Read Online Weapons of Mass Destruction by Margaret Vandenburg - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Vandenburg
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insurgents, not soldiers. Maybe even terrorists. They didn’t serve their country honorably the way he did. They didn’t even have a country, though such dire dereliction was inconceivable to Sinclair, who loved America with a passion he scarcely understood and never questioned. There was no tomb of the unknown terrorist at Arlington National Cemetery or anywhere else. Yet they were treated with utmost respect by the women and children and old men who mourned them not as terrorists but as husbands and fathers and sons.
Sinclair’s grandpa had taught him to respect death above all things. To revere the game you shot was to transform an act of violence into the ritual of the hunt. Animals weren’t trophies to mount and display but noble partners in a primitive dance with death. In the same vein, if you didn’t honor the men you killed in war, the act verged on murder. Were they not engaged in this very offensive because terrorists had desecrated bodies on Brooklyn Bridge? The Battle of Fallujah, if it ever merited the name, would be remembered as a crusade to safeguard the dignity of death itself, a man’s right to an honorable burial. The old man’s ministrations seemed to affirm that even insurgents maintained that right.
“A civilian is recovering the bodies,” Sinclair reported into his headset. “He’s dragging them into a house.”
“Shit,” Radetzky exclaimed. “They’re not supposed to be here—”
“They were warned, Lieutenant.” An imperious voice interrupted Radetzky. “Anyone who chose not to evacuate is a potential threat.”
Periodically the tactical operations center listened in on their radio frequency, monitoring the platoon’s advance. Captain Phipps seldom intervened. When he did, he expected results.
“Roger that, Captain,” Radetzky confirmed.
“No pussyfooting around. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
The whole platoon heard the order loud and clear. It didn’t mean you had to shoot unarmed civilians. It did mean you fired first and asked questions later, if at all. Making the decision to spare the old man had been mercifully easy. But the boundary between civilians and insurgents was seldom so cut-and-dried in Fallujah. When in doubt, destroy. Delay and you get blown away.
With the exception of Lieutenant Radetzky, the platoon was energized by Captain Phipps’s intervention. His blunt aggression fueled their bravado, something Radetzky discouraged in favor of a more measured tactical mindset. Sinclair noticed an immediate difference. They seemed to gather momentum, as though time were speeding up. Combat time, they called it. Even Sinclair experienced it, isolated from the accelerated action below. The first day or two of a campaign proceeded minute by minute like a regular clock. Then something clicked and whole days flashed by, punctuated not by hours but by how many close encounters they survived and how many corpses lay in the wake of their survival. Fatigue also messed with their internal clocks. They were lucky if they grabbed four hours of sleep a night. Even then, they kept one eye open, half an ear cocked, just in case.
Sinclair had gone days at a time without sleep during the Battle of Baghdad. The breakneck pace of shock and awe acted as a kind of amphetamine, real as opposed to synthetic speed. Talk about flying high. Fallujah was tame in comparison, a much more methodical offensive. At least so far. He had plenty of Provigil pills in his ruck, which he avoided taking as long as possible. The last thing the platoon needed was a jumpy sniper. He’d probably have no choice in the long run. Judging from Captain Phipps’s impatience, nobody would be bedding down anytime soon.
Late in the day, Sinclair sighted a rifle team from a neighboring squad, cozy as can be on a penthouse balcony. They scoped each other and nodded gun barrels. Sinclair surfed his radio and found their frequency. The team was led by Lance Corporal Eddy, a sniper he’d met in basic training.
Sinclair’s grandpa had taught him to respect death above all things. To revere the game you shot was to transform an act of violence into the ritual of the hunt. Animals weren’t trophies to mount and display but noble partners in a primitive dance with death. In the same vein, if you didn’t honor the men you killed in war, the act verged on murder. Were they not engaged in this very offensive because terrorists had desecrated bodies on Brooklyn Bridge? The Battle of Fallujah, if it ever merited the name, would be remembered as a crusade to safeguard the dignity of death itself, a man’s right to an honorable burial. The old man’s ministrations seemed to affirm that even insurgents maintained that right.
“A civilian is recovering the bodies,” Sinclair reported into his headset. “He’s dragging them into a house.”
“Shit,” Radetzky exclaimed. “They’re not supposed to be here—”
“They were warned, Lieutenant.” An imperious voice interrupted Radetzky. “Anyone who chose not to evacuate is a potential threat.”
Periodically the tactical operations center listened in on their radio frequency, monitoring the platoon’s advance. Captain Phipps seldom intervened. When he did, he expected results.
“Roger that, Captain,” Radetzky confirmed.
“No pussyfooting around. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
The whole platoon heard the order loud and clear. It didn’t mean you had to shoot unarmed civilians. It did mean you fired first and asked questions later, if at all. Making the decision to spare the old man had been mercifully easy. But the boundary between civilians and insurgents was seldom so cut-and-dried in Fallujah. When in doubt, destroy. Delay and you get blown away.
With the exception of Lieutenant Radetzky, the platoon was energized by Captain Phipps’s intervention. His blunt aggression fueled their bravado, something Radetzky discouraged in favor of a more measured tactical mindset. Sinclair noticed an immediate difference. They seemed to gather momentum, as though time were speeding up. Combat time, they called it. Even Sinclair experienced it, isolated from the accelerated action below. The first day or two of a campaign proceeded minute by minute like a regular clock. Then something clicked and whole days flashed by, punctuated not by hours but by how many close encounters they survived and how many corpses lay in the wake of their survival. Fatigue also messed with their internal clocks. They were lucky if they grabbed four hours of sleep a night. Even then, they kept one eye open, half an ear cocked, just in case.
Sinclair had gone days at a time without sleep during the Battle of Baghdad. The breakneck pace of shock and awe acted as a kind of amphetamine, real as opposed to synthetic speed. Talk about flying high. Fallujah was tame in comparison, a much more methodical offensive. At least so far. He had plenty of Provigil pills in his ruck, which he avoided taking as long as possible. The last thing the platoon needed was a jumpy sniper. He’d probably have no choice in the long run. Judging from Captain Phipps’s impatience, nobody would be bedding down anytime soon.
Late in the day, Sinclair sighted a rifle team from a neighboring squad, cozy as can be on a penthouse balcony. They scoped each other and nodded gun barrels. Sinclair surfed his radio and found their frequency. The team was led by Lance Corporal Eddy, a sniper he’d met in basic training.
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