by Peter Nealen
“So, they’re still trying to do this with proxies?” Jim mused.
“For the moment,” Haas said. “It’s safer than direct involvement, as has been shown rather graphically here, in Afghanistan, and in Libya. They don’t have any of their troops coming home in body bags; keeps the unrest down a little, while they still can work on exporting their particular brand of extremism.”
“You said, ‘for the moment,’” Larry pointed out. “Is it possible that could change?”
Haas paused for a long moment. “It’s entirely possible. The situation in western Iraq is getting them nervous enough that Gilani admits they’re thinking about direct intervention, mostly using the IRGC. The Revolutionary Guard has something like 125,000 men, and can draw on another 90,000 Basij. That’s a hell of an army for this part of the world.”
“That’s still about half the size of the Iraqi Army,” I said. “They’d have to get the regulars involved as well.”
“I’m sure they will, but why do you think they contributed to the mess up in Kurdistan?” Haas said. “Get the IA all tired out and beaten down fighting the Peshmerga, along with any other militants the Iranians could stir up, then hit them when they’re not expecting it.”
“It sounds like the IA aren’t the Iranians’ primary target, anyway,” Jim said. “If they can find a way to get them out of the fight so they can concentrate on the Salafists…”
There was a long pause, as we all mulled the situation over. “How the fuck do we fight that with less than fifty guys?” Paul asked.
“Not quickly,” I said. “One thing at a time.” I took a deep breath. “Barring any more support, and it sounds like most of the other teams are pretty occupied up in Kirkuk, we’re just going to have hit what targets we can find. Let’s look more closely at this Hezbollah business…”
Of course, that plan didn’t end up working out, either. At least this time it wasn’t because everything turned to shit. Quite the opposite in fact.
Haas got a call from Hassan, and promptly disappeared for three days. We lay low, watching and listening. There was no sign of the Hezbollah ship, unless we’d missed it. Matters didn’t calm down, but they didn’t escalate, either. There were still hit squads moving around, but they weren’t as brazen as they had been at first, and the checkpoints actually did help keep the lid on things. Too bad it was keeping the lid on for the Iranians’ purposes.
On the evening of the third day, Haas showed back up with Hassan, three young men in what looked a lot like a paramilitary uniform, and an older man with a long beard, black thobe, and a white turban. The old guy broadcast “mullah” to me, and Hassan and the young guys obviously treated him with deference. Haas ushered the old guy in respectfully, answering my wordless raised eyebrow with an expression that said, wait and see.
I signaled subtly to the rest of the guys to stand down, and got Paul working on some tea. We kept some in the house now, thanks to Hassan, along with plenty of sugar. Iraqi chai wasn’t complete without enough sugar to give the average person diabetes.
The old man sat down on the cushions in the main room, with his entourage sitting down behind him. They were all armed with pistols, but so were we, and I was banking on the lot of us being faster on the draw at this point.
“Jeff, this is Mullah Abdullah al Hakim,” Haas said by way of introduction. “He is a pretty big mover and shaker around here; when he talks, people listen. He was a student of Al Sistani.”
“As salaamu aleikum, Mullah,” I said, forcing my legs to sit Indian style on the cushion across from him. “What can I do for you today?”
“Wa aleikum as salaam,” the old man said, placing his hand over his heart. “Mr. Haas tells me that you and your men had a part in the fighting in the cemetery in Zubayr. That many Salafist fighters and PPF were killed.” His English was impeccable, with a faint British accent.
I shot a glance at Haas, wondering what he’d been thinking, letting out that we’d been part of that. I trusted him, mostly, but letting out that kind of information was dangerous, and I wasn’t happy that he’d done it without telling me first. We’d have words later, and the look on his face told me he knew it, and thought this was worth it.
“We may have been there,” I acknowledged. I wasn’t giving anything more than absolutely necessary away until I found out just what the hell was going on here.
He inclined his head. “You have my thanks,” he said. “There is quite enough trouble here from the Iranians without the Khilafah terrorists killing more people.” He took a drink of chai. “The tea is very good.”
“Shukran,” I answered, taking a sip of my own. Too hot for the climate and way too fucking sweet, but that was how it was made here. I didn’t say anything, but just waited. The Mullah was going to get to his point in his own good time. That was another part of the way things were done here. His first words had already been astoundingly straightforward for the Middle East. Small talk first, then business.
“Do you have a family, Mr. Stone?” the Mullah asked.
“Not much of one,” I replied. “My parents are both dead. I have a brother somewhere in the United States. We don’t talk much.”
“That is a shame,” he said. “Family is important. Every man should have a family, with strong sons to carry on his name.”
“My work has kept me away too much for that,” I said. The Mullah’s tea was almost half gone. For all my understanding of how things were done, I was still hoping that he’d get to the point soon. This side of working in the Mideast and Africa had always ground on me. But I had to be patient, and let him come around to the reason for his visit, not to mention why Haas had brought him here at all. In my head, I was already calculating how fast we could pack up and get to the fallback safehouse.
“Again, that is a shame,” he said. He finally fixed me with his gaze and put down the glass of chai. “You are wondering why I am here,” he said. I inclined my head in tacit agreement. He sighed. “As Mr. Haas said, I was a student and follower of the Grand Ayatollah, may Allah’s peace be upon him. The Ayatollah never condoned the terrorist tactics of the likes of Moqtada, and he resisted Iranian efforts in this region, believing that we needed to have a modern Islamic state here in Iraq. I have always tried to follow his example, and there are many like me, and many who follow the Ayatollah’s teachings, that Jews and Christians are People of the Book, that we must try to live in peace with our brothers, and that we must not fall to the same level as the Salafists to the west.”
He took another sip of chai. “Unfortunately, in recent years, the Iranians have pushed more and more of their influence into the Shi’a areas of Iraq. They have fomented violence and terror, and nowhere more than here in Basra.” He looked me in the eye again. “Not all Shi’a are like them, Mr. Stone. My people are not like them.”
“I never said they were, Mullah,” I replied.
He nodded, as if satisfied. “I would like to propose we work together, Mr. Stone,” he said. “I have quite a few men who follow me, who are tired of being pushed around by the IRGC Qods Force, and having their neighbors murdered in their homes for speaking out. They are armed, and many of them are trained. Some of them are, or have been, in the PPF. They have realized that the only way to keep this province, this country from descending into a war like the one in Syria is to fight back. Mr. Haas and my friend Hassan assure me that your company would be a great asset in this effort.”
I took another sip of my own chai, mainly to buy time. So this was Haas’ angle. I had to admit, it was a good one. Most of us had some sort of FID background, even though it had rusted a little bit. Trusting locals was going to be something of a hard sell. We’d seen some pretty nasty results of dealing with locals over the years. I wasn’t all that keen on the idea, myself. On the other hand, we were struggling here in Basra. This might just be the breakthrough we needed to put the hurt on the bad guys.
“What exactly did you have in mind, Mullah?” I asked. “We are not the US Army, we d
on’t have unlimited assets of our own.” Granted, neither did the Army anymore, but that was beside the point. The last time this guy had likely seen any US Army soldiers, they’d been a lot better equipped and supported than the hollow shell that was now barely able to maintain its own bases Stateside.
“We do not have much money,” he said, “but we would be willing to hire your company to support my men here. My men can begin weeding out the Iranian influence in the PPF. You would help us hunt down the terrorists here that the Iranians have brought to brutalize our people.”
He certainly understood that we weren’t running a charity; that was something. I also sensed a potential trap—if we relied solely on his intel, we ran the risk of taking out tribal vendettas in the name of going after “terrorists.” Under the circumstances, however, it was a risk I was increasingly willing to take. We didn’t have the political fallout to worry about anyway. We were already persona non grata by virtue of being a successful PMC that killed jihadis.
I was also under no illusions that he wouldn’t turn on us as soon as our usefulness was at an end. Iraqis were somewhat more tolerant of foreigners—depending, of course, on where you were—than, say Afghans, but they still wouldn’t care for foreign mercenaries being the backbone of the new order in Basra or anywhere else. We’d become a political liability sooner or later. We had to be ready to pop smoke before that happened.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take full advantage of the opportunity while it presented itself. “I think we could have a very productive relationship, Mullah,” I said. “My company has other obligations in the north of the country, but my team is here specifically to try to disrupt the Qods Force operations. They have been causing more trouble up north, trying to stir up war between Baghdad and the KRG. We came here to find out what they were up to.” Granted, we’d done a little bit more than that, but he didn’t need to know the entire story, not yet.
He nodded, his expression impassive, when I mentioned the Kurds. Kurds and Arabs don’t get along as a rule, and however enlightened his sentiments about Iraqi sovereignty and sectarian tolerance might be, I couldn’t tell if he felt the same way about Kurds. I wasn’t going to press the issue, either.
“Very good,” he said. He put down the empty chai glass. “Thank you for your hospitality. I will leave the details of our arrangement to my friend Hassan.”
I didn’t bat an eye, but inside I thought, that devious bastard. Hassan had been playing us, feeling us out even as he fed us intel. He’d been working for the Mullah the whole damned time. Al Hakim had probably used him to set us on the meeting between Abu Falah and the Ansar al Khilafah fighters. We’d already been in this guy’s employ, and hadn’t known it. It pissed me off, but under the circumstances, I wasn’t in a position to make a huge deal out of it, so I let it slide. I could see from the glint in Al Hakim’s eye that he’d noticed my restraint.
He stood up, and I followed him. He held out his hand, and I shook it, while putting my left hand over my heart. He smiled, then led the way out, followed by his entourage. Hassan stayed back. Haas saw them to the door, then rejoined us in the main room.
“When were you going to let me know about this little play, Haas?” I asked, letting a little bit of my calm and reasonable act slip. “Oh, right, you didn’t, you just sprung it on me in the middle of our primary safehouse, in the middle of what amounts to a hostile city. What. The. Actual. Fuck.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t have the time or the opportunity. This got sprung on me pretty fast; I had to move or lose the opportunity. I suspect that was deliberate.”
I looked over at Hassan, who was looking a little smug, but that might just have been my pissed-offedness talking. “That would make sense.”
Hassan evidently felt the change in attitude. He spread his hands. “My friends,” he said, “I do not see the problem. You have help now, yes?”
“You manipulated us, Hassan,” I said. “That is not what friends do to each other. How are we supposed to trust you now? How can we know we can trust the Mullah, when our arrangement was made in such an underhanded way?”
I was guilting the hell out of him, and I knew it. His face fell as I spoke, though how much was because of what I’d said, and how much was because he was considering how much trouble he’d be in with the Mullah if we pulled out because we’d figured out their duplicity, I didn’t know. I wasn’t going to pull us, not yet, simply because this was the best chance we really had to throw a monkey wrench in the IRGC’s operations. I was going to take it, but I didn’t want our new employers thinking they could pull a fast one on us whenever they wanted. We needed them to be aware that at any time we might say, “Fuck you, we’re gone.” It would help keep them honest.
“I am sorry, Mister Jeff,” he said. “Mullah Al Hakim thought it was the only way to ensure your cooperation. Things are very tense here right now. The Qods Force men, the Mahdi Army, and the Hezbollah fighters have killed many people, and people are afraid. Mullah Al Hakim knew that we needed help that would not be afraid of the terrorists, and since the Iraqi Police are so corrupt, he thought you would be the best choice.”
“The fact that the Iraqi government has a price on our heads didn’t bother him?” Jim asked.
Hassan smiled. “I think it made him want your help even more,” he said. “The government in Baghdad is corrupt; the Basra PPF would not have been formed otherwise.”
For a long moment I said nothing, letting him sweat a little. Finally, I blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, I suppose the arrangement is still in our interests, so I’m going to go ahead with it. Don’t think we’ve forgotten any of this, though,” I warned. “Any more shenanigans and we’ll handle things our way, and be gone.”
Hassan nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, of course,” he said. “We must trust each other.”
I nodded, and went into the ops room, grabbed the sat phone, and headed up to the roof. It was still broad daylight, but between the parapet and the trees in the neighborhood, I wasn’t likely to be observed. I wasn’t kitted up anyway, so from a distance, if somebody saw me, I’d just look like some guy on the roof talking on a cell phone.
It was hot, and there really wasn’t much shade up there. I doubted anyone else would be up on the roof at this hour, but I’d seen stranger things. I dialed Alek’s number back in Sulaymaniyah.
“Talk to me, brother,” Alek said.
I filled him in. “It sounds like the best chance we’ve got,” I said. “As good as we might be, we just don’t have the manpower or firepower to go after Qomi in his hidey-hole, at least not without somebody running interference for us. We might have the interference we need now, with Al Hakim’s guys.”
“Do you trust him?” Alek asked.
“About as far as I can throw him,” I replied. “Trust isn’t how we’ve stayed alive this long. But if we can work with him, we might be able to do some good before he turns on us.”
“You sound convinced he’s going to,” Alek said.
I reiterated my thoughts about the political liability of relying on foreign mercenaries in Iraq. “He can’t afford to keep us close the whole time. He’ll cut us loose and turn us into scapegoats as soon as his goals are met. Maybe before, if he thinks he doesn’t need us anymore.”
“I’m sending Mike’s team down to link up with you,” Alek said. “Things haven’t exactly calmed down that much in Kirkuk, but between Hal’s team and Fig’s team, they can do what they can. You need Mike’s boys down there.”
“What about Al Anbar?” I asked. “If AQI is reestablishing its hold on Ramadi and Fallujah, that’s going to be another threat vector we’ve got to consider. And we haven’t got dick out there.”
I could almost see him shake his head. “We don’t have the manpower, brother. We’re contractually obligated to the Kurds right now, and now we’re committed to Al Hakim’s organization. We can’t cover the whole country.”
�
��This whole trip is going to be a little on the pointless side if AQI takes over Baghdad anyway,” I pointed out.
He sighed. “We’ll figure something out, brother, but we’ve got to get a lid on these two situations first. AQI and their cronies aren’t as organized as the Iranians, and let’s face it; the Kurds are the best hope of allies we’ve really got in this region. If we’re going to continue to operate against the jihadis, we’ve got to be friends with the Kurds. That means helping them out. We’ll get to the Salafis, brother, it just isn’t going to happen today. If we had another company, it might, but we don’t. We’ve got four field teams and the support guys. That’s it,” he said. “And two of the four field teams are now understrength,” he added.
I couldn’t argue with him. Hell, not too long ago, I’d been feeling helpless to do anything here in Basra, with nine guys, including Haas. Trying to fight three different fronts was beyond our capabilities, and he was right on all other counts. We needed the Kurds, and we knew what the Iranians were up to. It burned me that we were probably going to help the Salafists, however indirectly, by fighting the Iranians, but when you’ve got two sets of bad guys to deal with, sometimes you’ve got to deal with them one at a time.
Welcome to warfare in the Third World, or should I say, the Tribal World. It’s never simple, and it will drive you insane, if it doesn’t kill you first.
Chapter 22
Two days later, we got to meet Al Hakim’s militia. Of course, we didn’t get to have this meeting in a remote location, where we could get to know the militiamen, train a little with them, and get some common ground. Nope, that would be too easy.
Instead, we got a meeting place in the middle of Al Maamel, an industrial section in the south of the city. Hassan had very little information to pass, only that there was an operation, and they needed our help. It was the first we had heard from the militia since the meeting with the Mullah. I was not happy, and nobody else on the team was, either. Mike and his team had arrived the night before, but given the security situation, they were hunkered down in another safehouse in Al Najibiyah, across town. They’d be shadowing us, providing overwatch. We hadn’t filled Hassan in on their arrival; until we had some solid assurance that we could trust Al Hakim’s people, I was going to keep an ace up my sleeve as long as I could.
