by Joshua Hood
“And who ordered you to resist me?”
“General Husam, Emir.”
“And where is he now?”
“Tal Afar.”
“That is a shame, and you should have known better. Trust is what separates us from the beasts of the world. Did you know that, Captain?”
“Yes, Emir.”
“Look over there and tell me what you see,” he commanded, pointing to the edge of the city, where his men were hanging the survivors from the power lines that led to the train station.
“You are hanging my men, Emir.”
“That’s right, and all of that could have been avoided if you had just kept your word. It really is a shame.”
While his men finished gathering up the border guard’s equipment, vehicles, and weapons, another group was boring holes in the massive fuel tanks situated near the tracks. One of the fighters had a small video camera, and he was documenting everything in hopes of dissuading any further resistance.
Al Qatar was most annoyed that instead of heading to Mosul, he now had to go out of his way to deal with General Husam. He had a very tight timetable, and the detour could prove costly.
“Burn everything, and hang him next to the rest of the traitors,” he ordered, casually tossing the cigarette to the ground.
“Emir, please,” the man begged, but al Qatar turned to the doughy commander anxiously awaiting his instructions.
The commander’s thin mustache glistened as sweat poured down his face. The neck of his desert uniform was soaked through, giving him an unhealthy appearance.
“Are we ready to go?” Al Qatar asked.
“Yes, Emir. I have just been told that your artillery will reach the city within the hour.”
“Good. Jabar, let us be on our way,” al Qatar ordered as he opened the bloodstained door and took a seat in the stolen pickup.
• • •
It took more than an hour to get his men gathered up and on the road, and by the time al Qatar could see the outskirts of Tal Afar, he was in a foul mood. The only saving grace was the black Pelican case that sat on the seat next to him. He hoped the Americans thought they had destroyed it back in Syria, but if not, he was sure they wouldn’t admit it had fallen into enemy hands.
He had heard the imams preach about the “sword of Allah,” but he’d never truly believed such a thing was real until Khalid told him the capabilities of the equipment in the case. The thought of knocking out American air power filled him with a wave of joy that almost made everything else he was doing seem trivial.
Still, al Qatar knew that for him to use the weapon successfully, he had to make it impossible for the United States to ignore him.
The first boom from the stolen howitzer echoed across the desert, rattling the truck as it crested a small hill. Tal Afar appeared before him: a tranquil, gray smudge on the horizon.
A flash of light erupted as the shell erupted in a shower of golden sparks and black earth, followed a few seconds later by the guttural echo of the explosion. Small-arms fire chattered sporadically in the distance, announcing the first thrusts into the city. Ali gently pulled the truck to the side of the road in order to let the rest of the fighters join the assault.
“Keep going,” al Qatar commanded.
“Are you sure, Emir?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. But if I am not close, the men might run.”
Ali waited for three up-armored Humvees to pass before sliding in behind them. The fighters that Jabar had brought with him had already spray painted over the Iraqi markings that adorned the American vehicles. “You did a good job,” he said.
“I thoroughly enjoyed myself,” the Arab replied. “It is a shame we wasted so much money bribing the general, however.”
“Never fear, Jabar. He will pay for every cent he took.”
Al Qatar had met his second-in-command at a CIA-run training camp in Jordan, where a proxy army was being trained to fight against President Bashar al-Assad’s government troops in Syria. The agency wanted al Qatar to lead the men across the border, since he’d already been vetted by headquarters in Langley, Virginia, but, as usual, the jihadist had plans of his own, and the day he met Jabar, he knew he had a man he could count on.
Jabar’s father had been hopeful when the Americans toppled Saddam in 2003, and despite the lawlessness emanating from Baghdad, he told his son to be patient. Everything changed on a warm summer day in 2005 when a Shiite car bomb killed his family while they were on their way to the market.
There wasn’t enough of his family left for a proper burial, and the rage growing within him demanded blood. Jabar joined a group of fighters loyal to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, but was forced to flee to Syria after Task Force 145 killed the terrorist leader north of the Iraqi city of Baqubah.
In Jordan, al Qatar worked feverishly to fan the hatred smoldering inside Jabar, and by the time they crossed the border, the jihadist led his very own militia. Instead of fighting the government troops besieging Aleppo, his men quickly set upon the loose confederation of rebels hunkered inside the city, and in less than a month, al Qatar had more than five hundred hardened fighters under his command.
As they approached the front lines, al Qatar turned his attention to the light-artillery pieces Jabar had taken from the Syrian army. They were firing at concrete positions that had been set up along the road. Toyota Hiluxes with hastily mounted DShK and PKMs raced back and forth across the open plain, spraying harassing fire into small clusters of Iraqi infantry.
The radio on the dashboard crackled to life, and one of his men yelled for more RPGs near the south side of the city. “They have tanks, we need the rockets now.”
“We must pull back; there are too many,” another voice ordered.
Al Qatar snatched the radio from its mount and ordered, “You will not pull back. Tell me where you are.”
The net went silent once the men recognized their commander’s voice. Finally, someone spoke up.
“We . . . we are near the south wall,” the man mumbled.
“Take me there before they break through,” he commanded.
His knew a core group of his men were battle hardened from their time fighting the Syrian army, but the majority of the fighters at his disposal were used to slaughtering civilians. The Americans had trained the Iraqis defending the city, and some of his fighters sounded like they were on the verge of running away.
Ali punched the accelerator, while the men in the back of the Ford hammered the roof of the truck with the flats of their hands, jeering at the men cowering near the rear.
Al Qatar wished he’d brought more men from Kobani, but he’d already lost too much fighting for the city. He’d worked hard to gather fighters who’d stood toe to toe with the Americans in places such as Fallujah and Ramadi, and they had become the backbone of his ruthless shock troops. Like him, most were Sunni, and ever since Saddam had been driven from power, they had been waiting for their chance to strike back at the Shia minority.
Once American troops left Iraq in 2011, Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki had made the situation worse by cracking down on the Sunnis in the north, and al Qatar knew the country was ripe for regime change.
Ali stopped the truck a hundred meters short of the southern gate, and as Jabar got out of the backseat, al Qatar could see that some of the men had already begun to fall back in the face of the Iraqi armor. Jumping out of the cab, he slipped the dead captain’s bulletproof vest over his head and grabbed his M4 off the seat.
In Syria, they had been forced to fight with whatever they could get their hands on, which was usually older Soviet-era weapons, but America had left behind an arsenal when it withdrew, and al Qatar was hungry to get his hands on the NATO weapons.
A few feet ahead, three of his men climbed onto an armored Humvee, its front end twisted and burned from an RPG. Dead soldiers lay facedown in the rocky soil. One of his fighters ducked into the turret and expertly charged the Browning .50 caliber mounted to the truck.
&nb
sp; The heavy machine gun boomed as the gunner fired over the heads of the retreating fighters, causing al Qatar to plug his ears against the concussions. He ducked away from the gun, pausing to take aim at an Iraqi soldier who was trying to lead a squad of soldiers into the fray. Al Qatar lined up the iron sights on the man’s back and gently pulled the trigger.
The round hit the man just below the back of his head, knocking him face-first into the ground. The soldiers who’d been following him scattered or began looking around to see who else was in charge. Given the golden opportunity, al Qatar’s gunner traversed the .50 cal in their direction, cutting the massive rounds across their backs.
Off to his left, a gun crew rammed a shell into the breach of a Russian 122 mm D-30 howitzer, while one of his lieutenants formed more fighters into a chain near the back of an old Opel truck. As they began to unload more of the shells, the gunner yanked the lanyard and the howitzer roared, sending a high-explosive shell toward the city.
The retort of the huge gun sent a wave of dust billowing over the area. Like clockwork, the gunner yanked the breach open and yelled for another round.
Al Qatar, waving the dust out of his face, made a beeline for an 82 mm mortar crew, with Jabar right on his heels. The men were just getting the tube settled into the baseplate when one of them recognized their commander and slapped his teammate on the back to get his attention.
“Yes, Emir?” the man asked.
“Fire at those tanks, right now.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
The man grabbed a round off the ground and hoisted it up to the tube while his comrade stood on the baseplate. As soon as he was set, he dropped the round down the tube, and the mortar bucked, slamming the baseplate into the ground.
Without a sight, they were aiming down the tube at their target, and the first round sailed harmlessly overhead.
“Keep firing,” he commanded.
Meanwhile, he yelled at the fleeing fighters to “Turn and fight!” Most of them ignored him, deciding that the tank was a bigger threat, forcing him to raise his rifle as another knot of deserters tried to dart past.
“I said stand and fight!” he yelled before firing a burst into two of the men. The fighters saw the men hit the ground and quickly decided they would take their chances with the tank.
Al Qatar knew that he had to press the attack home or risk losing everything he had worked so hard to build. He hated to admit that his men might not be able to stand up to a disciplined American force when it came, but that was a problem for a later date.
“You there! Why are you hiding? Go fight them!” he berated the men hiding behind a stalled-out truck.
“But, Emir, they have—”
Al Qatar shot the man through the chest. Turning the rifle to the next man, he lined up the sights.
“Fight them, or I will kill you.”
The men nodded and filed out toward the tanks.
“Jabar, I will take out the tanks,” he said, catching sight of an approaching RPG team. “Tell the men to use the mortars on the infantry once they get out into the open.”
Rounds cracked and hummed past al Qatar as he weaved across the battlefield, grabbing as many men as he could along the way.
One of the Russian-built T-72s stopped in the middle of the field, shielding a mass of infantry. The main gun barked as it fired at one of his technicals, and a split second later, the round smashed into the hood of the unarmored truck, tossing it into the air like a toy.
Al Qatar dove to the ground, covering his head against the burning debris that slammed into the dirt around him. He got quickly to his feet, sprinting past the burning vehicle, and slid down the embankment at the edge of the road.
Five of his men were hiding behind the embankment, watching the T-72 traverse on the artillery piece. Furious at their cowardice, he slapped one of them in the back of the head, yanking the RPG-7 from his grasp.
“Give me that!” he yelled as the T-72 fired over his head.
The sound of the shell reminded him of a cargo plane preparing to land. Yet the gunner undershot the target, and that allowed al Qatar to step out onto the road. He brought the RPG up to his shoulder, centering the reticle on the turret before pulling the trigger. The armor-piercing round shot from the launcher with a shriek and danced through the air before impacting the turret. The warhead hit the steel with a sharp thwang before punching through and exploding inside.
He yelled for another rocket just as the hatch flipped open, releasing a billowing pillar of acrid smoke. One of the crewmen appeared, looking dazed. His face was covered in blood and soot, and he tried to climb out of the burning tank, only to be shot in the head for his troubles.
Another RPG screamed from al Qatar’s left as his men began to press the attack. The rocket slammed into the second tank but failed to pierce the armor.
“Allahu Akbar!” a dark-skinned fighter cried, hefting an American AT-4 antitank missile onto his shoulder. His tongue protruded from his mouth, and he carefully lined up the sights before depressing the red firing button.
The rocket shot from the green launcher in a rush of flame. The back blast jerked the launcher off his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, caught himself, and then cheered when the 84 mm rocket hit the tank and detonated—stopping it dead in its tracks.
The Iraqi soldiers suddenly found themselves without any cover—they tried to run back to the city, but the emboldened jihadists fell on them with a vengeance. Some of the soldiers had already dropped their weapons when the first mortar round arced silently overhead and exploded ten feet above the ground.
Shrapnel cut through the men like an invisible reaper, bowling them over in clouds of blood. The tide had turned, and over the roar of the battle, the fighters began chanting al Qatar’s name.
• • •
By late afternoon, the killing finally ended. Al Qatar sat on a camo camp chair, studying the fat general kneeling before him. Automatic fire and the hollow thump of grenades marked the killing pits his men had set up. He held the blade before the trembling man’s face.
“I thought my instructions were clear, General Husam. Was I mistaken?”
“You must understand, I have a family,” the general pleaded.
“All of these men have families,” al Qatar replied, motioning to the lines of men who were being forced to kneel on the edges of the hastily dug pits. “Does that make you special?”
“I . . . I . . . ”
“You what?” he asked, sliding the blade under the general’s chin. Firmly he raised the man’s head until he was looking into his dark eyes. “You’re special, is that what you are saying?”
“No, Emir.”
“I have no use for a man who will not listen, and I believe that your family would feel the same.”
“Please.”
Al Qatar spat at the man’s fat face, soiling his clean uniform. They had found him cowering in one of the houses, and, to his shame, he hadn’t even tried to fight for his life.
Al Qatar slowly moved the blade into place on the man’s throat, putting more pressure on the point until it broke through the skin. The general tried to edge away, but two of his own officers were holding him in place.
Behind them, Jabar had his pistol pressed to the back of one of their heads, and ominously pulled back the hammer with an audible click.
“Hold him tight, you two,” he warned.
Al Qatar let off the pressure until he was sure that they had a good grip on their superior. Then he slowly pressed the blade all the way through his skin.
He yanked the knife from the man’s throat, allowing the general to fall face down on the ground. Blood rushed from the wound in a torrent of crimson spray, and Husam lay there, a ghastly, choking sound emanating from the back of his throat.
“Now, you hold him,” he ordered, pointing at one of the officers, whose face was a mask of pure horror.
“I—”
“The emir said to hold him,” Jabar said, press
ing the pistol to his skull as the soldier slowly forced his comrade to his knees.
“Do you see what happens to people who betray me?”
CHAPTER 26
* * *
This is bullshit,” SecDef Cage said, glancing out at the reporters packed inside the Pentagon’s briefing room.
“Just stick to the talking points, and you’ll be fine,” Simmons replied, handing him the seating chart that identified those reporters who were considered safe and the ones he should avoid.
“Why don’t you take this one?”
“’Cause it’s not my job.”
The first thing that Cage felt when he stepped onstage was the heat radiating off the high-intensity lights mounted to the ceiling. He started to sweat immediately as he took his place behind the shiny oak podium centered on the Pentagon’s seal. Part of the reason was nerves, but there was more to it than just that.
Cage was about to force the president into a corner.
“Good morning,” he began, glancing over at the American flag, which stood proudly before the light-blue curtain hung behind him.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” the reporters replied enthusiastically, despite being crammed together in their tiny metal chairs.
The notoriously suspect press corps had been smitten with him ever since his very first press briefing, and Cage had no idea why. It was like a one-sided courtship, and the more he resisted their charm, the more they wanted to be accepted.
He found it strange because no matter how much affection they showed him, Cage hated the press.
“At approximately 0400 local time, the DOD, in collaboration with the CIA, launched a raid into Syria and eliminated two high-value targets. The mission was a success, and I am pleased to report that the objective was cleared with minimum casualties on our side. I will now take any questions that you might have.”
“Can you tell us about the operation?” a pretty reporter from the New York Times asked loudly.
“Like I said, it was a combined DOD-CIA operation centered on two targets who had extensive links to al Nusra and a group calling themselves the Islamic State of Iraq,” he replied over a barrage of snapping cameras.
