The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  The Land Rover ate up the road in the exact reverse of the route that had taken him to the farmhouse. He was turning right where he had turned left, and vice versa. The bastards could still be there.

  Nothing of interest was found in the vehicles and little could be salvaged, thanks to the psychotics whom he had trusted with his RPG rounds, al-Khafji thought. He was sure that he had successfully disrupted the Dulaim conference. The Americans would be calling their military for extraction soon, and their helicopters would come, and the sheiks and tribal leaders would have no one before whom to grovel.

  The Saudi waved his men off the totaled vehicles. Lying on the ground next to the smoking Suburbans were emptied fire extinguishers—another waste. There had been nothing of value intact enough to recover.

  He spoke with a master’s authority. “Be quick—back to the vehicles. We may find them yet. If not, we must hide ourselves in the city.”

  They climbed out of the wadi to where the ground quickly leveled off again as terrain did in the desert. Parked a short distance off the roadway were their trucks, a Dodge Durango and a Toyota Hilux. The men began to load up their weapons.

  Kameldorn had parked the Land Rover just under the brow of the rise of ground beyond the wadi. He had memorized the terrain even as he blazed down this road during the ambush. It was the optimal spot even if the distance was a little long. He had used the range-finding reticle of the scope on the front rim of the Hilux. On the vehicle’s eighteen-inch rims—the typical length of a man's torso—the eight-hundred-yard marker of the scale in the optic had been a good fit.

  He used the tip of his Gerber folder to flip out the securing latches of the M14DC suppressor, sliding it back over the quick-connect of the rifle’s Vortex flash hider. The latches easily flipped shut again, indicating a proper mounting. He folded the knife closed and dropped it into his pocket, securing the SEI tube’s knurled locking collar with a quick twist.

  The lid of the old .50 caliber ammo can was up, exposing the rows of twenty-round magazines. He selected one loaded with the ammo that he had used to zero, the M118LR Special Ball. Racking the action quietly, he checked that the weapon’s safety catch was engaged. He pulled down the legs of the bipod and locked them into position; grabbing the small bag of rice from inside the ammo can, he wedged it in place at the toe of the stock pressed against his shoulder. He settled in. He was ready.

  Al-Khafji heard the whip and the crack behind him. It repeated, sounding to the men like someone close by was firing a cap pistol. The sudden realization of what was happening made the Saudi jerk his head toward the high ground as another insect-like noise buzzed past his skull. A glint in the distance caught his eye. He ducked behind the engine compartment of the Hilux.

  “Sniper!” he screamed. It was as if they thought he was insane.

  Kameldorn swore again. The wind was picking up now, and at this range there was not a lot of room for error. He recognized then missed the primary target, missing twice more by not taking enough time to think. He switched his aim to the middle of the Toyota’s door. The hole appeared eight inches to the left of center; he put another in the same place to make sure. His finger drifted up to the adjustment turret of the scope and dialed in the correct windage, feeling the clicks that he needed to correct for the breeze.

  “OK, boys, I got something for ya,” he whispered and let another round fly.

  Al-Khafji looked as if he nearly wet himself when the rounds hit the other side of the vehicle he was using for cover. “Do you believe me now?” he screamed. “He is on the rise above us! Get him!”

  Said motioned to his man, the one he had brought in for them, and watched him run to the open bed of the Toyota pickup. Retrieving the RPK, the man slid the rear sight’s cam forward for the elevation adjustment. The others were already firing with their AKs, asking much from the open sights and 7.62x39mm rounds.

  The supersonic cracks of the 175-grain, boat-tailed hollow points, combined with the suppressor that Kameldorn was using, gave the audible illusion of a much closer source. They could barely see him up there, but the afternoon sun glinted on his empties as they began to fly. Less than a second afterward, the heavy projectiles arrived on target.

  Said’s associate with the RPK coughed, a pink mist blooming out of his back, and went down heavily. Another recruit, brave but not smart, picked up the long-range weapon and turned to face the hill, only to repeat the performance. Then there seemed to be genuine lack of enthusiasm for rushing toward the weapon now laid across a second dead man’s stomach. Two more men firing their AKs toward the top of the hill were down by the time Said put on his thinking cap.

  He ran to the driver’s door of the Hilux, next to a crouching al-Khafji. “Excuse me, sayedy. I must borrow the truck.” His employer looked at him with an expression of confused incredulity.

  Said waved and yelled to the others. “Into the back! We must get him!”

  He jumped behind the wheel and watched al-Khafji charge across the open ground to take cover behind the engine of the Durango. Another man clambered into the cab with him. Changing magazines, the last three men piled into the bed.

  “That’s good, guys. That’s very good. Closer please.” Kameldorn took the time to change magazines and adjust the windage knob back to center for the shorter range at which he anticipated firing again. He could see the dust from the spinning wheels of the Hilux as it made its charge up the rise of ground. He remounted the stock into his shoulder, squeezing the bag of rice to get the right elevation.

  Said did not notice the first man to fall from the back of the truck, and in any case he would have thought it the consequence of the rough ride. He flinched involuntarily when his outside rearview mirror disappeared; he then heard the scream from the truck bed as another rolled backward to sprawl on the trail behind. They were almost there, but the sound of the single AK firing above him cut off, followed by a thud and clatter in the pickup bed.

  At the top of the rise a man in camouflage stood; Said saw that he held a black rifle. “Get the son of a pig!” the driver demanded of his passenger.

  Kameldorn was on his third magazine, locking it into place as the truck came in. Its passenger was trying to climb out his window, AK held in one hand. Kameldorn just shook his head. He rotated the magnification adjustment on the scope, dialing it back from 10-power to the lowest 2.5x setting, and brought it back into his shoulder.

  He fired at the same time as the man in the window but better, his two rounds hitting six inches apart on the windshield. They took Said’s passenger in the torso right through the glass; he went limp, hanging halfway out of the vehicle.

  Kameldorn recovered from the recoil just in time to step back. Lowering the rifle to tuck the butt under his arm, he put another round into Said’s side of the pickup and emptied the rest of the magazine as he stepped out of the vehicle’s path. The Hilux barreled over the crest of the hill and slammed into a rock pile beside the road. The Toyota jumped, squealing and stalling. It did not matter. Every man who had climbed into the vehicle was now dead.

  Kameldorn set the rifle down on the ground, pulling the Browning from under his smock, and ran toward the truck, pistol at the ready. From the blood patterns on the rear window, he saw that there was no need. He remembered then that there was still at least one of them left.

  Holstering the pistol, he spun and ran back, scooping up his rifle. He lifted the scope to his eye for a look back down the hill. Only a rooster’s tail of dust was left drifting in the wind by the one he had wanted the most; Muhammad Qasim al-Khafji was headed in the opposite direction. The fat prick was gone.

  Gabir had disappeared outside, and they heard him arranging some lumber just outside the back door. He reappeared, coming back to the table where Schuster and Anthony still held what Tom Colby had left behind.

  In passable English, Gabir spoke. “Let us move him. I have a place outside door.”

  Schuster and Anthony looked at him then back to Colby’s body. Gabir sou
nded more insistent. “Outside, please. We must do for him.”

  Anthony nodded at the boy. “Bernie, he wants to compose him before … rigor. He’s trying to help.”

  Out of words, Schuster nodded. With Gabir’s help they carried Colby out of the door, laying him gently on the boards that the boy had placed there. They heard Farrah pouring water inside, which they assumed was for the mess in her kitchen. Instead, she appeared there at the door, holding a large bowl of water and some clean cloths. She set them on the ground nearby.

  Gabir motioned that it was for them … and for Colby. Anthony nodded his understanding. He wet a cloth and cleaned Tom’s face where the blood had run down from the corner of his mouth, doing whatever he could for his friend. He looked back at Gabir, remembering a phrase from the travel-book Arabic that he had managed to pick up so far.

  “Baaraka Allahu fik,” Anthony said. Gabir smiled with a sad face, nodded and went back inside to help his mother.

  Schuster looked shattered emotionally but did what he could to help straighten Colby’s hair and blood-soaked clothing. Anthony thought that it was probably the hardest thing that either of them had done.

  Chapter 18: In or Out

  Kameldorn glassed the area with the sniper scope cranked to its highest magnification before approaching. Only the unmoving were there, and the scene looked completely deserted. He drove down the hill out of a sense of duty to the lost, not with the illusion of finding any survivors.

  The shaped charges of the RPG-7 warheads had done unspeakable things inside the Blackwater vehicles. Even more horrid was the pockmarked Land Rover with the slumped and bloody corpses of Colby’s staffers huddled in their last attempt to stay alive. The woman sitting on the side of the vehicle away from the shooters—Katie—must have survived for a short time to be finished at close range with a small caliber pistol round to the forehead.

  Kameldorn closed his eyes, shaking his head from side to side, then forced himself to look again. War was a rational act and one that he had been trained to understand; murder was not. Nothing could help the people in the vehicles right now. The Iraqna had no signal. Until he got back to his satellite phone, they were beyond his aid. He returned to the still running Land Rover, cradling the sniper rifle. Sliding it through Schuster’s shattered window into the back seat, he made his way back around to the driver’s door. He looked one last time; he would never forget this scene. Neither would he forgive, he decided. The most that he could do was to collect, quickly and professionally, the debt it had amassed, before the balance grew.

  The Land Rover rolled to a stop seventy-three minutes after Kameldorn had left. Anthony thought the man looked tired as he parked the vehicle behind the house, positioning it out of sight of the road. Anthony and Schuster had done what they could for Tom and covered him with the bed linens that Farrah had provided. Rising from where he had been sitting next to the body, Anthony watched Kameldorn strip off the camo smock and throw it back inside the vehicle.

  Gabir appeared with the Thuraya. Schuster was a step behind him. The boy handed the unit back without a word; for Bernie, words were not a problem.

  “He would not let me use the phone. On your instruction, he said. Could you explain that? How are we supposed to get out of here?”

  Kameldorn pocketed the unit. “I have not determined that we’re going anywhere just yet.”

  Schuster almost snarled. “You have not determined? Who the hell put you in charge? This was Tom’s operation.”

  Opening the back door of the SUV, Kameldorn brought out the .308. “I am in charge of this operation on the orders of Lieutenant General Peter McAllen, Mr. Schuster, but you have known that since before we left Baghdad. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still Tom’s operation. We just have to decide whether to proceed with it.”

  “And how do we do that? Almost everyone he brought out here is dead. We have no translators, no transcriptionist, and no idea how we can even get to al-Fatla and stay alive at this point. How the hell can we proceed?”

  Kameldorn was concentrating on detaching the suppressor tube from its mount on his weapon’s flash hider. His voice was level and calm. “I can translate. In my kit is a digital voice recorder for any transcription. Al-Fatla is not far from here, although we ought to take an alternate route. Gabir, I think, can show us one.”

  “And what do we say once we’re there? Sorry, most of us got killed, excuse our lack of preparedness? Why are we even having this conversation?”

  “If you want to stop talking at any time, Bernie, it would be fine with me.”

  Anthony cleared his throat. He watched Kameldorn finish with the silencer. Then the Major leaned the rifle against the vehicle and turned to look at him with a light in his eyes that Anthony had not seen before. It frightened him, he realized.

  “Jon,” he asked, “what do you think?”

  It was a harder question than Anthony was prepared for. Kameldorn waited a second then offered some help.

  “We have a few options. We could try to drive all the way back to Baghdad, alone and unescorted, in a shot-up white Land Rover visible from five-thousand feet away. That, in my professional opinion, is a bullshit idea. We could, if we wanted to crap on every motive that Tom Colby had since I’ve known him, pack it in and call for the cavalry. That would bring in enough of a military response to scatter the Sheik’s guests while sowing enough suspicion in their minds to possibly also swing the undecideds toward the Islamic separatist camp. Or we could go tell the sheiks what Al Qaeda just did to the delegation that was here, in their territory and by their invitation, and see if they get as pissed off about it as I am.”

  Schuster was silent. Anthony could see he could not respond to Kameldorn’s cutting summary of their predicament. Kameldorn leveled his gaze on Bernie, just to make sure his message got there, before Anthony saw those scary gray eyes turn back in his direction.

  “I’m making it your call, Jon. You’re the swing vote. You’ll have to decide if we can pull this off.”

  Schuster was looking at him too, arms crossed but also waiting. Anthony glanced from them to Tom. He looked to Gabir and Farrah inside the kitchen, still cleaning the floor where the table had been. He felt the weight of all the effort that had brought them this far settling on him. Even more he felt the pull toward the future, the one that his irrevocable decision would shape. His head felt light.

  He turned back to Schuster and Kameldorn. “Tom thought it was worth coming here. He put a lot of effort—all day yesterday—into making it clear what he had come here to say. But he can’t be the one to say those things now. It has to be us. It’s either that, or we let Tom’s voice fade into the dark. I don’t know what I can do, but I know that I can’t do that to him. He deserves better.”

  Anthony saw Schuster looking at Tom’s body and perceived sadness there, tinged with regret. Then the decision came.

  “OK … I can do that for Tom.” Schuster looked at Kameldorn. “Now what?”

  “I make some calls. Our people get a discreet, dignified recovery. After dark Gabir and I will go to tell the sheiks what happened, and I’m pretty sure what their reaction will be. Tomorrow we’re on and we’ll see if Tom was right about us.”

  Schuster looked at Colby’s body again. “And him?”

  Kameldorn sighed. “Back out to the vehicles. No choice, unless we bury him here. Muslims will not wait more than twenty-four hours. Gabir can help me with him when it’s time to go.”

  Schuster shook his head but did not argue. “Damn it,” he whispered.

  Kameldorn lifted his rifle, heading inside to return it to the aluminum case. “Yeah,” he said just as quietly.

  Without a sound, he entered the kitchen as Gabir and Farrah were putting away the last of the cleaning gear that they had used to restore the room. He checked that the rifle was unloaded before tipping its carrying case back over—Gabir had moved it out of his mother’s way—and reopening it. The officer began to break down the weapon.

 
They were silent. He assumed Gabir would smell that the rifle had been fired. He could. Gabir made a pretense of looking at his hands, and it was a sign of his trust that he let Kameldorn stay alone in the kitchen with his mother as the boy went to clean up in the bathroom. Kameldorn made sure that the outside door remained open. From across the house he could see that the boy’s old AK-47 was leaning against the doorjamb, muzzle down and grip out, ready to deploy in a hurry at the front door. The boy had not forgotten.

  The house was much different inside than Kameldorn had remembered. New wooden flooring had been laid and shelves inset into the wall of the living room just beyond the kitchen. New paint covered the walls, and Farrah’s oldest furniture had been replaced with newer pieces. It looked like a home. As before, there remained a framed photograph on the table near the front door. He remembered the face … and always would.

  “I am so sorry. Please forgive me. There was nowhere else to go,” he apologized in Arabic.

  Farrah lifted her head, looking sad. “There is nothing to forgive. It was the will of God that we could help you again. I am sorry for the loss of your friend.”

  He nodded, touched by her sincerity. He laid the halves of the .308 in place and repacked the collimator into its case as well.

  “Your house has become even more beautiful, Farrah.”

  She smiled. “It is Gabir. He has learned much working with the builders. Sometimes he will take his pay in materials. He has become very talented.”

  Kameldorn nodded, looking at the good work that had gone into her kitchen floor. “Like his father. This house brings back all those memories for me. The aid workers and the charities, they did not forget where it was?”

  “They always found us. And the money you sent—you cannot deny it—we know that it came from you.”