Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  “And what’s your solution, oh mighty bureaucrat?” Omar asked. “Run really fast across all that open space?” He tilted his head to the injured rebel fighter who had just crossed back into rebel-held territory. “It worked out so well for him.”

  “I just think—”

  I cut Nadir off. “This isn’t a committee. It’s been decided.” I looked to Omar. “Do you know anyone in the rebel camp? Is there someone who could give us an escort?”

  He studied the faces of the assembled men, at least the ones he could see. After a minute of observation, he shook his head. “No, these guys are pretty much all foreign fighters, professional jihadists who fought in Libya or Iraq. They came here for glory, not because they want freedom for our people.”

  My blood ran cold at the thought. It was possible that I had shot at some of those men during my time in the Marines and maybe killed some of their buddies. “Damn. It would have been nice to have somebody with a gun watch our back.”

  “Can I just point out that this,” Nadir swept his arm out to indicate the firefight down the street, “is not our fight? I signed up for the chance to get myself and my wife out of harm’s way, but I will not interfere with soldiers just trying to do their jobs.”

  “Their jobs involve torture and murder,” Omar snapped.

  I held my hand up in the air. “Nobody’s killing anyone. Maybe I just used a poor choice of words. I just feel vulnerable and powerless without the ability to fight back if we get caught in a corner.”

  “It’s not about having power,” Azima said. “It’s about having faith.”

  There was another dull explosion, much closer this time. “Either way, we need to get moving before the army comes in to shoot anyone in their way.” Nadir opened his mouth to protest, but I held up a finger. “Don’t even start.”

  Jamil slapped Omar on the back and grinned. “In case you forgot, we’re traveling with a notorious rebel mouthpiece. We’ve got targets on our back for sure.”

  “Fine,” Nadir grumbled. “The sooner we can get out of this backwater little village, the better.”

  I grinned at him. “That’s the spirit.”

  I was concerned that the rebels would try to shoot at us when we appeared out of nowhere in the middle of their fortifications. They didn’t even blink. One of them, a short man with a round belly, gave us a nod as he noticed us, then resumed shooting. We were probably not the first refugees to attempt to cross the lines here. I didn’t see any civilian bodies scattered in the street, but there were a few suspicious pools of blood where someone had been dragged away.

  For a moment, I reconsidered our approach. Maybe we could hide somewhere until this whole thing blew over. But I shook the thought out of my head. The whole city was a battleground. If we stopped moving, it would just make us an easier target. Mosab and his garage were our only hope.

  The building I selected as our starting point was a short distance behind the mosque. I assumed that it was out of range of most small arms fire. There was no way that anything short of a dedicated sniper rifle could be accurate at this distance. But the northern face of the building was pockmarked with bullet impacts. Accurate fire was impossible. But, given the number of soldiers facing us, the sheer number of rounds in the air was incredible. All those rounds had to go somewhere.

  We reached the building to discover that the door had been blown loose from the frame and dangled from only one hinge. I kicked it open and ducked into the building. The others followed me. We were careful to make as little noise as possible. Hashim seemed to pick up on the mood and kept his mouth shut and his eyes wide open. The walls and floors were nondescript, to the degree that it seemed intentional. The details of our surroundings, or rather the lack of such details, suggested that the building was in the middle of some sort of renovation. There were some holes in the drywall near the stairs that had been haphazardly patched as well as a few pieces of rebar protruding from random spots in the floor.

  Azima reached for Hashim’s hand, but Omar beat her to it. “It’s okay. I can take him for a while.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said.

  Omar smiled. “I know. I’m not doing it because it’s necessary. I’m doing it because you’re my friend.” He ruffled Hashim’s hair. “You both are.”

  Azima seemed uncertain for another moment, then nodded. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Omar looked down at Hashim. “Hey, buddy. I’ll race you to the top.”

  The boy grinned. “You’re on.”

  The two of them began running up the stairs, but I put a hand on Omar’s shoulder to stop him. He, in turn, caught Hashim around the waist. “In case you forgot,” I whispered, “this is still a warzone. Less racing and more sneaking, okay?”

  Omar let go of Hashim and grimaced. “Right. Sorry.”

  Hashim looked down at his shoes. “Sorry.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

  We were on the second story landing when Khamilah said, “This feels familiar.”

  “We just need a helicopter crash on the roof and it’ll be like we never left Damascus,” Jamil added. Khamilah shot him a dirty look. “What? Too soon?”

  “Just assume it will always be ‘too soon,’” Omar said.

  As we ascended, I found myself peering through whatever windows I could find in order to get a glimpse of the drama unfolding in the street. The Toyota hatchback continued to shuffle back and forth across the street, serving as rolling cover as the rebels kept trying to move forward. Then, when we were near the roof access, the driver’s luck ran out.

  A steady stream of machine gun fire obliterated the Toyota’s windshield and practically sliced the entire roof off of the car. Metal shrieked and segments of the car’s frame peeled away completely. The rebels didn’t have any armored vehicles to match the Syrian army. Drivers like the man in the Toyota showed incredible courage, and more than a little stupidity, by escorting or transporting rebel fighters. But it was a dangerous game, one that the man in the Toyota just lost.

  A chorus of wails and shouts was drowned out by the roar of assault rifles as the rebels returned fire in a unified volley. But the machine-gunner was holed up behind one of the rebels’ own barricades and safe from incoming rounds. The rebels kept firing, but it was out of rage instead of a genuine chance to eliminate the threat. At this rate, they’d burn through all of their ammo before they took out their target.

  Whether through incredible reflexes or just plain stubbornness, the driver was still alive. I couldn’t make out any details beyond the blood dripping from the Toyota’s doorframe. So it caught me by surprise when the vehicle began crawling forward toward the machine gun nest. More rounds impacted the car and shredded the front tires. The hood of the car looked like a cheese grater and dark fluids leaded in steady streams from numerous punctures. This was a suicide run. It didn’t matter that the car, or the driver for that matter, survived the encounter. All that mattered was the next twenty yards.

  A few feet short of the barricade, the car’s door popped open and the driver tumbled out. He hadn’t even bothered putting the vehicle in park, and as a result the Toyota continued to roll forward ahead of him. The driver was a young man, still a teenager with all the lankiness and acne of youth. He would never live to see his body fill out to accommodate the rapid growth that came with puberty. He had one last parting gift for the men who killed him: a small round object that looked like a large egg spray-painted black. I recognized it as a Russian grenade, although I wasn’t sure of the exact type.

  The young driver’s clothes were soaked with blood and his steps turned to stumbles as the life drained from him. But he was going to make the most of what limited time he had. Using the last of his strength, the young man threw the grenade. It soared through the air and settled a short distance behind the machine gun nest.

  The two soldiers manning the gun scrambled to get clear of the blast, but the only way to get out of the blast radius in time was to
climb over the barricade. By avoiding the grenade, they exposed themselves to gunfire from the rebel position. The first soldier took a round to the neck as soon as his head popped up above the barricade. His companion fared slightly better, receiving wounds to his thigh and shoulder but easing into a position that would make continued attacks difficult. It looked like he might survive, but the hit to his leg must have shattered his femur. The second soldier crouched low, then collapsed a few feet away from the barricade, just a few inches away from the fallen rebel driver.

  With the machine gun nest silenced, a crowd of rebels charged forward with cries of “Allahu ackbar!” I saw one, then two, then four rebels fall as rounds from the remaining soldiers found their marks. At this point, the rebel force was less than a squad of warriors than an angry mob, and sheer momentum and bloodlust whipped the crowd into a frenzy. The army had superior technology and training, but the rebels were driven by a passion that was unmatched by the regime’s forces. For the moment, passion was the deciding factor.

  A few of the rebels broke away from the bulk of their force and moved toward the fallen driver. I thought that they were retrieving his body, but the rebels had darker motivations. They were not there for their comrade. They were there for vengeance. The second soldier from the machine gun nest was still alive. He was crawling at an agonizing pace, desperate to escape the horde. It didn’t do him any good.

  They were on top of him in seconds, pounding at his body with the butts of their rifles. One of the rebels picked up a piece of shattered concrete and bashed it down again and again until the gray block in his hand was coated in crimson. The soldier stopped moving except for the occasional twitch as blow after blow landed on his body. I found myself hoping that the poor man had bled out from his wounds before the mob got to him. I had seen savagery in war, but this went far beyond anything I had ever witnessed.

  The army agreed with me. I saw a pair of older men toward the rear of their lines circling their arms at the few soldiers who had not already fled their positions. The army was in retreat, at least for now. But they showcased their discipline as they withdrew in an orderly fashion. A few of the rebels tried rushing the opposing infantry, but they were cut down by the overwatch elements the army kept in place. The rebels still didn’t seem to take the hint and seemed poised to overwhelm the fleeing soldiers.

  I never saw the jet streaking our way. There was only a horribly mechanical scream, a sound so loud it became a physical force all its own. The building shook and a cascade of dust poured down on our heads. Before I knew what was happening, an enormous concussive blast threw me backward into the wall. The outer wall of the building cracked and groaned. For a moment I feared that the whole place was going to come down on us.

  No one moved for a long minute. The building rocked on its foundation, but soon stabilized. Once I was certain we weren’t all going to die inside a collapsing pile of concrete, I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings.

  I didn’t want to look outside, but morbid curiosity got the better of me. There was absolutely nothing left of the street. It looked like the bomb landed a little short of the mosque. It couldn’t have been a big payload if we were still standing, but anything that was exposed, rebel or Syrian army, was just gone. The buildings all around us looked like they had been shifted on their foundations by the impact and huge chunks of concrete and rebar were left exposed. If we hadn’t been on the top floor, the debris cloud would have turned us into hamburger. I didn’t even want to think about the men who were left exposed in the street. The pressure wave alone would have turned their organs into jelly. Fortunately, the whole street was filled with a dirt plume that obscured the worst of the carnage.

  I saw Nadir’s mouth moving, but couldn’t make out any words over the ringing in my ears. All sounds were warped and distorted. I coughed and held up an arm to shield my eyes from the dust that still fell from the ceiling. Once some semblance of hearing returned I shouted, “Is everyone all right?”

  “Kyle, you’re bleeding,” Azima pointed to my face.

  I touched my hand to my cheek and it came back wet with blood. It was the price I paid for being too close to the window when the blast hit. All the glass had been blown out by fighting earlier in the day, thank God, so this had to have been from stray debris from the bomb. By rights, I shouldn’t be alive. Story of my life. I could live with a new scar.

  “I’m fine.” I used the edge of the windowsill to haul myself to my feet.

  Omar was shaking. “There’s no way my brother can win this. He’s just going to get all these people killed.”

  “Hey,” I grabbed his shoulder and got into his face. “None of this is on you. But you do have to move, now, or else none of us are going to survive.”

  He blinked and shrugged my hand off of his shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go. There’s nothing left for me here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE door to the roof was ajar, probably to give better ventilation for the work crews who were renovating the structure. Whatever the reason, it made our lives a little easier. I waved for the rest of the group to stay behind while I cleared the roof of any hostiles. There wasn’t much I could do if I encountered anyone, but I’d rather have bad guys shooting at me than at a kid.

  Fortunately, I didn’t need to concern myself. The roof was an utter mess, piled high with construction debris, some plywood panels, a scattering of nails, and scraps of what had once been a blue tarp of some kind. But it was secure, or as close as we could hope for in our situation. Once I was certain that there were no soldiers lurking in ambush, I called, “Come on up. It’s clear.”

  Jamil was the first out of the stairwell. “Yikes. This place is a wreck. Who leaves all this crap just lying around?”

  “I guess the contractors were interrupted by the impending battle,” Azima said. “I’m sure that cleaning up after themselves was pretty low on the priority list.”

  “Sharif said that a lot of the civilians cleared out of the city in a hurry,” Omar agreed. “Though I’m sure that giant explosion did nothing to help matters.” He lifted Hashim over a pile of rusted nails that had collected near the doorway. “Whoa, careful there, buddy.”

  By the time she cleared the doorframe, Khamilah was practically wheezing. “Promise me that— Oh, my,” she stopped and took a deep breath. Once she had regained a bit of her composure, she straightened and looked at me. “Promise me that you don’t have any more climbing planned for this trip. I don’t think my legs can take it.”

  “I don’t think any of us like walking up all these stairs,” Azima argued. “But sometimes we have no choice.”

  “Still, it’s a little weird that your default plan is to go up to a rooftop,” Jamil said.

  “Old habits from our childhood,” I said with a look to Azima. Her mouth quirked at the corner, but she didn’t reply.

  I saw the surviving rebels in the streets below us scramble into any structure they could find to hide from another airstrike. I noticed with some dismay that we were left as the only viable targets for soldiers in the area, so I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

  Just glancing down in their direction made me queasy, so I returned my attention to Nadir. “Trust me. If there was a way that didn’t involve being up this high, I’d gladly take it. But it’s not like Rastan has a thriving subway system we can use.”

  I pointed to a particularly large pile of debris. “Jamil, Nadir, see if you can find anything in there that can act as a bridge. Khamilah had a point. Once we get to that second rooftop,” I tilted my head to the adjoining building to the north, “we can’t get across the gap to the next building without help. And I, for one, don’t feel like jumping.”

  “You big baby,” Azima teased.

  It didn’t take a lot of digging for them to find a suitable piece of plywood. It was about ten feet long and three feet across. If Khamilah’s estimate had been right, it should have been just long enough to reach across the
divide between the buildings. That is, as long as it held out. It didn’t look terribly sturdy, but we were low on options.

  The renovated tower we were on was adjacent to the neighboring building, the roofs separated only by a knee-high barrier. I climbed over first, then helped Azima. She, in turn, took Hashim from Omar so the young blogger could get over the barrier. Omar offered Khamilah his hand, but she made a point of getting over the low wall without assistance. As a result of her stubbornness, and her constricting clothing, her heel caught the edge of the wall and sent her tumbling. Omar and I both reached out to catch her, but we were both too slow and she fell on her face.

  She wobbled to her feet and dusted herself off. “I’m all right, since no one cares enough to ask.”

  Nadir rolled his eyes. “That’s quite enough, dear. Don’t reject help if you can’t do something yourself. Speaking of help,” he lifted his end of the plywood and began feeding it over the barrier.

  “Got it,” I said as I grabbed the plank. Nadir crossed the barrier with much more care than his wife had, then took hold of the plywood so Jamil could follow him.

  “Whoa,” Omar said as he looked at the gap to the next building. I turned my head to look. What had looked like a short distance from the ground looked like a yawning chasm when facing it up close. I looked at the plank in my hands and did some mental calculations. It would fit, but just barely.

  “Here, set this down here,” Nadir said. “Then we can flip it so the opposite end reaches the other building.”

  “We hope,” Jamil added.

  “It’ll work,” Azima sounded confident. “It’ll work.”

  Khamilah raised an eyebrow. “You have a lot of experience with improvised bridges, do you?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Azima shot back.

  “Ease up, ladies,” I said. I positioned myself so we could place the plank where Nadir had suggested. “Okay, Nadir. Three, two, one. There we go.”

  Nadir and I pushed on the board, which rose up into the air. Instead of smoothly completing the arc like I had anticipated, it hung there in the space between the buildings for a long moment before crashing down. The sudden fall shook the plywood and Nadir and I had to clamp down on it to keep it from toppling over the ledge.