Soft Target 04 - The 18th Brigade

by Conrad Jones

  OTHER TITLES BY CONRAD JONES

  SOFT TARGET

  SOFT TARGET II `TANK`

  SOFT TARGET III `JERUSALEM`

  THE 18TH Brigade

  CONRAD JONES

  GerriCon Books Ltd

  GerriCon Books Ltd Orford Green Suite 1 Warrington Cheshire WA2 8PA www.gerriconbooks.co.uk

  Copyright 2008 Conrad Jones. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  First published by GerriCon Books Ltd 12/2008

  ISBN: 978-0-9561034-3-7

  Chapter 1

  Baghdad`s Bloody Sunday

  September 16th, 2007, approximately 12.08pm in an upmarket secure section of the occupied Iraqi capital. It was a steaming hot day and the temperature was climbing over one hundred degrees. Hathem al-Rubaie was a young medical student following in the footsteps of his illustrious parents, his mother an allergist, and his father a famous pathologist. The family could have fled Iraq at any point following the allied invasion, but they chose to remain and help their countrymen try and rebuild their war ravaged nation. Hathem was hungry already, despite the early hour, because his family was fasting in observance of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan. They were fighting their way through the traffic on the way to their respective jobs, sharing the same vehicle to save money.

  “Pull in here. I will walk the rest of the way, this traffic is getting worse every day,” Hathem`s father pointed to a gap in the traffic and his son followed his direction by sliding the rusty white Opel into a space next to the kerb. A cacophony of honking horns objected to the manoeuvre, and Hathem answered them with his middle finger raised.

  “Hathem! That is so rude. I did not send you to medical school to learn how to be an uncouth yob,” his mother scolded him playfully and slapped the back of his head gently.

  “Don`t forget to pick up your sister`s university application forms, I promised to fill them in with her later on,” his father turned and kissed his wife goodbye, and then kissed his son on the cheek. He yanked open the car door and scrambled out of the old vehicle into the searing heat. Another horn blared loudly, urging Hathem to move on. Hathem watched his father struggling out of the passenger seat, preparing to walk away into the crowd, never once thinking that he would never see him in this world again.

  “I will be glad when things get back to normal and we can use the BMW to get to work, this car is so embarrassing,” his father slapped the roof and turned into the throng, gone. The family had parked their much newer German coupe in a lockup garage for safety reasons. Anyone driving a prestige motorcar was likely to become the victim of kidnap by militant extremists, even if they were Iraqi. Anyone in a government post or in a position of responsibility was fair game for the numerous religious militias that were terrorising the occupying forces and fellow Iraqis alike.

  “The way things are going it will be as old as this thing before we can drive it safely on the streets of Baghdad again,” his mother muttered from the back seat.

  “We are safe while we are living in the green zone mother,” Hathem reassured his elderly parent.

  “Safe my foot, we are prisoners in our own country, and that is all we are,” she started to rant, which was her favourite past time. He watched his mother waving her arms as she spoke, emphasising her argument, and it made him smile. Hathem loved his aging parents dearly, not just because he was their son, but also because they were such honourable people. They always put others first, always thinking of someone else`s feelings before their own. That was why the family had remained in Iraq when most of the wealthy people left like rats deserting a sinking ship.

  “We are privileged guests of the interim government mother, outside of the green zone is a nightmare, you should count your blessings,” he answered her as he pulled the Opel back into the heavy traffic. They crawled forward to the Nisour Square, where a traffic cop rushed in front of their car with his hand raised, stopping the traffic.

  “Oh my word, what is going on now?” his mother cried, distressed at being delayed again.

  “I can see a convoy approaching,” Hathem craned his neck to see what was happening.

  “I don’t see why they have to stop all the traffic for them to pass un-hindered, as we all have somewhere to be.”

  “They are escorting government officials, mother,” he answered. He pressed the clutch pedal down disengaging the gear, but the car still crept forward almost imperceptibly. Hathem had mentioned that the clutch cable was wearing badly, but his father had brushed off the issue as unimportant. It had lasted ten years so it would be alright for another few yet, or so he thought. Hathem smiled as he remembered his father`s lecture on the failing economy and how even replacing a single clutch cable before it snapped completely was a waste of Iraq`s limited resources. The car juddered as the clutch plate engaged itself momentarily.

  “Stop your car, there is a convoy coming through,” the traffic policeman shouted at Hathem.

  “It is stopped,” Hathem protested pulling on the handbrake to counteract the failing clutch.

  “Don`t you shout at my son, we`re doctors you know,” his mother wound down the window and stuck her head out to scold the police officer. Status was everything in the Middle East, and doctors were far higher in the food chain than a lowly traffic cop, who wasn’t even allowed to carry a weapon, despite the increasing number of them being targeted by suicide bombers.

  “Be quiet Mother, he`s only doing his job. I told father that the clutch was failing,” Hathem tried to calm her, but the heat and hunger was making her taut.

  Hathem looked toward the oncoming convoy. The sight was an ominous one as four armoured vehicles hurtled through the crowded streets, leaving a billowing dust cloud in their wake. The armoured vehicles were topped with huge 7.62-millimeter machine guns, each one manned by a single soldier. He didn’t recognise the uniforms, but there were so many combatants in Iraq now that it was hard to know what country any of them were from, unless they sported a flag somewhere.

  The convoy rattled into the intersection without slowing down or caring a jot about the surrounding vehicles, which Hathem thought was reckless to say the least. The convoy was only twenty yards in front of the rusty white Opel when the handbrake cable snapped, and the failing clutch engaged the plate momentarily. The old car juddered forward a yard, prompting the policeman to run to it in a panic and try to stop it moving any further.

  “Stop the car you must wait for the convoy to pass,” he bellowed at the top of his voice, showing off his authority to the passing heavily armed troops. He blew loudly on his whistle.

  “I`ve told you not to shout at us, we are doctors,” Hathem`s mother leaned out of the vehicle and shouted back at the policeman.

  “For Allah`s sake man it moved a yard and no more,” Hathem shouted at the official. The heat and hunger was getting to him too.

  A second Iraqi policeman ran to the other side of the car and grabbed the front wing with both hands trying to stop it moving forward again. Hathem couldn’t believe his eyes at the drama being created by these two Iraqi traffic cops. They were obviously new volunteers, not even dressed in full uniforms yet. They had ill fitting jackets on and their own dirty trousers and shoes. Many of the new Iraqi police didn’t have full uniforms yet. Hathem raised his hands in despair and punched the steering wheel. The horn blared loudly.

  It was then that he noticed the convoy had come to an abrupt halt directly in front of them. All four huge machineguns were pointed toward the white Opel. Hathem stared in disbelief. He was about to step out of the vehicle when the first armoured truck op
ened fire, and four massive 7.62 high velocity bullets ripped into Hathem. The windshield exploded in a shower of lethal glass shards as the other three machine gunners joined in the melee, turning Nisour Square into a killing zone.

  Hathem`s mother sat in the back seat and screamed as she realised that her son`s exploded head was in her lap. The car rocked violently as the heavy machineguns shredded it. She threw herself between the seats and covered her son`s ruined body with her own, trying to protect her only son, her pride and joy, her precious legacy. Bullets smashed into her back pulverising her internal organs and shattered her bones as they exited her and then entered her already dead son. The vehicle was completely destroyed when a heavy round pierced the fuel tank and turned it into an inferno. The petrol tank exploded lifting the vehicle four foot into the air. The intense heat welded mother and son into one bizarre cinder, no longer recognisable as humans to the naked eye.

  By the time the machineguns had stopped firing sixteen innocent people in Nisour Square were dead and over fifty others maimed and seriously injured. To this day, despite investigations by the FBI, and the US military, no one has been disciplined or charged with their unlawful killing.

  Chapter Two

  Baghdad`s Bloody Sunday

  September 16th, 2007, approximately 12.08pm in an upmarket secure section of the occupied Iraqi capital. It was a steaming hot day and the temperature was climbing over one hundred degrees. A joint troop of American Blackwater men, and British 18th Brigade employees were manning a primary personal protection convoy. Primary is the word used to describe military commanders, government officials, embassy staff of members of the allied state department staff. There were a huge number of diplomats and VIP`s in Iraq, working to rebuild the government, organising the military operations and developing a lasting infrastructure that would have longevity. Protecting these people in a theatre of war as dangerous as Iraq is a critical but thankless task. The Islamic extremists were targeting officials at every opportunity with suicide attacks and the new phenomenon of road side bombs.

  There were one hundred and eighty thousand American troops fighting the insurgents in Iraq. Close personal protection required one hundred and sixty thousand well trained, highly experienced soldiers to keep the extended operational staff alive. The allies had no other choice but to employ professional mercenary soldiers as the protection squads. In both Iraq and Afghanistan there are more mercenaries than regular soldiers. Blackwater and the 18th Brigade are two such private security firms used by the American government.

  Sergeant Mel Hickey was manning a turret gun, a task he despised. The intense heat combined with the dust cloud from the leading armoured vehicles left his throat feeling red raw all day long. He had pulled a twelve hour protection shift, which entailed carrying government officials to and from the main interim government buildings in the centre of the green zone. Mel was an ex-Royal Marine Commando, one of the most elite fighting forces on the planet. He served fifteen years in the Marines before the temptation of becoming a highly paid mercenary in Iraq became too great to resist. He had a wife and three young children to consider. He joined the 18th Brigade and earned more money in a month in Iraq than he could in a year as a regular soldier in the British Army. Mel had seen some of his old soldier buddies while he had been on duty a few weeks before, but they had nothing but contempt for him. One career Marine who had served alongside him for ten years or more actually spat on his shiny new mercenary combat boots, and then walked away from him without saying a single word. The incident had hurt his feelings badly, he was still a Royal Marine deep inside, but he had the opportunity to build a substantial nest egg and secure the financial future for his young family. `Surely they could understand his motives`.

  The armoured truck jerked violently as it hit a pothole, shaking him from his thoughts. He heard the driver and the crew inside the vehicle laughing and joking at his expense as he was thrown around like a ragdoll in the turret.

  “Pass me the water up you bloody clown,” Mel shouted into the hull of the armoured truck.

  “You`re supposed to be concentrating on the traffic,” a voice answered and a camouflaged arm appeared through the hatch holding a metal flask of water.

  “I`m choking to death on Iraqi sand up here,” he shouted back and took a long swig of the cooling liquid.

  “Keep your eyes open, we`re approaching Nisour Square,” the driver called out.

  Sergeant Mel Hickey took another mouthful and then dropped the water bottle back down the hatch. The square was a major intersection and as such was an ideal point for a suicide bomber to be lurking, or to position a car bomb. He grasped the handles of the 7.62-millimetre heavy machinegun and swung it through one hundred and eighty degrees on its pivot, eying every vehicle as a potential target. They were approaching the junction at speed when the lead vehicle braked suddenly. To his left he saw a rusty white Opel crawling slowly toward the convoy. He swung the machinegun toward it. The driver of the vehicle raised his hands violently and shouted something about Allah. The hairs on the back of the ex-Royal Marine stood on end, and tingles ran down his spine, droplets of cold sweat soaked into his tunic. The back window of the car opened and a female passenger was screaming at a man half dressed as a traffic cop. It looked like the man was trying to push the old car toward the convoy. Another man joined him and pushed the other wing of the vehicle. The horn blared loudly.

  In a split second he identified the group as suicide bombers. The car was packed with explosives and two men half disguised as traffic policemen were pushing the vehicle into the convoy. The driver of the rusty old Opel shouted `Allah`, his death knell, and Sergeant Mel Hickey opened fire.

  Chapter Three

  Warrington/ England/ Vigilante

  Two years later a rusty old Volkswagen estate car pulled into a disused car park, not far from the town centre of Warrington. Warrington is a large satellite town close to the cities of Liverpool and Manchester. It is the commercial centre of the North of England. The supermarket that the deserted car park had once serviced had long since ceased trading, and plywood boards covered the windows and doors. The car`s headlights beamed across the dark lot, revealing tall weeds that had grown through the decaying tarmac. He could hear some of the stronger plants thumping against the sills as the car crawled slowly toward the deserted building. The car came to a halt in the space furthest from the road, and closest to the derelict Kwiksave, where the yellow glow of the streetlights couldn’t penetrate. The battered old estate looked at home parked next to the crumbling building, hidden in the shadows. He turned off the engine and it spluttered into silence. A waft of diesel exhaust fumes drifted into the ancient vehicle, and mixed with the cloying smell of petrol that already pervaded through it.

  He twisted slightly in his seat, and looked toward the town centre. A symmetrical line of streetlights snaked off into the distance. To the left, two hundred yards away, was a sportswear warehouse, with a small gymnasium attached to it. There were half a dozen empty cars parked in front of it, their owners were probably still pumping iron inside. On the same side of the road, the dark structure of a concrete multi-storey car park loomed, its interior too dark for his eyes to penetrate. Across the road on the right hand side was a trendy bar called Times Square. The lights inside were burning brightly, and the deep boom of a bass line carried through the chill night air. Apart from two burly bouncers outside the bar, the streets were empty. He studied them for a few minutes, trying to identify them. The two doormen had the customary shaved heads, short black padded bomber jackets, and dark combat trousers. One of them was wearing black gloves, and he was clapping his hands together in an effort to keep his hands warm. The other had high laced Doc Martin boots on, and he was kicking them gently against the wall, to keep the blood flowing into his frozen toes. Even from this distance he could see their breath billowing in the cold air.

  He didn’t recognise them, so they weren`t Brigade men. Most of the pubs and clubs in the town centre were p
rotected by Brigade security personnel, and most of them knew him well. The last thing he needed now was to be recognised. It was going to be hard enough fooling the town centre CCTV cameras, without bumping into acquaintances, who could later become witnesses. He had been running through this plan in his head for months, and had completed one dry run the night before to iron out any snags that he might discover. It had gone smoothly. Time was ticking away for him, and he had to take control of the situation. It had to be done tonight.

  He opened the door and carefully swung his legs out of the vehicle. He knocked something over. A rusty old coke tin clattered across the tarmac. In the dark shadows of the car park it sounded like a thunderclap to him. He held his breath and froze, as if becoming very still would make him invisible. The can stopped against the prickly stem of a tall thistle. He twisted his head round and looked toward the two bouncers. They were oblivious, as the bass lines boomed, drowning everything else out. His heart slowed back to its normal rate, and he breathed deeply to steady his nerves.