CHAPTER 14
The road to Baghdad
Icaught a glimpse of the obligatory photo ops with Congressman Martin Jennings, Lieutenant General Chase Montgomery, and the sheiks. The Iraqis seemed genuinely impressed to be hosting a man of Jennings’s distinction.
As usual, my team had already repositioned our vehicles in the proper order and was waiting in trail behind the Army Humvees.
As I ran through my pre-mission checklist, I listened on the internal frequency as Meg gave Wolf, JP, Oliver, and the rest of the team a summary of the sergeant major’s earlier comments.
Team Rhino was an experienced group, well aware of the dangers lurking in the shadows here.
My two junior VIPs were already suited up in their protective gear, ready for the return trip. Just like earlier in the day, our convoy began to creep forward toward the gate. We inched along as the vehicles made their way through the security perimeter and onto Route Steelers.
Through my front passenger window, I could see the riverbank along the roadside. The slow flow of the river seemed so peaceful. It could easily have been a scene from rural America along the banks of the James or the Potomac.
But as soon as we passed the first cluster of shacks, I remembered where we were. This was no Shenandoah Valley in Virginia; this was a war zone in Iraq. Get your game face on, asshole.
We made it south down Steelers and turned left on Route Packers. As soon as we made the turn, Oliver in Rhino 1 radioed us all with a reminder about the men we had passed near Yusufiyah. “Keep your eyes peeled, guys,” he said.
Roger that, buddy. Good call, Oliver.
The convoy was moving at a decent speed. Oliver was careful to allow the last Army vehicle ahead of him about thirty meters of space, and gave us all constant updates. We were about a quarter mile from Yusufiyah and approaching the dilapidated old garage where we’d received the stares earlier.
“They’re slowing down ahead—watch your speed,” Oliver commanded. “The trail vehicle has stopped. Break. Not sure why. Okay, the gunner in the turret is standing straight up. Looks like there might be some local traffic mixed in the formation.”
It wasn’t uncommon for local farmers to jump into our formation, anxious not to get stuck behind a long, slow-moving military convoy.
Over time the Army had slightly loosened its traffic protocols, usually giving the wayward driver a siren blast or a menacing look to remind them who had the right-of-way.
“Break break break!” Oliver suddenly shouted. “Got a Bongo truck on the north side of Packers. Five military-age males in the back. It’s backed up near the road.”
In theater-of-operations vernacular, any vehicle not clearly a passenger car was dubbed a Bongo truck. That label likewise described any vehicle doing something it shouldn’t.
As soon as I heard Oliver’s tone, I knew Chris Miller’s premonition was about to come true.
The knot in my stomach tightened. I could feel my heart beating through the body armor.
The blood in my temples thumped against the frames of my Oakley sunglasses.
It was like watching a car wreck in slow motion.
Then I heard the explosion.
I actually saw it a split second before I heard it. A bright flash from an RPG sent a rocket directly into the side of the last SUV in the convoy, just above the roof and next to the machine-gun turret.
It must have hit at an oblique angle, because I saw the ricochet sail off from the roof toward the north side of the road. The sound was deafening. The side of the turret was mangled. A moment later came the muffled sound of small-arms fire from both sides of the road.
Whoever the bad guys were today, they had trapped an American vehicle in a deadly cross fire.