Hussein Osmanović was in a good mood as his men convoyed into the parking lot of the shuttered barracks building that served as DSF headquarters for this operation. His men had been able to complete their portion of the mission ahead of schedule. As expected, their casualties were minimal. Three of the homes had illegally kept weapons and were able to kill two and wound one of his agents. However, Osmanović felt the mission had given his men valuable practical experience, in addition to driving home the importance of DSF’s mission.
“This is why we cannot allow civilians to have weapons,” Osmanović told his men before reporting back to headquarters. “If we have to kill them all, who will be left to serve us?”
While all had laughed, his point was taken. The conquered were needed to serve as a new underclass.
His own mission had been such a success, Osmanović had trouble wrapping his mind around the atmosphere at headquarters. Many men were wounded; others sulked and grumbled. He saw Rahman talking with some of the NCOs. His brother had an uncharacteristically disheartened look on his face.
“It appears to have been a trap for us,” Rahman clued him in, having read the look on Osmanović’s face. “Come on, Colonel Raed wanted to talk to you as soon as you arrived.” They silently walked into the room Raed was using as an office. There the officers sat smoking, looking more dispirited than the men.
“Huso, did you see any indications that your team was expected?” The legendary jihadist sat slumped over, staring at him through the cigarette smoke. Osmanović had never seen Raed look less confident.
“None at all,” Osmanović answered with an incredulous tone.
“If it wasn’t a trap, why did they have rifles? Sir, were you not told they were disarmed?” Hassan hastily rebutted.
“We were definitely shot at,” Nasar confirmed.
“We, too, encountered a few who were armed, but some of that should be expected in this country. Our casualties were minimal. After all, we are supposed to be trained to disarm people.” Osmanović’s voice didn’t disguise his feeling that Nasar and Hassan were making excuses for a botched mission.
“Look at our men!” Hassan shouted. “Our casualties were not minimal. Talk to our men! You weren’t there!”
“These were Marines, not the women and children you were out killing in isolated households.” Nasar sneered at Osmanović with contempt.
“If this was a trap,” Osmanović aggressively countered, “why did they allow my team to easily kill their officers and their families? No one was prepared for us. Our mission was more of a live-fire training exercise. Hell, we actually found ourselves having a good time.”
“Fuck you!” Hassan indignantly screamed. “Our brothers are dead. Is that a good time to you?”
“Huso,” Rahman interceded with a calming voice, “they had more than a few weapons. Intentionally or not, we were misinformed.”
“The question is, were they expecting us?” Raed finally spoke up.
“Sir, I tell you, I saw armed Marines outside the barracks, dug in. What else would they be doing if they were not waiting for us?” Hassan stubbornly defended himself.
“But their response, in force, was, as you’ve described, delayed. Why not respond in force immediately? And Huso raises an excellent point. I believe if they had wanted to set a trap, they could have set a better one than this,” Raed responded, but he had no idea if their mission had been a trap or not.
Is Mythers cleaning house? Raed sucked hard on his cigarette, as if he could inhale the solution to his dilemma. Perhaps he now sees the DSF as a liability to him? Am I a liability? Is Osmanović a liability to me?
“We will not abort the mission,” Raed commanded. If they succeed, I can at least claim the deaths of the Marines. If the mission is a trap, another assault will buy me time to think. “Mohid.”
“Sir?” Nasar stood straighter, ready to accept his fate.
“Organize what is left of your team. Collect the wounded who are able to walk, and start loading them onto the trucks. Go back to San Onofre. Gather up medical supplies and what is left of our weapons and ammunition. Then wait for further orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Huso, assemble the rest of the able-bodied men. You will lead the next assault on the Marines. Your orders are to kill them all. There must be no survivors. When you’ve accomplished your mission, report back here. Any questions?”
“No, sir,” all three FedAPS officers responded.
“You have your orders, then.” Raed snubbed out his cigarette.
“Yes, sir.” They all popped to attention, then left to carry them out.
Even if I’m out with FedAPS, Raed thought, reaching for another cigarette, I can gain creditability with the AJR. Either way, this can work to my advantage. Their lives will not be wasted.
“With all due respect, sir, I disagree. Our ammo supply is limited, and we have no idea when FedAPS will reinforce us. Or if they even will. Sir, I hate the idea of waiting for help to come to us. Let’s go out and get it ourselves. Or at least send a platoon out to Las Pulgas or San Mateo.” West looked Carver in the eye, hoping his superior officer would see his earnestness.
“No, Staff Sergeant. Look, I understand what you’re saying. I don’t like the idea of waiting around for help either. But I also don’t want to lead what’s left of our battalion around Camp Pendleton while FedAPS is trying to nail down a rogue force. We don’t want to get shot up even more by friendly fire. Besides, there’s no way we’re going to get our wounded up into those hills.”
“Yes, sir.” West understood the lieutenant’s point, but it didn’t feel right to him. “How about at least sending some Marines into the woods along the hillside to protect our flank. In case we get hit again?”
Carver turned and stared at the dark hillside, giving the staff sergeant’s suggestion some serious thought. It’s not a bad idea. But the war’s over. This is crime, not battle, Carver told himself as he now stared at the floor. It’s FedAPS responsibility. Let them handle it. Most of these men will be out of the Marine Corps next month. Do you want to take chances with their lives?
“No.” Carver shook his head in conclusion. “I don’t want to lose any more Marines. Not at this point in the game. There’s FedAPS all over Camp Pendleton. It won’t take them long to get here, and I want us where we can be easily found and identified. We will stay right here and hold the barracks.”
“Sir, I still can’t get FedAPS command on the radio. I’m getting absolutely no response,” Lance Corporal Aaron called out from what was now the battalion’s radio room.
“You sure you got the right channel?” Carver shouted back, irritated that he was already second-guessing himself.
“Yes, sir.”
“A runner,” Carver said aloud, more for the sake of convincing himself to stick with his own plan. “Staff Sergeant West, get the fastest Marine you can find, and send him to San Onofre to get help.”
“Sir, DSF is all over that area. It may not be friendly.” West still hated the idea.
“If he can’t find friendlies there, then go on to the San Onofre gate. The FedAPS guards aren’t part of DSF.”
“Sir…” West tried once more to persuade the commanding officer.
“That’s an order, Staff Sergeant.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Huso, it’s a trap,” Hassan whispered.
He looks afraid, Osmanović thought. He smiled, trying to calm his comrade. “We’re going to set our own trap, Abid. Trust me.” Osmanović involuntarily glanced away from Hassan as he noticed Raed, Yosuf, and Azzam exit with weapons and ammunition and load them into his command car. Hassan turned to look.
“See! We’re doomed!” Hassan’s voice was panicked and loud enough to catch the attention of others preparing for the assault.
“You bet your ass the Marines are doomed.” Osmanović’s voice boomed with bravado. “Tonight, Allah will strike them with fear, and we will strike off their heads.” Huso paraphra
sed Raed’s earlier quote of the Quran to motivate the men. “They are the infidel! They have denied the will of Allah long enough, and now we will have our justice! Come over here, brother. I will show you how.” Osmanović slapped Hassan on the shoulder. “Squad leaders, follow me.”
He led Hassan and Nasar back into Raed’s makeshift office. They gathered around the room’s only desk as Osmanović drew up a new battle plan.
“Abid, you will command a frontal assault on the barracks.”
Hassan’s eyes widened in fear, just as Osmanović expected.
“Don’t worry, this is only a diversion,” he tried to ease the officer’s mind. “Use the shuttered buildings as cover. Occasionally, advance a couple of fire teams. If they gain ground, great! Take advantage, but your main goal is to pour rifle fire into the barracks from the south. Keep their attention on your so-called attack.” Osmanović didn’t have much confidence in Hassan’s courage nor leadership. He hoped the opportunity to stay safely covered in the shuttered building while sending his men into fire, would bolster Hassan’s courage.
“Mohid”–while Osmanović thought the man lacked competence, he had more grit than Hassan–“you and I will lead our men along our left, through the wooded hills to attack the Marine flank. Your men will attack here from the southwest. I will lead my men farther north. Do not open fire until you get my order.”
“Do I wait for your order as well?” Osmanović was heartened to hear calmness in Hassan’s voice.
“No. As soon as you see Marines, shoot. The sooner the better. The more Marines you can draw to the south, the more effective our flanking attack will be.”
“What if they counterattack me?” Hassan asked with a little more fear in his voice.
“Take cover in the buildings. The Marines will have to cross a hundred meters of open ground to reach you. If that happens, Hassan, you will slaughter them. You’ll be a hero.” Osmanović smiled. “If not, Nasar and I will hammer them on your left. Either way, they’re toast. Brothers, we cannot fail,” he confidently proclaimed.
Osmanović knew perfectly well his plan could fail. He had already surmised the operation was a potential catastrophe. He knew that the moment he had arrived. He didn’t know if it was really a trap, but he knew their intelligence was bad. Obviously, the Marines were armed. Raed was clearing out, giving him command and potential blame. Osmanović had no intention of letting that happen. If his plan was a success, Raed would owe him. If his plan was a failure, Osmanović figured it was an ideal position from which to disappear into the woods and deal with Raed later.
“Hey! It’s fucking me,” Irving said as he approached Boucher and Voigt’s post northwest of the barracks.
“No shit,” Boucher replied, having recognized Irving’s silhouette in the darkness. “You’d be dead by now if you weren’t.”
“So what the hell’s been going on?” Voigt asked. They had not been engaged in the combat. They had only been able to pick up some bits of information over the radio.
“Rogue DSF. All of them.”
“It’s those AJR fucks, ain’t it?” Boucher seethed.
“Yeah.” Irving felt a shiver go down his spine as he answered. Over the years of war, he’d seen Boucher fight and kill. Although they were on the same side, the man’s rage intimidated Irving.
“My dad told me it’d be a big fucking mistake letting the jihadists into FedAPS. Figures we’re the ones paying for it,” Boucher growled.
“So what are you doing?” Voigt asked Irving.
“LT is sending me out as a runner to get help.”
“Fuck,” Boucher started to complain. “That means we’re going to just fucking sit here.”
“Are you armed?” Voigt asked, concerned Irving had no battle gear on.
“Yeah, pistol, Ka-Bar, and one canteen. I want to stay light and move fast. I’m supposed to go to old SOI up the road.”
“What?” Boucher, incensed, interrupted. “Fucking jihadis all over the place there!”
“Yeah. I’ll probably have to go down to San Onofre Gate,” Irving agreed.
“That’s over six miles. It’ll be fucking sunup before you’re back.”
“Sunrise is in two hours. I’ll make it to the gate in less than half that time,” Irving bragged to Boucher.
“Get going, devil dog. If anybody can do it, you can,” Voigt encouraged him.
“You bastards can buy me a beer when this is all over,” Irving said, smiling. Before they could respond, he took off into the dark and disappeared in the wooded hills.
“You know, we should follow him. It’s fucking stupid sitting clear the fuck out here.”
“You want to abandon our post?” Voigt asked in disbelief. It was the last thing he expected to hear from Boucher.
“No.” Boucher turned and looked angrily at Voigt. “Fuck no! We should head up into the woods. Hell, McGregor had us digging all those fucking fighting holes up in there. We can find one, or fucking make one if we got to. We can watch this end of the barracks from up there.”
“Why not just stay here, then, like we were ordered?”
“’Cause if I were a fucking sneaky jihadist bastard, I’d try to flank our ass through those goddamn woods.” Boucher scanned the woods through his thermal scope.
“What if the LT or staff sergeant comes out to check on us?” Voigt questioned.
“They can get us on the fucking radio. Listen.” Boucher’s tone was angry, but his voice was rational. “I’m fucking tired of being told how we should fight by somebody else when it’s our asses on the line. I’ll fucking fight to the death, killing any motherfucker who attacks our home, but it’s time we do it in a way that’s smart for us. Come on.” Boucher climbed out of the fighting hole and crept into the woods. Voigt followed him.
Staff Sergeant West scanned the old admin building, looking for any bright specks of body heat through the thermal scope. The lieutenant’s decision to fortify the barracks compound and wait for help bothered him.
“If I were them, sir,” West had advised Lieutenant Carver, “I’d hit our right flank, through the woods west of the barracks. But first, I’d attack from the south as a diversion.”
To his relief, Lieutenant Carver agreed with him on that. They prepared a defense for that scenario. Now they waited to see if they were right, and if FedAPS would get there in time to help.
If they’re going to attack, it’ll be soon. Sunrise is in just over an hour. It’s what I’d do if I were them, West thought, lowering the thermal scope and rubbing his eyes. It’s been nearly forty minutes. Irving will be at the gate soon, if not already. Irving had radioed back when he reached Area 52, the old School of Infantry. The only non-DSF FedAPS agents he found were dead.
There’s no way this attack was an accident, West told himself. But what could they be up to? What’s their endgame? What if DSF has backed out, and they try to claim the whole thing was an accident? The idea intrigued West, but he redirected his focus on scanning the admin buildings south of the barracks.
“There you are, you bastard,” West mumbled to himself, spotting DSF agents advancing from the south. He felt the satisfaction of knowing they were prepared for this. Now it was only a matter of seconds, more or less. The Marines had orders to shoot anything moving from the south on sight.
“If they’re going to attack again, it’ll be soon. Sunrise is in an hour or so,” Rodriguez said as a matter of fact to Morgan.
“Can’t wait for sunup. I’m dying for a smoke,” Morgan cracked. It was enough to make Rodriguez quietly laugh. Both Marines felt better about the turn of events over the last couple of hours. They were restocked with ammo and water. A hasty defensive perimeter had been formed, and the whole battalion was awake and “on duty” with them. The sound of rounds popping ended the relaxed moment.
“You see anything?” Morgan shouted to Rodriguez as they peered through their thermal scopes.
“Not yet,” Rodriguez answered too quickly, for he’d begun firing before h
e’d finished the sentence.
“That’s my boy,” Osmanović mumbled to himself and smiled. It’d been just over ten minutes since he’d left Nasar’s position. He was starting to feel concern for the lack of action. Now the sound of gunfire from the south put his concerns to rest. “It’s started, men,” Osmanović encouraged his troops. “Don’t slack off now. Soon the Marines will be rotting in hell. Sergeant Khalil?”
“Sir?” the sergeant eagerly replied.
“Keep leading the men north until you get to the end of the compound. I’ll give you the order to fire, either in person or by radio.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Khalil’s distrust for his commander did not resonate in his voice.
Now, time for me to hold back and see how things play out. Osmanović smiled, feeling proud of himself.
Hassan felt a huge wave of relief when they reached the shuttered buildings south of the barracks. Though only a half mile from their launching point, it was a tortuous journey for him. He was paranoid of Marines attacking from every bush and shadow along the way.
His men had nearly taken position when the Marines had begun to open fire. Far from disheartened, Hassan was encouraged that the Marines were where Osmanović said they would be.
Yes! It’s working! Huso’s plan is working! Hassan grinned. “Fire, men, fire! The infidel is ours!” For the first time since joining the American Jihadist Regiment, he felt like a true commander.
Winded, Irving forced himself to control his breathing, taking slow and deep breaths.
“Hotel One One, this is Echo Three India. I am making contact with San Onofre Gate. Copy? Over,” Irving whispered into his mic.
“Roger, India. Copy: making contact with San Onofre Gate. Over.”
“Roger that. Over and out.” Resisting a strong urge to observe them longer, Irving stepped out of the brush.
“I’m Lance Corporal Jordan J. Irving, Alpha Company, 1/1. Our barracks is under attack. Notify FedAPS Command that we need help immediately.” He recited what Lieutenant Carver had told him to say in a loud and bold voice.
The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel) Page 29
