Dispatches

by Steven Konkoly

  His mission was to observe and report ISIS movement south of Mosul—and that’s all his team had done for the past seventy-two hours. They established a hidden observation post in the rocky hills a few kilometers from the highway, guided by a pair of Peshmerga Special Operations soldiers who joined the team in Arbil. The Peshmerga had been essential to their undetected navigation through the badlands southeast of Mosul. He felt safer with them around, their hatred of ISIS nearly palpable.

  The Kurdistan government had a vested interest in keeping a close eye on the rising extremist menace to their west. ISIS incursions into the autonomous region had been limited, stopped by the same Peshmerga brigades that had fought them to a standstill on the Syrian/Kurdistan border a year earlier. The Caliphate settled for Mosul, temporarily ignoring the oil-rich lands in Kurdish hands. They had a more pressing duty, or jihad, on the front burner.

  The prospect of pushing Israel into the Mediterranean Sea was too tempting for Caliphate leadership, fueling an unprecedented recruitment surge. Conservative estimates put the number of jihadists gathered near Ramadi at 1.2 million. The recruit-processing center in Mosul was the largest feeder into Ramadi, funneling European Muslims from the Turkish/Syrian border to the sprawling training center.

  Based on what he had seen over the past few days, the numbers would likely double in less than a month. Possibly half that time, if reports filtering out of Umm Qasr and Kuwait City were accurate. Merchant vessels arrived daily, carrying military equipment and fresh recruits from outside of the Arabian Gulf.

  McDaid shook his head and yawned. He had no fucking clue why coalition forces were taking a wait-and-see attitude here. One million jihadists was more than enough to force Israel into a strategic withdrawal of their population. Two million was enough to rapidly overwhelm their armed forces, putting them at risk of a second genocide. What they needed to do was turn this road into another “Highway of Death,” like the first Gulf War.

  He patted Sergeant Harrow on the shoulder. “Going to stretch my legs for a minute.”

  “Take your time, sir. Next convoy leaves in thirty minutes,” said the soldier.

  “I’ll bring us some hot coffee,” said McDaid.

  “Sounds grand, sir,” he said, scanning the distance through a sand-colored, tripod-mounted spotting scope.

  McDaid slithered backward, clearing the desert camouflage net stretched over them. Once outside of the two-man hide site, he turned onto his back and slid down the back of the rocky outcropping toward a larger net staked between an irregularly dispersed pattern of half-buried boulders. Two smaller nets, hidden among the boulders, protected the flanks of the SAS position from unwelcome guests. They had a tidy, well-concealed position, unlikely to be disturbed—unless they were spotted from the road.

  His feet struck the hardened sand next to the net, rousing one of the resting soldiers from a nap. The outline of a head and hand appeared through the tightly woven netting as McDaid ducked inside the partially shaded enclosure. Lieutenant Murray Osborne squinted at him, his hand a few inches away from his face. The officer lay in a tan sleeping back next to one of the Peshmerga, who he suspected was not sleeping either. Nobody slept well out here.

  They stole whatever sleep they could, spending most of their time awake—hoping the men on the perimeter didn’t fall asleep. This cruel, almost ironic cycle continued until their bodies simply forced them to sleep, often for extended periods of time. They were about forty-eight hours from reaching that point. That’s when life at an isolated observation post got interesting.

  “Time to swap already?” he croaked, not bothering to check his watch.

  “Negative. You have a few more hours,” said McDaid, fiddling with a small portable stove set on a flat rock. “Thought I’d brew a cup.”

  The young officer pushed his sleeve down to examine his watch.

  “Might as well join you,” he said. “I can’t sleep a wink in this cold. Who’d have thought we’d hit freezing temperatures out here?”

  “I’ve become convinced that January anywhere outside of the tropics is miserable business,” said McDaid, igniting a small stove perched on a flat rock next to the team’s backpacks. “Cheer up. It’ll be sunbathing weather by one in the afternoon.”

  “Just in time to cook us,” said the lieutenant.

  The headset concealed beneath McDaid’s shemagh crackled. “Captain, you need to see this. I have military-grade vehicles headed north along the highway.”

  “Copy that. Be right up,” he said, turning the stove off.

  Lieutenant Osborne unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up, tapping his earpiece.

  “Need me up top?” he said.

  “Not yet. Wake Besam and prep for withdrawal—just in case,” said McDaid.

  “I’m awake,” said the Kurdish soldier, holding a thumbs-up out of his sleeping bag.

  McDaid scurried under the netting, transmitting to the two sentries watching their flanks.

  “Nari and Hughes, did you copy that last transmission?”

  “Solid copy. North by northeast clear,” said Staff Sergeant Hughes.

  “All clear, south by southeast,” said Nari, in a thick, almost indecipherable accent.

  “Roger. Prepare for immediate withdrawal,” said McDaid.

  He crawled up the hill to the primary observation post, nestling into position next to the soldier watching through the spotting scope.

  “Care to take a look, sir?” said Sergeant Harrow, sliding over to make room for him.

  “What do we have, Harrow?” said McDaid, adjusting the scope to examine the lead vehicle.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Humvees,” said Harrow.

  Harrow was right. A line of turret-equipped, armored vehicles, similar in size and shape to the American Humvee, raced toward Mosul. For a brief moment, he wondered if this was some kind of raid against the ISIS recruitment center. The confused thought vanished when he was able to magnify one of the turrets. He recognized the Type 85 heavy machine gun first, followed by the standard black garb worn by ISIS regulars.

  “Looks like the Caliphate got an upgrade. Mengshi tactical vehicles. Humvee knockoffs—and damn good knockoffs at that,” said McDaid, searching for vehicle markings.

  “I don’t see any identification. Could be from Pakistan or Indonesia. Both countries have ordered more than twenty thousand of these from our friends in the People’s Republic.”

  “Could be from China, given the circumstance,” said Harrow.

  “True. Regardless of the source, this does not bode well for any of the Caliphate’s neighbors. What else are they offloading in Basrah and Umm Qasr?” said McDaid.

  “That’s for a different troop to worry about, sir. I’ll call this in. I guarantee our boys will be interested in this development—along with the Kurds,” said Harrow.

  “Very interested. Might prompt them to do something about this rubbish,” said McDaid, staring at the black ISIS flag fluttering above the armored vehicle.

  Chapter 12

  140 Miles east of Jerusalem

  Highway 10, Jordan

  Aariz Khalid bounced against the rough wooden bench, gripping the canvas top’s metal frame to stay upright. His other hand clutched the automatic rifle he had been issued in Ramadi. The ride had been smooth until they reached portions of the highway that had been purposely bombed by Jordanian Air Force pilots. Periodically, the convoy slowed to avoid the charred hulk of a truck bearing a frightening resemblance to the one transporting him to the Safawi staging area. The pungent smell of burnt flesh mixed with diesel fumes served as a stark reminder that he had made an irreversible mistake coming here.

  He’d gone from attending classes at Birmingham City University to an ISIS training camp within the span of three weeks, a radical transformation for a twenty-year-old more interested in chasing girls on campus and playing video games than attending daily, let alone weekly Mosque. There had been no choice, really. He’d joined his friends out of fear. Not the
fear of letting them down, but out of true fear for his family’s safety. When the American-led coalition pulled its forces out of the Caliphate’s way, many of his university and secondary school friends changed overnight.

  Their hushed rhetoric and restrained pressure exploded, yielding an unapologetic, unrelenting barrage of threats against both him and his family. After his youngest sister was cornered walking home from school by a group of young men turned “religious police,” he relented. Three days later, he was on a merchant ship headed to Turkey. Five weeks after that, he was riding in a canvas-covered coffin, on a flat, exposed road less than a few hundred miles from their “greatest enemy.”

  He looked around the dusty compartment in the fading light, reading the faces of his platoon. Some of them looked at peace with their fate. Most appeared nervous, their eyes furtively glancing from side to side, widening with every bump or unfamiliar noise. Others stared into the middle distance, trying to come to grips with the battle ahead. He wondered how many of them had been bullied into their seats on this truck. None of them dared to say anything about their predicament. Recruits stupid enough to complain about their treatment or request a return to the U.K. had been executed on the spot in Turkey. The killings stopped after Mosul, the message now crystal clear. There was no turning back.

  The truck rapidly decelerated, pushing Aariz against the middle-aged man to his right. The man to his left slammed into him, knocking both of them to the metal floor. A rifle barrel hit him in the left temple as half of the truck’s occupants tumbled off the center-facing benches. The shrill voice of their platoon commander, a hardened ISIS fighter, pierced the chaos. Aariz peered through the tangle of legs and arms to see him waving them out of the truck. Through the din of yelling and curses, he heard the word “helicopter,” followed by an ominous deep thumping.

  The men responded to the sound and its obvious implications, scrambling out of the truck. By the time Aariz hit the pavement, the whoosh of a rocket reached him. A sharp explosion vibrated the convoy, followed by a concussive blast wave. Turning his head in the direction of the blast, he saw several black-clad men land in smoking heaps on the side of the road. Cracks filled the air and the asphalt splintered next to Aariz, drawing his attention to three squat-looking objects spaced evenly over the low hills north of the convoy. Apaches. He sprinted away from the truck, diving to the ground as the air exploded with cannon fire.

  He put his hands on the back of his head and pressed down, trying to present the smallest target imaginable to the gunners in the helicopters. He’d seen enough Apache footage online to know that he couldn’t hide from their thermal cameras. His only hope was to become a much smaller target than the rest of the jihadists. A hand gripped the back of his ammunition vest, yanking him off the ground.

  “Get on your feet and honor Allah,” his platoon commander screamed.

  Aariz twisted free, ending up on his back. The bearded militant snarled and reached down to grab him, disappearing in a scarlet burst of gore and pieces. He stared at the suspended remains of the man’s body, vaguely aware of his truck exploding. The detonation rocked the ground, knocking the shredded corpse on top of him. He lay in complete stillness, praying for mercy, as the helicopters strafed and rocketed the convoy.

  Nor did he move after the attack when the men prodded his blood-soaked, body-part-covered “corpse.” He stayed there until dark, long after the convoy departed. Rising slowly, he scanned the dark road next to the closest smoldering truck. Several dark lumps littered the ground, giving him hope. The men sent to examine him hadn’t been interested in the sustainment pouch attached to his vest—only the rifles.

  His first priority would be to search the bodies for food and water. They had been issued two bottles of water and a vacuum-sealed, Chinese meal upon boarding the trucks in Ramadi. He saw five more wrecks spread out along the road, each likely surrounded by more dead fighters. Aariz planned to load up and get off the road. He’d head east toward the Mediterranean, hoping to run into a true Arab brother—if they hadn’t all been Caliphate.

  Chapter 13

  Major Ilan Katz watched the featureless, purple-gray landscape race below his F-15E Strike Eagle.

  “Sixty seconds to maneuver point alpha,” said Captain Jacob Eshel, the aircraft’s Weapon Systems Officer. “ESM is clear. Spotlight One reports radar clear to target.”

  An Airborne Early Warning (AEW) aircraft circling over the empty desert fifty miles south kept a close eye on their approach. ISIS had no known aircraft-intercept capability, but the quality of military equipment arriving in Iraqi ports left mission planners nervous. The nations backing these extremists had deep pockets, and it was only a matter of time before their commitment to the Caliphate started to include trained pilots.

  “Very good. Run final weapon diagnostics,” said Katz.

  “Running diagnostics now,” said the captain.

  The aircraft rumbled, hitting an early evening temperature gradient common to low-level desert flying. With the sun below the horizon, the ground radiated heat into the cooling air. Evenly distributed near the ground, it didn’t create a problem, but the temperature differentials occasionally concentrated in a single location and created a “bump.” Nothing to get worked up about.

  “I have a clean diagnostics check. Ready to arm the weapon,” said Eshel.

  “Stand by,” said Katz, opening the designated command and control frequency.

  “Forge, this is Hammer One. Approaching maneuver point alpha. Request failsafe instructions. Over.”

  Failsafe was the point of no return for the mission. Once the weapon left the aircraft, they couldn’t take it back. He was giving them one last chance to call off the mission.

  “Hammer One, this is Forge. Proceed with Clean Sweep,” said a voice through his helmet speaker.

  “This is Hammer One, copy proceed with Clean Sweep,” he replied, switching back to the cockpit communications circuit. “Jacob, arm the weapon.”

  “Weapon armed,” said Eshel, moments later. “Toggle the consent-to-fire switch, and the fire control computer does the rest—except fly the aircraft.”

  “Eventually, they will fly themselves for missions like this,” said Katz.

  “Let’s hope there are no more missions like this,” replied Eshel.

  Katz saw the status of the weapon change on his helmet-integrated HUD. He selected “Special” with a toggle switch on the center control stick and changed the status to “Consent Release.” All he truly had to do from this point forward was follow the maneuver pattern calculated by the computer.

  “Maneuver point alpha in five, four, three, two…here we go,” said Katz, easing the control stick back and increasing the throttle.

  His G-suit responded immediately, squeezing his lower extremities. The maneuver wasn’t extreme, but the aircraft’s computers were programed to counter the G-forces diverting blood and oxygen away from his brain. He steadied the Strike Eagle in a forty-degree climb, watching the altitude rapidly increase. A dark orange sun appeared over his left shoulder, bathing the cockpit instruments in a rusty glow.

  “Fire control radar detected bearing zero-niner-three,” said Eshel.

  Hundreds of black-clad jihadists were no doubt scrambling to ready their shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile launchers, in case his jet stumbled into missile range—which it wouldn’t. Their payload would be released far outside of ISIS’s surface-to-air missile range. Satellite imagery and agents stationed in the ports reported nothing more sophisticated than short-range missile systems mounted to several of the new armored tactical vehicles rolling off Chinese-registered merchant vessels.

  Katz maintained the climb, keeping an eye on the fire control computer indicator. He was well within the parameters for a successful release. Fifteen seconds into the pop-up maneuver, his HUD flashed “Special Released.” He never felt the bomb detach, which wasn’t unusual.

  “Confirm weapon release,” said Katz.

  If the bomb remaine
d attached to the aircraft, they would be forced to abort the mission, and a second aircraft ten minutes away would take their place.

  “Visually confirmed,” said Eshel, who had access to a camera view of the aircraft’s weapons pylons.

  Katz rolled the Strike Eagle starboard and dove for the deck, maintaining a tight turn. His G-suit fought the maneuver as his facial muscles rippled from the extreme G-forces. A few seconds later, he steadied the aircraft at one thousand feet, heading southwest. He’d take a circuitous route over northern Saudi Arabia, steering clear of Safawi.

  Hammer Two, piloted by their squadron commander, would release a smaller yield, precision-guided nuclear bomb in less than two minutes—erasing ISIS’s forward staging area. He increased the throttle, breaking the sound barrier and continuing to Mach 1.5. They needed to put as much distance as possible between Ramadi and the aircraft.

  “Time to target?” said Katz.

  “Thirty-two seconds. At this speed, we’ll have a twenty-one-mile buffer. We’re good,” said Eshel, easing both of their fears.

  The 700-pound, GPS-guided nuclear bomb had been tossed on a trajectory toward Ramadi, where it would detonate six hundred meters above the center of the fully exposed ISIS training camp—at the optimal height to unleash the full damage potential of a twenty-kiloton blast against ground targets. They flew in silence, the gravity of the act weighing heavily on their consciences. The immediate death toll would be in the hundreds of thousands, stretching close to a million within a few days.

  Ramadi and Fallujah would essentially cease to exist, along with the imminent threat to his motherland. He could never forget that. The use of nuclear weapons had been a last resort—the unavoidable response to a planned invasion by millions of crazed fanatics. The Caliphate had been days away from launching the first wave of an attack that would have assuredly destroyed the State of Israel.