Scorpion Strike

by Nance, John J. ;

  Forty miles remained to Kirkuk, where the general had his field headquarters. Shakir checked the map and found the turn for a final shortcut, one that avoided the main highway—and, he hoped, the roadblocks.

  He had been cleared easily through four checkpoints so far, but now, after traveling only three miles, another roadblock loomed in front of him. This one was different from the others: a battle-scarred tank parked partway across the road, leaving only one lane for passage in either direction, and three soldiers were standing on each side. The other checkpoints had been more organized, more professional. This one must have been thrown into place for some reason at the last minute. Kirkuk was just ahead, and the fighting with the Kurdish rebels had been raging all around for the last three days, according to Muayad.

  Of course, he reminded himself, I’m now Muayad Damerji.

  Shakir braked to a halt on the signal of an upturned palm from a raggedly dressed soldier who approached the driver’s side now, his Kalashnikov rifle aimed right at Shakir’s head.

  “I’m no threat to you. Please lower your gun,” Shakir said.

  There was no response. The soldier’s right hand came forward, palm up, silently waiting for Shakir’s papers, and he fumbled for the ID card and the proper military pass, handing them through the window of the van—then realizing with a profound chill that the soldier was holding them upside down as he pretended to read.

  Shakir looked at the face and saw a boy of fifteen, devoid of maturity, yet forced into a man’s role. He was playing a part—only a part—and whatever lines he was about to recite were unpredictable.

  And impervious to reason.

  A full minute ticked by, Shakir memorizing the details of the muzzle of the gun as it hovered inches from his eyes, the young boy in a soldier’s clothes still working to pretend he was absorbing the papers.

  Finally he raised his eyes, his face a mask of impassivity.

  “Out of the van!” he said at last, stuffing the papers and ID card in his pocket as he brought his right hand back up to the gun stock, his finger caressing the trigger as he stepped back.

  Shakir complied quickly as he looked around for the boy’s commander.

  “Where is your officer?” he asked. “I am Dr. Muayad Damerji, on an important mission for the Revolutionary Command Council. You cannot detain—”

  The boy seemed to come alive suddenly with anger.

  “You will not speak!” the boy commanded. “Down on your knees!”

  A cold ball of panic began rolling around in Shakir’s consciousness, eluding his control and rattling the calm appearance he was trying to maintain. He had his hands in the air now as he looked at the boy quizzically. “You want me to do what?”

  “On your knees!” the boy yelled at him, shoving the muzzle of the gun into his stomach so hard he nearly fell backwards.

  Shakir complied, facing the boy.

  “I said turn around!” he yelled again, pulling the barrel to one side far enough to strike his prisoner on the side of the head. Shakir beat him to it, turning instantly, his knees protesting as they ground painfully against the pavement by the front of the van.

  “Where is your officer? You are making a terrible mistake!” Shakir was yelling now too, trying to treat a child like a child, although this one had a lethal weapon aimed at the back of his head.

  The boy’s response was swift and ominous: the sound of a bolt and a firing pin locking into position reached Shakir’s ears.

  “Do not move! Do not speak!” the young conscript said again.

  Where is your commander?

  Shakir prayed the thought would penetrate the thick skull of the boy behind him. His heart was now racing, his senses telling him to comply, yet his instincts telling him he had only seconds to prevent the trigger from ending his life—and the lives of many others if he could not neutralize that last canister.

  “What do you have here, Private?” a voice asked behind him.

  Allah be praised! That must be his officer. This nonsense will end now.

  There was a hesitation as footsteps approached the soldier’s position and stopped. The boy replied then, his words striking Shakir with the suddenness of a scorpion in a dark corner.

  “This is one of Saddam’s pigs, sir. May I kill him now?”

  Shakir’s mistake flashed through his consciousness in a split second.

  These are rebel soldiers! And I just identified myself as—

  The sound of another vehicle—a truck of some sort—came to his ears.

  “Let me see his papers,” the leader said.

  The decision made to chance it, Shakir cried out, “Please, let me explain who I am!”

  “Oh? And just who are you, Doctor Damerji?” the man Shakir assumed was an officer asked, a cold snarl in his tone. “This says you are working for the Revolutionary Command Council, which means you are working for Saddam. Why should I not let my man execute you right now? Saddam’s jackals would execute me in an instant.”

  “May I turn around?” Shakir asked, his voice now clearly shaking.

  A strong hand gripped his right shoulder suddenly and almost effortlessly yanked him to his feet, spun him around, and slammed his back against the door of the van. The boy-soldier was still aiming at his head, visceral fury on his face, but when Shakir looked left and into the eyes of the boy’s leader, he saw weariness instead.

  “You have one minute to tell me why you should live.”

  The sound of a heavy vehicle door opening met his ears now. Someone was starting to get out of the truck that had come up behind his van. The officer, a surprisingly tall man with weathered skin and a huge, sad mouth that seemed to cross his entire face, kept his eyes locked on Shakir’s, but yelled out of the corner of his mouth suddenly: “Stay by your vehicle!” He snapped several orders in the other direction then, and Shakir could hear two of the other soldiers scurry to guard the newcomer.

  Several seconds elapsed as Shakir’s mind raced to find the right words to say. Suppose this was a trap? Suppose these were really loyalists trying to scare a confession out of him?

  “Well, Doctor? What are you a doctor of? Death?”

  The echo of Colonel Westerman’s acid reference to him several days ago catapulted his decision past logic. He was not Doctor Death!

  “I am trying to recover a deadly weapon before it can be used on your rebel forces, or on any other innocent people.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “One that makes you sick. One that …”

  “I’m not an idiot, Doctor. Are you talking about a nuclear weapon?”

  “My papers indicate nuclear, but this is a germ weapon.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you are trying to save me? You, who come down this road with papers proving you work for Saddam?”

  “Yes. I …”

  The officer let him go suddenly and stepped back, never taking his eyes off Shakir, but speaking as precisely to his young soldier as if he had been facing the boy. “I sentence him to the same treatment that was so graciously given to our comrade, Haamed Nashrani, two days ago. You understand?”

  “Yes sir,” the boy said, his eyes gleaming. “I know how to shoot him. He will die very slowly by the side of the road.”

  “Precisely,” the officer said as he began to turn away. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

  The barrel of the gun dropped now from eye level as the boy stepped to one side and Shakir tensed himself to spring in a last-ditch effort to escape, the presence of another rifle now aimed at his head by one of the two soldiers standing across the road assuring that he wouldn’t make it.

  But he would go down fighting, at least!

  Suddenly there was the sound of automatic rifle fire, and the young boy’s head exploded in front of him, the Kalashnikov clattering harmlessly to the ground, rooting him to the spot. The other soldiers were turning now toward the newly arrived truck as the seconds stretched and fingers pulled on triggers too slowly. Shakir saw the two soldiers stan
ding as if frozen, their bodies beginning to shake and jerk grotesquely as their torsos absorbed the impact of each bullet from the automatic weapons fire. The officer, who had been caught off guard when he turned to walk back toward the tank, tried to turn too late, catching the same lethal bullet stream full in the face, his magnificent mouth blasted away as his body flipped backward and crumpled.

  There was gunfire to his right now, return fire, and Shakir slid to the ground and pressed his back against the right front tire of the van as he tried to get a glimpse of the source of the fusillade.

  To the left of the door of the truck stood a solitary individual in a sports shirt and blue slacks, holding an automatic weapon. He pulled the trigger again to finish the slaughter, cutting down the last rebel soldier as he stood by the tank trying to cock his rifle, then he ran past Shakir to the tank, tossing a grenade in the open hatch. A horrible metallic sound assaulted Shakir’s ears, as if a giant sledgehammer had struck the side of a massive piece of steel as he stood beside it. If anyone had remained inside, he was now dead.

  Only then did the man walk toward Shakir.

  “That was very close,” the man said, offering his hand and helping Shakir get up, though his legs had turned to rubber.

  “How … uh …”

  The man smiled. “This is a government van. I know the look. I knew they were rebels, and I could see they were about to finish you. What more do I need to know?”

  “You are … military?” Shakir asked.

  “No.” He smiled, a snaggletoothed, crooked smile set off by a set of cold snake eyes. “I am official security—secret police. And you?”

  Shakir had little adrenaline left to add to his bloodstream, but a tiny spark of renewed apprehension returned.

  Did he overhear what I said?

  “I was saying … making up anything I could to save myself. You may have heard …” he stammered, after identifying himself as Dr. Damerji.

  There was no acknowledgment. The man turned and walked over to the body of the officer. He knelt down and unfolded the dead man’s fingers, retrieving the identification papers, which he studied before walking back and handing them to Shakir.

  “Where are you going, Doctor?”

  “I … must report to General Hashamadi in Kirkuk. I thank you …”

  “You drive ahead, and I’ll accompany you. If there are any more roadblocks ahead, stop and let me go around you first, and do not identify yourself. Let me do that.”

  “Certainly,” Shakir said, fighting to contain the fact that he was thoroughly off balance. Conflicting loyalties and shifting alliances were flipping in and out of his mind. The danger he was now in was incalculable. One of Saddam’s sadistic killers was going to lead him on a mission to destroy Saddam’s most lethal weapon. If he weren’t so filled with terror, the irony would have been hilarious.

  But at least he was alive.

  Shakir looked down at the carnage around the van, the grisly remains of the young boy in the soldier’s suit just a few feet away. The boy had been almost the same age as his oldest son, his head now reduced to …

  Shakir motioned to the secret policeman to wait a minute as he stumbled to the side of the road and vomited.

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Friday, March 8, 1991—7:30 P.M. (1730 GMT)

  Another call to prayer was echoing from the loudspeakers of every minaret in Riyadh. General Herm Bullock rolled down the backseat window of the staff car as the driver rolled through the entrance to the air base. The mournful, musical incantations from the Koran were an exotic sound track to the glow of sunset in the west, the spectacular hues changing slowly to star-studded skies.

  Colonel Kerr was sitting where he had said he’d be: on a dusty picnic table under a camouflage net just outside the collapsible MAC ALCE command post. The driver scooped up Kerr’s standard B-4 bag and a briefcase as Herm greeted him with a handshake. The chance to hop on a direct flight to Riyadh from Mildenhall had proven irresistible, especially after Herm Bullock’s call.

  “Good to meet you in person, General. My boss thought I could be of some help to you a little closer to the action, and since Westerman and Harris are pilot-training classmates of mine, I took him up on it.”

  “Both?”

  “Yes sir. Class seventy-oh-eight at Willie.” The reference to Williams Air Force Base, near Phoenix, brought back his own set of memories, but Bullock suppressed them, and merely nodded.

  “I know you’re with the Defense Intelligence Agency, but I didn’t know you were a pilot.”

  “Former SR-71 jockey, sir, and U-2 before that. I got involved in surveillance mapping and other intelligence activities several years ago and got out of the cockpit.”

  “So now you’re a spy?”

  Kerr laughed at that. “Hardly, sir. I have a mixed bag of responsibilities related to satellite and other high-tech intelligence gathering and troubleshooting. What pulled me into this operation was a call from Will Westerman.”

  Bullock filled him in on the second failed rescue attempt, which had just gotten under way when Kerr’s flight left Mildenhall.

  “Let’s go get something to eat,” Herm said, “and I’ll add the details. I’m glad you’re here, by the way. I have a vague feeling I may need your help, especially if the Iraqis do what I expect they’re going to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pretend they don’t have them.”

  “You expect that?”

  The general was nodding. “That’s why I insisted we formally notify the Iraqis that we know they are holding our people. General Martin’s going to deliver that message tonight.”

  The news chilled Kerr.

  My God, he thought, what if they’re not captured? We might as well paint a target on them.

  15

  Al Hajarah desert, south central Iraq

  Saturday, March 9, 1991—5:25 A.M. (0225 GMT)

  “Slow down, Doug! You’re leaving yourself no room for recovery.”

  They were going over sixty now, with nothing but moonlight illuminating the narrow desert road ahead. Will had been watching with alarm as Doug’s foot got heavier on the accelerator, and he’d reached the breaking point.

  “Doug, please!”

  “Okay, okay.” He let up on the power, feeling the truck slow.

  It was a tightrope act without a net, balancing the remaining hours of covering darkness and moonlight against the need to use the headlights in order to maintain enough speed to get the most out of the remaining fuel. The equation was complicated even more by the fact that Bill Backus had developed a fever, and they were out of liquids.

  “How far do you suppose we’ve come?” Doug’s voice sounded dry, cracked, and unused. It had been over an hour since either of them had spoken, and over an hour since the last time they’d had to slow to a crawl to creep around a major desert intersection and its small settlement, bouncing over a rubble-strewn section of hard-packed desert to cut the corner by a mile. They couldn’t chance using the headlights, but somehow they had pulled it off, navigating the roads by reference to the stars and zigzagging first to the northeast, then the southeast, always trending in the right direction toward Kuwait and the Coalition lines.

  “Since that last intersection”—Will pushed a tiny button on his digital watch and read the time, running some simple time and distance figures through his head—“about sixty miles. Since we came out of hiding, about a hundred and fifty.”

  They had returned to the wadi and slept in the back of the truck through the afternoon, Bill remaining mostly unconscious. Sandra had lain awake for hours imagining she heard more helicopter sounds in the distance before closing her eyes, cuddling against Will’s back at one point as he slept—an unconscious act that had embarrassed Will when he awoke and felt her arm around his waist. Quietly he had disengaged, tenderly placing her arm back beside her and smoothing her hair as Doug watched, admiring the gentleness of his old friend. It had always been that gentle nature toward w
omen that had drawn so many of them to him, Doug realized.

  Fuel was a growing worry. There was no gas gauge, and Will’s last attempt to dip the tanks had shown less than a quarter remaining. When they ran out, the great escape—at least the easy part—would be over.

  “Hey, what’s that?”

  Will’s voice startled both of them. Something disturbingly familiar painted on the surface of the road had just flashed beneath them, too softly illuminated to be fully visible.

  Doug raised up in the driver’s seat. “I don’t know, but I saw it too.”

  “There’s another one. Slow down!”

  Doug nodded, braking smartly.

  The white stripes were large rectangles, side by side in the roadway, and placed at intervals, with bordering white lines on each side.

  “The road’s wider suddenly. You notice that?” Will asked.

  There were no artificial lights on the horizon, and Doug’s hand reached for the headlight switch as he looked over at Will. “Should I?”

  “Go ahead. Just for a second.”

  The splash of glaring white light after hours of nothing but moonlight was a massive assault to their eyes. Doug had done little more than flick the switch on and off, but in the brief glare the meaning of the markings became crystal clear.

  “Jesus, Will, this is a highway airstrip!”

  They were used all over the desert nations of the Arabian Peninsula, highways which doubled as runways.

  Doug braked to a stop now, aggressively, the headlights off once more. “If this is a highway strip, it’s probably military, and it’s probably full of holes from our attacks.”

  “There’s a huge building over there.” Will was looking off in the distance to the right as Doug pulled off to the side and stopped, letting the engine idle as the two of them climbed out, straining to see, both wishing again—as they had all night—that they had night-vision goggles.