Hunting in the Shadows (American Praetorians)

by Peter Nealen

  “Did you get an ID on any of them?” Haas asked.

  Both men shook their heads. “The contact group all had their faces covered,” Larry said. “They weren’t wearing any identifying markings, like the black headbands the Syrian rebels were using. They were trying to be covert, and they generally succeeded.”

  “Jeff, somebody trained these guys right,” Jim said. “There was just something about the way they moved, the way they acted. There’s been some serious professionalism drummed into these guys.”

  “And we’re pretty sure they were AQI or somebody affiliated?” Haas asked.

  “They weren’t on the PPF’s side, that was pretty evident,” Jim replied. “And unless our allies have been holding out on us, that pretty much leaves the Salafists, as far as I know.”

  “It also begs the question,” Juan said quietly, “how many more fighters are being smuggled into the city? And is there a way to stop that flow?”

  “With what we’ve got here?” I asked. “Not a chance.” I rubbed my eyes. I suddenly felt tired as hell. “We can disrupt, we can be the boogeyman that makes it harder for them to feel safe here, but securing the city against insurgents is going to be the task of our allies, after we help them take over the PPF.” As if that was going to be an easy task in the first place. I stood up. “I’m going to see if I can find Hussein Ali.” I shook my head. “I’m going to see if I can find Hassan, then I’m going to find Hussein Ali. In the meantime, let’s get another team out there watching for more of these motherfuckers coming in.” I sighed. “Damn it, it can’t ever be simple, can it?”

  By sunrise the next day, I was out in a beater Honda hatchback with an engine that actually rattled, Bryan in the passenger seat. Once again, we were two tall, broad-shouldered white guys trying to be covert in a city of shorter, generally skinny Arabs. That was why we stayed in the car, rarely stopped for anything, and wouldn’t get out unless we had to.

  Things hadn’t gotten any calmer. It said something about the locals that they kept going out into the streets to go about their business in spite of the bombings and shooting going on. Granted, they generally ducked inside whenever anything lit off, but they weren’t fleeing or staying hunkered down. Whether that meant they had a surplus of guts or a deficiency of brains, I couldn’t tell. The truth was, this was the situation a lot of them had had to live with for a long time now. Survival won’t necessarily always let you wait around until things are safer.

  I turned the rattletrap car onto the main east-west road running south of Al Abelah. The Al Othman Mosque’s minaret was just visible between the buildings, catching the first rays of the sun while most of the streets were still in shadow. I steered us toward it, crossing the canal that lay on the right side of the street.

  The four trucks appeared quickly enough I almost wasn’t able to stop and get us over to the side and in the shadow of a shed that looked like it might be used as a market stall before they ran into us. The masked men with green headbands in the backs of the three HiLuxes and a Ranger didn’t pay us any heed once we were out of their way. Given the amount of firepower they were packing, and the fact that our SBRs were stowed beneath the seats, that was just as well.

  “That doesn’t look good,” I remarked.

  “Jaysh al Mahdi, you think?” Bryan asked.

  “With those headbands, yeah,” I replied. “Interesting that they’ve started using those as a de facto uniform. They never used to give a shit.”

  “Are we following them?” he asked.

  I already had the car in gear. “The response to a Jaysh al Mahdi hit squad going into a largely Sunni neighborhood could be enlightening.”

  “It could be somewhat less so if we get our asses shot off before we’re supposed to overthrow the PPF leadership and put al Hakim’s people in charge,” he pointed out.

  “We’ll keep well back,” I assured him. “But the PPF is only a fraction of the problem here. The more information we can gather about the irregular forces, the better.”

  “You’re the boss,” he said. “I just don’t trust this piece of shit to get us out of harm’s way when everything goes to shit.”

  “Better than hiding in a canal all day,” I pointed out.

  “Fighting what looked like two platoons all by ourselves?” he retorted. “You have a different definition of ‘better’ than I do.”

  “Says the guy who has always considered ‘blaze of glory’ on the table for planning, regardless,” I mocked him. “Those last few years behind a desk before you finally got out fuck you up that bad?”

  “Fuck you, dude,” he said. “Fine. Fuck it, let’s go.”

  It didn’t take long. Whether or not they had just happened to pick a target on the edge of the neighborhood or didn’t want to penetrate too far, the trucks full of Shi’a jihadists stopped outside a house barely two blocks up the street, near the school. They piled out and rushed the house, leaving only a handful to secure the trucks. That they had left guys on security at all said something for their level of training. I suspected the Qods Force types were doing more than just throwing their weight around in the PPF.

  There was an explosion of gunfire from the direction of the house, shattering the early morning quiet. It was almost immediately drowned out by the muezzin sounding the call to prayer from the nearby mosque, but soon all of the armed men came running back out to the trucks, waving their rifles in the air. Whoever they had been there to kill was dead, or at least there were enough corpses in the house that they were happy.

  The muezzin finished the call to prayer, and almost immediately started ranting in Arabic. Mine was still rusty, but I understood enough to realize that the torrent of shouted words coming from the minaret’s loudspeakers was a call to arms.

  “Decision time,” I said. “We can sit tight, and try to watch what happens, preferably without getting our heads blown off, or run for it. Obviously the Sunni militias have some sort of early warning in here, even if it wasn’t early enough for whoever the poor bastards in that house were.”

  Bryan didn’t say anything for a moment. “I know just how good these motherfuckers’ marksmanship is,” he said finally. “I think staying around here is just going to get us shot for no good reason.”

  A second later, the first fusillade of unaimed, spray-and-pray fire came snapping down the street, blowing dust and grit off of parked cars and walls and shattering a couple windows. I was inclined to agree with Bryan. I put the car in gear and backed us around a corner, trying to get a compound between us and the bullets.

  Just as I was putting the car in drive, four gunmen came running toward us from the west, obviously heading for the fight. They saw us and immediately knew we didn’t belong there.

  More fire cracked overhead and smacked into the side of the car. Bryan leaned out of the passenger side window, his 1911 in hand, and blasted the entire mag at them. We were moving already as I mashed the gas, almost stalling the damned junker of a car, wrenching the wheel over to send us careening toward the canal and out of the neighborhood, so he probably didn’t hit any of them, but it got them to scatter and put their heads down.

  I drove fast down the narrow side-street, beneath the fronds of a tree that was growing over the top of a compound wall low enough the branches almost brushed the roof of the car, then damn near flipped the car as I downshifted to haul it around to the right, following the canal toward the nearest crossing. The tires spun briefly in the gravel on the side of the road, sending dirt and rocks cascading into the water, then we were moving.

  The nearest crossing might have held the car’s weight, but I didn’t trust it. It wouldn’t do any good to get away only to fall into a canal only a few blocks away. I didn’t think they were after us, though those clowns who’d shot at us might get the idea in their heads that we were with the Jaysh al Mahdi fuckers. Instead I took the straightaway, barreling toward the next hardball road faster than was probably smart in these tight quarters, with blind corners ever couple hundred f
eet.

  A man on foot in a white man dress ran out into the street without looking, and I damned near killed him. As it was I swerved, almost lost control, smashed the front right tire into a pile of trash, skidded, did lose control for a second, then fishtailed back onto the straight-and-narrow in a cloud of dust and gravel.

  I slowed down as we got to the main road. Fortunately there wasn’t a lot of traffic, given how early it was. We blended into the few cars and trucks going about their business, trying to avoid getting caught up in the violence going on just a few blocks away.

  As always, I avoided a straight route back to the militia FOB, not that the place was a secret to anybody. Taking a predictable route anywhere is a good way to get ambushed, however.

  It took about an hour to get back to “friendly” territory, given the route I used, and the frequent stops and double-backs to make sure nobody was following us. We also had to steer around at least four checkpoints, only one of which had been set up by the PPF. The battle lines were being drawn, and the city was openly fracturing along tribal and sectarian lines faster and more thoroughly than I’d thought possible.

  When we pulled into the factory, which was now about as overt an armed camp as you could find outside of the PPF stations, it took only moments and showing the guard our faces to get waved in. Daoud Al Zubayri’s militia was handling security for the FOB; I didn’t know exactly what all Hussein Ali’s people were up to. Their security, while obvious and well-armed, still was lacking some professionalism, but I wasn’t sure how to help that, especially as so many IDs in the country were falsified and unverifiable anymore.

  I pulled the car over to our outbuilding, but didn’t go in as soon as I got out. I was looking for Hassan.

  I finally found him halfway across the factory complex, smoking a cigarette, talking, and laughing with several militiamen who were standing or squatting in the peculiar way Iraqi men had of neither sitting nor standing. I waved him over, and he excused himself to come and talk.

  “Mister Jeff,” he said, dropping his cigarette on the ground. “You are back early.”

  “We ran into some complications,” I said. “Where are Hussein Ali and Daoud?”

  “I am sorry Mister Jeff, but they are not here. Daoud al Zubayri went to see his family last night, and has not come back yet. Hussein Ali is meeting with one of his cousins who is fairly highly-placed in the PPF, to try to convince him to bring his unit over once we move against the Iranians again. I think we will be ready once he convinces his cousin.”

  Dammit. “I need to speak to both of them as soon as they get back,” I told him. “I don’t think this is going to be as simple as knocking over the Qods Force operation in the PPF.”

  It was late afternoon before either of them showed up. I had no idea where Daoud had been, and he wasn’t forthcoming, though he was upbeat enough. I didn’t think he’d sell us out, in large part because I was pretty sure Hussein Ali would have his head cut off if he did, and I was pretty sure, from the way he acted around the older man, that he knew it.

  I’d learned a long time before that you can’t expect Iraqis or just about any other Third World group to ever be on time. For anything. They simply don’t perceive time the same way Westerners do. It can be intensely annoying, but you eventually get used to it. When you aren’t setting the timeline at all, then you just endure it and wait, even if there is something important that needs to be addressed.

  The fact that they might not see it as nearly as important as you do is also a hazard of working with militias in these places.

  “Look, I understand that the Iranians have had more influence here since, well, since the invasion,” I argued. “But AQI and the other Salafists are smuggling more and more of their men into the city. They practically own entire neighborhoods now. This isn’t going to be nearly as clean as knocking out the Qods Force leadership in the PPF. Jaysh al Mahdi, Hezbollah, AQI, Ansar al Khilafah, Al Nusra…there are too many irregular groups to think this is going to be simple.”

  Daoud smiled tolerantly. I was starting to get really pissed at that expression. “He says that they have dealt with the insurgents before,” Hassan translated. “Once they have control of the PPF and the militias it will be easier, he says.”

  The militia leader went on. “He says that the Jaysh al Mahdi will be a challenge, but the Salafists do not have enough of a support base here to make a difference. There have never been enough Sunnis living in Basra for them to have much influence. They might attempt to attack a mosque or two, but they will be no match for the combined forces of the PPF and the militias.”

  Frustrated, I looked at Hussein Ali, who had been playing his “man of few words” act for the entirety of the meeting. He just shrugged, and spoke briefly and curtly. “He does not believe the Sunnis have the strength to oppose the PPF and the militias either,” Hassan relayed.

  I took a deep breath and blew it out in an explosive sigh. I wasn’t going to convince either of them. Maybe they were right. They’d been on the ground a lot longer than I had, and they had to have a better understanding of the local ground truth. It didn’t fit with what I’d seen or with what Jim and Larry had reported, though. We’d intercepted one group of Ansar al Khilafah fighters, and with the report of more fighters being smuggled in while making a marked attempt to avoid the PPF, a trend was becoming visible. But if our allies wouldn’t accept the information, there wasn’t much we could do about it besides be prepared for the worst.

  Finally giving up, I made my farewells, and got up to go join the rest of the teams. If we were sticking to the plan, we’d be rolling out in the morning, and there was plenty of prep to happen before we could call it a night. The next day was going to be a long day, no matter what happened.

  Chapter 27

  The morning dawned clear, cool, and still, with the muezzin’s calls to prayer echoing over the mostly empty streets. You could feel the tension. Only the bravest or most desperate were out on the streets that morning. From the factory, you could usually see the makeshift souk that had sprung up along the main hardball to the north. Over the last few days we’d seen the shopkeepers setting out their vegetables, fruits, and breads for sale before mealtimes, with the locals coming to get their breakfasts or suppers. That morning, the stalls were still and closed.

  The militia was gathering in the factory complex, either driving in a variety of cars, vans, and small pickup trucks, or walking with their rifles slung over their shoulders. We were still mostly inside our crowded outbuilding, going over gear and ammo and running last minute comm checks. We still had to make sure we had good comm with the Iraqis, but internal comms came first.

  When I glanced out the window, I saw that Hussein Ali and Daoud al Zubayri were standing nearby, talking and waiting. I finished strapping my plate carrier on, scooped up my M1A, and called to Mike. He looked up from where he was fiddling with his radio, and I jerked my thumb outside. He nodded, stuffed the radio back in its pouch, grabbed his OBR, and followed me out.

  Daoud brightened as he saw us coming. The contrast between us was less than one might think. Both men were wearing body armor and chest rigs. Neither wore a helmet, I think more out of bravado in front of their men than anything else. Hussein Ali was still cradling his AK-103, while Daoud held an M4 with rails and just about every tacticool accessory he’d been able to get his hands on. At least he only had one flashlight on it.

  Hassan had come over to join us as Mike and I walked up. Daoud embraced us both, speaking jubilantly. “Today will be a great day, my friends,” Hassan interpreted. He sounded like he believed it himself. “Today we will take Basra away from the forces that would destroy it.”

  “I hope so,” I replied. I still thought they were discounting any Sunni threat a little too blithely. Even an IED that nobody saw coming at the wrong time in the wrong place could be fatal to our little endeavor. When Mike and my teams were the primary assault elements for a pretty large-scale takeover, we were running on a little too m
uch of a shoestring to get comfortable, but both the militia leaders seemed relaxed, even happy.

  We chatted for a little while. There wasn’t much discussion of the upcoming operation; they had their plan, what parts of it didn’t devolve into “Inshallah.” I knew that Hussein Ali’s planning was much more thorough than that, but I’d heard enough of Daoud’s planning to know him for the enthusiastic amateur in the group, and therefore the wild card. Both Hussein Ali and I would have to be prepared to work around whatever Daoud did once things got started. Not my favorite way to operate, but Semper Gumby—Always Flexible.

  Finally, Hussein Ali started drifting off toward his men and his green-painted Ford Ranger with the Kord mounted in the back. Daoud took that as his cue, and shook both our hands thoroughly before heading for his own vehicles.

  The rest of our teams were coming out of the outbuilding, and starting to load extra ammo, water, and medical supplies on the trucks that Hussein Ali had loaned us. We had four diesel Rangers that somehow Hussein Ali had gotten surplus from the Iraqi Army. Whether he had actually gotten them surplus, had a cousin placed properly, or bribed a requisitions officer, I didn’t know and didn’t ask. They were decent trucks, and had mounts for the four old PKMs he’d also loaned us. Mike and I had discussed using the M60E4s instead, but the local supplies of 7.62 NATO belts were thin. Better to use the PKMs. Larry and Bryan had spent a good amount of any down time they’d had over the last couple of days going over the guns and making sure they were in good working order. Like most old Russian weapons, they didn’t need much.

  Mike and I looked at each other. He shrugged. “At least we’ve got some backup,” he said.

  “Yeah.” I spat in the dirt. “Just keep your heads on a swivel, man. I think this is going to get a lot more complicated than our friends think.”

  He nodded. “It always does anyway, but I know what you mean. Unfortunately, we’re kind of stuck letting them handle security for now.”