Assessment: ANXIETY DISORDER NOS
I don’t remember much about our last flight up Chuwadr Street, or good ol’ Route Delta if you prefer, except being uncomfortable. It was dark outside, and I was grateful that they had decided to button everybody up inside the vehicles. The sound of deadly pebbles hitting our armor was loud, but it no longer raised my heart rate even a little. Routine stuff. The mind can get used to anything, I guess.
Each four-seat Humvee was carrying six or seven soldiers, and everyone was getting to know their neighbor very well. Wild, Coleman, Rogers, Bourquin, and Haubert were engaged in a rousing game of combat Twister: right foot, passenger seat; left foot, Coleman’s helmet. Before they had rolled very far, Rogers began to growl with pain. “Dude!” he said, “My calf is cramped up!”
“I got you, Bro!” said Wild. He began to knead Roger’s leg to ease the charley horse.
The ride was rough. The tanks flattened everything in their path, and left a trail of debris that the armored Humvees had to either dodge or bounce over. With every tire flat and with maneuverability severely compromised, it was mostly bounce.
The men on the tanks were not having as much fun. In fact, both Hayhurst and Bellamy considered it to be the most traumatic thing that they had ever had to endure. Hayhurst’s mind blanked out most of what happened. He could remember sinking as far into the buzzle rack as he possibly could as the bullets bounced off the side of the tank and the rockets sizzled over their heads. His good hand gripped the shotgun that he knew would be ineffective unless insurgents were stupid enough to attempt to board the vehicle. Where his rifle had absconded to he could not say. He felt Chen’s dead body underneath him and shuddered.
Lieutenant Aguero, Davis, and Robinson were in the lead tank, which suited the Platoon Leader just fine. He would have a better handle on the unfolding battle as he was right next to the convoy leader’s head. He didn’t realize, however, just how loud a tank can be. He had never ridden inside an Abrams before, let alone on top of one. The 60 tons of rattling and roaring steel, on top of the ringing in his ears from the grenade blasts and machine gun fire, made him effectively deaf.
So when the TC—Tank Commander—began pointing something of apparent interest out to him and trying to otherwise communicate, all Aguero could do was shrug his shoulders. The tanker pulled off his CVC helmet and shouted louder. Aguero gave him a thumbs up so the guy would turn around and pay attention to the battlefield.
Behind the tank bearing the P-L rode Bellamy, Hayhurst, and the fallen warrior. The two battered and smoking M1114s were next with five more tanks pulling up a very heavy rear guard. Ak-47s rattled on all sides, bullets striking against armor like deadly gravel. Fortunately, a tank has an impressive amount of point defense weaponry. And they weren’t stingy with the 120mm main gun, either. The thunderous boom of the silver-bullet rounds echoed into the night as the Crusader Company cut a bloody swathe through the previously impenetrable barricades.
Tracers crisscrossed the night in front of them like laser beams. Aguero thought it looked like a gunfight scene from the first Star Wars movie. He wasn’t sure what to shoot at or where. The flashes of light left his monocular PVS-14 Night Vision Goggles in continual wash-out. He fired in random directions, not caring what he hit, attempting to suppress whoever was trying to cut them down. When he fired the last round of his last magazine, he reached forward, tapped the TC, and yelled, “Ammo!” The TC disappeared into his hatch and reappeared with a whole bag of magazines like a merry ol’ Santa. The L-T rummaged through the sack, slapped a new mag home, and continued dealing death at discount prices.
Davis and Robinson followed their leader’s example and slung lead like there was no tomorrow, a suspicion they were beginning to think might prove true. Davis did a double take when he heard an extended volley of fire from Robinson. How did he get the SAW? Davis wondered. Deciding that it wasn’t really important, he directed Rob’s attention to a two-story building with darkened windows they were passing on the left. Orange flashes of fire erupted from a second-floor window. “Take ʼem out, Darby!” Robinson raked the enemy position once, twice, and found his mark on the third attempt. The gun in the window fell silent. To add injury to injury, the tank behind them, having been drawn to the target by Rob’s tracers, fired the main gun into the building. Davis’ ears rang with the blast, but he couldn’t stop grinning.
They reached Silver and swung right. Aguero noted a little white car of vague European make weave through their formation from the left. The daredevil driver matched his speed with the lead tank. The passenger crawled out the window with an AK-47 and began to fire. Aguero wondered if he had fallen into a bad action movie. Who does something that dumb? he thought as he shot the assailant in the forehead. The tank commander opened fire on the driver with his M4 carbine. Lieutenant Aguero was thrilled when the car swerved wildly to the right, plowed into a metal kiosk, and burst into flames. The Platoon Leader felt a surge of hope for the first time that they might actually survive the night.
Riddell should have felt secure tucked in as he was among the most powerful land combat vehicles the world has ever seen. The night had turned extremely dark as the full moon hid behind gathering clouds. The Abrams in front further obscured his vision as the treads kicked up a gray cloud of dust. Riddell could just see the tank’s two tail lights peeking out. Red 4’s vehicle, directly in front of him, had long since lost its tail lights to enemy fire. Riddell had managed to dodge the majority of the wreckage even with four flat tires and a desire to stay close to the man in front. Riddell matched the tank’s right turn on to Silver perfectly. “Awesome! A straight shot to the FOB!”
Riddell saw a spark come from the under carriage of the Abrams tank and had only a split second to wonder what it was. Perry swerved quickly left then right, but Riddell was following so close that he wasn’t able to dodge the hidden obstacle. The vehicle suddenly lurched to a stop as if a giant hand had exploded from the ground and grabbed us like an insect.
“Riddell, what happened? Why did we stop?” cried Guzman.
“We bottomed out on something!”
“What?”
“I don’t know! We’re not going anywhere!”
Riddell looked up and saw the tail lights of the lead tanks disappearing into the darkness.
Lieutenant Aguero had no idea that he was leaving his platoon behind for the second time that day. The two lead tanks kept rolling, oblivious to the platoon’s plight. The tanks bringing up the rear had no idea that the rest of their element kept going because of the dark and dust.
Crusader 6 stopped outside the entrance gate to FOB War Eagle where a massive casualty collection operation was underway. Moore called over his shoulder to Comanche Red 1, “You boys are good! Tell everyone to dismount; we’re going back out in sector.”
“OK!” Aguero yelled over the engine’s rumble, “Thanks for the ride!”
The commander waved his arm dismissively as if he did this sort of thing three times a day before breakfast. Aguero, Robinson, and Davis alternately jumped and helped each other jump down. Aguero was beginning to feel a little stiff.
Medics and other soldiers were swarming around the other tank, helping Hayhurst descend. Bellamy stayed on board to make sure that his friend was unloaded with utmost dignity and respect. Chen deserved that. Once accomplished they began to walk toward the clinic as medics loaded Chen’s body onto a stretcher.
“Hey, you’re injured,” someone called. “You can’t walk. We need to load you out.”
“Piss off,” growled Hayhurst. “I’ve been fighting for the last two hours since I’ve been hit. It’s not going to matter if I walk another hundred meters.”
Aguero remained behind standing on Route Silver with Rob and
Davis. They were looking down the road they had just travelled wondering when the Humvees were going to show up. He saw nothing on the road as far as the night would let him see. Feeling more than a little dazed and much confused, the three warriors looked back and forth at each other.
“Son of a bitch.” swore the L-T. Aguero ran to the FOB entrance where he encountered a large Staff Sergeant who was coordinating the medevac.
The medic looked at him with no comprehension. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said.
“My platoon, asshole,” Aguero was shouting now, almost blind with fury, “Where are my two Humvees? And where did those two tanks just go?”
The NCO was so dumbfounded by the question and the raw emotion in the Lieutenant’s voice that all he could do for a moment was gape like a newly caught fish. “Sir, I don’t know.”
York would have been relieved to know that as his group pulled out of the FOB a very battered and very relieved platoon was returning through the entrance gate. York still felt the keen sting of worry, though, as he continued to wonder who had been killed.
His team watched the gunner’s view on the monitor in the Bradley’s troop compartment with fascination. It was like watching the best movie and the best video game all rolled in to one. As they neared the corner of Delta and Silver, York saw the gunner acquire a target and dispatch it with clinical precision using a single burst from the 240 Coax.
The turret door swung open and the Bradley Commander shouted down to them that they were dropping the ramp so that they could dismount. York couldn’t tell who it was and didn’t even know what vehicle he currently riding in. It looked like the XO, Lieutenant Clay Spicer, but he wasn’t sure.
York’s impromptu squad was out of the vehicle before the ramp hit the ground. The streets were empty and quiet. He had no clue where they were, but tall buildings rose on all sides. They were in the middle of an intersection with a Bradley Fighting Vehicle covering each avenue. York saw Specialist Holbrook and Lovett several meters away behind cover. Tyrell moved to an empty vendor stall.
York squinted as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Darkness was gathering close and clouds obscured the moon and stars. Clouds or smog. York guessed that they were probably staring south down Route Delta. Maybe this was the corner of Copper and Delta, but he wasn’t sure. He saw in the very middle of the intersection a door-less Humvee. York ran over to them.
“Hey, who are you guys?”
“We’re 2nd ACR,” said a wide-eyed young Sergeant.
“OK,” said York, “Well, we’re going to secure this side of the intersection. Let us know if you need any help.” York glanced and their completely unarmored Humvee as he said this, shaking his head.
The red-headed Texan ran back over to his men and began to assign sectors of fire. Specialist Bo Roth—pronounced as one name, Boroth—was a gangly red-head from Minnesota and a perpetual clown. York liked the kid. He was easy to work with.
York told him, “You watch here and here.”
Roff gave him a thumbs-up. “Roger, Sergeant.”
York turned around to give directions to Rusch, but before he could move, a rocket roared between Roff and himself at eye level and slammed into the Bradley behind them. York cursed and dove for cover. He was up in an instant and sprinted to the side of the vehicle away from contact. Specialist Rusch pointed his SAW in that general direction and sent for a long volley of fire in response.
York rounded the far side of the Bradley just as Roff appeared from the other side. Bo’s face appeared absolutely transfigured with glee. He was laughing as if he were playing tag with the neighborhood kids. York didn’t know whether to be pissed or impressed.
“Sergeant York, did you see that?” Roff was practically gushing, “What do I do?”
“Shoot back, dumbass,” yelled York, but he was laughing now, too. The kid’s attitude was infectious. The BFVs also joined the fight, throwing hundreds of rounds down range. York felt his heart pounding and his Irish temper rising. His fear flew away, replaced by a sudden urge to kill the sonofabitch that had dared to shoot at him. He thought, Oh, my God, this is real, this is for real. He wondered how his brothers trapped in the alley were going to make it back alive.
Those same thoughts were running through my head as we sat atop a massive bump going nowhere fast. Bourquin called out to make sure that we were OK. Fortunately, we had wedged ourselves in much like proverbial sardines, so it was almost as good as a seatbelt.
We untangled ourselves and exited the vehicle. Riddell was peering under the vehicle to find out what happened and how we could quickly fix it. The headlights of the tank behind us revealed that we had fetched up on top of a massive rock and were now high centered and immobile. It also looked like the axle was sheered in two.
Riddell picked up the radio, frustrated but calm, and called, “Red 4, this is Red 1; we just lost a wheel.”
Swope’s swift reply was incredulous and quite explicit.
“I say again, we just lost a wheel. We’re stuck on something.”
Swope stopped his Humvee at the Home Depot intersection. The two tanks in front of him, the one in the lead carrying the L-T, continued without slowing toward the FOB. Another Humvee platoon—a group of four—was sitting at the intersection to claim ownership of that piece of land. Swope left his Humvee and ran to one of them.
Swope yelled up, “What unit are you in?”
“Second ACR.”
“Hey, can you run me back down Silver about two-hundred meters? I’ve got soldiers down there. I’ve lost two vehicles tonight, and I ain’t losing another!”
Swope pulled up in short order riding in a Humvee with no flat tires. He was on the ground before the victor stopped moving, assessing damage to Red 1. He peered under the vehicle and asked the guys from 1st AD if they would back up to our front bumper. Taylor and Riddell worked quickly together to release the cargo straps they had previously attached to the grill. These straps were part of a redneck solution we had developed in the gentle sands of the National Training Center as a method for self-recovery. Actual towing cables were hard to come by, and the more desirable tow-bars a thing of myth. The two expert drivers had the straps attached in less than a minute, just the way we had trained for in the Mojave Desert. The good Samaritans from 1st AD powered forward and the straps snapped as though made of toilet paper. Pulling out of sand, it seemed, is vastly different than trying to miracle yourself off of a rock.
After some creative swearing, Swope ran back to the L-T commanding the tank behind us. “Hey, Sir.” Swope had to shout loudly to be heard over the roar of the tank engine. “Can you sit there and use your tank to push the Humvee?”
“What?” asked the tanker. Swope explained his plan at high volume. The tanker, of a mind that infantry guys must be half insane, said, “Uh, OK.”
Swope looked up and saw Taylor, the young kid who had kept his head and drove so brilliantly when his leadership had been taken out. “Taylor, can you steer this thing? I ain’t gonna make you do it, but I’m going to have this tank push the victor off and back to the FOB.”
Taylor looked at him soberly and nodded, “Roger, Sergeant.” He crawled behind the wheel as Swope motioned the tank forward. He got on his knees and peered under the vehicle to make sure that Humvee was being pushed and not crushed. It was working.
The tank made short work of liberating our vehicle. Swope wisely told the rest of us not to get in the back of that particular Humvee. If we snagged another quick stop like that, the tank would probably not be able to stop until it had crushed the rear compartment. Not odds any of us wanted to play. Riddell and Guzman alighted onto the tank pushing Red 1. I watched Sala’am and Denney load up into the 1st AD truck that had brought Swope. I went to load up with them but saw that they were ridiculously over
loaded.
“All right,” I told the driver, “I’ll run beside you. It’s less than a mile; just let me use you for cover.” My leg was throbbing now, but I felt no doubt that I could run twice the distance if need be and gladly. I took off at a trot down Silver, not giving them time to debate it. I ran an entire 30 feet before I came to another Humvee parked across the road. The driver’s door opened and I saw faces that I did not recognize. More 1st AD.
“Get in!” They called. I dove in the back, happy to oblige.
Aguero, not knowing where the rest of his platoon might be or what had become of them, was not going to sit around and wait. He would lead another expedition himself if he had to, but everyone was coming back. “Bellamy, Rob, Davis, let’s go!”
Worried that the L-T was about to do something foolish like lead a three-man rescue team on foot back into the city, Davis said, “Sir, it’s good. They’re coming.”
Before Aguero could protest, a Sergeant First Class trotted up to them. He had obviously been alerted by the rattled medic that an officer, newly arrived from sector, was about to go postal. In a placatory voice he said, “Hey, your men are on Silver. They’ve got five tanks with them. They’re coming here right now. You need to go report to the TOC.”
Mollified, the L-T said, “OK, cool.”
Aguero slipped into a semi-conscious state of shock. He couldn’t remember next if he walked or had caught a ride from the gate. He remembered telling Davis, “Make sure you get full accountability of all the people when they show up. We lost two Humvees, so go try to find another two. And get more ammo for when we go back out.”
Then he went to find the TOC, or Tactical Operations Center. He found the building that their Battalion Task Force had been using when his platoon had left the FOB what felt like millions of years ago. When he walked through the door, he had a sense of disconnection most profound. He thought, All these new people, I have no clue who they are.
Aguero called out to a bustling Captain, “Where is the Battalion Commander?”
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 24
