Sword of the Caliphate

by Clay Martin

  Once we were close, Paul stopped the truck and told us to get out. Scott had a spotting scope, and I had binoculars. Paul led us to the top of a small ridge and pointed the direction of the checkpoint. We had to be two miles away, but that should keep us from getting shot at. Hopefully.

  As we laid watching, we saw column of dust rising behind the checkpoint out of the desert. It soon materialized as three BRDM fighting vehicles, a very strange number to have. Iranians use modified Russian armored doctrine, and three is less vehicles than even belong in an advanced guard. If you came to fight, that is exactly enough to bite off way more than you can chew. The vehicles were buttoned up, which is a posture of ready for action. Uncommon if you aren’t preparing for imminent contact, because it is so uncomfortable for the crew. A troop truck followed behind. As they pulled close to the checkpoint, the Iranians manning it poured out of the building. One of them was holding a hand mic, undoubtedly the leader. The rest formed up in a parade ground formation and started stripping off their clothes. That was odd. Very odd.

  Nine naked border guards in a line, the leader in front, like a change of command ceremony. He was holding the hand mic to his ear when the lead BRDM opened fire with its 14.5 mm mounted machine gun. The naked troops disappeared in a cloud of dust and flailing limbs. I flinched, even at this distance. The sound caught up a second later, the thump thump thump of heavy weapon cycling. Nobody moved. What the hell just happened?

  The dust settled, and after a few minutes the top hatch of the BRDM popped open. A soldier climbed out, in full MOPP gear. MOPP stands for Military Oriented Protective Posture, a handy short word for a gas mask and chemical resistant over garments. MOPP guy got down and looked over the bodies, apparently making sure they were all dead. Not that a 14.5 at that range left much chance of survivors. Satisfied, he waived to the troop truck. Four soldiers also in MOPP gear climbed out of the back and went to the bodies of the poor bastards they had just massacred. It was hard to be sure, but it looked like they were collecting blood samples with hypodermic needles. Probably should have used the 7.62 guns instead.

  “Scott, you seeing this?” I whispered.

  “Chem suits and blood samples. I think we have seen all we need to here.” He responded.

  Slowly, we backed down off of the crest. We didn’t want to risk mixing it up with fighting vehicles. The weapons we had would barely scratch the paint on those if it came to it. We loaded back up, and five minutes later we were well out of harm’s way.

  “That was way too small a force for any real fighting. Why would they being liquidating their own guys though?” I said out loud, breaking the silence.

  “Along with the suits, that points strongly to biological. Chemical weapons aren’t contagious, but biological can be. They are playing it safe, for certain. Can’t risk Johnny Farmboy deserting and making it back home, where folks would sympathize.” Paul said, eyes darting at the roadside for anything suspicious. Driving habits we all had from our time in this tropical paradise.

  “Also a bad sign that they aren’t sending a punitive size force. That was exactly enough armor to slaughter halfway willing participants, nothing more. It lends a lot of weight to our standing theory. And if things are so fucked up that Iran got included in the notification list, we are in a world of hurt.” I voiced what all of us where thinking. It effectively ended the conversation for some time.

  The road toward Behdrah and the ODA was a rough one, turning from asphalt to dirt a few miles into our trip. People that have never been to Iraq are probably shocked to hear the asphalt part of that to begin with, I know I was the first time I saw them. Almost 20 years prior to our current debacle, I was here for the invasion. Instead of a Laurence of Arabia movie with picturesque sand dunes and Bedouin camps, I found a first world road system. Not only were there roads the size of US interstates, they had the familiar green and white traffic signs in Arabic and English. A road map was more important than a compass, and it felt very weird to give op orders including phrases like “Take the second exit for Tal Afar, then turn left...”. There was, of course, a paved MSR (Main Supply Route) way to get to the team house at Behdrah. Team houses needed to be near roads, so the team could go kill bad guys. But it would require a massive reroute through Baghdad, which seemed like a really bad idea at the moment. Our second truck fell well behind us, to stay out of the cloud of dust we were kicking up.

  Halfway to the destination was a small hill we called Little Round Top, due to its striking resemblance to the one of Civil War fame. It was 20 meters in elevation, tops, but it was the highest point around by far. We customarily stopped there to glass the surrounding area, and I could see no reason for an exception today. The odds of hitting an enemy ambush out here in the boonies was about the same as winning the lottery three times in the next fifteen minutes, but paranoia had the side benefit of keeping you alive. We stopped short of the crest and dismounted again. The Kurds took the opportunity for a piss break and a smoke, while Bazan joined us at the top. The road past here was a straight shot West, and I could see a large cloud of dust billowing in the breeze. Someone was headed our way with a purpose. I brought my binos up, snapping the picture into closer detail. It wasn’t one dust cloud, it was two. And the rear one was way larger than the front. I worked the focus knobs as Scott finished setting up the spotting scope.

  “Scott, you seeing this?”

  “Looks like a gun truck out front.” He replied. A spotting scope has more power than binoculars, but the disadvantage is a longer set up time, and a narrower field of view.

  “How about the second group?” The first group was still at the edge of my binos ability, but I could see the general outline of a Humvee. I took the time to hand Paul my rifle. It seemed prudent now that we had something to look at. The 6.5 power magnification of the scope wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He situated himself behind a rock, stabilizing the gun for best observation.

  “Nissan pickup in the lead and...” Scott worked the setting on the scope, adding a little more power,” firing, looks like a belt fed.”

  Peachy. I brought my attention back to the front vehicle, which was coming into focus. Pedal was to the metal, and it looked like it was alone. “No question now, the first one is an SF truck. No doors, and I think those are running boards. And it looks like it is alone.”

  “I concur.” Scott said, looking up. “And they are running. What the hell is going on?”

  This was not good. I had never seen just one Humvee, it violated the cardinal Iraq rule of two trucks, minimum. And how was it being pursued? A straight road like this, the gunner on the 50 should have been able to ventilate light skinned vehicles in pursuit with ease. Something wasn’t adding up here.

  “What is the range, do you guess? How much time do we have?”

  “I’m figuring six miles if they stay present course. Running or not, that road is rough, eight minutes probably. Any faster, and they will snap a tie rod.” Scott answered.

  I was already running. I had the ODA’s VHF freq on the dash of my truck, all professional like on a sticky note. I hadn’t planned on needing it for another 40 minutes, but I had it. Ripping the passenger side door open, I started flipping over papers on the dash, looking for the magic answer. Bam! I had it! As fast as my nervous fingers would type, I programmed the frequency.

  “Grizzly Bear, Grizzly Bear, this is Mother, do you copy” I yelled into the mic. No answer.

  “Grizzly Bear, Grizzly Bear, do you copy.” I repeated. This time, I heard the faintest pop of a transmission, which my experienced ears translated as a hand mike being keyed. But no words followed.

  “Grizzly Bear, this is Mother. Key the hand mike twice to acknowledge.” One, two. We had them! But I needed to hear a voice, confirm this wasn’t a set up. I knew of at least one occasion back in the war when a stolen Humvee full of terrorists had gotten some people very dead. Playing the “we are being cha
sed” card would be a great way to get a VBIED inside a gate, I wasn’t screwing around. The gap was closing quickly, we either needed to help these guys out, or run like the wind.

  “You have crypto and I don’t. So you can hear me, but I can’t hear you. Bottom left knob, switch it from CT to P.” Radio nerd skills to the rescue. Now for the moment of truth.

  “Mother, this is Grizzly Bear. Mayday, we are being pursued by a large enemy force. Need support, NOW!“ came a distressed voice.

  “Copy, I can see you. Head for Little Round Top, we are waiting on the backside. Keep moving, we are going to mop up your stalkers. How many friendly trucks?” No time to worry about an intercept. We had maybe four minutes now to prepare. My kingdom for some Claymore mines and rockets, of which I had none.

  I briefed my plan over the radio to Jim, Scott, and Paul. In my hasty plan, I had Paul stay on top of the ridge, to alert us when it was close to go time. The other two joined me for some quick details.

  “I am thinking half-moon formation, truck at either end, Jundies in the center. Close enough to an L shape for the tiny force we have. That gets most of our guns on the flank, and two straight on. High chance of hits, low chance of getting run over. We burn them down as soon as the cross the crest of the hill. With a little luck, that keeps it so only one at a time even knows they are in contact. Engine noise and the terrain should muffle the shots some,” I snapped.

  “How many machine guns?” Jim countered, crunching odds in his head.

  “Four, all 240’s. Two in the truck turrets, and a spare each. It’s not a lot,” Scott answered for me.

  “Scott, you guys get a final count on the pursing force?” I hoped we had enough juice to handle it.

  “I could only really make out the first one, the dirt is obscuring the rest. I would say at least eight, and not more than twelve.”

  “I really wanted to hear two, and they looked low on gas. Fuck. We are going to have to be close then, make it count. Scott, I want you on the top truck, you initiate the firing. Jim, take the bottom turret. Focus on the drivers, engines won’t matter. If we don’t kill all of them quick, we are going to be dead ourselves in short order. Ready, break!”

  The clock was ticking, we had to get the table set. This was normally not the terrain I would choose for an ambush, nor would anyone else with any sense. I was glad the boys trusted me enough to execute a seemingly stupid plan, without requiring a detailed explanation. We didn’t have time for one. Against a normal, professional enemy, this terrain would get you killed. A one word radio transmission of “Ambush” would cause an immediate halt to the vehicles behind the one in your kill box. The rest would dismount using the cover you had provided them on the front side of the hill, attack the ambush lines weak flank, and put you in body bags in very short order. I was counting on the blood lust of pursuit driving them on recklessly, and the limited visibility from the dust forcing some spacing between them. The surprise factor was absolutely on our side, the only real advantage in our favor. They would be on top of us before they had half a chance to recognize the danger. I hoped it was going to be enough.

  Scott and Jim were both linking extra belts to the guns. The turrets wouldn’t need to move more than a few degrees of arc at most, so the added weight to the feeding system was negated. I put the other machine guns in the center of the ambush line, one on either side of me. I quickly had Bazan translate my orders. If I tapped the gunner on the head, I wanted him to shoot. We were going to alternate targets. One gunner at a time, one truck at a time. Belts go quick, it was all I could think of to ensure I always had a machine gun loaded when a vehicle entered the kill zone.

  Time slowed to a stop. Pre-fight chemicals flooded my system, and I became one with the unbroken line of warriors that inhabited my ancestry. I don’t know how it goes for anyone else, but I know how it goes for me. A sharp focus fell in place like an iron gate. I could see individual grains of sand, and wouldn’t have been surprised if I could count a hummingbirds wing flaps. All doubts about the plan or potentially losing evaporated. I had no thoughts of winning either. The pieces were set, the battle would commence, and what would be would be. In many ways, it was my favorite place. An old familiar haunt. Nothing else to be done, no thoughts. I just... was. It might be a stupid place to have a zen moment, but I always did.

  The Humvee came over the top, front wheels off the ground. They were giving it all they had, buying us the space to do what we needed to do. Roaring past us, they kept the pace, with a little luck drawing the full attention of those in pursuit. A half second focused on them was one more tiny bump in our stacking of the deck. I put a hand over my left side machine gunners helmet, ready to call down the fire of the gods. The dust of their passing washed over us, temporarily obscuring the killing ground. It dissipated as I heard the roar of another engine, close. Steady, we needed them almost on us. There! I saw the under carriage of the first enemy truck as it bounced, already hearing Scott open up as I slapped my gunner. Fire belched from the muzzle, the bolt slamming home over and over. His weapon fed a deadly chain of brass cartridges in one side, spewing disintegrating links and empties out the other. The Nissan pickup shredded under the combined impacts of hundreds of rounds, glass splintering in all directions. Bullets tore rough gouges in the sheet metal, the truck coming apart like a meteor entering the atmosphere. I noted a massive red stain where the driver’s side windshield use to be as it rolled past us, slowing as the flattened tires bit the sand. No time to congratulate ourselves, I hit the left gunner again to tell him to cease fire, and slapped the helmet of the right. Second truck had already appeared, its driver swerving left under the hail of deadly projectiles. It’s bed was full of fighters, limbs flailing in the dance of death as bullet after bullet struck home. It was like shooting fish in a barrel, while using dynamite and a spotlight. Or was that deer? Maybe fish in a very small barrel with a very large gun, and at close range. Whatever. They never had a chance.

  The third came over the top, a machine-gun mounted on top, my subconscious absorbing the detail of his dress. Islamic Green jacket, black pants and turban. I simultaneously slapped left and right gunners, as a bullet struck his skull, blood and bone fragments tracing a path through the sky like pollen on the wind. The trucks windshield spider webbed into white lines as its driver slammed on the brakes, far too late. Momentum kept it rolling towards us, crashing into the front bumper of Jim’s vehicle, not 10 meters from us. His turret wouldn’t let him depress the machine gun enough to finish the job, and we both saw movement that wasn’t death throws in the back of it. He struggled pull the rear pin and free the gun as I jumped to my feet. My XDM pistol was in my hand before I even thought it, emptying the 19 round magazine in a cascade of flying brass. Three shots per body, no time to see if they were already dead. Number four crossed the ridge as my empty magazine was falling to the Earth, a fresh one already slamming home in the grip. Jim leaned hard into his 240, hosing the driver in a fury of 762 rounds. Number four instinctively turned the wheel to follow three, crashing into the rear of it, and rocking Jim’s truck on the springs. The two Kurds closest to it were on their feet, blasting the occupants at contact range. As they ran their rifles to bolt lock simultaneously, the battlefield fell eerily silent. If not for our electronic ear muffs, we would all be deaf. I hoped the Kurds had the sense to put plugs in before the carnage started. All I heard was the groans of the dying, Then, from Paul’s direction as the look out, the pop pop pop of one sided rifle fire. Fuck.

  “ASSAULT!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, bounding forward as I did so. Leading by example always works, deaf or not. As I moved forward, I shot every terrorist I passed again to be sure. We had to get to Paul before an organized counter attack hit us from the top, but it also wouldn’t do to have jihadis on both sides of us. Bullets are cheap, lives are expensive. Scott and Jim were stuck here, I had pulled the drivers out by necessity. Passing truck number four, I leaned in and requisi
tioned an AK-47. I didn’t have time to look for magazines, but just the one in it beat a pistol any day. Dropping to a crouch as I approached the hilltop, I saw Paul behind a boulder. He was taking well aimed shots, not rapid fire. I risked putting my head up for a quick glance. Bottom of the hill, 300 yards, I saw three more vehicles in a heap. Bad guys were prone behind them, using them for cover. Risking one RPG killing both of us, I slid up next to Paul.

  “How many left?” I screamed. Ear muffs or not, close range rifle fire is hard to hear over.

  “Not sure. Fifth truck got almost to the top, locked up the brakes. Six rear ended him. As soon as they stopped, I opened up. Driver had his shit together, slammed it in reverse, and pushed the other two back down.” Hell of a briefing, considering he never took his eye off the scope, and engaged targets the entire time.

  Bazan was holding the five remaining Kurds below the crest, fanned out in a skirmish line. Solid tactics, since we didn’t know which way an attack might come on the way up. I pointed to the magazine in my rifle, held up one finger, and pantomimed over the top and a spraying motion. He got the picture and started barking orders. Like a single organism, the Peshmerga bounded up and rapid fire dumped a magazine apiece into the remaining trucks. I emptied my AK at the same time, and grabbed Paul’s spare rifle in case it wasn’t enough. I’m not sure we hit anyone, but the survivors below us broke and ran. Good enough results for today. Paul picked off the slowest runner as his bolt locked empty.

  “Time to go. Bazan, police up empty magazines, and load up.” I barked. We had to be low on ammo after all that shooting, I didn’t want to be caught out here with my thumb playing hide and seek with my sphincter.