Blowback

by Al Pessin

  “So, will you marry this fighter?” he asked.

  The tears exploded from her eyes. She bent forward and put her face in her hands.

  Faraz reached out with his left hand and touched her back. “Amira, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” He kept his hand where it was, surprised that she didn’t object, prolonging the first real human contact he’d had in months.

  “No,” she said between sobs. “I need to get this out. I need to be ready when I meet him, the day after tomorrow. We are to be married next week.”

  She looked up at Faraz, her eyes wet, tears streaking her cheeks. She stared at him for several seconds, seeming to contemplate whether she could trust him further. She sighed, surrendering, as if she had nothing more to lose. Although they were well out of earshot of anyone else, she lowered her voice. “Honestly . . . Oh, dear God . . . Honestly, I think this was all a huge mistake.” She burst into tears again. “I was living a comfortable life in London, having fun, clubbing. Then I decided that was all nonsense, which it was. But now . . .”

  Amira twisted toward Faraz and put her head on his shoulder, her left arm around his neck, her tears wetting his shirt.

  It took Faraz a second to think what to do. “Amira, it’s all right,” he said. He put his right hand on her shoulder, almost hugging her now, but dared not pull her in closer.

  She moved away a few inches, angry again, but apparently not from his touch. “It’s not all right. Don’t say it’s all right. It’s crap, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry.” Faraz kept his hand on her shoulder. “But maybe we can do something about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He was talking about escaping and rescuing Amira in the process. But he couldn’t say that. Faraz played for time. “At least we can support each other. Maybe the two of us can make something happen.”

  “Make what happen?” She wiped her cheeks and sniffed, trying to stop the sobs. She sat back, breaking his light hold on her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Faraz was scrambling to find the right thing to say. “Maybe this is a start.”

  “What’s a start? A start to what?”

  “This. Talking. Honesty. Maybe a shared desire to do something.”

  He thought he saw a glimmer of hope on her face, but it faded quickly. She smiled a sort of resigned smile. “If you want honesty, Karim, I honestly think you’re full of shit.”

  She let out a small giggle. It was the first time Faraz had heard her laugh. She dried her eyes with her sleeve. “You say do something. There’s nothing we can do.” After a short silence, she added, “But it sounds good.” Her smile widened.

  Faraz smiled back at her. “Maybe we can come up with a plan.”

  “What plan?”

  He had run out things to say, so he blurted it out. “An escape plan.”

  “You are truly bonkers.” She sniffed again, done with crying. “What do you think, we just walk down the road back to England? Or America?”

  “No. We’d need a vehicle and—”

  “Trying to get out, we would get ourselves killed. No, Karim, this is the life we chose, and we chose it for a reason. I’ll be all right. I need to get my head ’round it, that’s all.” She stood.

  Faraz hurried to stand, too. He reached out with his left hand and took her right. He looked into her eyes. “Listen, we have two days until you meet your fighter. Let’s at least think about it.”

  Amira broke his gaze, staring off into the darkening sky, but she didn’t pull away. After a few seconds, she looked down again. “I think false hope is worse than no hope. Let it go. This life is difficult, but it has meaning. I won’t go back to clubbing and kebabs in South London.”

  Faraz smiled. “I have no desire to go back to video games in Detroit, either.”

  He got to hear her giggle again. Then she stopped. “Maybe he won’t be so bad.”

  “Yeah,” Faraz lied. “A lot of them are okay.” He studied her face, framed by her hijab in the fading light. She was pretty when she didn’t look sad. Her jawline was soft and her cheeks a bit wide. Her medium-brown skin was perfect, and Faraz had always found dark eyes intriguing.

  He acted on instinct, desire, not calculation or mission requirements. He put two fingers of his right hand under Amira’s chin. He lifted her head so she faced him, fresh tears forming in her eyes. Faraz leaned in, and she raised her lips to meet his.

  The kiss was tender, innocent, too brief.

  Amira put a hand on his chest. “We shouldn’t.”

  “You’re right, we shouldn’t.” But he kissed her again. He leaned in farther, and they kissed more deeply. Her hand moved from his chest to the back of his neck.

  He eased them down onto the ground, and their bodies came together in a full embrace.

  Darkness fell. The guards changed.

  As quietly as they could, Faraz and Amira made love under the tree.

  * * *

  Faraz woke up first, freezing cold and half naked. He was instantly alert. If they’d been missed, there would be a search on. But he heard nothing. Praise Allah, the guards had forgotten them.

  He didn’t know the time, but it was late and very dark. Billions of stars twinkled in the desert sky.

  Amira’s blouse was open, and her skirt was rumpled around her thighs. He touched her shoulder. “Shhh.”

  Amira sat up, pulling the front of her blouse closed. She looked at him and giggled. “We have been very naughty. How long did we sleep?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s late. The guards will be closing the side gate. We need to hurry.”

  She pulled him in for a long kiss.

  “Amira,” he said, “this was . . . I can’t even begin . . . but we need to go, and we need a story for the guards.”

  “Right. Okay. We’ll tell them I twisted my ankle. I’ll lean on you, give them a smile. They’ll buy it.”

  “All right. I don’t have any better idea.” He stood, put on his shirt, closed his pants, and offered Amira a hand. She stood and straightened her hijab and her clothes.

  They kissed again—a deep, tender kiss—and they held each other in a long embrace. “Oh, Karim,” she said. “We shouldn’t fool ourselves.”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  Amira sighed and took half a step back. “No. You won’t. There’s nothing to figure out. This was . . . yeah, I can’t even begin, either. It was beautiful. And thank you. It gave me some clarity. Now we both have to do what we have to do.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Yes, you do. We both do. We’ll always have this moment, but this has to be good-bye.” She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him, as if searing the memory into her brain. “Now come on. We have to go.”

  Amira took Faraz’s hand and led him out of the trees.

  He didn’t argue, but inside he was screaming “no, this cannot be good-bye!”

  Faraz hadn’t made love to a woman in a long time, hadn’t felt this way about a woman in a long time, maybe ever. It couldn’t end this way. She couldn’t go off to marry another man. He would come up with something. That was his mission now.

  Amira went into the fake limp and put a hand on Faraz’s shoulder for support.

  Halfway to the side gate, they heard the first explosions.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Fire!” Nazim shouted at his men in a small grove of trees on the opposite side of the camp. Three teams dropped a second mortar round into their tubes, stepped back, and covered their ears.

  Moments later, the fusillade landed in al-Jazar’s camp.

  “And again!” Nazim ordered. “Strike team, stand by.”

  A third volley of mortars flew as five drivers gunned the engines of their SUVs, ready to speed twenty of al-Souri’s men to his opponent’s camp.

  Nazim moved toward the vehicles but stopped next to a fighter who was kneeling on the ground, a rocket-propelled grenade launc
her on his shoulder, its targeting sight pressed to his right eye.

  Nazim knelt next to the man and said, “Now.”

  The whoosh of the RPG sent the shooter teetering into Nazim, and they both nearly fell. As they steadied themselves, the camp’s front gate exploded.

  Nazim ran to the open door of the lead vehicle. “Go! Go! Go!”

  * * *

  The first mortar volley stopped Faraz and Amira in their tracks, and they both dove to the ground. After the second barrage, they started running toward the gate. They saw that the two new guards were pulling it closed.

  “Wait! Wait!” Faraz shouted. “We are with you.”

  The guards looked at them and raised their weapons.

  “No!” Amira said. “We are from the camp. It’s me, Amira.”

  One of the guards seemed to recognize her. He lowered his weapon.

  Faraz and Amira pushed past the guards. “Close the gate!” Faraz said, and he helped the men pull it shut and set the bolt and chain.

  The guard said, “Why were you—” He was interrupted by the third salvo from Nazim’s mortars.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Faraz said. “We must defend the camp.”

  The two fighters ran for their duty stations.

  Amira looked at Faraz. He could see she was scared. He wanted to comfort her, to say good night, but there was no time.

  “The women have duties,” she said. “I must go.” She stroked his cheek, then turned and ran along the perimeter path toward the women’s quarters.

  Faraz didn’t have a chance to say anything. He could only watch her go.

  Then he turned and followed the guards the other way, toward the main gate, just as it blew to pieces barely forty meters ahead of him.

  Faraz hit the ground, avoiding the shrapnel. He crawled off the main path, went behind a building, and emerged on the other side to see the attackers’ SUVs speeding toward the opening where the gate used to be.

  He ran behind another building toward the headquarters. He needed a weapon.

  Gunfire sprayed in all directions as soon as the vehicles came into the camp. Faraz crouched at the edge of a storage building, waiting for a break so he could cross a small gap to the headquarters. Al-Jazar’s fighters were starting to fire back. They had literally been caught sleeping, aside from the small guard contingent, several of whom had been killed by the mortars or the RPG.

  One of al-Jazar’s men ran out the back door of the headquarters building toward Faraz. As he crossed the gap, he was cut down by a hail of bullets. He fell, delivering his AK-47 at Faraz’s feet.

  Faraz took it, used the butt to break the lock on the back door of the storage building, and went inside for cover. The wooden structure didn’t provide protection from the attackers’ high-velocity ammunition, but at least he couldn’t be seen.

  It was dark inside. Faraz stumbled several times trying to get to the front of the building. He looked out a small window to see the devastation. Nazim’s men had dismounted their vehicles and continued to fire. When several of al-Jazar’s men mounted a counterattack from the rear of the camp, Nazim’s team tossed grenades and finished off the survivors with bursts from their AKs.

  Two groups of half a dozen men each fanned out to the right and left, shooting anything that moved and spraying tents and buildings at random. The main force stayed by the vehicles, with guns pointing in all directions.

  Another SUV arrived. Several men helped take out the grenade launcher and hefted it onto one man’s shoulder. He took aim at the headquarters and fired.

  The explosion destroyed most of the building, and a team of attackers stormed into the wreckage, guns on automatic.

  Faraz had to get out of there. He went back to the rear door of the storage building, checked the path, and moved to his right, toward the side gate. The attacking teams had passed this area, and he was able to slip from cover to cover. The chains he had helped secure a few minutes earlier were gone and the gate was open. Outside, he found Nic, Jamal, Ismail, and Latif.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “We don’t know what to do,” Nic said. “The camp is destroyed. Everyone is dead.”

  “The camp is not yet destroyed, and we are still alive,” Faraz said. “So are others trapped inside. We have to attack.”

  “With what?” Nic asked. The other men looked scared, more likely to run into the woods than to reenter the camp.

  “If you run, you’ll be killed as soon as the attackers see you, or you’ll die in the desert. Follow me. Take weapons from fallen fighters as we go.”

  Faraz turned and went in through the gate. Only Ismail followed. Faraz looked back at the others. “Now!” he shouted, raising his weapon. “Or I swear to God I’ll shoot you myself.” Nic and Jamal move slowly but came through the gate.

  Al-Jazar’s remaining men were fighting back now, and a battle raged near the kitchen. Faraz led the men in that direction. They took cover behind the building that housed the showers. There was a gap of several meters between their position and the next building.

  “Follow me,” Faraz said. “Stay low. Run fast. And keep firing.”

  Faraz stepped into the gap and opened up with his AK. Bent at the waist, he ran for the next bit of cover, then dove and rolled into a prone position behind the building. Nic, Ismail, and the teenager Latif ran with him, taking advantage of his cover fire.

  Faraz saw that Jamal, the Kenyan who panicked during the attack on the aid workers, had stayed behind. “Come on,” Faraz urged, “before they reload.”

  Jamal hesitated, frozen where he was.

  “Now, Jamal. Now!” Faraz ordered.

  Jamal ran, and a burst from an AK cut him down. Faraz fell to his knees, a few feet from Jamal but unable to help him.

  Nic moved next to Faraz. “We have to do something.”

  “No,” Faraz said, grabbing Nic’s arm. “He’s dead. If you go out there, you’re dead, too.”

  “But—” Nic’s argument was cut short by several more bullets hitting Jamal’s body. “Oh my God.” Nic’s mouth opened in shock. “We’re all dead.”

  “Stop that!” Faraz grabbed Nic’s shirt. “Stay strong. Don’t panic. We will get out of this. Now stay down.”

  Faraz peered around the edge of the building. He saw one of the attackers running away. He jumped back. “Take cover,” he shouted.

  A grenade exploded in the gap, tearing up Jamal’s body and sending shrapnel flying into the team’s hiding place. Several of them were wounded, including Nic, who took a piece of metal in his right thigh. Faraz had moved far enough away that he was okay.

  He looked around the building again and saw the man who seemed to be in command of the attacking force take cover with some others behind one of the vehicles. Faraz caught a glimpse of his face before he turned the other way and shouted something in Arabic. He and his fighters covered their ears.

  The RPG sailed over the attackers and hit the kitchen, killing or exposing most of al-Jazar’s remaining fighters. The leader shouted again, and another RPG hit the women’s barracks. Faraz gasped and got up to run toward the devastation.

  Nic grabbed him. “Where are you going?”

  “They hit the women’s barracks.”

  “They hit everything. You just told me not to go out there.”

  Faraz shook him off. He looked at his small team cowering behind the building. He moved to the far edge and looked through the next gap. The attackers were firing toward what remained of the kitchen and the women’s barracks. The leader rose from his crouch to move forward to another group of his fighters.

  Faraz took half a step into the gap and raised his weapon. He got a bead on the leader and fired. The man fell, grabbing his left side. Faraz ducked back behind the building, half a second ahead of a hail of bullets.

  Breathing heavily, Faraz moved back to his men. He was going to rally them for an assault when he heard shouting in Arabic. The attackers’ gunfire stopped. There was more shouting. Then he h
eard vehicles moving.

  Faraz took cover with his men as the attackers fired several more rounds, seemingly at random. He heard no return fire.

  Then there were shouts of “Allahu akbar,” and the attackers fired into the air. Their vehicles threw up dirt as they sped out of camp.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Faraz’s ears were still ringing from the gunfire, but the camp was mercifully silent.

  Then he heard the moans of the wounded and cries of “Allah!” and “No!” as the survivors tried to revive their fallen friends and realized they could not.

  Faraz leaned out from behind the building to survey the ruins. All of the buildings and tents were damaged, and many had been destroyed. The electric generator had been blown to bits, so all the lights were out. The camp was lit only by the fires in several buildings, including the storage shed where he had hidden.

  He went to the spot where the lead attacker had been standing when he was shot. There was a bloodstain on the ground. Faraz walked through the rubble, his AK at the ready. He saw a small tarp covering something.

  “Move back! Move back!” he shouted. He ran to his left, grabbing Nic as he went and diving to the ground. He twisted his body around and yelled again at several people who had ignored his warning. “Take cover! There’s a bomb!” He pointed to the tarp.

  People scattered. The attackers’ parting gift exploded and threw nails and metal shards in all directions. A wall of shrapnel hit Ismail in the back, and he went down hard. Something hit Faraz in the right shoulder, spinning him around and sending a burning pain through his arm.

  Faraz was angry at himself. He had pushed a little off the ground to issue his second warning, exposing his body to the shrapnel. He grunted from pain, got up slowly, and scanned the yard. He moved to Ismail. There were so many shrapnel holes in the back of his shirt and pants that Faraz couldn’t count them. Ismail was clearly dead.

  There was more shouting and moaning from the other side of the explosion. Faraz didn’t see any more bombs, but he had no way to check thoroughly.

  He ripped his right sleeve where the shrapnel had pierced it. He saw the head of a nail protruding from his arm. Army procedures said to leave it in until he got to a doctor, or at least a medic. Good luck. Faraz steadied himself, gripped the nail head with his left hand, and tugged on it.