Together, they immediately left school and joined a unit of the Iran-backed Shia militia groups known as the Hashd al-Shaabi or Popular Mobilization Forces that formed to help liberate Sinjar and the surrounding Yazidi towns and villages from Daesh’s deathly grip, a liberation which was three long, hard-fought years in coming. But after the victory, instead of laying down their arms to return to their studies as their parents had wished them to do, had begged them to do, they had decided to continue their fight against Daesh and joined the Iraqi Kurdistan Peshmerga in its effort to rid the terrorists from their Mosul stronghold. And then, when that battle too had finally been won, they volunteered to join the battle in Syria, vowing to fight on until the annihilation of Daesh was complete.
And they kept their vows, vows they had made to themselves and to their God. During the nearly five years since Sinjar’s downfall on that unfortunate June day back in 2014, because of God’s good grace they had been able to avenge the deaths of those dear to them many times over with the many lives of terrorists they took on the battlefield. And now the war has ended at last, at least with a Daesh as an organized military force, the long and drawn-out final battle with the last, desperate remnants of the terrorist caliphate coming to a bloody, destructive end just three days ago in the village of Baghouz, an unfortunate shred of land located on Syria’s eastern steppe near the border with Iraq.
Long before the certain defeat of Daesh was close at hand, Killian had already begun making plans for after the war, his intent being to leave Syria and travel to Iraq, for it was there he had one final mission, a personal mission, one that he had been looking forward to for a very long time, one he had no choice but to complete if he wanted to be able to return home with a clear conscious.
All along he had assumed the only way he would be able to travel to Iraq and be allowed to stay there long enough to complete this final mission was to hire on with one of the many PMCs working for the U.S. military throughout the country. However, several months ago during a mop-up mission in Darʿā in southwest Syria near the border with Jordan, Killian bumped into someone who drastically altered this assumption of his.
Even though it was the aid worker from Norway who, by the purple twilight of the fast approaching December night, had accidentally bumped into Killian as Killian was making a weary way back to his tent after a long, trying day clearing tunnels left behind by the terrorists who had recently held the compound, it was Killian who apologized as he helped the skinny young man named Erling Nygaard – a devoted vegan Killian would soon learn – back to his feet. A polite but awkward conversation then ensued between the two, two men whose chosen paths in life were in complete divergence from each other’s, whose only similarities were to be found in the physical features common to their shared Nordic lineage: tall, big-boned frames, one thin and lanky from a restraining diet and one thick and sturdy with steely, well-fed muscles, serious, icy blue eyes, strong, pronounced cheekbones, the fair skin of which was now chafed pink from the harsh winter wind, and thick dark blond, practically brown beards covering their faces.
As the haggard-looking aid worker repeatedly brushed from his face the long greasy strands of hair that refused to stay tucked behind his ears – Killian had to refrain himself from grabbing hold of the bright red knit cap that sat drooping purposelessly on the back of the Norwegian’s head and yanking it down far enough to hold the man’s unruly, windblown hair in place once and for all – they discussed where each other was from, how long they had been in Syria – at that time they both had been in country about six months – and what they intended to do after their time in Syria had come to an end.
When learning that after the war Killian was planning to head south to Iraq to work as a military contractor, Erling stopped swiping at his hair and became very serious, explaining to Killian how there was a critical need for aid workers in the region in response to two of five Level-3 Emergencies on the planet, an L-3 Emergency being the United Nations’ highest classification for the most severe, large-scale humanitarian crises, one in Iraq and one in Syria brought on by Daesh’s inhuman wrath that had displaced millions; how the war’s ending with Daesh wouldn’t necessarily bring an end to this need, that it may in fact even serve to exacerbate it to some extent as war refugees sought to return to their homes; and how Killian could have a much more positive impact on Iraq as a volunteer aid worker rather than yet another soldier for hire in the country.
Without pause Erling went on to instruct Killian on a point that Killian was already very much aware of from the time he had spent in Iraq as a sailor during the reconstruction period after the war – that, in the same way an American might regard all boxes of tissues generically as Kleenex, Iraqis regarded all private military contractors in Iraq by the genericized term of Blackwater. To most Iraqis all military contractors working in Iraq, no matter their country or company of origin, were to them no different than the contractors employed by the infamous former company called Blackwater, contractors who the Iraqis believed saw themselves as being above the law and responsible for the blatant and unnecessary killing of many innocent Iraqi civilians during the U.S. occupation of Iraq.
Erling’s passionate lobbying intrigued Killian, not just because he dreaded the idea of having to work as a corporate military contractor in order to complete his long-planned-for objectives, but because he as a combat-hardened sailor more than most knew how difficult and tragic a life it was for refugees of war and recalled the gratification he had felt from the few times in his career he was part of a humanitarian relief effort. While Killian had no regrets about his chosen profession knowing all the good it had allowed for in the world, he also knew that, in its unyielding drive for peace and justice, the destruction of lives, of homes and communities, was often an unfortunate and unavoidable byproduct of this drive. Perhaps, he reasoned with himself, for once instead of being part of the cause that destroyed with presumably righteous justification, he could try being part of the cause that helped rebuild that which had been destroyed.
However, Killian wasn’t seriously considering becoming an aid worker, at least not until Erling began explaining to him, stressing to him with deep, heartfelt emotion, how desperately the Yazidi refugees still had it, how even just yesterday a mass grave had been discovered of seventy-three Yazidi women and girls only a few miles from where Erling and Killian now stood, women and girls who most certainly had been serving as sex slaves for the terrorists, and who the terrorists, knowing that their own death and defeat was at hand, had rather murder the Yazidis instead of allowing them to be rescued. This struck Killian deeply as he couldn’t help but recall the thirteen Yazidi girls he himself once had been unable to rescue.
Erling then went on to explain how the city of Sinjar was especially in need of volunteers, how dire the situation was there with more than seventy-percent of its infrastructure still remaining in ruins since Daesh overran it close to five years ago, how his organization, Refugees First, was one of the few Western aid organizations currently operating there, struggling with a limited staff to assist the thousands of Yazidis who were beginning to return from refugee camps in Syria and Turkey and who were once again forced to live in displacement camps outside the city, joining the hundreds of thousands displaced souls already there; while at the same time Refugees First was also trying to help care for the many thousands of those who remained hiding in the Sinjar Mountains, still too afraid to return to what little was left of their homes and communities.
What made matters worse, Erling said as he noticed again the hair blowing in front of his eyes and made a half-hearted attempt to stow it behind the ears, were the competing militias still operating in the city and surrounding area, each vying for influence and control. All the various checkpoints and the many heavily-armed fighters patrolling their respective sectors of Sinjar and its surrounding villages made it difficult and dangerous for families to return to what remained of their homes and villages, and the distrust and lack of coordination between
the militias made reconstruction of the city impossible.
Killian made his mind up right then to follow Erling’s passionate advice to become an aid worker, a volunteer to help Sinjar and its Yazidi population in its recovery, knowing in his heart that it was something that he had to do, that it was meant to be. Not only had he felt deeply connected with the troubled Yazidi community since his failure to rescue those twelve helpless Yazidi girls in Mosul two years ago, the city of Sinjar was where Killian had been destined for all along, for it was on a farm not too far outside of it where Shene had been murdered by her own uncle, a death Killian had sworn to the ghost of Shene and to himself that he would someday avenge, a mission meant to release him once and for all from the guilt and self-hate that had been eating away at him since Mosul and triggering in him unpredictable and uncontrollable fits of rage, a rage leaving him wanting to do nothing more than inflict pain and suffering upon those who inflicted it upon others.
For nearly a year Killian had fought in the same unit as the Three Amigos, Ali, Jalal, and Yasser, the three freedom-fighters from Ain Sifni, three warriors all. He had fought with them, killed with them, suffered with them, and now, he was exiting the war with them, hitching a ride with them, not all the way to their hometown, but to Sinjar itself where Killian had been hired on to work with Refugees First. Though his relationship with the Three Amigos had never really extended much further beyond a respectful professional one, once they learned of Killian’s plans to work as a volunteer in Sinjar, a city so dear to them, they insisted that he allow them to drive him there after the war was over, especially since it was right along the way to Ain Sifni.
In keeping with his intent to remain unattached, uninvolved with others, of not wanting to create any bonds that may prove constraining to him in any way, Killian at first declined their offer. But he knew it was very dangerous traveling as a foreigner in Iraq, and him traveling with three war-wise Iraqis would help to mitigate that danger significantly; and seeing how the idealistic young men were adamantly refusing to take his repeated no thank you as an answer, Killian relented and gratefully accepted their offer.
Without warning, Ali hit the brakes and the truck went into a squealing skid, the inertia of which threw Killian and Yasser hard against the back of the cab, wrenching them from their respective reveries and dreams and prompting them both to reach with alarm for weapons they no longer had. But it wasn’t the threat of enemy action that caused Ali to back the truck down so abruptly, it was from a sudden, unexpected deterioration in road conditions. A long scatter of debris from past battles littered the road, deep potholes jostling the truck around even as Ali did his best to avoid them.
His heart pounding hard in response to the sudden shock to the day’s languid tempo, Killian blew out a heavy, thankful breath when he realized they were not under attack. He stole a glance at Yasser. The young Yazidi’s keffiyeh was in disarray and his eyes were still wide with alarm, searching the vast expanse of the desert landscape for enemy targets. Killian gave him a short smile and a quick nod of the chin to let him know that he too had reacted with the same battle-weary paranoia. Yasser didn’t notice the gesture though; he was still locked tight into battle mode.
Killian pulled the keffiyeh back up over his nose to filter out the stink of burned rubber and turned his attention from the troubled former warrior knowing from their time together that, like him, he suffered from his own demons of war, they all did, and that he would realize soon enough that there was nothing for him to fear. Killian slid himself down until his back was lying flat on the corrugated bed of the truck and, because he was too tall to stretch out fully, he rested his dusty boots on top of the tailgate. He then lay his head back on the seabag and took a look at his watch. At least an hour to go until Sinjar, maybe longer depending on the road conditions.
The four freshly discharged soldiers had stopped only twice since their dawn departure from Al Tanf, a small, U.S. military camp in southeastern Syria near the Iraqi and Jordanian borders where their Peshmerga unit had been based out of during the Baghouz operation. The first stop happened less than thirty-minutes after leaving the camp when they were exiting Syria and entering Iraq at the Al Waleed border crossing along the busy Baghdad-Damascus highway. There, they were all ordered out of the truck for questioning and processing once it was learned by the Iraqi border guards inspecting their truck that Killian was from the United States.
Even though, thanks to Erling’s diligent assistance, Killian had all his papers in order for him to travel to Sinjar – his passport, his work visa, his official invitation letter from Refugees First – it was still over an hour of sitting on hard stools answering the same superfluous questions over and over in a hot cubby of an office that smelled like stale cigarettes and rank body odor before he was issued his arrival sticker and they were finally, and with much grumbling from the guards who were obviously not fond of Americans, authorized to enter Iraq.
The only other time they had stopped since then had been close to an hour ago, doing so only briefly to stretch their legs and take a piss in the ditch that ran alongside the shoulder – instead of pissing in the ditch like everyone else, Jalal, the less reserved of the three very reserved Yazidis, jumped the ditch, bellied up to the fence that ran along it on the other side, and gleefully aimed his steamy stream of piss through a gap in the links so that it rained down upon the Syrian side of the border.
The winds had calmed and the final remnants of the gray clouds that had earlier gloomed the day were being swept below the horizon, leaving behind a richly azured sky, clear except for a few wisps of gauzy white clouds high above idling harmlessly along. Bright rays from a sun just at its apex were now knifing straight down into Killian’s eyes and, even with the dark sunglasses on, causing him much pain and torment and triggering the initial twinge of a migraine. He closed the eyes tight in a reflexive effort to ward the migraine off and, as an added measure, pulled the keffiyeh down over the sunglasses to deepen himself further into darkness, hoping maybe he could turn the discomfort into an opportunity to nap.
But sleep wouldn’t come, not that he expected it would. He had been without his meds since running out not long after his return to Syria and, being constantly on the go with a ragtag militia unit barely equipped to meet their basic needs let alone provide for expensive medications, he had been unable to get them refilled. Without them sleep rarely came, and when it did it almost always came with its demons. And while, medicated or not, he knew chances were he would never be completely free from the threat of the demons in all their various monster disguises haunting his flashbacks, his nightmares, his fears, he also knew, again medicated or not, he would fight back against them with all the energy and will he possessed so that they never again could push him so close to the edge, the edge of sanity, the edge of existence, as they once had.
So, as the rolling wheels sang their droning song to the uneven, sand-strewn road beneath him, he lay there with his eyes closed and feet propped up on the tailgate as he swayed with the movements of the truck, trying not to think about the past - about RJ and the guilt he still felt for how he had mistreated her so badly the last time they were together, choosing the familiarity and hideous comfort of war over the unfamiliarity of love and deepfelt good graces she had for him; or about the guilt he still felt for destroying the information his father had died for, information that, had he exposed it as his father and RJ had wished, just maybe could have healed at least some of the bitter political wounds from which his bitterly divided country suffered... or, if not healing, then maybe the information could have at least brought an end to the political uncertainty that, despite all the lengthy investigative and commission report conclusions, still swirled around the nation’s capital severely undercutting the government’s ability to function.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
From what appeared to be the makings of the first shamal of the summer, a gusty wind had begun to stir, picking up sand and dirt that pattered and ticked at th
e windshield of the borrowed SUV as the killer followed the narrow and rutty dirt road through an arid field lying flat and eternally barren on either side. The headlights were a useless glare against the thick blanket of dust that was now obscuring the way, forcing him to turn them off and back the SUV down to a crawl’s pace until he finally spotted the low mounding silhouette etched out thinly against the cloudy black of the night just off the road to his left. He headed for it, knowing it to be a small grove of gum arabic trees that he had marked to use as cover for the white SUV during his one and only hasty reconnoiter of the area two nights ago, not that he had to worry about the vehicle being spotted now with the blooming sandstorm already obscuring just about everything in sight.
Thorny, leafless branches screeched along the length of the passenger side like fingernails on slate as he pulled the SUV in close to the backside of the grove and powered it down. He gathered his things and began to ready himself as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to rush knowing the hasty judgements and errors it could lead to, but he didn’t have much time – in less than two hours would come the dawn, bringing its revelative light upon the final day in the month of June, and in less than one hour after that he had to be on the last bus assigned for the remaining foreign aid workers and other foreign non-combatants, the last bus to have been guaranteed safe passage out of the area by the warring factions, the bus that would take him on the first leg of a journey that would eventually lead him to the Baghdad International Airport where he would depart Iraq and the Middle East for good, regardless whether he was able to meet the night’s objective or not.
The Good Kill Page 48