by Eric Meyer
In his heart, he knew he'd lost her forever. She'd disappeared for some mysterious reason, and the chances of finding out why were less than the likelihood of winning the State lottery. A mystery, and like most mysteries, impossible to solve. Misha drove at high speed, heading north, and with luck they'd find Waverley and finish what they'd come here to do. Yet for him, it was a defeat. He’d lost the person who meant more to him than anything the world, and he'd be going back to his lonely existence, where his only family was the U.S. Navy, for as long as he was able to keep going. And afterward, nothing.
They entered the city, and yet another battle was raging. Turkish armor rolling in from the north, exchanging shellfire with the outdated and obsolete Free Syrian Army tanks positioned to the south of the city. Shells flew overhead, several exploding nearby, near misses, except for the salvo that exploded in a crowded market. It scattered the people like ninepins, leaving dead and wounded strewn over the once crowded plaza like so many bundles of bloody rags.
They couldn’t stop, as more shells were dropping all around them, and Misha drove on through the rubble. Once, a group of Arabs tried to block their way. They'd barricaded the street with broken furniture from wrecked houses, and were standing in front of it, waving them down. The assault rifles aimed at the Nissan made it clear they didn't intend to check their documents. They could have been FSA, ISIS, or common thieves setting them up for a shakedown. The SEALs curled fingers around triggers and waited for the moment.
The Yazidi began to slow, and the gunmen manning the roadblock appeared to relax. Nolan focused on the immediate situation and worked out how to play it.
“Misha, keep slowing. Let them think we’re stopping. The moment the shooting starts, pedal to the metal, and get us out of here.”
"I may be able to talk to them and get them to allow us through."
"My friend, why do you think they’re stopping us?"
A pause. "I think perhaps to rob us. Maybe we can offer them something."
"That's right, and we will offer them something. Hot lead, and remember what I said. The moment the shooting starts, get us out of here."
Another pause, "Perhaps your way is the best way."
Will chuckled. "Whether or not it's the best way, it'll sure be the quickest."
They slowed even more, and one gunmen moved to the side where he could speak to the driver. Three men remained standing in front of them, and another gunmen moved to the other side. They were boxing them in, and if he'd had any doubts about their intentions, now he had none. He waited, letting them think they had it all. They were driving at no more than five miles an hour, and the gunman on Misha's side was waving his hand up and down, the universal signal to slow down and stop. They were relaxed, seeing the civilians inside a civilian vehicle. Westerners, being chauffeured by a Syrian, which suggested they'd have money. He could almost see them licking their lips, and thanking Allah they had such an easy one.
"Fire."
They brought up their rifles, shoved them through the open windows, and the fingers squeezed the triggers. Simultaneously, Misha jammed his foot on the gas pedal, and the SUV surged forward. They took them down in short bursts, and Nolan felt no mercy for them. At the very least, it was armed robbery, but he suspected any kind of resistance would have resulted in the gunmen opening fire. In this war-torn city, there was a single rule. Dog eat dog, the law of the jungle. He who was quickest on the trigger lived to fight another day.
They went down before any could fire a single shot, filled with disbelief to the very end. They reached the makeshift barrier, and Misha didn't let up. He smashed through, and as they drove past the wreckage, two gunmen appeared, leveling their rifles. They disappeared when more of the barrier crashed down in a welter of broken, splintered wood. They drove on, leaving it behind. Nolan reflected they'd done one small thing to rid the city of the violence that had reduced it to a shattered memory of the once thriving second city of Syria.
They reached the apartment block where Misha's contacts had reported Waverley was staying, and they had a stroke of luck. The Toyota Land Cruiser was parked around the back, and he felt a sense of elation. They were close, very close. All they had to do was enter the building, climb to the sixth floor, and give him the surprise of his life.
Misha switched off the engine. "Wait here. I'll go around the front and see if the place is guarded."
He sauntered around front of the building, and he was away for no more than a few minutes. When he came back, his face was anxious. "There is a problem."
Nolan sighed. "My friend, ever since we've been in this country we've had nothing but problems. What is it this time?"
"ISIS."
"You're kidding me. What's ISIS doing here?"
"Guarding the apartment building. This is their headquarters inside Aleppo. We're in an ISIS area."
"But if that's the case, why is Waverley here?" Ryder snarled, "Surely they'd kill the bastard. I know I want to."
Nolan had worked it out. Of course, the obvious place to hide for a man on the run, with enough money to buy a Manhattan apartment block. ISIS was short of funds to buy arms and ammunition, like the Kurds. But unlike the Kurds, few were prepared to offer their help. A man comes along and offers them a crazy some, maybe even a million dollars, to rent him an apartment on the top floor of their headquarters building, and they're not likely to turn him down. It was the perfect hiding place. He could lay low until he decided the heat was off, and then slink away with his newfound wealth. And if anyone tried to reach him, his butcher friends, the bloody ISIS fighters, would be more than pleased to turn them into mincemeat.
"We have to find a way to get in there. There's nothing else for it, if we want to stop him and get that money back. Misha, how many men would you guess are in there?"
"I saw perhaps a dozen, but they'll be many more inside. I must advise against this. ISIS is a terrible enemy."
"So are we," Will growled, "And the prospect of sending some of those bastards to Paradise is something I find mighty appealing."
"They abuse women," John-Wesley murmured, "And men like that don't deserve to breathe the good clean air of this world."
"I think we're all agreed on how to deal with them, but right now our priority is to get inside that building, without taking on the remains of the Army of the Caliphate. We'll take a look around."
Misha looked aghast. "You don't understand. This area is crawling with ISIS fighters. We're lucky to have got this far, but if you show yourselves, you'll start a fight, and there are too many of them for you to kill. There has to be another way."
Nolan grinned. "He's right. The way we trained, the sneaky way." He looked up at the sky, "I estimate two hours until it starts to get dark. Say three hours to nightfall, and we'll find a way to get inside. Misha, we're too close. Drive us out of the area. We don't want anyone spotting us and strengthening their defenses. We’ll come back after dark."
He drove off, and astonishingly, within five hundred meters, they were out of the ISIS controlled area and entering Kurdish territory. There were no checkpoints, no barricades, and they drove on for another block until he stopped outside what he assured them was a gas station. A gas station like they'd never seen before. First it looked like piles of sandbags, but when he drove inside, there were two gas pumps. The attendant came out and began hand cranking the pump to fill the tank. The Yazidi engaged him in conversation. When he'd finished, he came to the SEALs.
"I said you would pay him. Gasoline is expensive in this city, because it is so dangerous to store it with the constant shellfire."
Nolan took out the last of his cash. "How much?"
It was about half what it would have cost in California. Gas was cheap in Syria, although not so cheap for locals for whom the war had deprived them of everything. They drove out of the gas station, and he took them to a multi-story parking lot, only partially damaged by shellfire. Two men stood guard at the entrance with assault rifles, but when they saw him, they
relaxed.
"It's okay. The union has hired these men, and they keep this place safe for the local cab drivers. We can park on the roof, and we should be able to see the apartment block."
They reached the top, the fifth floor, and they did indeed have a spectacular view over the city. A place once magnificent, a mixture of stylish old architecture and gleaming new, functional buildings; now it looked like it had been hit by several squadrons of B-52s. Three blocks away, they saw the target building, slightly higher than the parking lot. And this time, there’d be no shinning up a downpipe to reach the roof. A number of fighters were pacing up and down the flat roof. Somehow they’d managed to winch a heavy machine gun up there, a Soviet era single barrel ZSU Model 23 anti-aircraft gun. A guy was sitting in the gunner’s seat, eyes roaming the sky, searching for enemy aircraft. From time to time he’d look down to the street, in case of any attack on the front of the building, and then he’d rotate the weapon on its base to sweep the other outlying areas.
“That’s one big gun,” Zeke murmured, “I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of that muzzle. Going in by the roof is out. There must be at least ten guys on guard up there. The front way is out. They’d chew us up and spit us out before we got close.”
“What about the back way?”
Misha looked at Nolan and shook his head. “They bricked up the rear entrance.”
“Windows?”
“Bricked up on the first floor, and strong steel bars on the rest of them. They take their security seriously. It’s impossible to get inside that building without them seeing you. You’d need a small army to take it.”
Something pricked at the back of his mind. “A small army, is that what you said?”
He nodded. “At least fifty men, and a hundred would be better. You don’t stand a chance.”
“Misha, you’re a genius?”
He stared at Nolan in surprise. “A genius?”
“Yep, that’s what you are. You just told us how to get inside. A small army.”
“We don’t have a small army,” Will objected.
“No, but the Kurds have. If we talk to them, and explain what’s at stake, they’re sure to help us. After all, it’s their cash inside that place. Misha, take us to the Kurdish controlled area.”
“This is the Kurdish controlled area. It’s the safest part of Aleppo.”
He nodded. “In which case, take us to their leaders. We need to talk.”
Misha was gone for an hour, and when he returned he wasn't alone. Four men were with him. Three looked young and tough, and they carried an assortment of assault rifles, an AKM, an M-16, and surprisingly, an HK 417. Each had bandoliers draped around their bodies, filled with pouches for spare magazines, and carried a pistol and open holster on his belt. The fourth man, much older, lined and wrinkled, was unarmed. He was thin and wiry, his eyes filled with intelligence. First glance, he didn't look any different to other elderly civilians inside Aleppo. On second glance, ignoring the non-descript clothing he wore, it was obvious he was more than a regular Joe. He looked at the SEALs, sizing them up, and correctly approached Nolan.
"My name is Abdul Karim, and I am in command of this sector. Tell me what you want."
After a brief pause, he made up his mind. He'd asked for this meeting, and he had to trust Misha had brought the right people. He hadn’t let them down yet.
"We want to make you rich."
The stern, serious face relaxed, and he smiled. "I don't have time to waste with any nonsense of fairytales. Tell me what you want."
"I'm serious. The United States government sent a large sum in cash to support your people. The man supposed to deliver it to you stole it, and now he's back here in Aleppo. We need your help to get the money back. As soon as we have it, it's yours. Every cent."
He nodded thoughtfully and spoke rapidly to the other three men. He turned Nolan.
"We have been waiting for this money. Our people are desperate. If we don't get it soon, our cause is lost, and many of our people will die. You're certain you know where it is?"
"Yes. It's on the top floor of the ISIS headquarters."
He had the serious look of a man who'd been through a lot in his life and seen everything. How could he be anything else, having endured years of warfare at the hands of numerous enemies? A man who was impossible to shock; he was shocked.
"Is this another of your jokes?"
"No joke. The guy who stole the money is on the top floor, and my guess is he paid a lot of money for protection."
"By ISIS, yes. And so you want us to assault this building, and lose many men in the process, to recover the money. That is a poisoned chalice indeed, American."
"We want your help, that's all. We'll spearhead the assault, but we need plenty of men to back this up."
"You will lead the assault? Do you know what you're up against?"
"We have a pretty good idea, sure. We'll be going in tonight, around 01.00, with or without you. What do you have to say?"
"And the money is ours?"
"All of it."
He held out a hand. "Then we have a deal. Tell me about your plan."
He'd been thinking about how they'd pull it off, ever since Misha went to find the Kurds. There were two ways in, by the front door, which was heavily guarded, or by the roof, which was also heavily guarded. It had to be the roof. If they brought that ZSU machine gun into action, they'd murder the attacking Kurds, who he was counting on to create a diversion.
"We'll assault the roof, while your men stay behind cover and attack the front. Once we've secured the roof, and made sure they can't use the anti-aircraft gun on your troops, you can come in through the front way. Once you're inside, and provided you have enough men, you can work your way through the building, starting on the first floor and flushing them out room by room until you reach the top. Our guy, and your money, is in an apartment on the sixth floor, the top. When your attack goes in, he'll be looking for hostiles coming at him from below. Which means we'll be able to take him from above. There's always a possibility he'll appear on the roof and try to escape that way. We’ll be waiting for him. When it's all over, you'll have cleared out a nest of ISIS scum and recovered the money that rightfully belongs to you."
He gave him a warm smile. "We will be there. I can bring one hundred men, all of them armed, and I'll make sure they have whatever ammunition we can find. Bullets are in short supply at present, but for this operation, we will use every single round we can lay our hands on. If we fail, it won't matter. But if we win, we will have all the bullets we can buy with this money generously provided by your government."
They planned for the attack. The Kurds would hit them from the front, keeping inside the buildings surrounding the ISIS headquarters, away from the defenders’ gunfire. Especially the heavy machine gun mounted on the roof. When the bullets started to fly, the SEALs would get to the roof, hopefully unnoticed because of the furor going on at the front.
They left shortly afterward, agreeing to be in possession by 00.30. "We will open fire at 01.00 exactly. After that," he shrugged, "It is in God's hands."
Nolan was thinking it would be in the hands of the Navy SEALs and their Kurdish allies. But these people had definite ideas about religion, and this wasn't the time to start the debate. Debates about religion in the Middle East, especially when they involved Islam, generally came to violence; and frequently death, tens of thousands of deaths, all in the name of the Religion of Peace.
They left, and all they could do was wait. He was thinking about the climb up to that roof, and whoever had installed the security precautions had made a fundamental mistake. The bars on the windows would surely prevent anyone gaining access that way. But they were also perfect handholds for anyone wishing to reach the roof. Climbing from one window to the next, the bars would offer the climber as much support as a stepladder. They made final checks of their weapons, and all that was missing was bullets. He was down to the magazine in his AKSU, with eleven bullets and o
ne spare. The others were in a similar situation.
"When we reach that roof, we have to go in hard and fast."
Will chuckled. "Don't we always?"
"Not when there's a heavy caliber anti-aircraft gun thrown into the mix, no. This time, it'll be different. Ten men up there, maybe twelve, and that machine gun. The Kurds will be attacking, and they'll be on edge. Watching the front sure, but it only needs one man to look behind, and we're screwed. We don't have many bullets, so a stand-up battle is out of the question. Make every shot count. Pick a target, and don't miss."
"What about you?" Ryder asked.
He'd picked the most dangerous task, and it would require him to run like an Olympic sprinter across that rooftop, which by then would be crisscrossed with gunfire from both directions. Take down the machine gunner, and if by a stroke of bad luck he was in process of rotating the barrel, searching for targets elsewhere in the city, he'd be torn apart by enough lead to sink a small dinghy.
"One man isn't enough," Ryder objected, "You know what I'm saying, Boss. That's one risk too far."
"It'll take the rest of you to deal with the ISIS fighters. There's no argument. That's the way it's going to be. Like I said, choose your targets, and don't miss. Let's go."
They left Misha behind with the Nissan while they crept toward the target. The city was in total darkness, with no electricity, apart from the glow from the occasional oil lamp inside someone's home. Several times they passed shadowy figures, but by some unspoken agreement, they didn't shoot. They couldn't have been ISIS. ISIS had a certain reputation. They regarded murder as a religious obligation.
He checked his watch. 00.40, and it was quiet. The building was in front of them, with a few lights showing from inside. There were no patrols, and he took a chance and ran forward. Took a flying leap at the bars on the second floor window and pulled himself up. The room inside was empty, and he was able to climb further and reach up to the third floor window. He reached it, and the other men were already suspended below, climbing fast. He went up to the fourth floor window, and it was no harder than climbing monkey bars. No patrols around the exterior of the building; that was plain stupid. An amateur’s mistake, and then he paused. Footsteps. They weren’t amateurs. Two men were strolling around the building, almost invisible in their jet-black pants and shirts, ski masks and black sneakers. They were talking softly, confident they were alone. The SEALs were suspended like flies on a wall, hanging onto the bars, not daring to move.
