by C J Klinger
“The goal is to save the people, but also to free the area of IS fighters. Karemlesh is of little strategic interest to the Islamic State, so we don’t expect them to put up a lot of resistance trying to hang on to it.” He looked around the room and asked, “Any questions?”
As usual, Randy was the first to speak up. By now it was well known that the Mecrats had formed a “Unit mind” as they called it and Randy was most often their spokesperson. “Special Forces we know and trust, but who are these Dizha Tiror you spoke of?”
Greg smiled in memory of his last encounter with the Kurdish equivalent of the American Special Forces. “They are Kurdish Special Forces. They focus on anti-terrorist activities.”
“Do they know their shit?” Randy asked slipping into military jargon for, “Do they know how to fight?”
Greg didn’t hesitate. “I’ve worked with them. The Kurds have been fighting for their independence for over a thousand years against far greater forces. Believe me when I say they have learned how to fight, especially in close quarters.”
The Mecrats continued to stare at the tactical map. One of them would point to a detail and the group would study it. When they had a question, Randy would ask it. Finally he said, “As we understand it, while the Pasmerga forces are attaching from the east and their Dizha Tiror group will be attacking the center of the town from the south to free the hostages, we and the Special Forces will attack the town from the west side, which is the direction from Mosul where they will least expect it. Is that correct?”
Greg nodded his head in agreement.
Randy said, presumably for all of the Rats, “I love a surprise party.” All the Mecrats slapped their chest in unison.
Greg joined in the general laughter. After it died down, he said, “There’s one more thing we have to do. We have intelligence that says your claim to be the Islamic angels of death on your last raid has had a tremendous impact on many of the less educated soldiers among the Islamic military. Many of them have begun to question the validity of the IS claim that their actions were blessed by Allah. We want to perpetuate that impression.”
He motioned for one of his staff to bring a small container forward. The sergeant put the container on the Mecrats’ improvised Ping-pong table and stepped back. Greg took a small devise out of his pocket and said, “All angels have wings and the angel of death should have black wings.” He pressed the small red button and in a whoosh of air, a pair of huge black, gossamer wings shot up above the table.
After the hubbub died down, Greg explained, “The wings are made of a light-weight, memory material that will hold this shape as long as they are subjected to a light tickle charge. As soon as you turn off the charge, they will retract.”
Marty Welkins, 7RAT rarely spoke, preferring to let Randy talk for him, but this time he held up his huge hand,
Greg was surprised, but pleased, “Yes, Marty, you have a question.”
“I have to confess, Sir, I have been expecting a pair of wings, but not black ones.”
It was a full minute before Greg could bring the group back to order. “That was a good one, Marty, but did you have a question?”
“Yes Sir, when do we use them?”
Greg had been thinking about this. “At your discretion, but I would suggest it would have the most telling effect when you are attacking or chasing the remnants of the IS force back toward Mosul.”
Randy picked up on that quickly, “You want survivors?”
“Somebody has to spread the message,” Greg said with a wicked smile.
Chapter 27
Abdullah took one last ride around Karemlesh. His forces were in place and the group commanders were prepared for the upcoming battle. Several of his commanders had wanted to place the majority of their forces on the east side on the highway leading to Erbil, but Abdullah had dictated that most of the forces should wait on the west side of the town.
“It is better to draw them in among the buildings. If the American air force shows up, they will be reluctant to bomb the town with eight hundred civilians being held in the middle of it.”
Abu Hadid had to admit it made sense. He and his men were willing to fight anything or anybody to secure an Islamic State, but the American drones and fighter jets were almost impossible to defend against without sophisticated air defense missiles. In the streets and alleys his fighters were more than a match for the Kurds. The Peshmerga would be unable to bring the Russian tanks they had liberated from the Iraqi army into the city because of the narrow streets. Close quarter fighting suited Abu just fine. When the fighting got intense and the Peshmerga forces were well inside the town, Abdullah had said he would release his fighters waiting on the west side to enter from the west, north and south to trap the Kurds in a pincer movement. After they were defeated, any captured Kurds would be executed along with the eight hundred prisoners already being held. “Victory will be ours,” Abu thought, and as he had said repeatedly throughout his life, he added, “Inshallah,” if Allah wills it.
Chapter 28
Cathy watched the C5A lift off from the Groom lake airstrip. The lumbering giant gracefully reached for altitude, the whine of its big engines broadcasting the effort being expended to gain the sky. She stood watching it until it disappeared from sight. Eleven of the people she cared about most in the world were on that plane heading into great danger. She wanted very much to be able to cry.
She thought, “Oh Lord, I’ve become the company whore watching all my lovers go off to battle.”
The thought brought a visual and lifted her spirits. Greg had been tender and sweet last night, and the Mecrats had been equally solicitous of her feelings this morning. As usual, Randy spoke for all of them, but Cathy knew he spoke for himself as well.
“Don’t worry about us, Doctor W. We’ll be fine. You made us pretty tough and there are eleven of us. We take care of each other.”
It was his way of telling her the Mecrats were going to do their best to protect her lover, Major Donavan. She was vastly relieved the Mecrats had more than just accepted Greg as their commander. They had also adopted him into their tight knit community. They had also solved the problem of Greg keeping up with the Mecrats. Working with the base engineers, Greg had a half round pulpit stand attached to Randy’s lower back. A steel ring at his waist height gave him the ability to lean in any direction and provide support fire to Randy’s back and sides. Randy would not be unable to wear his equipment back pack when he was carrying Greg, but the weight trade-off would improve his performance. They gave Greg the nickname “Preacher” because when he stood up in Randy’s pulpit and waved his automatic rifle he looked like a hellfire and brimstone preacher telling his flock they were all sinners and were going to hell, which in the Mecrats’ opinion was where they were headed.
The green light came on indicating the C5A had reached cruising altitude. On this flight the Mecrats’ were seated in specially constructed seats with toggle clamps to hold them in place. No crates were on board since there was not going to be any effort to conceal their existence from the Kurds. Too many of their fighting men would witness them in action to be able to keep their existence a secret. They were under the same restrictions as the flight to Israel about not moving about. The last thing the flight crew wanted was a bunch of nine hundred pound soldiers moving about in their cargo hold. Their special seats served as their snack rack and power down station.
It would be a long flight and Greg knew the tensions would grow as the time passed. He asked the Mecrats to pick out some movies to watch and they selected Avatar and its sequel. It made sense. The Mecrats were an avatar of their former selves.
Five hours into the flight a crewmember climbed down from the flight deck and handed Greg several pages. They were high quality satellite photos. The air force captain leaned close and said, “These just came in for you along with instructions for you to call your mission commander.” He nodded his head upstairs and said, “We have a secure satellite link on the commo deck.”
Greg followed the captain up the ladder and took a seat at the commo table. A small light let him get a good look at the photos. He saw at once the reason why his mission commander wanted to talk to him. A considerable force of IS fighters along with several, machine gun mounted pickups were dug in on the west side of the town instead of the east side as anticipated. Greg understood what the IS commander was planning; a little surprise for the Peshmerga troops expected to counterattack from Erbil. The lightly defended east side would fall back and draw the naturally aggressive Peshmerga forces into the town, then the IS forces on the west side would come charging in, or if their commander was smart, complete an enveloping movement. Greg would have bet on the latter; the man was no dummy based on the evidence in the photo.
A passage from the Art of War came to Greg when he thought about how to handle the situation. Attack the enemy where they least expected it. The last place the IS forces would expect an attack would be from Mosul, which they controlled completely. Greg decided that was exactly what they would do; attack them from the rear along the road from Mosul. He picked up the secure phone and called his immediate commander, Lt. Col. Brian Palamarchek of the Special Forces command group.
Fifteen minutes later Greg climbed down the ladder and sat next to Randy. He put a commo head band on and pointed at Randy. The message was clear, the boss wanted to talk to them privately. Greg made a circular motion with his hand to the other Mecrats indicating they were all to tune in. Wordlessly, he held up one of the photos and pointed to the IS troop concentration. Then, using a combination of words and empathetic images he explained what he wanted to do. For ten minutes the Mecrats and their commander worked on the details of the attack, Greg could feel the Mecrats’ intense sense of approval for the clever plan. Even though he didn’t need their approval, it felt special to have it. When he was satisfied that everyone knew their part, he climbed up the ladder to the commo deck. It was time to coordinate their plan with the American and Kurdish Special Forces. An hour later he was confident that all the team members were on the same page. Satisfied, he went back to the lower deck and watched the rest of the movie with his men.
Chapter 29
The international airport at Erbil may have once been capable of handling international flights. It had also been an Iraqi air force base during the Saddam Hussein era, but today it was a long, poorly maintained airstrip and nothing more. The terminal buildings, the hangers and maintenance buildings were all gone, victims of several wars and civil strife. The C5A was built for such conditions and it landed with relative ease and stopped in front of the area where the main terminal building had once stood, now just an aging concrete slab. A dozen Black Hawk helicopters were neatly parked where MIG jets had once sat. They had flown up the night before from Bagdad with two units from the 5th Special Forces Group.
Greg was the first one down the ramp and he greeted the Special Forces Commander warmly. “It’s good to see you, Bill. How the hell are you?” The two of them had gone through Special Forces training together and served on several missions. The bond between them was born of sharing life and death situations. It would have been hard for either of them to explain to outsiders.
Captain Bill Mallow stood back and looked at his friend. “Wow, you made Major, I’m jealous. You’re looking great, Greg, but I really can’t wait to see these soldiers of yours you were trying to describe to me. Armored infantry?”
The C5A ramp began to echo a thumping sound as a line of Mecrats came marching out of the cavernous hold. All conversation stopped as the Special Forces troops stared at the nine foot tall, robotic looking fighting machines. With Randy in the lead they marched down the ramp and lined in precise order. In perfect coordination they rotated on their heels and slapped their massive right palm against their left chest creating a clap of thunder that echoed across the empty field.
Randy’s voice was deep and rumbling as he said, “1st Mecrats Battalion reporting for action, Sir.”
Amid the sounds of shock and disbelieve from the Special Forces soldiers, Greg saluted the Mecrats and said, “Very good, Master Sargent Rucker. Please feel free to mingle with your new comrades.”
Randy was the first to make a move toward the stunned Special Forces personnel. A group of them involuntarily backed up as he approached. He squatted to reduce his height. In his rumbling voice he said, “My name is Sargent Randy Rucker, I served with the 125th Infantry in Afghanistan. Five years ago I stepped on an IED. I was so severely injured that I eventually died from my wounds, or at least most of me died. A group of scientist saved my brain and put it inside this Mecrat system. In spite of what you see, I am still an American soldier ready to serve my country. If you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask them.”
That opened a flood gate and the Special Forces men gathered in groups around the Mecrats and peppered them with questions. It didn’t take long for the questions to begin focusing on what they were capable of doing militarily. They were all soldiers and knowing what your fellow soldiers could do or not do was often the difference between life and death.
A cloud of dust in the distance announced the imminent arrival of the Kurdish anti-terror unit, the Dizha Tiror. With minutes, five personnel carriers pulled up and soldiers with red berets began piling out. Greg walked toward the lead vehicle and saluted the commanding officer who had exited from the passenger side.
“Colonel Barzani, I presume.”
The Kurdish colonel returned Greg’s salute and extended his hand. “And you must be Major Donavan. My men still speak of your action with them last year. They look up to you.”
“Thank you, Sir. They’re a fine bunch of soldiers,” Greg said. He saw the colonial’s eyes widen in shock and knew the Mecrats had just stood up from among the cluster of Special Forces soldiers they had been talking to.
“Allah Almighty, what are those?” the colonial said losing his calm demeanor.
Greg smiled with intense satisfaction. If their friends reacted this way, he couldn’t imagine how the enemy was going to react, especially when the apparitions wore black wings and were shooting at them. “Those are American soldiers, Sir under my command.”
“But how?” The colonel left the sentence unfinished.
Instead of going into a lengthy explanation, which he didn’t intend to do, Greg said, “Let me introduce you.”
Speechless, the colonel and then his men followed Greg toward the cluster of Mecrats. He called out, “Men, these are our comrades in arms, the Dizha Tiror, the Kurdish equivalent of the American Special Forces. I’m sure they have questions. Please feel free to share who you are and what your military specialty is.”
Curiosity made the men close the gap and soon they were exchanging names and ranks. A remarkable number of the Kurds spoke English, which made the conversations much easier. Greg had instructed his men to say only that they were armored American soldiers and not go into any details of who, what and how they were housed in their giant Mecrats configuration. There were too many unknown enemies in this part of the world to share that much sensitive information.
Sargent Angela Gonzales, 3RAT endeared herself to the Kurds by asking their colonial, “Are you related to Mustafa or Masoud Barzani?”
The colonial beamed with justifiable pride, “My grandfather and great grandfather,” he said. “Mustafa, my great grandfather was the founder of the Peshmerga, our military arm. How did you know that?”
3Rat said, “I was a history major in college.”
It was the right note to close the gap between the two groups. Soldiers are soldiers the world over. Even enemy soldiers have common likes and dislikes. The Kurds and the American were doubly drawn together because of a common enemy, the Islamic State.
Greg, Captain Bill Mallow and Colonel Barzani left the men to get acquainted and walked over to the C5A where Greg had a detailed satellite photo map of the area showing the placement of the IS troops and equipment as of yesterday afternoon. The colonial tried not to be im
pressed when he walked up the ramp of the largest plane in the American fleet, but it was obvious he was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the technology available to the American military. Greg sympathized with him. He knew from his previous trips to the Kurdish territory that the Peshmerga was equipped almost completely with arms they had captured from the Islamic terrorists and abandoned weapon from the retreating Iraqi army, which even including some twenty-year old Russian equipment. The Americans had given them enough small weapons to defend themselves, but no one wanted to sell the Kurds larger, more aggressive weapons for fear of upsetting Turkey, their northern neighbor. The Turks had an ongoing struggle with a large contingent of Kurds living in eastern Turkey who were trying to establish a separate nation similar to the one in Iraq. The Turks feared an armed, Independent Kurdish army more then they feared the Islamic State.
The officer in charge of the Black Hawk squadron, Captain James Broden, a tall African American graduate of West Point joined them to go over the details of the next day’s operation. By previous agreement, Greg would be the overall commander of the operation even though he was junior to Colonial Barzani. Greg went over the battle plan and listened to comments.
Colonial Barzani expressed what the other officers were thinking. “You’re right about two things, Major, they won’t be expecting you from the direction of Mosul and they for sure won’t be expecting something like your Mecrats.”