Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,52
reinforced platoon was necessary, but the captain said their mission analysis determined a squad was adequate. Sinclair was a soldier, and soldiers obeyed orders.
“You’re driving out of the U.S. compound in your Humvee,” Jeanne said. “What’s happening now?”
“It’s hot, over a hundred. We’re sweltering with all our gear on, but Iraqi citizens are out, going about their normal business. We’re headed into a Shi‘ite neighborhood, lots of narrow streets. That’s why we’re in the Humvees.” When Sinclair had been told by the MP captain that the MPs’ larger, more heavily armed M1117 Armored Security Vehicles couldn’t get into the neighborhood, his gut twisted again.
“What are you feeling?” Jeanne asked.
“Tightness in my stomach. This doesn’t feel right.”
“What doesn’t feel right?”
“Not enough soldiers. Four Humvees, only two with crew-served weapons. An M-two-forty, and a Mark-Nineteen,” Sinclair said, referring to the light machinegun and automatic grenade launcher mounted on two Humvees. “The MPs think it’ll be a cakewalk.”
“Do you continue?” she asked.
“I’m a soldier. It’s only two clicks out. Hell, I can run two kilometers. The streets are getting narrower. With peddler’s carts on one side, there’s just barely room for the Humvees to get through. The street opens up into an outdoor market. That’s where the bomb maker lives. It’s not yet noon. The shops should be open, but they’re deserted. No kids playing in the street.”
At that point, all the warning signs came together. They weren’t equipped and prepared for the mission they were undertaking. This wasn’t a lone bomb maker living among innocent Iraqis, but a terrorist living in a neighborhood controlled by insurgents. Sinclair got on the radio and told the MP squad leader to abort the mission, cover the courtyard with the vehicle-mounted machinegun, and withdraw the way they came in. Even though Sinclair was a warrant officer and outranked the sergeant, he wasn’t in the MP chain of command, so the squad leader argued with him as the convoy pressed on. By the time Sinclair convinced him of the danger signs, it was too late.
“What’s happening now?” Jeanne asked.
“Boom,” Sinclair said. “An RPG round hits the lead truck in the turret. It stops. Catches fire. All three dead. Two men, one woman MP. They’re screaming, trapped inside the burning truck. Another RPG round hits the rear Humvee. Glancing blow. It’s disabled, but the MPs dismount. Rifle fire from windows above us. One MP’s hit, then another. I bail out, empty my M4 at the windows, grab a wounded soldier, drag him to cover. My partner’s hit. I blow through another mag. Just shooting at windows. Spray and pray. More explosions from RPGs. Only me and one MP haven’t been hit. Everyone else wounded or dead. I sprint to my truck—the Humvee—get on the radio, yell for help, for medivac. The CP already heard. A reaction force is on its way.”
“What are you feeling?” Jeanne asked.
“Nothing. No time to feel. Fight. Never give up. Shoot. Move. Shoot more. Save my men.” Sinclair began sobbing uncontrollably. “Save my men,” he said again between sobs.
“Matt, what are you feeling now, as you sit in my office?”
Sinclair choked on his words and couldn’t speak.
Jeanne talked him back from the Baghdad marketplace to the mountain lake, the beeps sounding in his ears. It took a while for the stench of the garbage and the smell of burning flesh to dissipate, but Sinclair eventually detected a faint smell of pine trees. She gently removed his earphones and handed him a box of Kleenex. She leaned forward on the edge of her chair and smiled. “How do you feel?”
“Exhausted.”
“That’s normal. You just relived one of the most traumatic experiences imaginable.”
“It felt real.”
“That’s good. We’ve done some great work this session, but we’ll have to revisit this incident.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“The next time will be easier. That’s how EMDR works. Your emotional discomfort level was a ten going into this, but you’re now lower, maybe a seven or eight. That’s still intense, but not as debilitating. I think I’m noticing a common theme that surfaces in your traumatic incidents. Do you know what that is?”
“That I failed to save people.”
She smiled. “Very perceptive. That feeling that we somehow should’ve done more is what often allows PTSD to take hold. Rape victims experience it when they think they should’ve fought harder against their attackers. Combat medics experience it when soldiers die under their care. And of course, when you surround yourself with violence and death as you have—”