by Nana Malone
“We’ve got incoming!!!” Gun Loader Bradford shouted. He dove back into the belly of the tank and slamming the hatch shut just in time.
The tank rocked as a deafening explosion shook the tank. Seconds later, a secondary explosion rocked them. The ammunition which, luckily, had been modified to sit outside the hardened belly of the tank or they’d all be toast, exploded.
“Fuck!!!” Driver Vasquez screamed as the vehicle lurched and then stopped, knocked off its tracks.
Smoke poured into the turret, causing the crew to choke.
“We’re on fire, Sir,” Driver Vasquez stated the obvious.
“Oh god oh god oh god oh GOD!!!” Gun Loader Bradford shouted, his eyes clenched shut as he thanked god for giving him the time to slam shut the hatch or they’d all be dead right now.
“Shit!” Commander Silva shouted. “We’re dead in the water! We need to get out of here. Jaworsky! Any more heat signatures?”
“Can’t tell, Sir,” Gunner Jaworsky said, peering through the sights of the infra-red scanner. “We’re on fire. We’re the hottest thing around right now. Not the Iraqi’s.”
Black smoke filled the cabin with its toxic mixture.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Gun Loader Bradford coughed. “Or we’re all going to die of smoke inhalation!”
“This thing is supposed to be hardened against chemical, nuclear, and mortar fire,” Commander Silva said.
“Well Old Betsy here didn’t get the memo!” Gunner Jaworsky shouted. He called into his radio for help. “Papa Bear! Papa Bear! This is Red Fox! We’re hit! We’re hit! We’re dead in the water and under enemy fire!”
His radio sputtered out as the power died inside the tank.
“Sir?” one of the soldiers said in the dark between gasps for air.
“The rubber gasket must have breached,” Commander Silva said. “We need to get out of here. If we can.”
There was a light tap on the hatch of the tank. Two taps. A pause. And then three rapid taps. The all clear signal.
The four soldiers glanced nervously at each other in the dark even though they couldn’t see one another. The signal tapped a second time.
“That’s the all clear, Sir,” Driver Vasquez whispered.
“Bradford,” Commander Silva ordered. “Open the hatch. The rest of you … take aim.”
Bradford opened the hatch and poked his M-16 through the crack.
“The fire’s out,” a voice with a perfect Midwestern accent said reassuringly. “But there’s nothing I can do about your engine. I’m afraid it went along with the ammo.”
“What the hell was that that hit us?” Tank Gunner Bradford called up through the crack.
“Russian 9M133 Kornet anti-tank missile,” the voice said. “You’re the third tank they took out before I was able to neutralize the squatter.”
“The … Russians … are in on this?” Tank Commander Silva asked.
“Not really,” the voice said. “Just a rogue element doing a little free trade agreement. Let’s just say the Ba’ath Party has friends in very low places.”
“What’s your name, rank and unit, soldier?” Commander Silva nodded to Bradford to get ready to burst open the hatch at the signal. He hissed in a low voice … “three … two …”
“Um …” the voice said. “I’m really not supposed to say but … some within your chain of command know me.”
The slight rustle of an object passing into the crack permeated the thunder of the tank crews beating hearts.
“Now!!!” Commander Silva shouted.
Bradford burst through the hatch just in time to come face to face with…
“Hello!” Azrael gave Bradford a boyish grin.
Bradford stood there, mouth hanging open at the sight of an enormous black angel standing on top of his tank. His body blocked the hatch so the others could neither see, nor get out.
“Bradford … MOVE!!!” Commander Silva screamed.
Bradford’s mouth moved to make words but his brain couldn’t get his vocal cords to cooperate at getting out any more than a surprised squeak.
“Whoops!” Azrael stretched one wingtip to where an errant tongue of fire licked at the sole undetonated shell in the ammunition chamber. As soon as the feather touched the fire, it died. “Missed one.”
“Bradford!!!” Silva pushed at his rear end from inside the tank.
“Uh … thanks?” Bradford finally managed to squeeze out.
“Gotta go now,” Azrael made a ‘V’ with two fingers. “There’s still Iraqi Army crawling around in the dust. You’re going to have to deal with them on your own. I only reap squatters!”
The coal-black angel leaped into air with a rustle of enormous black wings and disappeared in a blinding dark flash.
“Bradford!!!” Commander Silva screamed, shoving him in the ass to get him to move it out of the only exit they had out of the ruined tank.
Bradford climbed out onto the top of the tank and reached down to help Silva, Jaworsky, and Vasquez climb out of the smoky cockpit.
“Who was that?” Jaworsky asked.
“You ain’t gonna believe me if I tell you,” Bradford said. “They’ll Section 8 me for sure.” The Gunner made a motion with his hand over his mouth as though he were closing a zipper and refused to speak of the matter any further.
“Whoever he was,” Vasquez clutched something in his hand. “He left his calling card.”
“Give me that,” Silva ordered. He grabbed the playing card Vasquez had fished out of the tank on his way out. “An ace of spades?”
The four members of the tank crew stared down at the ‘Bicycle’ playing card their mystery helper had left behind which depicted Lady Liberty standing in the middle of the black ace.
“Thanks … friend,” Bradford said softly, staring at the spot where the angel had disappeared and giving it a thumbs-up.
* * * * *
Chapter 41
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,
With ten thousands of rivers of oil?
Shall I give my first-born for my transgression,
The fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
Tanakh, Micah 6:7
Earth - March 26, 2003
Imam Ali Mosque, Najaf, Iraq
“Allah wishes you to order your followers to conduct suicide bombings against the infidels, your holiness,” the local Baathist Party leader said, his voice soothing and reasonable. “Our Beloved has provided your holy warriors with the latest weaponry to resist their incursion into this holy place.”
The Grand Ayatollah clutched his holy beads and prayed. The demon tempted him with images of being carried to Paradise by a chariot of fire drawn by angels to meet Allah. He resisted. His lips moved silently, the deeply ingrained ritual fortifying his mind as the compulsion the Angel of Mercy had warned him would follow such tempting images also jumped into his mind. The illusion that the rusted, broken AK-47 Kalashnikov rifle with a broken firing pin was really a cutting-edge Russian AN-94 Abakan assault rifle.
“Shi’a do not support the Saddam Fedayeen,” the Ayatollah said with a calmness that did not betray his inner turmoil. “We will deal with the Americans on our own terms.”
The Baathist leader gave him a benign smile.
“Num occidere te, domine?” Saddam Hussein's henchman Mahmud asked in what the demon thought was a language the Ayatollah could not understand. The demon was mistaken. This was an ancient land, with ruins dating back to a time when the Angel of Mercy had walked the Earth as one of them. The Ayatollah had studied more than the Quran during his reign as spiritual leader. He understood Mahmud wished to kill him, and that the Baathist leader was really possessed by a demon named Chemosh.
“Not yet, dear friend,” Chemosh said in the ancient language. “The host-bodies we occupy now command the loyalty of the Saddam Fedayeen, elite warriors, while the good Ayatollah only controls the Al-Quds army. They are many in number, but largely civilians and old men who haven’t f
ought since the First Gulf War. The Al-Quds are hostile to both host bodies we currently occupy.”
“We don’t need them,” Mahmud scoffed. “The Fedayeen are enough.”
“Ahh, dear friend,” Chemosh purred. “Such decisiveness! You sound like our dear brother, Saddam Hussein. Hit the nail on the head and be done with it! But sometimes, it is wiser to come at your enemy sideways. Don’t you agree?”
“Sideways?” Mahmud asked. “I don’t understand.”
“I can sense him,” Chemosh said. “Ki’s lapdog. Just outside the city. His consciousness has grown larger since his last feeding. He’s now large enough that I can sense him whenever he gets close. Lucifer and his minions plan to use the invasion as cover to storm the city.”
“Our Agents reported the 101st Airborne Division just relieved the 3rd Infantry,” Mahmud said. “They appear to be supported by a battalion from the 1st Armored Division.”
“Tanks?” Chemosh raised one eyebrow in surprise. “No … the Americans would never agree to anything so … low-tech … as an old-fashioned tank charge into the city. Why it’s … un-American!”
Mahmud burst out laughing, an evil, almost cackling sound. The Ayatollah schooled a stone-faced expression, careful not to let the tiniest hint of emotion register as he strained to translate the demons' battle-plans. It did not behoove him to let on just how much he knew about the two demons standing before him now. There was a reason holy men grew such great, bushy beards. You could hide many physiological symptoms of emotion beneath such a beard … such as the nearly overwhelming urge to gulp in fear or the subtle twitch of one cheek hidden beneath his greying moustache. The beard was to a devout Muslim male what hijab was to a female … their shield against a hostile world.
“They haven’t had a real tank battle since World War II,” Mahmud laughed. “The tanks must simply be there to make these old geezers quake in their boots. We’ve been giving them a run for their money in the sandstorm.”
Chemosh addressed the Al-Quds army he’d summoned in the Grand Ayatollah’s name. The men were largely retired veterans who’d ostensibly been recruited by Saddam Hussein to reclaim Jerusalem during the 1990’s. A fool’s errand to give the Shi’ite majority the illusion of a role in the Ba’athist government. They were men with families, businesses, and strong ties to the community. Devout Shi’ite Muslims who would die for their country and their faith, but who, unlike their Iranian counterparts who went by the same name, balked at outright terrorism. The Al-Quds watched Chemosh’s Baathist host-body warily, decades of distrust over being targeted by Saddam Hussein tempering their inclinations to side with their former adversaries henchmen.
“Bring them in,” Chemosh ordered.
Dread sank into the pit of his stomach as the Saddam Fedayeen dragged in the wives, elderly parents, and children of the Al-Quds army. Cries of dismay went out amongst the aging fighting force as the Saddam Fedayeen soldiers cocked their rifles. Targeting families was a common tactic amongst both the Saddam Fedayeen … and also the fanatical jihadists who descended upon this country like locusts to ‘free’ them from the Great Satan advancing upon their city in tanks. Caught between the devil’s anvil and Satan’s hammer, the people the Ayatollah was charged with guiding were mere cannon fodder to the interests targeting al-Najaf as their latest battle ground.
“Our beloved country has been invaded by infidels,” Chemosh said. “And some cowards amongst you refuse to fight. This is how all cowards will be dealt with.”
The Ayatollah schooled his face into a stone-faced expression meant to signify his disapproval, the same accusing glower that posters of him throughout the city bore. The Al-Quds murmured nervously. Although the men were by no means cowards, decades of being at the wrong end of Saddam Hussein’s rifles for the mere reason of being Shi’ite, not Sunni, had instilled caution. Good! They were skeptical their Grand Ayatollah would really cooperate with the Sunnis. The Ayatollah sent up a silent prayer to the Beloved, praying his people would give the surface illusion of just going along until a better situation presented itself.
“That one there,” Chemosh pointed to one of the civilians who’d just been dragged in. “And yes … that one. The young one. I do so like them when they’re young.”
An elderly woman and young boy were dragged forward, sobbing in terror. Innocents! Would the demons really slay innocents to make their point? Usually an example was selected from amongst the men gathered as a first example! Innocents were only slain for those who didn’t fall into line.
“This is what we want you to do to the Americans,” Chemosh mercilessly shot first the old woman, and then the boy through the head. “Or we will kill every family member of every man gathered in this courtyard. Do you understand?”
The Ayatollah clamped down on his urge to order the Al-Quds to attack, an action which would only lead to massive slaughter. The tactics of terror were something he knew well. These demons needed something from them or they would have just killed them outright. Cries of anger went out through the courtyard, but the Al-Quds were unarmed. They could do nothing to defend themselves or their families. They must endure. All the Ayatollah could do was deepen his trademark glower and reassure them with his calmness that he would lead his people to exact revenge later, when the Al-Quds weren’t surrounded by guns in a concrete courtyard with no escape.
“Allah has provided manna from heaven to make victory a certainty,” Chemosh said. He nodded to his men. “Line up … and accept your gift from our Beloved.”
The Ayatollah gave the leaders of the Al-Quds a subtle nod, signaling them by the way his fingers danced over his holy beads that already he had composed a Fatwa calling for the deaths of these demons in his mind. They were to obey until a more fortuitous situation presented itself. One by men, the Al-Quds army lined up to take the aging, rusty, and largely broken Kalashnikov AK-47 rifles left over from the cold war and gathered into units manning cars, pickup trucks, and strategic houses along the route they anticipated the American push into the city. They weren’t given any bullets, of course. Why give bullets to cannon fodder? The demon used the Al-Quds to attract air strikes so the real militia could sneak around behind the advancing tanks and drop grenades down the hatch.
“It’s a pleasure serving such genius, my Lord,” Mahmud said, still not realizing the Ayatollah could understand his ancient language. “I have much to learn from your example. What do you call this tactic?”
Pickup trucks rolled out filled with aging veterans carrying empty rifles to make their suicide runs against the American tanks. The demon known as Chemosh knew what he was doing. Whether or not the Grand Ayatollah urged temperance, the residents of this city would not welcome the invaders after their Al-Quds patriarchs were killed. The Grand Ayatollah inwardly wept as cars clogged the road. Cars dying to do battle against a tank.
“We call this strategy Iraqi Rush Hour,” Chemosh said with an indulgent smile one might give a naughty child. “These men are just dying to get home to their families.”
“Allah will send you straight to hell where you belong,” the Grand Ayatollah hissed.
“Been there, done that,” Chemosh said with a bored wave of his hand. “Sequester the Ayatollah in his mosque to pray for the freedom of his people. Give his holiness every comfort, but keep him inside. I sense he’s genetically complete enough to be a backup host if this one fails. The rest of you … come with me.”
‘Our Lord …’ the Grand Ayatollah prayed, his fingers dancing over the holy beads as he focused his prayers the way he had been taught by the Angel of Mercy to plead divine intervention. ‘Grant me deliverance from these demons so I may reap justice in your name.’
* * * * *
Chapter 42
They will say:
Our Lord, twice have You given us death
And twice have You given us life…
Quran Al Mumin 40:11
Earth - March 26, 2003
30 miles south of Najaf, Iraq
“Spo
nge!” Elisabeth shouted, forceps buried up to the hilt in the soldier's brain as the coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils.
“This don’t look good,” Nurse Mary drawled, dabbing at the exposed grey matter. “Half his face is missing.”
A large black ‘X’ adorned the man's forehead. In a triage situation, they were forced to make split-second decisions as to who got treated first. This soldier had been deemed too badly injured to survive. With other seriously wounded, potentially treatable soldiers in the queue who could also die, this soldier would only be treated after the surgeon finished up the ‘urgent’ cases. –If- this soldier happened to still be alive.
“You hang on!” Elisabeth ordered, frantically trying to find the ‘bleeder.’ A mortar had torn off chunks of the kid's cheek, ear and neck. “You hear me, soldier? You hang on to that body of yours with everything you got!”
They avoided looking at the blood dripping down the torn white plastic onto their boots. Hypothermia-induced shock was the second-biggest threat to wounded soldiers after blood loss. ‘Hot pockets,’ body bags improvised with a cutout for the face so they could breathe, helped keep wounded soldier's body heat in close to their bodies. But … dang! The fact Elisabeth’s patient had already been wearing a body bag even before she’d started working on him was morbid as hell.
“Heart rate is falling,” Nurse Lucy said. “Elisabeth … we’re losing him.”
“He’s not going until I say he can go,” Elisabeth snapped. “You hear that, Sergeant? I outrank you! You don’t get to leave until I say you’re dismissed.”
Elisabeth used a combination of prayers Oma had taught her as a child and Archangel focusing meditations taught by Azrael, but this was the Army. Hallelujah and praise the lord went over like a fart in church. Soldiers expected to be given orders, so she gave them.
“That … um … friend of yours … stop in yet?” Mary nervously looked over her shoulder.
