by Jack Strain
By 0930, troopers from the 2nd Cavalry Regiment’s “Cougar” squadron along with three companies of Rangers began the first “Thunder Run” into Al-Bukamal. The mixed force of Strykers and MRAP Cougars struck from the south, traveling up Highway 12, and quickly crossed over the Wadi al Ratqah aiming for the Rahman Mosque anchored at a key crossroads linking highways 4 and 12.
Troops of Stryker and MRAP vehicles raced up the main thoroughfare all guns a blazing. .50 caliber machine gunners and small arms fire along with several 30 mm auto-cannons lit up both sides of the roadway. Green tracer fire, rocket-propelled grenades, and machine gun fire erupted at half a dozen points, as Allah’s Avengers fighters opened fire from several fortified fighting positions.
Multiple Strykers were hit, and two lost when powerful IEDs exploded, flipping one and sending another of the eight-ton vehicles careening into a corner coffee house. The mine-resistant, lightly armored vehicles came under sustained fire, disabling four and destroying three MRAPs causing heavy casualties. However, the task force was under strict orders not to slow down. Surviving Rangers immediately formed fire teams and directed Apache gunships riding shotgun to take out known enemy positions.
Two other armored task forces careened into the city from the north and west shooting up the place as they went by drawing fire from surprised enemy fighters who expected a slow, steady build up and a methodical attack to secure the city. Each position identified by the thunder runs were marked with smoke or tracked by a Joint Stars plane overhead. A combination of F-16s, Reaper drones, and Apache gunships quickly serviced identified targets with missiles and precision bombs. Dozens of fortified bunkers were hit within the first three hours of sustained fighting.
At 1200 hours, flights of Blackhawk helicopters soon appeared over the horizon carrying members of the 82nd’s famed “Devils Brigade.” Heavily armed troopers from the 2nd Battalion, 504th Regiment were in the first wave that landed nearly seven hundred soldiers in Al-Bukamal’s public park in the center of town. The heavily armed soldiers immediately fanned out and began engaging in a series of running gunfights with Allah’s Avengers fighters.
Firing from rooftops, private homes, and improvised fighting positions, fearless jihadist fighters recovered from their initial shock of the air assault and soon fought back in a series of running ambushes. In the narrow streets and alleyways, American soldiers were forced to turn this into an old-fashioned infantryman’s fight with small arms and grenades. Neither side gave quarter, and the Americans were only able to secure a handful of prisoners.
While more air assaults struck a dozen more places in the city, the 82nd’s second and third brigades began a more methodical attack at all points around the city. Traveling in MRAPs and moving on foot, companies of American paratroopers began the dangerous task of clearing Al-Bukamal block by block. Meanwhile, the hundreds of Special Forces soldiers and sailors roamed the city, engaging targets of opportunity, conducting recon missions, and providing targeting for overhead air support.
However, with night coming, teams of highly trained, experienced veteran operators were preparing to go hunting. While the enemy expected to use the night to recoup and reorganize their forces, America’s trained hunters intended to turn the night into a nightmare for the surviving members of Allah’s so-called Avengers.
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For twelve hours, American military forces were locked in a vicious, close quarters city fight against a dedicated and deadly enemy, and all of it was being captured by a variety of live streaming apps. Bahadur Rahimi wanted to show the Muslim world his fighters, Allah’s Avengers, standing against the invading American infidels and dying martyrs’ deaths. Nearly every soldier under his command had been equipped with HD streaming video recorders or embedded cameras fitted to glasses. Dozens of fixed streaming devices were planted all over the city. More than two billion people had tuned into one of a dozen different streaming sites from Facebook Live to YouTube to watch the spectacle.
Live streaming captured the American Thunder Runs into the city, the dramatic air assaults, and the horrific aftermath of hundreds of missiles raining destruction down on the poor inhabitants of the relatively unknown Syrian city. In coffee houses, university campuses, mosques, and households from Morocco to Indonesia, Muslim men and women who had become almost inured to the death of so many Muslim fighters now watched with admiration and pride as Muslim warriors fought like the brave stories from the Koran.
It seemed as if daily life came to a halt in Istanbul, in Cairo, in Amman, in countless Muslim cities as hundreds of millions of men, women, and even children could not tear themselves away from the live feeds. Cheers erupted in two dozen nations when an American helicopter was shot down and careened into the ground.
The non-stop video feeds captured the sounds of RPGs dramatically being fired by brave fighters who exposed themselves to the infidels, and people watched as the fiery white trail of the rocket motor flew through the air until exploding in the middle of a group of American soldiers. Others documented the final brave moments before another martyr gave his life to Allah as American bombs and rockets destroyed a fighting position causing millions to react with cries of anger and pride.
Trained operators practiced for weeks to become skilled with the new devices unfamiliar to most soldiers who had only known automatic rifles and grenades as their choice of weapons, but now knew the power of another weapon, the power of technology to inspire a multitude. One of the most dramatic scenes was captured by a skilled operator who tightened the lens to allow the viewers to see a dozen Islamic fighters suddenly charge into an American position and fight hand-to-hand with knives and bayonets in a wild melee that left dead and wounded on both sides.
Viewers sat captivated by the images of a machine gunner directing fire at American soldiers as they assaulted his fighting position, everyone who watched felt as if they, too, were sharing the danger. When the cameras caught American soldiers flailing on the ground after being hit or the Americans returning fire sending a stream of tracers, the viewers jumped in their seats.
The POV (point of view) video feeds made viewers feel as if they, too, were being fired upon. And the sounds of the brave fighters who recited familiar passages from the Koran moved many to tears.
If the 1991 Gulf War was considered the first video war, then the battle of Al-Bukamal became the first live streaming war. Mobile hotspots and active cell towers that had been purposely left unjammed, so the Americans could track Rahimi were now being used by the former Quds Force commander to show the world that the Americans can be killed by righteous warriors whose deeds would now be recorded for generations yet unborn to inspire a never-ending jihad until Allah’s vision of a world united in his name came to be.
Sitting in front of a bank of computers in his deep underground bunker, Bahadur Rahimi folded his arms and smiled knowing that whether he lived another hour, another day, another week - it no longer mattered.
Today, the Muslim people, Shia and Sunni, watched as brothers from a dozen nations and two separate sects banded together and fought as one people. Not with roadside bombs or suicide vests, no, today the Muslim World watched with pride and admiration as Islamic warriors stood tall in the face of overwhelming odds and died as true martyrs for Allah.
Chapter Forty Two
October 26th
The White House
The dark, forbidding overhead clouds threatening to unleash a torrent of rain on the chilly October morning matched President Wolfe’s own foul and mercurial mood. A small coterie of Wolfe’s most loyal cabinet members gathered in the cabinet conference room since seven in the morning to help manage the growing crisis. No other President since Lincoln had grappled with such a volatile mix of domestic and foreign entanglements.
Terror had struck both at home and abroad, citizens were being rounded up, Americans were out in the streets killing one another, the Army was locked in a vicious city fight with the killers of Wolfe’s daughter, and the biggest politic
al crisis since Watergate now threatened to upend the Wolfe administration.
Wolfe was in the middle of another tirade after overnight disclosures of fresh subpoenas leaked to the media this morning. “…Goddamnit, Archer, you said our people in the House would kill this. But now that bitch Templeton has already issued subpoenas for me and half the damn cabinet. You had better do something for Christ’s sake. We’re at war, and I have to put up with this bullshit.”
The physically smaller, refined Southern gentleman wilted before Wolfe’s latest harangue as the others in the room averted their eyes to spare the former judge a semblance of self-respect. Stetson was flustered but able to stammer a response, “Mr. President…please Sir, if I could explain. The House leadership told me point-blank that they have no intention to begin articles of impeachment. There is no need to worry.”
An incredulous Wolfe threw up his hands in disbelief and with a look that mixed disgust and disdain, fired back in a fury. “No need to worry? Are you fucking kidding me? Archer, they formed a goddamned joint committee on the conduct of the war and appointed that cocksucker who handled that special commission on that pervert Sandusky up at Penn State. He already sent out subpoenas for half the goddamn administration, including me. You had better get your shit together and find some balls and squash this shit so I can fight this war. Got it?”
The only thing the Attorney General could muster was a simple nod and then started writing notes hoping the president would leave him alone for now. Chief of Staff Baxter Davis was uncharacteristically quiet. The only person who seemed to be enjoying himself was the acting Secretary of Homeland Security, Travis LaHue, whose stock was on the rise in the president’s eyes.
Wolfe held his glare on Stetson for a few more seconds and then turned towards his National Security Advisor, General Wright, and said, “Now as for you, why in hell are we allowing that murdering bastard to broadcast his shit to the whole goddamned world?!”
More comfortable in Army fatigues than a business suit, Wright shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The tall former special ops had been on the wrong side of more than a few ass chewing’s and knew it would do no good to try and reason with the president, but this was getting ugly.
He’s not going to like the answer, but too late now.
Wright’s normal deep bellowing voice was kept in check as he answered in a subdued tone, “Mr. President, as I already explained if we block all Wi-Fi and cell coverage then it’s nearly impossible to find Rahimi. You made clear that our number one priority was finding him. No one expected him to broadcast the battle to the world.”
Wolfe quickly cut him off and said, “Well now he and his band of cutthroats are fucking heroes. Those videos of dead Americans are going viral. Fucking great job, Mike. If this keeps up the bastard will be up for a Nobel prize or something.”
Wolfe was waiting for Wright to protest, but when he refused to say anything, the president added, “Where’s Mahler, by the way? His ass should be here, too.”
Fucking Jimbo was always smarter than me. The bastard decided to stay at the Pentagon and leave me to deal with the president.
Taking a deep breath, Wright said, “Our drones are now blocking every hotspot sending out active video feeds, but we have to allow enough cell towers to continue transmitting hoping to isolate him so we can get the bastard. Sir, we are racking serious kills. Our boys are hitting the bastards like they have never been hit before. Our soldiers are performing magnificently. They want to get the man who killed your daughter.”
A loud knock interrupted the National Security Advisor as a senior aide poked her head in the room and said, “Excuse me, Mr. President, Secretary Mahler is on the phone and says it’s urgent.”
Annoyed, Wolfe maintained an ugly scowl and snarled, “Fine, patch him in.”
Secretary Mahler’s voice was heard ten seconds later, “Mr. President, sorry that I am not there, but I have some urgent news.”
“It had better be some good news because if I hear one more goddamned fuckup, I swear that heads are going to roll.”
Ignoring the president’s admonishment, Mahler replied, “Well, sir, not sure if this constitutes good news, but it is one hell of an opportunity, but not an easy call. Let me lay it out for you. Last night, one of our Delta teams made contact with a local and . . .”
Ten minutes later, the conference room which moments before was brimming with tension and the ugly rants of a President on the brink of disgrace changed in a heartbeat.
“Mr. President, sir, we need to jump on this right away. This asset looks like the real deal, but you need to make the call.”
President Wolfe sat back in his soft leather swivel chair and slowly moved left to right, deep in thought. The others in the room didn’t say a word. This was his decision. Sixty seconds passed, then sixty more, but the president didn’t say a word, and his eyes stared out toward the ceiling, his face giving away nothing.
Finally, his head started bobbing up and down, he leaned forward in his chair and said in a far more civil tone, “Jimbo, are you certain you can verify the target? I mean no fucking doubt?”
Without hesitation, Mahler said, “Mr. President, I would not have made the call unless I was certain. But as you know, it gets messy from there, sir.”
The other men in the room tensed waiting for the president to make his decision. At that moment, the protests, the arrests, the media attacks, even the subpoenas no longer mattered.
President Wolfe said in a sharp tone, “Secretary Mahler, I am authorizing you to identify and then eliminate the target by whatever means necessary. I expect a briefing within the next two hours to confirm the timeline, but I have one little wrinkle that I want you to figure out. Let’s see if you can . . .”
Chapter Forty Three
Al-Bukamal, Syria
Eighteen hours ago, Khaled “the Baker” Faruk rocked back and forth in the shattered remains of the small apartment his refugee family was able to rent above his bakery and cradled the lifeless body of his little Haya in his arms and wept until he had no more tears. Multiple rockets fired from a fortified bunker across the street missed a fast-moving American convoy and easily pierced the plaster walls of the thrice repaired building. Next to him, his wife lay dazed with a concussion from the blast and his three other children were in various states of shock and grief.
After seven years of war, the Faruk family, like so many of the Syrian people, had lost so much, forced to move three separate times until finally settling in Al-Bukamal a year ago. Along the way, Khaled buried his mother, his father-in-law, a brother and a sister, and his wife lost two babies due to a lack of proper nutrition and a healthcare system that had ceased to function years ago. Each and every day was a hardship of one kind or another as death and deprivation was their constant companion.
The only thing that gave him purpose - that allowed for some escape from the madness - were moments when his hands were deep in dough, kneading and shaping sweet morsels of pleasure for his family and grateful customers. Before the war, he worked in some of the best restaurants and bakeries in Damascus and Aleppo. Even when sugar and honey and sweet dates became impossible to find, his most basic life-sustaining breads were said to taste better than all others, so Khaled “the Baker” baked for whoever was in power at the moment.
At various times, his baked goods fed the Assad regime’s officials, Free Syrians, Al Nusra, ISIL, and now Allah’s Avengers. His family suffered, but not as badly as so many others.
All that changed yesterday. Gripped with a fury unlike anything he had ever felt, Khaled the Baker wanted to take up the rifle for the first time in this war and exact revenge; to kill, to purge his soul of the pain of a world without his little five-year-old Haya, the joy of his life. But who should he kill? Who was to blame? The Americans? Assad?
No. This time he knew exactly whom to blame. Who decided to come to Al-Bukamal to wage jihad? Who practically begged the Americans to come with their armies and missiles and power? Who sa
t each morning and ate his sweet treats and with powdery sugar sprinkled on his beard and planned for the deaths of so many of his long-suffering Syrian people? They were a people who had endured the unendurable, and yet this man brought more death, more suffering, more blood to their lives.
Bahadur Rahimi brought this on my sweet little Haya whose smile filled me with so much love that she could bring tears to my eyes with but a glance.
The Americans had been dropping leaflets promising millions of dollars and safe passage for their families out of hell. Khaled found one of those leaflets and used his phone to contact the number listed. Three hours later, a heavily armed American dressed as a Syrian militiaman appeared without warning at the rear of his bakery.
After explaining to this giant of a man what he knew, he was taken to another more senior American who listened to his story and allowed him to weep without shame and embraced him as a brother and promised to secure his family if Khaled would help the Americans kill the man who killed his daughter and the president’s daughter.
I will no longer be known as Khaled the Baker, but now for my little Haya, I will become Khaled the Avenger.
It was a quarter past five in the morning, and Khaled struggled to remain calm. Sounds of gunfire and overhead helicopters reverberated in the damaged remains of the city. The fighting had died down overnight, but with Allah’s Avengers spread throughout the city, it was impossible to say what streets were safe and which would turn into a deadly battlefield. Overhead, the moon was just fading as daylight struggled to make its appearance casting a strange twilight over the battle-damaged streets of Al-Bukamal.
Khaled moved with measured patience, almost by instinct now after so many years of war; one street at a time, peering ever so slowly around corners and alleyways, skirting shell holes that often concealed unexploded ordnance of one kind or the other. Passing a local mosque that Khaled regularly brought his family in better times sent a surge of emotion that threatened to overcome him, but instead, he kept telling himself that Khaled the Avenger must be strong to avenge his family.