executing Operation Katie in southern Iraq were planning to leave the whole leprous mess to fester on its own when they were gone. That was assuming they could kick the Kuwaitis and the Saudis off so they could actually get the hell out of Dodge. The tiny Polish and Australian special forces contingents were already gone, what missions they’d originally been assigned now irrelevant. And Saddam was openly mocking them from Baghdad, whipping up a perfect storm of pan-Arab hysteria at his ‘defeat’ of the infidel crusaders. Well, not openly – not since the Americans dropped that JDAM on Uday.
Saddam still made appearances in the open, but they were never televised live, and they never lasted very long. They did hit the mark, though. The allied air campaign went forward pretty much as originally planned, from what Bret had heard the Air Force liaison say, in an attempt to decapitate Iraq’s command and control systems. The only difference was that Coalition air power had destroyed bridges they’d originally needed. But as long as the fat little fucker survived to taunt them, his stature only grew. He was openly comparing himself to Saladin now, declaring himself the reborn leader of the faithful.
The crackle of gunfire drifted in over the rooftops of the surviving buildings from somewhere to the west. It was another element of 3rd ID conducting sweep-and-clear ops to make sure that everyone – ladie dadie everyone – could withdraw through this shithole without getting nickel-and-dimed to death by snipers, suicide bombers and the half-assed incompetents tricked out like Arab ninjas who called themselves the Fedayeen Saddam.
Euler’s men were moving towards one of the remaining intact bridges three blocks away, in tandem with another platoon taking a parallel route two streets over. Apaches from the squadron’s air cav component buzzed about high overhead, waiting to pounce on any resistance. When Operation Katie went into effect, the rulebook was thrown out along with it. Melton remembered Captain Lohberger saying, ‘Fuck the rules of engagement’ before he buttoned up his Bradley so many days ago. Somebody seemed to have handed 3rd ID’s commander, Major General Blount, an open chequebook.
No one took any chances. If a building needed to be swept, soldiers tossed frags through the door, then the M-249 SAW gunner sprayed the room before they went in. If the Iraqis decided a mosque prayer tower made a pretty good forward observation post, an MPAT round from one of 5-7’s M-1 Abrams tanks chopped it down. If they used a school or a hospital for a fort, the division’s artillery hammered it with 155 or MLRS rounds. No one took any chances anymore.
‘Who you writin’ for now, anyway, Bret?’ Alcibiades was beside him, his eyes hidden behind the sliver of a pair of Ray-Bans. They gave him an insectile appearance as he scanned the blasted remains of the thoroughfare ahead, the muzzle of his rifle tracking the movements of his head with mechanical precision.
Unlike the officers, most of the grunts just called him by his first name. He didn’t have to work hard to fit in with them.
‘Headquarters is, but we’ve got field offices in Europe and Korea,’ Melton replied, not that he’d had any luck getting in touch with any of them. ‘And, worst comes to worst, there’s always
They formed up again with Alcibiades’s scout team, picking their way through the rubble, stepping over tumble-down walls and mounds of pulverised mud brick. Melton stood on something soft and yielding, and before he could stop himself had glanced down and seen the tiny arm beneath his soiled boots. It ended in ragged flesh and a stump of white bone, just after the elbow joint.
He spat on the ground next to the remains and whispered, ‘Yeah. Fuck the rules of engagement. Hooah.’
Lieutenant Euler’s Bradley,
‘They’ve got a fucking howitzer in one of those buildings, with the muzzle aimed into the street. Or maybe a T-72. I can’t tell, damn it,’ said Euler, who was blessed not to be in the Bradley at the time. The binoculars came down from his eyes as he turned away from the corner to address his squad leaders. ‘Fuck me run-nin’. Either it’s Republican Guard or someone who has got their shit wired tight.’
Melton chanced a quick peek around the corner, darting his head out and back like a nervous chipmunk. He took a sight picture of the disabled Brad. The rear troop hatch was gone and the turret missing. Rounds cooked off in the main body, one at a time, with the sound of an M-80 firecracker under a steel bucket. It made a hollow
Euler spoke quickly and privately with his platoon sergeant while Melton fell back to give the two some space. After a few words, Euler held a hand out to his radio operator for the handset of their SINCGARS.
‘Air strike,’ said Alcibiades as he spat into the ground. ‘Betcha this week’s pay the LT will call in some A-10s. Probably gonna flatten a coupla blocks.’
‘We ain’t getting paid this month,’ said Bakic, one of his buddies.
‘Still gonna be an -’
‘What the fuck!’
Euler hadn’t shouted, but the force of his exclamation had drawn all the attention back on him. He was talking on the radio, and everyone listened to his side of the exchange, which didn’t tell them much.
‘What d’you fucking mean…?’ Euler paused while the voice on the other end shouted loud enough for Melton to hear a time-honoured army phrase.
‘Okay, if the ALO can’t get me air, then what about…?’ Euler pulled off his k-pot and threw it at the wall across from him. ‘You gotta be fucking kidding me,’ Euler continued, obviously not impressed by the previous admonishment about military bearing. ‘How about some goddamn fucking fire support then?… Oh, for fuck’s sake…’
The handset shouted back, leaving Euler to shake his head some more. He signed off and threw the handset back at his radio operator. His non-coms pulled in closer, concern acid-etched into all of their faces. A few shook their heads as he relayed to them the details of whatever shit sandwich they’d just been handed.
