Bobby R's blog

08:30

In the clearing, a cluster of four buildings. At the north end, a bunkhouse. For the woman, according to regimental intel. At the south end, another, for the men. In the 100 meters between them, a large building, makeshift mosque. Next to it, a smaller building, supplies: Semtex and nails. All buildings, plywood shanties, Home Depot specials. The whole place went up less than two weeks ago, true believers on the move in the wilds of southern California.

Around the clearing: scrub pines, brush, decent cover. No paths. One access road, a half-klick to the south, its access to the highway closed due to a "fuel spill" that would take days to clean.

They'd been there for almost 40 hours, and there wasn't any movement to speak of. There must be chemical toilets in the bunkhouses, because there wasn't an outhouse and no one came outside to piss or shit in the woods. There weren't any guards posted, no patrols, no nothing except for two guys who regularly came out of the men's 'house to smoke every hour or so. The taller of the two, "Muhammad", smoked casually, usually while holding forth in Arabic to "Muhammad Jr.," who smoked like a hooker 12 hours after her best friend was raped by a john.

On the morning of the second day, Spec. Helewa couldn't take it any more. "Sarge," he whispered, shortly after daddy and son had returned to their bunkhouse.

"What?" Sgt. Webb asked, pissed, but not really. They were ten meters back from the treeline, 50 meters from the south bunkhouse and out of earshot. Tangos weren't, and usually didn't, have any sort of listening devices. Plus he liked Helewa. The kid had lost both parents and four siblings to the AQ attack on Long Beach, a near unbeatable record, even in the 1st HD.

"You think Junior speaks Arabic? 'Cause he's, you know, a white guy and there aren't many white boys who speak it." He was running his left hand over the top of his SAW, reflexive habit. Webb had seen him work that same SAW into a convoy of AQ boys outside of Bakersfield, and had a lot of respect for the kid's skill.

"Dunno," Webb replied, fishing a piece of Nicorette out of his BDUs and popping it into his mouth. He spent close to an hour before going out unwrapping the yellow squares from their foil cells. "Maybe he's a schoolboy."

"If you say so, Sarge. 'Cept he looks pretty young and there ain't been a legal 'drassa since '02 and he's kinda young to've been, you know, studying up."

"Lottsa ways to learn the language, son, lottsa ways. Now shut up and watch the 'house."

"You bet, Sarge. I'm just saying, if he don't speak it, gotta get pretty fuckin' tired of listening to his daddy run his mouth."

"Shut up, Helewa, and watch the 'house."

"Sir, yes sir." Left hand, stroking the top of the SAW, waiting.

They were going in at 0900, day three. SOP on this type of raid: get the men away from their quarters and the supply shed before moving in. Lesson learned the hard way – come in at 0330 for a snatch-and-grab and find some true believer asleep with trigger in hand and the next thing you know everyone's dead, including you. You get fuck all for intel, half the teams are dead, and the lucky ones are peppered with nails. Another day for the 1st HD – a bunch of "Dear Mrs. Dead Solider" letters and a half-team of cripples ready for the next raid. And battalion PR gets a hard-on writing the copy: "Ten soldiers from the First Homeland Division were killed today in a raid on a terrorist hideout, when a cowardly al-Qaeda homicide bomber detonated himself in an attempt to avoid being taken into custody." Good copy, lousy results.

The plan was Webb's baby, for the most part. Lt. Burns was a pretty solid guy, lost a sister and brother-in-law in Long Beach, and was looking to even the score. But in a professional way, not like some of the others. Webb had worked crowd control in San Berdoo under an Lt. who'd lost his wife and was plenty fucking pissed about it. Guy'd spent a day explaining how to bounce the shock-sticks to face level. Had a nice chart, laying out the details. X angle = busted face. Busted face + no EMS = dead. Good to know, Webb figured, but a place and time for everything. Crowd control for some poor bastards rioting 'cause there wasn't shit to eat wasn't either. Lt. had a pretty detailed theory 'bout how AQ was behind the protests and the true believers were riling up the crowds after hiding all the food, but it sounded like bullshit to Webb, and he and his men had bounced the sticks like the manual said. Broken ribs healed pretty well, busted face not so good.

Anyway, this was SOP, the new SOP. Webb was 1st team TL, covering the south 'house. 2nd team was the snatch team, arrayed to his right. 3rd team had the west-northwest, isolation. 4th team was the bait. Bait draws 'em out, 2nd team makes the grab, covered by 1st, and 3rd makes sure no one makes it out to the road.

At 0850, Webb's headset crackled to life. "Charlie nine, in position?"

"Roger that. Waiting."

He listened as Bishop got his sitreps. Everyone was in position, waiting for daddy and son to step out for the 0900 butt. Webb brushed some dust off his USAS, thinking of the flechette rounds housed in the circular mag. The new shit, 200 metal filaments in each shell. Thin, thin darts. Incapacitate, not kill. Capture, not kill.

He thought of his brother, harbor stevedore, overpaid, underworked. James Webb, 27 years old, going bald but still the ladies' man. Burned alive as the 20 kiloton nuke hidden in hold of a Daewoo cargo ship popped off on September 9, 2002.

Incapacitate, not kill. Capture, not kill.

2nd team had the snatch job, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to maim someone today.

Bobby R's blog

12/12/2011

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