“We do, and it’s not good. About twenty minutes ago, the ISIL Twitter feeds started buzzing. They were elliptical as they always are, but there’s a crescendo building and references to YouTube and Al Jazeera ‘later today.’”
“Tell me more.”
“Well, it’s like this. The analysis points directly to the fact that ISIL has a hostage they intend to kill and they are getting their followers—as well as others—all spooled up to watch.”
“How about their hostage?” Bleich asked. “Is there any reference or even an allusion as to who it is?”
“I was coming to that. Several feeds have mentioned ‘special operations.’”
Bleich stole a glance at the lower right-hand corner of his computer screen. “It’s less than two hours until the evening news here. I’ll grab Roger and we’ll go see Mr. Williams. Maggie, I want you to tell Fred to stop whatever he’s doing and hack into Al Jazeera and see what he can pull down. We don’t have much time.”
* * *
Mabad al-Dosari had told his number two to give him at least forty-five minutes in his office alone. He needed to write down precisely what he was going to say before he slit his hostage’s throat. This execution was an important one, and one that would continue to rally followers to his cause. It wasn’t going to be about how he would appear or how he would speak his words—it was strictly about what he was going to say.
They had enough lead time to activate their social media networks and had promised Al Jazeera a story that would give their ratings a significant bump. Millions would see this, and it would be broadcast at precisely the right time, when Americans living in some of the country’s most prominent cities—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Miami, and especially Washington, D.C.—were getting their nightly news.
Al-Dosari tried to keep his emotions in check as he recalled why he was doing this. He had dedicated his life to establishing a caliphate throughout the Middle East. That was his destiny and he was Allah’s instrument. His zeal had already cost him the life of his only son. Some men would have shirked their duty and given up. But he was not like other men. He had a sacred duty. After a number of stumbles with crafting just what he wanted to say, he finally had the words he wanted:
America. Listen to me. In the time it took you to go about your business today, our caliphate has continued to expand. We have taken over more territory, and nations you once knew—Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Libya, Tunisia, and others—will soon no longer exist. There will be just one nation, the Islamic State. This I can promise you.
But while your politicians rail against us and your public-opinion polls say we must be stopped, few of your decadent citizens do anything. That is because they are cowards and tremble before our mighty fighters. So you send your military to try to defeat us. But all they do is kill our women and children as they sleep in their beds.
You sent your admiral named Bruner to bomb our homes and kill our mothers and their children. We sought retribution on this man and have not killed him yet—but we will eventually. But do you not have enough fighters in your military? Look who we have here. We have this cursed killer’s son, a military man himself! And we caught him sneaking into our compound to kill our families in the middle of the night. Have you no honor?
This young Bruner will pay the price not only for what he tried to do, but for what his father did. And we will do the same thing to whoever else you send to challenge us. Look, America, and get used to seeing this. We are coming for all of you and we are coming for your so-called leader, the pig, Midkiff.
You Christians know an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, do you not? Then hear this. The murderer, Bruner the elder, killed my son. So it is by your own decadent religion that I kill his son. Praise be to Allah.
Satisfied that what he had written down conveyed what he wanted to say, al-Dosari pushed his chair back from his desk. He wanted to see how al-Hamdani was progressing in getting his fighters and their families ready to evacuate their compound. He knew that soon after he decapitated this man in front of an international audience, the bombs would start falling again. This time they would fall, but they’d accomplish nothing. They would all be in the wind and would continue the fight.
* * *
Brian Dawson knew Chase Williams trusted him completely to carry out his mission and that the Op-Center director would never micromanage his operation. But as their mission became more complex, he also knew Williams was working on getting him more support from the CENTCOM commander. He needed to continue to communicate with him in real time, and he needed a constant stream of intel from the Geek Tank.
“Boss, Brian here.”
“I have you four-by-five,” Williams replied.
“I’m about five klicks from the outskirts of Mosul. The intel Aaron and his team have pushed to us says that ISIL social media is buzzing, and they likely intend to kill Lieutenant Bruner at 1800 Eastern Standard Time—”
“That’s right; less than ninety minutes from now.”
“If that’s the case, we don’t have time to lay up and make this a deliberate attack. We need to storm into town at full speed and head straight for their compound. We’ve geo-located the truck we’re pretty sure Lieutenant Bruner used to drive from Baghdad to Mosul, and it’s close to ISIL’s main compound. That makes sense; if he was coming to rescue his dad and shoot his way into their building to get him, he wouldn’t want to be on foot for long.”
“I take it you’re certain you know exactly where their main compound is located?”
“We do. The 75th Rangers have this place mapped out pretty well. And we’ve got the Global Hawk to give us eyes-on surveillance. We’ll know what we’re getting into—”
“I know you will, Brian. We’ve worked together long enough that I don’t need to tell you the safety of your men is paramount. We want to save Lieutenant Bruner, but if it gets too hot, you wave off, hear?”
“Loud and clear, boss.”
“I’ve talked with General George about what else the 75th Rangers can provide for you. I know the exact route you take into the city will depend on what the Global Hawk sees ahead. We’re having the same feed from Beale piped in here and General George is seeing it in his command center in Tampa too. Here’s what I want you to be ready for—”
Williams provided the details about the added support their team would get for their mission. When he finished he simply said, “Questions?”
“None. I’ve got it. And thanks; we’ll take all the help we can get.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Outskirts of Mosul, Iraq
July 24, 0030 Arabia Standard Time
As the convoy approached the southwest outskirts of Mosul, Brian Dawson knew their chances of remaining completely covert—even in the early hours of the morning when most of the city was asleep—were remote. He understood ISIL’s strategy and knew Mosul was not only Iraq’s second-largest city, but the one the group considered most valuable as they tried to expand their caliphate.
Their Humvees forged ahead with their headlights off, the 75th Ranger Regiment drivers navigating by the dim green light of their NVGs. Once Dawson had decided the need for speed trumped trying to remain undetected for as long as possible, he had Laurie position their Global Hawk over Highway 1, just west of Mosul’s airport. That’s where they’d rejoin the main road and speed into the city. They were minutes away from the juncture, and he anticipated resistance almost immediately.
“Carnival, you up on the net?” Hector Rodriquez asked over the tactical frequency Williams had provided them.
“Roger, we’re up.”
“We’re about to join Highway 1. The RQ-4B shows it quiet up ahead, but we don’t expect that to last long. Can you take up about a three-mile trail behind us?”
“Wilco.”
* * *
Mabad al-Dosari had entrusted his number two to make all the necessary preparations for their hostage’s execution while he worked on what he would say in front of the camera. Sha
kir al-Hamdani had done just that. There was little guesswork or need to create anything from whole cloth. ISIS had executed so many prisoners that it had perfected the morbid process to the point where the disgusting ritual was routine.
While the executions of multiple prisoners simultaneously were always carried out outdoors, the time of night and the fact it was a lone person who would be slaughtered, drove al-Hamdani to use the large room on their building’s first floor as their “studio.” It had been several weeks since they had beheaded someone in this room, so he gathered a few men and ensured all was as it should be. In short order, the cameras, lighting, sound equipment, and most importantly, the ISIS flag, were in place.
* * *
He was too small for the Global Hawk to pick up, but the man standing guard at the Wadi Hajar Gas Station was the first to hear—and then see—the convoy. He immediately called his commander. Within minutes, trucks full of ISIS fighters were rolling out of their compound in the Hayy Al Uraybi neighborhood in northern Mosul and heading south through the mostly darkened city.
* * *
They had just passed the Mosul Mansour Gas power plant when Dawson’s radio came alive. It was Phillips. “Mr. Dawson, looks like we’ve got company. The Global Hawk’s picked up trucks—lots of ’em—flowing south, just north of where Highway 1 takes a turn to the west. That’s just where we’re heading.”
“Got that. Keep me posted on how many trucks the bird picks up, and tell me where it looks like they’re deploying. For now, we’ll keep our speed up.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Hector,” he said, turning to his number two. “Tell Carnival to close our posit and take up a loose trail on tail-end Charlie.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Major, we’ve got company up ahead,” Dawson said on the tactical net. “I won’t drive us into a buzz saw. If they take up blocking positions and Carnival can’t clear ’em, we’ll pull back. If we do get through, your troops ready for a full-on assault on the compound?”
Volner looked at Master Guns Moore, who had heard the same transmission.
“Yep, that’s what we came here to do,” came the laconic response from Moore.
“Yes, sir,” Volner replied over the net.
* * *
The ISIS leader’s ashen-faced military commander, Akram al-Nahas, burst into his office and delivered his breathless report. Now he stood in front of al-Dosari’s desk, almost slack-jawed.
“What do you mean, ‘trucks are approaching’?” the ISIS leader shouted.
“Our sentry at the Wadi Hajar Gas Station sighted them first. He counted almost a dozen trucks, all with their headlights off, traveling at high speed up Highway 1—”
“What are they? Are they Iraqi Army? Are they American?” al-Dosari asked. But he knew the answer. The Iraqi Army—even buttressed by increasing numbers of American special operations advisors—had long ago given up trying to retake Mosul. No, these had to be Americans and they had somehow sniffed out that he had this SEAL hostage and were coming to rescue him.
“Tell me where you’re deploying your men. We need to stop them!”
* * *
Flying at two hundred feet above the desert, and about five hundred yards behind the last Humvee in the JSOC convoy, “Carnival,” in the person of Warrant Officer Alex Purvis, was piloting the lead AH-6G in a flight of two Little Bird attack helicopters. The Little Bird, in use by U.S. Army special operations units for over three decades, had been continually upgraded for attack and other missions. The CENTCOM commander was backstopping Op-Center’s mission with the best assets he could provide.
With a fully loaded weight of little more than three thousand pounds, the Little Bird was aptly named. But what it lacked in weight, it made up for in offensive firepower. Most of the multiple attack versions of the AH-6 helicopter could be loaded out with various types of guns—either chain guns, mini-guns, or the fifty-caliber GAU-19—as well as Hydra 70 rockets, the AGM-114 Hellfire missile, and Mk19 forty-millimeter automatic grenade launchers.
Purvis knew little, and cared less, about the conversations that had gone on between the director of someplace called “Op-Center” and his CENTCOM commander. All he knew was the order had flowed down from CENTCOM, through the CENTCOM Special Operations component—SOCCENT, to the Army SOC in Iraq, to his four-aircraft unit that shared the Al Muthana Air Base with the Iraqi air force. He was told to take two Little Birds and fly to a FARP—a forward area refueling point—four miles east of al-Shirqat. There would be Army SOC Chinooks to provide gas to his thirsty AH-6Gs so they could cover a JSOC convoy heading into Mosul.
Fully gassed and now loaded out with fifty-caliber GAU-19 guns and all the AGM-114 Hellfire missiles their two aircraft could carry, Purvis had waited for the “go” order from someone named Dawson—whoever he was. That order had come, and Purvis and his wingman were now riding shotgun for the convoy.
* * *
Dale Bruner had been cleaned up and put in an orange jumpsuit, but not without a struggle. Each time the two men al-Hamdani had assigned to the task tried to take off an item of his clothing, he had gone limp, making their job as difficult as possible. Afraid to hit him in the face and anger al-Dosari even further, the men encouraged him to comply by kicking him in the ribs.
Now, as he sat bound to a chair in the same room he had been interrogated in, Bruner heard shouting and a general commotion. He had learned enough Arabic during his tours in Iraq that he thought it sounded like fighters streaming out of the building, likely in response to an approaching enemy. He prayed that someone was coming to his rescue. At the same time, he was overwhelmed with shame that he had put others at risk because he needed rescuing.
* * *
Akram al-Nahas was al-Dosari’s most capable military commander. He had ably defended Mosul from multiple attacks over the past several years, pushing back coalition surges into the city outskirts. He had led the attack on Ramadi in 2015 and had routed an Iraqi Army force composed of four times as many soldiers as he mustered.
But now he faced what might be his greatest challenge—beating back an armada of what were probably American special forces bore-sighted on Mosul and, most likely, the ISIS compound in the north of the city. Worse, he had little time to prepare. Now in the lead truck streaming south, he put together his defensive plan on the fly.
* * *
“Mr. Dawson, we’ve got company, less than two klicks ahead. I’m sending you a link now!” It was Laurie Phillips’s voice on the tactical net. The Global Hawk had done its work as it looked ahead along their intended route.
Dawson looked at the picture for only a second, and then turned to his number two. “Hector, looks like a big group of trucks ahead. They’re bunched together—so it’s impossible to count them—but they’re massed around the traffic circle right here north of us. Their posit is just a klick south of where Highway 1 takes a jag to the north-northeast.”
“I see it, boss. They’ve probably got a lot of firepower; there’s no way we can break through unless Carnival can blast ’em out of there.”
“Carnival, you up?” It was Dawson on the tactical net.
“Right here, sir,” Purvis replied.
“I’ve got a bunch of enemy trucks on my nose, less than one klick. I need you to jump ahead of me and engage.”
Two clicks of the mic was all Dawson heard, followed soon by the distinctive growl of the two six-bladed Little Birds zooming over them at close to their redline speed.
* * *
At the traffic circle, Akram al-Nahas hadn’t had time to engineer an elegant or even a complex defense. He had simply massed all the trucks he could muster and strung them out bumper to bumper along the southern end of the traffic circle on Highway 1. His fighters, armed with rocket-propelled grenade—RPG—launchers, heavy machine guns, and a few light anti-armor weapons, crouched behind the vehicles, ready to take on the approaching convoy.
While al-Nahas had massed the bulk of his forces
at the traffic circle, he had kept a few trucks and fighters back guarding the two turnoffs from Highway 1 that led directly to the Hayy Al Uraybi neighborhood where their compound was located. In the unlikely event the enemy convoy broke through, they would be his goal-line defense.
* * *
Purvis, his copilot, as well as the pilots of the second Little Bird, saw the outlines of the ISIS trucks ahead of them in the green glow of their helmet-mounted NVGs. As they closed at one hundred fifty knots, they armed their weapons pods. “Steady, steady,” Purvis called over the tactical net, “wait for my command—”
* * *
They heard the approaching helicopters before they saw them in the black sky. The up-Doppler sound of a helo’s blades compressing the air as it rushed toward them was a familiar sound to the ISIS fighters manning the roadblock. They knew what to do.
First one, and then a second fighter fired an RPG at the approaching noise in the sky. Then one of the machine gunners began firing his weapon, the tracer rounds arching into the night. All al-Nahas could do was run from man to man, trying to help them adjust their fire.
* * *
“Flash!” Purvis’s copilot called out over the tactical net as he saw the rocket motor on the RPG fire off.
“Deploying chaff and flares!” Purvis’s wingman shouted.
Purvis deployed chaff and flares as well, and, as he did, both Little Birds dropped down to fifty feet above Highway 1.
“Weapons now!” Purvis called. Each Little Bird crew felt successive jolts as, one by one, the four Hellfire missiles each bird carried dropped free of the launchers and headed for the massed trucks.
* * *
The AGM-114L “Longbow” Hellfire air-to-surface missile is a “fire-and-forget” weapon, first used by the U.S. military in Operation Just Cause in Panama, in 1989. In the decades since that first use, it has been one of the premier air-to-surface missiles used by the U.S. military, as well as by over two dozen countries allied with, or friendly toward, the United States. The reason so many other nations have purchased the missile is the same reason the U.S. armed forces have thousands of Hellfires in their inventory. It is extremely accurate and completely deadly.
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