Weapons of Mass Destruction Read Online Free

your breath, men,” Radetzky said. “Even if they show up, watch your backs. When the going gets tough, they’re usually long gone.”
    Iraqi National Guard retention rates were miniscule. Often as not, their officers had clandestine connections with deposed Ba’athist party leaders intent on recovering control of Anbar Province. The more ardent their expression of allegiance to the coalition cause, the less likely they were sincere. In Sunni strongholds like Fallujah, suspicion was prudent. Loyalty often masked an insidious intent to use American resources to subvert American interests. Sinclair’s platoon had learned this the hard way.
    When the First Marine Expeditionary Force arrived in the city, they were committed to changing the dynamic between civilians and military personnel, the first step toward reconstruction. Locals complained that the army had imposed martial law. To reverse this impression, Radetzky’s men paired up with Sunni police officers for joint patrols. Like so many initiatives in Fallujah, the plan looked good on paper and fell flat in the field. Their Iraqi counterparts showed up once or twice before succumbing to pressure to quit. Nobody outside of Washington was operating under the illusion that they had enlisted out of love for the coalition interim government. The paycheck was hard to resist in an economy devastated by war. But there was no use putting food on your family’s table when no one was around to eat it. Journalists weren’t the only ones being abducted, or worse. Under Saddam, Iraqis had become accustomed to being caught between a rock and a hard place. Nothing much changed when the Americans showed up.
    The army may have had the right idea after all. There were telltale signs that martial law was the only real option even before the mob scene on Brooklyn Bridge. Security force defections were the tip of the iceberg, if such an intrinsically American expression made sense in the broiling sands of the Syro-Arabian Desert. So many things were lost in translation. As a result, even civilians turned on them. If you extended a helping hand, chances were someone would bite it.
    The worst was the soccer fiasco. Sinclair’s platoon spent a week constructing a playing field out of a wasteland just north of the industrial quarter. Neighborhood kids were thrilled. Their parents seemed pleased, if a little subdued. Trapp orchestrated a ribbon-cutting ceremony. He and Wolf officiated the first game, an epic contest between the Jolan Giants and the Askari Argonauts. They even supplied official uniforms, red and black T-shirts with Nike logos on the sleeves. The Argonauts prevailed in overtime.
    The next morning Wolf’s squad swung by en route to patrol duty in Queens. The goal nets had been torn down and garbage was strewn over the recently graded surface. No one claimed responsibility, but the motive was unmistakable.
    “Talk about kicking a gift horse in the mouth,” Wolf said.
    “More like kicking kids in the teeth,” Trapp said.
    Trapp was visibly upset. His buddies looked the other way while he recovered his composure. Nobody loved kids more than he did. He had four of his own and had a hard time accepting how war robbed children of their childhoods. Every warrior has a chink in his armor. Trapp could twist a knife blade in a fedayee’s gut without flinching. But the thought of disappointing the Jolan Giants was too much for him.
    “Let’s rebuild it,” Sinclair said. “We can probably salvage these nets.”
    “Good idea,” Wolf said. “What do you say, Trapp?”
    “Sounds like a plan,” Trapp said. “Operation Kill ’Em with Kindness.”
    “There’s more than one way to fight a war.”
    “In your dreams,” McCarthy said under his breath. He didn’t want to add to Trapp’s disappointment. But as far as he was concerned, winning hearts and minds was a slogan, not an op plan. This wasn’t the first or last time Iraqis would sabotage the peace process.
    Sinclair was