VIKING HAMMER (AND THE UGLY BABY)

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01.Masters of Chaos Pages 8/17/04 12:00 PM Page 309 Viking Hammer (and the Ugly Baby) From the very first days of surveillance, it had been clear to ODA 081 that it was up against skilled fighters. The Ansar militants had fired mortars at the men whenever they moved. The team had quickly learned to follow the example of its Kurdish allies and scurry from the vehicles into the buildings. Ansar al-Islam was also very well equipped. The accurate aim indicated that the mortar tubes were new and that the AI knew how to use them. They would fire twenty or thirty mortars at a time and were frequently resupplied. The Special Forces did not know how many Ansar fighters remained after the air strikes of the previous week, but they doubted that the group would give up easily. Judging by the fortified positions that the militants had built all over the area, this was not a passing foothold but a place where they intended to stay. The captain’s nervous excitement was understandable; Operation Viking Hammer would be followed closely at high levels of the government, all the way to the White House. It was the captain’s first battle. He had just graduated from the Q course, but he was no kid. He was a twenty-nine-year-old college graduate with a degree in chemical engineering which, to his mother’s regret, he was not using. The captain had won the confidence of his sergeants simply by respecting their skill and experience. The teams that function most smoothly minimize distinctions of rank in favor of each man pulling his own weight. The captain trusted the men to do their jobs while he did his. His primary responsibility was to advise and assist Sheikh Jafr and the band of Kurds that would provide the mass in the fight. The Kurds liked the friendly and unpretentious American captain, and the PUK leader’s son, Baffel Talabani, insisted on coming along as his interpreter. The firepower would come from the team itself. The captain had no doubt that his team sergeant, who would direct the tactical movements of the other four sergeants, knew what he was doing. The thirty-sixyear-old master sergeant was experienced, aggressive, and outspoken, with thirteen years in the Special Forces and seventeen in the military. He’d fought in Desert Storm and Afghanistan, and had served in the special mission units that undertake secret assignments on counterterrorism missions. He had started out in 7th Group under Kevin Higgins, 309
01.Masters of Chaos Pages 8/17/04 12:00 PM Page 310 310 M asters of C haos who noticed his talents as a fighter, a self-starter, and a sergeant who had the confidence to deal with embassies and senior foreign officials. The team sergeant’s looks also came in handy for this assignment; half Panamanian, he grew a mustache and looked just like a Kurd. Arriving at 10th Group in the summer of 2002, he was surprised at the youthfulness of the sergeants of ODA 081. He teased them, calling them “the PlayStation 2 generation,” and worked them hard, but the sergeants realized that he would be their best friend against great odds in combat. They nicknamed him Grit. The sergeants were young but not inexperienced. Both weapons sergeants were excellent snipers and had brought home combat medals from Kosovo. One medic had been a Ranger, and two sergeants had done long-range reconnaissance in the conventional army, which was good preparation for surveilling the Halabja salient. The men were cross-trained so they could trade off on their heavier weapons—the M2 .50 caliber and M240 machine guns and Mk 19 grenade launcher. The men roused themselves and strapped on their packs. At 4:30 a.m. they departed Halabja. The commanders drove to the command post at Gurdy Drozna and the ODAs went to their respective staging areas. The Kurdish field marshal, Kak Mustafa, joined Tovo on the bunker’s roof to watch the mustering of troops on the plain below them. Tovo, with his olive-toned skin and dazzling smile, might have been Mustafa’s tall brother. It was a clear, crisp morning, about forty degrees Fahrenheit. The two men swathed in their shamags breathed out frosty air. The flat plain rolled eastward and then abruptly creased into valleys and peaks. The highest line of snow-capped mountains about twelve kilometers away marked the border with Iran. Unlike the sun-baked west and south, northern Iraq was verdant and rugged, with many places for the enemy to hide. There was something old-fashioned about the sight of Kurds and U.S. soldiers girding for battle in the waning dark. This would be an infantry battle, fought by men on foot, with few high-tech tools and none of the heavy armor that had come to define modern war. It would not even resemble a guerrilla battle because the Kurds attacked frontally,
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VIKING HAMMER (AND THE UGLY BABY)

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