across the street. This was much too close for normal sniper work, but this was not a normal day, and there wasn’t much choice. Casey, the Panda, and I ran through a short, narrow alley and, with fingers on triggers, burst through the doorway. Inside, we cleared the stairwell and approached the door that would lead to the roof, where I could set up shop for the attacking force that was already on the way.
But the door was locked, with another one of those damned Iraqi padlocks that are apparently made with some secret formula by people from Mars, because they are unearthly secure. I shook it, hit it, cursed it, and shot it three times, with one of the ricochet bullets nearly taking off my toe, then gave up. The roof wasn’t going to happen. I really do want to buy stock in that company. Casey found a big window for me instead, and I got into it with the Panda protecting my ass while Casey tuned in the chattering radio to stay up with what was going on.
The orders had changed again. At twelve minutes past noon, McCoy was told to forget about the air force headquarters and charge straight into the very heart of Baghdad. The big building that had been spotted by the India Company commander was the Palestine Hotel, where journalists and civilians might be held hostage, and it had suddenly been put into our zone of operations. The Bull was told to go and get it.
Overall, our battalion was to provide security for a number of key downtown buildings, including the embassies of Japan, Germany, the Vatican, Indonesia, and Poland, and the Palestine, Sheraton, and Baghdad hotels. The Army had gone through the area the previous day and, thinking they were taking fire from one of the hotels, had by mistake killed a photographer on a rooftop with a camera on his shoulder and shot up some rooms. But the Jackals who rode with us were urging us to hurry, worried that their colleagues might become targets of revenge by the fedayeen, looters, or enraged Iraqi militia types.
I knew nothing of the fresh developments. I had locked myself, physically and mentally, into a great position to support the attack that I expected to hit the air force compound. I calmly glassed the sprawl of empty buildings, looking for somebody to shoot, ready to fight a battle that had already been called off.
“Hey!” Casey yelled up the staircase. “Come on! We’re leaving!”
I was aggravated. “But I have a good view from here!” I had survived a reckless drive through the city streets, run through the alley, gotten up the stairs, and met the padlock and was in a perfect shooting position. Now I had to go?
Casey brooked no argument, and the edge of his tone got through to me. “We have to go, man. Right now. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
“Where are we going?” I was already unfolding my arms and legs, shaking out the cramps, keeping a firm grip on the rifle and moving carefully to avoid smacking it against the walls.
“Downtown, dude. To some hotels,” he called back over his shoulder. We ran for the trucks.
24
It was April 9, Day 21 of the war, and Baghdad was falling.
Our Humvees roared through a traffic circle and blew past intersections, sailing on the belief that if we moved fast enough the bad guys would not have time to react. The plan to use our speed for security worked a little too well, because the good guys did not have time to react either. Casey looked into his side mirror and saw that the vehicles charging up the street right behind us were the Abrams tanks of Bravo Company. They were supposed to be in the lead, not us. Once again, we found ourselves amid the tanks in a combat zone, so we backed off and let two of the big guys rumble by before jumping back in line and tagging along behind them.
Baghdad passed in a blur, and with our view partially blocked by the bulk of the tanks, we were surprised when we broke into the clear and found ourselves in the center of a big plaza known as Firdos Square. Panda slid to a stop, and I dove to the grass, brought the scope to my eye, and started glassing for threats. Casey told our drivers to integrate into the Bravo defenses and then joined me on the long lawn.
It was a scene from another world. The ancient blue-tiled dome of the Shahid Mosque glittered behind us, and anchoring two corners of the square were the modern Palestine and Sheraton hotels, both twenty stories tall and separated by a street. The Euphrates River was only about five hundred meters away, and a bronze statue of Saddam Hussein loomed thirty feet high, the right arm raised as if in reluctant welcome. A decorative fountain held little water. We were in full battle gear, lying in a park in the middle of a traffic circle, and I was looking down the barrel of my sniper rifle for possible threats while civilians walked nearby and stood around watching us, like spectators at an odd sporting event.
The city was in turmoil, a ragged end to a smooth war. The airport had been captured, thunder runs had subdued fierce resistance in the army sector, a Republican Guard barracks was on fire, Iraqi government buildings were now ours, the Bull had arrived, the Bravo tanks were parked in the center of the city, and a Marine sniper team-Casey and me-lay waiting and battle-alert in the grass, ready to smoke-check anyone who was a danger to our arriving Marines.
Once the foreign civilians in the hotels saw the American helmets and uniforms, they took to the streets in a human wave-private citizens, the foreign press, a horde of photographers, and even some antiwar protesters. Television cameramen zoomed in on our position.
Within moments, the streets began to fall into chaos, and the looting began, further complicating the job of trying to pick anyone who might be a threat out of the faces in this shifting crowd of humanity. This was like being on the field during a Super Bowl, trying to find a face in the stadium crowd, and I had to suppress every sense that I had to keep from being distracted, for nobody had blown a whistle and declared, “War over!” I submerged my emotions and depended on my experience and reflexes. As far as I was concerned, we were still fighting.
Up on the roof of the Palestine, I saw a man pacing back and forth and looking down over the square. The silhouette was dark against the bright cobalt sky, and I could not make out details, but based on our past experience with other roof-prowlers, I had to consider him a potential threat.
“Got him,” Casey replied, focusing his binos.
“What’s he up to?” A crowd surged around us, curious about the two Marines in the grass, one with a scoped rifle and the other working a big pair of binos.
“He has something in his hands.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” I took up a pound of pressure on the trigger. “But what is it?” Whoever he was up there was only two pounds of finger pressure from catching a bullet.
“Hard to tell. Tough angle.”
As Casey spoke, the man turned. Luckily for his mother, the suspicious “weapon” was a laptop computer. I immediately swept my rifle away from the luckiest journalist in Baghdad, who apparently had gone to the roof to get better satellite reception.
The crowd thickened around us. Reporters and photographers ventured closer, curious about our warlike presence. I could hear the cameras clicking and actually had to wait for some of them to get the hell out of my line of fire. Some Jackals are born without brains.
There was no overt resistance, and in fact everyone seemed to be celebrating, but we nevertheless kept our war paint on. I had already killed three men that morning, and chances were good that I would have to do in some more before this day was done. I didn’t want to smoke-check some dude in the middle of a block party, but if he looked like a threat, I would do so in a heartbeat.
Civilians were crowded into Firdos Square, whooping and hollering, but our tanks weren’t parked out there as exhibits. Their cannons were loaded and ready to blow something apart, and none of McCoy’s Marines were letting down our defenses. Bravo Company worked roughly to cordon off the area, and the India grunts hustled inside the hotels to clear the rooms. The situation, a by-the-book military operation going on in the middle of a carnival, had gone beyond bizarre and become the sort of experience American soldiers must have encountered in liberating European cities during World War II. It is difficult and dangerous to step instantly from the days of fighting into a warm sea of people who are ready to celebrate the end of combat that is not yet at an end.
We understood the sounds of victory. It was what we had longed for throughout the war, and the shouts rolled
