by Don Mann
They watched and waited, but the jihadists didn’t move.
“Done,” Crocker whispered into the radio.
“Copy.”
Three minutes later, the two men joined CT in the Flyer-60 and a few minutes after that they joined Davis on the roof of the building at the northeast perimeter where he kept watch on the field through a pair of Steiner Nighthunter XP binos.
“See anything?” Crocker asked.
“All clear,” Davis reported back. “One truck, three insurgents, all down.”
“Keep looking. I’ve got something to take care of at the hospital.”
“What’s her name?”
“Call me if you need me.”
He left the MK 11 Mod 0 in the Flyer, grabbed his 416, and sprinted the ten or so blocks to the hospital. Glanced at his watch before he entered—0546. Rastan’s men were scheduled to arrive at dawn, less than a half hour. If all went according to plan, they’d be back in Erbil by noon.
Back at base, he’d do some PT to burn through the residual tension, shower and shave, grab a hot meal, Skype Jenny and Cyndi back home.
He hurried down the hospital steps and arrived at the door of the makeshift operating room out of breath. Ran into Dr. Housani, who was backing out and looking at his phone.
“How’d it go?” Crocker asked.
Housani shook his head. “Not good.”
“Why? What happened?”
“The boy started having convulsions. As soon as we applied pressure to his organs…well…He went into a deeper state of shock. We lost all vitals. Heartbeat, breath…”
“Oh…”
“Sorry.”
Crocker pushed by Housani to check for himself. The boy had no pulse.
“I left a man in the other room with a wounded leg.”
“We took care of that.”
“Where’s the epidemiologist?” Crocker asked.
“My colleague from Doctors Without Borders? Séverine?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe out there,” said Housani, pointing to a doorway that led outside. “She needed a mental health break.”
Crocker stepped outside through an archway and found her sitting on a plastic crate, staring at the ground, holding a bottle of water.
He crouched in front of her and said, “I heard what happened. It’s not your fault.”
She didn’t look up.
“I had to go take care of something,” he continued. “I ran back as soon as I could…”
A tear fell from her eye and hit the concrete. He felt awkward crouching in front of her, his HK416 casting a shadow over her face. In the light from the lamp on the opposite wall, she was prettier and softer than he remembered, and gave off a pale glow.
“I came to help,” she said softly, “but feel so useless sometimes…”
“I know how that goes.” He checked his watch again, found a wooden folding chair near the wall, moved it beside her, sat, removed his helmet, ran a hand through his thinning hair and over the beard on his face.
She looked into his blue eyes, smiled. “I don’t know your name. Mine is Séverine Tessier. I’m French.” She offered a delicate hand that trembled in his.
“Tom Crocker. Most people call me Crocker. I live in Virginia.”
“You know Thomas Jefferson’s home? Monticello?”
“I know it, yeah. But I’m on the east coast, maybe three hours away by car.”
“It was so peaceful there,” she said. “I visited three summers ago. Very interesting man…this Jefferson…this friend of France, author of the Declaration of Independence, inventor, architect, expert on the Quran, and owner of slaves. He believed that God created the world and then abandoned it.”
“I didn’t know all that,” Crocker offered.
“Maybe he was right.”
“About God abandoning the world? I don’t think so.”
“No, Tom Crocker? Not after what you’ve seen here?”
“Nope.”
She studied him carefully.
“Can I get you something?” he asked.
“No,” she answered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Just stay with me awhile, if you can.”
He caressed the top of her head. “Of course.”
She fell asleep on his chest. Then he drifted off, too, and dreamt he was standing on the shore of a lake waiting for someone. Tall pines rose to his left and sunlight streamed through the trees and hit his eyes. He raised his hands to shade them and a dog started barking, causing him to wake. His radio was beeping. He retrieved it from his back pocket and glanced at his watch. 0723.
Akil’s deep voice reverberated in his ear. “Deadwood, Rastan’s men are here. Ten of them with six volunteers from the YPG. Interesting cats…One’s an Italian anarchist. There’s a California kid who doesn’t speak.…”
He lowered the volume.
“Is there someone in command I can talk to?” Crocker asked.
“A major named Ardalan. Nice guy.”
“Is that his first name or last?”
“Fuck if I know. He’s a major. You want to hang here awhile, or return to Erbil?”
Crocker looked down at Séverine, who was starting to open her eyes. “Tell Davis to check if Highway 47 is open,” he said softly.
“He already checked. The road is open. Why are you whispering? You with someone?”
“Tell the guys to get ready to deploy. I’ll be there in ten.”
He walked with her to the building next door, and down a hallway crowded with bicycles, to the room where she was staying—small, with a window, and two mattresses on the floor separated by a purple sheet that had been hung from the ceiling. A blue backpack leaned against the wall.
She reached into it and removed a laptop. “I’ll make some tea, if you have time,” she said, looking up at him.
“Thanks for the offer, but I have to go.”
“You leaving town?”
“Yeah, heading back to Erbil.”
“You think you’ll return?” she asked.
“Probably not, but you never know…I’d like to stay in touch, if that’s okay.”
“Me, too.”
He handed her the little pad he kept in a pocket of his combat vest, and a pen. “Write down your e-mail, or your Skype, or Viber.”
“Be safe, Crocker,” she said sweetly, writing down her contact info, then shielding her eyes from the sunlight that slanted through the window.
“You, too. And be strong. Here’s hoping our paths cross again.”
“They will if we want them to.”
Chapter Eight
If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels, too.
—Tennessee Williams
He couldn’t get her out of his head as he sat in the lead truck with Akil at the wheel, humming the theme to the movie Gladiator as the sun rose behind them.
“What’s on your mind, boss?” Davis, in the backseat, asked over the low roar of the engine. “You thinking about the town?”
Crocker shook his head. “Nope. All good.”
“Francetti…that Italian kid back there.…Told me he’s as opposed to the ISIS caliphate as he is to capitalist modernity.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He favors something he calls a stateless democracy.”
“How does that work?” asked Crocker.
“No national borders. People come and go as they please. Individual liberties are guaranteed.”
“Here…in the Middle fucking East?” Akil asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good luck with that.”
Crocker noticed that they were passing cars and trucks leaving town. Apparently, some residents had little faith that Rastan’s men would stay long enough to defend them from the next Daesh attack.
He wondered if they would be staying with relatives in more secure locations farther east? Or were they leaving Iraqi Kurdistan completely to join millions of other refugees who occupied the massive temporary camps in Turkey? Sheep an
d goats grazed on the field to their right. The crisp beauty of the day almost lured him into accepting that life had returned to normal. Meanwhile, drivers of the passing Nissans and Toyotas honked, and their occupants waved, and Crocker wondered if his neighbors in Virginia Beach would be as cheerful if forced to abandon their homes.
Sheikh al-Sufi had moved from the Al-Firdous mosque to a room under the Raqqa Museum that had once been part of an Assyrian temple. While Coalition drones and military jets buzzed the city, he spent most of the night quietly chanting the name of God in an attempt to ward away the jinn—demons—he saw waiting in the corners.
They weren’t something he ever talked about with Yasir Selah or anyone else. He never confided that the jinn had first appeared during his detention in Camp Bucca, Iraq, at a time when he was convinced the oppressors were trying to break his will by playing loud music that sounded as if it was coming from inside his head.
“How do they do that, brother?” al-Sufi had asked one of the Iraqi workers who came to clean his cell.
“Do what?”
“Put this music in my head. All day, all night…it plays over and over.”
“What music, brother? What does it sound like?”
“Men and women screaming like demons. Metal pipes slamming into one another, breaking glass…”
The young man had looked at al-Sufi like he was crazy.
“If you hear music, my brother, it’s your imagination.”
Then one day while showering, he saw a demon—a large naked woman with horns on her head. She was a foul creature with gray whiskers, hot stinking breath, and saliva dripping from her mouth, and looked as real as the cinder blocks that formed the walls. He named her Ibah.
When he shouted for the guards, the demon bounded out the door and ran. Two nights later, she appeared in his cell with another demon—a thin man with a bald head covered with dozens of eyes.
The jinn had harassed him ever since and appeared at night when he was alone. He was sure they were a trick devised by the infidels to drive him crazy. Sometimes they would throw things at him; other times they would spit, or emit noxious black smoke. A few times they appeared with other demons and ghosts.
The only way he knew to get them to leave was to stay calm and pray to Allah.
He saw Ibah now, leering at him from the ceiling, beckoning him with her long, dirty finger to join her in what he imagined would be some form of fornication that would turn him into a demon as well, and put him in opposition to God.
He thought of calling Yasir Selah on the radio, but didn’t want his aide to see him like this—scared and trembling like a little girl.
Clutching his Kalashnikov rifle to his chest, he said, “Jinn, what are you going to say to Allah? One day you will face Allah!”
Ibah sneered at him and laughed in a way that made him nauseous.
He prayed, “Allah, give me the strength to send these demons away. Put me on the right path, and make me your faithful servant, now and forever. Inshallah.”
The SEALs had spent three days at the Coalition base in Erbil, resting, reading, playing video games, and doing PT. Tonight they were celebrating Akil’s thirty-fifth birthday at one of the new hotels. They entered Superclub Bardo in the best civilian clothes they had with them—in Crocker’s case, black jeans, a black t-shirt, black hoodie, and boots.
The club was dark with lots of blue glass and chrome, strobe lights, and slashing red-and-white lasers. A DJ in a black muscle shirt stood in a booth above the dance floor swaying to the music with eyes closed as though in a trance. Packing the dance floor were men in expensive-looking jeans and suits with open shirts and a few young women dancers, who Crocker thought looked like hookers. One with short white hair and a red micro-skirt twirled with arms overhead to the music—a deafening blend of electronic beeping sounds—while men took pictures and videos of her with their iPhones.
“Weird scene,” Crocker shouted over the pounding bass line.
“You’re looking at the hottest club in Erbil, bro,” Akil answered. He wore tight jeans, a white muscle tee, and an unbuttoned glittery black shirt. “Reputedly owned by Russian gangsters.”
“Great. I meant the music.”
“EDM,” Akil answered. “Perfect for grinding and getting your groove on.”
“What’s EDM?”
“Electronic dance music.”
“Where’d you get the outfit?” Crocker asked.
“Swag, right?”
“Whatever that means.”
“You need to relax, bro. Let the groove move you.” Akil spun and showed off his dance moves.
A dark-eyed girl with white streaks in her straight black hair and a very prominent nose led them to the back of the club. Akil whispered something in her ear. She smiled and whispered something back, then escorted them down a mirrored hallway.
“She’s into me,” he whispered to Crocker.
“Yeah, so are the guys standing by the bar. Look.”
“Where? They looking at my ass? I’ll fuckin’ kill ’em.”
“Relax, bro. You merked.”
“Merked?” Akil asked. “Where’d you learn that?”
Crocker was busting his chops. They entered a room that was dark and decorated in shades of red. An old black-and-white gangster movie was projected on one wall. An Asian man in a light-blue suit stood on a little round stage doing karaoke, singing “My Way,” off-key.
“What’s this?” Crocker asked. “The torture chamber?”
“You got your funny on tonight,” Akil remarked.
Their terp, Zumar, who had just returned from his honeymoon, sat waiting at an oval banquet table that faced the stage. Man hugs were exchanged. Beers and shots were ordered. Toasts were made to Akil’s health and longevity.
Rip, CT, and Akil got up to sing “Uptown Funk” by Bruno Mars. The former two actually had decent voices, but Akil sang completely off-key. His dance moves were a scream, complete with karate kicks and a spin.
More drinks were ordered. Toasts were made to Mancini, former teammates, other buds, girlfriends, and wives. More songs were sung.
“Come on, boss. Let’s hear you sing ‘Sweet Caroline,’” Rip said, busting Crocker’s balls.
“In your dreams.” His young teammate appeared to be in a much better mood.
“All good?” he asked.
“Yeah, they found my dad. He decided to spend a couple nights at a friend’s house without telling anyone. Typical.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Three of Akil’s friends—Dez, Oliver, and Rollins—joined them, the last two former British SAS commandos, now working as military contractors. Heavily tatted, muscular dudes, who seemed tightly coiled and dangerous.
Dez was their leader, a former Delta operator and bullrider. Oliver, the most talkative of the group, confided that they were fresh from a very difficult mission inside Syria, but couldn’t say what it was or who had hired them.
He sat next to Crocker as Zumar regaled them with horror stories about the atrocities Daesh was inflicting on his Yazidi people.
“They’re gang-raping women, man. Kidnapping girls, and if they don’t convert to Islam, they sell them into slavery,” he said. “Sometimes for like…fifty dollars. My wife has a friend who was taken away by them. It’s disgusting.”
CT asked, “You listening to this, boss?”
Actually, he’d been hoping to avoid talk about the military situation for one night.
“Real nasty business, mate,” Oliver interjected.
“Colonel Rastan know about this?” Akil asked.
“Yeah. Everyone does,” Zumar answered.
“You know where these camps are located?” Crocker asked out of curiosity.
“Fuck yeah,” answered Oliver. “Most of them are in the foothills of the Sinjar Mountains near the Syria border.”
“You think you can lead us to them?”
“In my spare time. Sure, mate.”
Zumar was growing agitated. “We nee
d to do something! Those are my people who are being slaughtered and raped.”
“I’ll talk to Colonel Rastan,” Crocker offered.
“Will you?”
“I said I would.”
Suddenly, it felt strange to be celebrating while people were suffering nearby. But the guys were in the mood to party and blow off steam.
Oliver lightened the mood with a joke. “How do you make a hormone?”
“How?”
“Don’t pay her.”
“That the best you can do?”
“Who is the most popular man in a nudist colony?”
“Me?” Akil asked.
“The guy who can carry two pitchers of beer and a foot of onion rings.”
The karaoke machine was shut down, the house lights dimmed, and five young women in matching glittery red dresses appeared on the stage. They started lip-synching and doing a dance routine to a Lady Gaga song.
“I wanna roll with him
A hard pair we will be
A little gamblin’ is fun when you’re with me.”
“You can roll with me any time,” Akil remarked, getting up and grinding his hips.
“You look like a gorilla with a bug up his ass, mate.”
“Sit down. You’re making us look bad.”
“Me?” Akil boasted, sticking his chest out. “I lend you all some swag.”
The women looked Russian and Tajik, ranging in age from about eighteen to thirty-five, and were all some variation of attractive. The most striking shook her booty in the middle of the group, a head taller than the rest, and looked strong enough to pull a plow. She was clumsy as hell, too, but determined and energetic.
She spun, almost lost her balance, and Crocker had to bite his knuckles to keep from cracking up.
She focused her heavily mascaraed eyes on him, dipped forward to reveal her ample cleavage, and, pointing a long red fingernail at his chest, shouted, “Poka face…Poka face.”
He was about to bust a gut.
“Boss, the big one’s got the hots for you,” Akil announced.
“Likes the salt-and-pepper thing you got going on,” added CT.
“She looks like she could break me in half.”
