The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  There were lots of hiding places out there. Too many.

  "On your three," Ethan announced, pointing out a sniper on the rooftop of a partially collapsed outbuilding to the right.

  "And your nine," Doug said. "On the tanker."

  Ethan glanced to his left. Sure enough, an assault rifle poked from the upper walkway of the long cylindrical tank there.

  "On a scale of one to ten," Doug announced. "My spidey sense is registering a five."

  "A five?" Ethan said. "Mine's more like an eight."

  "If they wanted to kill us, they would've launched an RPG the moment we pulled up."

  "Maybe." Ethan forced a smile. "Or it could be that they simply want to torture the hell out of us first."

  Ethan stopped the vehicle in front of the large warehouse the refinery had been built around—a long, rectangular two-story affair.

  "Let's get this over with, shall we?" Ethan said.

  The two of them exited the Land Cruiser, retrieving the weapons and associated magazines from the floor cache. Ethan secured the provided holster to his ankle and shoved the Glock subcompact inside, then slid the strap of the A4 snugly over one shoulder.

  He locked the doors and proceeded toward the main building with Doug.

  The air felt cool, though he was sweating underneath his layered clothing. He studied the long, gray building. Some of the nearby towers had fallen onto the structure, caving in portions of it, potentially offering alternate methods of egress should they need it.

  The pair climbed four concrete steps and opened the blue-painted metal door that led inside. The environment was relatively well lit within: the far wall had collapsed at some point, allowing the sunlight to illuminate much of the area.

  Tall, steel shelves filled with empty wooden pallets divided the interior into long sections. Metal towers that had broken through the structure had collapsed several shelves in a row on either side like dominoes. The areas immediately surrounding the fallen units lay in shadow. A flatbed trolley sat in one corner. An old forklift the other.

  Doug walked toward the shadows. "Salaam," he said, extending his arms, palms up.

  No answer came.

  "Salaam!" Doug tried again, louder.

  Still nothing.

  "Why don't they show themselves?" Ethan said. "It's not like they don't know we're here."

  On cue, several men emerged from the shadows. They were dressed in desert fatigues and caps, with contrasting black balaclavas covering their faces so that only their eyes and mouths showed.

  The two operatives raised their hands in surrender as the men surrounded them. Ethan counted twenty masked opponents, each pointing an AK at either himself or Doug. The encircling aggressors had spaced themselves perfectly, so that no one stood in the crossfire of anyone else.

  "Salaam?" Doug tried again, weakly.

  7

  Ethan heard footsteps echo from deeper inside the warehouse; he turned toward their source, and in moments another fighter emerged from the shadows. Like the others, he wore light desert fatigues. His matching cap was pulled low over his brow, but his face was otherwise uncovered: a hooked nose complemented rather small, round eyes, giving him a slightly avian look. His cheeks were hollow and his skin wan, as if he suffered some illness. He had a star-like discoloration above his right jawline—a shrapnel scar, Ethan thought.

  The fighters parted to let the newcomer into the circle.

  "Emad," Doug said, using one of Ethan's aliases. "Meet the leader of Liwa Al Mosul, Abu Othunan." The former meant The Mosul Brigade. The latter, Brother Ears.

  The resistance was organized into a series of cells, some of which operated out of Kurdistan. Ten of these cells, including The Mosul Brigade, had joined forces to form the Mosul Liberation Council. The individual factions were responsible for a rash of attacks against the Islamic State, including several IED and bomb blasts. They also randomly kidnapped mujahadeen from the streets—the mutilated bodies of the militants would be found floating in the Tigris a few days later. The biggest cell was the Free Officers Movement, with The Mosul Brigade coming in a close second.

  Othunan regarded them appraisingly. Ethan saw intelligence in his eyes, and cunning. And something else he couldn't quite place. Contempt?

  "You are the Amrika infidels?" The incredulity sounded thick in his voice. Othunan spoke in a heavy Iraqi dialect that Ethan found difficult to understand.

  Doug nodded. "That would be us."

  "What, infidels?" Othunan said. "Speak up!"

  Doug repeated his answer, louder.

  "For special operatives you look rather... ordinary," Othunan said. "Though I suppose that is the idea. Still, you let us surround you. What if this had been an Islamic State trap? You would be captured or dead. Not so special after all. I see now why the woman you seek was lost. If she displayed the same blatant lack of tradecraft as yourselves, it is entirely unsurprising."

  "Look down," Doug said simply.

  Puzzled, Othunan glanced between his feet. Some of the surrounding men gasped.

  "At your chest," Doug clarified.

  Finally Othunan saw the red dot that had drifted onto his body only moments before. His gaze shot upward, toward the nearby metal shelves, and his eyes widened. Ethan didn't need to look to know that William was perched there. The operative had likely entered via one of the gaps in the ceiling where a fallen tower had torn through the rooftop.

  Othunan erupted in uproarious laughter. "Very good. For a moment I thought I would have to go home disappointed." Smiling widely, as if it were all some grand joke, Othunan made a put-down gesture with his hand. The masked individuals around Ethan lowered their AKs.

  The red dot left Othunan's chest an instant later.

  Ethan and Doug abandoned their postures of surrender and allowed their arms to hang loosely at their sides; Ethan casually rested his right hand close to the trigger of his A4.

  Othunan stepped between the two of them. "Come, walk with me, and we shall commence business. Unless you have come to Iraq merely for the masgûf?"

  "While we certainly have a taste for masgûf," Doug said. "I'm afraid we haven't come to your country for the fish."

  Ethan and Doug walked on either side of Othunan. Two fighters followed at a discreet distance, while the remaining resistance members dispersed, some vanishing into the shadows, others assuming various guard positions throughout the warehouse and its entrance. Several watched William.

  "This woman you seek, she is one of your agents?" Othunan asked.

  "Something like that," Doug said.

  Othunan tapped his lips. "And you want our help finding her."

  "I always knew you were a clever man." There was only a hint of sarcasm in Doug's voice.

  Othunan frowned. "My troops are ill-equipped. Before I can help you I need supplies. Arms."

  "You will have them," Doug said.

  "Modern weapons," Othunan said. "Not more AK-47s. I want M16s. With laser sights. And night vision scopes."

  "Of course," Doug said.

  "And plated armor. And grenades. Yes, rocket propelled grenades. Oh, and I also want target designators. To direct airstrikes."

  Doug shook his head. "Can't give you designators. They're beyond the scope of this operation."

  "But we need airstrikes," Othunan said stubbornly. "Think beyond your little operation... if we are to push the Islamic State from this city, we must bomb them to hell. Like Kobane and Sinjar."

  "Kobane is in ruins now because of those airstrikes you covet so badly," Doug said. "And Sinjar is well on its way to the same fate."

  Othunan threw up his arms. "The West encourages us to fight and rise up against the illegal Caliphate, and yet it refuses to grant the supplies, training, and airstrikes we need! And don't even get me started on the useless Iraqi army. We have waited for them to arrive for months. Months!"

  "You're forgetting the goals of this operation," Doug said. "I don't give a rat's ass about the liberation of Mosul. I really don't
. It would be nice, sure, but in the overall scheme of things it really is an internal Iraqi matter. All I care about is getting my operative back. I can give you supplies, and arms, but no airstrikes. Can I rely on you for help, or not?"

  Othunan opened and closed his fists for several seconds, apparently fuming inside. But finally he seemed to relax. "Yes, I can help. But if I am to work for the American government, I will require a monthly fee."

  Doug compressed his lips. "I think I can arrange something."

  "I want three hundred thousand US dollars. Per month."

  Doug stared at Othunan for several seconds.

  "This is bullshit," Doug abruptly announced in English, then made a beeline for the warehouse exit. "Let's go, Emad. We've made a mistake."

  Othunan stared wide-eyed at Doug's back.

  Ethan didn't move. He regarded the resistance leader thoughtfully. He'd dealt with men like Othunan before. He was simply another war opportunist looking to cash in on the chaos and uncertainty brought about by the occupation; he had no intention of making any real difference. Sure, he'd performed a few attacks against the Islamic State, random strikes meant to draw Western attention and funding. Or maybe he just wanted to grandstand. Either way, his endgame was likely some position of power in post-Islamic State Iraq.

  "Now you deal with me," Ethan told the resistance leader.

  "I do not speak with underlings." Othunan started to turn away.

  "Don't you move!" Ethan said angrily.

  Othunan froze.

  "I'm not an underling." Ethan glanced over his shoulder. He knew that William had been silently shadowing them, moving from shelf to shelf as well as he was able, because the resistance fighters assigned to watch him had moved, too. So he raised his voice, and said, "Put Othunan in your sights."

  The red dot returned to Othunan's chest. Ethan raised his A4, adding the threat of his own weapon to the mix.

  The two escorting resistance fighters immediately lifted their AKs; one aimed at Ethan, the other William. Ethan didn't flinch. Other men emerged from the shadows and clumsily repositioned themselves, placing one or the other operative within their sight lines.

  Ethan smiled patiently.

  "Are you all in position?" Ethan asked the resistance fighters. No one answered. "Good." He returned his attention to their leader. "How much is your life worth to you, Othunan? Ten thousand US dollars? Twenty thousand? Three hundred thousand, perchance?"

  Othunan regarded him with a glower. "Three hundred thousand, at least."

  Ethan tapped his chin. "Three hundred thousand US dollars. Seems reasonable. Tell you what I'll do. You agree to help us for one month, just one whole month, and I give you your life. Seems a fair exchange."

  "If you shoot me," Othunan said. "My men will mow you down an instant later."

  "They can certainly try," Ethan said menacingly.

  "You won't shoot me," Othunan persisted. "You need my help."

  "Do we really?" Ethan said. "We would like your help, but that's way different than needing your help. Trust me, we're very capable of finding and springing her on our own if we have to."

  That was somewhat of a bluff, as Ethan knew it would take a lot less time to find her with a hundred men watching the comings and goings of the Islamic State as opposed to three. Plus, the compound where Sam was held would likely be well defended. The more men able to provide backup, the better.

  Othunan worked his jaw, but said nothing.

  Ethan softened his expression. "Look." The word came out as a half sigh. "We'll give you a monthly stipend. Okay? But it'll be more like three thousand, not three hundred thousand. And if you do well, we might even double it. Do spectacularly, and we'll triple it. Now agree, damn it, so my sniper and I can lower our rifles. Agree."

  Othunan clenched his jaw, probably trying to pretend he was angry, but Ethan wasn't buying it. He could see those beady little eyes calculating all the things that could be purchased for three thousand dollars a month.

  "Six thousand," Othunan said.

  "Three," Ethan returned instantly.

  The resistance leader glanced up at William again and licked his lips nervously. "Four thousand—"

  "Three," Ethan interrupted. "Take it or leave it."

  Othunan must have realized he wasn't going to get a better offer than that, because he said, "I agree to your terms."

  "Good," Ethan told the resistance leader. "But one thing." He stepped right up to the man from the side, staying out of William's shot. "How do we know we can trust you? What's the Islamic State to you? Why do you fight them?"

  Ethan wasn't sure what he wanted to hear. He'd already concluded that the man did it solely for the potential money and prestige, rather than out of any sense of obligation to his people, so it took him by surprise when Othunan lifted the cap he wore low on his brow, revealing an ugly horizontal scar branded into his forehead. His ears had been cut off, too.

  It was a punishment the Saddamists had instituted upon draft dodgers and deserters after the First Gulf War.

  "The Islamic State, and those they are descended from, will always be my enemies," Othunan said. He replaced the cap angrily.

  "Perhaps I misjudged you," Ethan said quietly. He stepped back, and pointed the barrel of his A4 at the floor. "Lower the rifle, William."

  The laser dot left Othunan's chest. The man maintained his defiant posture as he told his fighters: "Stand down."

  Ethan discovered Doug pacing back and forth outside.

  "This is one of those times when I wish I hadn't given up dipping tobacco," Doug complained. He proceeded to describe all the things he planned to do to Othunan, none of them very nice.

  Ethan raised a hand, interrupting him. "You might want to go back inside. I think you'll find him more amenable."

  "What did you do?"

  Ethan shrugged. "Nothing. Your little walkout had the desired effect."

  "Well, there you go," Doug said proudly. "That's a free negotiation lesson for you from the master. Never be afraid to walk away."

  Ethan smiled widely. "A useful lesson indeed."

  8

  After sealing the deal, the three of them left the abandoned refinery behind. After only a minute of driving that deserted street, an Islamic State technical approached in the oncoming lane. It swerved in front of them and cut the Land Cruiser off.

  "Open up the map," Ethan said urgently. He unclipped his phone from the dash and hid it in a pocket. He didn't want the militants to know he had a working GPS.

  From the storage compartment in the center console, Doug grabbed the street map of Mosul they'd brought along, and opened it.

  A young, bearded militant emerged from the passenger side of the pickup and, carrying his AK menacingly, approached the Land Cruiser.

  "What are you doing in this area?" the militant asked Ethan sternly. He was a local, judging from the accent.

  "We're lost?" Ethan said, keenly aware of the rifles hidden underneath the cloth blankets on the floor behind him.

  The militant looked inside the vehicle and regarded the other passengers, who were doing their best to appear meek and docile. When the militant noticed the map in Doug's lap, he pursed his lips. "Your IDs."

  The militant raised an eyebrow when Ethan produced the passports.

  "You are not from Mosul?" the young man said.

  "No, we're visiting relatives."

  "If you are going to stay longer than three days, you must report to one of the Dawla"—State—"administration offices. They will get you a proper ID."

  "No one told us this," Ethan said.

  "Well I'm telling you." The militant quickly perused the photo pages, then handed the passports back. He surveyed the street around them. "This is a dangerous area. Bandits, Kurds, and other enemies of Islam sometimes hide in these buildings. It is not safe."

  Ethan nodded toward the map. "Can you point us toward the nearest main road?"

  "I can do better. I can lead you."

  And so the
technical led them through the neighborhood. Ethan followed closely; the militant in the truck bed scanned the sky constantly, his anti-aircraft gun ready to fire at any airborne targets. It was a futile effort, Ethan knew, given that most of the allied bombers would be flying well out of range.

  The technical emerged into a more populated area, and Ethan waved his thanks to the mujahadeen before pulling over to the side of the road as if to further consult his map.

  When the pickup vanished down the street, he had Doug put the map away, then he clipped his phone to the dash once more and re-entered traffic.

  At the forward operating base, William went off to fetch more food, leaving Doug and Ethan in the courtyard.

  Doug set the Iridium Go down near the middle of the yard for the best reception, then worked on an email to the Secretary regarding their progress. Ethan meanwhile lounged upon the dry grass beneath the sprawling terebinth tree. Most of the courtyard was in the shade as the sun was close to the horizon by that point. He watched a sand fly land on a blade of grass beside him. That reminded him of something.

  Ethan reached into his pack and retrieved the DEET-based product he'd brought along, and rubbed it into his skin. Then he sprayed his clothes with permethrin repellent. Though he hated the smell of the products, using them was a necessity, especially if he was going to be sleeping outdoors, as the chemicals protected him from sand flies. Terrible little insects, they could infect a man with leishmaniasis, a flesh-eating parasite that inflicted the equivalent of third-degree burns at the bite site, causing several incredibly painful boils, not to mention insomnia and short-temperedness among other psychological affects.

  When he was done, he put his arms behind his head and lay back. Though he stunk of chemicals, he could finally relax and enjoy a peaceful moment to himself.

  He thought of Alzena, and prayed she still lived. He hoped her country became the free nation she dreamed of.

  He thought of Sam, and the torture she must be enduring. If Doug didn't get any hits within the next day or so, either from his own contacts or their newfound allies in the resistance cell, the operatives would have to start asking questions on their own. Things would get messy. Sam wouldn't be held in a known location: a valuable prisoner like her would be kept in the equivalent of a DIA black site. Who could say how many militants Ethan and the other operatives would have to capture and kill until they found someone who had any knowledge of her whereabouts?