Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  “Tell him, thank you, but I love Jesus.”

  “I don’t think I should tell him that.”

  “Tell him that Jesus changed my life, and I’m very happy, even here, even if I have to die.”

  Rasul didn’t bother to translate this to the other men. Instead, he spoke to her directly. “How did he change your life?”

  “I did lots of bad things before I invited Jesus into my life. He gave me a clean heart. He changed me.”

  Séverine rode in a covered jeep with three female fighters from Kurdish YPJ. The dark outlines of cotton fields passed on either side of them. A night breeze caressed her face, carrying the sweet scent of chamomile and almond blossoms.

  Asso and two more YPJ fighters followed in the car behind them.

  A round-faced girl in camouflage sang from the backseat, reaching for notes until her voice cracked. The other women laughed.

  Séverine didn’t have to remind herself that they weren’t on their way to a party, but headed into the most dangerous territory on the planet, especially for a Western woman like herself.

  “This is a beautiful area when there’s peace,” commented Roza at the wheel beside her. She had a bony face with sunken cheeks and eyes, and straight brown hair parted in the middle and pulled back. An M4 rifle rested on the console between them.

  “How long have you been fighting?” Séverine asked, as she checked her phone for wifi or cell reception. Nothing.

  “Two years,” Roza answered. Séverine noticed a large bump at the top of her forehead and wondered what had caused it. “Before, I had no social or economic life. You know, my life was between four walls. Very traditional.”

  “You grew up in this area?”

  “In Al-Hasakah, yes. My father repaired cars. My brother repaired cars and motorcycles. I was expected to get married and have children. This war has brought me freedom.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

  “Expectations are for dummies.” She smiled. “Maybe I should write a book.”

  She translated what she had said into Kurdish for the women in back. The bond between them seemed strong.

  “For me, this war is not just about defending our land,” Roza continued. “It has changed me. It has changed all of us.”

  They passed a burned-out tank alongside the road. Some clever artist had spray-painted it with cartoon-like graffiti.

  Séverine hadn’t had time to think about the ways the war had changed her, too.

  “I never believed that a woman could be equal to a man before,” said Roza.

  “Have any of you been involved in combat?” Séverine asked.

  “All of us, yes. We fought many battles. Many times they put us on the front line to shoot at the ISIS, because the ISIS have great fear of us.”

  “Why?”

  “They don’t think they will be admitted to heaven and be welcomed by dancing virgins if they are killed by a woman.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He who wants pearls has to dive into the ocean.

  —Kurdish proverb

  Crocker glanced at his watch as the Knighthawk passed over a modern hydroelectric dam. It read 2249 hours—a little more than four hours from the deadline.

  He was thinking about the time he had driven cross-country with his red-haired girlfriend Leslie to start BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training). He was twenty-two; she was twenty. The VW they drove in had broken down five times. By the time they reached Nevada, they were down to their last twenty dollars.

  “That’s Tabqa Dam,” Doyle shouted into his ear. “Built in the ’70s. The body of water behind it is called Lake Assad.”

  “It’s still called that?” Crocker asked. Hydroelectric dams had always fascinated him. He and Leslie had stopped to tour the Hoover Dam during their cross-country trip.

  The CIA case officer shrugged. “Daesh controlled all the land around it until a couple weeks ago. They left the guys who run the dam alone, and the men kept working and receiving their weekly paychecks from the Syrian government.”

  “That’s wack.”

  While he’d been suffering through timed runs along the Coronado Beach, ocean swimming, calisthenics, and timed obstacle course runs, Leslie had stayed in a trailer on the edge of the desert waiting for him to come home.

  “Very wack.”

  She’d gotten bored and after a month or so returned home. He couldn’t blame her.

  The helo circled over rocky hills, past the three-quarters moon, and descended sharply into a valley to the south, near a town and temporary military camp.

  Doyle said, “The pilot says he’s going to touch down and take off quickly. So we have to move fast.”

  As they approached the ground he saw men waving pink and green glow sticks and shouting in the dark. “Run! Run! Run!”

  They waved them into a bunker carved into the side of a hill and reinforced with sandbags. Inside Crocker and company were greeted by a self-important dude in camouflage. Looked like he spent a lot of time in the mirror grooming his mustache.

  “This is Commander Kassim of the YPG,” Doyle said.

  Around him stood an assortment of heavily armed fighters, some in uniform, others in civilian clothes. One older guy with a big belly wore a plate vest over a dirty white University of Miami sweatshirt. They looked more like members of a gang than a military force.

  “Crocker.”

  Kassim started talking excitedly to Doyle in Kurdish dialect.

  Meanwhile, Akil fired up his Garmin GPSMAP 64st and said, “We’re so close to Aleppo we should be able to smell it.”

  Crocker saw that a local highway—marked #4 on the map—followed the branches of the Euphrates that snaked west to the city. A big hand squeezed his shoulder from behind.

  “Yo, Dez,” Akil exclaimed.

  “Akil, you ugly motherfucker.”

  Hugs and high-fives were exchanged between the former Delta operator Dez, now a private military contractor, his colleagues Oliver and Rollins, and Crocker and members of his team. The last time they had seen each other was at the nightclub in Erbil.

  “What the fuck you doing here?” Dez asked in a west Texan drawl. He was a mix of African American, Mexican, and white, and had a massive chest and arms covered with tats.

  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “We’re bunking with a dozen smelly contractors in an abandoned house at the edge of town, waiting for shit to happen. You?”

  “We’re here to rescue the American girl.”

  Dez’s eyes lit up. “Sweet, man.…Very cool.”

  “We’re trying to figure out how to get into Raqqa and where we might find her. Any ideas?”

  Dez had an almost childlike manner. “I don’t know.…Ollie and Rollins here did some recon on some antiaircraft installations west of the city two nights ago.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Hairy as fuck,” Rollins answered. He was a compact guy with an East London accent.

  “It’s a big town. Spread out along the river,” added Oliver—a big bloke with the scarred face of a boxer. “Mosques, boulevards, traffic circles, archeological sites. You know where you’re bloody going?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Unfortunate. If the jihadis find you they’ll bugger you first then cut off your heads.”

  “Nice.”

  They were drowned out by shouts from Commander Kassim, who looked like he was about to have a stroke. “What’s all the drama?” Crocker asked Doyle.

  Doyle answered out of the side of his mouth. “He’s freaking out because he thinks they’re going to be bombed by Russians or Turks. Both nations’ jets have been spotted in the area. He says he needs Stinger missiles and air defense immediately.”

  “The Turks?”

  “Yeah, the Turks don’t like the Kurds, either.”

  “Nobody fucking does, except us,” Rollins commented.

  By “us” Crocker hoped he meant the U.S. Coalition, but didn
’t have time to question him further. Instead he nodded toward Kassim and said, “Tell him we need his intel on Dayna Hood. Ask him to focus on that now.”

  Doyle answered, “He’s sent some men to a nearby camp to fetch some recent deserters from Daesh.”

  “What for?”

  “Hopefully, they’ll know something.”

  “That’s what he’s using for intel?” Akil asked. “Deserters? Can they be trusted?”

  “About as far as you can throw them,” commented Rollins.

  “We’ve got nothing else.”

  The YPJ and YPG had set up their Ayn Issa headquarters in the lobby of a small hotel called the Ninava—a pale-blue three-story cement structure on the town’s main square. Tonight it bustled with militants who came and went, and sat at tables resting, talking, and drinking beer, sodas, and tea. An electric current of expectation crackled through the air.

  Past one of the wide arches, Séverine saw Roza sitting on the tile floor devouring a lamb kebab.

  “We’re waiting for orders,” she said, wiping sauce off her mouth with the back of her hand. “The U.S. advisors are coordinating everything. We’re going to liberate Raqqa. It will be a difficult battle, but we will win!”

  “You’re leaving tonight?” Séverine asked.

  “Tonight? No.…Tonight we party and rest. What about you?”

  Asso waved from a table in the back, under one of the lobby’s ceiling fans.

  “Excuse me,” said Séverine as she went to join him. A soldier strummed a guitar in the corner. Another heavyset man sang a sad lament that was swallowed up in the din of voices.

  “What’s he singing about?” Séverine asked.

  “A beautiful girl named Helime who falls in love with a young farmer, but her parents don’t consent. So she and the farmer elope and escape to another village, when war with the Turks breaks out, and many Kurds are killed. Helime’s lover is wounded and sent into exile. He misses her so much that he sings this song.”

  “It’s lovely. Tell him…”

  “I will…. The song is old, but still speaks of our situation. Don’t you think? We Kurds are a proud people with many beautiful traditions, and for centuries we have longed to have our own homeland and live in peace.”

  “Maybe you’ll achieve that now.”

  “We haven’t had good luck.” Asso pushed a plate of food in front of her. “This is fried kubbah, a specialty from around here—bulgur wheat, onions, finely ground lean beef, cinnamon and other spices. Very delicious.”

  “No thanks.” Her stomach was still unsettled. She ordered a bottle of water and a dish of plain yogurt.

  Asso went to thank the singer and hand him some money. When he sat down again, he paused to listen to two men seated behind his left shoulder, talking at once and waving their arms dramatically. She suspected they were Asayish.

  “What are they saying?” she asked.

  “They’re talking about your friend.”

  “What have they heard?”

  He shook his head. “Just rumors, bits of information. Daesh has ordered everyone in the city inside their houses.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t give up hope.”

  Cold desperation spread from her stomach into her chest. Even the water tasted sour. She couldn’t help looking at the time on her cell phone. 11:22 p.m. They had less than three hours. Exhaustion and defeat wanted to overwhelm her. She pushed them back.

  I’ve come this far.…I have to be strong.

  Her cell phone vibrated. Someone was trying to contact her via Skype.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Asso, standing and hurrying to a back patio.

  The connection was lost. She waited, praying for the little screen to light up again.

  “Séverine?”

  “Crocker? Crocker, is that you? Oh, my God. It’s so, so good to hear your voice.”

  A couple sat in the shadows of a leafy tree. She seemed to be intruding on an intimate moment.

  “Where are you, Séverine?”

  “I’m in Ayn Issa. I’m not far from Raqqa. Southeast, I think.”

  “Okay,” Crocker answered, his voice breaking up. “I’m…I’m near the dam called…Tabqa. We’re on the other side of the city. We’re not far from each other.”

  “What have you heard about Dayna?”

  “Séverine.…Séverine.…”

  “Crocker!”

  The connection started to break up, then quickly was restored.

  “I hear you now,” said Crocker. “What were you saying?”

  “The people I’m with…they’re Asayish. They say Dayna’s probably in Raqqa. Daesh is clearing the streets, ordering everyone inside. What do you think that means?”

  “Don’t know.…Me and my men are ready to launch. We’ve got air surveillance moving in. Keep…faith.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “If you hear any specifics, let me know right away.”

  “Of course. Crocker—”

  The line went dead. When she tried to reach him the call didn’t go through. She squeezed the phone in frustration. The couple under the tree was making out furiously. It seemed like the perfect thing to do under the circumstances—lose yourself in the heart of another, and grab a few moments of pleasure.

  A serious man wearing black-framed glasses was standing with Asso when she returned to the table.

  “What?”

  “He says someone is waiting for you outside. His name is Mohammad.”

  “Where?”

  “On the street out front. Do you want me to come with you?” Asso asked.

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  They stood in a small, windowless room at the back of the bunker—eight anxious men staring at computer screens linked to surveillance drones flying high over the city of Raqqa—Crocker, Akil, Mancini, CT, Doyle, Dez, Oliver, and Rollins. Sandbags lined the walls. A mixed assemblage of modern weapons stood propped up by the entrance.

  “What are we looking at?” Crocker asked.

  Doyle pointed to the four-color images on the screen. “That’s the river…there. And that’s downtown Raqqa…the equestrian center, the main avenue…”

  “Looks fucking empty,” Akil commented.

  Despite the low cloud cover, the infrared imaging beamed from the two MQ-9 Reaper drones was impressive in its detail. Mancini explained that their highly advanced optical features included two-color DLTV cameras with variable zoom and 955mm Spotter, and allowed them to pick up small objects on the ground from an altitude of fifty thousand feet.

  Technical shit that Crocker didn’t understand. He wanted a target, a sighting of the woman.

  “What happens when the storm blows in, which is supposed to happen soon?” CT asked.

  “The drone operator can shift to the TESAR synthetic aperture radar, which provides all-weather surveillance capability, and has a resolution of one foot,” explained Mancini. “The MQ-9 is also equipped with thermal imaging that can see through smoke, mist, fog, and even vegetation. But if it starts raining hard, we can expect it to stop being effective.”

  “In other words, we’ll have no eyes overhead and no air cover.”

  “Air cover will be limited under the circumstances,” Mancini answered. “The MQ-9 is armed with four Hellfire missiles and a pair of five-hundred-pound laser-guided bombs.”

  “Sufficient bang for a strike on a few selected targets, but not enough to keep the enemy pinned down,” commented Crocker.

  “Yeah.”

  Doyle said, “We fly these babies over the city constantly, and Daesh is aware of that. So they employ countermeasures, like hiding weapons systems or stationing them next to civilian targets. Apparently they’ve killed the lights tonight.”

  The city appeared abandoned, which made Crocker wonder if maybe Dayna was being held in another location.

  “Is it always like this?” he asked.

  “Quieter than usual,” Doyle answered as the Reaper cameras zo
omed in on a series of larger buildings around a traffic circle, and a wide boulevard that cut north-south and ended at the banks of the river. “That is known as the Governate Building…there. And that’s the museum.”

  “Why are they significant?”

  “In the past, Daesh has staged big public rallies there,” Doyle said, pointing to a courtyard adjacent to the Raqqa Museum. “Doesn’t look like they’ll be doing that tonight.”

  Crocker’s heart started to sink. “If she’s inside, she could be anywhere.”

  Doyle continued to point out major landmarks in the downtown area. “The Seray Building, the national hospital, the Fawaz Mosque, the Al-Firdous Mosque.…”

  “Aren’t we better off looking for heat signatures?” asked Mancini. “If they’re assembling somewhere, they’re gonna need wheels to get there.”

  “Not necessarily,” Doyle countered.

  “What’s that?” Akil pointed at what looked like two cars stopped at a roadblock farther up the road.

  CT tapped Crocker on the shoulder. “Boss?” he whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Captain Sutter’s on the sat phone. What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “He sounds ultra pissed.”

  The twelve members of the Ar Raqqa Sharia Court sat in a semicircle on folding chairs in a basement room of the Governate Building down the street from the Al-Firdous Mosque and catercorner with the Raqqa Museum. Sheikh al-Sufi and his military advisors faced them from behind an old wooden table along the back wall.

  The court was composed of a dozen serious-looking men with long beards, some of which hung to their chests. Many of them wore long black robes and prayer hats. Some fingered prayer beads that hung from their waists and muttered verses from the Quran under their breath.

  In the dank room lit with electric torches and candles, rail-thin Imam Abu Anau Zabas of the Al-Firdous Mosque stood first and spoke passionately about the steady defection of foreign fighters that had started a year ago.

  “With all respect, Imam, what does this have to do with the issue before us?” a younger, stouter member of the court asked.

  “Because we are judged by our actions by believers all around the world,” Imam Zabas explained. His thin face and sunken, burning eyes gave him the look of a prophet. “I warned you a year ago against the burning alive of Jordanian pilot Muath al-Kasasbeh and the slaying of the two Japanese hostages. These acts were violations of Sharia law and have led to defections and a loss of support.”