by R. D. Power
“We must get critical information out to our superiors,” the Irish inspector said while trotting. “Do you have a radio or phone?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t,” Owens said. “Our communications people are dead.” The inspectors’ suspicion of their rescuer escalated. Suddenly, a gun battle erupted down the hall. Their luck had ceased. Owens bade them stay in a vacant room with the door closed while he went to assist.
By the time Owens got to the firefight, two more Republican Guard soldiers were dead, and one of the Americans, Sergeant Brown, was lying injured and exposed to enemy fire in the hall. He’d been shot in the throat, just above the body armor, and was bleeding profusely from there and from his mouth. While Owens shot down the hall, Haziz leaned out, grabbed the injured man’s foot and dragged him behind the wall that provided cover. Two more Iraqis were at the far end of a corridor shooting at the Americans. “How many?” Owens asked Haziz, while he looked sadly at his wounded comrade.
“Two, I think,” said Haziz as he toiled to stop the injured man’s bleeding. Both he and Owens saw it was hopeless, and looked at each other to communicate that.
Owens didn’t know Brown well, but felt sickened at his loss. He looked at him with great pity as Brown died.
“It’s all so goddamn senseless and unfair,” he averred as he wiped away his tears. Haziz nodded.
“Why don’t I throw a grenade?” Owens said to Haziz.
“We thought they were too far away, so Fernandez is looking for a way to sneak up on them,” Haziz replied. Haziz resumed shooting down the hall. Owens joined in, and the exchange went on until Fernandez ended it by killing the Iraqis.
“Hold your fire,” he yelled to Haziz and Owens. Fernandez ran down the corridor to join his friends and frowned at the sight of the young soldier who had just expired.
Owens informed them he’d found the UN inspectors, news that they greeted with shocked looks. With no time to mourn the loss of their friend, they went back to fetch the hostages.
They met the Irish inspector, Mr. Kennedy, on the way. He’d decided to check for himself what was going on. Seeing the gun battle, he became convinced their rescuers were legitimate. Mr. Kennedy came up to Owens, and told him of what they’d learned and the urgency to impart the news to the outside world before it was too late.
“Getting this news out is much more important than any of us, than all of us! Millions of lives could be at stake!” The soldiers and inspectors began a search for a transmitter or telephone.
When more gunfire exploded from outside the front gate, however, the soldiers insisted on abandoning the search and getting the inspectors to safety. The assassination squad had arrived and was doing battle with the two Americans posted there. Outnumbered, the Americans could do little. One was soon killed, which Haziz witnessed through a window. The other, Hendrix, ducked inside and joined his colleagues.
“Bishop’s dead,” he said.
“So’s Brown,” Haziz said.
Hendrix looked down and sighed. After a moment he lifted his eyes and saw the inspectors and looked at the others as if to say, “Holy shit. Now what?”
They led the hostages away from the gate in search of an escape route.
“How did you get here?” Owens asked the inspectors.
“By truck,” they responded.
“Might it still be here?” They didn’t know. “Do you know where you came into the building?”
“Yes,” answered the Norwegian woman. “We came in at an entrance in the rear—back there, I think,” she said pointing down a hall to the right.
Down that way they went, Owens leading the way, Fernandez carrying the Zambian, and Haziz and Hendrix protecting the rear. When they got to the back gate, Owens opened the gate a crack and peeked out. Seeing nothing but the parked truck, he stepped out for a closer look. The coast clear, he waved the inspectors forward. “Quick now! Get in the back of the truck, and keep your heads down,” he ordered.
Fernandez put the Zambian in the truck. Owens got in the cab: no keys, of course. While Haziz and Hendrix kept watch at the back gate, Owens looked for something to knock the housing away from the ignition switch.
“Hurry!” Haziz said. “Here they come.”
Fernandez went to help. The three Americans started firing. “Hurry, for God’s sake!” Hendrix reiterated. Owens found a big rock and pounded the ignition housing hard until it came off. Haziz threw a hand grenade into the hall and fled to the truck with Fernandez and Hendrix. The grenade killed two Iraqis and injured two more. Owens took out his knife, stuck it in the hole, and started the truck as Haziz jumped on to the running board on the passenger side, and Fernandez and Hendrix hopped into the back with the inspectors.
The truck shook to life and lumbered away, with Republican Guard soldiers running after it, firing. They seemed to be gaining on the truck, but stopped when Fernandez and Hendrix returned fire.
“Move it, Owens!” Haziz counseled.
“That’s a radical plan. Why didn’t I think of that?” screamed the saucy Owens. The truck, at length, picked up some speed, leaving the soldiers behind. They turned and ran toward their vehicles. The getaway truck had to circle the sanatorium and pass by the Iraqi trucks parked out front. They had left one guard there, whom Haziz dispatched with a well-aimed burst of fire. Fernandez tossed a grenade into the largest of the three trucks parked there, destroying it. The huge explosion took the Americans by surprise. Owens almost lost control as the shock wave hit truck he was driving. “Jesus Christ!” was invoked by several in the getaway truck. The exploded truck was to have been the inspectors’ fiery crypt.
In the mirror, Owens saw the Iraqi soldiers run toward the other trucks. “We’ll never outrun them in this junk heap,” he remarked to Haziz. “I have it floored, and we’re only doing forty. We have to split up. You see that grove up ahead? I’ll stop, and you get the inspectors out and duck out of sight. Fernandez and I will drive on, and with any luck they’ll follow. You and Hendrix take the inspectors toward that set of low-rise buildings over there. We’ll try to meet you along the way. Good luck,” he concluded as he applied the brakes.
Haziz jumped off and ran to the back of the truck. “Get out, quick. Come on, move it!” he ordered the august group. He told Fernandez to join Owens in the cab and Hendrix to come with him. “Behind the trees. Get out of sight. Hurry!” He picked up the injured man and followed. Owens floored the vehicle, and it trundled down the road.
Within a half-minute, two small trucks went rushing by in pursuit of the truck. Haziz told the group to get up and follow him, and off they went along the edge of the river toward the buildings about a mile in the distance, Haziz leading and Hendrix protecting the rear.
The pursuing trucks closed in on the junk heap.
“If they catch up while we’re driving, we’re sitting ducks,” said Owens. “I’ll slow down, and you jump out. I’ll stop maybe two hundred feet ahead and hop out. When they stop, you and I will have them surrounded,” he jested. Fernandez smiled, leaped and hid in the ditch beside the road. The truck rolled down the road a bit, and Owens slammed on the brakes and jumped out.
The Iraqis were upon him in an instant. Two trucks, one with three soldiers, the other with four, stopped fifty feet away. As the soldiers hopped out, firing at the truck, Owens threw a hand grenade at the closer group, which killed two, and blew enough off the third to reduce him to writhing on the ground emitting blood-curdling screams. Owens couldn’t get a clear shot at him to put him out of his misery.
Fernandez had to deal with the four in the second truck. He shot two as they disembarked. The other two crouched behind the vehicle and returned fire. Owens went to help. After exchanging fire for a minute or two, Owens suggested the disadvantage was theirs because the enemy had surely called for help while chasing them. They rolled down the river embankment and retreated toward the low-rises.
The two ran about half a mile, then Fernandez hid behind a tree to intercept the pursuing Iraqi sold
iers. The two Iraqis came recklessly running down the middle of the road chasing the American they could see ahead. Fernandez shot them dead and ran to catch the others.
With Owens making his way back, Haziz and Hendrix had by this time led the group more than halfway to the apartment block when a small truck rolled up and stopped abruptly. “Stop!” yelled one of the three Republican Guard soldiers as they jumped out. The Americans decided to hold their fire, as there was no cover for their charges. The Iraqis weren’t part of the squad sent to murder the inspectors. They were simply patrolling the road. A group of civilians walking along the river at midnight qualified as suspicious.
Haziz, still dressed in a major’s uniform, ordered them to leave; the superior officer owed them no explanation.
They were about to obey, when suddenly they took aim at Haziz and Hendrix, and told them to drop their weapons. They’d noticed Hendrix’s weapon and boots: American. With two guns pointed at him, Hendrix obeyed, but Haziz shot the soldier aiming at him. Hendrix lunged at one of the other two and subdued him, but the third shot at Haziz.
As Owens approached the inspectors, he saw Haziz jump aside in an attempt to avoid the bullets. One bullet hit him in the chest, but his armor protected him. Unfortunately, another hit him in the upper arm. Owens shot the third Iraqi soldier dead. The bullet tore through the soldier’s skull and blew off the back of his head. Ordering the group to run toward the immediate objective, he helped Haziz to his feet and looked down in despair at the soldier he’d just shot. It was a child of fourteen or fifteen, dead eyes open, looking nowhere.
Chapter Two
Getting the Word Out
Fernandez caught the group as it approached a decrepit neighborhood on the edge of Baghdad with about thirty buildings of four stories. Everyone knew that the terrorists would soon send troops in to locate them, but there was no other choice but to find a hiding place in this settlement. It made most sense to skirt the perimeter of the community to avoid meddlesome eyes, and to choose a building away from the main road to reduce the possibility of getting caught before they could work out an escape plan, so they walked around the perimeter about four hundred yards before selecting a building for a hideout.
Entering the building, Owens cautioned silence and led the group down a half-staircase to the ground floor. This would give the group the option of jumping out a window if need be. These were private residences, and they’d have to secure an invitation from one of its denizens. Owens knocked on one door to attract the attention of its occupant, but not too loud lest he attract attention from other apartments.
“Who’s there?” called a voice in Arabic from the other side of the door.
“Republican Guard,” said Haziz in Arabic.
The frightened man opened his door, and in came Owens pointing his pistol at the man. His wife, who had also awakened with his knock, started to scream, but he covered her mouth right away. “Shut up!” he said in a screaming whisper, pointing his gun to underscore the gravity of his demand.
The inspectors and soldiers crowded in and shut the door, undetected, they hoped. Hendrix ripped electrical cords off two lamps to bind the couple. Ripped-up shirts sufficed for gagging. A search of the only bedroom turned up a young boy, perhaps five years old, sleeping on the floor. Fernandez went to the aid of Haziz, whose wound was bleeding copiously; he staunched the bleeding and bandaged the wound, but Haziz was fading fast. Hendrix attended to the Zambian inspector, but there was little he could do.
With things at last under some semblance of control, Mr. Kennedy pushed Owens to resume the search for a way to communicate their momentous news.
“Do you have a phone?” Owens asked the occupants. They shook their heads no. “Does anyone in this building?” They shrugged their shoulders.
Owens knew, even if a phone could be found, chances were the line wouldn’t work. He reasoned that the best course was to locate friendly troops—who were still fighting a few miles away, judging by the shooting and explosions in the distance. It was agreed that two of the troopers would go, one of whom had to be Owens. His knowledge of the local language could be critical, since Haziz was in and out of consciousness. Hendrix would accompany Owens, and Fernandez would stay to guard the inspectors.
“Who do we call, and how do we convince them we’re telling the truth?” Owens asked the inspectors. The team had a plan for this: each had a special phone number to call and password to relay in case of emergency. The soldiers were given the information.
Owens and Hendrix climbed out the window to find friendly troops. They ran across the field to the river and turned southeast toward the sounds of war.
Along the way, Owens considered the enigma that the attack was in its preliminary stage but that it wasn’t too late to stop. He mentioned to Hendrix, “The virus can be transmitted through the air, so the weapon could conceivably take the form of a human. Whichever one of us makes the call, make sure to mention that so our guys will watch out for anyone leaving the area and keep their distance.” Stating the obvious just to be safe, Owens added, “We should also ask for a rescue chopper … Fuck! We should’ve arranged a time and place for the rescue with Fernandez before we left. Now even if we make the call, but don’t manage to get back to the inspectors, the rescuers will have to find the exact apartment.”
Not even a genius thinks of everything, but he chastised himself for what could turn out to be a critical oversight.
The two determined that separating was a good idea to maximize their chances of success and needed to make sure they were on the same page. The time was 0-24. They agreed to ask that the helicopter land at the far end of the field next to the settlement at precisely 01-15, which assumed they’d find a phone within a half-hour. They would stay together until they got close to the skirmishes.
Before they could go their separate ways, however, they ran into trouble. Approaching a corner, they heard talking. Owens recognized it as Arabic. They peeked around the corner to see two Republican Guard soldiers going through the pockets of dead Americans. One of the items pilfered was a satellite phone. The Americans looked at each other, each saying with his look, “We need to get that phone!” But, looking south down the block, they saw several more enemy soldiers and a tank about five hundred feet away.
“Where the fuck did they get that?” asked Hendrix.
Owens shook his head. Debris from the destroyed buildings blocked their way east. If they tried to run north, the tank would surely get them before they could get to the next corner. They thought maybe they could dash out, shoot the Iraqis, grab the phone, and run back west before the tank could get a shot off, but just as they were getting ready to go, two more Republican Guard soldiers turned the corner behind them about four hundred feet away. They stopped when they saw Hendrix and Owens and readied their weapons.
Although the Americans were wearing Republican Guard uniforms, there were too many clues they weren’t what they seemed: one could speak thickly-accented Arabic, the other none at all; their uniforms were too small; they had their own guns and boots. Given the gravity of their mission, it was too risky to try to get by them. For all intents and purposes, they were trapped.
Three American bodies lay amidst the smoldering ruins of a small building. Several small fires assisted the moon in lighting the scene. All that was left of the building was the base of the south wall and a large pile of rubble. The Americans had to think quickly. Just crossing the street and shooting the Iraqis would bring their comrades, not to mention the tank, upon them in too short a time to get the message out.
They needed to delay the onslaught for at least a minute, in their estimation. The only way Owens could think of to do that was to place himself between Hendrix and the Iraqis in the hope that they wouldn’t kill what appeared to be their own soldier. It had to be him in between in case he needed to yell to the Iraqis. It was perilous for Owens, but even more so for Hendrix because it was indubitable everyone would be gunning for the man who just shot two of th
eir comrades. But it was either this or failure of their mission.
Owens told his buddy of the plan, and Hendrix agreed. Hendrix would run out, kill the two Iraqis, grab the phone, and take cover behind the mountain of rubble. Owens would follow as if he were chasing Hendrix shooting in his direction and end up on the opposite side of the debris.
Taking a deep breath, Hendrix ran out firing at the Iraqis. Both Iraqis fell dead. Owens ran out seconds later firing at the ruins behind which Hendrix had stationed himself. Hendrix recovered the phone and dialed it. He shot toward Owens, who had knelt on one knee shooting toward Hendrix. The Iraqis trotted up the street from the south.
“Don’t shoot!” Owens yelled to them in Arabic. He hoped screaming short declarations would not betray his accent. He took another two shots toward Hendrix. Hendrix got through to the contact. Owens couldn’t see the soldiers coming from the west from his vantage point, but knew they would be upon them imminently. Once they stepped out from the corner he would have no choice but to shoot them, for Hendrix would be exposed to them. Owens would have to react quickly before they could shoot at Hendrix. Hendrix cited the password. The Iraqis to the south had closed to within three hundred-fifty feet, and the tank was rolling behind them.
“Move!” screamed the commanding officer in Arabic as the tank’s turret wheeled around to take a shot. Owens disregarded the order, hoping they would assume he didn’t hear it. Hendrix started relaying the crucial information. Owens glanced to the north to ensure that coast was clear. It was, but he spotted several bodies burned beyond recognition. Two were young children, judging by their size. He turned away immediately, but not before the gruesome sight was charred into his memory.