perimeter, Sala’am strolled over to consult with the guards. They spoke with our interpreter but never quit giving us the evil eye. After a few minutes, our interpreter returned with a report. “They don’t have these card. Only they are here to guard the Imam for some special meeting they are having.”

  Aguero shook his head and chewed on his lip for a while. “Did they say who they are affiliated with? Are they Sadr Bureau, SCIRI, KDP? What are they?”

  “He say they are for SCIRI. They need guard to protect from Sadr Bureau. He say there was bomb last week, and they are nervous.” It took me a few seconds to sort through the acronyms. SCIRI was supposed to stand for Supreme Council for Islamic Religion, or Islamic Relations—or Islamic Religious Idiots for all I could recall. Whatever their affiliation was, it didn’t involve openly flashing an AK on the streets of Sadr City as far as Aguero was concerned.

  “Tell them they can’t just walk around outside carrying weapons without a badge or uniform or anything. Tell them that it’s illegal.”

  Sala’am was about to carry that message when a blue-and-white painted Toyota pick-up rolled to stop bearing a pair of Iraqi Police officers. They unloaded and adjusted their uniforms, taking in the situation. Both cops were probably in their mid-30s and clearly concerned with both the standoff and the traffic snarl it was generating. They ignored us and strolled toward the mosque guards where they had a quick conversation replete with nods and sweeping gestures.

  Sala’am caught the gist of it. “He say they have the permission from the Chief of Police for Sadr City.”

  Aguero wasn’t buying that. “Listen, you tell them that Colonel Hussein does not make the law. The Iraqi Provincial Government makes the law.” He sent the interpreter into the fray and reached for a radio handset. He was going to get guidance from higher authority before we gave up on this situation.

  The problem was clearly a matter of interpretation. During his orientation with the departing unit, Aguero had learned that the law permitting every male Iraqi to keep a weapon in his home had limitations. Open carry was granted exclusively to officially sanctioned personnel such as soldiers, police, or uniformed force protection guards. The guys in question didn’t seem to be affiliated with any of those organizations, which made them lawbreakers. On the other hand, I realized as Aguero contacted the TOC, there was the possibility that regulations had changed or exceptions had been made. And we all knew that as the new guys on the block, we were bound to be tested by the locals to see how far they could push the rules.

  While Sala’am talked to the cops and the guards, I listened to Aguero trying to outline the situation and get the necessary guidance. “Lancer Mike, this is Comanche Red One. I’ve got a request for information regarding the situation here at the mosque. The guard here is saying that he has permission from Colonel Hussein and the Second ACR commander to display these weapons for this meeting they’re having between the SCIRI Imam and a rep from the Badr Corps. Can you confirm that? Break—also can you tell me what is the minimum distance from a building under protection a guard or FP is allowed to go? Standing by for further guidance.”

  While we waited for the requested guidance, I kept my eyes on the confab outside the mosque which appeared to be turning ugly. There was also a gathering crowd of frowning spectators that was gathering and required our attention. The crowd seemed to be wondering if the infidels would have the balls to do something stupidly infidel-like—such as conducting a raid on a mosque. As the crowd began to murmur and mumble, I could see danger signals all around, as if someone was out there in the distance warning us to leave it alone and clear the area.
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br />   Sala’am seemed to be making some progress in calming the guards and reassuring the cops, but I didn’t like the vibes we were feeling. What did the lieutenant expect? Was he waiting for one of those sentries to approach wearing a smile and letting him know they had no idea they were breaking a law? So sorry, infidels, it’s just a big misunderstanding. Why don’t you folks just come on inside the mosque here and we’ll all drop our guns and maybe drink some tea? Of course, nothing like that happened.

  “Sergeant Swope!” Coleman yelled at our platoon sergeant. “I just saw a guy in a man-dress that looked like he was carrying an MP-5—or some kind of compact weapon!”

  Swope rushed over to take a look as Coleman pointed up the street. “He came from around the far corner of the building on the right there. Then he walked into the mosque and I lost track of him.”

  This new wrinkle caused Aguero to confer again with Sala’am and the cops. He wanted them to go into the mosque and check it out, but they didn’t seem to want to be bothered. There was a lot of murmuring and tongue-clicking, which usually meant they were either unwilling to do what was being requested or just generally displeased about a situation. There was a lot of body language in the back and forth between the lieutenant, the cops, and the sentries, and I tried to interpret that since I couldn’t understand much of the Arabic conversation. As a long time student of languages, I know things—often important things—get lost in translation. The key is to catch the nonverbal cues and context, but that takes total immersion in a culture, and we were a long way from that in Sadr City. It seemed fitting that it would play out this way in the land where the Bible says the tongues of man became confused.

  Finally, one of the cops reluctantly agreed to enter the mosque and check for a visitor carrying an illegal or unauthorized weapon. A few minutes later, he strolled back onto the street with a little machine pistol slung over his shoulder. Since he had nothing but a pistol on his hip when he entered, I presumed the little sub-gun was the one Coleman had spotted.

  I was getting hungry for some subpar Army chow by this point, and so was everyone else. And adding an edge to my attitude was the fact that Sala’am was beginning to make me nervous. He radiated unease until I began to feel my own skin prickle by simple proximity. Lieutenant Aguero had zoned out from frustration and was no longer talking with anyone, neither police nor civilian. He just stood outside our vehicle smoking and casting irritated glances at his watch.

  After a while, Sala’am reappeared and walked up to make his report. “Sir, just take their weapons or leave because people are getting irritated.” Aguero nodded silently and crushed out his smoke. He’d been told by the IP who arrived to try and take an edge off the tense situation that security guards were allowed to have the weapons outside because of a deal made with the base commander. That permission, if it was indeed given by an American Army official, had to have come from the CO of the 2nd ACR who was still nominally in charge of the area. There was some exchange between Aguero and Sala’am, but I missed it as I floated between vehicles in an attempt to make myself a less-inviting sniper target.

  I was sure of only one thing: you could bet your sweet military assets that we were headed for trouble on this excursion. The Iraqi Police were attempting to contact the Iraqi Liaison on our FOB so that they could find someone to corroborate the alleged permission for the guards to brandish weapons. They must have called during high chai-time because they couldn’t find anyone who would respond. As a secondary course of action, they called in the big gun himself, Colonel Jaddoa Hussein.

  While we sat there waiting for some sort of decision or explanation, the dispute over permission from 2nd ACR was about to become moot. The commander of the outgoing outfit was just then turning over his responsibilities to our own battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Gary Volesky, at a formal Transition of Authority or TA. Minus the Army acronym, the rub was that after a brief orientation with only a relative handful of people from our own Task Force Lancer, the 2nd Armored Cav troops were leaving. At that point they had just one remaining company of tanks to pack up, and then they’d be gone. As we milled around hungry, nervous, and irritated, an entire planeload of our predecessors was already overhead in an aircraft headed home. At 1730 on that very day, TF Lancer would officially own the AO, warts and all.

  It was something that all of us were vaguely aware of. We were about to discover that some 10,000 militia fighters were a little less vague about the situation. In fact, they not only knew the details of the change in American units, they had been eagerly anticipating the shift for days. We were the new kids transferring in, and they were the bullies all set to let us know who ruled this schoolyard.

  

  Colonel Hussein strode to meet Lieutenant Aguero with the air of a diplomat greeting an unruly foreign despot. The L-T gave him the standard peace unto you greeting that, by now, had become second nature. The good Colonel was all smiles and conciliatory gestures. He and Sala’am had a long exchange before the translator began to tell the L-T what was transpiring.

  “Sir, he say that they have agreement with the base commander that they could have weapons like this.”

  I could tell that Aguero was completely incredulous by the look on his face. “Tell him that I’m not aware of any kind of deal like that.”

  A longer exchange this time. The Colonel did not appear to be offended by the L-T’s words or mannerisms, so either Sala’am was playing the role of peacemaker very well, or the colonel was willing to overlook minor slights in return for the possibility of a longer-term objective. The police chief listened with his hands behind his back, squinty-eyed smile affixed to his face like a brittle layer of stucco. I heard him say Na’am which I knew meant yes, but also seemed to be a typical way to begin a sentence in which they slightly disagreed with another’s point of view. He spoke for a minute, all the while with his hands behind his back, slightly bent at the waist. He was tall for an Iraqi.

  “Sir, he say that he will take these weapons himself and will go with you back to the base to speak with the commander, if you wish.”

  “Tell him that will be fine.”

  Colonel Hussein relaxed visibly when Sala’am relayed the L-T’s concession. He spoke a brief word of thanks and went straight away speaking with his subordinates as he walked. They began to load up into their pickup trucks even as Aguero gave the command to mount up. We all moved quickly, eager to leave what had become a tedious and failed promise-of-action for the dusty motor pool in the FOB that was our home. My mattress of duffle bags shimmered in my mind like a vision of El Dorado in the distance.

  We approached Route Delta and the snarl of traffic ahead was the worst I had seen yet. Roughly 2.5 million people seemed determined to turn south at the intersection. We arrived at the Delta intersection in under a minute, but the mass of traffic stopped us dead. I could see COL Hussein’s truck ahead of us. As our large vehicle slowed, his small Nissan darted around the orange-and-white taxi in front of him, shoved in between two other vehicles and, blue lights flashing, shot the gap in between a microbus and a bongo truck. After that I couldn’t see him.

  Aguero was non-plussed. The plan was to follow COL Hussein back to FOB War Eagle. But where were they now? They had artfully dodged the traffic jam ahead and left them in the dust. Was he deliberately trying to lose us or what?

  “Riddell, can you see where they went?” demanded Aguero. He was craning his neck back and forth, trying to spot the truck through the grinding traffic.

  “No, Sir. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get us through this shit,” he said, and we turned once more toward the Sadr Bureau for one last look.

  

  I would not have been surprised to see a tumbleweed or two go rolling across the deserted street, a Sergio Leone western set in the Middle East. There were several vehicles still crowding the southbound lane of Route Delta. There were none heading north, excep
t for us. Out of my window I could see several full color posters of the man, the myth, the legend Mookie Al Sadr plastered on the wall. On most of the high-gloss depictions, his chubby little finger jutted out at us with a warning. His body language read, “One of these days, Alice! Pow! Right in the kisser!”

  We cruised up to the next block, passing the Sadr Police Headquarters on the left just shy of the Route Georgia intersection. The guards must have been inside their little shack, perhaps playing pinochle, for there was not a soul around to man the drop gate. How’s that for security, I thought. Must be about quitting time.

  I saw one woman in a black burqa pulling a Red Flyer-type wagon with several butane tanks in it. She could have been old or young, and she had no concern for us, lost perhaps in mental preparations for the evening meal.

  Sadr Bureau. The L-T picked up the horn and called for Lancer Mike, his eyes locked onto the crowd of people on the right. Only three or four microbuses remained waiting next to the curb. A few hundred people watched us approach with eager eyes. “Go slow past here, Riddell.”

  A beep and crackle of static, “Go ahead, Comanche Red One.”

  “Roger. We got a couple hundred people massed in front of the Sadr Bureau, time now. Activity…”

  “Sir!” called Chen. “They’re running away!”

  I glanced around Sala’am and could see several dozen people sprinting away from the street in all directions. It reminded me of a school of tuna fleeing a shark.

  Aguero had taken it all in from the moment we had drawn even with the Mookie Central. There was a big group of Iraqi men on the south side of the Sadr Bureau, 200 or so. They were just sitting there standing and talking. And then as we rolled up they looked confused and guilty as if we had caught them in their dad’s porn stash. They all fled in different directions. Some of them ran to the east, some ran to the west across the road. Maybe ten or fifteen remained in front of the Sadr Bureau on Route Delta, gesticulating and shouting. Some were trying to wave us away and some were beckoning. “Roger, Lancer Mike, approximately fifty to one hundred personnel fleeing the Sadr Bureau.”