Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup

by Isaac Hooke

  The "members online" screen showed neither William nor Aaron's aliases. Likely they had their phones turned off to save power, though it was also possible they were out of range in Kobane. He wanted to be sure.

  He stashed the Android and USB stick in his pocket, and then clambered to his feet, making his way through the house.

  Abdullah sat by the front door with Fida'a and Suleman. The latter scowled at Ethan's approach.

  "Where are you going?" Abdullah said.

  Ethan shrugged. "I need some fresh air."

  Abdullah laughed. "It is hardly fresh. But go. Return before curfew."

  Ethan bowed his head and left.

  twenty-seven

  Ethan exchanged "salaams" with the jihadists he saw, and eventually he bumped into Curly Beard. He asked the man where he might find William's or Aaron's unit, giving the names of their respective emirs, and Curly Beard regarded his clipboard.

  "Yes, both units returned just today." He gave directions to the two houses and sent Ethan on his way.

  William's unit was the closer of the two, so Ethan proceeded to that location first. Inside the house he found the entire company asleep on the first floor.

  The stench of FAN—feet, ass, nuts—was nearly overwhelming. Wrinkling his nose, Ethan stepped over the militants, searching the faces for his friend. The men slept so deeply that no one stirred.

  He did a double take on one of the dozing fighters. Yes, it was William. Ethan barely recognized his friend. His face was steeped in grime and swollen in several places.

  Ethan hesitated. William was probably dead tired and needed the sleep. Still, he might have new orders from Sam. Besides, Ethan wanted to let him know he had arrived.

  Keeping his distance, Ethan prodded the operative with the butt of his Dragunov. No response. He tried again, harder.

  William sat up, scrabbling madly at the rifle.

  "Easy, brother," Ethan said in Arabic, conscious of the others in the room. He slid the rifle back over his shoulder.

  William blinked wildly a few times, then recognition dawned in his eyes. He exhaled loudly, lying back.

  "You look like a camel trod over your face," Ethan said.

  "Feels about right." William agreed.

  "Been in a few fistfights?"

  William appeared confused. Then: "Oh. The lumps on my face. That's from the flies. They're everywhere on the front lines. They breed on the corpses."

  Ethan wasn't eager to pursue that line of conversation. "Where's our comrade?"

  William gave him a look that could best be described as appraising. "You just arrived?"

  "I did."

  With a sigh, William arose. He stumbled slightly, and Ethan braced him with one arm.

  Outside, William walked stiffly through the streets, leading Ethan to a one-story house on an adjacent street.

  "Our one day off and you have to disturb us like this?" Aaron complained in Arabic when Ethan roused him in a similar manner.

  After the three of them had gathered in a small clearing near the house, Ethan said, "Update me."

  Aaron scratched the insect welts on his face. "You're lucky you found us. Both our units just got back from four-day rotations on the front. We're only in camp for the one night."

  "Four-day rotation?" William told Ethan. "Aaron had it easy. My unit was out there for six days. So you're doubly lucky to find the two of us in camp."

  "Not my fault your unit was pinned," Aaron said.

  "What's it like in the city?" Ethan asked.

  "Pretty grim," William replied. "Both sides aren't afraid to commit suicide attacks. It's like fighting kamikazes, alongside kamikazes. There's just no sanctity for human life whatsoever. And any kaffir, excuse me, civilians, that are caught, well, the Islamic State either shoots them in the back of the head, or if the lucky prisoner happens to be a woman, they distribute her among the troops and gang rape her until she bleeds to death."

  Ethan cringed. "What's the point of conquering Kobane if there's no one left for them to rule?"

  "That's the thing: they don't care. They'll use the city as a garrison once they take it. Mostly they want Kobane because of its proximity to the border. That and they really hate Kurds. The religion they follow—Yazidism—well, it makes them the infidels among the infidels, apparently. And then there's the political angle. The emirs thought it would be easy for their mujahadeen to take the city. The Kurds were ill-prepared and ill-equipped, they said. When it turned out that conquering Kobane was far from easy, the emirs should have turned back. The city isn't all that important strategically. But shortly after the attack, the Obama administration began its airstrikes against Kobane. So now the Islamic State wants to make the US look bad by showing that even with air dominance, the Americans can't stop IS from conquering this small, out-of-the-way city. And even if IS loses the city in the end, they're going to draw out the battle as long as possible, again to make the West look bad."

  "I tell ya," Aaron said. "This Selous Scout thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. I signed up for this job to get away from the way wars were traditionally fought, and here I am, struggling on the front lines again. I'm thinking we have to get out of here. It's ridiculously dangerous. You ask me, we should be doing what the Brit's are doing. They drop their SAS teams in eighty klicks from an Islamic State target, drive in on ATVs, execute the target, exfil on their ATVs to the extract location, then get the hell out. That last part is the key. Get the hell out. Classic hunter-killer style ops. Like we used to do. Remember those?" He shook his head. "I don't know why Sam ever thought this was a good idea. Place three highly trained operatives in the heart of house-to-house fighting to gather intel? It's insane."

  "In Sam's defense," William said. "It was my idea to come here."

  "Sam's defense?" Aaron said. "She green-lighted your damn idea. She's happy we're here. She didn't want us staying in some backwater city where the intelligence-gathering opportunities were few and far between. She wants us in the heart of the action, where the intelligence comes fast and furious, to better perform those five D's of hers: distend, distort, and disembowel, or whatever."

  "We're making a difference in the fighting," William said. "You can't deny it. Though you're right: it's probably about time we absconded."

  Ethan spoke up. "Listen, you guys can cross over to the Kurds whenever you want and go home. But I have to stay for at least one rotation on the front. I have to do what I came to do."

  Aaron shook his head. "You'll see, my friend. You're all gung-ho now, but when you get out there you'll be wishing you'd listened to your good friend Aaron's advice."

  Ethan shrugged. "We all fought in Fallujah. How bad can it be?"

  Aaron laughed. "It's bad. At least in Fallujah we had guys fighting by our side we could trust. Guys who actually understood that all there was standing between them and the enemy were the men in their unit; guys who knew that fucking up could cost not just their own life, but the lives of everybody with them. Here, everyone wants to get themselves blown up. They take stupid risks. Muj are constantly volunteering to open doors they know could be booby-trapped. Rather than taking the time to disarm the door, or to find another way in, they just go right up and kick it down. Then there's the muj who step into the line of fire to lay down suppressive cover. They could stay crouched where they are, but no, they have to stand up, offering their entire body as bait as if it's the bravest thing in the world. All they're doing is reducing their numbers, making it harder for the rest of the unit to survive."

  Ethan nodded slowly. "Just one rotation."

  Aaron sighed. "That's how it's going to be, is it?"

  "As I said, you're free to cross over to Kurdish lines whenever you want."

  "Easier said than done," William interjected. "Besides, we're not leaving until you do."

  "Hey, speak for yourself," Aaron said.

  "You should leave," Ethan said, entirely serious. "In fact, I insist you do. The two of you have done enough. It's far too dange
rous. Besides, I'm a lone wolf, remember? I can take care of myself."

  William's eyes glinted like steel. "Never tell me I should leave when one of my brothers is staying behind in the line of fire."

  Aaron sighed. "Shit. You and your misguided sense of duty. And I'm talking about the both of you." That was Aaron's way of saying he was staying, too.

  Ethan felt he wasn't entirely grasping the gravity of the situation, but he refused to back down. He had to stay for at least one rotation. He wasn't kidding about what he'd said. He had come here to gather intel, and that was what he intended to do.

  He heard the roar of a fighter jet overhead, and glanced skyward, but the thick smoke obscured the stars. He wondered why the bombers didn't simply target the fires with their thermal imagers. Then again, with so many blazes out there in the outlying villages, they would have no idea as to the actual location of the camp.

  "Western jets?" Ethan said. "Or Assad's MiGs?"

  "Western," William said, rubbing his eyes in an obvious struggle to stay awake. "Assad's staying out of this one."

  "What about Doug, did we ever hear from him?"

  "Doug's embedded with the Kurds," William said. "You'll see him online when you deploy your RF antenna in Kobane. We've been getting excellent reception from the rooftops in the city. Aaron and I have been able to communicate up to three miles away. Doug probably has a slightly more powerful transmitter and receiver, of course, so he doesn't have to get too close to the Kurdish front to stay in contact. Or maybe he's placed a few repeaters here and there."

  "Knowing Doug, he's probably coming right to the front anyway," Ethan said. "You've been able to send him actionable intelligence, right? You said you were making a difference in the fighting."

  Aaron was the one who answered. "Sometimes the bombers accept the targets we send. Sometimes they don't. Depends on the moods of the pilots, I guess."

  "That means yes," William said. "We've sent a ton of actionable intelligence."

  "Good. You've been transmitting your own coordinates as no-fire zones, I assume?"

  "We have," William agreed. "And so far the B-1B Lancers and whatnot have actually obeyed those. But you never know with the Air Force. They've been known to confuse 'no-fire' with 'fire.'"

  "I'm just surprised you haven't targeted the forward camp here, yet," Ethan said.

  "Actually we did." Aaron scratched an ugly bite above his beard. "This is the new forward camp. The old one had the shit bombed out of it while we were on the front, thanks to our intel."

  "Good job."

  Aaron shrugged.

  Ethan figured he'd interrogated his fellow operatives enough for the night, so he walked his friends to their respective lodgings and bid them goodnight. Then he made his way back to his own barracks and lay down. He was lulled to sleep by the distant sounds of sporadic machine gun fire and mortar explosions.

  The next morning, after prayers and a breakfast of nuts and rice, Abdullah gave a short speech.

  "Today we go to the front lines, my wolves," the emir said. "By following the path of jihad, inshallah, you shall all be granted a place in the garden of paradise. A place as vast as the world itself. A place with pristine blue lakes and pure emerald fields lying between mountains of musk, with golden palaces in the sky grander than anything man could ever make. A place where there is no war, and the peace of Allah rules all." He shifted his gaze from face to face. "Remain pure of heart my wolves. Fight the infidels, the enemies of Allah, without fear, because what we do here is right and just." He patted his M16A4. "With these we will remove all tyrants. With these we will erase all borders. With these we will establish a worldwide Caliphate. Die well!"

  "Takbir!" Suleman shouted.

  "Allahu akbar!" the group responded.

  "Takbir!"

  "Allahu akbar!"

  "Takbir!"

  "Allahu akbar!"

  twenty-eight

  Wolf Company marched through the streets toward the north side of the village. The smoke was billowing in full force from the rooftops, blotting out the sky.

  The unit arrived at what could best be described as a pre-staging area. Several Kia pickup trucks idled in a row along a wide street. The members of Wolf Company hopped into the beds of two of those trucks, while other mujahadeen loaded into the remaining vehicles.

  The leftmost pickup drove away, and the next vehicle in line waited half a minute before following. The succeeding pickups departed in turn after similar delays, until all of them were traveling en route to the city in a long, strung-out convoy. The vehicles had to circumnavigate several blast craters along the way. Potholes were prevalent, too, jolting the occupants almost constantly. The fires blazed on the rooftops around them.

  Eventually the convoy reached what could be termed a staging area. At the edge of a village, heavy artillery in the form of long-barreled Type 59-1 Field Guns were spread in a wide row, ready to lay down covering fire. There was scant protection beyond—according to Ethan's offline map, the border of Kobane lay about a mile ahead, and no buildings resided between the village and there. He could see the city up ahead, past that gap, sprawling ominously on the plains.

  The pickups lined up in pairs, grouped by unit. When the last set of vehicles arrived, the Field Guns began to fire. Their targets appeared to be near the center of Kobane, judging from the smoke and debris that spewed skyward from the city. More artillery launched into Kobane from a rocky knoll just south of the city, which the offline map labeled "Mistenur Hill."

  The two pickups in front suddenly accelerated, racing across that empty region between the village and the outskirts of Kobane. The next trucks in line advanced to fill the gap, halting at the village edge. The succeeding vehicles slid forward and revved their engines impatiently.

  The next pair took off about a minute later. And the subsequent group a minute after that.

  Wolf Company's turn finally came. Ethan's pickup broke free of the village and raced toward Kobane, competing with its twin to be the first into the city. The militants with him appeared eager. Excited. On the road, returning trucks raced past.

  He glanced uncertainly at the sky, which was open, and free of smoke. He knew a bomb could strike anytime. Indeed, he saw the crisscrossing exhaust left behind by several jets.

  And then they breached the eastern perimeter of the city. Low-lying concrete buildings similar to the ones in the outlying villages hemmed the pickup on all sides. Closely packed white brick exteriors, flat rooftops, broken windows. Notable was the absence of any burning tires—the militants were probably too busy getting shot at to set up rooftop blazes. Or maybe they'd simply run out of tires.

  The pickups abruptly pulled to a stop and Ethan and the others jumped out. Several militants waiting in a long queue by the side of the road immediately boarded the vacated truck beds and the vehicles turned around and accelerated back the way they had come. The exhausted-looking men who remained in the queue were probably returning from the front lines.

  Ethan watched as the emir of another freshly-arrived unit moved between his troops, pumping epinephrine directly into their hearts with a US-issue autoinjector. The epinephrine basically turned them into berserker units—it would take several shots to down those men until the effects wore off. One young fighter collapsed after the injection, probably suffering a cerebral hemorrhage from the sudden spike in blood pressure.

  Ethan couldn't help but smile at the hypocrisy of it. The Islamic State banned those under its rule from smoking or drinking alcohol, but injecting your heart with epinephrine was perfectly acceptable. Oh sure, some sheik had probably issued a fatwa permitting the hormone for jihad, but the irony wasn't lost on Ethan.

  Abdullah led the unit down a side street. A couple of technicals—Kia 4000s cab overs with Soviet ZU-2 anti-aircraft artilleries in their beds—sped past, heading west toward the front. Wolf Company piled behind a T-55 that was slowly advancing toward the city center. Ethan and the others crouched low, letting the tank guide them i
n.

  He spotted the odd sentinels perched on the rooftops alongside the black standards of the Islamic State, and the occasional technicals positioned at intersections, anti-aircraft guns pointed at the sky.

  Kobane. A city founded in the wake of suffering. After the Ottoman Empire's Armenian Genocide of 1915, refugees started a village near a train station on the Konya-Baghdad Railway. They named their city Kobane, or "company," after the German company that had built that portion of the railway. Kobane had grown to a population of forty-five thousand by 2004, though when combined with the population of the outlying villages, its citizens had numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Those numbers began to drop with the 2011 civil war, and when the Islamic State invaded, the population levels nosedived. Most of the inhabitants fled north across the border into Turkey.

  Ethan regarded the white brick buildings around him uncertainly. The damage alternated between moderate and extreme. In the moderate cases, the white-brick buildings bore machine gun marks and rocket cavities, with only the occasional collapsed structure among them. In the extreme examples, the damage was surreal. He'd be walking along a seemingly ordinary street when all of a sudden the buildings would recede, replaced by an avenue whose structures were completely torn open and gutted as far as the eye could see, the asphalt a jumble of concrete, rebar, mattresses, clothes, TVs and other personal belongings, with bodies burnt beyond recognition thrown into the mix.

  The frequency of ravaged buildings and blast-damaged roadways increased the farther into Kobane the unit went, bearing witness to the relentless mortar and artillery barrage the Islamic State had inflicted upon the city. That the defenders had yielded territory before such a horrendous assault was not surprising.

  The T-55 took a left, turning south, and Wolf Company abandoned it to proceed westward alone through the rubble. There were more fallen buildings than intact ones, there. The desolate landscape looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Blankets and tarps hung from cloth-lines looped between the few standing buildings, shielding the unit from enemy snipers. The sounds of shelling and impacts grew louder the further west the company traveled.