Sinclair reported into his headset.
“Where?” Radetzky asked.
“Pretty much everywhere. ING is lagging behind.”
Radetzky passed Sinclair’s warning on to Captain Phipps.
“Can you pick up the slack?” Captain Phipps asked.
“We’re already spread too thin,” Radetzky said.
“Offense is the best defense. Keep pushing forward.”
The squads continued to clear compounds with unprecedented speed, almost without incident. There was nothing to report, nothing to shoot, nothing to do except anticipate the worst hiding behind the next closed door. Lack of resistance had become sinister, as though Fallujah were a monstrous house of horrors, a psychological as well as military threat. The platoon’s anxiety wormed its way up to Sinclair’s perch. He detected it in their maneuvers, which were uncharacteristically jumpy. They kept looking over their shoulders. Suspense alone prompted them to open fire.
The platoon’s momentum gratified battalion headquarters. Paranoia, among other things, didn’t register on their computer screens. Not that modern warfare was a glorified video game. Civilians were far more susceptible to the perils of simulation than military men. Officers in particular were trained to resist the numbing effects of technology. But training itself was a kind of virtual reality, once removed from actual combat. Battles were primarily conceptual unless you actually fought them, in which case you were never invited into the war room. Nothing would ever really bridge the gap between strategy and execution.
To a certain extent, commanders have always relegated war to the abstract realm of ideas. Even barbarian generals mapped their maneuvers with sticks in dirt. But historical comparisons were misleading. The degree of abstraction multiplied exponentially with each technological advancement, along with the speed and size of weaponry. As a result, the War on Terror was waged as much in cyberspace as in the real world. There was no there there, no need for real weapons of mass destruction when the idea alone catapulted the nation into war. Enemies were equally elusive, hailing from politically fabricated countries that appeared on maps one year and disappeared the next, if terrorism prevailed.
“Attention Kilo Company. TOC is modifying rear-echelon support.”
Out of the blue, Colonel Denning’s voice invaded the airwaves. Radetzky must have opened the tactical operations center frequency so the whole platoon could hear Colonel Denning’s latest decree. He was like the Wizard of Oz, the man behind the curtain pulling levers attached to hundreds of men, thousands of weapons, with untold numbers of lives in the balance. Often as not, his orders seemed counterintuitive. The reality of war waged by boots on the ground seldom reflected the virtual reality of op plans. The gory details of actual combat were tragic, but not relevant.
“No more relay teams,” Colonel Denning continued. “Just ammunition runners and medevac units, as needed.”
“What about confiscating weapons caches?” Radetzky asked.
“Too risky. You’re in the eye of the storm, whether you know it or not.”
“Should we blow them or just keep moving?”
“Step on the gas, Radetzky. Floor it.”
“What’s the timetable?”
“Major Linville is expecting you at Phase Line Freddy by sundown tomorrow. You know how he gets when you’re late.”
The platoon had unwittingly crossed a strategic threshold. The fact that they hadn’t encountered a single enemy outpost since the bombardment was immaterial. From then on, their contact with rear-echelon units would be limited to carrying ammunition in and wounded men out of kill zones. They were on their own, with the formidable exception of big-gun support. Bradleys and tanks lurked within striking distance. Cobras and F-15s could make the trip from desert airstrips to what was left of Fallujah in less than five minutes.
In global military circles, Americans were accused of
“Where?” Radetzky asked.
“Pretty much everywhere. ING is lagging behind.”
Radetzky passed Sinclair’s warning on to Captain Phipps.
“Can you pick up the slack?” Captain Phipps asked.
“We’re already spread too thin,” Radetzky said.
“Offense is the best defense. Keep pushing forward.”
The squads continued to clear compounds with unprecedented speed, almost without incident. There was nothing to report, nothing to shoot, nothing to do except anticipate the worst hiding behind the next closed door. Lack of resistance had become sinister, as though Fallujah were a monstrous house of horrors, a psychological as well as military threat. The platoon’s anxiety wormed its way up to Sinclair’s perch. He detected it in their maneuvers, which were uncharacteristically jumpy. They kept looking over their shoulders. Suspense alone prompted them to open fire.
The platoon’s momentum gratified battalion headquarters. Paranoia, among other things, didn’t register on their computer screens. Not that modern warfare was a glorified video game. Civilians were far more susceptible to the perils of simulation than military men. Officers in particular were trained to resist the numbing effects of technology. But training itself was a kind of virtual reality, once removed from actual combat. Battles were primarily conceptual unless you actually fought them, in which case you were never invited into the war room. Nothing would ever really bridge the gap between strategy and execution.
To a certain extent, commanders have always relegated war to the abstract realm of ideas. Even barbarian generals mapped their maneuvers with sticks in dirt. But historical comparisons were misleading. The degree of abstraction multiplied exponentially with each technological advancement, along with the speed and size of weaponry. As a result, the War on Terror was waged as much in cyberspace as in the real world. There was no there there, no need for real weapons of mass destruction when the idea alone catapulted the nation into war. Enemies were equally elusive, hailing from politically fabricated countries that appeared on maps one year and disappeared the next, if terrorism prevailed.
“Attention Kilo Company. TOC is modifying rear-echelon support.”
Out of the blue, Colonel Denning’s voice invaded the airwaves. Radetzky must have opened the tactical operations center frequency so the whole platoon could hear Colonel Denning’s latest decree. He was like the Wizard of Oz, the man behind the curtain pulling levers attached to hundreds of men, thousands of weapons, with untold numbers of lives in the balance. Often as not, his orders seemed counterintuitive. The reality of war waged by boots on the ground seldom reflected the virtual reality of op plans. The gory details of actual combat were tragic, but not relevant.
“No more relay teams,” Colonel Denning continued. “Just ammunition runners and medevac units, as needed.”
“What about confiscating weapons caches?” Radetzky asked.
“Too risky. You’re in the eye of the storm, whether you know it or not.”
“Should we blow them or just keep moving?”
“Step on the gas, Radetzky. Floor it.”
“What’s the timetable?”
“Major Linville is expecting you at Phase Line Freddy by sundown tomorrow. You know how he gets when you’re late.”
The platoon had unwittingly crossed a strategic threshold. The fact that they hadn’t encountered a single enemy outpost since the bombardment was immaterial. From then on, their contact with rear-echelon units would be limited to carrying ammunition in and wounded men out of kill zones. They were on their own, with the formidable exception of big-gun support. Bradleys and tanks lurked within striking distance. Cobras and F-15s could make the trip from desert airstrips to what was left of Fallujah in less than five minutes.
In global military circles, Americans were accused of
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