Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  The Turkish flyer wasn’t in any better condition.

  Zach stood and nodded at Ghost, who promptly asked Salim to have the hostages loaded into the wagon.

  The two riders, along with a cart laden with prisoners, headed east a short time later.

  Sam’s display of stubborn, unyielding temperament would become legend in the Istanbul Police Department. At least that’s what the captain now charged with the responsibility of replacing Tula believed.

  The fiery, hotheaded Texas woman refused to let the blood samples out of her sight, threatening to shoot any unauthorized personnel who came within reach of the package.

  IPD was stressed enough as it were. Protests had turned into riots, and the Turkish military was mobilizing for war. That translated into the reserves being called up, many of whom were police officers.

  Exhausted by the hours of arguing with the woman in broken strings of English, the captain finally gave up and escorted the female Texan to the lab.

  Four hours later she emerged, copies of the official report in her hand. “We need to get this information to our governments as soon as possible,” she demanded. “This proves that our soldiers didn’t initiate that attack. This can stop the war.”

  The captain was skeptical but too exhausted to debate the issue. The problem was that he didn’t know whom to contact.

  A call to the Prime Minister’s office led nowhere, an empty promise by some secretary that someone would return the officer’s message.

  He enlisted his chief in contacting the mayor, but the city bureaucrat informed the frustrated captain that he should get in touch with the Prime Minister’s staff. Sam, flustered to the extreme, was about to go off on a triad that would no doubt lead to another international incident.

  She should have anticipated the issue. Turkey was a country preparing for war, anyone with any power no doubt in a frenzy to address a substantial “to do list” and being pulled twenty different directions at once.

  “We will drive to the capital,” the local cop informed the ranger. “It’s all I know to do. Maybe our badges can get us to the right people.”

  As they marched out of the station, Sam spied a news crew setting up their camera. She recognized the logo of the international, 24x7 broadcaster. An idea popped into her head.

  “Come with me,” she barked to the captain. “We’re going to get the word out, one way or the other.”

  The two officers approached a young lady who appeared to be in charge of the newshounds. “Do you want an exclusive?” Sam asked without any greeting.

  The woman frowned, Sam’s English taking her by surprise. “And you might be?”

  Sam flashed her badge and then introduced the suddenly shy captain. He eventually managed his credentials as well. After establishing their credibility, Sam explained the situation to the producer. The woman’s eyes turned to saucers. “This is big,” she whispered, “one hell of a lot bigger than covering the riots. Let me call London.”

  Twenty minutes later, the anchor in New York was telling the world of a breaking story, complete with flashing red banners and trumpeting background music.

  “It has come to the attention of our reporter in Istanbul that credible evidence has been uncovered regarding the alleged attack by the Texas military on Turkish soldiers. We’re going there now for a live interview.”

  Sam and her IPD escort stood and watched as the celebrated reporter recounted the story. Holding the test results in his hand, the household face explained the blood tests and their significance. “It appears that the entire incident was a false flag, initiated by ISIS in order to disrupt the region.”

  After the reporter had finished, Sam retrieved her documents and turned to the captain. “Let’s head for the capital. I’ll bet somebody will talk to us now.”

  Salim and his fighters were packing up, their most recent mission now complete. It was one of his men that noticed the trail of dust approaching the village.

  The rebel leader stood and watched as a small line of vehicles approached.

  A battered Nissan pickup, along with two SUVs that had seen better days, skidded to a halt, a choking cloud of sand and grit chasing their arrival.

  The lead SUV’s doors opened, several armed men piling out and quickly forming a perimeter. After they had established security, Abu emerged, smoothing his robes and scanning the area.

  Salim and his men recognized the ISIS leader immediately, all of them bowing their heads in respect.

  “We were not challenged,” Abu spat, clearly upset. “I was told you were a competent man. How can you protect the prisoners without posting sentries?”

  “The captives have already been transferred, sir,” Salim stammered, not sure what was going on, but certain it wasn’t good.

  “What?” Abu exclaimed. “We are here to retrieve them. What do you mean they have been transferred?”

  “Less than an hour ago. Ghost, your trusted servant, he and another man arrived and took control of the two infidels.”

  Abu was furious, a reality that sent shivers of fear through all of the surrounding men. So influential was the Daesh council member, he could order any of their heads removed without question or justification. Rumor had it that he wouldn’t hesitate to reward incompetence with just such an act.

  “Are you sure? Absolutely confident it was Ghost?”

  The fact that Abu hadn’t immediately ordered Salim’s death gave the young man confidence. He replied with more resolve. “Yes. I have worked with him in the past. My men and I helped him retrieve the oilfield equipment from the port. It was him, no doubt.”

  “And who was this other man who accompanied my old friend?” Abu inquired, his eyes boring into the frightened fighter.

  “I do not know. Ghost introduced him as a medic from Spain and indicated that they were colleagues. After taking possession of the hostages, they rode off to the east,” Salim said, pointing to a dirt path heading off into the hills.

  More anger flashed across Abu’s eyes, his gaze following the old trail into the distance. It seems my confidant’s first allegiance is to money rather than to Allah. Even Christians would equate his actions with that of Judas Iscariot, he considered.

  Without another word, the ISIS leader turned and ordered his men back to the trucks. A man unaccustomed to negotiation or debate, he produced a pistol from under his garb and pointed it at Salim’s head. “I will let you discuss your poor judgement with God.”

  The young fighter had well-honed reflexes, which overrode his fear of Abu. Realizing he was about to be executed through no fault of his own, Salim ducked and rolled just as the pistol’s report thundered across the hamlet.

  Chaos erupted in the abandoned Syrian village.

  Salim’s men had been with him through countless battles and firefights. He was their leader. They had grown up with him in the same neighborhood and bonded during hours of tending goats in the Syrian hills. Their loyalty to the childhood friend was greater than any felt toward the Daesh.

  The bullet nicked Salim’s ear, but the scratch was nothing compared to the wounds and pain he’d suffered fighting the Syrian army. Undeterred by the injury, instinct commanded his body. Before he had hit the ground, his AK was coming into play.

  Battle rifles on both sides began singing their deadly cadence, lead, mortar, and Syrian soil adding to the cloud of gun smoke that filled the air. Men darted, screamed, and withered on the ground in pain.

  The conflict was over in less than three minutes, Abu’s superior numbers and more experienced men ultimately triumphing in the shootout. All of Salim’s team laid dead or dying, their blood turning the brown desert sand a dark, wretched hue.

  But the cost had been high, only half of Abu’s team remained standing, two of those suffering minor wounds.

  The causalities meant nothing to Abu. “Leave them,” he ordered. “Let the vultures have a feast.”

  After ordering the survivors back into the vehicles, Abu instructed them to drive east.
He still commanded enough men to deal with Ghost.

  Ten miles east and well away from the hamlet, Zach instructed Ghost to stop.

  The two riders dismounted, the lawman approaching the prisoners and quickly cutting through the rope that bound their wrists and ankles. Bruised, bleeding and dehydrated, the pilots struggled to understand this turn of events. “I’m a Texas Ranger,” Zach informed the major. “You’re being rescued.”

  The expressions on the two pilots’ faces were indescribable. Major Hoffer flushed from surprise… to relief… to sobbing in a matter of moments. The Turkish flyer, well versed in English, experienced a similar range of emotions.

  Zach stood back, watching the two overjoyed men rub the circulation back into blood-starved extremities. “Can you ride?” he asked the Air Force officer.

  “Yes. I could ride before I could walk. Major Richard Hoffer, formerly of Marfa, Texas,” came the reply along with an offered hand. “I was raised on a horse. I can fight, too… if need be.”

  Zach ordered Ghost to surrender his rifle, replacing the empty magazine with a fully loaded version from his pack. He handed the Turk a spare pistol, confident the beaten man had no loyalty to the caliphate’s side of the conflict. “I assume, sir, that given your treatment, you hate ISIS more than the Republic of Texas,” the ranger said.

  The Turks’ expression matched his growled response, “I will kill as many of the dogs as I can.”

  Ghost and the major traded places, the contractor now riding in the wagon with the steely-eyed NATO flyer. Zach was worried about Hoffer. The man had obviously had the shit kicked out of him. No doubt, the guy hadn’t eaten well since his capture several days ago.

  Hoffer noticed the ranger’s assessment. “I can fight, damn it. I’ll hold my own.”

  Nodding affirmatively, Zach patted the man on the shoulder. He had to respect the pilot’s perseverance even if he had to question his current physical condition. He mounted his horse, and the caravan resumed its trek.

  It was just over 30 miles to the Texas Airborne stronghold, the friendlies still holding the Tabqa hydroelectric dam along the Euphrates River. While the distance didn’t seem all that impressive on a map, it was a full day’s ride on horseback, all of it through harsh terrain that was controlled by ISIS.

  The ranger explained as much to the major as they plodded along.

  “How are you going to approach the Texas lines?” the officer eventually asked. “They’ll shoot anybody on sight that crosses their zone. From what I hear, they don’t interact with any of the locals. No contact whatsoever.”

  “I’m hoping my partner got the word through that we are coming in. It would completely suck to make it all this way and then be gunned down by our own countrymen.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that,” Ghost’s voice sounded from the wagon. “I believe our little deception has been discovered.”

  Zach turned in the saddle, his eyes drawn immediately to the cloud of dust on the horizon. “Shit,” he barked, and then added, “maybe they’re not looking for us.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Ghost smirked. “I’ve been watching it for two minutes. Whoever is back there is heading directly toward us.”

  Zach scanned the area, finding no place to hide or fight. “Come on,” he snapped, spurring his mount. “We need to find some cover.”

  Despite motivating their horses, it was evident the dust cloud was gaining ground, rapidly eroding their head start. Zach’s worst nightmare was to be caught out in the open. That gunfight would end quickly.

  They forged ahead, Zach dividing his time between scanning their surroundings and keeping track of the ever-larger dust cloud behind them. The dam and friendly forces were still miles away.

  They crested a rise, some relief in sight.

  The desert changed here, a few shallow undulations and crevices as the terrain began its gradual slope toward the Euphrates Valley.

  “You better take what you can get,” Ghost chided from the wagon. “They’ll be here in less than 10 minutes.”

  And the ranger did just that. Spurring his steed as he conducted a whirlwind tour of the area, Zach selected a small gully that was perhaps waist deep for their stronghold. They pulled up the horses, overturned the wagon for additional cover, and distributed what little ammunition the ranger had brought along for the AKs. The four 30-round magazines didn’t seem like much. The few reloads for the pistols appeared futile.

  Zach held out some hope their pursuers would miss their hide and told the huddled group of men just that. “If we stay still under the old wagon, maybe they’ll gallop right past us.”

  “You better get rid of the horses and camel then,” Ghost noted. “But I wouldn’t hold out much hope of success.”

  Throwing the doubting Thomas a hard glance, Zach took everything useful off the animals and raised his hand to spank the lead animal on the ass. As an afterthought, he paused and headed to the small saddlebag.

  Ghost had given the ranger a ton of shit for bringing it along, but the lawman had insisted. Pulling his lucky hat from the small pouch, Zach tied the headgear onto the saddle’s horn. It was a baseball cap, sporting the Longhorn logo of his old college team. If they died out here in the vast sands, maybe somebody would find his feeble attempt at a last message.

  With a swift smack of his palm, the horse bolted into the desert, followed by its mate and the camel. The four men were now barricaded... and stranded.

  “Take these handcuffs off me and give me a pistol,” Ghost proposed. “They’re going to kill all of us anyway. Allow me to join you against our common enemy. We can both die with the satisfaction of depleting their ranks. It is the most we can hope for.”

  Zach thought seriously about it… but decided having armed adversaries at his front and back wasn’t worth the gamble. How could he trust a man who was the root cause of so much death and destruction?

  The pursuers appeared on the ridge, the three vehicles halting abruptly as if someone wanted to scout the terrain. After a few minutes, they proceeded slowly, advancing on the wagon fortress.

  Again, they stopped – this time the troops pausing less than 400 yards from Zach’s hide. The ISIS gunmen began dismounting, spreading out into a skirmish line to search the area.

  “So much for their passing us by,” Zach whispered, exchanging troubled glances with the two pilots. “Wait until they get close. Make every shot count.”

  Abu’s squad took its time, checking every nook and cranny offered by the Syrian landscape. They pressed onward, drawing closer and closer to the cowering quarry.

  Zach centered the AK’s front post on the chest of the nearest man, only the tip of the barrel peeking out from under the wagon. As he watched the pursuers advance, the ranger wondered if Sam would ever know how close he’d come to pulling off the rescue or if his partner would ever know how he’d died.

  Why are you thinking of Sam at a time like this, the Texan wondered for a brief moment. Why not Chey?

  The question prompted more introspection, the ranger realizing the growing ball of fear in his stomach was causing his mind to work overtime. Then another realization dawned on Zach. It wasn’t only fear that racked his frame and caused his hands to shake. He was experiencing another emotion that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Zach was homesick.

  The Syrian landscape was such a lonely, foreign place to take his last breath. His senses kicked into overdrive as he anticipated his final moments, detecting abnormalities that he wouldn’t normally notice. The soil next to his cheek smelled different than the sand of West Texas. The sky was a different shade of blue. The horizon seemed flatter. This wasn’t his world. What was he doing here?

  Every fiber of Zach’s being screamed for the Texan to rise up and bolt. His legs demanded to be turned loose, to exercise their long stride and put life-saving distance between the threat and him. His heart and soul pleaded with his stubborn brain to flee. Despite surviving his share of gunfights, arrests,
and high-speed chases, he found himself struggling to hold his ground and control his body.

  Waiting until there was no doubt the unfortunate lead searcher was going to stroll right up to their position, Zach inhaled deeply, forced himself to calm down, and squeezed the trigger.

  The single shot sent the ISIS fighters diving for cover. Zach watched his target fall, clutching the gaping hole in his chest. “There goes our element of surprise,” he whispered.

  The hunters regrouped quickly, scurrying half bent to a central rallying point. Now they knew where the prey was hiding.

  Zach wiped a stream of sweat from his brow, squinting into the sun that was falling rapidly in the west. He’d never fought men who weren’t afraid to die. Sure, some of the criminals he’d faced placed little value on any human life, including their own. But the men he now faced actually professed to welcome death, and that was a new twist.

  Famous for their religious fervor and the well-established rewards for martyrdom, the ranger wondered how his foe would fight. He didn’t have to wait long to see.

  Rising as a group, 11 men rushed the ranger’s position, a coordinated assault with guns blazing. “Wait!” Zach shouted at the major. “Hold until I fire. Let them come in.”

  The heavy Russian-designed bullets began zipping all around the overturned wagon. The shooters couldn’t aim for accuracy while charging, but the full-auto hailstorm of lead was enough to make the defenders duck for cover.

  When they were 50 yards out, Zach cut loose with his own volley of high-velocity lead. A moment later, the major’s AK joined the fray.

  The ranger spotted one… and then a second man drop. When the third fell, the assault lost its momentum and faltered. It was difficult not to cheer in victory when the remaining eight men turned and retreated.

  “They won’t try that again,” Zach announced. “They’ll come at us from different directions the next time. Keep a sharp eye.”

  The words still hung in the air when a voice called out across the sand, “Ghost, is that you my old friend? I know you’re down in that filthy ditch. Come out and give me back the pilots, and I promise you’ll not be harmed.”