by Isaac Hooke
Ethan placed Maaz's lower body over his thighs and opened the medkit. He grabbed the AAT—Abdominal Aortic Tourniquet.
"William, what's the hold up?" Sam said.
"Just a sec." William was apparently trying to wipe the blood from the front seat with the hem of his abaya.
"William—" Sam sounded at the end of her patience.
"Hell with it." William plunked himself down, letting the crimson fluid soak through the black fabric he wore, and slammed on the accelerator.
Ethan finished wrapping the AAT around the youth's abdomen. He fastened the buckle, adjusted the strap, and squeezed the air pump several times. The front inner portion of the device inflated into a wedge shape that put eighty pounds of pressure on the abdominal aorta, cutting off blood flow to the pelvis.
The youth hyperventilated. His face was extremely pale and slick with sweat. Individual droplets trickled from his matted hair.
Maaz looked up at Sam and said, between frantic breaths: "I wanted to come with you. Dreamed of it. I wanted to start a new life. In a land without war."
Sam gripped his hand tightly. "And you're still going to come with me, Maaz. I promise you." She glanced at Ethan for confirmation, trusting in his judgment.
Ethan refused to meet her eye; he neither nodded nor shook his head. He couldn't promise her anything. Not yet. It was obvious Maaz had lost a lot of blood. Too bad none of them were universal donors. The first order of business if he wanted to save the youth's life was to inject a plasma volume expander to increase the blood pressure.
He grabbed a peripheral venous catheter, a saline fluid bag—the volume expander—and associated tubing. He connected the tube to the bag, quickly flushing out the air bubbles. Then he grabbed the youth's hand and prepared to insert the catheter needle.
"You're so beautiful," Maaz abruptly told Sam. "I've been wanting to tell you. Since the moment I met you."
Sam smiled. Her chin quivered. "Thank you."
"No, thank you," Maaz said. "When I am in paradise, I will refuse the virgins. I will tell God, I want to wait for you instead."
Sam blinked. Her cheeks were wet. "Don't wait for me. Don't you dare."
As he worked, a part of Ethan's mind wondered if it was his fault. Gray Beard had been holding Maaz when Ethan shot the militant. It was possible a bullet had deflected from a rib or other bone, striking the youth. But what about the fighter who'd released the AK burst at Ethan from the inbound lane? That man might be the culprit.
Well, someone had hit Maaz, one way or another, and dwelling on it wouldn't save the youth.
Ethan inserted the needle. There was no flashback of blood into the tip—he'd missed the vein.
Maaz looked away from Sam for just a moment to glance at Ethan with big, pleading eyes.
Help me, those eyes seemed to say. I want to live. Please.
Ethan tried again. There, a proper flashback. He advanced the catheter into the vein.
Sam had kept her hand wrapped around Maaz's other palm the whole time. "You're so brave." She combed the matted hair from his face. "So very brave."
Maaz's breathing slowed, becoming prolonged gasps.
Ethan removed the cap from the IV tubing extension, then activated the safety device on the catheter and removed the needle. He attached the extension to the catheter and initiated the transfusion. He secured the catheter to the skin with tape.
The youth's breathing became even more shallow.
"Om," Maaz called suddenly. "Omi!" Mother.
Maaz's breathing ceased. He stared lifelessly at the car's ceiling.
Sam's head shot up. "Ethan!" she pleaded.
Ethan felt the youth's wrist. No pulse.
"Doug, hold this." Ethan passed the saline bag to the front seat and Doug grabbed it.
Leaving the catheter in place, Ethan slid Maaz's upper body closer to him. He attempted cardiopulmonary resuscitation. After thirty chest compressions, he gently tilted Maaz's head back, opening the airway. He pinched the youth's nose and gave two rescue breaths.
He performed another batch of thirty compressions, followed once again by two rescue breaths. He repeated that cycle five more times over the next two minutes. There was no change in the youth's condition.
He glanced up at Sam. "I'm sorry."
She shifted suddenly, placing Maaz in the seat underneath her. "Give me room," she told Ethan. "Room!"
Ethan slid to the far side of the backseat, letting Sam position herself on top of the youth. She proceeded to give CPR herself.
"Come on!" she said between cycles. "Come on!"
After about three minutes, she paused to catch her breath.
"Sam..." Ethan said.
She dove right back in to the next cycle. "Wake up, damn you!"
Finally, after another two minutes, she stopped. She bent forward, slumping over Maaz's lifeless body. Her breath was ragged, her body wracked by soft sobs.
No one said a word. Other than Sam's whimpers, that car was dead quiet. Dead. Ethan's face felt extremely hot.
William pulled the vehicle to the shoulder of the highway shortly thereafter. While Sam recited the Salat al-Janazah, the Islamic funeral prayer, the other operatives hid the body behind a grove of hardy turpentine bushes in the green pasture near the highway. There was otherwise no time for a proper Muslim burial. Sam recorded the location of the body on her GPS so that she could notify the resistance, and that was that. Before leaving, she retrieved the fake ID from the corpse.
When Ethan returned to the vehicle, he fished a canteen from the rear cargo area and, using the water sparingly, wiped the blood from his hands.
"We should have used that water to cleanse the body," Sam said bitterly.
Ethan paused. "Sam. We have a mission to complete."
"You're right of course," she said, closing her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I guess I'm our new chaperon." William began removing his abaya.
"No," Sam said. "I want Ethan on the wheel. He's our chaperon."
William shrugged. "Suits me just fine. I prefer to relax in the backseat anyway."
There wasn't any animosity in his tone, not in the least, and Ethan knew that William meant what he said. Ethan would've preferred to relax in the backseat himself. But if Sam wanted him driving...
"They have my picture." Ethan glanced at William. "All of our pictures."
"I doubt the militants have spread our mug shots outside Mosul yet," Sam said. "They have no cellular network. No real Internet. We'll get past the checkpoints."
"Is that a risk we're willing to take?" Ethan said.
"We have no choice."
Ethan shook his head. "We should have stolen the Humvee back there."
"Maybe," Sam said. "But we didn't. I think it's better to play civilians for this one anyway. The last thing we need is some hotshot emir drafting us into his service at one of the checkpoints." She pointed at the driver-side door. "So as I said, you're driving."
"All right all right." Ethan removed the abaya and hijab, exposing his T-shirt and pants underneath.
He gave the abaya to William so that the operative could change out of his blood-soaked version.
William's fabric hadn't absorbed all the blood—when Ethan sat in the driver's seat he felt the cold liquid seep through his slacks and skivvies. He shifted, trying to ignore the squishy sensation underneath him; at least his pants were colored black, so the stains wouldn't be noticeable. Still, the thought of someone else's blood soaking through to his genitals wasn't a pleasant one.
After everyone was inside he sped down the highway at over double the speed limit, intending to close the distance with the courier. He didn't want Maaz's death to be for nothing.
Keeping an eye on the laptop, Sam produced Maaz's fake ID and began to abrade the picture with the male connector of a USB stick, wiping away the last memento they had of the resistance fighter. It was necessary, of course, so that Ethan could assume his identity. It still felt wrong, somehow.
Ethan
glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping for one last glimpse of the body, but it was lost to the green landscape behind him. He thought of the youth's helpless expression in those last moments, and he felt his features grow hot again.
Another face to haunt my dreams.
28
The Ural-4320 cargo truck thrust through the streets of Mosul. Dmitri sat in the passenger side, looking down at the Iraqis who seemed so tiny in their Korean and Japanese vehicles.
The Ural overtook an Islamic State pickup. The radicals in the truck bed lifted their forefingers in the "One God, One Caliphate" salute. Dmitri smirked, returning the gesture.
Fools.
His gaze lingered on the Kalashnikovs the fighters carried. If there was one thing the armies of this otherwise backwater country had gotten correct, it was their choice of military hardware and munitions: Urals, BTR 50s, T-55s, Kalashnikovs, Dragunovs, Vorons. Of course, it helped that the motherland was one of the few military superpowers willing to trade in the region. Much of the matériel was outdated, true, but even Soviet-era equipment was built to last.
The military truck parked in front of the cobbler shop. Dmitri and two of his lieutenants emerged and proceeded inside the small building. The instant he passed the door, the distinct smell of shoe leather hit his nostrils and he was reminded of his childhood in Russia, where he had spent his days working in the leather shop his mother and father owned. Leather had such a beautiful, distinct odor, entirely unlike the process that produced it.
He had gone with his father to visit a tannery once to see how the leather was made. They traveled to a small village fifty kilometers to the northwest of Moscow. Tanners and their families made up the entire population of the town. The workers had apparently started the village because no other municipalities would allow them to ply their trade nearby. When Dmitri asked why, his father explained that the tanners used the "old method." Dmitri didn't know what that meant, but he nodded as if he did.
The combined malodor of raw sewage and decaying flesh hit Dmitri before he had even entered the town. The stench only worsened with each moment, climaxing when they set foot inside an actual tannery. The owner handed father and son a mint leaf to place under their noses in case the smell became too much. Dmitri kept that leaf under his nose the whole time—it didn't help.
He learned that the tanners soaked the hides in urine to remove the hair fibers. Then the skins were softened by pounding dung into the surfaces. Dmitri almost vomited a few times.
Before they left the village, Dmitri and his father relieved themselves in a public piss-pot on a street corner. The old woman manning the pot thanked them and they were on their way.
When that terrible town was behind them, his father told Dmitri something that stayed with him his entire life.
"There are two types of people in this world," his father said. "Those who take the shit, and those who live in it. Tell me, my son, which type of person you want to be."
"The one who takes the shit," Dmitri said immediately.
His father smiled. "Good."
To Dmitri, Iraq was one big tannery. Dmitri would take his shit, and then he would leave.
The obsequious proprietor stood up from his work area to shake their hands. "Salaam, salaam. How can I help you today, Great Captain?"
The cobbler was a leather-skinned man with a permanent stoop, likely from the years he'd spent bending over the shoe last. He couldn't have been more than forty or fifty, judging from the gray-streaked hair. His rather long mustache curled unfashionably about his lips.
Dmitri smiled companionably. "I am here to repair my boots, of course!"
The proprietor laughed a little forcefully, blowing out his mustache. "Of course! Have a seat." He gestured toward a nearby set of cushions arrayed on the floor.
Dmitri ignored the man and instead scanned the room and its side hallways. A profusion of different area rugs, many of them overlapping, covered the floor in a mishmash of patterns. Dmitri had only been expecting a few rugs. Not that... mess.
When Dmitri's gaze returned to the proprietor, the Iraqi's eyes betrayed a moment of fear, flicking to the AK that Dmitri had slung over one shoulder.
"Please, have a seat," the cobbler tried again, though he must have realized Dmitri's intention by then.
Dmitri glanced at Pyotr and nodded. The lieutenant left to search the house.
"What—" The proprietor glanced at Pyotr. "Is there a problem?"
Dmitri approached a low workbench. On it was an iron shoe last surrounded by the cobbler's tools—round head knives, stitching awls, spools of thread, mallets, nails, pliers, and so forth.
Dmitri picked up a sharp awl and examined it. "Tell me, cobbler, you are a good Muslim host?"
"Yes, of course I am."
"If a stranger such as myself came to your house, you would feed him, and let him use your facilities, before sending him on his way in peace?"
"Of course," the cobbler agreed.
"So you would not keep him prisoner?"
The cobbler stared dumbly for a moment. "What?" he spluttered. "No. Why would I do such a heinous thing?"
"Certainly you wouldn't," Dmitri agreed. He returned the awl to the workbench. "You are a man of peace. A man who knows what the Islamic State would do to him if he were caught."
The cobbler swallowed. "I am a pious, law-abiding citizen."
"I'm sure you are."
The soft thump of Pyotr's boots came from the hall as the lieutenant returned from his search of the house. He caught Dmitri's eye and shook his head.
Dmitri spun on the cobbler and asked him point-blank: "Where is the trapdoor?"
The proprietor opened his mouth, but no words came. The Iraqi finally managed to say: "I'm not sure what you are talking about."
Dmitri smiled politely. To Pyotr and his other lieutenant, Boris, he said: "Check the rugs."
Boris and Pyotr split up, moving from rug to rug, peering underneath each one to the stone floor below. They left a trail of upturned area carpets in their wake.
"What are they doing?" The cobbler licked his lips nervously as the two worked.
"What do you think, cobbler?" Dmitri said. He filled that last word with utter contempt.
The cobbler's eyes darted once again to the AK hanging from Dmitri's shoulder.
"You like it?" Dmitri said, sliding the assault rifle down. "You must. You keep looking at it." He ran a finger along the long barrel. "The AK-12. Like everything Russian, it is far superior to its American counterpart, the M16A4. It has full automatic mode, in addition to the burst and semi-modes found on the A4. It has a faster rate of fire, greater muzzle velocity, lighter weight, smaller length. Better in every way. Would you care to hold it?" He offered the rifle to the cobbler.
The Iraqi took a step back, raising his palms defensively. "I am a peaceful man."
Dmitri frowned. "Of course you are." Dmitri interpreted the words as, I am a weak man.
He pointed the muzzle at the proprietor and the cobbler's eyes widened in fear.
"Show me the trapdoor," Dmitri ordered.
The proprietor didn't move.
"My comrades are going to find it anyway," Dmitri said. "Do you really want to die for nothing?"
The cobbler hesitated, then something seemed to break inside him. He marched defeatedly across the room, past Boris and Pyotr, and removed an area rug near the far wall. A wooden trapdoor lay underneath, set into the stone floor.
Finally.
"Open it," Dmitri commanded the proprietor. He kept the barrel aimed at the man.
The Iraqi knelt and pulled the door open.
"Now tell your friend to come up," Dmitri told him quietly. "And then step back."
The cobbler hesitated.
Dmitri lifted the aim of the rifle slightly, centering it on the Iraqi's head.
"Abu Hesam," the cobbler shouted into the trapdoor. "Come here. Quickly!"
Dmitri looked at Pyotr and gestured toward the cobbler, indicating that the l
ieutenant should move him away. Pyotr promptly dragged the proprietor to the corner of the room.
Dmitri beckoned to his remaining lieutenant and quietly padded away from the hole. He reclined on the cushions the cobbler had pointed out earlier; Boris joined him.
Dmitri aimed his assault rifle at the opening, flicked the ambidextrous fire selector to triple burst, and waited. When the resistance guard climbed those stairs, his back would be to Dmitri. It was the perfect sniping point.
One minute passed.
Two.
Dmitri wondered if the unseen guard had heard what had transpired. It was possible. He glanced at the cobbler and rolled his hand as if to say, "call him again."
The Iraqi, cowering in the far corner of the room beside Pyotr, leaned forward and shouted. "Hesam! Come up!"
Dmitri waited patiently. He would sit there all day if he had to. He and his men had learned patience long ago, during their tenure as snipers in the Spetsnaz, where hours, sometimes days, could be spent waiting for a target.
He heard the subtle grind of a boot on stone. The sound came again, louder. A third time.
Finally the back of an Iraqi's head appeared at the edge of the trapdoor. "What is it?" the man said. His accent seemed slightly Kurdish.
The Iraqi rose further. He carried a sawed-off Kalashnikov in his hands. If he had come up unarmed, Dmitri would have let him live. But not anymore.
Dmitri sighted his rifle over the man's head and squeezed the trigger. A deadly burst erupted from the muzzle, destroying the Iraqi's skull. The body toppled from view.
"Any more?" he asked the cobbler.
The terror-stricken proprietor shook his head.
The mole had promised only one guard would be present, but Dmitri wasn't sure he believed either him or the cobbler. He called for backup on the radio. Two more of his men entered the shop shortly.
Dmitri beckoned toward the trapdoor. "Check it," he told the new arrivals.
The soldiers activated the white-light attachments on their rifles and cautiously entered the dark passageway.
A moment later a voice came over the radio. "Clear, Kapitán!"
"Stay here," he told the two lieutenants with him. He nodded toward the cobbler. "And if he tries to flee, shoot him."