by Isaac Stormm
“You take a look around this place like I have. They’ve reinforced security. But we still got holes. They have a couple guys that can stop someone out front. That’s it. Enough explosives especially from a suicide truck or van will blow the gate apart. Then you get other vehicles to come in behind it, stop just short of the gate and let their occupants come charging in.”
“Just like in Full Metal Jacket. Remember?” Wilson said about the scene in the war film when a bus charged a U.S. Marine base’s gate, blew it up and provided a way for waves of NVA soldiers to come through.
“Easier than that.” Carlson peeled back layers of his biscuit and placed honey on some. He took a drink of water and a fresh bite from the steamy bread. Say one thing about the United States. Wherever they sent their men to fight, they were now providing food good enough for its warriors, he figured.
He motioned at someone standing in the entrance. It was Mustin. Carlson pointed to the vacant chair in front of them.
“He become talkative yet?” Wilson downed some orange juice.
“I told him last night what I just told you. I’m sure it provided a hell of an excuse not to sleep. He needed to know, though.”
“You sure we can trust him tonight?”
“Oh, yes. He is as experienced as anyone here. Let the butterflies go away. He’ll be ready to go.”
“Nevertheless, I prefer to watch Wilson’s back and have him watch mine. We can both watch yours,” Huffman said.
Mustin came and sat down.
“It’s good stuff, boys. Eat up,” Carlson reassured. He took another helping of eggs, skewered them with a fork and downed them with a couple swallows of water. Now it was time to start getting into the mindset for tonight’s mission. This was the ritual he always did with the morning breakfast in which a mission was to take place either that day or that night. He would do pre-mission checks and get his combat face on long before lunch. It would be the only thing he thought about until it was executed.
“We’re going to have to use Iraqi backup units to cover us,” Carlson said.
“Infil or extraction?” Huffman downed some orange juice.
“Both. They’ve got a guide they want us to use. And also have a covering force waiting for us when we leave the target area. Rules of engagement.”
“Putting us at risk again. I hate politics.”
“When we put on this uniform we knew that there would be meddling in our business. We’ve no choice even if it puts us at risk. I know you know that.”
“Don’t have to accept it. I’m getting out of this man’s Army as soon as this tour’s up. Maybe become an author. Or teach firearms classes at a reputable training site. Make some videos.”
“Like Travis Haley or Chris Costa?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“I’m staying in,” Wilson said. “Don’t have much of a family that’s close. This is the only stuff I know how to do good.”
“Me too,” Carlson said. “I’ll stay in as long as this body and mind will let me. I don’t like leaving places with unfinished business.”
Mustin smiled and said, “Sooner or later it’s not going to be our business. Some politician will get in office and come up with a reason to pull us out. All based on poll numbers. The Walking Dead, no pun intended, is what we really are.”
Carlson nodded. “Yeah, but every soldier since the beginning of time has been that way. Look at what happened in Vietnam.”
“It seems we no longer fight wars to win them but to keep from losing them,” Huffman said. “That bothers me sometimes.”
“I feel your pain,” Mustin added.
“Major, regardless of that statement, you can always count on me when the shit hits the fan,” Huffman said.
“If my hunch is correct, you may be proving those words very shortly. And I don’t mean with tonight’s mission.”
“Say what?”
“The Major’s sure were going to get hit,” Wilson said.
“Sometime this week. I can feel it.” Carlson swallowed a clump of egg.” If we do and have to run, the communications bunker is our best bet. You guys know where it’s at, the concrete bunker looking building. It has a below ground floor that can hold us. We got to make sure we’re still connected to the outside world.”
“Who’s that?” Mustin looked over at the entrance. A bearded Arab man in woodland camouflage uniform and cap stood at the door. He raised his hand as if to motion for someone. A cook waved back and welcomed him in.
“Seen that guy?” Carlson asked any of them.
“Yeah, he’s one of the interpreters. Saw him speaking in perfect English to Kearny before we came in,” Quinn informed.
“Wonder if he’s assigned to us?” Carlson still was a little curious. “I think I’ll go ask.” He shoveled the last bit of egg down and munched hard on the biscuit. Then he picked up his tray and walked over to the man.
“Good morning,” came the cheerful reply and nod from the man. “I’m looking for a man named Carlson.”
“That would be me. You assigned to us?”
“Yes. Anwar Hussein. You can call me Joe.”
“Hussein? You gotta be shitting me.”
“No relation to that tyrant. My father and uncle were imprisoned and murdered by him. I was scheduled for trial when you Americans invaded. You saved my life and because of that, I’ve been helping you since. I’ve even been wounded.” He rolled a sleeve up further to reveal a faded gash across his upper arm that trekked to the shoulder. “AK round. Four years ago with Spec Ops.”
The man‘s confidence inspired Carlson to develop a little trust in him, but far from all the way. Usually though, in his experience, interpreters were good to go. Most having been persecuted by Saddam. “All right, Anwar, we’ll be leaving the base at 0930 hours. Meet me at the commo bunker at that time.”
He saluted smartly. “Yes, Colonel. I will be there.”
Carlson returned the salute and the man wheeled on his heels and left. Carlson deposited his tray in a stack and headed out the door back to his barrack. He was thinking if they should go in disguise. Dress as locals who might belong to some militia group. He wanted to think on it some more. The latest issue of RECOIL magazine, a publication about the shooting lifestyle was in his locker and he’d yet to read it. He’d make his decision sometime as he turned its crisp color pages.
Israel
Tel Aviv
Foxmann had barely enough time to write the after action report in his office before Grozner called him. Now he was making his way down that familiar hall to hear what his boss wanted to tell him face to face.
“Come in.” Grozner closed the door behind him. There stood another man in a three-piece suit, expressionless, that Foxmann never saw before. “We have a big problem. This man is Conrad Tiller, America’s ambassador to Israel. He has brought something to my attention. I wanted you hear… And this is for you.” He handed over a sheaf of papers then he turned his laptop screen to face him. It contained a chart and numbers beside it that varied every second.
“What is that?”
“A satellite feed of the IAEA,” Grozner said. “I asked them to get involved and monitor your target. You know what it reads?”
“Please explain.”
Tiller placed his hand over a set of numbers ticking off. “This is how much radiation is spilling from the opening. It is reaching critical levels. Levels that could kill and I’ve been told it is going to be the deadliest release of radiation in history. It’s intensity is measured in a thing called rems. This one is already two hundred fifty rems and climbing. That’s just enough to make you sick. Worse, is it doesn’t look like its stopping anytime soon. We suspect possibly five hundred rems which is lethal. And in this instance, it’ll be a giant clouds worth that will ride on East-Southeast currents across the gulf and over the Arabian Peninsula. Millions, tens of millions of people may be made sick or killed.”
“I know you wanted to keep being updated, Jessy. There it is. Something no on
e foresaw overshadowing this conflict. Now you can worry.”
Great piece of advice, he thought. We’ve not even reached the end of the beginning and this is already playing against us. He thought of some sort of defense. “That target had to be blown. There was no choice. If there is to be a blame game at the U.N., let them focus on Iran and their cohort Russia for making such a catastrophe possible.”
“I feel your concern,” the man said. “But the United States doesn’t view it that way.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I’ve been told that when Anderson found out, he was livid. Kept going on about how this wasn’t the right time. That you acted too quickly. I wouldn’t count on them to stand by you very much. Especially since Rustani blames them too.”
“If they get into it, it could be a blessing in disguise. The quicker this war could end.”
Tiller said, “I can tell you the population is not keen after Afghanistan and policing Iraq. They are your real supporters, and if its spun the right way, they could be convinced to take a hands-off approach.”
Foxmann looked down for a moment, then back up at Tiller . “Is there anybody in the states on our side, then?”
“At this point, they are just lonely voices crying in the wind.”
“Until the first American blood is spilled and there’ll be more.” He looked over at Grozner, looking for a reaction for that comment, then continued, “Things get written in stone pretty quickly.”
“I’m afraid your country may be making the biggest mistake in its history, Colonel. I’m here on my own volition to give you all a heads up on something that will happen this evening.”
“And that would be?” Grozner asked.
“The U.N. Security Council will offer a cease-fire. It will also offer to extinguish the fire at the Iranian base. Maybe we can sweep this whole mess up before it spreads. It’s an offer I’m pleading with you to say yes to. No one has to lose face. Please take it.”
“If it is offered, I will tell your president I am willing to accept it.” Grozner then waved his finger, ”but the Iranians never will, I’m afraid. You see, we’re just waiting for Hezbollah to start up. I expect to look out that window there hearing the sirens telling us the rockets are on their way.”
“Listen, I am a Jew as well. You certainly have the right to protect yourself. But further strikes against Iran proper or Iranian forces should be cancelled. Of course you deal with Hezbollah the best way you see fit. But please don’t include any other countries or factions.”
“Alright. On the surface I see your point. Let’s just say that I tentatively agree not to strike any Iranian forces as long as they don’t threaten us. I leave it up to the peace brokers in New York and, of course, Washington, D.C. to see if they can get this thing under control.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man was genuinely happy. A smile bared from his face. “Good day.”
Foxmann opened the door for him. Once it shut, he turned to Grozner with a kind of bewildered look on his face. “Did you mean that? We actually don’t attack the Iranians anymore if they don’t come at us.”
“We’ve done enough damage to them as far as I can see. If they don’t try anything with us and they can somehow wedge that cease-fire in between us, there might be a legitimate shot at this conflict being over. I’m not holding out any hope. But I don’t want to be viewed as being intractable or hardheaded…Surprised?”
“About this. Yes, I am. You may be viewed as we view Anderson. Too indecisive.”
“Well, I’ll have to take that chance. I’m going to keep an eye on that cloud. Keep you updated as well. Tell me, have you found anything else of this Colonel Zarin? Did you kill him last night?”
“Can’t guarantee that. We fingerprinted everybody we killed. He’s not in our database though. All I know is that he was supposed to be there and we had as tight a security cordon as we could get to stop everyone from leaving, which was quite sudden.”
“Any more missions planned?”
“I’m checking on it.”
“As Prime Minister, I’m pulling rank. I want you here for the time being.”
“Alright, I can do that. If something big comes up—”
“You can go.”
Washington, D.C.
The White House
5:35 P.M.
Anderson looked over the Iranian reply. He couldn’t believe it. This was from Rustani? It seemed more like Mahatma Ghandi. The official decision to accept a cease-fire so soon, when Iran hadn’t taken the first steps to retaliate. It reeked of deception. And still he had to go for it. Make the effort real and somehow get the two parties to agree.
He wanted Grozner notified.
He pressed a button on the keyboard. It had been arranged just like the red phone between the Soviet Union and the United States during the Cold War. All that was necessary for him to reach Grozner was a couple of taps on the keyboard and the screen showed anything having to do with the Israeli attack, ready to discuss.
Grozner suddenly appeared on the screen replacing the text sent from Rustani. “Prime Minister. It’s official. The Iranian Supreme Chancellor is willing to accept a cease-fire.”
“I have read the text Rustani sent. I have grave concerns that he is genuine. It might not even be him.”
“We’ve got to bite, Mr. Grozner. Get this thing over with as soon as possible.”
“All right. If it is official, I’m willing to go along with it. For now. However, if we are attacked by Hezbollah or any other Iranian backed group, we will respond in kind.”
“That is understood.”
“I will order a partial stand down of our forces. The Iranians must not attempt to send forces through any other country.”
“Prepare an official statement. Get it to the U.N. I will go on TV tonight at nine and tell them that the parties tentatively agreed that the conflict must end.”
Grozner looked down, appearing to write something on a piece of paper. After he was done, he looked off into the distance. “I’m still waiting for the rockets.”
“I know Hezbollah is your biggest worry right now. Unfortunately, I cannot include any proxy groups who may want to act on their own. You’ll have to deal with that. I’m sorry.”
“I will tell the Iranians I will stand down all of the military if they agree not to use any of their proxy forces.”
“That’s a nice overture. I will press the Security Council to insist that from the Iranians.”
“Mr. Anderson, we both know that any kind of peace with them, especially since they have not even tried to retaliate, is probably a long shot.”
“Maybe. But I hold out hope. Someone needs to do that now.”
Iraq
F.O.B. Johnathan
11:14 P.M.
Carlson pointed the Sig Sauer P320 pistol up and pressed the magazine release, allowing the 15 round clip to fall free. He racked the slide locking it back so he could see the barrel. He looked past the small glass sight over the rim of the ejection port into the small black hole and saw it was free of a round. He then shoved the clip back in and pressed the slide release and a loud clang rang out. He now chambered one of the 9mm 135 grain hollow points which was effective out to around 50 meters. He shoved the pistol back into the holster strapped to his thigh. Just beside it was another pouch containing another magazine. Feeling it was secure, he did another quick check over his equipment and gripped the 5.56mm MK18 carbine, checking it over. He screwed on the suppressor and looked over at the other three, gave an approving nod and headed outside to one of two MH-6 Little Bird helicopters.
There was Hussein standing next to one of the four seats situated outboard of the cockpit on either side. Carlson walked past and around the craft inspecting it. Good, an entire team can be carried, with the interpreter riding in place of the co-pilot. Carlson completed his walk which brought him to Hussein’s side.
“Night nice for a hunt,” Hussein smiled.
“Yes. Have the support units left?”
“About four minutes ago.”
Carlson looked at his watch. The support had plenty of time to get into position and create a wide enough circle around the objective to make it appear they were emplacing random roadblocks, which were part of daily life since the rise of ISIS, and not focusing on any particular target. If the assault team ran into trouble and couldn’t be evacuated by air, they would close the cordon and send in rescue teams to the target area. That’s how it was supposed to work. He’d been around long enough to know that the performance of Iraqi units could be questionable under normal circumstances and cowardly under the worst. These support units were Special Forces and he felt a little better that they’d stick around. If they didn’t when things went south, he imagined he’d swing as a burnt and mutilated corpse from the nearest bridge for the whole world to see or at the least, be publicly beheaded.
He sat down on the stiff seat and wrapped the lap belt around his waist. A quick click and he was secured. Huffman was on his side as well. Wilson and Mustin sat on the other and the rotor began to spool up. A soft whine rose in his ears and the downdraft of wind began ruffling his uniform. Rising to a shriek, the blades whirled into a solid looking silvery disc and the skids became light when the pilot increased the torque. The two choppers gently lifted skyward, sweeping forward and up just a few feet to clear the security wall. They crossed a street and continued climbing, swallowed by the dark. Once they reached 500-foot altitude, the two aimed toward the horizon full of continuous lights that formed the suburbs of Bagdad.
The plan was to land the eight men on the roof of the two-story office building serving as Talibi’s headquarters and make their way down, grabbing him and killing any guards that interfered. Once they completed their sweep, they’d meet out in the street where support would drive in, offer any covering fire and extract the team. The amazing part of this plan is that at no time had there been any guards outside. One surmised it was a way not to draw attention. And the buildings to either side of Talibi’s residence contained homeless and not guards. This situation meant Talibi was meat on the table ready for the taking, if everything went right, which Carlson knew it never did.