at two o’clock. Got three pax in the first one. No problem. Three more in the second one. No problem.”
“Another vehicle trying to cross the road.”
“They’re coming from all around,” said Turnbeck, unconcerned. “No worries.”
“Awful smell coming from all around, too,” someone commented.
“Because the place around stinks.”
A dilapidated water treatment plant sat off the north side of the road. The Wolfhound battlespace contained three water treatment plants—two, surprisingly, still in operation.
Moose, up in the open air of the hatch, pulled his do-rag from around his neck up higher over his mouth. The stench still got through.
Past the plant and the next intersection the traffic lightened again. The convoy resumed higher speed.
Several minutes later, D22 slowed suddenly. “Traffic,” Turnbeck said on the radio net. Everybody already knew.
“Lots of cars in front.”
Abruptly they were standing still again.
Moose and the other gunners looked for targets. “Give me something. Give me something,” he muttered under his breath.
“Going swimming,” announced Turnbeck. His vehicle jumped the 4-inch center median to the opposite side of the road and drove against traffic, the truck roaring like an angry lion. The other trucks followed. The oncoming traffic jerked to the side of the road, letting the American convoy pass.
About a kilometer later, they crossed back over the median. The road cleared again. Several cars pulled over to let the Wolfhounds pass.
“Ass on the right.”
A donkey stood along the roadside. Several men chuckled as they passed it.
“ʽAss’ has different definitions,” Gung said over D21’s intercom.
Wynn smiled. Some things never change.
As the VCs called out pertinent sightings, the Humvee gunners spun from right to left in their turrets. Each gunner was exposed out of the turret above chest level. Gunners took the most injuries, mostly to their upper bodies.
“LN watering his grass.”
An Iraqi man worked his garden. The military used the acronym “LN” to identify local nationals.
“Overpass one-hundred-fifty meters front. LN walking across.”
The convoy moved along like an accordion, slowing down and closing up, then speeding up and increasing their intervals, always imitating the lead Humvee. Slowing down, the Humvees whined softly, the horsepower held back like an unhappy dog on a stout leash. Drivers tried not to let the gaps between the trucks narrow too much or extend too far. Their Standard Operating Procedure—SOP for short—in dense traffic called for 20-meter intervals so the spacing between them would offer some protection if an IED exploded. If a civilian car got between the Humvees, soldiers would signal those drivers to move away. Most Iraqis already knew better.
“Traffic clearer ahead,” Turnbeck announced. The convoy sped up to 40 miles per hour.
“Check out stopped car. Coming up. Two cars,” Turnbeck radioed moments later.
Soldiers who could see the cars stared at them. Those who couldn’t see thought about how they might look. Seconds later, the Wolfhounds passed two empty vehicles on the roadside, a black BMW and an unrecognized model.
Moose spun his turret around to the rear and watched the two empty cars. Nothing suspicious. Concluding it wasn’t a threat, he traversed again to the four o’clock position. In a strange way, the convoying reminded him of riding a roller coaster at night. Everything constantly confused you, and you never knew what might happen next.
Wynn’s thoughts drifted in and out of the convoy. No shortage of things to worry about. Iraq had been an education by firehose. His platoon, as they were all aware, had a damn difficult job protecting itself and hunting insurgents—and maybe an impossible one.
By original design, the Wolfhounds were a Tank Platoon, but for the Iraq mission, they had left their four tanks back in America and reconfigured themselves, as had the rest of the
“Another vehicle trying to cross the road.”
“They’re coming from all around,” said Turnbeck, unconcerned. “No worries.”
“Awful smell coming from all around, too,” someone commented.
“Because the place around stinks.”
A dilapidated water treatment plant sat off the north side of the road. The Wolfhound battlespace contained three water treatment plants—two, surprisingly, still in operation.
Moose, up in the open air of the hatch, pulled his do-rag from around his neck up higher over his mouth. The stench still got through.
Past the plant and the next intersection the traffic lightened again. The convoy resumed higher speed.
Several minutes later, D22 slowed suddenly. “Traffic,” Turnbeck said on the radio net. Everybody already knew.
“Lots of cars in front.”
Abruptly they were standing still again.
Moose and the other gunners looked for targets. “Give me something. Give me something,” he muttered under his breath.
“Going swimming,” announced Turnbeck. His vehicle jumped the 4-inch center median to the opposite side of the road and drove against traffic, the truck roaring like an angry lion. The other trucks followed. The oncoming traffic jerked to the side of the road, letting the American convoy pass.
About a kilometer later, they crossed back over the median. The road cleared again. Several cars pulled over to let the Wolfhounds pass.
“Ass on the right.”
A donkey stood along the roadside. Several men chuckled as they passed it.
“ʽAss’ has different definitions,” Gung said over D21’s intercom.
Wynn smiled. Some things never change.
As the VCs called out pertinent sightings, the Humvee gunners spun from right to left in their turrets. Each gunner was exposed out of the turret above chest level. Gunners took the most injuries, mostly to their upper bodies.
“LN watering his grass.”
An Iraqi man worked his garden. The military used the acronym “LN” to identify local nationals.
“Overpass one-hundred-fifty meters front. LN walking across.”
The convoy moved along like an accordion, slowing down and closing up, then speeding up and increasing their intervals, always imitating the lead Humvee. Slowing down, the Humvees whined softly, the horsepower held back like an unhappy dog on a stout leash. Drivers tried not to let the gaps between the trucks narrow too much or extend too far. Their Standard Operating Procedure—SOP for short—in dense traffic called for 20-meter intervals so the spacing between them would offer some protection if an IED exploded. If a civilian car got between the Humvees, soldiers would signal those drivers to move away. Most Iraqis already knew better.
“Traffic clearer ahead,” Turnbeck announced. The convoy sped up to 40 miles per hour.
“Check out stopped car. Coming up. Two cars,” Turnbeck radioed moments later.
Soldiers who could see the cars stared at them. Those who couldn’t see thought about how they might look. Seconds later, the Wolfhounds passed two empty vehicles on the roadside, a black BMW and an unrecognized model.
Moose spun his turret around to the rear and watched the two empty cars. Nothing suspicious. Concluding it wasn’t a threat, he traversed again to the four o’clock position. In a strange way, the convoying reminded him of riding a roller coaster at night. Everything constantly confused you, and you never knew what might happen next.
Wynn’s thoughts drifted in and out of the convoy. No shortage of things to worry about. Iraq had been an education by firehose. His platoon, as they were all aware, had a damn difficult job protecting itself and hunting insurgents—and maybe an impossible one.
By original design, the Wolfhounds were a Tank Platoon, but for the Iraq mission, they had left their four tanks back in America and reconfigured themselves, as had the rest of the
Similar Books
Imagined Empires
Zeinab Abul-Magd
The Jaguar's Children
John Vaillant
Jared: Red, Hot, & Blue, Book 4
Cat Johnson
Nemesis
Emma L. Adams
Astonish Me
Maggie Shipstead
One Thousand Brides
Solange Ayre
Stranger At My Door (A Murder In Texas)
Mari Manning
The Hope Chest
Karen Schwabach
Turn or Burn
Boo Walker
A Deniable Death
Gerald Seymour