by Peter Nealen
A few of the Iranians disappeared before they could be rolled up. I was fully expecting more trouble from Qods Force. Especially since it appeared that, for the most part, Jaysh al Mahdi had sat this one out. The Iranians couldn’t afford to let Iraq turn into another Salafist hellhole like Syria had.
As for the Salafist fighters who’d tried to blow up the police station, their fire started to kind of peter out once we had the station. Whether they were listening in on the ICOM or just didn’t have the staying power I still don’t know. The fact that they had Hussein Ali’s men coming up on their flank probably had something to do with it as well. They rocketed the general area with 107s that night, but didn’t do much damage. They were still going to be a threat.
Mike and I walked into Hussein Ali’s makeshift headquarters. He’d set up in the lobby instead of Qomi’s office, for some reason. The lobby was also serving as a casualty collection point. Wounded militiamen lay on ponchos on the floor, being tended by the few doctors who had joined al Hakim’s group.
Hussein Ali and Daoud al Zubayri were talking in the corner. Hussein Ali looked up when we walked in, and waved the two of us over. Doing my damnedest not to show my exhaustion, I went over to them.
Both men shook our hands and embraced us. Hussein Ali was about as expressive as ever—I’d never want to play poker with that man. Daoud al Zubayri was beaming. I’m not sure he quite realized how much work was left.
Hassan joined us after a moment, but not before my Arabic was pretty well spent. “Mister Jeff and Mister Mike,” he said, “there is something Hussein Ali wants to show you.” Hussein Ali hadn’t said anything, so obviously this had come up before we’d gotten there.
I just nodded. Hussein Ali waved for us to follow him, and led the way into the cell block.
Some of the prisoners we’d seen when we’d cleared the cell block were still there, others had been moved. Hussein Ali took us to the back cells, which were walled in with concrete and had solid doors. The PPF man at the door pulled out a set of keys and opened the door for us, then stepped back.
Inside was a man in a camouflage jacket and khaki pants. He was bearded and burned brown by the sun, but his eyes were gray. He was about as Arabic as I am. He’d been shot, and his wounds had been hastily treated, but he was obviously still in a lot of pain. He was lying on the floor—there weren’t any furnishings except for a bucket that stank of shit and piss.
“He was found wounded among the Salafist casualties,” Hassan explained. “Hussein Ali ordered him taken alive because he spoke English. He thinks you might know who he is.”
I shook my head. Mike was studying him intently. “Jeff, I think I know this guy,” he murmured.
I looked at him in surprise. “Really? From where?”
“I’m not sure. He looks familiar, is all.” Mike’s long face was furrowed in a frown.
I crouched down next to him. “Can you hear me?” I asked, my voice flat, as much from tiredness as from any sort of interrogation technique. We’d have to get Haas in here for anything good.
“Yes,” he said quietly. His voice was weak and laden with pain. “You’re Americans?”
“Yes, we are,” I said. “I’m figuring you are too. Though why you might be in with a bunch of Salafist terrorists kind of escapes me.”
He closed his mouth tightly, and stared at the ceiling. “Look, bud,” I said. “I really don’t give a flying fuck who you’re with or what your mission might be. You were running with AQI. As far as I’m concerned, that seals your fate right now. If you talk to me, I might be able to make sure you don’t have to meet Haas’ pliers before the end.”
He twitched at that, his eyes flicking to my face for a second before turning back to the ceiling. There was real fear there. “Hit a nerve, huh?” I said. “I wouldn’t particularly like the idea of that guy working my fingers and toes over with hand tools, either, much less my nuts.”
“Who are you with?” he asked quietly.
“Doesn’t matter,” I told him.
“It does matter,” he said. “I know Chris Haas from a long time back. If he’s here…” He looked at me. “Somebody must have fucked up.”
“No shit,” I replied harshly. “You did, when you signed on with AQI.”
He shook his head weakly. “Not like that. I was an advisor. Working on orders.”
“Orders from whom?” I asked. I suddenly had a really bad feeling about this.
“From high up,” he said. “Iran’s got to be stopped, that’s policy. These guys were the best option.”
“Oh, fucking hell,” I said. I stood up. “Are you telling me that Langley is trying to support AQI to go after the Iranians now?”
“How fucking stupid are they?” Mike demanded. “Some of these fuckers have been killing Americans since 2003.”
“Enemy of my enemy,” the man on the floor said. “National Command Authority thinks the nuclear threat from Iran is more dangerous at the moment. But apparently somebody didn’t get the memo.”
“Apparently,” I replied. I wasn’t about to tell this guy anything about our operations, or that Haas had quit whatever agency he’d been with years before. “We need to deconflict this clusterfuck, fast,” I told him. “Who do we contact?”
“He’s here under a State cover,” he said. “Goes by the name of Collins.”
Mike and I looked at each other. “That motherfucker,” Mike said.
Acknowledgments
Sorting out this novel has been an interesting experience. Between figuring out the political snake-pit that is post-occupation Iraq and trying to sort out the conflict in Syria and how it might affect the situation there, I’ve had to do a lot of research. Thanks to Matt Fanning, who helped me get up to speed on the Syria situation.
Thanks also to Bryan and to Hank Brown, who agreed to look over my violent ramblings to make sure I wasn’t putting anything stupid or unreadable on paper.
Further thanks to Jack Murphy and Brandon Webb, who gave me a job at SOFREP. Jack has also been a great support for these books.
Dave Reeder, Jack Silkstone, Dan Tharp, and Kerry Patton have also been good friends who have offered plenty of support and encouragement as this former knuckle-dragger embarks on this new sort-of career.
And, always, thanks to my wife, who puts up with my grumpiness and long hours banging away at the computer.
If you're a fan of the Men's Adventure fiction genre, if you like big guns, hot girls, pirates getting their butts kicked, brutal gunfights and tales of cunning tradecraft and high adventure in exotic locales, Tier Zero needs to be in your hands as soon as possible. – Post Modern Pulps
As much as I enjoyed Hell & Gone, this book is better. – Peter Nealen (Task Force Desperate; Hunting in the Shadows)
It would be difficult to exaggerate how good this book is as an adventure tale, or how much fun it is to read it. – Jim Morris (War Story; The Devil’s Secret Name)
Tier Zero is the best of both ages of Dude-Lit. I highly recommend this book to fans of Men's Adventure and Military Fiction. – D.R. Tharp (Gold of Katanga)
Balls-out, full throttle action. – Wayne Dundee (Body Count; Manhunter’s Mountain)
It is truly a must read in the genre, or in any genre. What a blast to read. – J.G. Scott
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"I'm confident we'll soon see [Hildreth] rise to the same prominence as the master novelists of our generation."
-Nate Granzow, author of COGAR'S DESPAIR