Weapons of Mass Destruction by Margaret Vandenburg Read Free Book Online Page A

Then out jumped Jack with an AK-47, and you’d opened your last door.
    The platoon cleared three full blocks without encountering a living soul. Someone somewhere was trying to lull them into a false sense of security. Telltale signs told a different, more menacing story. Wolf, who had worked in construction before enlisting, was adept at identifying architectural anomalies. He and Evans carried crowbars, yet another secret weapon in unconventional warfare. They found a cache of grenades and Dragunov rifles in the pantry of an upscale house, hidden under a false floor.
    “Where’s Johnson?” Radetzky asked.
    “Watcha got?”
    “Exhibit A.”
    Johnson whistled. Wolf and Evans continued prying open the floorboards.
    “Take five,” Radetzky told the rest of the squad.
    Everybody broke out cigarettes except McCarthy, the world’s biggest mooch.
    “How about a fag,” McCarthy said.
    “Looked in the mirror lately?” Trapp said, handing him a Camel.
    The entire platoon knew McCarthy would hit them up, sooner or later, so they took turns plying him with cigarettes and chew. It was all part of the deal, the price he made them pay for the pleasure of his company. They stood smoking in the kitchen, flicking their butts into the sink. With the exception of designated lookouts, they instinctively avoided windows. Enemy snipers never took cigarette breaks.
    Johnson went to work. This was just the kind of footage the Pentagon used to counteract the damage done by Al Jazeera newscasters. The minute coalition forces mounted an offensive, they started broadcasting graphic photographs of civilian casualties, portraying Americans as ruthless murderers of innocent bystanders. Air strikes on residential neighborhoods. Women and children sprawled across bloody bedroom floors. Sunni officials in the provisional government in Baghdad watched them. American officials in Washington watched them. The whole world witnessed them on the Internet. Dispassionate reports were far less compelling than Al Jazeera’s version of what passed for the truth, complete with incendiary sound bites.
    “Mosques Bombed by Coalition Forces in Anbar Province.”
    “American Marines Slaughter Civilians in Fallujah.”
    The fine line between news and entertainment had long since been crossed. To attract an audience, even Johnson’s photographs would be hyped up with inflammatory captions. “Family Home or Terrorist Cell?” So much for the innocent bystander routine. Since when did housewives shelve grenades and rifles next to cleaning supplies and canned goods? The city was obviously armed to the teeth.
    Radetzky radioed company headquarters, requesting a team of runners to transport the contraband weapons back to the base. Within minutes, a Humvee pulled up, and two marines hopped out. They were women, a private first class and a sergeant. Sinclair scoped their faces. One of them was pretty.
    “Cover them,” Radetzky ordered.
    “Roger that,” Sinclair said.
    The arrival of women on the scene confirmed Sinclair’s assumption that the platoon hadn’t yet reached the skirmish line. Rear-echelon support teams stumbled into ambushes with alarming frequency. But the US military still tried to enforce rules of engagement forbidding women to perform combat duty. Technically the real action was on hold until they got the hell out of the way.
    Radetzky advanced the men to the next block as the two women finished confiscating the weapons cache. Sinclair covered the Humvee until it finally sped off. By the time he turned his attention back to the squads, they were almost out of range. His team would have to relocate after the next set of houses. He would miss this perch. A convenient ledge allowed him to stretch full length to avoid muscle cramping. Comfort aside, the view was incomparable. There were very few apartment complexes in East Manhattan. Its seven stories towered over the posh homes huddled below. Snipers had a reputation for being notoriously