Mecrats

by C J Klinger

  Caught, he had no choice but to admit the truth, “There’s a possibility that could be true.”

  Cathy smiled broadly into the telephone, “I like that and yes, I’ll be careful.”

  It was a Friday night and the Officer’s Club was full of people who were permanently assigned to the base, or those who planned to be there over the weekend. Greg pushed his way through the crowd looking for Cathy and her crew from the lab. He saw her and also saw the same Air Force captain who had interrupted their dinner plans the last time they were here. His irritation must have shown on his face because when Cathy saw him approaching, she made a cautionary motion to him to keep his cool.

  Captain Carl DeWitt saw Cathy’s hand motion and surmised her boyfriend, the army major was approaching. He turned to meet his former adversary and said, “Major Donavan, I wish to apologize for my earlier actions. Too much flying and I had too much alcohol while winding down.”

  Greg was left with little choice to accept the man’s out stretched hand. “Not a problem, Captain. I’ve been there and done that. Not the flying, but definitely the alcohol part.” He could see the tension go out of Cathy’s face. She made room for him to sit next to her. He gave her a quick kiss and she squeezed his leg under the table. Captain DeWitt sat down next to one of Cathy’s lab assistants who was obviously not immune to the test pilot’s Mach-two charm.

  “Long day?” Cathy asked and then saw the little worry lines around his eyes. She knew immediately what that meant. “You’re going on another mission, aren’t you?” she asked fear creeping into her voice.

  In a low voice he said, “Not here, Baby, not now, please. Let’s just have a good time.”

  But a good time was out of the question. She did manage to relax, but not knowing what Greg was going to be doing was a constant damper. Greg seemed to finally relax and that helped her departmentalize her fear, at least for the time being. She even danced with Carl DeWitt, who held her a little tighter and closer than he probably should have. Cathy found she was slightly aroused by his closeness and wondered where her libido had been all these years. She agreed to have lunch with him again and felt guilty for not telling Greg about it. At ten PM, the club began to empty out. Many of the people had to go to work on Saturday and only the diehards were left when Cathy and Greg made their excuses to leave. Captain DeWitt and the lab assistant had left half an hour earlier.

  The ride to Cathy’s apartment, which had become their de facto living quarters, was conducted in silence, but once inside she quickly asked Greg, “Where are you going?” It was really a silly question. She knew where he and the Mecrats were going. The news of the kidnapping and planned executions of a group of monks and refugees was all over the news. The fact that the Islamic extremists had gone out of their territory and deliberately targeted a group of Christian Monks for execution was tantamount to a declaration of holy war between Muslims and Christians. The level headed in both religions had been desperately trying to make the event a regional, political act of violence and not a world-wide religious one, but tempers in the western nation were running high and even the apologists for the Islamic State were having a hard time putting an acceptable spin on the act.

  Greg shrugged his shoulders. He knew she already suspected where they would be going. “Where else? Another rescue mission.”

  The air went out of her, As much as she had been reassured by their recent session with the Mecrats on protecting themselves and Greg, the reality of another mission, a very dangerous mission, if she guessed correctly had taken her right back to where she had been when she first became involved with Greg; afraid of getting involved with a man in the military. She sat down on her living room sofa and put her face in her hands. Greg sat down beside her. She looked at him and said, “Perhaps you should be cutting off the head of the snake that’s causing all this instead of constantly rescuing his victims.”

  Greg looked at her strangely for a second and then said, “That’s exactly what we’re going to be doing.”

  Cathy sat up straight. “What? Aren’t you going to rescue the hostages?”

  “Maybe, but our primary goal is the Islamic leadership. POTUS is tired of their shit.”

  In spite of her fears, her curiosity got the better of her. Having spent a good amount of time with the Mecrats while they talked about military maneuvers, she had developed a feel for how they planned for a mission. “How are you going to do that?”

  Greg could sense the shift in her interest from concern to curiosity and decided the best solution for her fears was information. “Cathy, you can’t mention to anybody what I’m going to tell you.” He knew she was aware of what he was going to say would be considered confidential, but he had to say it anyway. Too much was at stake.

  They moved to the kitchen dinette and Greg took a piece of paper from her printer. He drew a crude circle with a wiggly line running from the top left quarter through the middle to the bottom right quarter. “Mosul,” he explained and then pointed at the wiggly line, “The Tigris River.” Due west of the middle of the center and slightly south, he drew a small circle and said, “The Al-Idara Al-Mahalia stadium where the executions are supposed to be held.” Between the River and the stadium he drew a circle. “The old town,” he explained.

  Cathy studied the crude map, trying to visualize the situation. “How will you be able to get to them, the hostages?”

  “Getting to them won’t be the problem. Getting them out is where we run into problems.”

  Her fear for Greg and the Mecrats safety rose until he said, “We’re not going to be the ones rescuing the hostages. That’s going to be a joint venture between us and the Special Forces with help from the Iraqi military.”

  Cathy put two-and-two together and said, “You’re going after the snake.”

  “Yes, if we can find them. The Pentagon is reasonably certain the whole purpose of kidnapping those monks and threatening to execute them was to draw the Mecrats into a trap. Apparently our little ruse about claiming to be the Angels of Death is really causing them a problem among their less educated soldiers. They need to be able to show them theses angels are nothing more than another American trick.”

  Cathy made another connection, “You believe the Islamic leadership will want to be there to witness the Mecrats destruction, don’t you?”

  “Yep,” he said, imitating 8Rat, Mary McKinsey’s brief endorsement.

  Cathy looked at the drawing, still trying to imagine what Mosul actually looked like. “How will you know where they will be?” Greg had been correct; information had been the best solution for her fear of the unknown. She had been a solution oriented person all her life and that had been best exemplified by solving the awesome problem of moving a human brain and nervous system from a dying soldier to a mechanical incubator. She looked up at Greg and asked, “Do you have a photograph of Mosul?”

  He hesitated for a second before saying, “You know I’m not supposed to be doing this, don’t you?”

  Cathy batted her eyes at him and said, “Why Major Gregory Donavan, I work as a senior scientist on the most secret project in the American Military. Don’t you think I’m cleared to see your itty-bitty, secret photos?”

  He laughed, “You don’t do southern belle very convincingly.”

  “That’s because I was too damn busy studying organic chemistry to take a course in southern drama.”

  Greg kissed her lightly and said, “Well it was good enough to convince me. Let’s go.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were in his office at the Mecrats hanger. The crew was out on an exercise, something they did seven days a week. Greg knew it had more to do with their mental health then it did with their military preparedness. He unlocked his file cabinet and pulled out a large photo. As soon as Cathy saw it, she could relate it to the crude, line drawing Greg had made in her apartment. Her eyes picked out the stadium and saw that it was completely surrounded by miles of city buildings. Short of a massive invasion, there seemed to be no way to ge
t in and out without having to run the gauntlet of thousands of ambush sites. This time her fear for Greg and the Mecrats didn’t overwhelm her. She had been presented with a problem and problems were meant to be solved.

  She looked at the stadium site and asked, “What’s this?”

  Greg bent over and looked at where she was pointing. “It’s a railroad line. The trains aren’t running in this part of Iraq anymore.”

  She followed the train track out of town and said, “Too bad, the hostages could have taken the train out of town.”

  Greg got a funny look on his face. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Cathy. Even though the trains are not running anymore, the tracks are an unobstructed path out of town.” He used his finger to follow the track from the stadium, southwest past the airport, which was also abandoned, to the desert scrub lands, no more than five miles distant. “Damn, that might work,” he said, more to himself than to Cathy.

  Cathy looked at the area around the stadium and couldn’t find a logical spot for the Islamic leadership to gather to watch the destruction of their hated enemy, the Mecrats. The seats were only ten rows high as near as she could tell and only on the two end zones and one side. Whoever wanted to watch what was happening in the middle of the field could do so from a number of nearby advantage points. Too close was not very wise and too far away would deprive them of the satisfaction of watching the Mecrats be destroyed. She asked, “Where do you think the Islamic militants will be watching from?”

  Greg said, “The Pentagon has identified three possible sites, but we’re going to need some local intelligence to make sure we pick the right building.”

  “Will you get it?” Cathy asked. It surprised her how quickly a conflict ten thousand miles away had become so personal to her. One day she was dreading the idea of being involved with a military man and the next day she was helping him plan how to kill a group of combatants she had never met.

  Greg straightened up from looking at the photo and said, “Well, the Kurds are plenty pissed about the Islamic terrorists sneaking into their territory and kidnapping a bunch of Christian monks that were under their protection. They’ll do everything they can to get us the information we need.”

  She asked him the sixty-four dollar question, “When are you going?” A knot began to form in her stomach.

  Greg could sense the change in tone in Cathy’s voice and decided to ignore it. She had surprised him with her unemotional analysis of the tactical situation evident from the Mosul photo. He was still uncertain on the best way to approach her about his job, the job of being the commanding officer of a bunch of mechanical/human machines destined for a constant life of combat. So far, full disclosure and information seemed to work best, which should not have been a surprise to him. She was after all, a preeminent scientist who thrived on facts and professional comrades who said what they were thinking. He needed to remember that.

  “A Colonel Hoffman from Mideast Special Forces Command is flying in tomorrow to coordinate our actions. He will be in overall command and as soon as he is satisfied, we will ship out.”

  Cathy looked at the wall clock and said, “Well, soldier, you have a couple of things to take care of before you leave.” She gave him a silly grin that did a poor job of covering up her rising fear.

  Greg wasn’t fooled, but agreed with her about taking care of business. “Shall we?” he said, extending his arm toward the door.

  “Let’s,” she answered and led the way.

  An hour later they fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, having successfully staved off the inevitable, at least for a little while.

  Chapter 48

  Habet ben Al-Jabouri stood on the top row of the Al-Adara Al Mahalia stadium to get a better vantage point. It was a low, concrete affair, reflecting the raw boned nature of the country around it; rough around the edges with few amenities. His quick survey satisfied him the trap his men had set was ready. He would have liked to have been able stay longer to savor the image of the upcoming destruction of the American mechanical monsters that had plagued the Islamic State in the past year, but at the urging of his ever-present lieutenant, he left the top steps to seek cover. It was a constant irritant to him to have to be perpetually cautious about standing out in the open for more than a few minutes at a time. Al-Jabouri had accepted the fact that he was probably destined to die in the battle to establish an Islamic State, but he much preferred to die fighting his enemies face to face instead of becoming a victim of some unseen drone flying high above him out of sight.

  “Send word to Abdullah that all is ready,” he told his lieutenant. His plan was as simple as he had said it would be; get the right bait, put it in the place of his choosing and set traps, lots of traps. The twist he had devised was disguising the trap. The piles of freshly turned dirt were just that, piles of freshly turned dirt. The real mines had been placed between the obvious sites and carefully disguised. He had drawn up the pattern with great care and had his team bury them in the middle of the night. The soccer arena was now become a killing field.

  Al-Jabouri had chosen the arena because it was located on the south side of Mosul, the site of the battle that eventually took the city away from the Shi’ite government in Bagdad. He had studied the reports of the battle at Karemlesh involving the American fighting machines and knew their attack had originally come from the Kurdish controlled territory just to the north of Mosul. They had been able to circle around the planned ambush and come in from behind the waiting Islamic fighters. That the Americans had come from the Kurdish controlled territory was not a surprise to him. Even though the Kurds had no love for the government in Bagdad, they fought the jihadists because they threatened to undermine their opportunity to have an independent country. The Kurds had been fighting for independence for centuries and where not about to let the jihadist inspired, Islamic State deprive them of that chance. To further their own interest, the Americans had been openly supplying the Kurds with small arms against the wishes of their longtime ally in the area, Turkey.

  Looking at all the evidence, Al-Jabouri felt reasonably certain the attack would again come from the Kurdish controlled territory. The question was, which route would they take to get to the stadium and attempt to rescue the hostages. The witnesses from the first attack by the American fighting machines had reported they had seen the monsters fly through the air like jet planes and land right on top of their target. Al-Jabouri concluded the witnesses were too unreliable to be believed. They must have arrived by helicopters. Flying helicopters over the middle of Mosul would be a risk few commanders would be willing to take, especially when all the Islamic fighters would be on high alert, waiting for the enemy as they retreated from any rescue effort.

  After talking to several of the area fighters and studying the maps, he decided the mostly likely route would be to come out of the Northwest and fly down the five hundred foot wide estuary created by the Tigris River all the way to the Abu Tamman bridge in the middle of Mosul and then turn south to follow the broad, four lane highway that led directly from the bridge to the stadium less than a mile from the river. It offered the least opportunity to be fired on from below. From his experience, Al-Jabouri knew the American helicopters were too fast to be hit from a distance when flying close to the ground. To cover his bet, he ordered ten of his truck mounted fifty caliber machine guns to be placed along the highway from the Abu-Tamman Bridge. As fast as the helicopters were, they couldn’t outrun a fifty caliber bullet from a well-placed gunner who knew they were coming.

  Satisfied, he turned his attention to the site where he, Abdullah and several of the area commanders could watch the utter destruction of the American fighting machines, or Mecrats as the world press called them. He had not yet witnessed the machines in action and had a hard time believing all the stories being told about them. He was certain of one thing; they would be destroyed here in Mosul and he would be the one responsible for their destruction.

  He and his lieutenant drove in a nondescript
car to a building located one hundred meters to the north of the arena. It was a drab, three stories, boxy structure constructed of cinder blocks with a corrugated iron roof. The bottom two floors were a car and truck parts dealership and the top floor was used as a warehouse. The third floor’s southwest corner had two windows; one offered an outstanding view of the arena and the other one overlooked the highway leading from the bridge. The one overlooking the stadium was close enough to see the action and far enough away to escape the effects of the explosions.

  Al-Jabouri nodded his head in satisfaction. In three days the hostages would be led into the arena by volunteers who expected to die along with the hostages when the mines were triggered by the American fighting machines. As soon as the Americans approached the arena, the volunteers’ last acts would be to start beheading the hostages to enrage the fighting machines into a rash attack. It would be their last attack.

  He said softly, “Inshallah,” If Allah wills it.

  Chapter 49

  Colonel Ivan Hoffman arrived on the morning shuttle with his aide and one of his unit commanders. Greg met them at the terminal and liked him immediately. They very fact he had used commercial aviation to get to las Vegas and the shuttle to Groom Lake instead of an executive MATS transport plane as his rank qualified him to do, told Greg the Colonel was an officer who had an inherent respect for men and material.

  The colonial was a compact man with little excess body fat. His handshake revealed what had to be a daily regimen at the gym. A completely bald head gave him a slightly sinister look, which was probably appropriate, considering he was a commander of some of the most lethal fighting troops in the world, the Special Forces of the United States Army. As a former captain in the Special Forces, Greg was well aware of the colonel’s reputation as an excellent tactician. He had never served directly under him, but looked forward to their first mission together.