by C. G. Cooper
“Which is…?”
“He’s doing some cross-training with us for now, see if he likes it. Still gets to wear the uniform and he can always go back if he wants.”
“Is that why you wanted to take us on your little tour?” asked Cal, starting to realize that he liked the natty spook. He could tell the guy was full of piss and vinegar, just like you’d expect from a former Marine corporal.
“I mentioned Andy because I figured it was the only way you’d trust me. My boss’s boss said you can be a little…hardheaded.”
“You talked to Zimmer?”
Isnard nodded. “I met him when he flew in last month. Found out that despite being a democrat, he’s a good guy. We connected the dots and found out that Andy was a mutual friend. He called me a couple days ago, told me to do what I could to help you. I told him I would.”
Cal chuckled. “Well hell. Is there anything you don’t know about me?”
Isnard shrugged and pocketed his e-cig. “A good spy never digs and tells, Mr. Stokes. Now, tell me how I can help.”
It took Cal ten minutes to outline their plan. Isnard asked a couple questions, and made two recommendations. Overall he agreed with Cal, and said he’d pull every string he could to help out.
“When do you make contact with the Israelis?” asked Isnard.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“You’ve got some big balls, Marine. Make sure you’re locked and loaded. That area’s like the Wild West right now. I’m surprised they picked it.”
Cal had thought the same thing, but deferred to his Israeli contacts. The head of Mossad himself had vouched for the men. These were valued agents whom he trusted completely.
“Don’t worry. We’re ready. What are you gonna tell the ambassador?”
Again, the sly shrug from Isnard. “Brighton’s a pretty good guy. Ivy Leaguer, but not a total snob. He knows why I’m here and pretty much stays out of my way. He gets that the president’s keeping him in the dark on this. It’s probably better for him anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Would you rather tell the Iraqi president truthfully that you have no idea what’s going on in his country, or lie right to his face?”
“Good point. So, tell me about—”
Their conversation was interrupted by three explosions spaced narrowly apart. By the sound, the three men knew they weren’t close by.
“Mortars,” said Cal.
Isnard nodded, looking out over the landscape along the Tigris River. “There.” He pointed. Three thin plumes of dust and smoke were rising from what looked to the riverside edge of the embassy compound.
“Does this happen a lot?” asked Cal, not really surprised by the incoming rounds. They were in Baghdad after all.
“Not much anymore. The Iraqis—”
Three more explosions sounded, this time inside the embassy compound. It didn’t look like anything had been hit, but sirens started wailing. Then, as if on cue, a loud roar erupted from the north end of the embassy, like a stadium full of football fans cheering for their team, or wailing in dismay.
Isnard spun around to where the cheer had come from. “What the—?”
The explosion knocked them from their feet. They could hear screams from the street, probably wounded. Cal’s ears were ringing. He looked at Isnard, who’d scraped his elbow in the fall, blood seeping from the tattered hole in his tan suit.
“Let’s get you back to your team,” said Isnard, already leading the way.
“What the hell’s going on?” asked Cal, not necessarily worried, more curious at not knowing the daily rigors faced by the embassy staff. He figured the explosions were fairly routine.
Without looking back, Isnard said, “We’re under attack.”
Chapter 24
Baghdad, Iraq
7:15am, August 15th
(ONE HOUR EARLIER)
The Iraqi colonel picked up the four well-used olive drab seabags and tossed them in the trunk of his car. Twenty million U.S. dollars. He’d be wealthy, minus the promised payments for his subordinates, but they probably wouldn’t be alive to see it. They didn’t know that, and that was fine with the colonel.
Passed over for a promotion for almost ten years, his time had come. While his peers gazed down from their lofty positions, he was stuck doing administrative tasks fit for a new recruit. Like today. He’d been assigned to oversee the military parade showcasing Iraq’s beefed up arsenal. Like the days under Saddam, the Iraqi government wanted to show the world that they were, in fact, a viable ruling force.
They wanted ISIS to see their strength, the weapons that would soon drive them from Iraq. Stupid. Instead of attacking, they were parading.
ISIS had contacted him through his sister’s cousin, a radical sympathizer who’d listened to the colonel’s drunken lamentation weeks before. The seeds planted carefully, the colonel recognized the casual courting immediately. He’d taken small payments and favors in the past, but this was different. There was no going back to his old life. There would be a helicopter waiting to take him and his family to Syria and then out of the Middle East.
“The ammunition is loaded, Colonel,” said one of his captains, the man who would stay behind and coordinate the attack. The colonel had promised him half a million dollars. Not a king’s ransom, but enough to start a new life for the bachelor.
“Very well. You know your target. The signal will be three mortar blasts. Keep up the barrage until the Americans send in their air support. Then, you and the other commanders may proceed to the designated rendezvous point for extraction out of the country.”
The captain smiled. “Yes, sir.”
He did a precise about face and marched off toward the waiting vehicles.
If he were a religious man, the colonel might have said a short prayer for his men. But he wasn’t. Instead, he got in the back of his car, told his driver where to go and dreamed of where his newfound riches would take him.
+++
7:21am
Martin Gleason beamed. His many months of hard work had paid off. There were almost fifteen thousand Iraqis crowded into the southeast corner of Al Zawra Park. Many carried Iraqi flags. There were smiles and hugs between friends, a coming together for a common cause.
Gleason was an American who’d left his high-paying corporate job in Manhattan to come to Iraq, to change the country desperately in need of peace. It was his mission in life, his dream. He’d met roadblocks for the last three years. Corrupt officials. Constant military presence. Apathetic citizens. Slowly he’d built his reputation, helping the needy, painting a picture for a beautiful new Iraq. An Iraq without war.
The government official he’d had to pay off thought they were marching north, headed northeast towards Sadr City. But that wasn’t what Gleason had planned. The peace march would begin at the park and proceed southeast on 14th of July Street, passing the embassies of the United Kingdom and the United States. Gleason relished the thought of seeing the war mongers looking down, marveling at his handiwork. Countries like Iraq didn’t have peace rallies; they had strikes and mobs. Gleason’s event would be a first.
Sure, he’d had to pay a lot of people to show up, but that was the price of mass mobilization. It would be worth it. Time magazine was doing a piece on the march that would coincide with the large military parade moving north. Other media outlets promised to send reporters and help chronicle the historic event. No one knew they were on a collision path with the military parade. All except Gleason. Again, he’d planned it that way.
There was sure to be a confrontation, but Gleason hoped for it. He relished the thought of peaceful demonstrators going up against the ruthless military. By this time tomorrow there would be pictures of his victorious masses all over the world. His staff had already prepped their social media presence for the inevitable swell of support.
They were minutes from starting their slow walk. He picked up his megaphone from the ground and switched it on. It was time to prep his marchers.
Just as he lifted the device toward his lips, a hand grabbed his arm. Gleason looked back, thinking it was one of his assistants. It wasn’t. The man holding his arm was dressed like the rest of his supporters, but the stern look in his eyes belied his intent. Gleason stared wide-eyed, now noticing four others standing behind the man.
“Do not say anything,” said the man in Arabic, taking the megaphone out of Gleason’s trembling hand. “If you do, you will be shot.”
The man nodded to his companions, who disappeared into the crowd.
“What do you want?” asked Gleason. He could feel his bowels shifting. He’d been robbed three times since coming to Iraq. Every time he’d pissed his pants. It felt like he was about to do it again.
“We want the same as you, Mr. Gleason.”
For a split second, Gleason relaxed, hoping that he’d been mistaken about the stranger’s motives.
“You do?”
“Yes, Mr. Gleason. We want to show the world something they’ve never seen.”
The man depressed the button that blared the siren out of the megaphone, silencing the happy crowd. Then he spoke.
“By order of the caliph, and under the blessed gaze of Allah, this demonstration is now under our watchful eye. Do not call out or try to run. We have men placed throughout your gathering. Obey and you will live, earning the everlasting gratitude of the caliph. Run and you will be shot. Gather your belongings, we leave in two minutes.”
Gleason stared at the man in horror. What was happening?
+++
8:03am
The military procession moved out from the staging area. A company of two-hundred Iraqi soldiers led the way, stern-faced and fluid with their heels clicking against the pavement.
Next came ten Russian-made BM-21s with truck mounted 122mm multiple rocket launchers. Behind them were five M109A6 Paladin howitzers. Firing a 155mm shell, ISIS had recently captured close to twenty of the American-made self propelled artillery weapons.
Finally came the columns of armored personnel carriers, an assortment of Russian, American, British and even Chinese manufactured vehicles. Some boasted machine guns of varying sizes, bored troops manning them as they rolled slowly down the road.
Crowds dotted the sides of the road, mostly curious, not really there for the event. They’d had enough of military parades under Saddam. In those days Iraqis were required to attend such events. At least now they could come and go as they pleased.
The procession moved along Two Stories Bridge, around the Jamia Street roundabout and north toward the U.S. Embassy. Although the sparse crowds couldn’t see it, fingers were starting to hover over triggers and buttons inside the vehicles.
+++
8:06am
EgyptAir Flight 637 was almost empty. Five customers were scattered throughout the aircraft, cared for by three flight attendants. Sometimes there were too many passengers to bring into Baghdad. It depended on the season and the political climate. With the continued movement of ISIS, passengers were scarce. It didn’t matter to the crew. They were getting paid whether they had a full compliment or two passengers on the Boeing 767 aircraft. In fact, they’d been promised a bonus to man the flight for a week at a time. A fifty percent pay raise was pretty good for a short hop.
They were waiting for final clearance to descend into Baghdad’s airspace when the harsh buzz from the secure cockpit door sounded. The pilot looked up in annoyance. The rear crew knew not to disturb them right before landing, especially coming into the city. There was always the off-chance that some budding terrorist wanted to shoot them out of the sky, and the two pilots had to be ready.
“Go see what they want,” the pilot ordered his second-in-command.
The co-pilot got up and went to the door, looking through the small bulletproof glass window. It was the stewardess, a pretty girl in her mid-twenties who’d been making eyes at the captain all morning. She was new and the co-pilot was pretty sure she had an IQ below what was acceptable for airline duty.
The girl, Jamila, smiled and motioned to the back of the plane. She’d probably forgotten the rules. The co-pilot exhaled and opened the door.
“What is it, Jamila?” he asked.
She put her finger to her lips, eyes still playful.
“What is it?” the co-pilot asked again, ready to close the door in the stupid woman’s face.
Jamila smiled and raised her other hand to chest level so only he could see. It held a small caliber pistol with a suppressor on the end. It was pointed straight at him.
“Turn around and walk back into the cockpit,” she said, her eyes no longer playful, now dark and menacing.
The co-pilot nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. He was a veteran of the Egyptian army, had been to war and seen men die. But something in Jamila’s eyes spoke of doom, the focus of a fanatic.
He turned around, Jamila stepping in and closing the door behind them. The co-pilot never felt the bullet that blew through his left temple, through his brain, and out the right side of his head.
+++
8:13am
The three teams uncovered the 81mm mortars secured in the back of their three battered pickup trucks. They knew there was little time. The American counter battery units would lock on to them quickly. Two shots, maybe three. They’d agreed to move to the next location after two.
Honed from hours of practice, the first mortar dropped into its tube and flew north, its companions dropping and flying a second and third a few seconds later. They waited for the distant explosions, shifted north a degree, and then let loose the second volley.
As soon as the fourth, fifth and sixth rounds were in the air, the crews scrambled back into the vehicles and sped off to their next firing point.
+++
8:14am
Gleason could barely walk. His legs shook with every step. His supporters, proponents for peace, moved along reluctantly. They’d seen the men with guns hidden under their clothing, casual with their gait but firm in manner. No one had been shot yet and Gleason hoped it would stay that way. As long as everyone listened.
They’d made it to the gates of the U.S. embassy, the walls looking down at them, cameras watching their every move.
The siren on Gleason’s megaphone sounded, and the ISIS commander’s voice boomed.
“By Allah’s name, cry out to Him if you want to live. Tell the infidels they do not command you!”
The first cry sounded from close by, soon spreading. Gleason’s voice joined the thousands in a desperate cry that sounded more like a wail.
+++
8:15am
At the sound of the exploding mortars, the military procession stopped. The marching troops halted and looked across the Tigris in confusion, some bringing their rifles to the ready. The vehicles behind them stopped, engines still growling. But there was no confusion in the minds of the gunners.
Turrets and barrels shifted left. A small child in the crowd next to the road pointed at the swiveling weapons. Without warning every missile launcher, howitzer and vehicle-mounted machine gun started firing at the U.S. Embassy. The sound was deafening to the ears of the onlookers. As the firing continued, the crowd ran.
+++
8:16am
Jamila looked at the pilot’s lifeless body and grinned. He and the co-pilot had taken her for a fool, assuming she was a stupid woman. She was not.
The caliph had picked her personally from their growing female ranks. She’d been specially trained for this mission. The glory would be hers.
She pulled a small remote out of her pocket, twisting the power knob to ON and depressing the red button. The airplane shook slightly from the small explosion on the left wing where she’d hidden the incendiary. It wouldn’t hinder the airplane’s flying ability, but it would buy her time.
Jamila picked up the radio and spoke to the control tower as she carefully guided the plane into a steep descent.
“Baghdad, this is EgyptAir six-thirty-seven, we have experienced some kin
d of malfunction, possibly an incoming round on our port wing. We are losing altitude quickly.”
“Copy, EgyptAir. Be advised, we have reports of fighting in the city center. Do not, I repeat, do not fly over the city.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. Our controls are unstable and—”
Jamila took off the headset and threw it on the ground. The news of fighting was good. Her brothers had struck the first blow.
As she looked down at the smoke now rising from the middle of Baghdad, she increased her angle of descent, aiming the nose of the plane at the outpost of the infidel, the American embassy.
Chapter 25
Baghdad, Iraq
8:15am AST, August 15th
Lieutenant Commander Dillon McKay, call sign “Crapshoot,” looked out of the cockpit of his Navy F/A-18/E Super Hornet. He’d been on station for ten minutes, just the routine stuff they did every day. Intel hadn’t said anything about imminent threats, so the fact that he was watching the center of Baghdad implode was surreal.
He’d called in the situation. They told him to stay close, that nobody knew what was happening on the ground. Those ISIS bastards caught us by surprise, thought McKay, a twelve year naval officer who’d recently left his wife and two kids for another seven-month deployment. His little girl was about to start kindergarten and he was going to miss it.
McKay dropped farther out the clear sky, his wingman close behind.
“Let’s get in close,” he said to his fellow pilot, a short Italian from the Bronx named Joey Nitalli, call sign “Herringbone” for the expensive suits he loved to wear when he was off duty.