Juggernaut

‘Radio check,’ said Lucy.

They each wore a short-wave TASC headset. The radio was clipped to their webbing. Five-hundred-metre range. The mike was a Velcro throat-strap. The earpiece was a constant open channel.

Lucy stepped away from the group. She thumbed the pressel switch on her chest rig.

‘Check, check, check.’

Affirmative ten-fours.

‘Ladies. Gentlemen.’

An uptight CO. Hard to tell rank. Most marines removed insignia and ditched the salute when they moved in-country. Overt signs of seniority might attract a sniper’s bullet.

The buzz cut surveyed Lucy’s team with contempt. Mercenaries. Long hair and tattoos. All kinds of trophy jewellery and charms: sharks’ teeth, rosaries, bullet pendants. They wore their sidearms at the hip instead of the chest plate snap-holster favoured by regular army.

Soldiers of fortune. No code. No honour.

They signed for manila packets. They tore open envelopes and counted cash. They tucked money in the map pocket of their vests next to sweetheart photos, goodbye letters and power-of-attorney.

‘Time to move out,’ said the CO.

The team stood and headed for the trucks. Voss had FUCK THE ARMY scrawled on the back of his vest.

A three-car convoy. Marines up front in a Humvee with a .50 cal mounted on the roof. Two black, twelve-cylinder GMC Suburbans behind. The GMCs were ghetto-rigged with heavy ram bars, ballistic windows and Kevlar panels.

They climbed into the first Suburban. A marine private took the wheel. Lucy rode shotgun. Amanda and Toon took the back seat. A young marine sat between them, hugging the padlocked money bag, trying to hide his fear.

Huang took the wheel of the third vehicle. Voss was rear gunner. He took a fire position at the tailgate.

Lucy watched the crew of the lead Humvee form a huddle and butt helmets.

‘These fucking kids are going to get us killed,’ muttered Lucy. She turned in her seat. ‘Weapons very free, all right? Don’t wait for an order.’

‘Fuckin’ A,’ muttered Toon, adjusting his grip on his carbine.

Amanda cracked her knuckles.

‘Wire-tight and good to go.’

The marine kissed a St Michael medallion and tucked it into his ballistic vest.

‘Don’t feel ashamed, kid,’ said Amanda. ‘Only a fool wouldn’t be scared.’

Engine roar echoed through the vaulted warehouse. High-beams shafted through broiling diesel fumes.

A marine private hauled back the hangar door and the convoy rolled out into torrential rain.

They drove parallel to a row of warehouses. They sped through a field of Conex shipping containers and headed for the perimeter wire.

The compound gatehouse was a narrow breach in a HESCO sand barrier with twin machine-gun sangars either side.

They got waved through. They sped down a fresh strip of asphalt laid across desert to the expressway. Route Irish. The twelve-kilometre thunder run between the airport and the Green Zone. They passed bullet-pocked signs for Fallujah and Ramadi.

They drove fast and tight. Rain lashed the windshield. Wipers swept-double time.

Adrenalin high. Lucy stroked the rubber custom grip of her rifle. Every smell, every texture, hitting with the heightened clarity of dreams.

A few other cars on the road. A white Toyota pulled close behind the convoy. An old man and his son. Windshield decked out with prayer beads and a gold fringe. Voss waved them back. They didn’t respond. He shouldered his assault rifle and put a shot through the front grille. The Toyota swerved across the median and hit a ditch jetting steam.

‘Salaam Alaikum, motherfucker.’

They raced past checkpoints, blast barriers and concertina wire.

Baghdad up ahead.

Ministry buildings split open by Tomahawks. Homeless families bivouacked in burned-out offices. Campfires flickered in upper floors throughout the night.

The ‘Mother of All Battles’ mosque. Each minaret shaped like a SCUD.

The skyline veiled in rain.

A tight side street. Slum housing. Crumbling concrete apartment blocks flanked a dirt road with a sewer trench either side. Lean dogs pawed garbage. A few locals in dishdashas sheltered in doorways.

Lucy pulled a map from the sun-visor pocket.

‘What’s he doing? Your CO. Why the detour?’

‘JTAC says a truck flipped outside the old college. It’s going to take them an hour to clear the road.’

‘Not many people around,’ said Toon. ‘I don’t like the atmospherics.’

Lucy slapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘Tell your boss right in two hundred metres. We have to get out of these side roads.’

Burned-out cars. A rat-run alley blocked by oil drums full of rubble.

‘They pay for a kill,’ said Amanda. ‘You know that, right? Sunni militia. Plant a bomb, kill a white skin. There’s a bounty.’

‘How much are we worth?’

‘About three hundred dollars. Lot of money round here.’

‘It’s the rain,’ said the driver. ‘Everyone is hiding from the rain.’

‘Your command vehicle. It’s got electronic countermeasures, right? For roadside?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t like it.’ Toon craned to look up. Balconies and snarled phone cable. ‘Classic choke point. Sitting ducks.’ He turned in his seat and addressed the marine beside him.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Rubin.’