Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  ‘Good luck,’ whispered Shaun before he and Danny made their way back to join the rest of the team at the VIPER 2 vans.

  Dexter and I closed on the approaching figures of Greg and his BLUE 5 second-in-command, Russ.

  ‘All good?’ asked Greg.

  ‘Good to go,’ I replied as Dexter signalled the same.

  Russ and Dexter peeled off into the first taxi driven by Moose as Greg led me towards the second. Behind us I heard Moose’s taxi pull away and further down the street tyres screeched as a vehicle turned the corner from the main road, its lights sweeping towards us. Our taxi was dead ahead with Ricky in the driver’s seat. I fought the urge to turn and see what was coming our way. As we climbed into the taxi and closed the doors, a pickup skidded to a halt on the driver’s side and we were challenged with fierce Arabic. Shit, we’d just hit our first slice of bad luck.

  Ricky responded with a heated torrent of Arabic as I caught sight of at least four armed men hanging off the back of the pickup. There was only a second or two for the team to assess if we could talk our way out or it was destined to go noisy. If the armed men got out of the truck and started aiming their weapons it would be too late to do anything. I heard Greg flick off his M4 safety catch.

  ‘Ricky take the cab, I’ll take the rear,’ said Greg.

  With the decision made, I followed suit and clicked off the safety catch of my HK. It was almost a relief. The cloying tension of potential compromise exchanged for the instant adrenaline spike from knowing we were about to engage the enemy.

  As Ricky jumped out of his door in apparent outrage, Greg sprang out of his side and brought the M4 up on aim. As the weapon barked out its lethal report, Ricky raised his sidearm and engaged the pickup driver. The windscreen and driver’s head exploded in a splash of red and he slumped over the wheel. Ricky switched to the passenger, putting two rounds into his chest before he could react with anything but an astonished look on his dying face. Meanwhile Greg’s eight or nine shots seemed to have put paid to any further activity from the rear of the pickup. It was brutal; they never had a chance.

  To my left, Neil held his hand up in a ‘wait’ signal as the sounds of the sudden violence died away. Ricky and Greg climbed back into the taxi, bringing in the smell of cordite with them.

  ‘GO, GO, GO,’ yelled Greg.

  Ahead of us, another set of lights from a large vehicle swung around the corner from the main road and now approached at speed. Had they seen the mayhem inflicted on the first vehicle? The rear lights of Moose’s taxi had already passed the new threat without interference – they were clear. The VIPER 2 vans were also nowhere to be seen, so it was only our vehicle left.

  Greg spoke quickly into his mike as we accelerated away. ‘BLUE 5 ALPHA Contact! 5 BRAVO continue extraction. 5 ALPHA following right behind you, out.’

  The new headlights switched to full beam and pulled over into our lane as they bore down on us.

  ‘Fuck. Right, right, right,’ yelled Greg.

  The taxi lurched to the left as Ricky jerked the wheel to whip through the right-hand corner that led back towards the OP and the museum at the bottom of the road. The taxi had a meaty engine under the bonnet, but none of the vehicle was armoured. We wouldn’t last long unless we kept moving and escaped the area before the insurgents could get themselves organised.

  Greg informed all other call signs we would break out of the city centre to the south at speed, with no immediate assistance required. Every team had a deployable Blue Force Tracker unit which should transmit its position to the TOC – potentially very useful for a team requiring support – but it was a new deployable version without an external aerial and as yet unproven when it mattered. Most of the teams were dubious about its capabilities and range.

  ‘Incoming,’ yelled Ricky. He must have seen muzzle flashes in his mirrors from the pickup behind us.

  Nothing hit us though and we barrelled out of the road past the front of our former OP building and slew to the left a short distance from the museum entrance path. Another taxi blared its horn as it swerved to avoid us, but a sickening crunch from behind seconds later indicated its driver’s luck had run out.

  The road was busy with evening traffic as we headed into the main junction next to the museum, ready to turn right and head south for the airbase. I’d juggled my Kevlar helmet on like the other guys, apart from Ricky who was too busy driving. The covert approach was out of the window now and just one raking burst from a machine gun could cause carnage in the close confines of the taxi.

  At the museum entrance, insurgents were jumping into their two pickups. If they hadn’t recognised our initial contact with their comrades, the sight of a car chase thundering out of a side road on to Al-Jamhuriya Street shortly afterwards would have given the game away. Provided we maintained our momentum, we had a good chance to get clear before they could do much about it.

  The cacophony of horns, led by ours, was eclipsed by an almighty bang as a gas-tank truck broadsided us with a glancing blow. For a moment it seemed we would brush it off and keep going, but the taxi came to a sudden and spine-shuddering halt in a knot of vehicles, steam, and screams. The shock of the impact seemed to gouge out a silent space around us, but the city chaos poured back in almost instantly.

  My head had rebounded hard off the car door, but fortunately I’d got my helmet on in time. Neil was already climbing out on my left and Greg was stirring in front of me, as evidenced by his heartfelt, ‘Fuck.’

  Ricky didn’t look so good in the driver’s seat. He hadn’t had his seat belt on or his helmet.

  ‘Debus and watch for hostiles,’ Greg ordered as he undid his seat belt and forced his door open.

  My door opened with a wrenching sound and I had to kick it to allow myself out. I couldn’t feel any specific pain, but every movement was in slow motion and my head had a heavy, unbalanced feel to it. I tried to shake off the shock of the impact. No good. The sensation of bricks in my head wasn’t going anywhere. Taking in the scene, I could see the taxi we’d missed earlier had slammed into the truck pursuing us, leaving a terrible mangle of metal and broken bodies.

  With those guys out of action, I checked towards the museum and saw an insurgent pickup snaking its way towards us. A second pickup approached from a different angle, slowed by the mess of broken cars that had rippled out from our crash in the middle of the junction.

  Behind the gas-tank truck, I briefly spotted two armed guys less than fifty metres away and closing as they made their way on foot towards us. At that moment, an old guy wearing a keffiyeh jumped down from the cab of the truck and gave me a ‘what the fuck?’ look. I shrugged my shoulders in reply and felt pain in my neck.

  The momentary calm was broken when Neil opened up with his M4 at a target out of my view on the other side of the truck. ‘We need to keep them off while Greg gets Ricky out,’ he shouted over to me.

  The driver’s side was wedged into the smash of vehicles, so no way Ricky’s door could be opened. I could see Greg stowing away the Blue Force Tracker unit before working to bring him out through the front passenger door. When I turned back in the direction of the museum, a figure appeared behind the truck driver with an AK-47 in his shoulder. I brought my HK into a firing position with both hands and double-tapped two shots into the centre mass of the target. Apart from the shocking explosion of noise caused by the .45, the target went down without making a sound. Provided he wasn’t wearing body armour, I didn’t expect to see him again.

  Greg was sending a situation report and outlining the status of our casualty, Ricky. Apparently, he remained conscious but unable to walk unaided. After a pause, Greg responded to an inbound message with ‘Roger, out.’

  ‘Okay guys, prepare to move. Neil, grab hold of Ricky. John, you take his M4. Roger that?’

  ‘Roger that.’

  The clatter of shots pinging off the metal around us indicated we
didn’t have much time. Yelling and shrieking peppered the air from the various car collisions and no doubt the added realisation a determined gunfight was kicking off. As Saturday evenings in Mosul went, I didn’t know if this was unusual or just a regular night downtown.

  Greg covered me and Neil as we moved back to the taxi although he didn’t take any shots. The limited visibility from the weak street lighting made target acquisition tricky and there were still plenty of people running both towards and away from the recent carnage.

  Neil grabbed hold of Ricky round his shoulders and stood him up, while I relieved him of his M4 and three spare, full magazines of thirty rounds. The semi-transparent mag in the weapon was also full, so I had 120 rounds total, plus the now holstered HK for closer range. It would be better if we could get away without becoming involved in a serious firefight though. Sheer weight of numbers would be against us very quickly.

  Ricky had blood on his face from a cut above his left eye, but he was trying to get himself back into working order, even as the pain etched on his face gave away how much he was hurting. As he put weight on his left leg, he let out a rasp of furious Arabic before hobbling through the broken cars and towards the south-east corner of the junction, Neil variously pushing and dragging him along. Ricky had his own HK sidearm in his hand as they moved off, so he hadn’t been rendered completely ineffective.

  We’d all ditched or stowed our Kevlar helmets. Now we were on the street, the recognisable shape would make it easier for the insurgents to pick us out amongst the locals. As Neil and Ricky got into the swing of their joint movement efforts, Greg and I moved alternately behind them in short tactical bounds, taking up fire positions to target any chasing insurgents.

  Chapter 42

  With the crash site thirty metres behind us the traffic was moving more freely, although numerous pedestrians radiating out from the mess, including us, prompted constant braking, the incessant blast of car horns, and an accompanying uproar of total hysteria.

  When I turned to adopt a ready fire position there were plenty of figures in our wake, but none I could pick out as bad guys. More importantly, none shooting in our direction. I’d already hit one and Neil had hit at least one more, so hopefully those initial deadly exchanges had bought us some time.

  ‘Contact right,’ shouted Greg from behind me.

  Stooped low, I ran back towards him as he fired three short bursts from the M4 while a truck racing in from the left emitted a light show of muzzle flashes in return. The windscreen shattered open from Greg’s accurate fire and the truck ground to a halt forty metres away with the occupants spilling out into the surrounding shadows.

  Greg directed me after Neil and Ricky who had reached the buildings at the corner of the junction. The air became quickly alive with the crack and thump of incoming rounds very close. Two punches to my kidneys threw me forward, stumbling to the ground. The slung M4 bounced off the tarmac and smashed into my face as I landed. My right eye immediately started to swell and there was wetness on my cheek as I fought for breath after being winded by the various impacts.

  After a loud explosion in the direction of the new truck, Greg hauled me up. ‘Come on, keep moving.’

  As we reached Neil and Ricky, each nestled behind a stone pillar outside an electronics shop, Neil was firing his M4 in short bursts before he then reached for a fresh magazine. Ricky had his handgun in a firing position, but the insurgents were outside his effective range. I almost felt guilty I had Ricky’s rifle. Almost. I tried to blink away the stars in my vision and rubbed at the wetness on my face with a sleeve. It came away bloody.

  Greg shouted an update. ‘There’s a Kurdish force on the way, but we’ve got to get off this street.’

  On cue, salvos of larger calibre ammunition slammed into the building behind us and a stream of AK-47 rounds impacted to our right. Greg shook his head. ‘That grenade didn’t hold ’em up for long. Right, deploying smoke. Neil, pitch another grenade at that fucking Dushka.’

  Greg threw a red smoke grenade to our front, quickly obscuring the already murky scene like an old-fashioned London pea-souper, while Neil threw a frag grenade in the direction of the truck-mounted 12.7mm DShk anti-aircraft gun threatening to ruin our evening. Unfortunately, the resulting explosion didn’t stop the giant bullets smashing into the masonry close by.

  ‘Prepare to move. MOVE.’

  On Greg’s order we all ran south down the left-hand side of the road, before Neil turned Ricky a hard left and they disappeared into a narrow alleyway between two houses. I darted after them and Greg took up a kneeling firing position at the alleyway entrance.

  ‘Can you get through?’ Greg shouted, sounding less controlled than he’d been until now.

  ‘There’s a locked door, but we’ll get through it,’ replied Neil.

  I stopped in the middle of the passageway, my back howling in discomfort as I tried to wipe more blood off my cheek and away from my eye. My face was tightening up with the swelling and my back stiffening.

  Greg opened fire from his position at the entrance. ‘You need to hurry up.’

  Alongside the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, there was a vibration coming from my jacket pocket. My local Nokia. I didn’t recognise the number. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr John? Is that you?’

  ‘Yeah, who’s that?’

  ‘Mr John, this is Nabil. I’m with Captain Dara and local Peshmerga. We’re looking for you now. Where are you?’

  I shouted out. ‘Greg, I’ve got the Kurds on the phone. They need an RV to pick us up.’

  But Greg was tied up changing a magazine and then bringing his weapon back into the shoulder and firing at our pursuers. When dust erupted from accurate shots hitting the brickwork just above his head, he leapt along the passage. The sound of splintering wood at the other end accompanied a cry from Neil, ‘We’re through.’

  I charged out past the broken door with Greg close behind me. We were on a narrow road to the rear of a row of houses and buildings, with a noticeable breeze coming from the River Tigris sloshing about 200 metres away across dark, open land. The Hurriya Bridge was 250 metres to our north, which meant another bridge lay 750 metres to the south.

  ‘Greg, the Kurds are looking for us. Where shall we RV?’ I shouted through panted breaths, indicating the phone in my hand.

  Greg motioned for me to go firm and we knelt in firing positions covering the rear arcs while Ricky and Neil lumbered forward a tactical bound. ‘They’re not on our net, so tell them we’ll be five hundred metres south of the bridge if they can get here in the next five minutes. Halfway between the bridges.’

  I passed the message on to Nabil although I wasn’t convinced he understood the directions through my laboured breathing.

  The darkness swallowed us as we moved into the scrub and light foliage nearer to the river. We were all breathing hard and every intake of breath was hurting my ribs as the pain spread out from my back. Ricky and Neil had slowed considerably, but they were still moving forward.

  My vision was blurry, so I couldn’t see if the insurgents had followed us. ‘How close are they behind us?’

  Greg was already facing back on aim towards the broken door at the end of the alley a hundred metres away. ‘Nothing yet. Hang on… yep, here they come.’

  A pickup truck nosed itself onto the road at the back of the houses from an access road close to the alleyway we’d used. I couldn’t make out any large gun fitted in the truck bed, but there were a group of armed men either side of the crawling truck, moving carefully.

  ‘Hold your fire,’ hissed Greg. It didn’t appear they could see us, although it wouldn’t take them long to figure out where we must have gone. Hopefully the Kurds were close by.

  An unwelcome wave of exhaustion flooded over me and I physically sagged.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Greg.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m seizing up
.’

  ‘Just keep it going and we’ll get out of here. There’s a helo extraction getting ready now, as well as the Kurds. We’ll be okay.’

  Whether he believed it or not, he sounded confident.

  Bursts of AK-47 fire sounded from the road back to our right. Nothing was landing near us, so they might have been firing into likely positions trying to elicit a response. That wasn’t going to work with us. As we handrailed the river on our left, I looked behind to the road and saw a lot of figures over there. Some were running behind us into the scrubland. We’d slowed down, and the insurgents were less than seventy metres behind.

  Their truck was on the road to our right almost parallel with our position. A second truck rumbled down another access road to join the first and the lights of two more SUVs appeared to our front right by a corner building 200 metres ahead. The situation was looking bleaker by the moment.

  ‘Come on, one more push,’ Greg shouted.

  But it was difficult to see how we were going to evade the blocking force now deploying in front of us. A flash of light and a rumble of noise erupted from near the two vehicles up ahead as an RPG streaked out like an arrow towards the insurgent trucks on the road. My spirits leapt as I realised it must be the Kurds. There was an eerie calm as we watched the RPG close on its target and disappointment when the warhead missed the trucks and exploded harmlessly behind them. Now intense small arms fire ignited between the two opposing groups of men and vehicles.

  We closed to a hundred metres or so from the river and wheeled right to move parallel to the road through the grass, bushes, and occasional trees. The men behind us in the scrub were shooting at the two SUVs up ahead, prompting streaks of return fire.

  ‘John, confirm that’s your Kurds up there and tell them we’re coming in from their right,’ Greg yelled above the bedlam.