Blowback

by Al Pessin

  “Bulldog.”

  Bridget smiled and tilted her head toward the cockpit. “See if this crate has afterburners, will ya, Bulldog?”

  She twisted her body to look out a small porthole. The crowded streets of Baghdad gave way to scattered villages and farms. They passed towns made famous by the war—Fallujah and Ramadi—heading for open desert.

  Bridget sat back in her seat and fought off the anxiety that came with going on any kind of war zone mission. Call it what it is—fear. But she knew a little fear was a good thing. It kept people from doing anything stupid. Mostly.

  * * *

  Al-Asad Airbase came into view, and the pilots banked left to approach. The chopper door opened before Bridget knew they had landed. It always amazed her that they could bring such a big beast down so gently.

  She followed Carter out and stood with him to watch his men unload the gear and carry it toward two waiting Black Hawks. They were smaller than the Chinook and sported an impressive array of guns and rocket launchers, along with auxiliary fuel tanks mounted on small wings near the top of the fuselage. They were spun up and ready to go.

  It took two trips for the team to move the equipment. As they were finishing, they stopped to turn away from the backwash of another arriving helicopter—a Marine Corps UH-1Y Venom.

  Once it landed, Carter and Bridget moved toward the Black Hawks. Before stepping on, Bridget turned to look at the Venom and grabbed Carter’s arm. “Holy shit,” she said.

  Will Jackson was limping toward them in full battle gear, plus one customized SEAL emblem cane.

  Bridget had to shout to be heard over the roar of the choppers. “Will, you can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I am,” Will yelled back, now standing right in front of her. “They asked for a SEAL unit, but we didn’t have one. The Spotlight guys were on call. When I heard you went along, well, I have enough juice to get these guys to give me a ride.”

  “No way.” Carter’s voice boomed over them both. “We are not taking an injured man on this mission.”

  “I think you are,” Will said. He pushed past them and boarded their helicopter.

  “Get off my chopper, Jackson. Don’t make me throw you off.”

  “It’s not your call, Holloway. This is Bridget’s mission.”

  Both men looked at her.

  “Goddamn it, Will!”

  “Look, I’ll stay on the chopper. Guard the rear. Handle comms. Whatever. I know I can’t run with these guys. But if you’re going, I’m not staying behind.”

  Carter objected. “Bridget, you cannot—”

  “Seems you were happy enough to have her come along,” Will jabbed.

  Carter moved toward him, apparently ready to throw him off the helicopter.

  Bridget raised a hand to stop him. “All right. No time to argue. Will and I will stay on the chopper. Let’s go.”

  Bridget grabbed a handhold and pulled herself on board. Carter stood there looking at her.

  “This isn’t a damn tourist flight!”

  Bridget hadn’t seen Carter angry before, and he did a good job of it. His eyes went wide, and his pale skin turned light red. He seemed to stand taller than his already impressive height. But she was not going to be intimidated.

  “Will and I are both qualified. I have a man in imminent danger and lifesaving intel on the line. Get your ass on this thing, and let’s go.”

  Carter fumed a few seconds longer, then came back down to normal size. “This is not supposed to happen,” he said. But he stepped onto the aircraft. He turned to the ground controller, raised his right hand, forefinger pointing upward, and twirled it around. “Let’s fly,” he said. And he sat down heavily in his seat.

  “This is not okay, Bridget. Anything goes wrong, it’s on you. And on you, Jackson.” Carter looked at Will, then at his cane. “Jesus.” He turned away.

  Bridget was wedged between Will and Carter, hips and legs unavoidably touching on the narrow, straight-backed seat of the Black Hawk. Its sliding doors had been removed to save weight and facilitate entry and exit.

  When they reached altitude, the temperature in the chopper fell to match the atmosphere. Bridget reached into her pack and gave Will the folder with the camp image and Faraz’s picture. “You might as well know what we’re doing,” she shouted.

  “This guy? I met this guy. He’s here, now?”

  “Yup.”

  Bridget looked at her watch. Too much time had passed since Faraz’s call. Damn. Why couldn’t these things go faster?

  It was a full excruciating hour before the pilot’s voice crackled in their headsets. “Two minutes.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Nazim’s sucker punch behind the gas station flattened Faraz. The kicks that followed reinjured his ribs. When the men pulled him to his feet, Nazim kicked him hard in the groin.

  They dragged him, doubled over, into their SUV and sped back to camp.

  In front of the headquarters building, they pulled him out of the vehicle and threw him to the ground. He curled up in a protective fetal position. He couldn’t stop shaking. Fear? Adrenaline? Certainly anger that he hadn’t gotten his message out, and crushing guilt about his failure to prevent the attacks that would now happen.

  Al-Souri towered over him. “Hamed. Oh, Hamed,” was all he said.

  “He was making a call, but he only spoke for a second or two,” Nazim reported. “Now he must die the death of a traitor.”

  Al-Souri sighed. “And he will. We shall make an example of him. Put him in the shed. At sunset, we will gather the men. We will summon others to join us, to see what happens to traitors.”

  “Please, Qomandan,” Faraz pleaded in Pashto. “I was only—”

  A kick to the ribs from Nazim silenced him.

  “You were only calling your American friends,” al-Souri said with remarkable calm. “You were only betraying Allah and His jihad.”

  “No, Qomandan.” Faraz struggled to speak. “Please, let me explain.”

  “You are very good at ‘explaining,’ Hamed. Very good at lying. And sadly, very good at fooling me.”

  “I proved myself to you many times, Qomandan. I saved Nazim’s life. I attacked the Americans.”

  Al-Souri spat at him. “You did not. We are not so naïve as you think. There was a large explosion, much chaos in their camp, but no casualties. Seems odd, does it not?”

  “Casualties? Many were killed and injured. You told me about the news reports.”

  “Lies. We checked their announcements. The Americans report all their casualties to the media, first the numbers, then later the names. That day, there were numbers, but no names ever came. There were no photos of the dead. No families cried before the television cameras. Do you think we are so stupid, Hamed? Do you think we do not follow these things? You betrayed me in Afghanistan. You betrayed me here. You will not betray me again.”

  Al-Souri kicked Faraz in the back, then turned to Nazim. “Summon as many men as you can, but they must get here quickly. We will show the infidels the price of opposing us.”

  * * *

  For the rest of the afternoon, Faraz lay in the same hot, reeking corner where Nazim had first imprisoned him, held by the same chains. This time, they gave him no food or water.

  He wiped the sweat from his face with his dirty hands. He cataloged his life. He had been a good son, until he had abandoned his parents for . . . for this, as it turned out. He had volunteered to defend his country. He had done his best.

  That would have to do.

  In an hour or so, he would find out the answers to life’s great questions. Is there a God? Is there an afterlife? Perhaps he would see Amira again, and his father. No. Stupid. No.

  Bile rose in Faraz’s throat, and he spat it out. If this is the end, let it happen already. He gave himself credit for trying, but in this moment, he should be honest with himself. He had failed.

  An attack on children. There had been others by terrorists perverting Islam, but not on the scale a
l-Souri contemplated. Even knowing the man’s philosophy, having been tutored in it, he would never understand how he could do it. Faraz had seen al-Souri playing with his own children in Afghanistan. Now he would kill other men’s children and say it was for Allah. Well, al-Souri wouldn’t be doing it. He’d be ordering others to do it. Just as bad, if not worse, but far easier. A couple of phone calls. A bank transfer. Say a prayer, and it’s done. Allahu akbar.

  Faraz had been so close to stopping it. But close was not good enough.

  He jerked his chains, tried to dislodge them from the bolt that held them to the floor. It was no use. Hearing the effort, a guard came in and hit him in the stomach with his rifle butt.

  Faraz slumped to the floor, heaving for breath.

  * * *

  He must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, he was hit with a bucketload of cold water. Faraz sputtered and retreated into his corner, his knees up, his legs protecting his midsection. Two men lifted him to his feet, unlocked the leg chain from its anchor, and force-marched him out of the shed.

  He went limp. He was not going to help them execute him.

  The men had gathered in the clearing in front of the headquarters. It was a large group, maybe double the number usually in the camp. Faraz had never seen some of them before. Their vehicles were crowded into the back of the compound, where damage from the fire Faraz had started was clearly visible. Al-Souri had apparently gathered men from nearby camps to witness the lesson he was about to teach.

  The Qomandan stood on the landing at the top of the building’s steps wearing a clean white tunic and white pants with a white takkiye. He was the image of purity, preparing to root out the evil of apostasy.

  His feet still in irons and his hands chained in front of him, Faraz was forced to stand on a wooden crate facing the crowd. Now that he was there, at the place of his execution, Faraz let go of Hamed. He stood tall, as a U.S. Army officer should. He was proud of his small role in fighting the evil he knew better than most. If he was going to die, they would see him with his head high, shoulders squared.

  Nazim smacked the back of Faraz’s head to make him lower his gaze. But he still stood as straight as he could.

  “My brothers,” al-Souri began. “Before us stands a traitor, a spy, a betrayer of Allah.”

  The men grumbled, and Faraz heard shouts of “Kill him!” and “Death to traitors!”

  Al-Souri launched into a sermon. He quoted the Koran and ancient scholars. He talked about the importance of Allah’s jihad. And he spoke with passion about the sin of betrayal and Muslims who collude with the enemy.

  “So, what punishment does Allah decree for such a man?” he asked.

  “Death!” came the replies. “Death now!”

  “It is the will of Allah,” Nazim shouted. “Allahu akbar!”

  “Allahu akbar,” the men repeated. Some fired weapons into the air.

  In Afghanistan, Faraz would have expected a wooden block and a hooded executioner, with a ceremonial sword if one was available. Here, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nazim approach with a pistol in his right hand.

  Faraz wanted to stand strong. He was ready to accept his fate, but he could not stop his body from shaking. Two fighters came from each side, knelt down to be out of the line of fire, and held his wrists

  Nazim spat into Faraz’s face. The crowd cheered. Nazim stepped back and started to raise his weapon.

  That’s when Faraz heard the choppers.

  He raised his eyes toward the sky. He saw the men in the audience do the same, almost in unison. Faraz turned his head toward the sound and saw al-Souri come down the steps to get a view to the west, toward the setting sun.

  They couldn’t see anything in the glare, but the sound was getting louder.

  Nazim shouted, “It is an attack! Defensive positions! Board the vehicles!” The men holding Faraz let go and ran toward their assigned stations. Nazim turned away and issued more orders. Men were running in all directions.

  Faraz jumped down from the box and shuffled toward the shed as quickly as his chains would allow. He could only hope Nazim was too busy to shoot him. Faraz went through the shed’s open door and took cover behind the wall.

  When no one followed, he peered out. He saw Nazim in the middle of the compound giving orders, still holding the pistol, red-faced and gesturing wildly. He had a lot of men to command, with all the visitors who came for the execution.

  Faraz looked toward the headquarters. Al-Souri was gone, presumably hiding inside the building, maybe crawling into a hole like the one al-Jazar had used.

  Faraz expected the helicopters to come in low, strafing, dropping explosives. But they didn’t. Instead, looking through the gap where the gate used to be, he saw them make hard combat landings just outside the range of the terrorists’ AK-47s. The troops came out fast, firing toward the men on the wall.

  Nazim came in Faraz’s direction, running toward a line of vehicles that were ready to attack the invaders. As Nazim passed the shed, Faraz jumped him. Pain shot through Faraz’s rib, but Nazim fell. Faraz wrapped his handcuff chain around Nazim’s throat and pulled him into the shed facedown.

  Nazim squirmed hard and flailed his arms, trying to get the chain off his neck or get ahold of Faraz. Al-Souri’s deputy got his knees under himself and tried to stand. Faraz pulled on the chain to choke him and body-slammed him back to the ground.

  Faraz put his foot on the back of Nazim’s neck and pulled on the chain. “This . . . is . . . for . . . Amira,” he said, increasing the pressure with each word.

  Nazim’s hands came to his throat, desperately trying to stop the choking. Faraz leaned in, putting all his body weight on Nazim’s neck. Then he jerked the chain.

  Nazim’s neck snapped, and his body went limp.

  Faraz lunged for Nazim’s pistol as two fighters came in to rescue their commander. Faraz killed them with two shots.

  The vehicles sped past the shed’s open door to launch the counterattack. Faraz took a few seconds to catch his breath. He looked at Nazim. The man’s eyes were open, his mouth was twisted into a look of agony. Faraz spat. At least this one would hurt no children.

  Faraz searched Nazim’s pockets to find the key to his handcuffs and leg irons. He freed himself and moved to the doorway. Faraz took an AK from one of the dead fighters, stepped over them, and looked out the doorway to assess the battle.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Carter was among the first out of the choppers. His only words were, “You two stay here.”

  It was a difficult situation. He would have liked to bomb the hell out of the camp, or at least hit it with some RPGs. But the priority was to get the agent out alive, and putting a whole lot of metal and explosives into the area was not a good way to do that.

  His men were under orders to aim carefully and hit only targets that were shooting at them.

  Carter took cover with half his men behind a small sand berm. The others ran right, toward a gully by the side of the camp’s access road.

  “We’re taking fire from the wall to the left,” Castillo said.

  Carter considered his options. He had to reduce the incoming fire, or they’d never get into the camp to look for the agent. If he took too long, they might kill the man, if they hadn’t already. He had to take the chance that Faraz was not on the wall with their first line defenders.

  “Hit it,” Carter ordered. Castillo loaded a grenade into the launcher under his M4, checked the safety, and waited for a lull in the shooting. When it came, he lifted himself up onto his knees, his head and the weapon coming over the berm. He fired and dropped back down within three seconds. The left side of the camp wall exploded in a shower of wood, blood, and bodies.

  “Let’s move,” Carter said. He led his men out of cover toward the gap in the wall, running as fast as he could and leading with his M16 on automatic.

  He entered the camp still shooting. He killed two more terrorists and carved out a small safe area behind some debris,
where they could take cover and reload.

  The move drew fire from the men on the other section of wall, creating an opening for Carter’s second unit to fire an RPG and make their advance. Their aim wasn’t quite as good as Castillo’s, but it got the job done.

  Carter was about to lead an advance when three vehicles came from the back of the camp and sped out through the gate. Two turned left, toward Team Two, the other went right, effectively placing Carter’s unit between hostile forces front and rear.

  “How many fucking jihadis they got in this camp?” Castillo asked.

  “Too many,” Carter said.

  They hunkered down, returning fire as best they could.

  * * *

  As soon as Carter’s team left the choppers, they lifted off for a short hop to a safer distance. Bridget and Will crouched on the floor, frustrated to be another hundred meters from the fight. The helicopters’ security teams had taken up defensive positions in case the enemy turned its attention in their direction. But they were not going to get into the battle unless ordered. More likely, if things got desperate, the choppers would lift off and fire from the air.

  Bridget knew there would be a drone somewhere above them, sending live video back to Baghdad and D.C. and watching for approaching threats. The drone’s missiles could make a decisive difference in the battle, but protecting Faraz was paramount.

  For now, Carter and his men were on their own.

  Bridget and Will watched the battle develop. “This is bad,” Will said when the vehicles came around behind Carter’s men. “Look at the size of that force.” He picked up his rifle, as if he was going to go do something about it.

  “Stay down, Will.”

  “They need some rear fire.”

  “Not from you. Look at you.”

  “Bridget—”

  “Listen, you said it’s my mission, and it is. And you are staying down, or I swear to God I will have you cleaning latrines on a rust bucket for the rest of your career.”

  Will was taken aback, but he recovered.

  “Heads,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We call them ‘heads’ in the navy.” Will’s lips curled into his trademark smile, and his dimple made its first appearance since he’d arrived in the war zone.