by Ethan Jones
“We are close enough,” Sharo shouted back.
As if to confirm his words, another round hit the Humvee. This one packed a heavier punch.
“Large cal,” Yekan shouted.
Sharo fired a long volley.
Justin hung on to the side of the truck as Yekan jerked the wheel. The jihadists were firing their anti-material rifles, capable of piercing the Humvee’s armor. It was time to leave the truck. “Get us a bit closer, then roll out,” Justin shouted.
“Copy that,” Yekan replied.
Sharo’s machine gun blasted round after round.
“What’s going on?” Justin shouted.
“Daesh dogs moving toward the tank.”
Justin cursed them. If one of the jihadists could get the T-55 tank to fire its 100mm gun and hit the target, they would all be killed.
“Jump out of the truck now. Go, go, go!” Justin shouted.
Yekan slowed down the truck, then brought it to an abrupt stop.
A couple of rounds pounded against the side of the truck. One of them shattered the window.
“Yekan?” Justin shouted.
“I’m all right. Getting out.”
“Go, go,” Justin said.
He swung his M4 over his shoulders, then grabbed the sniper rifle and his rucksack with the two explosive charges, and jumped out of the truck. Bullets struck around him, but he made it safely to the side of the road. He crawled into a ditch, flipped the tripod, and placed the rifle on a flat patch of sand. Then he glanced through the rifle’s night vision scope.
His eye found the first target.
It was a sniper firing from behind a wall of sandbags set next to the left-side tank.
Justin pulled the bolt and slid the first round into the chamber. Then he tapped the trigger.
The heavy bullet shot out of the sniper rifle barrel at 850 meters per second. It pierced the sandbag and the sniper’s chest, throwing him to the ground.
Justin turned his attention to the gunman next to the sniper, who was firing a heavy machine gun mounted at the back of a truck. Through the night-vision scope, the gunman’s head popped up regularly in between the curved gun shields. Justin waited for the right moment, then sent a bullet that blew off the jihadist’s head.
Justin moved his aim to the left-side tank, wondering whether any fighters had climbed in or were already inside. His eyes moved for a moment to the truck, which was still rocketing toward the checkpoint. According to the plan, Yekan would have placed a piece of a cinderblock over the gas pedal, locked the steering wheel, and turned the truck into a high-speed projectile. I hope they’ve jumped out of the—
A loud eruption cut off his thoughts. The tank fired the main gun.
A moment later, the truck exploded into a gigantic fireball. Bright yellow flames shot up high, and shrapnel flew all over the area.
In the light produced by the explosion, Justin saw three silhouettes crawling along the side of the road and in the ditch. He heaved a sigh of relief. The Peshmergas were safe.
For now.
But the battle had only started.
Chapter Thirty-one
February 18
ISIS Stronghold of Al Zahtani
Western Syria
Justin’s eyes searched the tank. His bullets would not be able to penetrate the thick skin of this steel monster. The tank’s turret and sides had been reinforced with steel plates. Perhaps the tank was damaged in an earlier attack. Justin’s sniper bullets would be a little more than an annoyance. And those rounds would betray his location.
He glanced at the Peshmergas, but did not see their silhouettes. The truck was engulfed in flames, which were chewing slowly through the wreckage. Black smoke was billowing, and the winds were spreading it around the area. Along with the night’s darkness, it was a good cover for the team’s advance.
Justin turned his attention to the tank. The main gun’s barrel was moving slowly, as the tank commander or gunner was trying to determine the next target. Two fighters were laying down a heavy curtain of fire. Justin doubted they could see their targets; otherwise their gunfire would be concentrated.
He glanced at the tank on the right side. There had been no movement around it. Maybe that’s broken? Or they don’t know how to run it? He returned his eyes to the other tank. A jihadist had climbed over it and was firing the heavy machine gun mounted on the hull. The location where the weapon’s tracer rounds were hitting told Justin he was taking aim at the Peshmergas.
Justin put the sniper’s crosshairs on the shooter’s chest and pulled the trigger. The man fell off the tank. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Justin then started a fast high crawl, moving away from his position in the ditch and advancing to the right. He left the heavy sniper rifle behind. It had served its purpose. He would be using his M4 and explosives to complete the mission.
He had covered about twenty yards, when an explosion came from behind him. The tank had fired its main gun again. If Justin had remained in his position, he would have been turned into dust.
He sighed and dropped his head lower to the ground. He was getting dangerously close to the tank and the checkpoint. Heavy gunfire was pouring from at least five—no, six—positions, not taking into account the tank. But if Justin was within the jihadists’ range, they were within his as well.
He switched to a low crawl, keeping his body flat to the ground and his head slightly to the side. He took small, shallow breaths, to avoid sucking in grains of sand and dirt. When he came to a small mound on the broken terrain, he stopped and surveyed the battleground.
Return fire came from across the road. One of the Peshmergas, Navdar, most likely, considering it sounded like a light machine gun. But Justin could not be certain amidst all the other weapons crackling, hammering, and thundering at the same time.
A rocket-propelled grenade sliced the night’s darkness with its fiery and smoky trail. It exploded somewhere in the distance. It was too far away from Navdar to cause any damage. Justin hoped the other Peshmergas were also beyond the blast’s deadly range.
He aimed his rifle at the man who had fired the RPG. The thin plume of smoke from the weapon’s breech revealed his position. Justin fired a quick burst and mowed the man down.
Then Justin moved his rifle an inch and sprayed a long volley aimed at two gunmen firing from behind the sandbag wall. His bullets struck one of them, but the other dropped behind the wall.
The tank began to turn its turret in Justin’s direction.
He bolted away from his position and ran as fast as he could parallel to the tank. He hoped the darkness would provide him with sufficient cover. When he found a small crevice on the ground, Justin flattened himself into it.
The tank’s turret kept turning.
Then an RPG struck right into the turret. The explosion’s smoke engulfed the tank.
Justin waited a moment.
No return fire from the tank, only machine gun and assault rifle fire.
Another RPG hit the right side of the tank.
The turret began to swing to the right, away from Justin.
Now’s the time.
He jumped to his feet and dashed toward the tank, only a hundred yards away. His eyes caught a glimpse of another silhouette racing toward the checkpoint. Muzzle flashes came from fifty or so yards behind that silhouette. At least two Peshmergas were still in the fight.
Justin redoubled his efforts as he drew near the tank. Bullets began to dance near his feet. He rolled onto the ground, then aimed his rifle at the nearest rooftop, from which two shooters had been spraying long volleys. He fired quick bursts, planting two bullets in each one.
Then he dropped to the ground and waited for a moment. No bullets struck around him, so he bolted toward the tank. He reached it without any incoming fire. Justin pulled out two C4 explosive packs the Peshmergas had prepared. They were M112 blocks weighing about 1.25 pounds each, with detonators rigged to a timer. He checked to make sure everything was in o
rder, then turned the timer’s dial. Justin had sixty seconds to make his exit.
He placed the first pack near the front of the tank’s tracks. Then he placed the other on the side of the turret. The explosions might not completely destroy the tank, but they would definitely disable it and perhaps cause damage beyond repair.
The tank had not fired its gun. Maybe the commander or the gunner had difficulties controlling or aiming the gun. The tank had taken RPG and machine gun fire. Maybe the gun or the optical instruments had been severely impacted.
Justin let out a deep breath, then dashed across the road, toward the Peshmergas. As he came near the checkpoint, a gunman popped up and aimed his assault rifle at Justin. The agent squeezed off a quick burst, and the gunman dropped to his side.
The powerful headlights of a couple of trucks lit up the night. Loud rumbles and angry shouts came from the right, beyond the checkpoint. A group of ten or more jihadists were rushing toward Justin and the Peshmergas.
As he reached the other tank, Justin considered their options. Without the truck, they would not be able to escape the onslaught. The initial plan had them disappear under the cover of darkness. But that was before they had awakened the entire village.
The tank. Yes, that’s the answer.
Yekan was running toward Justin. “Explosives,” he said.
Justin shook his head. “No. You know how to drive a tank?”
Yekan gave Justin a sideways glance. “You’re joking?”
“No. Can you drive it?”
“Of course I can. I can drive anything.”
“Where’s Sharo and Navdar?”
Yekan shook his head. “Sharo’s gone. Took two to the chest.”
“Navdar?”
“He’s wounded in the leg, gravely, but he’s still alive.”
“Okay, we’ll grab him on the way out. Get in the tank now.”
Yekan nodded and began to climb the front of the tank.
Justin hooked an infrared beacon on one of the tank’s front tow brackets. If aerial support ever arrived, the location of Justin’s team would be clear. The beacon emitted constant infrared signals, and they would not be hit by friendly fire.
He reloaded his M4, then knelt by the tank’s left tracks. He peered around and squeezed off quick bursts at the approaching jihadists. One or two of them returned fire. Bullets struck against the side of the tank.
Justin walked to the other side of the tank and fired a burst at two shooters standing on a rooftop. One of them fell over the parapet.
Then Justin began to count down. He guessed the explosives would go off in about ten seconds.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Come on, Yekan. Fire up this beast.
Justin stole another glance around the left side. Some jihadists had taken positions around the checkpoint. The truck was swerving around a heap of dirt and would soon be on the trail.
The tank’s engine rumble shook the ground beneath Justin’s feet. Yekan had made it work.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Justin climbed atop the tank at the exact moment the explosives blew up the other tank. The long heavy steel barrel was thrown off as if it were made of straw. A hail of metal debris hammered the left side of this tank.
Justin held on to one of the turret handles and swung his body to the right. The tank moved forward slowly, but began to pick up speed.
He glanced behind as huge flames swallowed up the other tank. Explosions continued, most likely because of ammunition stored inside it. Black smoke curled up from the wreckage.
Bullets began to pepper the rear of their commandeered tank. Justin slid to the front of the turret for cover. He crouched right underneath the barrel, hanging on to one of the handles, bracing himself for the rough ride.
An RPG flew overhead and exploded in the distance.
Justin cursed the shooter. RPG rounds could damage the tank and bring it to a halt. Especially if the warheads hit the rear of the tank, where the armor was the thinnest, or if it pierced the fuel storage or the ammunition compartments.
He climbed to the top of the turret, then shouted at Yekan, “Where’s Navdar?”
“Up ahead, fifty yards.”
“Got it.”
He slid back to the bottom of the turret and looked forward. He peered hard, and his eyes found Navdar lying on the side of the road. Yekan had turned on one of the tank’s headlights, providing sufficient light for their escape.
Yekan slowed down when the tank was a few feet away from Navdar, then came to a stop. Justin jumped off and lifted Navdar over the shoulder in the fireman’s carry. Navdar groaned in pain as Justin roughly placed him over the front part of the tank. There was not much room there, and they did not have much time. The jihadists were giving chase in a truck, and Justin also needed to find and retrieve Sharo’s body. Where is that aerial support?
Chapter Thirty-two
February 18
ISIS Stronghold of Al Zahtani
Western Syria
An RPG round struck the tank’s left side.
Justin almost did not feel it because of the tank’s strong rumble. But shrapnel flew over the turret, hitting almost everything around him.
Navdar screamed in pain, as shrapnel cut through his leg.
Justin cursed the shooter. He pulled Navdar to the other side, careful not to bump his wounded leg. Then Justin knelt by the turret and fired a long barrage at the truck. His bullets battered the windshield, but it withstood his barrage.
He moved his aim higher and squeezed off single rounds at the muzzle flashes flickering in the truck bed. Because of the tank’s bumpy ride and the incoming fire, his bullets missed the targets. Justin emptied the magazine and dropped behind the turret to reload.
Navdar groaned and looked at Justin.
Justin said, “How are you feeling?”
Navdar moaned. “Eh . . . I’ll live.”
“Good. Hang on tight.”
Justin readied his rifle and pivoted on his knee. Before he had a chance to fire at the truck, an RPG slammed into the rear of the tank. Another wave of shrapnel washed over the tank.
Justin was glad he had not yet glanced around the turret. Shrapnel flew inches away from his head. A second earlier and he would have been hit.
He drew in a deep breath and waited for a moment. The tank roared and black smoke belched up out of the exhaust pipe. Bullets sprayed the left side and the rear of the tank. Justin cursed the shooters again and climbed to his knee.
The high-pitched scream of a jet engine stopped him. He looked up, trying to pinpoint the location of the combat aircraft. A moment later, he saw a bright flash, followed by a loud blast. The checkpoint, the entrance to the village, and the tank wreckage blew up in large flames.
“Yes, finally they’re here,” Justin shouted.
Another flash, and the next blast turned the truck into a ball of fire. A heavy gray and black smoke curtain covered the trail.
Justin’s eyes searched the skies for the jet, but it had vanished as quickly as it had materialized. He climbed up the turret and shouted at Yekan, “Where’s Sharo?”
“What were those blasts?” Yekan asked.
“Friendly jet. We should be in the clear now.”
“Allahu akbar,” Yekan shouted. “Sharo is . . . he’s right there, to your left.”
Justin looked at the trail in front of him. Sharo was on his back with his arms twisted in an unnatural position. “Stop so I can get him.”
“All right.” Yekan slowed down the tank.
Justin began to move Navdar closer to the turret to make room for Sharo’s body. When the tank stopped, Justin rushed toward the fallen fighter. The Peshmerga’s eyes were still open, and Justin closed them gently. Then he picked up Sharo as he had done with Navdar and brought him to the tank.
Navdar helped Justin load the body onto the tank, then Justin shouted at Yekan to start the tank. He did, and the tan
k picked up speed.
No bullets drummed against the tank. Justin peered around the turret. No jihadists were giving chase. It seemed the battle was over.
Still, he held the M4 tight and remained in his position.
The tank cruised along the straight trail, then came to the turn.
Justin cast a final glance at the burning wreckage and heaved a sigh of relief as the tank rounded the corner and climbed the small hill. The tank was leaving behind a thin trail of dust that slowly veiled the village from their sight.
He sat next to Navdar, who was glancing at Sharo. “He fought and died like a lion,” he said in a loud voice.
“You did very well too,” Justin said.
Navdar nodded. “It’s over, right?”
“Yes, it looks like it. If they had mortars, they would have used them.” He peered into the distance. The low profile of the village of Hasoms began to appear as the tank’s headlight cut through the darkness.
About five minutes later, the tank rolled into the village amid the Peshmergas’ shouts and cheers. Many of them praised God for the victory. Others fired their rifles in the air.
Justin jumped to the ground, then helped Navdar off the tank. Some of the fighters were looking closer at the tank, while a few picked up Sharo’s body and took it inside one of the nearest houses.
Justin shook hands with a few fighters, then looked for Mustafa. He was standing further to the right, nodding and grinning at Justin. The agent walked toward Mustafa and said, “It’s done. We disabled their other tank, then the jet blew it into smithereens.”
“You’re a great fighter, Justin.”
“I had a great team supporting me and plenty of luck.”
“No such thing as luck.” Mustafa tapped Justin on the back. “We make our fate.”
Justin nodded. “You’re probably right.”
“What’s with bringing in the tank?” Mustafa gestured at it. Fighters had climbed on the tank and were studying the damage it had sustained.
“It was just sitting there, idle. No one tried to make it work. Then our truck was blown up, and we needed transport. I thought it would be a shame if something happened to it. It’s such a rough beauty.”
