by Ethan Jones
Vale stepped closer to Carrie. “We’re doing what we can. And Flavio will come through. He always does.”
“I hope so.”
Abner nodded. “We’ll keep flying the drone over the village and transmit the feed. As soon as we see any movement that may help figure out things about Justin, we’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Abner. How’s Moshe doing?”
Abner shrugged. “No new developments. They haven’t heard from the prince’s aide. He’s furious because of the loss.”
Carrie cursed the prince and his aide. “Probably worried about the lost shipment, not the drivers.”
“Very likely,” Vale said. “But they’re back there, waiting to hear their orders, whether they’re moving forward or whether there’s a change of plans.”
“We’ll have to split up once they know,” Abner said in a worried tone. “Can’t leave Moshe on his own.”
“Certainly not,” Carrie said. “Let’s hope Flavio tells us soon what our action plan is about Justin.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
February 18
Hasoms
Western Syria
Justin wondered how much time had passed since he had seen Mustafa. The small window near the ceiling of his cell let in only a sliver of light. He stood up, walked to the window, and listened. No sounds came from outside. He had heard gunfire and engine noises about half an hour ago. But he could not be sure about the time.
He shrugged and paced around the small room. What will Mustafa do? He seemed like a logical man, who gets common sense. It’s more beneficial to him personally and to the Peshmergas’ cause in general to let me live. But if this is my end, I’m not going down without a fight.
Justin tightened his fists. His left hand throbbed, as the wound had been reopened. But he bit his lip and shrugged the pain away. Yes, Justin, you can do this. You’ll get out of this alive.
He paced the room for a few more minutes, then sat across from the door on one of the cleanest spots in the floor. Most of it had dark stains. Blood. Blood and urine, considering the stickiness and the stench. You will get through this, Justin. You will.
When the cell door opened, he drew in a deep breath. Was it time to know his fate?
“Get up, up,” shouted one of the two gunmen who entered the cell.
It was the same pair that had brought him out the first time.
Justin struggled to climb to his feet.
The other gunman lifted him by the arm.
They’re not being rough, he thought. Obeying Mustafa’s orders, or is this a good omen?
The gunmen escorted him to Mustafa’s room. The door was open a crack, and one of the gunman pushed it slowly. Mustafa was the only one in the room. Justin glanced at the window to Mustafa’s left. Plenty of daylight came in, along with shouts of joyful voices. Mustafa was sitting cross-legged. His rifle was near his right hand. A round copper tray with a teapot, two tea cups, and a small sugar bowl was set in front of him.
Justin’s heart jumped to his throat, but he tried to contain his excitement. Is . . . is this really what I think it is? My captivity is over.
“Secret Agent Hall, please join me in having some tea.” Mustafa said in a warm voice and gestured for the first gunman to remove Justin’s handcuffs.
The gunman did so, then they both stepped back, but stayed in the room.
Justin glanced at his bleeding hand. The bandage had been stripped away, and the hand was coated in sand and dirt. The handcuffs had chafed against his wrists.
“Thank you. I’m grateful for the honor. But what does this mean?” Justin said in a warm, appreciative tone as he sat across from Mustafa.
“I checked your story, Hall. It all lines up. You were telling the truth.” Mustafa reached for the teapot and poured a generous amount into Justin’s cup, then into his own. “Sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
Justin picked up the cup and held it with both hands. The strong aroma of the black tea filled his nostrils. Justin was a coffee man, but he was not about to refuse Mustafa’s hospitality. The tea was still too hot to drink, but Justin took a very small sip and waited for Mustafa to speak again.
He said, “Everyone I talked to had nothing but great words about you and your bravery. It seems you’ve done a lot to help our people and our fight.”
Justin gave Mustafa a small nod.
Mustafa continued, “But in the last battle, you allied yourself with the enemy, who, like cowards, ambushed my brothers. That act must not go unpunished.” His voice took on a grim tone.
Justin nodded again. “It was very unfortunate, tragic, an error that could have been avoided. My responsibility in those killings is minimal. I never raised my hand against your fighters.”
Mustafa offered a shrug. “That may be the case, but I have three dead men. Their families will never see their husbands, children, brothers. And I lost three great fighters.”
“I understand,” Justin said in a somber voice. “Whatever I can do to ease their pain, I will do it.”
“I’m glad you’re offering yourself, Justin.” Mustafa took a sip from his cup, then gestured with his hand toward the window. “Out there, in the fight, you didn’t do much. In fact, you just ran, like a scared dog, and never fired a shot. Now, considering what others are telling me, you’re a great fighter. Still, I haven’t seen anything to prove those claims.”
Justin thought he knew where Mustafa was heading with his line of reasoning, but decided it was better to listen until the end.
“And with my men decimated, I can’t launch the attack that was in the works. And here’s where you come in.”
Justin leaned forward. “I’m honored you’re considering me, and I’ll be glad to be of assistance.”
Mustafa gave Justin a quick flick of the wrist. “Wait until you hear about the mission before you thank me. I was planning to attack the next village, Al Zahtani. ISIS overran our forces there a week ago, pushing us back. They’re better armed, having stolen heavy weapons and tanks from the Iraqi Army and driven them across the border. They have two tanks and have positioned them at the southern entrance to the village, making our advance almost impossible.”
“Almost,” Justin said.
Mustafa grinned. “Yes, the key word. The plan was to send a small force to disable those tanks, which would open the way for a full-on assault. Now that three of my fighters are dead, you will take their place in the strike team.”
Justin nodded. “How small of a force?”
“Four men, one vehicle. Surgical strike, as you would call it. In and out.”
Justin frowned, but refrained from shaking his head. What Mustafa was demanding was next to impossible. A single shot from the tank’s main weapon would pulverize the vehicle, regardless of how well armored it was. Snipers, especially anti-materiel rifles, would also cause severe damage to a bulletproof SUV or truck. “What sniper rifles do they have?”
“Not sure, but they’re large caliber. Probably Zastavas M93 or Kovrovs, since we’ve seen those rifles when we’ve captured ISIS strongholds.”
Justin’s frown grew deeper. Those were both 12.7mm sniper rifle models, created to punch through thick walls and pierce light-armored vehicles. “And do we have those rifles?”
“We do, yes, and of course you can use them. But the winning element in this mission is the surprise. Get to the tanks, blow them up, come back.”
“Yes, very easy,” Justin said in a sarcastic voice.
Mustafa shrugged. “My fighters were going to attempt it tonight, during the Ishaa, the evening-time prayer. You’re not saying you’re afraid?” His voice rang with a blend of disappointment and scorn.
“I neither said nor implied such a thing. It’s an extremely difficult op, for sure, but if Peshmergas are going to do it, I’ll join their ranks.”
Mustafa gave Justin a small smile. “That’s great. Since you’re praised for your skills, I want you to lead the team. Come up with a plan and get ready to move
out soon.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You have a couple of hours at the most to make preparations.”
Justin nodded and sipped his tea. “That will be enough.”
“Once you’ve taken care of this and come back, if you come back, there’s still the matter of compensation for the fighters’ families.”
“Yes, we’ll take care of that as well.”
“Great. Now may God guide you and the other fighters. Inch’Allah.” If God wills.
“Yes, if God wills it.”
Justin drew in a deep breath. Yes, we will need God’s hand in this operation. We’ll give it all we’ve got.
Chapter Twenty-nine
February 18
Hasoms
Western Syria
“I can’t believe you agreed to this, Justin,” Carrie said on the phone in a voice filled with concern.
“I had to, Carrie. It was my only way out,” Justin said in a flat tone, then glanced up to Mustafa, standing near the window.
After Justin had agreed to lead the operation, Mustafa had allowed Justin to place a phone call to Carrie. But Mustafa had insisted he was going to be in the room, and the call was going to be on speakerphone, so he could hear both sides of the conversation. And he had warned Justin not to use code words. Carrie had welcomed his voice and had almost broken into tears, replaced by concern and frustration once she had learned the steep price of his freedom.
“Justin, this is the same as suicide,” Carrie said.
“It may be, but there’s no other way.”
“What is your team?”
Justin glanced at Mustafa. “It will be me and three Peshmergas, the bravest men around.”
Mustafa nodded, then glanced out the window.
Justin leaned closer to the satellite phone placed on the carpeted floor. “Carrie, I’ll be all right. It’s a new moon tonight, so we’ll be in complete darkness. And we’re expecting some strong winds.”
Mustafa turned his head and gave Justin a curious glance.
He kept his eyes glued to the phone, wondering if Mustafa had picked up on the code words. “Strong winds” meant Justin was asking for aerial support.
“What does that mean?” Carrie asked.
Justin stifled his smile. Carrie had recognized the code words, and was asking for confirmation, using the coded reply. He said, “Winds will impact sniper fire. Coupled with the night’s blackness, I hope we’ll slither in unseen.”
He looked up at Mustafa, who gave him a nod and seemed to be more relaxed.
“Okay, Justin. Anything else you need to tell me?”
“No, not really. We’ll leave right before prayer time.”
“That doesn’t give you much time.”
“Everything is almost ready, since the Peshmergas had already planned most of this attack.”
“Okay, Justin. Kill them all.”
“I’ll try, Carrie. Be safe.”
“You too, Justin.”
He waited until he heard Carrie’s click, then stood up and handed Mustafa the phone. “Thanks for letting me talk to her.”
“You did well, but I noticed something smart.”
Justin frowned. His mind went to the code words. Had Mustafa been clued in? “What was that?”
“By giving Carrie the time of the attack, you secured her support. She wouldn’t let her comrade go at this alone.”
Justin nodded, then gave Mustafa a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, I should have run that by you, but I thought it was okay.”
Mustafa shrugged. “It is okay. I don’t mind if extra fighters assist you in this operation, as long as they’re not my men and women. Now, how did you know about the high winds?”
Justin was prepared for the answer. “It has been windy all day.” He gestured at the window. Strong gusts were tearing at the Peshmergas’ tri-colored flag of Kurdistan mounted onto a truck.
Mustafa nodded slowly, but a look of suspicion remained on his face. “Don’t think of any tricks, Justin. My men have clear orders to kill you if you try something stupid.”
“Message well received. There will be no such nonsense.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. The team’s waiting for you outside. Make plans, then come run it by me. Once I approve it, we’ll get you the weapons and the gear and send you off.”
“Perfect, thanks again for the call and the tea.” Justin offered Mustafa his hand.
Mustafa hesitated for a split second, then gave Justin a firm handshake.
Chapter Thirty
February 18
Three miles south of Al Zahtani
Western Syria
Justin glanced into the darkness surrounding the truck and shrouding everything around them. They were advancing slowly, almost noiselessly, toward the ISIS stronghold village of Al Zahtani. Mustafa had given them one of the modified Humvee trucks. The hood and the sides were reinforced with steel plates. The back of the cab was removed for easy access to the truck bed, where a heavy machine gun was mounted, manned by one of the Peshmergas. Other weapons, ammunition, and explosives were stored in two metal boxes bolted to the truck bed.
Justin glanced at Yekan, the driver, whose eyes were focused on the narrow dirt trail ahead of them. They were driving blind, as all lights, including the ones in the cab, were off. The low rumble of the engine was the only noise around them. “Everyone ready?”
Yekan nodded. “Yes, I’m ready to send Daesh to meet their virgins.”
Sharo, the fighter sitting next to the machine gun, said, “I can’t wait.”
Navdar, the third team member, who was holding a light machine gun, replied, “About the right time to give Daesh what they deserve.”
Justin said, “Good. We all know what we’re doing?”
“We do,” Yekan replied on behalf of everyone. “Get close enough to blow up the tank, then retreat as soon as we can.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Justin said.
The truth was more complicated, of course. Once the Humvee rounded the last turn, they would come to a straight patch that led into the village. According to Peshmerga fighters who had first-hand knowledge, an ISIS checkpoint was set up just outside the village. Usually, about ten fighters were positioned around the two tanks stationed there. Justin hoped their number would be smaller, considering it was prayer time. Still, as soon as the truck’s noise alerted the jihadists, they would pepper the truck with sniper fire. It was very likely they would also fire the tanks’ weapons, although that would take slightly longer.
Justin also hoped the requested aerial support would arrive in time. He knew it was very short notice, and it would be difficult to wade through the chain of command of the US-led coalition operating around the area. But Justin knew Carrie was doing the impossible. If anyone can get a jet in the air pronto, it will be Carrie.
He drew in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the M4 assault rifle that was on his lap. Syria was awash with modern, made-in-the-US or in Russia weapons. Shipments destined for government forces often ended up in terrorist, rebel, or Peshmerga hands. Some weapons were stolen, others were seized through combat, and even more “lost” and sold in the black market. Like the ones Prince Al Khater was sending to the Iraqi Army. Justin sighed. That operation is now over, and we’re no closer to the prince than when we started.
Justin shook his head to clear his mind and refocus on the operation at hand.
The truck came to the last turn on the trail. Yekan slowed down and looked at Justin. “This is it,” he said.
“Turn off the engine for a moment,” Justin said.
“Why?”
“I want to listen.”
“To what?”
“What’s out there.”
Yekan did as told and killed the engine.
The night’s stillness surrounded them.
Justin glanced upwards. He could see bright stars as he listened, hoping for the familiar jet engines’ rumble. There was nothing, but winds sweeping through barren scrublands. Where are
those jets?
“What are we waiting for?” Sharo said in his thick voice.
“Prayer time will soon be over,” Navdar said.
Justin cast another sweeping gaze at the skies and listened.
No rumbles.
He shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said.
Yekan nodded. He started the engine and turned the wheel.
Justin sat up straighter in his seat.
Sharo and Navdar began to prepare their weapons. Metal-on-metal clanging, then Sharo said, “May Allah bless us and bring us all home.”
“Allahu akbar,” Navdar shouted. God is greater.
Justin frowned at the loud noises as they entered the straight patch. Up ahead, perhaps a couple of miles away, dim lights around the checkpoint flickered like fireflies. Justin muttered a prayer their truck would not be spotted by the jihadists until they were within the effective fire range of their heavy machine gun, at a little over a mile.
Yekan began to sing a Kurdish battle song, and Sharo and Navdar joined in.
Justin did not know the words, but he liked the rhythm. He felt the adrenaline rushing through his body, heightening his senses. His eyes seemed to better perceive the shape of the tanks and the jihadists’ silhouettes moving around the checkpoint. His heart pumped faster, his mind on overdrive, assessing and reassessing the situation.
The first tracer rounds cut through the darkness. They were many yards up ahead, but the truck was quickly closing the distance. Yekan hit the gas and began to turn the wheel left and right, alternating, to make the truck a harder target.
Sharo’s machine gun began to thunder. His volley was premature, because the jihadists were still beyond reach. But everything would change in a matter of seconds.
And it did.
The first bullet struck against the front of the Humvee and lifted a spark.
Yekan cursed the shooter and swerved hard to the right.
Justin slipped out of his seat and moved to the truck bed. He picked up the KSVK 12.7mm sniper rifle, then looked at Sharo. “Cease fire, cease fire until we’re close enough,” he shouted over the machine gun’s rattle.
