Sinclair had recovered his equilibrium. Evans deserved the full force of their grief, tempered but not blunted by their compulsion to keep fighting. His death steeled their purpose to decimate the rest of the city. Nobody killed Americans with impunity.
“Evans was a brick,” Trapp said. “Every inch a marine.”
“He died a hero,” Sinclair said.
“Amen to that.”
Trapp took the desert fossil from his breast pocket and gave it to Sinclair.
“If this bug can survive fifty million years—”
Sinclair joined in on the chorus.
“—we can survive this goddamn war.”
When Sinclair tried to hand Evans’s talisman back, Trapp waved him off.
“You keep it. Something to believe in.”
They turned and marched back down the stairs to rejoin the platoon. Radetzky had set up a makeshift base camp just south of the bombed-out quarter. The battalion had cleared everything from there to the feeder highway, and runners were able to deliver an actual cooked meal. Chicken à la king was gourmet compared to the MREs they’d been scarfing down all day. Blankets were spread across the floor. Half of the men were already conked out. A guard was posted at every window, more a formality than a necessity. As Wolf liked to say, employing one of his stock urban metaphors, the exterminator had made his rounds. The place was debugged.
“First-class accommodations,” McCarthy said when Sinclair and Trapp showed up. It was the kind of snide comment McCarthy always made, and it comforted them. Everybody was relatively subdued, in unspoken deference to Evans. But they exchanged their usual flippancies to reassure themselves that life goes on, even in the combat zone. Radetzky approached them as they sat in actual chairs at an actual table, eating their dinner.
“Better grab some shut-eye while you can,” Radetzky said. “We’ll be moving out at 0200 hours.”
Trapp checked his watch. “Four hours? I thought you said we’d take a break after we blew the cell.”
“New game plan.”
“Whose?”
“Centcom’s.”
“Where’s the fire?”
“Pretty much everywhere. We’ve got to keep pace with the other battalions.”
“Are they encountering as much resistance?”
“Apparently not. We’re the lucky ones.”
“Figures.”
“2/1 has already secured the Jolan District.”
They just kept eating. Even McCarthy was too exhausted to gloat over the news.
“And 1/5 expects to control the northern half of the industrial sector by morning,” Radetzky said. “Colonel Denning says we’ve got to stop dillydallying around.”
“I suppose they think Evans was killed dillydallying around,” Trapp said under his breath. Radetzky pretended not to hear him.
They mobilized at 0145 hours, to leave time to tidy up after themselves. Blowing up a house was kosher, but not leaving dirty dishes in the sink. Marines were famous for upholding standards of decency that were either noble or nuts, depending on your perspective. Hygiene was a particularly irritating virtue. Not that grunts wouldn’t have welcomed clean socks to stave off foot rot. But purely symbolic gestures, especially shaving, just pissed them off. Officers were forever ordering them to haul out their razors, even when they were in combat mode. If there were logical explanations for such random priorities, they had more to do with image than substance. Bearded, drug-infested insurgents were terrorists, not freedom fighters. Clean-cut marines were liberators, not infidel invaders. Never mind that facial hair was a sign of piety in Iraq.
The city was unnervingly quiet. Night-vision goggles transformed darkness into a spectral landscape of clarified shadows. Once in a while, particularly luminous objects startled them. Billowing curtains. A skittering cat catching the full rays of the moon. The neighborhood appeared to be deserted. Insurgents knew they were at a disadvantage in the dark. Some were probably hiding in underground tunnels, biding their time until
“Evans was a brick,” Trapp said. “Every inch a marine.”
“He died a hero,” Sinclair said.
“Amen to that.”
Trapp took the desert fossil from his breast pocket and gave it to Sinclair.
“If this bug can survive fifty million years—”
Sinclair joined in on the chorus.
“—we can survive this goddamn war.”
When Sinclair tried to hand Evans’s talisman back, Trapp waved him off.
“You keep it. Something to believe in.”
They turned and marched back down the stairs to rejoin the platoon. Radetzky had set up a makeshift base camp just south of the bombed-out quarter. The battalion had cleared everything from there to the feeder highway, and runners were able to deliver an actual cooked meal. Chicken à la king was gourmet compared to the MREs they’d been scarfing down all day. Blankets were spread across the floor. Half of the men were already conked out. A guard was posted at every window, more a formality than a necessity. As Wolf liked to say, employing one of his stock urban metaphors, the exterminator had made his rounds. The place was debugged.
“First-class accommodations,” McCarthy said when Sinclair and Trapp showed up. It was the kind of snide comment McCarthy always made, and it comforted them. Everybody was relatively subdued, in unspoken deference to Evans. But they exchanged their usual flippancies to reassure themselves that life goes on, even in the combat zone. Radetzky approached them as they sat in actual chairs at an actual table, eating their dinner.
“Better grab some shut-eye while you can,” Radetzky said. “We’ll be moving out at 0200 hours.”
Trapp checked his watch. “Four hours? I thought you said we’d take a break after we blew the cell.”
“New game plan.”
“Whose?”
“Centcom’s.”
“Where’s the fire?”
“Pretty much everywhere. We’ve got to keep pace with the other battalions.”
“Are they encountering as much resistance?”
“Apparently not. We’re the lucky ones.”
“Figures.”
“2/1 has already secured the Jolan District.”
They just kept eating. Even McCarthy was too exhausted to gloat over the news.
“And 1/5 expects to control the northern half of the industrial sector by morning,” Radetzky said. “Colonel Denning says we’ve got to stop dillydallying around.”
“I suppose they think Evans was killed dillydallying around,” Trapp said under his breath. Radetzky pretended not to hear him.
They mobilized at 0145 hours, to leave time to tidy up after themselves. Blowing up a house was kosher, but not leaving dirty dishes in the sink. Marines were famous for upholding standards of decency that were either noble or nuts, depending on your perspective. Hygiene was a particularly irritating virtue. Not that grunts wouldn’t have welcomed clean socks to stave off foot rot. But purely symbolic gestures, especially shaving, just pissed them off. Officers were forever ordering them to haul out their razors, even when they were in combat mode. If there were logical explanations for such random priorities, they had more to do with image than substance. Bearded, drug-infested insurgents were terrorists, not freedom fighters. Clean-cut marines were liberators, not infidel invaders. Never mind that facial hair was a sign of piety in Iraq.
The city was unnervingly quiet. Night-vision goggles transformed darkness into a spectral landscape of clarified shadows. Once in a while, particularly luminous objects startled them. Billowing curtains. A skittering cat catching the full rays of the moon. The neighborhood appeared to be deserted. Insurgents knew they were at a disadvantage in the dark. Some were probably hiding in underground tunnels, biding their time until
Similar Books
