Blowback

And that was another thing. The U.S. military was supposed to be in Iraq backing up the Iraqi military and Iraqi security forces, not helping lost twenty-somethings find their way. But whenever one of these situations popped up, which they did at least once or twice a month, it always fell to the American military to go out and rescue their own people. The Iraqis didn’t want anything to do with them. They were too busy trying to put their country back together to be wasting their time on rescue efforts for people they had never invited into their country in the first place, and frankly Billings couldn’t blame them. He had suggested to his superiors that missionaries ought to be required to post a bond before entering Iraq, or at least be required to pay the cost of their rescue the way stranded hikers and mountain climbers have to do back in the States, but his superiors just shrugged and told him it was out of their hands. If young Americans needed rescuing, even in the wilds of Iraq, then that’s what the U.S. Military was going to do. Never mind the fact that it might put more young American lives in jeopardy in the process.

Billings studied the faces of the men on his fire team and toggled the transmit button of his radio. “Russo. You copy?”

“Loud and clear, Lieutenant. “At twenty-five years old, Russo was an old man compared to the eighteen-to nineteen-year-olds on his fire team, but not nearly as old as Billings, who was twenty-eight.

Billings heard the beep tone that indicated Russo had taken his finger off his transmit button and said, “This might not exactly be a routine check-in-on-the-children op. Let’s be very careful on this one.”

“We’re careful on every one.”

Billings smiled. Russo was right. They had one of the best platoons in Iraq. They’d been in country for three months and had chalked up some impressive wins against the bad guys and no one had suffered so much as a hangnail. “Just the same, there’s something about this that doesn’t feel right. Make sure your guys stay focused.”

“Will do, Lieutenant. In fact, if Alpha team would rather stay nice and cozy inside their vehicle, I’m sure those of us with Bravo team would have no trouble sorting this one out. “There was a chorus of chuckles from the men inside Russo’s Stryker.

“Not on your life, Sergeant,” replied Billings with a smile. “When we get in there, you make sure your men watch and learn from us.”

“Hooyah, Lieutenant.”

Billings turned to the men inside his Stryker and said, “Gentlemen, Sergeant Russo seems to think we’re not needed today. He says Bravo team can handle the assignment themselves.”

“Fuck Bravo team,” said a young private named Steve Schlesinger.

Normally, Billings wouldn’t put up with language like that, but he liked his men to get pumped up before going into potentially dangerous situations. Besides, eighteen-year-old Schlesinger was their shining star. He had uncovered and helped defuse more improvised explosive devices in the last month than anyone in Iraq over the last year. The kid had a sixth sense for danger, and despite the fact that he was from Chicago and thought the Cubs were a better team than the Milwaukee Brewers, Billings liked him.

“Okay then,” replied Billings. “We’re all agreed?”

A chorus of “Fuck Bravo team” resounded throughout the lead Stryker. It was good-natured competition, and Billings knew his men well enough to know that when boots hit the ground, it didn’t matter what team they were on, the men were all brothers united against a common enemy. He had no doubt Russo was whipping his men up as well.

As Billings felt their Stryker slowing down, he knew it was only a matter of moments before they would have to step outside and try to figure out what the hell was going on.

THREE

When the Strykers finally came to a halt in the center of the village, the soldiers jumped out and took up defensive firing positions. Though no one said anything, they were all feeling the same thing having made a complete circuit of Asalaam. There wasn’t a single living soul in sight, and it had put everyone on edge.

Justin Stokes, a young, skinny private from San Diego who had a bad habit of engaging his mouth before his brain, said, “Maybe it’s siesta time.”

“At 10:30 in the morning?” replied six-foot-four Private Rodney Cooper from Tampa. “Stokes, my grandmother doesn’t even take a nap at 10:30 in the morning.”

“Whatever it is,” said Stokes, “something about this place isn’t right.”

“It’s fucked up is what it is,” added Schlesinger. “Where the hell are all the people?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” replied Lieutenant Billings, cutting the crosstalk short. “We’re in the game now, so let’s keep communications on an as-needed basis.”

“Yes sir, Lieutenant,” the men responded as Billings walked over to where Russo was standing. He was using the reflex sight on his M4 to look for any movement at the far end of the road.

“What do you think, Jimmy?” asked Billings.

“I think it’s too quiet,” said Russo as he lowered his weapon.