by A P Bateman
The floor was made from rubber compound, easy to clean, and in the very centre a grate covered a drain. A single wooden chair stood alone in the middle, above the grate. The room was windowless and at one end stood a table with a strange-looking box with a number of wires emerging from the top. Each wire was tipped with a crocodile clip and although King had never seen such a contraption in action, he knew what it was meant to do. A circuit-breaker fed high voltage into the wires, but at negligible ampere. With the life-threatening amps out of the equation, the torturer knew that they could inflict agonising pain with minimal risk of killing the recipient.
King walked around the room, then glanced down at the wooden chair and noticed that the seat was horribly stained. He looked up at Akmed and shook his head in disgust. Akmed nodded knowingly, breathing through his mouth to avoid the room’s fetid smell. “Recently used,” he commented flatly. King noticed the man’s eyes were moist. Akmed’s wife had been in this room, had seen and been subject to its horrors.
King nodded as he walked to the door. “Come on, there’s nobody here. My guess is they’ve finished with him for the time being and he's in one of the other huts.”
Akmed nodded. “OK, I’ll lead the way.”
* * *
From his raised position and with a clear view for one hundred and eighty degrees Shameel scanned the compound through the open sights of the PKM machinegun, then allowed the weapon to rest on its folding bipod. He had watched his brother and the Englishman make their way from the interrogation block to the fifth building in the row, taking turns to cover one another as they cautiously penetrated deeper into the deserted compound. He had witnessed the killing of the guard, but had not been able to see it in great detail, as his position was almost two hundred metres away from the compound and a further fifty metres from the interrogation block. He wished the weapon had been equipped with a scope. It struck him that at this distance and with his weak eyesight he may well not be able to pick out his brother and the Englishman if the alarm was raised.
The night air was now icy and with the clear sky, it looked as if it may well freeze. He pulled the collar of his greatcoat up around his ears, then blew warm air onto his cold hands, before rubbing them together vigorously. It seemed to help a little, if only to take his mind off the cold. He looked back at the compound, then froze as he saw a convoy of headlights in the distance.
***
King paused outside the wooden building. He could hear the muffled sound of music and people talking, then came the louder sound of a man laughing. He strained to hear through the wall of the prison block, then suddenly gathered that it was the sound of a television set. Someone inside the building was clearly awake and watching the box. King took out the silenced Glock, checked the chamber then turned to Akmed, who was already holding his khanjar at the ready. “Cover me Akmed, I’m going in…”
The Kurd caught his arm and frowned. “Let me, I have the knife.”
King thought of the grisly scene back at the interrogation block, then shook his head. “No, I’ll see to it, just stay behind me and be ready to give me cover.” He passed his rifle to Akmed and cautiously climbed the six wooden steps to the door.
The door was unlocked and as King gingerly eased it inwards, he was engulfed in a bright light, which was momentarily painful to his sensitive eyes. He cursed under his breath, knowing that his night vision was now ruined. It would now take a full twenty minutes to return, rendering the escape back to the fence even more hazardous.
The sound of the television grew louder as he stepped inside, straining his eyes against the bright light. He could smell pungent cigarette smoke wafting closer to him. He turned back towards Akmed, but the Kurd was already at his side, his own rifle slung over his shoulder by its sling-strap and King’s Galil assault rifle clasped firmly in his hands. King relaxed a little. Akmed Faisal was not a professionally trained soldier, but he was loyal and fearless. He had also served his apprenticeship on the battlefield, handed a gun as a child and forced to learn merely by watching what actions had killed his comrades. If that didn’t make him a professional, then King did not know what else would. As he edged his way down the narrow corridor, King felt quite safe with the Kurd covering his every move.
He stopped suddenly, as he neared the first door on his left, which was fitted with a wire mesh reinforced glass panel in its upper half. It was the guards’ room, fully equipped with a rack of keys hanging from the wall, a two-way radio on a nearby shelf and a weapon rack on the adjacent wall stacked with American made M16A4 rifles, some with underslung M203 grenade launchers and some battered AK47 and AK74 rifles. The guard was in his mid-forties and going to seed. His shirt strained under his immense stomach, and he was sporting a crafty comb-over across his largely bald scalp. He wore a shoulder holster with an automatic pistol under his left armpit and spare magazines in pouches under his right. He was slouched in a plain wooden swivel office chair, his feet resting on the desk, as he chuckled to a dubbed episode of the British 70’s hit: The Benny Hill Show. It seemed that Iraqi comedy had a long way to come.
King nodded to Akmed, then placed his left hand gently on the door handle. The guard erupted into a roar of laughter, throwing his head back at the sight of Benny Hill dressed as a woman. King took the opportunity and tucked the pistol into his belt and opened the door quietly. He rushed into the room and wrapped his left arm around the Iraqi’s throat. Then he brought his other arm around the back of the man’s neck and locked his left hand into his right elbow, the well-practiced procedure taking less than a second. The guard struggled frantically for a moment, then sensibly came to terms that he was no match for King’s strength and experience.
Akmed rushed over and took the man’s pistol out from his shoulder holster and stood back. King turned to him and scowled. “Tell him that I shall only ask once and that if he lies, I will choke him to death...”
Akmed bent down and spoke quietly into the man’s ear. The Iraqi tried to nod, then thought better of it, King’s grip did not allow much in the way of movement.
King released his grip a little and looked at Akmed. “Ask him where the Turkish pilot is being held.”
Akmed bent down again and spoke quietly. The Iraqi nodded, then patted King’s arm gently, by way of asking permission to speak. He looked up at the Kurd and started to chatter frenetically.
“What’s he saying?” King glared at Akmed. He knew enough Arabic to get by, but the northern dialect with mostly Kurdish spoken or interspersed left him at a loss when spoken quickly. “Does he know where the pilot is?”
Akmed shrugged. “He says that he has a family and that he does not want to be a soldier anymore. He says they should be fighting Islamic State and not settling old scores with the Kurdish…”
“I don't want to know that!” King released his grip, spun the man around and took the silenced Glock from his belt. He forced the muzzle into the guard’s crotch. “Tell him to answer my question, or I swear I will blow his fucking dick off!”
Akmed started to ask the man again, but the Iraqi had caught King’s drift and was starting to chatter away uncontrollably. Akmed looked up and smiled. “Cell four. It’s the fifth door on the right.”
“All right.” King took the pistol away from the man’s pride and joy, then looked up at the selection of keys which hung from the row of hooks. “Tell him to get the key and lead the way for us,” he paused, then added. “And tell him that if he tries anything, he’s dead…”
***
Shameel Faisal’s heart pounded as he half ran, half climbed his way up the steep hill. His hands bled as he scrabbled frantically for purchase against the cold rock and his heart pounded so fast and hard, it seemed about to rip through his chest. The machinegun was heavy and awkward and both the two-hundred and fifty round ammunition belts he carried weighed him down further still. He contemplated discarding the weapon but it looked like he’d be needing it soon…
He had watched the convoy of vehicles head t
owards the base and knew that if he did not at least attempt to do something, he would be forced to watch his brother’s capture no doubt resulting in certain death. The Faisals were not big on surrender. He fought for breath as he climbed, but he knew that there was no time to rest or falter as he scrambled up the steep slope. As he reached the ridge, he turned round to look down at the compound and to his horror saw the first vehicle drive through the main gate.
***
King stared at the man in front of him and shook his head in disbelief. Osman Emrie was barely recognisable. His clothes were reduced to rags and his face had sustained a ferocious beating. The fingers of both hands had been bound together with makeshift bandages and his feet had taken a similar beating, probably with the heel of a boot or a rifle butt.
King bent down and spoke softly into the man’s bloodied ear. “Ozzy? Ozzy?” he paused, then shook his shoulder gently. “Ozzy, wake up man!”
Osman let out a groan and raised his hands above his head in a desperate bid to protect his face from further punishment.
King shook his head. “No Ozzy, it’s me, Alex King.” He eased the man’s legs off the single wooden bunk, then looked him in the eyes. “See? It’s me, I’ve come to get you out.”
The man sobbed quietly, then attempted to push himself up, but the effort proved too much and he collapsed back down onto the hard, shelf-like bunk.
King turned back to the Iraqi guard, who was standing in front of Akmed. He caught hold of him by his shirt and pulled him close, then without a word, he lashed out with a fearsomely powerful blow to the nose using the point of his elbow. The Iraqi sprawled backwards and landed in an unconscious heap at the rear of the cell, his nose a bloodied mess.
King turned back to Akmed, then beckoned him over to help. “Here, help him over my shoulders, then pass me my weapon.”
The Kurd did as he was ordered, then picked up his own assault rifle and led the way out of the cell. King struggled at first. Osman Emrie was well muscled and a fair weight for any man to carry. He eased the Turk over his shoulder a little more, so that most of the man’s torso hung across his back and felt better for the slight adjustment. He followed Akmed down the corridor, then hesitated as he heard the sound of approaching vehicles.
Akmed stood at the door peering through the slight gap, then turned round, a look of horror upon his face. “They’ve come back!” He shook his head despondently. “We are dead men…”
“Shut up!” King stepped forward, cold determination in his eyes. “You’re not dead until you take your last breath!” He pushed past the Kurd and stared out into the compound. From his position, he could not make out the exact location of the vehicles, but he knew that they were near, by the way parts of the compound were brightly lit from their headlights.
“What do we do?” the Kurd asked, a little more composed than before.
King turned and shrugged. “Brass it out I suppose…” He thought for a moment, then looked at Akmed. “We head straight for the hole in the fence. Don’t stop for anything, just keep running!”
The Kurd nodded, then gripped the AK47 firmly between both hands. He looked determined, resolute. “I will lead my friend, you follow Akmed Faisal!” He caught hold of the door and flung it wide open, then stepped into the night.
***
Shameel slid most of the way down the other side of the steep slope, using the butt of the large machinegun as a makeshift brake. He had tripped and fallen several times, but he was feeling no pain yet. Only one thought dominated his mind, and that was to be at his brother’s side. Alive or dead, it was the only place for him. They were the only Faisals left now.
Rocky looked up at the overweight Kurd as he took yet another tumble on the hard ground. Sensing that something was amiss, he opened the door of the Land Rover and looked expectantly at his old friend.
“They are in trouble!” Shameel cried out in anguish. “The troops left in a convoy before they went in but now the troops are back!” he paused, gasping for breath. “They will be either killed or captured if we do not do something!”
***
Akmed Faisal ran across the open ground, bolting like a freshly flushed hare as he led the way for Alex King to follow. King had cursed him at first, but felt a pang of relief when he saw the Kurd stop in the shadows with his weapon trained on the Iraqi troops, who were gathering around the entrance to the most distant building in the row.
He made his way as best he could, hampered less by the weight of his heavy load than by the struggle to keep his balance as he lengthened his stride to a run. He heard the shout from behind him and his heart sunk, knowing that it was too late. Then a burst of gunfire erupted and the chaos that arose in its wake.
Akmed had taken the initiative as soon as the young soldier had shouted. He had stepped from the shadows and released a sustained burst of automatic fire at the group of soldiers and was now reloading as King reached him in the shadows.
“Okay Akmed, balls out all the way!” He readied himself for the run, then bolted out of the shadows and into the vulnerable open ground. “Go! Go! Go!”
The mass of troops were still wondering what all the gunfire was about when King ran out in front of them. Most of them looked up in surprise, some even went for their weapons, but King was already firing. He wielded the weapon in one hand keeping the butt tight to his hip to absorb the recoil, firing steady single rounds of fire at each of his targets as he kept a firm hold on Ozzy’s shoulder with his left hand. The men fell one by one, then even quicker as Akmed started to fire short bursts aimed carefully from his shoulder. Bullets sailed past King’s head, but he knew the first and only rule of a fire fight; keep moving and keep firing. He was halfway towards them when he felt the ‘dead man’s click’, the terrifying signal that he had run out of ammunition. He quickly dropped to one knee, to present himself as a smaller target and hastily tried to insert a new magazine. He was hampered by Ozzy’s weight, but managed to get a magazine in and charged the cocking lever. He fired a couple of rounds at the closest soldier, then stood up and caught hold of Ozzy’s arm and got the man’s leg under his armpit in a fireman’s lift. He started to run and leapt over the dead soldier’s body as he gained momentum.
Akmed kept firing but the soldiers were massing and gunfire was erupting all over the camp. The increasing opposition caused the Kurd to start firing with wild abandon, but it still had the desired effect, dropping more soldiers as he followed close behind King. The few remaining soldiers realised that the two men were not about to stop for anything, and suddenly decided to turn tail and run. This presented both of them with easy targets and they continued to fire at the running soldiers as they made their way across the remaining open ground.
King darted into the shadows of a nearby building and swiftly changed to another magazine. Akmed followed, walking backwards and firing at the struggling wounded on the ground. King tapped him on the shoulder and readied himself for the next stretch of open ground. “Come on, Akmed!” he paused, fighting to get the icy air into his aching lungs. “Only another sixty metres to the fence… But if we aren’t out of here before they get the heavy guns mounted on the vehicles onto us, then we’re fucked!” He looked up at the hillside, suddenly aware that there had been no covering fire from Shameel up on the hillside.
Akmed realised what King was thinking and drew the same conclusion. He looked tearfully at him. “They have killed my brother!”
“We don’t know that for sure. Come on man, move your arse!” King stepped out into the moonlight, then felt a wave of heat near him as bullets shot by barely inches from his face and peppered the building with tiny holes. Some were tracer rounds and the shots that missed fizzled off into the night dropping to the ground a quarter of a mile away. He darted back behind the building, then peered back around just in time to see the muzzle flashes subsiding. He turned back to the Kurd and shook his head. “It’s no good, we’re cut-off!” he paused trying desperately to gather his thoughts and make some sense
of the situation. “Our only way is back the way we’ve come. Either that, or chance the guns ahead.” He peered back round the corner of the building, then frowned as he saw headlights coming straight towards the fence. There was the sound of a heavy impact, then the screams of injured men caught in its path, but still the headlights advanced. King watched, fascinated as the vehicle drove through the compound with the fence wrapped round its axle. An eruption of sustained automatic gunfire came from the passenger seat, the muzzle flashes lighting up the compound enough to see the Iraqi soldier’s faces as they turned to face the onslaught.
“Akmed! It’s Shameel! He’s come to get us…” King sensed that Akmed was not beside him. He turned to see the Kurd standing at the end of the alley between the two buildings. He was steeling himself, then without warning he disappeared from sight. King heard Akmed shout some sort of shrill battle cry and the gunfire started up immediately.
King looked back at the Land Rover. Muzzle flashes appeared from the driver’s seat, followed by the familiar figure of Rocky as he got out and fired more carefully aimed shots. He bent down briefly using the open door as cover then reappeared with a rocket launcher. He fired at a fuel tanker some eighty or so metres away and about a hundred Iraqi soldiers fled in all directions. The explosion was terrific and the entire compound was lit up like daylight. King ran out from the cover of the building and made for the Land Rover. He looked to his right and saw Akmed on his knees. He had the guard’s pistol in his hand and was firing at an advancing group of soldiers. King turned toward the Land Rover as he neared. Shameel had put down the PKM and rushed forward to help King with Ozzy. King was glad of the help and felt the weight half as the big Kurd dragged the Turkish pilot off his shoulder and helped to heave him into the pickup bed of the Land Rover. When King looked back at Akmed he could see the group of soldiers standing over his body, bayonetting his corpse relentlessly. King raised his rifle and picked off the group of five men with eight carefully aimed single shots. Shameel looked towards his brother and screamed. He rushed out from the cover of the Land Rover and ran towards Akmed. He almost made it too. And then he took a bullet in the chest and went down hard. He crawled slowly, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching until they took hold of his brother’s hand. A second later a bullet smashed into his head and the Kurd lay still, his hand still holding his brother’s. King looked at Rocky, who seemed to read his mind and threw down the RPG to get into the driver’s seat. King was already in the bed of the truck and had the PKM rattling off steadily as they moved off. The fuel tanker was engulfed in flames and the fire was spreading rapidly as the fuel leaked and boiled, taking the first three huts with it. There was so much light to see by King had almost forgotten that it was night time. He knew that if the remainder of fuel reached a high enough temperature to detonate rather than ignite then it would obliterate everything within half a mile.
