immediately raided the depots and appropriated the weapons, everything from 82mm mortars and machine guns to thousands of grenades, RPGs and AK-47s. If anything, the Islamic insurgency was well armed.
The sun hung low in the western sky by the time the slow-moving procession reached the big crook in Malibu Road. Company CommanderCaptain Don Jamoles took Lieutenant Joe Tomasello off to one side near a rather nice houseâat least by local standardsâthat sat among palms about fifty meters off the north side of the road, right in the bend. They smoked cigarettes, looked at the big house, and talked.
When Tomasello returned to Fourth Platoon, he said, âWe have to hold what we got for tonight. This is where weâll build the first battle position on Malibu.â
On this rock I will build my . . . fort?
Iron Claw and Husky rumbled on up the road, followed by the rest of Delta Company. Soon, they were gone and Tomaselloâs platoon of about twenty men was alone in The Triangle of Death, on what was considered the most dangerous road in Iraq, and the sun was going down. Corporal Menahem couldnât seem to shake
Manticore
from his mind. Monsters come out at night.
Tomasello circled his wagons, blocking off the road. There wasnât any traffic anyhow; checkpoints all over the AO restricted vehicles to military and emergency transport. Each of the four hummers backed up to a common center on the blacktop, each facing outbound to cover its own quadrant, bristling with .50-cals and M240B machine guns, 5.56mm SAWs, MK-19 40mm grenade launchers, carbines, sidearms and knives. An awesome amount of firepower for so small a unit. Even a conventional infantry company would think twice about attacking it.
That was little consolation, however, to the Joes in the trucks about to spend their first night surrounded by the enemy, deeper into the AO than any platoon had ventured before, gone where no man had gone before. For all they knew, they had been left with their asses hanging out ready to be chewed off. This was frontier in every sense of the word.
Private Michael Smith, who was always joking around, suggested they should have hooked up two or three more trailers filled with mortars and tanks instead of MREs and water. Lieutenant Tomasello ordered everyone to eat and get out and take a piss before nightfall. Nobody would be allowed to get out of his truck and take a chance on getting picked off by a sniper until after daybreak.
âEither do it now or pee in your pocket,â he said.
âIâll pee in Smithâs pocket,â Pitcher said.
Although a hummer looked square and solid and roomy, like a souped-up Jeep on steroids, five or six soldiers and all their gear and weapons crammed into one left little room for stretching out to get any rest. Not that they were likely to sleep anyhow, even off-watch. They were too hyped.
The distant echo of a muezzin summoning the Muslim faithful to prayer reminded the Americans of how very far away they were from home. A half-baked moon rose through the date palms and eucalyptus that lined the road. It was October and nights were becoming cooler, especially along the river. Sergeant Joshua Parrish, manning the turret in his vehicle, commanded a view of the Euphrates River sheened by the moonlight. Fog rose in ghostly tendrils from the water. He could almost feel hostile forms creeping up on him.
Also in his vehicle were Michael Smith, Pitcher, PFC Justin Fletcher, and Corporal Menahem. Parrish constantly swiveled the .50-caliber machine gun, searching, watching. The others stared out into the gathering darkness, even those who had removed their NVs, ostensibly to get some sleep.
âMayhem?â Smith whispered.
âYeah, man?â Menahem said. Deltaâs First Sergeant Aldo Galliano had dubbed him âMayhemâ for no particular reason other than the similarity to his actual name. It stuck. From Florida, Mayhem, twenty-two, was of
The sun hung low in the western sky by the time the slow-moving procession reached the big crook in Malibu Road. Company CommanderCaptain Don Jamoles took Lieutenant Joe Tomasello off to one side near a rather nice houseâat least by local standardsâthat sat among palms about fifty meters off the north side of the road, right in the bend. They smoked cigarettes, looked at the big house, and talked.
When Tomasello returned to Fourth Platoon, he said, âWe have to hold what we got for tonight. This is where weâll build the first battle position on Malibu.â
On this rock I will build my . . . fort?
Iron Claw and Husky rumbled on up the road, followed by the rest of Delta Company. Soon, they were gone and Tomaselloâs platoon of about twenty men was alone in The Triangle of Death, on what was considered the most dangerous road in Iraq, and the sun was going down. Corporal Menahem couldnât seem to shake
Manticore
from his mind. Monsters come out at night.
Tomasello circled his wagons, blocking off the road. There wasnât any traffic anyhow; checkpoints all over the AO restricted vehicles to military and emergency transport. Each of the four hummers backed up to a common center on the blacktop, each facing outbound to cover its own quadrant, bristling with .50-cals and M240B machine guns, 5.56mm SAWs, MK-19 40mm grenade launchers, carbines, sidearms and knives. An awesome amount of firepower for so small a unit. Even a conventional infantry company would think twice about attacking it.
That was little consolation, however, to the Joes in the trucks about to spend their first night surrounded by the enemy, deeper into the AO than any platoon had ventured before, gone where no man had gone before. For all they knew, they had been left with their asses hanging out ready to be chewed off. This was frontier in every sense of the word.
Private Michael Smith, who was always joking around, suggested they should have hooked up two or three more trailers filled with mortars and tanks instead of MREs and water. Lieutenant Tomasello ordered everyone to eat and get out and take a piss before nightfall. Nobody would be allowed to get out of his truck and take a chance on getting picked off by a sniper until after daybreak.
âEither do it now or pee in your pocket,â he said.
âIâll pee in Smithâs pocket,â Pitcher said.
Although a hummer looked square and solid and roomy, like a souped-up Jeep on steroids, five or six soldiers and all their gear and weapons crammed into one left little room for stretching out to get any rest. Not that they were likely to sleep anyhow, even off-watch. They were too hyped.
The distant echo of a muezzin summoning the Muslim faithful to prayer reminded the Americans of how very far away they were from home. A half-baked moon rose through the date palms and eucalyptus that lined the road. It was October and nights were becoming cooler, especially along the river. Sergeant Joshua Parrish, manning the turret in his vehicle, commanded a view of the Euphrates River sheened by the moonlight. Fog rose in ghostly tendrils from the water. He could almost feel hostile forms creeping up on him.
Also in his vehicle were Michael Smith, Pitcher, PFC Justin Fletcher, and Corporal Menahem. Parrish constantly swiveled the .50-caliber machine gun, searching, watching. The others stared out into the gathering darkness, even those who had removed their NVs, ostensibly to get some sleep.
âMayhem?â Smith whispered.
âYeah, man?â Menahem said. Deltaâs First Sergeant Aldo Galliano had dubbed him âMayhemâ for no particular reason other than the similarity to his actual name. It stuck. From Florida, Mayhem, twenty-two, was of
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