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flags flying on rooftops, the flags increasingly displayed by Shia as a symbol of religious pride. Or maybe ascendency? Wynn knew his battlespace contained a cauldron of antagonistic neighborhoods: Sunni Arab, Shiite Arab, Kurds, and Christians. Some neighborhoods were clearly delineated, the locals aware of the important boundaries. In other areas, the ethnic mix was unknown and evolving. Kurds and Shiite Arabs were on the rise. The Sunni declining, retrenching; many openly admitted missing Saddam. The Americans were conducting a door-to-door census, designed by the battalion with each company responsible for their areas. Wynn’s platoon had their piece of this census and would be back at it tomorrow, visiting Iraqi households to get basic personal information from the residents. American units were assigned extra interpreters, when they were available, to assist with this work. Another objective was increasing the informant network.
    The convoy drove past another small mosque. His platoon’s battlespace included three large mosques and dozens of smaller ones. Behind this mosque was an old soccer field. The stadium’s bleachers were stolen sometime after the invasion. Only the unkempt field remained.
    The Wolfhounds passed a parked fuel truck. The truck had probably driven into the city from one of the refineries. Along the northern edge of the Bajanas ran pipelines from the Iraqi Oil Company and most of the pipelines lay above ground, unprotected. Terrorist pipeline bombings were on the increase, causing huge problems.
    Ahead Wynn saw one of the few road signs with English translations next to a school. A group of children were lined up, probably waiting to be released to go home. Several kids carried American-style backpacks. The Iraqi public school system remained in operation in about half the Wolfhound area, but many of the schools were in poor condition. Most had no electricity. Teachers complained about not being paid. Open schools split age groups into morning and afternoon sessions, and the average school kid in the area got two hours of schooling each day.
    This was all his, Wynn congratulated himself in silence. He exhaled, extending the breath, letting it drift away like unwanted burdens. Five hundred years ago, given all this, he might have been a small-time emperor. Now he led a small part of the American Army. Nineteen men, counting himself, none who had ever been in the Middle East before. None could speak Arabic. None had more than cursory knowledge of the local customs and traditions. None had been policemen, firemen, government officials, utility operators, lawyers, engineers, doctors, or diplomats. None had prior experience in war. All were young men. Only his platoon sergeant, SFC Raymond Cooke, was older than 30.
    With this make-up they fought an insurgency.
    The whole thing, he thought, gave real meaning to the phrase learning on the fly.
     
    “Car parked under the overpass, three-hundred meters front,” SSG Turnbeck reported.
    The convoy approached rapidly. D22’s crew scrutinized the parked car.
    “Passenger getting out. Has something in his hand.”
    Trouble? Anticipation ricocheted inside the convoy as the men focused on the person. It was a man. Middle-aged. Something in his hand? A phone? A book? Less than ten seconds later, the lead Humvee passed him. Still couldn’t make out what he held. The Iraqi stood too close to the road to detonate a bomb on the convoy. He got back in his car as the second Humvee passed him. Everybody looked hard at him as they passed. The man looked as if he was talking. On the phone, maybe? The last Humvee passed.
    Moose, in the gun turret, watched the Iraqi the longest. Something held to his ear. Must be a phone. A minute passed. Nothing happened.
    Turnbeck came back on the radio. Ahead of them, another bridge crossed over the road.
    “People sitting under the bridge. Right side. Four-hundred meters; vehicle crossing the bridge left to right.”
    The car