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Authors: Margaret Vandenburg
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suffer collateral damage. Alas. This time around, the platoon was authorized to dispense with gratuitous niceties. It was their first real chance to engage an actual enemy outpost, a welcome relief from the tedium of clearing houses. They were riding high because Sinclair had been instrumental in identifying the target. A little too high.
Wolf’s squad was assigned to the southern arc of the offensive, closest to Phase Line Violet. Only a quarter of a mile separated them from the industrial sector, which had already been targeted by Battalion 1/5. Their position was crucial. If insurgents survived the initial attack, they would probably retreat in a southerly direction toward the area not yet cleared. Wolf’s squad was tasked with cutting off their escape route. Plugging the hole was half the battle. Sometimes defense was the best offense.
“Secure a bunker,” Radetzky ordered. “No telling how many hajjis will show up on your doorstep.”
“We’ll be ready for them.”
Wolf chose the most imposing residence in the neighborhood, presumably the home of a Ba’athist bigwig. Percy and Sinclair staked out SMAW and sniper nests on the roof, a dynamic duo of brute strength and patient precision. Evans was tasked with backing them up. Out of habit, he stationed himself next to Sinclair. It felt right, fighting side-by-side again. Just like the good old days. The other gunners were posted at strategic windows in the compound below. Next thing they knew, tanks started rolling into the area. For good measure, a fleet of Bradleys was deployed to negotiate alleys too narrow to accommodate the big boys. Sacrificing stealth for firepower hadn’t been Radetzky’s idea, that’s for sure. Colonel Denning’s fingerprints were all over the op plan.
The grinding of tank treads on pavement must have alerted the cell. The whole block exploded as insurgents attempted to beat the big guns to the draw. Their survival depended on breaching the circle of squads before mounted artillery could finish them off. Lieutenant Lloyd’s platoon dominated the firefight on the northern perimeter. Radetzky’s men held their ground until Wolf’s compound started taking heat from behind. The enemy had outflanked them. They were surrounded.
“Insurgents moving in from the south,” Wolf reported into his headset.
“How many?” Radetzky demanded.
“Twenty. Thirty. A lot.”
“Hang tough. We’re on our way.”
Sinclair stashed his sniper rifle and grabbed his automatic. Percy launched a series of rockets twice the size of the insurgents’ best stuff. Evans was in his element, simulating an entire legion of marines. But there were only ten of them and untold numbers of enemy grenade launchers, difficult to locate in the smoky glare. If they were lucky, their assailants would overestimate the strength of their position based on the amount of ammunition the squad managed to pump out. Their only hope was to hold out until tanks crashed through the skirmish line.
“We’re right behind you,” Colonel Denning said. “Tanks are pounding the cell now. Then we’ll roll those babies your way.”
Even through the din of grenade explosions, they could hear and almost feel the tremendous concussion of tank bombardment in the distance. The main operation was proceeding according to plan. But Wolf’s squad was beleaguered. Insurgents were making mad dashes toward their compound, zigzagging to avoid trampling the bodies of fallen comrades. Their eyes shone with conviction. Facing almost certain death in their attempt to storm the bunker, they sprinted toward Allah, guns blazing.
The gunners on the ground floor were calling for reinforcements. Wolf ordered Sinclair to back them up. For the first time during the offensive, he descended from his rooftop perch into the belly of the beast. Confronting the enemy at almost point-blank range triggered a sense memory. They looked like suicide bombers, fanatics intent on blowing themselves up for the glory
Wolf’s squad was assigned to the southern arc of the offensive, closest to Phase Line Violet. Only a quarter of a mile separated them from the industrial sector, which had already been targeted by Battalion 1/5. Their position was crucial. If insurgents survived the initial attack, they would probably retreat in a southerly direction toward the area not yet cleared. Wolf’s squad was tasked with cutting off their escape route. Plugging the hole was half the battle. Sometimes defense was the best offense.
“Secure a bunker,” Radetzky ordered. “No telling how many hajjis will show up on your doorstep.”
“We’ll be ready for them.”
Wolf chose the most imposing residence in the neighborhood, presumably the home of a Ba’athist bigwig. Percy and Sinclair staked out SMAW and sniper nests on the roof, a dynamic duo of brute strength and patient precision. Evans was tasked with backing them up. Out of habit, he stationed himself next to Sinclair. It felt right, fighting side-by-side again. Just like the good old days. The other gunners were posted at strategic windows in the compound below. Next thing they knew, tanks started rolling into the area. For good measure, a fleet of Bradleys was deployed to negotiate alleys too narrow to accommodate the big boys. Sacrificing stealth for firepower hadn’t been Radetzky’s idea, that’s for sure. Colonel Denning’s fingerprints were all over the op plan.
The grinding of tank treads on pavement must have alerted the cell. The whole block exploded as insurgents attempted to beat the big guns to the draw. Their survival depended on breaching the circle of squads before mounted artillery could finish them off. Lieutenant Lloyd’s platoon dominated the firefight on the northern perimeter. Radetzky’s men held their ground until Wolf’s compound started taking heat from behind. The enemy had outflanked them. They were surrounded.
“Insurgents moving in from the south,” Wolf reported into his headset.
“How many?” Radetzky demanded.
“Twenty. Thirty. A lot.”
“Hang tough. We’re on our way.”
Sinclair stashed his sniper rifle and grabbed his automatic. Percy launched a series of rockets twice the size of the insurgents’ best stuff. Evans was in his element, simulating an entire legion of marines. But there were only ten of them and untold numbers of enemy grenade launchers, difficult to locate in the smoky glare. If they were lucky, their assailants would overestimate the strength of their position based on the amount of ammunition the squad managed to pump out. Their only hope was to hold out until tanks crashed through the skirmish line.
“We’re right behind you,” Colonel Denning said. “Tanks are pounding the cell now. Then we’ll roll those babies your way.”
Even through the din of grenade explosions, they could hear and almost feel the tremendous concussion of tank bombardment in the distance. The main operation was proceeding according to plan. But Wolf’s squad was beleaguered. Insurgents were making mad dashes toward their compound, zigzagging to avoid trampling the bodies of fallen comrades. Their eyes shone with conviction. Facing almost certain death in their attempt to storm the bunker, they sprinted toward Allah, guns blazing.
The gunners on the ground floor were calling for reinforcements. Wolf ordered Sinclair to back them up. For the first time during the offensive, he descended from his rooftop perch into the belly of the beast. Confronting the enemy at almost point-blank range triggered a sense memory. They looked like suicide bombers, fanatics intent on blowing themselves up for the glory
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