Rat-tat-tat.

“Freedom, bitches,” Corporal Scott Straface shouted. “Get some!”

Rat-tat-tat.

“Murica,” Straface shouted, as he fired his .50 caliber machine gun into the vehicle attempting to ram their convoy.

Kaboom!

The detonation of the bomb-laden truck rocked Captain Jules Arcadia’s vehicle. Dust and debris showered him through the open turret, covering everyone in a fine layer of sediment. Not daring to slow down, Arcadia urged his driver to plow through the falling debris and burning enemy trucks. The desert highway became bumpy as they sped over holes from countless explosions. The tiny craters formed a labyrinth of inverted speed bumps that his drivers had to navigate around.

“Plow through them!” Arcadia yelled. “Don’t slow down, push the wreckage out of the way!”

It went unsaid that slowing down or stopping would be a death sentence. The insurgents were trying to lead his convoy into another planned ambush.

“Stay frosty,” he ordered, “shoot anything that looks at you funny!”

Arcadia stared into the cloud of smoke and settling dirt. Muscles tense, he frantically looked for anything out of the ordinary. Sweat dripped from his face; his air conditioner had stopped working miles ago. Wiping his brow with a grimy bandana, he scrutinized everything. He didn’t want to miss anything, to waltz into a threat that he could’ve prevented. He desperately peered through the smoke and raining debris as he silently beseeched the heavens to protect his men. With his free hand, the one not holding his M-4, he made the sign of the cross and touched his Saint Michael’s pendant for good luck.

God answered his prayer.

An easterly wind came in the nick of time, giving him a clear field of vision. It did nothing for the stench of burning rubber, but Arcadia had become conditioned to the disgusting odors that permeated the country. Miraculously, the driver of the IED laden vehicle hadn’t died. He stumbled out of the truck, flames consuming his body. It was horrific, even to his jaded eyes. The human torch ran screaming towards the muddy stream that Arcadia had forgotten ran along the highway, trying to douse the flames that engulfed him.

Rat-tat-tat.

“Get some!” Straface shouted.

Arcadia marveled at the hoarse sounds coming from his gunner. The corporal’s excitement and rage layered his already deep voice, giving a primal quality to the exuberant scream. Straface punctuated those exultations with another burst of .50 caliber machine gun fire at the fleeing insurgent.

“Save your ammo,” Arcadia said as he leaned back to slap the gunner on his leg.

He couldn’t see the corporal, who was standing in the turret with his upper body shielded from Arcadia’s observations. The gunner didn’t respond, but the sound of silence from the machine gun told him that he’d heard the command.

“Your 9 o’clock!” Arcadia shouted.

While leaning back to get his gunners attention, he noticed another truck careening towards them. The vehicle was about to tee bone his when Straface managed to lead his fire into the engine of the charging enemy truck.

Kaboom.

It was a lucky shot, but the round through the driver’s window prematurely set off the explosives.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Straface shouted.

Sitting in the commander’s chair of his L-ATV gun truck, the lead vehicle in his convoy, Arcadia shook his head. Even in the middle of an intense running firefight, his soldiers held onto their air of superiority. It’s ingrained, he thought as he checked the map overlays. God, I love being in the 101^st! He knew that the rules of engagement, the ROE, would technically call what just happened murder. The human torch wouldn’t be considered a threat, nor would he be considered a legitimate target. Arcadia didn’t care, it was a mercy killing. One that the scumbag didn’t warrant.

“Roadblock ahead, Captain!” Straface shouted into the vehicle’s comms.

“Don’t slow down!” Arcadia yelled at Cousins.

“Wasn’t planning on it, sir,” Cousins calmly replied.

Thud.

His vehicle hit the two vans at full speed; his reinforced bumper pushing them out of the way with ease.

That was shockingly easy, Arcadia thought, too easy.

“Watch that overpass,” he shouted at his gunner.

The convoy pushed through the failed ambush with ease, their guns tearing into the cement bridge that shielded the terrorists from sight. It didn’t save them, American made machine guns chewed up the concrete barrier and decimated the insurgents hiding behind them. The men of Task Force Fox shot every target as it popped up, leaving the overpass a pockmarked mess. They riddled it with rounds until the last vehicle passed under the bridge.

“Fire discipline, damn it!” Arcadia shouted into the comms.

“Bullets don’t grow on trees,” Staff Sergeant Pratt yelled, echoing his commander’s sentiments into the chaos of their comms channel. “Save your rounds!”

The task force kept driving, slowly putting distance between the trailing enemy forces. The sound of gunfire was still present, though it began to fade into the chaotic background. Once the situation stabilized, Arcadia resumed checking the computer panels in front of him. He watched the icons on his screen, showing him that his convoy was still rolling south. SatNav reports from the satellites in orbit were dire. It was starting to look like this was a coordinated attack on a scale his company hadn’t yet experienced. Tapping the driver’s shoulder, Arcadia ordered him to change course.

“Ambush ahead,” Arcadia told him, “re-routing! Take ASR Welsh to the secondary objective.”

“ASR Viking is safer, Captain,” Private Ray Cousins replied.

“Did I fucking stutter? We’re taking Welsh!” Arcadia shouted in frustration.

“Roger, sir,” Cousins replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

While the driver banked left towards the secondary route, Arcadia scanned the updated reports. He checked all of the data available on ASR Welsh, the main route linking MSR Tampa to the city of Nasiriya. The minute to minute reporting that he was receiving from the satellite network was comforting. He was gradually putting distance between him and the insurgent group that was trailing his convoy. Ahead, there were no significant enemy forces. If they could take out the forces chasing them, they’d have space to complete their mission.

He wasn’t a fool, you don’t become the First Captain of the prestigious Virginia Military Institute by being stupid. Arcadia knew it would be a rough journey, most of the road was a poorly maintained cesspool. The U.S. Corps of Engineers continually attempted to repave it, but constant IED explosions made it impossible. Progress couldn’t be sustained; the bombers were quicker than the engineers. Worse, ASR Welsh cut through several smaller villages that were insurgent hotbeds.

“Stay frosty,” Arcadia told Straface over the intercom, “watch out for snipers and IEDs. And for fuck's sake, scan the rooftops!”

“Airborne!” the corporal replied.

Plink, plink, plink.

“Taking fire from the overpass,” Straface hollered down into the vehicle, forgetting to activate his throat mic as he returned fire.

“Noted,” Arcadia responded.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

“Better luck next time, fuck head!” Straface shouted at the insurgents.

Rat-tat-tat.

So much for a milk run, Arcadia thought in disgust as the gunner continued firing at the enemy forces on the overpass ahead of them. Their peaceful meet and greet with the Kurdish officials were turning into anything but. Task Force Fox had left Camp Scania IV, their base outside of Ur, the ziggurat temple, on a mission towards the Kuwait border. During the pre-mission briefing, the intel officers had assured them that they could expect a friendly reception. Friendly my ass, he thought. Arcadia had expected the major’s informant was yanking everyone’s chains.

As part of his pre-deployment training, Arcadia had studied the region. He’d intentionally ignored the propaganda that the Army fed him, relying on his language skills to read the news from the source. The newly relocated Kurds had assured the American forces safe passage, but he was doubtful. Kurdish anti-American animosity ran deep; America had abandoned them in two previous invasions. Because of the previous neglect, the Kurds had suffered when American occupation forces withdrew. The hatred they felt was palpable to everyone who left the forward operating base. Anyone who dealt with the locals knew that things weren’t so idealistic, American forces were as likely to take fire from their allies as they were from the “enemy.”

During the pre-mission briefing, Major Pooler assured the convoy that the area was pacified. Arcadia had barely stifled a laugh, only the skills he’d learned on the Rat Line saved him from that foible. He’d bitten his cheek until it bled, but Arcadia had managed to keep a straight face. He knew that the official party line was crap, he’d taken fire on every patrol he’d been on since he’d arrived in the region. Every single mission. No, the newly organized Kurdish Governorate was anything but pacified.

“Next time we bring more ammo,” Straface said as if reading Arcadia’s mind.

He’s right, I should’ve trusted my gut. I should’ve taken more Joes and grabbed extra ammo.

“We just need to stop trying to win their hearts and minds,” Cousins replied.

Arcadia grunted his acknowledgment, unable to discuss the decisions of his superiors with his men, but unwilling to silence them.

“Didn’t you pay attention? The mission’s changed, private,” Straface replied.

“To what, corporal?” Cousins asked. Arcadia’s ears perked up too, curious where his gunner was going with this line of reasoning.

“Why do you think they renamed the operation to Iraqi Pacification? We’re not here to win their hearts and minds anymore. No… we’re here to grab them by the balls and make sure they never stand up again.”

“That’s as succinct an explanation of our commanders intent as I’ve heard, corporal,” Arcadia said.

Discussing their overarching mission reminded Arcadia of his pre-mission briefing. Regardless of what promises of peaceful passage the Kurds had given Major Pooler, Arcadia knew the facts the Army ignored. He knew that the Kurds first official act had been one that belied their claims for peaceful intent. The newly propped up dictatorial regime had immediately tried to crush the local Shia population. The Kurds had started killing local Shia tribal leaders, which started a Hatfield and McCoy style vengeance cycle. That cycle had been going on for several years, only pausing once the US Army sat down between the two conflicting parties.

The political killings led to retribution counter attacks, which led to more violence. All of the murderers had one unifying belief… they hated the occupying American soldiers more than they hated each other. The violence led to propaganda; the Shia Muslims blamed America for their situation. Despite the party line, Arcadia knew both factions wanted his soldiers’ dead.

With such a tense status quo, Arcadia had gleefully latched onto the new pacification policy. Straface had been right, the change was the only way to fulfill whatever political mission the idiots on the Potomac used to justify American re-occupation. This new mission change was the acceptance of reality, an acknowledgment that trying to win hearts and minds was miles outside the realm of possibility.

Kaboom!

His musings about the larger mission were interrupted by another explosion.

That was a preview of Ishtar's Rising. To read the rest purchase the book.

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