by Jim Roberts
Joe just needed to keep him alive.
He lay for some time, his mind drifting back to what he’d seen the day prior. His heart was still sick at the horrible murders he had witnessed. The look in Dyson’s eyes as he was executed was now a permanent fixture in Joe’s mind.
When sleep finally came, the dreams returned once more to torment him.
* * *
JOE BRADDOCK was glad beyond belief to see the sunrise. Roused from his restless sleep by Sandor, Joe hoisted himself up. Around him, the dozen Shaitat tribespeople were preparing to leave the cave that had been their home for several days. Joe saw them for the first time in the morning light streaming through the cave entrance. They were all dressed in modest civilian clothing, ragged from days of being on the road. Their faces were wane and exhausted, in spite of a night’s sleep. The compounded fear of being captured and killed was heavy in their eyes.
Sandor quickly gave the people a series of orders in Arabic. They listened intently and dispersed to their appointed tasks. The first order was to clean the cave of any trace of their presence. Ayishah and Jamal helped the people prep for the day’s journey. Joe noticed the two Shaitat leaders were different than the others. From what Joe could tell, none of the others spoke any English, while Ayishah spoke it perfectly. Joe reasoned she had picked up her training abroad, perhaps in England, as he thought he could hear a slight accent in her speech. That would explain her rather liberal attitude and mannerisms, which were very liberal for this part of the world. A woman caring for a male patient was something that was mostly forbidden by traditional Islamic teachings.
As Joe stood to his feet, his vision doubled and he immediately felt ill. The cloud that had infected his mind over the last week was still there. Sandor noticed Joe’s moment of dizziness.
“You alright?”
Joe nodded, forcing his mind to concentrate. The drubbing Sayid had given him felt like a ten megaton bomb had exploded in his brain. “I’ll survive.”
“I assume you’re going to want some clothes, huh?”
“I’d appreciate it.” Joe replied. Ayishah brought Joe a folded grey t-shirt. The Peacemaker accepted it and quickly pulled it on. Sandor led him to a corner of the cave. A small collection of bags and crates were stacked against the cave wall.
“When we left Al-Thawrah, we barely had enough time to bring any supplies. I managed to steal a collection of rations, but we’re almost clear out. Water is rough as well. We should be good until Dummaya. As for guns…” the Centurion rummaged through the crates for a few seconds, “With the AKs I scavenged from where we picked you up, we have enough weapons to arm the adults.”
The first thing Sandor removed from the crate was a tan tactical vest. Joe accepted it and slapped it on overtop of his shirt. Then, the Centurion lifted out what looked like a Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol. He tossed the gun to Joe. The 13-round, 9x19mm parabellum handgun was a mainstay of the Syrian army. A classic design, easily customizable and valued for its accuracy and reliability. The Centurion handed Joe three clips of ammunition for the weapon.
“Oh, I found this when we checked the semi for useful equipment,” Sandor said, passing Joe an object wrapped in a green supply bag. Joe accepted and unwrapped it.
It was his M4.
For a moment, Joe just stared at the weapon. It was missing its suppressor, but was otherwise intact. Mousaffi had probably thought to keep it as some sort of prize.
Seeing the weapon again brought back a feeling of strength to the Peacemaker’s tired limbs. It was an absurd feeling; to be so happy at seeing a gun. But somehow, the horror and pain of the past day felt muted by the knowledge that he was once again reunited with his rifle.
At the end of the day, he thought, what use was a soldier without his rifle?
Sandor paused as he saw a slight smile crest over Joe’s face, “What is it?”
“It’s my M4. I thought it was lost.”
“Ah. Don’t celebrate too hard, I only found four clips for it.” Sandor passed the ammo to Joe, who quickly stuffed them into the tactical vest. The Centurion also passed Joe four frag grenades attached to a belt, as well as an eight inch Gerber combat knife.
“Here, some matches and glow sticks.” Sandor said, passing Joe a box of what looked like camping supplies.
“What for?” Joe asked.
“Survival one-oh-one: always be prepared. Don’t they teach that in the Peacemakers?”
Scoffing, Joe accepted the gifts, stuffing them in his pockets. As he did, Joe noticed several one gallon cartons of a thick liquid the color of apple juice. Each cartoon had a red flare taped to the side.
“What are those?” Joe asked.
“Napalm.” Sandor said proudly, “Mixed it with some diesel and Styrofoam. Just poke the top, light the flare and throw. And be somewhere else when you do. It’s not much, but we’re not going to get to Dummaya by fighting.”
Sandor led Joe out of the cave and into the light of the early dawn. The Peacemaker squinted, shielding his eyes as they adjusted to the brightness. Stretching out in front of him was the desert steppe, the sun peering over the eastern edge of the horizon. He saw the cave had been dug into the side of a canyon wall, which itself stretched for about a mile in both directions. Joe saw the semi-truck, parked underneath an outcropping of rocky cliff side. The Centurion had been wise to try to hide the vehicle as it would stick out like a sore thumb to any low-flying drone or aircraft. Joe took a deep breath, glad to be away from the smothering heat of the cave.
Jamal joined the two soldiers as they walked to the semi. Joe liked the young Syrian tribesman. The man had a calm, composed attitude that would be invaluable in dealing with the other people.
As they walked, Joe moved beside the young man, “So is Ayishah your…wife?”
Jamal nodded, “Yes. She is mother to my son, Abdul.”
“Where did she learn first aid?”
“She trained as…nurse in London,” replied the young man, fumbling with the English word. He spoke the language well, but occasionally fumbled the odd phrase, “We met in Aleppo when she returned to Syria five years ago. We lived there until the civil war made it impossible for a woman to stay employed. We came home to aid our people. The Islamic State jihadists were bullying them into submission.”
“You’ve got guts.” Joe remarked.
“What would you do if your people were being massacred in the streets, Sergeant?”
The Centurion opened the driver’s side door of the semi and got in. He had to key the engine twice before it rumbled to life. Joe looked back at the entrance to the cave and saw the other Shaitat tribespeople start to file out, holding their meager possessions on their backs. Delacroix leaned out the side of the window, “I’ll drive. You and Jamal sit up in the cab with me.”
Joe saw Ayishah making her way towards the truck, a young boy in her arms. Her son, Joe thought. The kid was only three years old. Ayishah made a beeline towards her husband, clutching the child tightly.
“Jamal, Sergeant Braddock is still wounded. I should sit in the front. Abdul wants his father.”
“You don’t need to worry about me, ma’am,” Joe said, blushing uncontrollably at the woman’s request.
Jamal began to object, but the little boy, Abdul started to sulk. Ayishah gave Jamal a pleading look, “You care much about others, Jamal. That’s what I love about you. Take some time to care for your son.”
After several minutes of arguing, Jamal relented, taking the child from his wife’s arms. He joined the rest of the tribespeople and helped the others into the cargo area. Ayishah made quick introductions to the Shaitat people.
There were two families: the Hanania family, which consisted of two men, Husam and his brother Aziz, and their wives, Maisha and Erina, respectively. They were all in their early thirties and barely made eye contact with the American soldier as they entered the truck.
The other family was larger.
There were two grandparents; a kindly looking cou
ple named Mahasin and Hussein. They had three sons in their mid to late twenties, Hadid, Karim and Mahad. Hadid’s wife was a waifish lady who murmured her name as Valiqa. All but the grandparents clenched AKS-74u’s in their hands.
As the last of the families entered the semi, Ayishah reached down and lifted the little four year old girl Joe had seen playing with Jamal’s son in the cave.
“What’s your name, honey?” Joe asked, uncomfortable with speaking to kids.
The little girl hid her face in Ayishah’s scarf. The woman smiled as she held the child for a moment. “Her name is Safa. She’s an orphan. Her parents died in Aleppo a few months ago and we’ve been taking care of her ever since.”
Joe clenched his jaw. He could only imagine what the past months had been like for the little girl.
Ayishah passed the child up to the others in the cargo hold, “If not for Sandor, her only future in this country would have been to be sold on the ISIL slave trade.”
Joe shook his head as he closed the tailgate. He was worried about having so many of the people armed. They may know how to use their guns, but there was a difference of knowing how to use them and when to use them. He needed to set some ground rules. Joe asked Ayishah to translate for him.
“Okay everyone, if we’re pulled over by a patrol, or if something goes bad, do not act until Sandor and I do. Clear? I don’t want anyone taking risks they don’t need to take.”
There were sporadic nods from the people. As Joe led Ayishah towards the passenger side of the cab, the young woman halted him.
“The others would not appreciate me for saying this–” Ayishah said, “–but thank you for helping us.”
Joe managed a slight smile, “It’s a long ways to Dummaya, ma’am. Thank me when we get there.”
“You’re risking your life to help when you don’t need to. Allah looks kindly on those who risk their lives for others.”
“Well, I don’t know about Allah, but my mission is to get Mister Delacroix back to my people in one piece. If getting you guys to Dummaya can do some good, then that’s my mission as well.”
Ayishah said no more. She opened the cab door and pulled herself in. Before he followed her, Joe made one last sweep of the area. His eyes lingered on the desert steppe. Over the past year, Joe had spent more time in lands like these – uncompromising, brutal and inhospitable – than he’d spent at home.
Abruptly, Joe felt a cloud of pain rise in his brain. Cursing to himself, he shook his head and took several deep breaths.
Hold true…get these people to safety.
There was nothing that Joe Braddock wanted more than to complete this mission. As ever, people were relying on him to stay the course and not lose focus. He couldn’t fail now.
Joe climbed into the cab of the semi, closing the door after him, “We’re all set.”
Sandor nodded. “It’s a five hour drive to Dummaya. Let’s hope any ISIL patrols just see us as one of their own. Otherwise…”
The Centurion didn’t finish the sentence. He maneuvered the semi away from the canyon wall and onto the dirt road leading towards the dangerous reaches of the south Syrian plateau.
Chapter 12
Delays
The Cottage, Peacemaker Mission Operations Center
July 17th, 2015
JADE MASTERS stifled a yawn as she checked the computer monitors for the umpteenth time in the past hour. She’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and was starting to show it. A shower was starting to sound pretty damn good right about now. Jade lifted the comlink earpiece off her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose, holding her eyes shut as she did.
“Any word on our boys?”
Jade snapped out of her lull as Brick Reynolds walked through the command HQ towards her. The former SAS soldier had kept busy training the new Peacemaker recruits during the early morning. The veteran soldier was an ideal choice for the job. While Joe Braddock was technically the Staff Sergeant of the team, his knowledge and skill at operating on the front lines hardly gave him time for training. Brick was the stout A-list talent who could whip a group of newbies into a fighting unit with his combination of bluster and discipline.
Jade shook her head in answer to the Sergeant’s question, “Nothing. We’ve been cross-checking drone surveillance of the immediate area for the past ten hours, but…there’s nothing.”
Brick let out a flustered sigh, “Sorry. I’d hoped there’d been some news after I’d finished drilling the new meat.”
“How are they shaping up?” Jade asked, not particularly interested in the answer. Her mind was on other things.
“Good so far. Motivated boys and girls, the lot. Stanlin’s been driving them hard…” He was about to continue, but noticed the mission analyst was hardly listening, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Jade said. She couldn’t hold in another yawn.
Brick fidgeted for a moment, probably wondering if he should inquire further into her day. “Maybe you should get some sleep,” he suggested, “things don’t look like they’re gonna change much here.”
“I’m not tired. I still have work to do.”
“You’re not helping anyone if you’re falling asleep.”
Jade didn’t want to admit it, but Brick was right. What was left to do here? The mission had been all but aborted by the Major. They were only waiting on confirmation from Packrat and Krieger that the Spirit Walker was on its way back stateside.
But Jade Masters hated the idea relinquishing control, even for a few hours. Something in her heart told her that Joe was alive, somewhere in that desert of hell and misery. Maybe he was injured and in pain, but he was alive.
Jade turned away from Brick and scowled. Ever since her husband had died in Zimbala, Jade had never expected to feel anything for a man again like she felt for Joe Braddock. He could be insensitive, naïve and aloof, but his heart was so good, so strong. He fought with every bit of his soul, with a passion she had never seen. Even Jade’s independent streak couldn’t stand up to the feelings she had for the man. She almost hated him for it.
“Trust me, go take some time,” Brick said, sitting in the seat next to her, “You’ve got your phone, if anything happens, I’ll contact you if–”
Brick’s eyes flicked up towards the other side of the MOC. Jade turned to follow his line of sight and saw Major Stanlin exit the elevator and stride through the sea of techs and operations workers. Both Jade and Brick snapped out of their chairs as the Peacemaker CO approached.
“Major,” Brick said, saluting his superior.
“At ease Sergeant,” Stanlin’s eyes moved towards his mission analyst, “Corporal, I have bad news. I’ve discussed things with the D/CIA and our budget has been called into question. We have already wasted a large amount of money on this Op and the CIA wants it terminated immediately. Contact Packrat and his pet Russian and get them out of Turkey and on their way home.”
Jade felt a fire of anger well up in her, “Sir, I know you don’t know him like we do, but Braddock is not someone who gives up.”
“Please spare me, Corporal. None of this is open to debate. Now do as I–”
“Major!”
One of the surveillance techs, a young lady with short red hair, codenamed Headcase, was standing up from her station, trying to get the attention of the superior officer. Stanlin, followed by Brick and Jade, made his way over to the tech’s desk.
“What is it?” Stanlin demanded, annoyed at the interruption.
Headcase pointed at a satellite image on her computer screen, “We have something on drone surveillance in the Ar-Raqqah Governorate of Syria.”
Stanlin looked quizzically at Masters. Jade explained. “We’ve been tracking CIA drone feeds in the area over the past forty-eight hours. ISIL activity has been concentrated in the north and south regions of the country. Any activity in the plateau region is enough to warrant attention.”
Before the Major could respond, Jade looked down at Headcase, “Show us what you�
�ve got.”
Headcase quickly called up the drone feed onto her monitor. The image was pixelated, but clear enough. The feed displayed what looked like a military jeep, parked just off a winding dirt road. The tech explained the scene, “This image is thirteen hours old. After the bombing run yesterday, the drone picked up the semi traveling away from the Raqqad valley. Its markings show it to be an ISIL vehicle. We only discovered it today.”
The tech enlarged the image. Jade thought she could make out several small figures, lying on the ground around the semi.
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Headcase said, making some adjustments to the feed. It made little difference; the image was still too grainy to make out any real details, “We think those are bodies. This location is some thirty miles north-northeast of the valley Sergeant Braddock was last seen. I did a little sniffing and found that area is commonly used for ISIL executions.”
Jade clenched her fist, “Are there any survivors? Anything moving at all?”
Headcase shook her head, “No. The drone left the area only ten minutes after this was taken.”
Damn. Jade swore to herself. Her brain was adding up the possibilities. Why would a truck head from a recently bombed location towards a known execution ground?
“Major, if they came from the Raqqad valley, there’s a chance they might have been transporting someone…a survivor.”
“Stop grasping at straws, Corporal. It could be anything: a rebel raid, or a patrol gone bad, anything.”
Brick chimed in, having stayed silent long enough, “It bears looking into, sir. It wouldn’t take much to reroute another drone to double check the location.”
“The mission is scrubbed, Sergeant.” Stanlin said, “I have a Unit to run, with operations in fourteen different countries around the globe. We tried and we’ve failed this time. I am not spending more resources on a botch.”
Jade felt her famous temper rise. Swallowing her rage, forcing herself to speak in a civil tone, she said, “Sir, with all due respect, we owe it to Sergeant Braddock–”
