The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  Raad nodded and shut the door. Rashid backed carefully out of the garage and into the street as Al-Khafji’s men stopped some cars for him; the inconvenienced drivers blew their horns impatiently.

  Inside a minute, they were gone. Al-Khafji and his men led Rashid and the chase car toward the main road not far away. Raad stood in the open garage doorway as the men who had worked on the Volga started clearing tools and equipment from the workbenches and otherwise preparing to sanitize the area. They would not leave any trace of what had gone on there. Soon he and his escorts would also be gone, driving back to the flat where his bags sat already packed and waiting inside his front door.

  His two did not help with the cleanup. Instead they were content to lounge and wait for their boss, pouring coffee from a Thermos and telling a joke. They were useful men while betters directed them, Raad thought. It was Iraq. It was the same everywhere here.

  Had Kameldorn been two minutes earlier, he might have seen the Volga disappear a few blocks to the east. He checked his bearings against the route that he had memorized and glanced at the map that the restaurant manager had given him. This was the street. The garage was where it should be, in the middle of the next block. As he got closer, he could see that the door was open, and there was movement inside. It raised his heart rate and spiked his alertness.

  He turned right and pulled toward the curb, parking and simultaneously looking for the alleyway. It was there, running behind the structure. He pocketed the keys for the Trooper, making sure that there was nothing else there to rattle. He dug a plastic case out of his jacket pocket and opened it.

  Inside were two flesh-colored moldings for his left and right ears; they protected his hearing and amplified sound by using cutoff circuitry for noises above ninety decibels and adjustable amplification for those lower than twenty-five dB. He inserted and activated them, snapping his fingers twice to check their function. He was ready.

  Kameldorn exited the SUV, stripping off his tan M65 jacket and slinging the abbreviated M4A1 over his chest and shoulder. Moving it behind his hip, he donned his field jacket again. The muzzle hung below the bottom of the garment, and he held the weapon in place against his leg as he started toward the alleyway at a quick, quiet pace, looking left and right for passing automobiles as he crossed the street.

  Raad looked on, bored, as al-Khafji’s mechanics repositioned the last of the equipment, striving to make the place look as if no one had been there. It was cleaner now than when they had arrived. Walking again to the open garage door at the front of the building, he watched with indifference as people passed in both directions on the sidewalk across the street. Al-Khafji’s men chattered too much, but Raad did not rebuke them. He needed them for just a short while more, and he could again leave this place as he had done many times previously. He looked forward to a day when he would not return.

  “Another great day for al-Khafji, eh?” one of the men cleaning up said to the other, who smirked.

  “It is a good car. I hope it blows many of the infidels to hell.”

  “Where do they go?” the first wondered, leaning a broom against the wall.

  “Only the Saudi and his men and the driver know. You can ask our Persian friend for a look at his maps, but he does not seem in the mood to talk.”

  “I will let him be. When he is gone, I will like it better.”

  The conversation had distracted them from noticing the man who now stood in the back doorway. His voice startled all of them.

  “Abu Bakir Raad!” he thundered.

  They turned to see a big American there, looking like a lost tourist with the strap of a shoulder bag across his chest. The four others glanced at Raad, the man whose eyes did not flick elsewhere. It was all Kameldorn needed to see.

  The M4A1 selector switch flipped under his thumb on the rise, moving down then forward to the fully automatic position. He snapped the weapon up into his shoulder as the men began to react. For Raad, it was far too late.

  Three Federal 55-grain hollow points took the Iranian across the chest to disintegrate there in blooms of internal destruction; not one would have been survivable. The air volume that the projectiles sucked in after themselves caused a shock-pressure surge of blood into his brain that shut Raad off like a switch. He did not feel the occipital bone of his skull fracture as he slammed backward against the concrete floor of the garage.

  Raad’s escorts were just getting firing grips on their concealed pistols, and the smoking carbine took them next. Eight more rounds spun them to fall against the workbench at the outside wall and slump onto the floor.

  The AQI mechanics just stood there, paralyzed. Kameldorn hesitated for a moment, loath to throw down on the unarmed men. It was their words—that his ear sets had enabled him to hear from outside the door—and the gloating tone relayed that merged with McAllen’s direct orders and sealed their fate. They died just as quickly as the others, each from another short burst to the chest.

  Smoke rose from the ventilation holes in the handguard of his carbine. All was still, and he swung left and right, looking for more targets. He kept the carbine shouldered as he moved through the garage, but there was no one else. His thumb spun the selector two notches to lock the firing mechanism, and he let the weapon hang again on its sling.

  “A look at his maps,” one had said. He moved quickly to Raad’s body, blood pooling but not flowing under his suit jacket and behind his head. No heart pumped to move the blood now, only gravity. That suited Kameldorn just fine.

  He lifted the suit coat enough to see that there were some papers inside a pocket, stained but not perforated. He glanced up at the street across the way. No one lay hurt; no one was there at all. Nothing cleared a Baghdad street faster than the sound of automatic gunfire. Wiping the folded papers on the Persian’s suit, he shuffled through them. One showed a route that wound around the city streets on an approach to Baghdad International. He had found the first target. Hurriedly, he pocketed the document and dug for his digicam, snapping the last few portraits of Abu Bakir Raad that he would ever need to take.

  Sirens wailed in the distance now. He squatted again and did a quick check of Raad’s other pockets, finding the set of false Iraqi papers. Kameldorn let them fall back down to the floor on his way out to the alley. He was already reaching for the Thuraya.

  Chapter 11: Dead Man’s Switch

  Tom Colby stood at the open front entrance of the hangar. State department vehicles already occupied space roped off for parking. The last of the preparations for the Sheik and his entourage were in place. Food was cooking in the roasting ovens inside for the planned noon meal, tables were positioned, and even Ahmad’s weapons racks had been assembled—and painted—by the carpentry crew.

  Notified of the accelerated schedule, his people were en route from the Green Zone, and the Sheik’s vehicles were on the main road nearby. From what Colby could overhear on his handheld radio, the Blackwater security forces were chatting back and forth, checking the perimeter as their colleagues drew closer. Blackwater had picked the Sheik up five miles out and were running as escort now, taking over for the Marine column that had brought him in on the early morning run from Anbar. They would arrive before Schuster and the rest of the crew from the Al Rasheed though some of the Ambassador’s people were here already, hovering, attending to overlooked details and making everything as perfect as could be.

  Colby saw the Humvee escort that led the Sheik, much like the one that had shepherded the team through the city when they had arrived from Amman. Al-Dulaimi's people traveled in a series of mixed SUVs and some open-bed pickups that sat five men on each fender, weapons held between their legs. No one would mistake this convoy for an easy target though even Colby shuddered to think what a roadside IED would have done to the Sheik’s security force.

  From the opposite direction, he could see the Land Rovers coming in from the Green Zone, with a lighter Blackwater contingent again rolling escort. The Embassy had interfaced with the airport security
contractor, the Global Strategies Group, to let them know to route both groups of vehicles through. Multi-National Force personnel at the nearby airport service checkpoint waved them on without the customary vehicle check, shaking their heads at the number of weapons in the Sheik’s entourage. Schuster and his people went through immediately afterward, also waved through at the sight of the accompanying Blackwater Humvees.

  The Ambassador’s staff directed the vehicles into their designated parking, separating them by group lest some fender bender mar the reception before it began. Colby saw Schuster pull up in the lead Land Rover with Jon Anthony and Carol Addams, stopping next to the doorway.

  From his lead vehicle, an immaculate Cadillac Escalade, Sheik Muhammad Zola al-Dulaimi emerged in full Bedouin dress. Colby strode forward to meet him under the nervous and watchful eyes of the Anbari bodyguards, who walked a step behind. Schuster hurried from the Land Rover, looking annoyed at his lag time though the Sheik was arriving early.

  “Sheik al-Dulaimi, welcome to Baghdad,” Colby said, grinning. The man’s eyes brightened.

  He spread his arms and extended his hand, shaking Colby’s vigorously. “Ah, you must be the Thomas Marion Colby that I have heard of. It is my great pleasure to meet you. I apologize for the early hour. I was ready before the first prayer, and I could not wait.”

  “Nor could I, your Highness—I have looked forward to this moment since I first heard of your interest.” Colby turned to Schuster. “May I introduce you to Bernard Schuster, whose good work made today possible?”

  Schuster shook his hand also. “Your Excellency, it is a pleasure to speak with you in person.”

  “Yes. I apologize again for our impatience. Come; let us move inside, out of the way. The morning is cool,” al-Dulaimi suggested.

  Graciously, Colby led the way into the hangar as the Sheik’s men drifted in behind him. The Anbaris filed in to the amazement of the State Department personnel. Having no weapons to rack neatly on the ready stands near the entrance made the Embassy staff feel self-conscious.

  The Sheik and his escort were halfway across the hangar building when the first distant thump sounded in the city, then another, then a third. Immediately the Blackwater security forced flagged on the sounds, with the Sheik’s men alerting a moment afterward. It sounded like shelling, but there was no call for artillery to be firing nearby. Radio chatter increased as guards started scanning outward, alertness pegged. They heard the distinctive reports of several AK-47 rifles and the screaming motor of the black Volga. Those with access to a weapon jumped into action.

  Rashid had reached down to turn the key that armed the car’s payload and floored the accelerator when he saw al-Khafji’s forward assault team engage the checkpoint leading into the airport. One of the contractors went down. Another returning fire from behind a concrete barrier, triangulated by three AKs, did not last long under the hail of steel-jacketed 7.62mm bullets.

  Return fire was also coming from the area of the hangar now. Rashid saw glass breaking and heard the bullet strikes on the sheet metal of the Russian sedan. He had to brake to negotiate the S-shaped formation of concrete T-wall barriers blocking his way, which led to even more rounds hammering his vehicle. The passenger-side front and rear windows had disappeared, and he could no longer see out the spider web of safety glass that used to be the back window.

  AQIs were also on the ground motionless now, but more of them raked the front of the hangar with magazine after magazine of long full-automatic bursts, doing little damage but making an intimidating racket. More thumping explosions came from the city, nearer now, audible even through the gunfire. War had returned to Baghdad, and Rashid knew that he had one chance to complete his mission.

  Colby had spun with the others at the sound of the attack. Brandishing handguns as well as one folding-stock Russian AK-47 Krinkov that had appeared from under a suit jacket, al-Dulaimi's bodyguards had rushed them into the interior meeting space. Colby guided the Sheik inside the enclosure, keeping the man behind him and out of harm’s way. He saw Jon Anthony push Carol Addams against the wall of the hangar and crouch with her, shielding her from the entrance. Schuster crouched with Colby, also staying low. The bodyguards did not take their eyes off the hangar entrance; the rest of the Sheik’s men retrieved the weapons that they had just stowed and ran outside to find cover behind the parked vehicles.

  Rashid’s vehicle met a hailstorm of lead as it turned toward the hangar and again accelerated. Many rounds came for him through the windshield though more missed the car than hit it, ricocheting off the concrete barriers and the hard surface of the roadway. Everyone that Rashid could see in front of him was firing now at the Volga. It was his last sight.

  One of the heavy, armor-piercing rounds from a Blackwater operative’s scope-sighted M14, which had been pounding the engine compartment, went high in recoil and hardly deflected in passing through the windshield. It took Rashid at the hairline. The high-brain hit caused his body to convulse in an involuntary spasm, a rigidity that lasted long enough to lift his body off the driver’s seat and release the pressure on the dead man’s switch positioned beneath.

  Al-Khafji’s mechanics had intended it to detonate the vehicle if the driver were pulled out at a checkpoint or otherwise left the Volga before reaching the target. It closed the connection to the circuit that fired the blasting caps inserted into the 122mm RDX and white phosphorous rounds in the vehicle’s trunk. A blooming explosion of white and yellow fire instantly fragmented the Volga, as had other vehicles across Baghdad this morning.

  Five of the Sheik’s bravest and the six still-ambulatory AQIs died with Rashid, having run forward to within lethal range of the vehicle. Two others died in a white-hot shower of burning phosphor, the dollops searing through to their internal organs as they screamed their last, unintelligible words. Those left alive outside the hangar sought cover, diving under anything that could shield them until the fiery rain was over and the smoke from the incendiary round started to disperse in the wind.

  Hearing nothing now except the fires raging outside, Colby rose cautiously. He extended his hand to the Sheik; the man unsteadily regained his footing also. Colby could see that Schuster looked ready for medication. They rushed to the front of the meeting area and saw the white smoke carried on the wind outside. No one inside the hangar enclosure seemed hurt; Jon Anthony and Carol were already up and looking in Colby’s direction. He had no idea what to do next.

  At a loss, he turned to al-Dulaimi. The older man met his gaze and waved off any apology. “Mr. Colby, you see how it is for us here. This is the life in Iraq that we seek to end. These men outside came after me as well as they did you. We are joined in that way. Was this not the reason for meeting with us here today?”

  Colby nodded, still searching for words. They moved forward to the wide entrance of the hangar to join Schuster then surveyed the chaos outside. Al-Dulaimi spoke again.

  “They are dead or gone, it seems. We are still here. It is the will of God.” He grasped Colby’s shoulder. “Let us attend our men, afterward we shall begin again.”

  Colby managed a coherent, “Yes, your Highness; it will be my pleasure, sir.”

  Al-Dulaimi waved his men forward. Sirens were everywhere outside now. They moved outside to see what they could do.

  Kameldorn had called McAllen on the run, taking the most likely roads toward the airport. McAllen had notified his teams, the military and Iraqi police, and the Green Zone checkpoints all inside five minutes even before the Isuzu was barreling along Route Irish outbound. There had been too much lag time, and the many units alerted for a shiny black Volga failed to intercept the AQI caravan as it snaked through the back streets toward the airport. Car bombs started blooming throughout the Shi'a areas of Baghdad shortly afterward, killing fifty and wounding two hundred by the time the rising columns of smoke had marked the targets.

  Kameldorn could not remember being more angry. He saw the black smoke tinged with white rising from the airport and
pounded the Trooper’s steering wheel in frustration. He had been less than a mile behind them. Nothing needed doing except to park and assess the damage as best he could through his field glasses. He brought out his phone again. McAllen’s number was busy. Dialing another for his office, he reached one of the General’s aides.

  “Major Kameldorn here. The target vehicle reached the airport. Looks like it encountered defensive fire and detonated short of the objective. I’m awaiting the General’s orders, Lieutenant. Pass that along when you have the chance, please.”

  It was a damned mess. That he had just taken out one of the most-wanted men in Iraq was no longer in his mind, only that he had not prevented what had occurred this morning. He felt a professional’s sense of failure, and it was a feeling that he hated more than anything in life.

  Schuster caught Colby by the sleeve at the entrance to the hangar. “Tom, what say we get some nonessentials out of here? It’s going to be all business at this point. No one is going to be in the mood to socialize.”

  Colby nodded. “Yeah, have Carol and Jon round up the ones who are the most shaken up and get them back to the hotel. Double-check to make sure no one is hurt. Looks like the Sheik lost some guys. We might have to postpone in any case.”

  Schuster nodded, walking to where the rest of the team was huddling. Colby turned back to observe the scene. Fire trucks from the airport station had doused the blazing vehicles. There was not much left of the attacker’s sedan except a twisted frame in a twenty-foot crater less than a hundred yards away. Empty shell casings were scattered underfoot, and he had to be careful to not slip as he walked. He saw the Sheik directing the care of his men, who looked angry. He was using their anger, focusing it outward at the enemy. Colby admired his resolve. Al Qaeda, or whoever they were, had tried to stop what was occurring and instead had made them stronger. It gave him something to ponder as the scene cleared.