“Turkey!” the ISIS and Al Qaeda terrorists objected. “Turkey is NATO; they work with the West! They are traitors!”
“Calm yourselves brothers,” Nikahd said smoothly but forcefully. “Have you never heard of Taqiyya? What worth is it to have an ally so deep in the enemy’s camp?”
“Can they be trusted?”
“I put it to you; this man is the personal emissary of the Turkish president, his very own nephew. Now do you doubt his sincerity? If that is not enough think of your recruits from the West itself. How do they get here? They come through Turkey, of course, and they come freely without fear of being interfered with.”
The terrorists calmed and allowed Nikahd to continue.
“Finally, the Grand Mufti Aziz of Saudi Arabia also sends his regards,” he raised his finger as if lecturing. “He reminds us all that whatever our differences we must unite behind Allah the Merciful and combat the decadent West. Separately we can hurt the West, but together we have the ability to bring the infidels to their knees!”
“Smooth talk brother, so you say,” remarked Fahd, one of the ISIS terrorists. “Yet I have seen what you Shia do to my brother Sunnis. Ever since Saddam was overthrown by the Americans we have suffered. We are gaining our revenge; are you dictating to me and mine that our revenge is unjustified?”
Colonel Nikahd lit a cigarette and waived aside the concern, refusing to take the bait of this angry young man with an AK-47 slung across his back and a bag of gold teeth at his belt. “What you do to the vermin that cooperated with the Westerners I do not care. They have already insulted the Prophet.
“Had they sought to simply deceive the Americans and so come to power—fine—I would have no trouble with them. Yet they sought to implement the American ideals. Justly so their lives, wives and fortunes are forfeit.” Nikahd then leaned forward, a hungry look in his eyes. “Besides, we need the eyes of the West fixed on Iraq. The operation Brother Khallida will brief you on is very sensitive—very sensitive. It will required the cooperation of the Sunni and the Shia states, but when it is successful it will cripple the Zionists. We will thereafter push the Zionists into the sea!”
Their murderous vocation protected, their lustful needs approved and their theft condoned, the ISIS terrorist nodded and said, “We are willing to listen.”
Nikahd motioned to his Al Qaeda operative, introducing him, “This is Gamel Khallida a very experienced man as you can see by his holy wounds. He has been involved in every major operation against the West since before Nine-Eleven. He is here to brief you on the part of the operation that pertains to Syria and Iraq.”
Khallida thanked Nikahd and was about to speak when the ISIS man interrupted him. “We want to ensure that this, none of this will prevent us from establishing our Sharia state, our caliphate in Syria and northern Iraq,” he said bluntly, as a young punk will who is trying to pick a fight.
Nikahd held up both hands, soothing the ISIS phantom concerns, by saying, “Far from it brother. In fact, we want you to establish your Caliphate. The Grand Mufti and Ayatollah Hayayi have already laid the groundwork for a Caliphate to extend from Iran, through the Arabian Peninsula and into Egypt. We hope to establish it as far north as Turkey—we are in negotiations with the Turks at this very moment—so you see, what you are doing is in keeping with our overall goal.”
“We are not going to take directives from the Grand Mufti in Saudi Arabia!” the ISIS representative said loudly.
Nikahd leaned back in his chair and replied, “The Grand Mufti is already in contact with your Imams; it will be up to you as to whether you follow their guidance or strike out on your own.”
The ISIS party looked perturbed, but at the mention of their imams they restrained themselves from further outbursts. Nikahd reminded them that despite their personal animosity, the ISIS imams supported working with their allies.
Khallida built upon this, reminding the ISIS fighters, “It is up to you whether you want to continue to have us fight amongst ourselves and so do the West’s job for it,” he said, and he spread his hands wide with resignation. “Their blood will remain unspent, their gold will remain in their coffers while we battle amongst ourselves. They will wait until we have bled ourselves white and then bomb us back into oblivion.”
“They have no such will,” Fahd said. “Their president is a coward or he is secretly with us. They will not interfere.”
“Certainly not while we are slaughtering each other,” Nikahd said sedately. “Now that doesn’t mean we wish you to stop, no, not at all. You are attacking American trained forces; the only forces the West can count on besides their own troops. We have to kill those men to get at the real targets: the Westerners.”
“Go on,” Fahd said evenly.
“Picture this my brothers, our Caliphate stretching from Africa to Asia to Europe, giving the West no foothold in the Middle East,” he said fervently. “We control their oil, their dependence even as we expand our Caliphate—a Caliphate not just established by arms and negotiation but by holy decree—one is coming to unite us, unite us all. We must be ready. Then, when he comes, then we will take our arguments to their proper places.”
Nikahd stared at the ISIS men. He stood, looming over them, and asked them, “Do you think your operations in Syria and Iraq are glorious, stamping out the little Christian communities and beheading Sadaam’s troops—no!
“When we take what is rightfully ours we will send you, you men sitting her at the table, we will send you to Paris, to London to Berlin! You may plunder the vast wealth of the churches of Europe. You may have your harem of pale skinned European girls, ready to service you at your leisure. Once you are done with them they can be brought here to market and you, as the fighters will always be provided with fresh young women for your every need. Europe will fall; Africa is already falling under the onslaught of Boko Haram and the Somalians. Our day is coming. Be a part of it!”
The ISIS terrorists nodded for Khallida to brief them. When he was finished they agreed to sign on to the plan as it allowed them to do everything they were already doing. Nikahd brought out his iPad and showed them the document. He signed it with his electronic pen, telling them, “It is gratifying to use the West’s own tools against them!”
After he signed and Khallida signed he handed the iPad to the ISIS terrorists, saying, “Your Imam’s signature is already on the document—right there,” he pointed to an illegible scrawl. “We have signed for the Republic of Iran and Al Qaeda. It but remains for your signature to guarantee your gains in this jihad!”
One by one the ISIS terrorists signed the iPad. When the last had done so he handed the tablet back to Nikahd.
The colonel smiled, and told them, “Congratulations, you are now part of a larger, greater Caliphate—boom!”
Before Nikahd could finish a loud concussion sounded in the room. The plate glass window shattered. The leader of the ISIS terrorists rocked back in his chair, a small hole in his forehead. One of the terrorist’s behind him took the spent bullet in the throat; it nearly decapitated him. Chunks of grey matter and vaporized blood sprayed the, blinding the terrorists, freezing them with terror.
Boom, boom, boom, boom!
Screams and shouts filled the room as men ducked or ran for cover. There was a pause, and Nikahd shouted, “Sniper! He’s reloading!”
The terrorists ran for the door.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!
Bodies crumpled to the floor in plain view of the large dining room window. Khallida and Nikahd escaped—that was all. For a moment all was silent but for the groans of the dead and dying.
From the tangle of bodies one terrorist raised himself painfully on his elbows, whining for aid. The owner of the house appeared at the doorway—shocked, pleading to the heavens—he reached for the stricken man. Boom! One last shot split the air. The terrorist’s head exploded, drenching the owner in blood. He fled from the room.
The next morning the bodies of the slain had been removed and buried. Th
e window was boarded up. The only other indication that something had gone wrong was the presence of the owner’s head nailed over his front door.
CHAPTER 9: Extraction
Jeremiah Slade put his final shot right through the terrorist’s right eye. The Barret “Light Fifty” sent its .50 caliber shell unerringly over the half mile through the now smashed windows, through the eyeball, into the brain and out the back, making a much larger hole on exit than on entry.
To his grim satisfaction the blood and brains of the terrorist sprayed the owner of the house.
“Nice shot!” Killer Kincaid chuckled, looking through his standard Delta Force issue binoculars. “I think you’re getting to like this way too much; you’re shooting for dramatic effect!”
The thought had already occurred to Slade. It was one thing to get the job done, even to the point of adding a bit of extra terror to the lives of the enemy. It was quite another to enjoy it. He’d enjoyed every minute of that shooting gallery; everything except letting Khallida and Nikahd walk out alive. The Company put a “no-kill” tag on them, but Slade didn’t have a need to know, so they didn’t explain why.
Killer, told his men, “Alpha team you are cleared in, Bravo, you have their back. We have high cover!”
While Alpha team infiltrated the building to retrieve the iPads and any other intelligence they could dig up in a hurry, the other team took up a flanking position to cover the house.
Killer cursed.
“Problem’s?” Slade asked, scanning the area through his powerful scope. “I don’t see squat!”
“That’s just it,” Killer replied. “As soon as these jack rabbits hear a rifle shot that’s not theirs the find the nearest burkha and hide underneath it! The bastards are brave enough when it comes to beheading a man with his hands tied behind his back!”
Slade grunted, and then asked, “I’m the one whose supposed to be keeping secrets—that’s the CIA’s job—so you going to let me in on why I didn’t get to pop the Colonel or Khallida? Damn it, we’ve been after that bastard since Nine-Eleven!”
“Damned if I know. Maybe we’ll get debriefed on it in Kuwait City.”
“Kuwait!” Slade growled. “That’s not my favorite place, or don’t you remember?”
“I’m sure they’ve forgotten it all by now Slade,” Killer laughed. “Besides, you were only scheduled to be beheaded. I got you out of there didn’t I?”
“Being led to execution square counts as being “scheduled?”” Slade retorted.
“Come on, show some backbone,” the Delta Force Captain laughed. “Look at the bright side. In Kuwait you can legally buy western slave girls for your harem!”
There was sporadic fire from down below. Slade saw movement off the corner of the building. He heard over the radio. “We’ve got runners heading west bound!”
Two men appeared, sprinting across the dirt street toward a house, firing blindly behind them. The door of the house opened for them.
Boom! Boom!
The men flung their AK-47’s in the air, falling like disjointed marionettes into the dust.
“Bravo team shows all Tangos down!”
“Alpha team reporting, sir, we’ve cleared out the guards but we’ve found a package in one of their trucks. The package speaks French sir!”
Killer chuckled, “Well I’ll be damned, just as Intel thought! The Al Qaeda people were bringing the ISIS folks a present!”
“Damn!” Slade cursed out of the blue.
“What is it?”
“Look at the Tangos I just took out,” he told Killer, who whipped up his binoculars. “They’re using like an eight year old kid to retrieve the AK’s and ammo from the dead Tangos.”
“Where’s Child Protective Services when you need them,” Killer growled. “Your call boss.”
Slade let the kid go, but not before splashing both of the terrorist’s heads like melons all over the child. “Hopefully that’ll teach him not to get killed!”
Killer’s voice tightened up, “We have company. A five man patrol coming south along the street on the left flank. Idiots, they’re walking right into the sun!”
“Alpha team be advised we have Tangos—about one hundred yards. Coming to you Bravo team! Alpha team bring that package as fast as you can!”
“Bravo team has the Tangos. You want us to take them out?”
“Hold on tight,” Killer ordered. He glanced through his binoculars, and said, “You want them Slade?”
“Got ‘em,” he whispered, already set in his breathing pattern.
Killer waited and waited until finally he asked, “You going to fire or what?”
Boom!
The five man patrol, advancing furtively, nervously toward the house froze as one of the men turned a sudden somersault in the air. It looked like a circus act but for the splash of vaporized blood as the fifty caliber shell tore through his upper chest.
The bullet wasn’t done though.
The piece of metal splashed out from the terrorist’s torso and hit the man next to him in the stomach. There was very little resistance to the bullet in the abdomen. The misshapen projectile tumbled through the guts, tearing the stomach, the intestines and the viscera of the second terrorist, sending him to the ground clutching his belly.
Still the bullet wasn’t done.
With the impetus of a handgun it burst through the kidney and burrowed into the third terrorist’s groin. That unlucky terrorist faced a long, ugly death as the bullet completely disintegrated in his bowels after blowing off his privates.
“They shouldn’t be walking so close together!” Slade chastised them. Boom! Boom! The other two terrorist’s fell before they could find cover. Slade said dryly, “No point in letting them teach their friends what they learned.”
Kincaid chuckled in a gallows humor manner, and said, “You were waiting for them to line up; a triple! Uncle Sam’s going to be very happy you’re saving the taxpayer money!”
“Alpha has the groceries and the package; we’re bugging out!”
Slade and Kincaid covered the egress of the Delta Force squads. When they were all gathered they hot footed it from the ridge where Slade set up his sniper station and headed southeast.
“You set up the booby traps?” Kincaid asked the Alpha team.
“Couldn’t,” he said. “There were kids in the house; we could hear them.”
“Damned terrorists hiding behind civilians!”
They jogged out of the engagement area. The French hostage wasn’t in the same kind of shape as the Deltas so they purloined a bicycle and stuck him on top, trotting on either side of him. It was ninety minutes before they reached the little road. A hundred yards further on was the abandoned village.
“Boss, there’s a dust cloud coming from the direction of the target village,” one of the men warned.
Slade scrambled up the shoulder of the ridge and turned his scope north. “Killer we’ve got company!” Slade announced. “Four vehicles heading our way; they are a two thousand yards and closing. It looks like we’re compromised!”
“Bravo plant me some Claymores along the road! Slade, give me the Light Fifty!”
Slade unslung the Barret and handed it to Killer.
“Get the bird warmed up. We’ll be hot on your heels!” Kincaid said, taking the sniper rifle and steadying it atop a boulder. “Alpha, escort the package. Bravo you’re with me!”
Killer and his two man team set up shop at the edge of the ridge where the road turned to the right. As they hunkered down behind the available cover the convoy of trucks appeared at the far point of a shallow valley five hundred yards away. They gunned their motors in a cloud of dust.
As the men set up a few rows of Claymores to cover their egress Killer began sending fifty caliber rounds at the drivers. Finished with their mine-laying, the other Deltas joined their commander and let loose with their SCARS, sending a hail of 7.62 mm rounds at the enemy.
Killer hit one driver in the throat. He took his hands
off the wheel and flung them instinctively over his wound. The shell nearly decapitated the terrorist; his head lolled grotesquely to the side as he slumped over the wheel. The terrorist next to him tried to grab the steering wheel, but the dead driver’s arm caught in the spokes as he slumped over. The truck turned hard left, spilling the dozens of terrorists crowded in the back onto the desert road. Many of those were run over by the following trucks, who avoided hitting the tumbling truck but not the men scattered across the road.
“Grenades!” Killer shouted.
Two volleys of three grenades flew through the air. The remaining trucks made it through the hail of bullets only to endure the explosions of the grenades and claymores. One truck veered off in flames. Terrorists leapt from the back, some were on fire. Two trucks made it through.
A growing roar behind them caught Killer’s attention. “Time to go boys, bug out!”
#
Slade sprinted around the corner and headed toward the parked aircraft. Between the buildings underneath a camouflage net sat the OV-10 Bronco. He didn’t need to tell the Deltas what to do. As he clambered into the forward cockpit they cut loose the netting so that it wouldn’t foul the props. Then they loaded up the hostage and took their places in the rear, weapons pointed out the open back of the aircraft.
He primed the engines and hit the cartridges; the motors coughed to life amidst two black clouds of gritty, acrid smoke.
Checking to either side, Slade cleared his path, making sure he wasn’t going to chop up a friendly Delta; seeing nothing he pushed the throttles up. He didn’t worry about checking with the Deltas in the back; those guys could take care of themselves.
The Bronco started forward at a brisk pace, heading out of the narrow opening between the two dilapidated buildings and out into the street. He stopped, keying the mike and transmitting, “Killer are you ready to mount up?”
“Coming up behind you!” replied the testy voice of Killer. “They’re hot on our tail!”
Looking in his rear view mirror, Slade saw Killer hustle his men to the Bronco. As they closed Slade shoved the throttles up, moving the twin turboprop ahead at a brisk walk. Dust spiraled out from behind the OV-10, providing effective cover, but the first tracers were coming out of the growing cloud.
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 8
