After a while, though, we noticed cars in the oncoming lane across the median started pulling over ahead of us. This was unusual. My gunner leaned down slightly to yell over the noise into the cabin. “We got a convoy coming up on us in the opposite lane.” I turned around as best I could in the cramped space with all my gear wedging me in solid. There was nothing I could tell from the rear windows. “KBR or military?” I yelled back.

“I think Iraqi.” Just then, the convoy was starting to pass us. “What?” I asked, of myself as much as anybody.

A pickup and suburban configured to be gun trucks were racing up the opposite lane. In the bed of the pickup, two Iraqi soldiers stood up waving at the traffic ahead of them to pull over. It was a high speed game of chicken, only with machine guns.

“How fast are we going?” I asked my driver, glancing also at the GPS that told us our speed. “About fifty,” was the reply. The GPS said essentially the same thing. We were pushing it; speed kills and reaction time at this speed was going to be severely reduced.

“One, this is Four. We have an Iraqi convoy passing us in the northbound lane.” Noticing the corporate logo on one of the trucks, I clarified. “Actually, it looks like mercenary.”

“Yeah, Team Four called up to say that they were being passed by them. How fast they going?”

“They’re doing about 10 miles or so over us. Maybe sixty or so.” Trucks continued to pass by us, Iraqis oblivious to the potential head-on accident waiting to happen waving ahead at the oncoming traffic. Tractor trailers poured after them down the road.

“Fuck me,” I said to no one particular. “You see this shit?” I leaned back to yell up to my gunner. “Hey Doozer! How many trucks they got?”

“Maybe twenty or twenty-five.”

Our patrol was starting to space out some. “Anyone know if they are going to Our Base?”

“If they are,” One replied, “they are going to jack up the gate while we wait for them to get checked out.”

“Fuck that,” said Two. “I say we cut them off and make them wait.”

“Yeah, fuck those mercenary fuckers. They’re going to be held up in the checkpoints going south, anyway. They can’t possibly make that speed all the way down. If we get to Abner first, we can hold them up.”

One thought about it. “Lemme see what the other teams want to do.”

After a few moments One called back. “Okay, we’re going to see if we can beat them to the turn off at Abner. No one seems to know their destination, so if they are going to Our Base, we are going to try and hold them up. If they are going south, we’ll let them through.”

“All right!”

“Two, what’s your speed?” One asked.

“About fifty.”

“Take it up to fifty-five, but be careful. Don’t take chances. If things get hairy, let them get blown up first.”

“We’re going up to fifty-five,” I yelled at the driver over the screaming of the engine, knowing that fifty-five would be the minimum that Two was going to do. From what I could tell, we were already flat out. My driver confirmed it. “I’ve already got it to the floor.”

“Okay, well, do what you can. If they get too far out, I’ll pull them in. Keep an eye on the heat, too. What’s the temp at?”

“Two forty.”

“Fuck. Well, do what you can. Kill the A/C from time to time if you have to.” I had all the extra lights off to reduce the electrical draw since it was daylight anyway. The A/C right away went off.

And it was on. Us versus The Mercenaries to see who had the longer day.

The tail end of the Iraqi convoy was pulling past us again as we came bearing down on Jihadi Market. “Ya know, the insurgents aren’t going to know what to make of this,” One said on the net. “Two convoys blasting through the Market at full speed.”

“I hope they don’t hit us,” someone said. “It’ll be a mess.”

“Shit, we’ll probably shock the hell out them and they won’t know what to do,” I called back.

But, back to serious business. “Hey,” I shouted to the crew above the noise of the engine and wind. “We’re coming up on Jihadi Market. Stay alert.” Like they needed any reminding. My driver was bent over the wheel, intently staring at the road, weaving like a race car driver around debris and craters while the gunner scanned back and forth looking for surprises.

“Cincinnati,” was the call from a truck ahead. This was a name for a location just outside of Jihadi Market and was our cue that the Market was literally just around the bend. The race was coming down to the wire. “The last truck of the Iraqi convoy is passing Four now,” I called ahead to let the others know how we were faring back here.

Jihadi Market opened up. The first outlying fruit stand flew by in blur, the two locals standing there gawking at the sight screaming by them. Trucks to the horizon, both lanes, heading south flat out. What the hell was this?

Three was pulling away from us. We would catch them at the next checkpoint, so let it go. As long as I could see them. Team Four was on our rear, so we weren’t completely left out in the breeze alone.

The trash built up, the median filling with dividers in a blur. There were a lot of people there today, a full house, an audience for the race. Faces turned to see. We roared by as fast as the truck would go, trucks in the opposite lane still passing us, faster now that they realized that it was a race to the intersection, winner take all. Garbage, people, puddle – all raced by in the edges of vision. I had made up my mind that we would never see it coming at this speed. The shock value of the parade and a healthy dose of luck would save our collective asses.

Bridge!

“Bridge! Two hundred meters!” I screamed as it was already closer than that. The quick scan of the underside confirming only that they locals were impressed and confused with the unfolding scene, not that we were particularly safe. Concrete flashed above. My gunner never had a chance to get up and scan it, just turning his head with a quick glance over the shoulder, waiting for it to pass overhead before looking up at the amazed Iraqi soldiers and police on the top staring at the Noachian release of American and foreign traffic below them.

“Four at One Five Two Alpha at five-five. Clear Jihadi Market.”

We came up on the first checkpoint south of Jihadi Market, and my driver let off the accelerator only at the last moment. Sure enough, the mercenaries were getting slowed up on the checkpoint, the Iraqi Police not anticipating that someone would a roll a convoy the wrong way in traffic at midday in Jihadi Market, not fully realizing that there was a race on, awed by the sudden onrush of trucks and guns into their lives.

We had caught up to Three, now slowing down for the checkpoint barriers, but only slightly as they slalomed through, rocking the heavy truck on its overloaded suspension. And with a roar, they were gone from in front of us, my truck coming up faster than we normally would – swoosh, zig, zag – missing the concrete barriers by infinitesimal amounts, roaring again down the road once clear of the last barrier, leaving the shocked Iraqis behind us.

“One, this is Four. We caught the mercs and are passing them now. They’re jacked up pretty good in the checkpoint.”

Three pulled away again. Ahead, I could see Two sprinting out ahead, way ahead, bound and determined to reach the intersection first before anybody. The spacing was atrocious; we were getting too far from each other as the faster trucks outpaced the others, slowly, methodically.

“Two, this is One, my engine is starting to overheat. We are going to have to hold it at fifty so we don’t blow it out here.”

“Roger, fifty is what you can do.”

“You’ll have to slow it up a bit so that we don’t get all screwed up. We can hang at fifty, but anything past that is too much on the heat.”

“Roger, fifty.” I knew that there was no way that Two was going to do fifty. If called, he would say he was, but he was going to deliberately underestimate his distance out front, chaffing at the leash, determined to be first at the intersection and out compete the other convoy. That whole crew was hyper-competitive to the extreme.

The mercenary convoy was catching up already having cleared the first checkpoint. There were two more to go before the turn off. How fast they recovered between them would dictate if we won or lost. They were recovering fast, which didn’t bode well for us.

“Mercenaries coming up on Four,” I called on the net. And they were flying up, too, the tractor trailers already starting to pass my truck. The Iraqis in the back of the lead pick up were still languidly waving the oncoming traffic off, trying to clear the way for the oncoming convoy, still making better time than us. Their trucks passed easily while we held the throttle wide open, struggling to keep up in the race.

“Fuck, are they running empty? How come we can’t get convoys like that? We always get the slow, broken re-re trucks!”

Into the second checkpoint we poured. The mercenaries were predictably backed up, tractor trailers not able to negotiate tight meanders in the road nearly as well as gun trucks or pick ups. The engine dulled down to a gentle growl while the truck swung through the course, then opened back up to its full throated bellow as we stomped on the pedal and jumped into the open road ahead of us.

Fortunately, the next checkpoint was somewhat closer. I could Two way ahead, doing exactly as I thought, jumping out with the strongest engine and highest top end speed. No one made a call to pull back, the cursory obligatory “we will be safe” speech given and covering the bases. Each of us was hoping that we could pull it off, pushing a little more, cutting a little off, holding on one last second, thinking to call out the insanity of the project, and biting his tongue as the thought almost became words.

We were cleared the third checkpoint and on top of the intersection to turn on before the mercenaries had cleared the first truck from the last checkpoint. Having done our part, now it was up to the other Teams to keep up and get here to complete the trouncing. We had to buy some time for them.

Two had already pulled into the intersection and flipped the truck around to point the opposite way of our travel, north in the northbound lane to cut off the approaching mercenaries, as we came rolling up. Doors flew open with the driver and TC jumping out. The locals following the rules of the road knew what to do and pulled up short of the intersection to allow wide berth to the two crazed convoys bearing down at high speed on the one intersection. Foreigners in general, and Americans in particular, are without a doubt completely insane and best steered clear of at times like this.

One pulled up into the intersection and parked on the median. Three went wide and set up on the far side to keep an eye on the opposite direction. We pulled up short and went to the left into the median slightly, not too much though to tempt an IED.

“Dooz! Where’s that merc convoy?” I hollered up.

“It’s coming up, about 300 meters back.”

“Okay, I think we have them.” I looked at my driver. “What’s the temperature gauge saying?”

He glanced at the gauge. “Two forty.”

“On the line or past it?”

“Past it. Way past it.”

Well, no steam rolling out yet. I think that we are good for the time being. “Leave the A/C off for now, let it cool some. Don’t shut it off, though. I don’t want to be stuck out here if it stalls out. Dooz, where’s Team Four’s convoy?”

“A ways back.”

“How far? Can you see them at the last checkpoint?”

“No, I would guess they are about a click or click and a half back.”

One came on the net. “My engine is stalled out. We’re dead in the water.”

I keyed up the radio mike. “It’s probably vapor lock. Water it down.” His driver, though, was already on it since this was a frequent occurrence with them. The hood was now coming up; bottles of water dumped on the fuel lines to cool things down and condense the fuel. Hopefully, that’s all that it was.

The lead gun truck for the mercenary convoy pulled up slowly. The door cracked open on the passenger side and the person leaned out to talk to the crew standing in the road. Two’s driver started waving his arms like he was signaling a baseball player safe. No go. Intersection blocked.

The passenger jumped out, and walked over to where Two’s crew was on the ground. They were arguing now while another gun truck was creeping up from behind the first. No dice. This was getting good. But these two were the perfect anger management duo to buy us the time that we needed.

One mercenary in the back of the pick up turned around and waved at the first tractor trailer. It started to pull out and creep on the side of the road, trying to pass around the block that Two’s truck was making. Two’s driver saw that and threw his helmet into the ground forcefully, stomping over into the path of the tractor trailer, pointing, screaming, holding up traffic.

One came on the net. “Okay, we have our engine started again. How far back is Team Four? If they are too far back, we are going to have to let these clowns past.”

“Dooz! How far back is Team Four?” I yelled up.

“They’re coming up on us now. The scout is about four or five hundred meters back. The rest of them are coming into the checkpoint now.”

I keyed the mike. “One, this is Four. They are coming up now, about three hundred back,” fudging the numbers slightly, buying a few seconds to buy a few more seconds. We had this; we couldn’t just let it go now.

“Roger, they better hurry. I don’t know how much time we have with this.”

The mercenaries were all kinds of pissed now. More were on the ground, trying to intimidate the two Americans that absolutely could not be intimidated. The more they were berated, the harder they dug their heels in and refused to budge. Fingers were pointed. Arms waved. Chests were stuck out.

Just, then, the first gun truck of the following American convoys came up on my right and turned left into the intersection, honking approval, the gunner waving. We had won.

“Yeah, motherfuckers!” I hollered out.

The mercenaries looked up and continued shouting, stomping, to no avail. The tractor trailers were now coming up, barreling through the intersection, moving around the block vehicles and the stalled out mercenary trucks. Dust clouds kicked up marked our victory, each truck showing that we had in fact won the race. And like flipping a switch, the Anger Management Duo were all smiles, helmets picked up, headed back for their gun truck. They got in and cleared the intersection some more to allow a better passage through. The mercenaries were still standing there, their anger and frustration palatable in the air. Slowly they worked their way back to their gun trucks. It wasn’t often that they didn’t get their way.

The last of the American convoys was through and we picked up, continuing on the road after them. The angry mercenaries fell in behind us.

“This is One. Teams Four and Six are going to let us pass since we are dead heading and there is no point in waiting for them to get checked. Plus, they liked the job that we did.”

“I’ll bet they did.”

“Yeah, they said that us East Coast drivers are absolutely insane. I told them it was just like any other day on the Interstate.”

“You should see the Washington Beltway at the Georgia Avenue exit. Driving is a full contact sport there.”

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” And we accelerated up the side of the two convoys, receiving accolades with honking horns, waves, and shaken heads.

We cleared the tractor trailers and pulled ahead to the gate. “How’s the temp now?” I asked my driver. He glanced down.

“It’s better. Still a little hot, but under the line now.”