"Blowback" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thor Brad)

TWO

36º 07’ N, 41º 30’ E

NORTHERN IRAQ

Soldiers from the U.S. Army’s 3rd “Arrowhead Brigade,” 2nd Infantry Division Stryker Brigade Combat Team (SBCT) had spent enough time in Iraq to get used to the sound of enemy rounds plinking off the armor plating of their eight-wheeled infantry carrier vehicle, but ever since they had driven into the small village of Asalaam, one hundred fifty kilometers southwest of Mosul, things had been dead quiet.

The village was one of many around the Christian enclave of Mosul known for its religious and ethnic tolerance. For the most part, Muslims and Christians throughout the area lived in relative harmony. In fact, the name Asalaam came from the Arabic word for peace. It wasn’t the locals, though, that the SBCT soldiers were worried about. A stone’s throw from the Syrian border, foreign insurgents were one of the greatest threats they faced.

The men had seen their fair share of ambushes in Iraq, including a devastating suicide attack within the confines of their own base, and none of them intended to return home in anything less comfortable than an airline seat. Body bags were out of the question for these soldiers.

Second Lieutenant Kurt Billings, from Kenosha, Wisconsin, was wondering why the hell they hadn’t seen anything, when the vehicle commander of the lead Stryker came over his headset and said, “Lieutenant, so far we’ve got absolutely zero contact. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is moving out there. I don’t even see any dogs.”

“Must be pot luck night at one of the local madrasas,” joked the radio operator.

“If so, then somebody should be manning the village barbecue pit,” replied Billings. “Stay sharp and keep your eyes peeled. There’s got to be somebody around here.”

“I’m telling you, sir,” said the vehicle commander, “there’s nobody out there. The place is a ghost town.”

“This village didn’t just dry up overnight.”

“Maybe it did. We’re in the middle of nowhere. These people don’t even have telephones. Besides, who’d care if they did dry up and blow away?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for why we’re not seeing anybody. Let’s just take it slow,” said Billings. “Do a complete sweep of the village and then we’ll dismount. Got it?”

“Roger that, Lieutenant,” responded the vehicle commander as their Stryker began a circuit of the village.

For this assignment Billings had organized his men into two, eightman fire, or assault, teams. The first team, designated Alpha, was with him in the lead armored vehicle, while Bravo team, under the command of Staff Sergeant James Russo, followed in the second Stryker. Their assignment had been to check on the status of three American Christian aid workers based in Asalaam, who hadn’t been heard from in over a week.

It was scut work, and Billings didn’t like taking his men out to check up on people who had no business being in Iraq in the first place-even if they were fellow citizens. Not only that, but the term Christian aid worker was a gross misnomer in his opinion. He’d yet to meet one whose primary reason for being here wasn’t the conversion of souls for Christ. Sure, they did good work and they filled in some of the gaps that were invariably left behind by some of the larger, more established and experienced aid organizations, but at the end of the day these people were missionaries plain and simple. They also had a rather otherworldly talent for getting themselves in trouble. There were times when Billings felt more like a lifeguard at a children’s pool than a soldier. While young missionaries might have the best of intentions, they more often than not lacked the skills, support, and all-around basic common sense to be living in what was still very much a war zone.

And that was another thing. The U.S. military was supposed to be in Iraq backing up the Iraqi military and Iraqi security forces, not helping lost twenty-somethings find their way. But whenever one of these situations popped up, which they did at least once or twice a month, it always fell to the American military to go out and rescue their own people. The Iraqis didn’t want anything to do with them. They were too busy trying to put their country back together to be wasting their time on rescue efforts for people they had never invited into their country in the first place, and frankly Billings couldn’t blame them. He had suggested to his superiors that missionaries ought to be required to post a bond before entering Iraq, or at least be required to pay the cost of their rescue the way stranded hikers and mountain climbers have to do back in the States, but his superiors just shrugged and told him it was out of their hands. If young Americans needed rescuing, even in the wilds of Iraq, then that’s what the U.S. Military was going to do. Never mind the fact that it might put more young American lives in jeopardy in the process.

Billings studied the faces of the men on his fire team and toggled the transmit button of his radio. “Russo. You copy?”

“Loud and clear, Lieutenant. “At twenty-five years old, Russo was an old man compared to the eighteen-to nineteen-year-olds on his fire team, but not nearly as old as Billings, who was twenty-eight.

Billings heard the beep tone that indicated Russo had taken his finger off his transmit button and said, “This might not exactly be a routine check-in-on-the-children op. Let’s be very careful on this one.”

“We’re careful on every one.”

Billings smiled. Russo was right. They had one of the best platoons in Iraq. They’d been in country for three months and had chalked up some impressive wins against the bad guys and no one had suffered so much as a hangnail. “Just the same, there’s something about this that doesn’t feel right. Make sure your guys stay focused.”

“Will do, Lieutenant. In fact, if Alpha team would rather stay nice and cozy inside their vehicle, I’m sure those of us with Bravo team would have no trouble sorting this one out. “There was a chorus of chuckles from the men inside Russo’s Stryker.

“Not on your life, Sergeant,” replied Billings with a smile. “When we get in there, you make sure your men watch and learn from us.”

“Hooyah, Lieutenant.”

Billings turned to the men inside his Stryker and said, “Gentlemen, Sergeant Russo seems to think we’re not needed today. He says Bravo team can handle the assignment themselves.”

“Fuck Bravo team,” said a young private named Steve Schlesinger.

Normally, Billings wouldn’t put up with language like that, but he liked his men to get pumped up before going into potentially dangerous situations. Besides, eighteen-year-old Schlesinger was their shining star. He had uncovered and helped defuse more improvised explosive devices in the last month than anyone in Iraq over the last year. The kid had a sixth sense for danger, and despite the fact that he was from Chicago and thought the Cubs were a better team than the Milwaukee Brewers, Billings liked him.

“Okay then,” replied Billings. “We’re all agreed?”

A chorus of “Fuck Bravo team” resounded throughout the lead Stryker. It was good-natured competition, and Billings knew his men well enough to know that when boots hit the ground, it didn’t matter what team they were on, the men were all brothers united against a common enemy. He had no doubt Russo was whipping his men up as well.

As Billings felt their Stryker slowing down, he knew it was only a matter of moments before they would have to step outside and try to figure out what the hell was going on.