Shock Factor (10 page)

The SEALs went from room to room, finding blood splatters on walls, dried blood pooled on floors, and more splashed across tables. Steel spikes, rusty iron rods, pliers and knives provided testimony to what had been happening here.

Sickened by what they'd found, the men secured the building and began to establish overwatch positions on the fourth floor. Adam began to construct his hide in the back of what had been a science classroom of some sort. Bottles and bunsen burners, sinks and rows of work spaces dominated the room. The windows had long since been shot out or shattered, leaving an unobstructed field of fire to the south. This was the most likely avenue of approach the enemy would use should they try to stop construction of the new COP, and Adam relished the opportunity to take the fight to them. Mike Monsoor and Marc Lee had died only two months before; in Naval Special Warfare, the community was so small everyone either knew each other, or knew their reputation. Team Five had arrived in Ramadi eager to avenge the loss of Team Three's beloved brothers.

Adam set up his olive drab screens between the windows and the back of the classroom. Then he found some relatively undamaged—and nonbloodstained—tables that he dragged over to the far corner. He put two together and hefted a third atop them. Then he found a bench and slid that up there as well. When he climbed into his hide, he noted with satisfaction that he had a great view of the street and nearby buildings.

He settled into his spot and began his turn behind the Win Mag. Before he'd left the COP for this mission, he'd covered his face with cami paint, a ritual that dated back to his days in southern Illinois hunting with his best friend Justin and his father, Dale. Now he pressed his eye into the Nightforce and glassed the street. No movement yet, but the hour was still early.

He settled down and fell into his hunter's zone: a combination of patience and alertness. He'd learned both in tree stands around Elko as a teenager. When he was ten, Dale had selected a Ben Pearson compound bow for Adam that Adam's father then purchased as a Christmas gift for him. He and Justin spent hours sending arrows into paper plates taped to hay bales. Later, they went to archery tournaments—Justin was one of the best archers in his age group. Dale mentored both boys, and after they turned fourteen, he began to take them bow hunting.

For Adam, sitting in a hide in Ramadi in his zone brought back the best moments of his childhood. Those tree stands. Hours and hours of nothing but quiet waiting and camaraderie. Except this time, instead of waiting for a buck to come by, he was keeping watch over young Americans and trying to keep them safe.

The Army's combat engineers showed up with all the material needed for the construction of the new outpost. They'd gotten so good at this that the troops referred to it as “COP in a Box.”

Seize, hold, expand. That was the strategy, and each COP pushed al-Qaida that much further into a corner from which its fighters could not escape. Their days of operating at will within the city were numbered. The insurgents realized it, and the fight had become increasingly tenacious.

The sun rose, and the new day began. People began moving around the city, and the insurgents were certainly reconning the new American position. Around the racetrack the engineers worked furiously against the clock to fortify the COP before the first attack inevitably came. Adam and “Dave” watched them work as Marine patrols arrived to provide extra security. They dismounted and moved out with a Humvee or two in support.

Look at those guys down there. Half of 'em were dating the prom queen this time last year. Now they're just trying to stay alive in this fucked-up place.

This mission had meaning. In a war where orders often made no sense, and so much waste was evident everywhere, this moment, this place, had purpose. With his Win Mag, he could keep those Americans below alive. That was if the Rules of Engagement, the ROEs, didn't get in the way. Even if they did, he'd pull the trigger and let the administrative chips fall where they may later if it meant saving an American life.

He shifted his scope and searched for activity on the rooftops down the street. Nothing of interest, but it got Adam thinking about some of the things he'd learned during the urban warfare section of sniper school back in Indiana.

The avenue stretching south had two visible cross streets. One was about two hundred yards away. These side roads channeled wind, and because of the dynamic currents in an urban environment, the wind can blow in different directions and speeds from block to block.

Take a shot at a bad guy three blocks up a street, and a sniper might have to deal with three different wind factors in the shooting equation. This can make shooting at a distance in cityscapes a significant challenge.

Another challenge is the nature of engagements in urban terrain. In rural areas, or open terrain, the range between friend and foe is usually a lot farther away than in urban areas. This makes things easier on the sniper, as he can take a Win Mag or an M40 or a .50 cal and know the general distance at which he'll be shooting targets. In Afghanistan, MARSOC snipers routinely opened fire at Taliban fighters twelve hundred yards away or more.

In places like Ramadi, the enemy can be anywhere. Firefights will range from farther than a thousand yards down to point-blank with sudden, surprise attacks like the one that killed Mike Monsoor. Snipers have to fulfill multiple roles in a city fight, which requires multiple weapons—an operator cannot effectively clear a room with a Win Mag. Trying to shoot a target at close range with a ten-power scope presents all manner of problems as well, so the snipers in Ramadi carried M4s as well as their sniper rifle.

On the fourth floor of the new 17th Street COP, Adam had a better field of fire than usual. He could see out to perhaps eight hundred yards down the street. The buildings were not uniform in size and shape, more of a mishmash that created corners and dead spaces between the alleys and side streets. This made for lots of places for insurgents to lurk. Adam scanned each one, then started back on the rooftops.

Right away, he spotted an Iraqi male atop a building a few hundred yards away. A quick examination of the man revealed that he had no weapon in his outstretched arms, but he was holding something small cupped in his palms. He walked to the edge of the roof and flung something into the air.

It took a moment for Adam to register what he'd just seen. The man had tossed a pigeon. The bird began flying around as the Iraqi disappeared from view. He returned and released another one. Within a few minutes, he had a whole feathered squadron loitering overhead. He began to whistle and clap at them, which prompted the pigeons to do aerial front-flips. They spun and tumbled around him while Adam watched with interest.

What kind of a person played with pigeons in the middle of a combat zone?

A memory welled from his mind. A movie from a few years back … what was it?

Tom Berenger.

Denzel Washington
.

This Iraqi reminded him of a scene from that movie. It was in some American urban ghetto. As Denzel's character approaches a neighborhood, they saw the same thing. What did they call it?

Flipping pigeons.

That's right.
Training Day.
The gangbangers used the birds as a way to signal impending danger.

Could this guy be doing the same thing?

Adam watched him more closely now. He was a male of military age. Bearded, like everyone else. No weapons, of that he was certain.

Where did this fit into the ROEs? Every time an America sniper pulled a trigger in Ramadi, the military made him fill out a shooter's statement and the incident was investigated to make sure the shot didn't violate procedures or the current ROEs.

He reported what the Iraqi was doing to his commander, who told Adam to keep an eye on the pigeon flipper.

A moment later, Dave called out the arrival of several military-aged males in the street, about a hundred thirty yards away. Just as he did, the pigeon flipper vanished. Adam checked the street. In the nearest intersection a group of men were gathering. They were laughing and smiling, like they were meeting at a park back home for a soccer game or something.

Laughter in Ramadi was not a common commodity.

What the hell was going on?

Adam looked over the crowd and saw one of the males gesture toward the COP. He was wearing a big, baggy brown sweater, the sort you might see a merchant seaman wear. It looked like it hadn't been washed in years. In Ramadi, nothing had.

Brown Sweater abruptly stopped and looked directly at the fourth floor. He seemed to be staring right at Adam.

Okay, asshole. Maybe you know where I am. Fine. Bring it. Let's get this on.

“Boss, can we pull on these motherfuckers?” Adam asked his commanding officer.

“Any weapons?”

“None visible.”

“Negative.”

Something did not feel right here. The gagglefuck in the street looked like nothing more than a cover for surveillance of the new COP. No sneak and peak here. They knew the ROEs and knew the SEALs could not engage them. They were exploiting the Coalition's own rules to get a handle on the best way to launch an attack.

Adam sat there, watching them laugh and felt cold rage.

This kind of bullshit will lose you a war.

A few of the men drifted away down the side street. The remaining ones stayed only a short time longer before walking casually away. After they left, Adam pulled his eye from the scope and looked down over his rifle. The street was empty, at least for the moment.

He was about to go back to glassing the rooftops when he noticed a scuff mark on the windage adjustment dial on the side of his Nightforce.

Oh shit.

He'd zeroed his rifle to seven hundred yards before the start of the mission. The scuff hadn't been there. With a sinking feeling he realized he must have struck it when he fell off the wall during the infil.

Was his zero off?

There was no way to tell. He couldn't take a shot without revealing his position. Besides, if he fired randomly in the city, surely somebody would have his ass for that.

The uncertainty fed his rage.

He stared down into the now-empty street, wondering if he should swap out with Dave or another sniper whose zero was certain on his rifle.

That might be the professional thing to do.

He considered it for another moment. Each sniper's weapon was tailored and zeroed specifically to his eye, grip, and cheek placement. He couldn't just take another rifle and settle back down. He would have to either switch out, or make it work and compensate for any movement on the dial after he saw where his initial shot went.

Adam watched as a Marine patrol dashed into his field of view. They crossed through the second intersection a few hundred yards further down the street, their Humvees rumbling through the rubble and trash while their gunners held their heavy weapons and scanned the rooftops. The column vanished from view a moment later.

He wasn't going to leave; no way. He'd just gotten to this shithole, and he was determined to help those Americans below in the street.

Right then, an explosion tore through the neighborhood. Dirt and debris fluttered down from the ceiling as the shock wave shook the building. The platoon radio filled with chatter. One of the Marine patrols had just taken an IED strike.

Adam gritted his teeth and seethed. There wasn't anyone in his field of view, not even any civilians. They'd cleared the area, probably having known in advance the attack was coming.

Another explosion rocked the school. More grit filtered down from the ceiling, peppering the snipers with dust and grime. Probably asbestos, too.

The snipers had no eyes on the blast, and there was speculation as to what it was. An IED? A heavy mortar—say a 120mm? Maybe a rocket strike? Whatever the case, the enemy had just made it clear they would not let this COP go up without a fight.

A few minutes passed without any further activity. The street remained empty until a wrecker turned a corner and came down toward the COP, towing one of the Marine Humvees. The whole front clip had been blown apart by the IED hit. The wheels were mangled, the tires burned. The hood was gone, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks, and the engine was a tangled mess of broken metal and hoses.

A burst of automatic weapons fire rang out a few blocks away. Again, Adam had no visual on it. An American machine gun rattled off a long series of replies. The exchange reminded him of his first tour as a Mark 48 automatic weapons gunner and his first firefight.

His platoon had established an overwatch position in Mosul. The unit's snipers had set up hides on the top floor of the building while Adam and the rest of the guys pulled security on the ground floor. For hours, they kept their eyes on a fractious, hostile neighborhood until a sedan sped around a corner and screeched to a halt right in front of their building. Four insurgents with AK-47s bailed out of the vehicle, while several more came out from a doorway across the street.

It was a classic case of a sudden, point-blank situation with the enemy in an urban environment. The enemy had no idea they'd just parked in front of a SEAL Team, which made things easy. The snipers opened fire first, dropping several Muj before Adam could even pull the trigger on his 7.62mm machine gun.

Adam's burst raked right through a window, blowing out the glass and sending shards flying into the street. He laid on the trigger and caught one of the insurgents still standing by the sedan as he wielded his AK-47. The man went down, riddled with bullets.

The enemy tried to maneuver on the SEALs' position, but the team killed them all or drove them off.

Adam kept that fight in the back of his mind as he watched the street and listened to the sporadic gunfire erupting around the school. In an urban environment, you can't take anything for granted. One minute you can be watching an intersection eight hundred yards away. The next you're locked in a battle at near hand-to-hand range. Relax only at your peril.