Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup

by Isaac Hooke

  "Stay at your posts!" Emad retorted. "Or the Kurdish pigs will break through!"

  "Get off the line, you idiots!" a random voice barked over the radio.

  Suleman couldn't believe how easily his brothers were deceived. In despair and anger, he almost cast aside the radio. Would evil win so easily?

  But then he realized his mistake. He had been using the common channel.

  He clicked scan and found another frequency in use by a squad nearby. The men were issuing terse instructions to one another—something about outflanking a group of yellow-faces.

  "My brothers," Suleman spoke into the radio. "How would you like to become famous?"

  * * *

  Ethan maneuvered to the far side of the van, away from where the shots had come. He unclipped the night sight from Beast and brought it to his eye, then carefully leaned past the front of the vehicle. He utilized the night scope like a zero magnification lens to survey the immediate area. Because the device was intended for use in front of a day optic, a large, hollow black circle impinged on the view—it looked like he was observing the green-black street through a tube.

  He spotted the fountain Suleman had mentioned earlier on the radio. It was three meters away, and appeared dry, with parts of its jagged rim broken away. Two meters past it lay a brick wall, roughly twice the height of a man. Ethan could see the dome of a mosque silhouetted against the night sky beyond it, maybe a football field distant.

  Sweeping the scope from left to right, he noticed a blast hole in the wall, close to the fountain. It was big enough to fit a man.

  "Check it out," Ethan helped Aaron to the far side of the van and handed him the night scope. "See that gap in the wall of the mosque?"

  "Too far," Aaron declared.

  Ethan and Aaron exchanged places with William so that he could look.

  "If we make a run for it," William said as he looked through the scope. "One of us might make it."

  "Not good enough." Ethan faced Aaron. "Have any RGD-5's left?"

  Aaron nodded. "Two."

  "We can use the fragmentation grenades to momentarily blind our sniper."

  Aaron seemed doubtful. "His night vision scope is auto-gating. It'll adjust to the brightness. We'll have maybe half a second before his vision returns to normal."

  "But you're forgetting the smoke plumes. They're about three meters wide, and last six seconds. That's enough time and coverage to cross from behind the van to the mosque, if we toss both grenades. We throw the first between us and the fountain. The second between the fountain and the gap in the wall."

  "What if he has a thermal imager?" Aaron said.

  "He doesn't. I know the man we're dealing with, and his equipment." Ethan did his best to project confidence, though he couldn't be sure that Suleman hadn't acquired a thermal imager along the way. It was a risk he was willing to take. Goddamn MI6.

  "We'll have to toss the grenades in just the right spots," William said. "Too close to the van, or too far, and the smoke won't give us the cover we need. If we mess up the aim or timing, we'll be eating grenade fragments for lunch. Plus our sniper friend will probably fire randomly into the smoke while we cross."

  "I'm open to other ideas."

  There were none.

  Ethan grabbed the NV clip-on from William and reattached it to Beast, then swung the rifle over his shoulder alongside the Dragunov. "Aaron, get ready to hand me those grenades." He removed the Android from his pocket, disconnected the USB adapter, and crept to the frontmost edge of the van.

  The two-way radio crackled to life. "What are you doing, Abu Emad?" The distaste Suleman placed on the Arabic word for brother was obvious. "I can hear you down there, speaking English, plotting like the Americans spies you are!"

  Ethan thought Suleman was taunting them to convince any listening mujahadeen of their identity more than anything else.

  "Please be aware that the man speaking over the channel is a British MI6 spy," Ethan said into the radio. "He is not to be trusted, and should be executed on sight." He released the send button and turned toward his companions. "We move at two second intervals." That would leave enough room between them in case Suleman happened to have an RPG launcher, while still giving them enough time to cross the street before the smoke cleared. "William, you go first. Aaron, you're second. I'll go last."

  "You expect me to cross alone?" Aaron said. "Ain't going to happen. Not with this bum leg."

  "I'll help him," William volunteered.

  "Fine. You both go first, then. I'll follow three seconds after."

  "Are you looking forward to bathing in hellfire?" Suleman continued to taunt over the radio. "With pigs taking turns raping your asshole every night from now until eternity? When I plant the black flag of the Islamic State on the roof of the White House, I will take a shit in the Oval Office, so that the flies have something to eat while they breed in the corpse of the kaffir President. And I will think of you in that moment, Emad, as I am taking that shit. I will think of how you attempted to betray us. And how I stopped you."

  "Ready?" Ethan asked his companions.

  "Let's roll."

  Ethan leaned past the van and pressed the flashlight icon on his phone; the built-in flash activated, illuminating the street. Aaron handed him the grenades one after the other and Ethan threw them. The first bounced a little farther to the right than he had intended, but it should still suffice; the second landed spot on.

  "Good to go." Ethan switched off the flash.

  The grenades detonated almost simultaneously.

  On cue, William and Aaron emerged from their cover behind the van, trusting that the temporary smoke would shield them from view.

  Ethan began counting down the seconds in his head.

  One-one-thousand.

  As expected, their hidden attacker unleashed random bursts into the smoke plumes.

  William and Aaron reached the cover of the fountain.

  Two-one-thousand.

  Keeping low, William and Aaron began the crossing from the fountain to the stone wall.

  Three-one-thousand.

  Ethan left the van. 5.56mm bullets whipped past. He ducked behind the fountain, and then raced toward his lagging companions.

  In moments it was over. He dove through the ragged gap in the wall, pulling William and Aaron inside with him.

  Aaron moaned in pain as the three of them crashed to the ground. "Damn it, Ethan. A little warning would have been nice."

  "Usually there isn't time to warn someone when you're saving their life," Ethan declared quietly.

  The gunfire ceased beyond the wall.

  "Anyone hurt?" Ethan said.

  "We were fine before you piled in on top of us," Aaron complained again.

  "William?"

  "I'm good," his friend said, sounding slightly pissed as well.

  That's gratitude for you.

  Ethan surveyed the courtyard of the mosque in the moonlight. The place was a mess. The enclosure was indeed the size of a football field. The actual mosque resided on the western side and looked to be about the size of a small stadium. The blast-damaged building had partially collapsed, its white bricks overflowing onto the grounds. Several of the outbuildings had suffered, too: their smashed structures fanned out into the courtyard, leaving behind partially standing husks.

  Ethan helped Aaron northward, following the wall; William brought up the rear, guarding their backs. When Ethan reached the north perimeter he turned west, again staying near the courtyard's wall and its shadow. Behind them, the eastern perimeter provided an effective shield against any outside snipers.

  The trio quickly came upon an open iron gate.

  While William watched the somewhat distant hole in the wall behind them, Ethan lowered Aaron, unclipped the NV scope from Beast, and scanned the street beyond the gate. He picked out an alley opposite their position, between two cinder block fences about six meters away. He handed the NV piece to William.

  "There's an alley across the way," Et
han whispered.

  "I see it," William said, looking through the NV.

  Ethan glanced at Aaron, who sat on the ground, guarding their rear. "Want me to bring Aaron this time?"

  "No," William said. "I got him."

  "Wait." Ethan reattached the NV to the forward Picatinny of Beast and, clipping the sling to his Quick Cuff, he assumed a seated sniping position beside the gate. He leaned past, aiming eastward. He swept the scope from left to right, studying the green-black environment. There were a few buildings Suleman could have used as a hide, but there was no way Ethan would be able to see him in those darkened window frames.

  "Anything?" William said quietly.

  "No," Ethan said. "He could be anywhere out there."

  "Too bad we don't have more grenades. What do you want to do?"

  Ethan clenched his jaw. Where are you?

  "We've moved about a hundred meters north of our last position," William said. "Maybe more. Do you really think our sniper has had time to relocate?"

  "Depends on his initial position," Ethan said.

  "Which was probably close to the van, way over to the southeast. Look, the longer we delay, the more time we give him to find a new hide."

  "Let's cross," Aaron urged.

  "Ethan?" William said.

  "All right. Fine." Ethan didn't look from the scope. "If you're going to go, now's the time then."

  "Come on, bud." William heard shuffling behind him: the sound of his friend hoisting Aaron over one shoulder. "Ready?" he asked Ethan.

  "Go." Ethan scanned the eastern buildings as their footfalls receded across the street. He held his breath, counting out the moments. He thought it would take maybe three seconds for them to reach the alleyway.

  One-one-thousand.

  Two-one-thousand.

  Before he reached three, the terrible triple report of an M16 tore through the night air.

  thirty-nine

  Ethan quickly altered his aim. The muzzle flash had come from beyond the scope's field of view, to the upper right, but he discerned nothing in the black squares representing the building windows there, roughly two hundred meters to the east. The rooftop appeared empty, too.

  "Are you all right!" Ethan shouted. He spoke Arabic in case other militants were listening nearby.

  "We made it!" Aaron called from the alleyway behind him. His voice sounded strained. "We're good."

  "He's not so good," William yelled. "We made it, yes, but the sniper hit Aaron in the same wounded leg. The bullet tumbled on impact. It's not pretty."

  "Damn it," Ethan said quietly. Louder: "Can he still walk with your help?"

  There was a pause. William was obviously applying a makeshift tourniquet. If the bullet tumbled, Aaron would be bleeding heavily from the shredded tissue. Finally:

  "Barely," William shouted back in Arabic.

  "I can do it," Aaron called.

  He would have to.

  Ethan continued shifting his scope over the various windows and rooftops, hoping for some tell that would betray Suleman's position. There was no way Ethan could cross, not while the sniper had a bead on the gate.

  "What's the plan?" William hollered.

  "The two of you have to continue," Ethan said. "I'll find another way."

  "We're not leaving you," William shouted.

  "You have to."

  "We're not!" William insisted.

  "You know you can't stay. Aadil"—he was careful to use Aaron's Arabic alias—"won't make it if you do. Go. I'll catch up. Trust me. Go!"

  Ethan waited for a response, but none came. His friends had gone, then. Good.

  Mortars detonated just to the west and DShKs fired in answer, reminding him of how close to the Kurdish lines he was. So close and yet so far.

  The eastern gap in the wall remained open to him. He could return to it and attempt a retreat that way, but with Suleman out there... he glanced at the collapsed mosque to the west instead. That was a potentially safer route. If he could scale the rubble and cross over to the building's western flank, he would be well beyond Suleman's sight line. There were several damaged outbuildings he could use for cover along the way, and plenty of deep shadows that could defeat a NV scope.

  Before he could move, a sudden illumination drew his attention back to the eastern wall—multiple flashlight-carrying figures were stepping through the gap.

  Suleman had managed to call reinforcements.

  Ethan slunk away from the gate and hurried west inside the courtyard, staying close to the wall and the shadow it cast in the dim moonlight. He turned off his two-way radio, not wanting it to suddenly come to life and give away his position.

  An attenuated beam of light abruptly swept toward him, and he dove behind a waist-high pile of bricks where one of the outbuildings had collapsed. Cement dust on the ground mingled with his sweat, caking his exposed skin.

  He remained motionless, watching, listening.

  The light seemed to be coming closer. Judging from the footsteps, the militants were still about thirty or forty meters away.

  He considered fighting back, but he couldn't be sure how many tangos there were. And without a flash suppressor, he'd reveal his position after the first shot.

  He rolled onto his back into the rubble, grimacing as the sharp pieces of debris dug into his spine. He swept a hand over the loose bricks, letting them pour over his legs. A particularly loud machine gun exchange was taking place somewhere to the southwest, masking the soft clinks. One brick hit his right knee a bit hard and he felt the patella crunch. Nothing he could do but grin and bear it. When his legs were covered, he moved on to individually positioning the bricks over the rest of his body; he moved as quickly as possible, cringing whenever he thought he placed a piece too loudly.

  By the time the search team reached him, he had blanketed himself and his equipment almost completely in debris. Only his left arm was exposed—the arm he had used to position the final bricks. Hopefully the camo sleeve, combined with the cement dust coating the hand, would serve to mask the limb.

  The nearby machine gun fire ceased and he became conscious of his own rattled breathing. He held it, remaining motionless, feeling the weight of the bricks pressing down into his body. His right knee throbbed.

  Two pairs of boots crunched over the rubble beside him. The ambient light brightened momentarily as a flashlight passed over his position; the illumination filtered through the crack he'd left for his eyes, blinding him. Then the light, and the footfalls, moved on.

  Ethan exhaled softly.

  The searchers had split up, judging from the occasional shouts from the different parts of the courtyard. Unlike the rest of the city, the acoustics there were surprisingly good, with minimal echo and distortion, allowing him to pinpoint sound sources with relative accuracy, and he knew two separate groups were moving westward toward the mosque; muted voices, meanwhile, came from the northeast and southeast, telling him that militants had stayed behind to guard the iron gate and the wall rupture, respectively.

  A louder exchange abruptly drifted to him from the gate. It sounded like the militants on watch were greeting someone.

  The conversation ceased and someone new approached. Alone.

  The two other groups were returning from their search of the mosque at that time, and converged on the newcomer close to Ethan's position.

  "Salaam," the newcomer said. It was Suleman.

  "There is no one here, brother," another militant said in Arabic.

  "He has to be here," Suleman said. "We had men watching both exits. I know this place very well—I was pinned here a few days ago, and there is no other way out. Did you check all the outbuildings? The mosque?"

  "We did. Most of the buildings have collapsed. As for the mosque, much of it is gone, and what's left is mostly open space, with a few closets and side rooms. We searched them all. I tell you, he is not here."

  "He is here!" Suleman hissed.

  The two-way radios crackled to life. "We need reinforcements in
the industrial area, north of the mosque! The yellow-faces are attempting a sortie. Hurry!"

  Ethan recognized William's voice and mentally thanked his friend.

  "My brother, I am sorry," the militant said. "We are needed elsewhere. He is just one man."

  "He is not just one man," Suleman said. "It is what he represents. If we let him go, we send a clear message to the American pigs that it is all right for them to infiltrate our ranks with their dirty spies. That it is all right to kill us in the dark and sabotage our equipment and assassinate our emirs."

  But the others were already retreating, judging from the footfalls.

  Suleman cursed them, something about a pig raping their kaffir arses while they burned for all eternity. The usual.

  Ethan listened as Suleman's footfalls receded—his boots crunched morosely over the rock, dirt and glass. A distant clink sounded whenever the man experimentally poked his rifle into a rubble pile.

  The footsteps slowly shifted toward the northern wall and faded as Suleman traversed the gate. Gunfire came from somewhere outside the courtyard, masking his retreat, and when it ended, Ethan no longer heard the man.

  He badly wanted to vacate the courtyard, but there had seemed something off about Suleman's exit. His footfalls had seemed too loud. Too dramatic. Like Suleman merely wanted him to think he was leaving. It was a tactic Ethan would have used himself. He remembered the certainty he had heard in Suleman's voice, the conviction, when he had told the other militants that Ethan was still in the courtyard.

  And so he remained still, hidden beneath those bricks. The wind picked up, and the entire courtyard descended into darkness. Likely the breeze had brought with it the black smoke from the southern villages, occluding the stars and moon.

  The nearby shelling stopped entirely, so that he existed in an eerie microcosm of sensory deprivation. The smallest sound might betray his position, but it worked both ways—Ethan kept his ears open, listening intently.