Authors: Claude Schmid
Although Wynn initially intended to continue investigating homes around Bawa Sah near the school, Cooke had persuaded him to let it rest for a day. So after the morning census work, the Wolfhounds would patrol the northwest, and then follow that with a visit to Sheikh Jassim. CPT Baumann had reminded Wynn about Sheikh Jassim, reportedly an influential figure around Bawa Sah. He might have information on the attack and might know the families of the slain boy, Baumann speculated.
At the school, Wynn wanted to talk more with Schoolmaster Albadi to see what he had heard from the families, and whether he had learned anything new about the shooting. Jassim would sent a representative to meet the Wolfhounds at the school and guide them to his home. At the very least, Wynn hoped Jassim could assist finding the family. Late in the afternoon, Wynn planned to attend a meeting the S2 had scheduled with Mr. Manah, the school contractor, on FOB Apache. They hoped Manah might now be more forthcoming with any information he had about the shooting.
Another day of tight schedules was inevitable. 24 hours in a day weren’t enough.
“We’re moving,” shouted Turnbeck from D22.
The lead vehicle pulled out into the road in front of FOB Apache and immediately drove over a bumpy patch of holes, rattling everything inside the vehicle, the radio handset cables swinging back and forth and, Ulricht, the gunner, seesawing in the turret’s seat.
The time was 0938. Radio chatter started immediately.
“Pedestrians on right.”
Two high school age girls wearing western clothes walked ahead on the side of the road. “I want some of that,” Halliburton snorted, and shuffled his paper wad to the other side of his mouth.
“Let’s ask them if they want to build a Walmart here,” Ulricht responded.
“I’ll take them shopping,” Halliburton said.
Into the city the Wolfhounds plunged, navigating the arteries and veins of this steaming habitat of Mesopotamian humanity like a miniature robotic machine exploring the vascular system of a giant behemoth.
“Lots of vehicles ahead,” reported Turnbeck over the radio.
“Oh, how I love to hear that,” Ortiz said.
“Bullshit,” said Cooke, “the only thing you love is your momma.”
The traffic thickened as the platoon approached the first IP checkpoint. Up ahead they could see the police checking IDs and a line of civilian cars waiting to pass. The platoon slowed and moved to the left around the queue.
“Ayeee, might be a shaaake down,” Cuebas speculated.
“Toll collection,” Ortiz offered facetiously. “Looks like Haji’s going to lose his pocket money.”
The IP at these checkpoints sometimes required small bribes to allow passage.
“Balcony—9 o’clock,’ Turnbeck barked.
Eyes looked that way immediately, hungry and searching, like skeet shooters hunting clay pigeons.
But seconds later Turnbeck came back on the radio and reported what he’d seen was clothing hung out of a window.
“That’s only mommy working,” Ortiz commented.
A few minutes later, Turnbeck reported an Iraqi car stopped in the median about 300 meters ahead with its hood up. The convoy closed rapidly with it. No occupant visible. Then, spotting someone bent over the engine compartment, Turnbeck reported it. “LN next to car on the road.”
As the convoy passed this car, each gunner swiveled his machinegun towards it, then returned to his original position. The face of the man bent over the engine was smeared with grime.
“Ayeee. Fucker probably shit his pants seeing all those guns trained on him,” Ortiz said.
The traffic thickened again on their side of the road. A sputtering green Kia caused a slowdown. “Kimchee car,” said Cuebas.
Ortiz pressed hard on D24’s horn. The traffic jammed sharply, and the convoy nearly stopped.
“Swimming,” commanded Turnbeck again.
The convoy followed D22 over the dirt median, cutting through a gap in partially crushed curb, and drove against traffic.
“Four through,” announced Cooke as D24, the trail truck, crossed over.
The traffic was lighter on this side of the road. The oncoming civilian cars moved hastily to the side to avoid the American convoy. Minutes later, the Wolfhounds switched back to the correct side of the road.
17
As the Wolfhounds neared the designated census area, about two kilometers away a white car pulled up in line at an IA checkpoint. The white car waited behind a red van that waited behind a brown car being checked by an Iraqi soldier. Only one of the Iraqi soldiers at this checkpoint noticed the white car, but paid it no attention. A few others standing by the guard shack chatted eagerly with each other about soccer, a sport Iraqis adored. One kicked a small stone, pretending it was a ball. The others made fun of him.
An Iraqi soldier named Akmed casually checked the driver of the brown car’s identification papers. The driver of the red van waited impatiently, anxious to pass. The driver of the white car did not want to pass. He was nervous, but not impatient. He had no intention of passing the checkpoint.
Just then an Iraqi soldier named Khuder walked out of the guard hut. He wore sunglasses and glared blankly at the waiting traffic, unconcerned about the growing line of cars. Khuder’s mind drifted back and forth between the cars at the checkpoint and whether or not the girl he loved would ever notice him. So far she had not. Khuder, 18 years old, was trying to convince his parents to set up something with the girl’s family. He worried her family would think him too young and unestablished.
Khuder hadn’t noticed the white car. He wasn’t concentrating on the scene in front of him. In 15 minutes he would switch positions with Akmed. He had time to smoke another cigarette and called out to one of the others for a light.
Akmed was still questioning the driver of the brown car. He didn’t like the driver’s tribe, and this animosity had caused the excessive delay. More than ten cars now waited to get through the checkpoint. None of the other Iraqis took special notice. Khuder remained preoccupied with thoughts of his girl. No one had any idea that the driver of the white car had just made his last fateful decision. That driver said a final prayer, then blew himself up—along with his car, which had been prepared as a VBIED.
The terrible explosion sent large and small pieces of metal, plastic, dirt, road asphalt, and human flesh and bone flying in a 360-degree direction. Particles of all these shattered pieces rained down for several seconds, some landing over 200 meters away. The loud crack-boom temporarily deafened and stunned every nearby living thing. The rain of wreckage and debris made the street look as if a gigantic evil vacuum cleaner had backfired, coughing its unrecognizable contents all over the immediate area. Thick brown haze rose slowly up into the sky, expanding and rolling through the gray black smoke spewing from the center.
Amazingly, Khuder survived, hammer-slammed more than 20 meters away, sliding headfirst on the road as if he were on ice. A big piece of thin aluminum that had sheared off a car skidded along beside him. The blast blinded him, shattered both his legs, severed his right foot, and stripped off his clothes. Half his body was badly burned.
A smell of heavy smoke and scorched metal instantly infused the air. Everything had been blackened, charred, distorted. Three Iraqi soldiers, Akmed among them, and eight civilians were killed instantly. Many more were wounded. The homicidal driver had succeeded, and he met his maker milliseconds before those he so willingly took with him. The red van was blown to the other side of the checkpoint, looking as if it had been dropped on its end from 50 stories. The explosion smashed other waiting cars, some beyond recognition. One car’s axle was thrown at least 75 meters away, beyond the guard house. All nearby windows shattered. Four streetlights within 50 meters of the blast, hit by pieces of debris, bent over like trees after a hurricane. Yet cars and trucks about 100 meters beyond the blast center only got showered with dirt and trash.
For several minutes the sky remained a gloomy grey-brown from the residual dirt and explosion mist in the air.
It didn’t take long for the first people to walk up cautiously and look around, shocked and in disbelief. Most said nothing, as if the concussion from the explosion had destroyed their powers of speech. Soon people searched frantically for family members. The cries and screams started softly, then rose in intensity, as if the earth itself was shouting recriminations. Several minutes later the pitiful wail of a police siren sounded.
The Wolfhounds, as the closest unit to the explosion, were directed to investigate, despite the fact that the suspected location was, once again, outside their area. They hadn’t even started the census.
What the hell happened?
Wynn wondered.
He quickly put out new instructions to the platoon. He felt as if someone had tossed the day’s plans into a blender. Nevertheless, he hoped to keep the meeting with Sheikh Jassim, if possible. The census had to wait. Wynn also wanted to make the later meeting with Manah. He wanted to refocus on the school shooting.
Moving towards this IED site was like moving towards a mining disaster. Wynn didn’t know what to expect. Headquarters could only tell them a large explosion had occurred.
While on the move, he tried to learn what he could. He studied the computer map, looking at unnamed roads, and magnifying the available satellite images. He determined the route after considering the distance, available roads, and urban density. Cooke took the lead finalizing the plan as Wynn navigated to the site. As always, the first task after arrival would be setting up security. They’d do this by SOP—starting with placing their trucks in the 90, 180, 270, and 360 positions around the perimeter, with D22 leading the platoon.
Wynn couldn’t be sure what else the platoon could do until actually arriving at the scene. Most likely they could do little. The damage was done. His mind ticked off the items the platoon would need to check. Could they help any casualties? Were any Iraqi security forces and medical capabilities there, or coming soon? Poor communication systems hampered any coordination with them. Determine what had happened with the explosion? They would need to start questioning bystanders to see if anyone had information on what had happened. Wynn glanced back at Cengo; this questioning would not be possible without the terp. After initial assessments, starting with the Wolfhounds’ report, headquarters would decide whether a bomb analysis team would subsequently be sent out. If so, that team should, after several days of study, be able to determine technical details about the explosion. Those special assets, limited in number, investigated approximately three out of ten major explosions. He’d seen some of their reports and was impressed with their thoroughness.
Only enroute did the Wolfhounds hear from headquarters that an IA checkpoint had been attacked.
The Wolfhounds arrived at 1041.
“Like a fucking plane crash site,” Gung declared.
Unrecognizable debris covered the street. A heavy mist of microscopic trash, dust, and petroleum products still hung in the air. Wynn could see at least a dozen damaged cars. He grimly took stock of the situation. Iraqis started noticing the arriving Americans. He saw injured people and pools of blood on the street. Locals stood around as if lost on a different planet: some cried, some were stunned into silence, others looked anxiously for someone to blame. While the platoon maneuvered into position, Wynn made a ten-second call to headquarters to let them know they’d arrived and describe his initial impressions.
“Roger that. Report again shortly,” the TOC instructed.
It took five minutes for the Wolfhound trucks to weave through the ruins to their initial perimeter positions. The men stared at the destruction. Angry Iraqis shouted at some of the crews. Once in position, each truck came up on the radio and reported. Cooke recommended dismounting a few men to take a closer look. Wynn approved.
“They need to be in sight of their trucks at all time. Be careful,” he added.
While Wynn stayed close to the truck radio and updated headquarters, Cooke dismounted to talk to some Iraqis with Cengo and a security team following him. Dozens of people approached them, trying frantically to explain what had happened. Within minutes, several wounded civilians had been identified, and the Wolfhound medics assisted with their care. One man held his flayed face together. Cooke walked to what remained of the checkpoint. He stared quietly at what looked like the center point of the blast and shook his head in disgust. The road was pitted and scarred and little tails of smoke still rose from the burnt asphalt between chunks of debris. Heat from the explosion had melted several cars into unrecognizable skeletons.
Cooke stayed in radio contact with other dismounts and Wynn. If whoever planned this thing saw the Americans arrive, they might attack again.
Three dismounts, Moose, Cuebas, and Zanac—ordered to take a position at the corner of two buildings on the perimeter not far from the shattered checkpoint—rushed into place. Here all the roads connected. Their orders were to prevent more cars from entering the perimeter.
They did not see a tall Iraqi in a dark blue shirt come out of a house near the road. The man started running, rounded the corner, and ran full force into Zanac, knocking him to the ground.
“Ayeee—what the fuck?” Cuebas shouted, waving his gun at the man.
Moose charged the strange man, knocking him to the ground with his elbow and shoulder. Moose felt something hard was on the man’s chest when he knocked him down.
Bombvest?
Cuebas scrambled towards them, circling the strange Iraqi as he lay on the street. The man might have been 20 years old.
“Watch his hands! Watch his hands!” Cuebas shouted.
Moose glanced at Zanac, needing him to translate. Zanac was squatting on his haunches over by the wall, head hidden between his knees. Moose visually inspected him for obvious injuries. He saw none. The shock of the strange man running into him, and the blood and destruction at the blast site, might have temporarily incapacitated the terp, Moose concluded.