by Jim Roberts
“Why did you drop during airstrike?” The Commander’s English was poor, but understandable, “Why are you here? Are you with the Black Army?”
The man must be referring to Olympus. It surprised Braddock to hear that the jihadists thought he may be part of the mysterious PMC. The Commander gestured to the ISIL man to the right of Joe. Compared to the pencil thin asshole to his left, this guy was the size of a fridge, with meat hook hands that looked like they could tear a man’s head from his shoulders. You’re Fatboy, thought Joe, lacking any other name to differentiate the militant. Fatboy nodded back to his Commander and produced a canteen which he shoved into Joe’s mouth.
Water.
Joe drank thirstily, not knowing when his next drink may come.
The Commander smiled a sickening grin, “Black Army or not, does not matter. You are obviously a spy for America and will be condemned as such. But you know something? You seem like a smart man, my young friend–”
Joe stayed on guard. The man was toying with him.
“–It takes a person of …courage, yes, to come to Syria alone. I can tell you have much courage. You obviously were not meant to land in such a poor way.”
Joe could tell the Commander was no idiot. He was putting things together.
It was at that moment Joe realized his ear comlink was gone. He couldn’t remember if he’d lost it during the landing, or if it had been taken. The knowledge he was without communication with Peacemaker command sent a swift pang of worry into his gut.
The Commander reached forward and clasped Joe by the jaw. “You think to come here and wreak murder on us? Look over there–” he forced Joe to look out across the Raqqad valley. Joe saw the smoking ruins of several structures in the distance. ISIL encampments, he guessed. The Jordanian bombers had done their jobs well, he thought with a grimace.
Could Delacroix still be alive in that?
The Commander reached forward and grabbed Joe by the ears. The smile was gone now, with only the vacant, mirrored lenses of the glasses for Joe to look into. “You are with the Dark Army aren’t you? Tell me then, who killed my men in Deir ez-Zor?”
The question puzzled Joe. He was relieved the Commander was confusing him with an Olympus soldier – at least he had that going for him – but Joe had no clue what he was talking about as far as something killing his men.
“Listen Dark One, someone massacred twenty of my best soldiers. I know the Olympus cowards had some part in it. So now I ask you, my friend, are you prepared to die? In Allah’s name, I swear I shall kill you right now if you don’t speak to me!”
Joe spit a mouthful of phlegm and blood in the ISIL commander’s face. Immediately, the other jihadists exploded in a rage of violence. Joe could do nothing as a multitude of punches and kicks rained down upon him.
“Khaloss!” the Commander shouted the Arabic word for stop. Standing up, he barked a plethora of orders to his men. Joe could only lay still, blood oozing from his mouth. Pain was something he had grown used to in his life. He didn’t know why or how, but he could soak it up better than anyone he knew. It was going to take more than what these half-assed fanatics were capable of to break him.
Fatboy and Pencil Thin grabbed Joe by the arms and hauled him to his feet. The other jihadists broke away towards the rough-looking vehicles parked nearby. The Commander followed Joe, switching back to English as he spoke, “So you are not my friend. That saddens me. Whoever you are matters nothing. Do you hear me, you pagan infidel? Perhaps in your death you may find forgiveness in violating our sacred kingdom.”
Joe tried to resist, but was met with a violent punch to the stomach from Fatboy. He was prodded towards a large GAZ military semi-truck, where he was lifted and tossed into the back like a bag of fertilizer. Fatboy got in after him and closed the tailgate. Joe felt the motor turn on and the vehicle rumble forward, bouncing wildly over the rocky terrain.
“Nice chaps, aren’t they?”
The voice came from someone sitting above where Joe lay. Before he could learn who it belonged to, Joe felt Fatboy grip his hair and yank him to a sitting position on the opposite side of the vehicle. The ISIL soldier gave Joe a withering glance before unshouldering his AK and sitting down beside him.
You’re number one on my shitlist, asshole. Joe gave the jihadist an ever-so-slight grin before turning his gaze away.
He quickly took stock of the truck’s occupants. There were two other prisoners, both with their arms behind their back. Both were men in their mid-thirties. One was Caucasian, with salt and pepper hair and heavy smile marks. The other was Asian, from exactly where, Joe couldn’t tell in the dim light of the truck. While the first prisoner looked relatively healthy, this poor guy was on his last legs. He was hunched over, his head bobbing side to side, eyes closed. His face had been reduced to pulp by numerous beatings and his shirt was a scarlet mass of blood. Joe could only tell the man was alive when he let out a violent cough.
The Caucasian man spoke to Joe, “Good to meet you, friend.” He had a pronounced British accent that Joe immediately felt at ease with. His face seemed familiar, somehow, “Seems like you’ve joined this wagon train near the end of its destination.”
At first, Joe said nothing. But then, he reasoned it probably mattered little now what he said or did. For some reason, Joe’s captors didn’t seem to care he was an American, which confounded him. From everything he’d heard about ISIL commanders, the thought of getting their hands on an American would have been a wet dream come true. But this Commander? Joe could tell the man had a screw or two loose. As it stood, Joe made up his mind and answered the Brit.
“What do you mean?”
The man attempted a mirthless smile, “They’re going to kill us, or haven’t you figured that out?”
“I kind of expected that.”
The Brit gave a soft chuckle, “Name’s Paul Dyson. BBC.”
Joe thought the man was familiar. He wasn’t exactly up on his British TV watching, but he never forgot a face.
“You’re a journalist, right?”
“Spot on. Was working in Al-Safirah, covering the Civil War when our friends here killed my Syrian contact and abducted me.”
Joe vaguely remembered hearing about the abduction on the news, shortly after the Zimbalan campaign.
Dyson continued, “Been hustled back and forth, here and there for the past, what, four months now?”
“You don’t look too worse for wear.” Joe remarked.
“Well, I could use a change of clothes. The rash on my ass hasn’t got any smaller after makin’ it from the back of a truck. These boys don’t really believe in sanitary conditions, know what I mean?”
Joe squirmed at the thought. Dyson changed the subject, “Don’t have a damn clue where we are now, though. Last I could tell, I was in Deir ez-Zor. Any idea where ‘here’ is? Heard a lot of explosions last night, but couldn’t see anything.”
“Raqqad Valley, northern Homs District. We’re about a hundred miles from Deir ez-Zor.”
The news seemed to hit the haggard-looking newsman hard, “Christ. I speak a good deal of Arabic, but they never cast any news my way.”
“Who’s your friend?” Joe asked, gesturing at the wounded Asian man.
Dyson regarded his fellow prisoner with a sad look, “Poor berk. Name’s Jian Chou, I think – he doesn’t speak a lick of English. From what I could understand before they…beat him, he was an aid worker in Turkey when these wankers grabbed him,” Dyson shifted his gaze over to Fatboy, “Our friend there is Sayid. Don’t piss him off. Pretty sure he doesn’t like people much. Who are you?”
Joe cast a quick look at the ISIL goon beside him. Sayid kept an eye on his prisoners, but made no reaction that would lead Joe to believe he understood the conversation.
Braddock looked back at the Englishman. “Just a concerned citizen of the international community. Wanted to see if I could lend a hand in this war. Call me Joe.”
Dyson guffawed, “You’re American, right? Army?
Special Forces? Why are you here?”
Joe shook his head, “You don’t need to know. Just trust me when I say that we’re getting out of this.”
“Getting out?” Dyson let out a sardonic chuckle, “Joe, do you have any idea what these bastards do to their enemies? There’s a dozen of them and one of you, and forgive me for saying it, but you look worse than Jian here. I think it’s safe to say we’re proper fucked.”
Joe wanted to say something reassuring, but found his mouth wouldn’t move. The man was right. He was outgunned and wounded. Escaping the zip ties would be fairly simple. A hard jerking motion downwards with the ratchet mechanism situated between his wrists would break them easy enough. But even if he did manage to free himself, he’d only be able to take one or two of the bastards down before being shot.
Sayid abruptly slapped Joe across the face as if reading his mind. The jihadist let out a torrent of shouts that Joe didn’t understand. Dyson filled him in.
“He says ‘be quiet.’”
* * *
FROM ACROSS the valley, a man sat crouched amidst the crags of the Raqqad Valley, a pair of high-powered binoculars trained on the convoy of ISIL vehicles. He’d been watching for the past twenty minutes as the ISIL scum had searched the scene of last night’s bombing run. He saw them pull what at first looked like a dead body from the smoking rubble left by the destruction. After watching the militants drag the body into the back of one of the semis, the figure pocketed the binoculars into the pouch of the tan overcoat he wore over top his grimy black ablative body armor. Picking up the PSG-1 sniper rifle he’d left leaning against a boulder, he shuffled down the hillcrest to where his open-air ’98 Jeep was parked at the base of the valley.
He had recognized the jihadist commander. The ISIL militant was a familiar face to those who had lived for any amount of time under the ISIL yolk. There was absolutely no doubt where the commander would be taking his prisoner. The District of Bones, forty miles from here.
Opening the Jeep, the man in armor placed his rifle below the passenger seat. Starting the engine, he guided the vehicle skilfully around the outer region of the valley. If he hurried, there was a chance he could beat the ISIL thugs to the District of Bones…
…but then, luck was on no one’s side in this bloody country.
Chapter 9
Horror
Syria, Ar-Raqqah Governorate
July 16th, 2015
THEY DROVE in silence for some time, jostling around the cargo area like eggs in a carton. Joe looked outside and saw they were driving on a dirt road, in which direction he couldn’t tell. He determined that the truck had left the lowlands of the Raqqad valley and was now trundling along a barren dirt road through the Syrian Desert.
Joe thought back to the map he inspected during his mission prep. The Raqqad valley was located one-hundred miles due south of Ar Raqqah city, situated near a low-lying chain of hills on the cusp of Syria’s massive desert plateau. Three quarters of the country existed in this massive, inhospitable region, with locals eking out an existence in variable hamlets spaced throughout the area. ISIL maintained an unquestioned grip on the small towns and villages that dotted this governorate of Syria, preserving their control with a mix of fear and portent.
As it stood, Joe had no idea where his captors intended to take him.
He wondered if he really wanted to know.
Joe set his mind to work on figuring out an escape plan. However he chose to act, he needed to take several very important things into consideration. One, he was wounded. His ankle throbbed mightily and his vision was hazy from the head wound he’d suffered. Two, he had civilians to protect. Dyson looked relatively fit, but Joe had no idea if he could rely on the man if the shit went down. Jian Chou had not regained consciousness and would be useless in a fight. Anything Joe tried would endanger their lives.
They were also miles from any civilization and outnumbered four to one.
Joe could feel the darkness of despair creep up on him. His mind was clouded, not by the fall, but something else–something deeper within him. Joe shook his head, trying to focus.
‘You’re not yourself lately, Joe…’
Braddock came to the realization he should never have accepted this assignment. Jade was right. Something was wrong with him. His mind was not in the right place; his focus drifting along a level of consciousness he had difficulty controlling.
Joe clenched his fists tight, digging his fingernails into the soft skin of his palm.
Focus. Lives are at stake, not the least of which, yours.
“You alright Joe?” Dyson asked. They had been driving for what felt like hours before the Englishman had worked up the courage to speak to the Peacemaker again.
“Fine. Sorry, just woozy from the jump.”
“Your head wound looks bad. Is it–”
“I’ll be fine. Where is it we’re headed, do you know?”
Dyson let out a heavy breath, “Can’t be sure, but probably the District of Bones, if I had to guess.”
Joe snorted, “Sounds great.”
“It’s not. These boys and their commander love to film their executions at a certain place in the desert. This commander…you’ve met him?”
Joe nodded.
Dyson smiled, dryly, “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? Goes by the name Aziz Moussafi. From what I gather, he’s in charge of ISIL forces from Al Raqqah to Palmyra. Tough fucking wanker.”
“Know anything else about him?”
“Only that he enjoys holding the heads of those he kills close to his face so he can see into the eyes of the dead.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah…a real charmer, him.”
They talked for a time. Sayid said nothing. To the militant, both men were condemned and well restrained. There seemed little at issue in allowing a bit of talk between condemned men. Nonetheless, the jihadist kept his hands tightly on his AK. After a while, the subject changed to memories of home. Braddock found out that Dyson had a young wife; his second attempt at marriage. The journalist also had a little girl, Samantha. The reporter’s voice grew strained when he said his family were probably going out of their minds in worry for him. Despite his busy schedule as a broadcaster, Dyson never been separated from them for more than a week.
“It’s funny,” the Brit said as he peered out the back of the semi towards the arid landscape of the Syrian steppe, “You spend your life trying to bring the world some measure of truth amidst all the lies, but you lie to yourself that this sort of thing could never happen to you.”
Joe knew exactly what the journalist meant, “We’re all someone else to someone else, huh?”
Dyson managed a quiet chuckle, but his eyes betrayed his fear, “I don’t want to die, Joe or whatever your name is. Not in this country.”
Braddock could see the man’s buoyant attitude was merely a face he was putting on to fight the dread he must be feeling. “I promise, we’ll get out of this, Paul.”
But as Joe spoke the words, even he couldn’t bring himself to believe them.
THEY DROVE until the sun started to dip lower in the sky. Joe was finally able to tell that they were heading northeast, leading them further into the Syrian plateau. The trucks downshifted and turned off the dirt road and headed across the steppe. Jian Chou stirred from his unconscious sleep. He started to speak in Japanese, his voice a sad wail of terror and anguish. Sayid shouted at him to be silent. But the poor man would not. Eventually, Sayid brought the butt end of his rifle down on the man’s head, putting him out cold.
Joe tensed, as the moment of violence gave him a temporary opening. But the fridge-sized militant was quicker than Braddock realized – whipping the AK back towards Joe before the Peacemaker could make his attempt at freedom.
Not yet…be patient.
The trucks came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Doors slammed and Joe could hear the high-pitched voice of Commander Moussafi shouting to his men. Sayid barked an order at Joe. When he didn’t
react, the militant gripped him tight by the hair and yanked Joe to his feet. Several other jihadists gathered at the tailgate of the semi-truck to help offload the prisoners. Joe was removed first and shoved roughly to his knees on the ground. Dyson was forced down beside Joe, with Jian having to be lifted down and set in the dirt beside the Brit.
Joe looked around the desolate waste. One of the ISIL vehicles had split away from the convoy several hours ago. Joe made a quick count. There were six remaining ISIL soldiers in total, including Moussafi. All were armed, except one, who was fumbling with an HD camcorder.
A fleeting thought made Joe look up into the sky, hoping that the Spirit Walker would be waiting to make a last minute rescue. It was a lark, but Joe’s list of options were waning. He’d missed the first extraction attempt by at least eight hours. The next attempt would be made tonight at 2200 hours, but the chances of Joe making that were growing thinner by the moment.
Commander Moussafi, still sporting the reflective aviators, made his way over to speak with his prisoners. Joe would have given anything to get his hands on that smug, self-satisfied face.
“Well, Olympus man, this is end of the road,” Moussafi said, bending down and bringing himself face to face with the Peacemaker, “Would you like to tell me, before your time in my country ends, why you are here? It the last offer I will make. I promise your death will not be this day if you tell the truth.”
“Fuck yourself.”
The commander smiled at the retort. “Fair enough. Today is as good day to die as any.” For a moment, Moussafi held Joe in his mirrored gaze. Even though he couldn’t see the eyes of his captor, Braddock did not break the stare. At length, Moussafi spoke, “You are a strange man. I see emptiness in your eyes…a look I know well. Your heart is blackened by hate.”
