by Isaac Hooke
"Thank you for turning that pig shit off!"
Ethan turned the volume low so that he could listen to any relevant updates, then he slunk to the northern gate and carefully scanned the outlying street with the A4. The 4x magnification of the RCO scope was much better suited to an urban environment than the 10x on Beast.
When he was convinced the way was clear, he dashed to the safety of the alleyway across the road. He emerged and headed west, keeping close to the buildings, wondering if William and Aaron had taken the same route.
The sky between the buildings ignited as a mortar ominously struck nearby.
He reached an intersection. The second-story window of a house to the south lit up with the muzzle flashes of DShK fire. On a rooftop a block away to the west, the shimmer of another heavy machine gun answered it. He aimed the scope of his A4 toward that rooftop, and in the green-black environment illuminated by the starlight he saw what appeared to be eastern-facing sandbags. If he was right, that was a Kurdish defensive position.
Almost there.
Ethan darted across the street; as he closed with the defensive position, machine gun fire abruptly whipped past just beside him. He dropped, low-crawling behind a broken fence.
He rose to a crouch, keeping his flank pressed to the cinder block fence. He thought it was the Kurds who were firing at him, so he shouted in English, "I'm American! I surrender! I want to cross to the Kurdish lines! I am friends with Black Mamba!"
The two-way radio squawked to life with the Arabic voice of an Islamic State militant. "I've found another deserter trying to defect to the yellow-faces!"
Whoops.
Stone chips flew into his face as mujahadeen fired from somewhere to the east. Those bullets traced a path along the wall toward his head...
He spun away, diving into an open door; inside, he got up and hurried through the foyer at a crouch, worried that he might trigger a booby trap—the moment that thought entered his mind, he banged his hip against an unseen counter in the dark. Not a booby trap, but certainly painful.
He heard shouts outside. "He's in there! Use the rockets!"
Ethan sprinted to the far side of the home and leaped out the shattered rear window, landing in the small courtyard beyond. He felt a shockwave rip past as the room he'd vacated only moments before exploded.
He sprinted through the yard, pulling himself over a chest-high cinder block fence.
Gunfire whizzed past from his right.
Ethan dove behind some rubble situated in the middle of the road. No, not rubble. It was an upturned Jersey barrier, barely high enough to shield him. The Dragunov dug into his arm below him. He turned onto his back, flattening himself, and slid the rifle down. He let off a few random shots at his opponents without looking over the barricade, then discarded the Dragunov when the magazine emptied.
More shots came in. Bullets ricocheted from the barrier above him, sprinkling his temple with slivers of concrete. He was pinned worse than ever. The tiny barricade might protect him from gunfire—at least until the militants outflanked him—but it certainly wouldn't save him from a rocket or grenade attack.
He was done.
41
"I'm with you, my brothers," Ethan shouted in Arabic. "I fight the yellow-faces!"
But the militants kept firing.
As he lay there on his back beside the barricade, he found his gaze drawn inexplicably to the stars. The quarter moon had broken free by then. So beautiful.
More cement broke away as bullets pounded the Jersey barrier. It would be so easy to give up. To let them outflank him and fire their rockets while he just lay there, doing nothing, staring at the moon one last time before he died.
A voice growled at the back of his mind in protest. It spoke a quote from Winston Churchill that had helped Ethan endure SEAL training, a quote he'd always kept close to heart.
Never give in—never, never, never, never. If you're going through hell, keep going.
Well, if ever he was in hell, it was then.
Keep going.
Staying low, he surveyed his surroundings in the quarter moonlight. There was a single-story shop to his left. Five meters away. The front door was invitingly open.
He could make it.
He would.
The incoming gunfire momentarily ceased. He heard the militants calling out instructions to one another from opposite sides of the street. It sounded like they were preparing to outflank him.
He switched the A4 fire selector to burst mode, then pivoted so that he lay face down behind the Jersey barrier. He brought his knees forward as far as he could without exposing the rest of his body, took two deep breaths, then lifted the muzzle of the A4 over the barricade and unleashed two separate bursts without aiming.
He pressed the assault rifle into the barrier and, using it as leverage, clambered to his feet. He sprinted toward the shop, firing off two more bursts, spray-and-pray style, to his left.
Return gunfire echoed in the night and bullets whipped past. He felt a rude poke in his left bicep and knew he'd been shot. He dove into the ruined shop, landing prostrate on the floor.
By then his left bicep was pulsing with an excruciating, burning pain. He had hoped the distraction of battle would lessen the agony, but no such luck: it felt like a steaming hot carving knife had been driven into the muscle, and some cruel torturer was twisting it, cutting into the tendons, fascia, and bone. It was an illusion, of course. The pain was the aftereffect of the round passing clean through the head of the muscle, and his subsequent attempts to move the arm. It was fortunate the bullet hadn't deflected into his torso, as the protection from the Kevlar vest was dubious at best.
Hot blood drizzled down his forearm from the entry and exit wounds. The lesions were located conveniently below the Quick Cuff. Ducking behind a table, he dropped the A4 and opened the cuff's velcro attachment, quickly retightening it to stanch the bleeding.
He scooped up the A4, stumbled to his feet, and made for the rear of the building. He spotted the silhouettes of several men beyond the windows there. Surrounded. He steered toward the open trapdoor in the ceiling instead, where the moon beckoned invitingly. The roof would prove a more defensible position.
Left arm dangling uselessly, Ethan started up the stairs but tripped halfway. Instinctively he tried to extend his injured limb to cushion the fall, sending a jolt of pain through the muscle; he smashed into the stairs, only worsening the excruciation. Beast, hanging from his left shoulder, dug into the tissue.
With his right arm, he braced his other rifle—the A4—against the steps, and forced himself up. He heard shouts outside.
"He's on the roof!" came the Arabic words.
He heard the characteristic tumble of a fragmentation grenade on the rooftop above.
Ethan was far enough from the trapdoor to consider himself safe, so he chose to stay on the stairs. He swiveled to face the foyer, lay back against the steps, and balanced the A4 on his chest while he set the fire selector to semi-automatic. Then he raised the rifle awkwardly with his good hand, pointing the muzzle toward the main door across from him.
An explosion rocked the ceiling as the grenade detonated, sending a blast of displaced air down through the trapdoor.
Ethan scarcely batted an eye. He kept his rifle arm extended, leaving a slight crook in the elbow. He tried hard to maintain a pistol grip of sorts on the A4, with a straight wrist so the force of the recoil would transfer into his arm rather than the joint. The unbalanced weight was difficult to sustain, however, and he found himself using his right leg to help support the barrel.
The silhouette of a crouching man appeared in the doorway.
Ethan centered the muzzle on the muj's torso and fired one-handed. The trigger guard banged against his fingers and he felt the recoil energy transmit into his elbow, but he hit the target.
The man dropped like a fly.
A grenade bounced inside. Ethan hauled himself to his feet and raced through the hole in the ceiling. The bom
b detonated, sending a fireball through the trapdoor behind him.
He low-crawled westward, toward the side street, and peered over. Militants milled below. Ethan immediately ducked.
He heard movement in the room below.
Staying prostrate, he spun around and aimed the A4 toward the trapdoor.
So this is the end, he thought. Surrounded by mujahadeen, going down in a blaze of glory.
There were worse fates. He was doing what he was born to do. Fighting on the side of good against radicals who sought to destroy the world. This was the good fight.
The best fight.
The sound of artillery fire ripped through the air. Bright threads of light drew his attention to the side street. In the distance, from the Kurdish lines, a pickup truck roared over the potholes. A ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft gun was mounted in its bed, and it fired directly into the militants who had him surrounded.
Another technical advanced from a parallel road, also from the Kurdish positions. It too unleashed havoc with a ZU. Ethan flattened himself, knowing how notoriously inaccurate the weapon could be when fired from a moving vehicle.
The gurgled screams of mujahadeen filled the air as the 23mm shells tore through them at a firing rate of over four hundred rounds per minute. The rooftop shook as some of the rounds collided with the side of the building.
The first pickup surged past and Ethan heard the screech of braking tires, followed by a loud crash. He thought the vehicle had plowed into the upended Jersey barrier.
The second technical pulled up behind it, judging from the sound.
Their anti-aircraft guns continued firing sporadically.
Ethan heard the burst of an AK-47 downstairs, followed by a single rifle report from the street. Another AK salvo. Another rifle crack. He kept his A4 aimed at the hole in the rooftop.
The exchange continued for about half a minute, with the rifle reports sounding successively closer. Then the stairs creaked below.
Ethan held his A4 steady on the trapdoor...
A head appeared; before he fired, a familiar voice bellowed: "Death Adder coming up!"
Ethan slumped. "Damn it, Wil, I almost popped your head off."
William climbed onto the rooftop. "I've been trying to message you."
"Phone's dead. How the hell did you find me?"
William ignored the question. "Can you walk?"
"Yeah. It's the arm that's busted."
William helped him to his feet, though he accidentally wrapped a hand around Ethan's injured bicep in the process and he nearly blacked out. "Sorry."
William led him downstairs. "As to how we found you, we've been listening in on the radio chatter, but we also had one of the Predators zoom in on the neighborhood. Wasn't hard to pinpoint your location—we just looked for the biggest firefight in the area."
Ethan emerged from the shop, feeling like he was walking in some sort of dream. He was vaguely aware that the pickup, a battered and muddy Kia 4000S, had turned around. In the truck bed a Kurd manned the anti-aircraft gun, guarding their rear, releasing 23mm bursts down the street every few seconds.
William led Ethan around the front and opened the passenger side. Ethan lethargically hauled himself into the seat with one hand. William squeezed in beside him and shut the door.
Ethan wasn't sure in the dim light, but he thought the driver was Doug.
"How's it hanging?" Definitely Doug. He floored the accelerator, sending the Kia leaping forward.
Ethan was too stunned, and too battle-weary, to speak. The adrenaline hangover and the throbbing pain in his bicep didn't help matters. Only moments ago he had come to terms with his own death. But he was going to live. He was actually going to live.
"We would have come sooner," William said. "But the damn Kurds made Aaron and I undress when we reached the front lines. They thought we carried suicide bombs, even though Doug told them we were on their side. Aaron couldn't fully undress because of the leg wound, and when the Kurds realized how badly he was injured they finally let us through."
"The bastards can be a little hard-headed at times," Doug admitted, swerving around a blast crater. "But they're fierce fighters."
The pickup jolted savagely over a series of potholes. The Kurd in the truck bed continued to fire the ZU in controlled, likely inaccurate, bursts.
"How's Aaron?" Ethan asked finally.
"Safe," William replied. "He's got a Kurdish surgeon attending him. One of the best, apparently. He's going to be fine. Like you, Ethan." William wrapped a brotherly arm around his neck. "You made it. We all did."
DOUG AND WILLIAM brought Ethan across Kurdish lines, eventually dropping him off at a courtyard set among a ring of mostly intact apartment buildings. The area apparently served as some kind of command and control center.
Ethan sat on a Jersey barrier by a campfire as a Kurdish corpsman cleaned the wounds on his bicep. The corpsman didn't suture either puncture, instead leaving them open to drain—after he was done cleaning, he applied a field dressing and removed the Quick Cuff.
Ethan drank the water the man provided him, and sipped soup from a cup. He rested for a moment, and listened to the distant sounds of battle that periodically disturbed the night. He was feeling better, thanks to the analgesic the corpsman had given him, but also incredibly drowsy. He drank a Red Bull someone offered, and that helped perk him up.
On the Jersey barriers around him sat other Kurdish fighters, their faces subdued. They looked identical, feature-wise, to their Islamic State equivalents, though their skin was slightly more olive than other Arabs, and none of them wore beards. Also, the fervent, knowing look common to the mujahadeen was not present among any of them, though a few possessed haunted expressions. One fighter was a woman.
Some of the men spoke quietly among themselves, obviously about Ethan, judging from their sidelong glances. Unfortunately he didn't understand Kurdish, so he had no idea what they were saying.
One of the Kurds raised his voice, gazing right at Ethan as he spoke.
The corpsman translated in broken English: "He says you look strange for an American."
Ethan studied the Kurd. He was an older man, gaunt and bent. Crow's nests lined his eyes, sharp ridges climbed his forehead. He looked like a street vendor. Probably had been, before the war.
"For missions like this," Ethan said. "They want Americans who look strange. That way we fit right in."
The older man spoke again and the corpsman translated. "The battle emir says if he met you in the field, he would mistake you for Islamic State scum and shoot you down."
Ethan bared his teeth in a smile. "Tell your battle emir he could certainly try."
The corpsman translated, and the battle emir erupted in a hearty guffaw.
Ethan was about to stand, as he was eager to check on Aaron, when Doug arrived.
"I have someone here who would like to meet you," Doug said.
The operative stepped aside and Ethan felt his heart quicken.
It was her. He'd recognize those penetrating blue eyes and that breathtaking face anywhere.
Alzena wore a hijab without the veil, but instead of an abaya, she had on desert digital combat fatigues. She also carried an assault rifle slung over one shoulder. An M16A4 in fact.
"You're a soldier now?" Ethan said in disbelief, reverting to Arabic.
She shrugged, taking her place on the Jersey barrier beside him. "You thought I would flee my country without a fight?"
Ethan considered her words, then grinned. "Yeah."
She frowned. "You don't know me."
Ethan became serious, and nodded slowly. "No, I don't."
The other woman at the campfire asked Alzena something in Kurdish; Alzena looked abashed for a moment, then answered in the language. The other woman grinned mischievously.
Ethan felt one of his eyebrows rise in disbelief. "You're Kurdish?"
"Half Kurdish," Alzena corrected him. "On my mother's side."
"Interesting."
"Like I sa
id, you don't know me."
Ethan stared at the campfire.
"So, here we are," he said into the uncomfortable silence that followed.
"Here we are," she agreed.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her raise a hesitant hand, lifting it toward him, but then she pulled it back. She tried again a moment later, this time seeming surer of herself, and rested a palm over his knuckles.
Ethan gazed into the pools of her deep, sapphire eyes; he wasn't entirely sure if the flickers he saw there were reflections from the flames, or her own fiery spirit.
"Fight for us," Alzena said.
Ethan looked away, exhaling deeply. "I already have." He slid his hand out from under hers and wrapped it around the stock of the M24 beside him. The feel of the fiberglass and carbon-fiber reinforced polymer foam comforted him.
"Fight for us," she repeated.
Ethan felt the ground rumble as a stray mortar landed beyond the ring of apartments. "I fight where I'm needed."
"You are needed here," she said firmly.
He pressed his lips together. "Here."
He glanced at the others around the campfire. Kurdish refugees turned soldiers. Muddy faces. Dirty fatigues. Haunted eyes.
They stood against ruthless oppressors who wished to thrust a radical interpretation of a peaceful religion upon them. They needed training. They needed guidance.
They needed hope.
Ethan's fingers involuntarily tightened around Beast, and then he released the weapon entirely.
He met Alzena's gaze.
"I'm only staying for the baklavas," he said.
She grinned. "What about the fatteh?"
"And the fatteh," Ethan agreed. "Can't forget the fatteh."
She launched herself at him. Her hug seemed stronger than any embrace he had ever felt before.
Staring into the flames, Ethan held her with equal fervor. Another shell exploded in the distance.
I am needed here.
A COLD DAY IN MOSUL
ETHAN GALAAL BOOK TWO
