by Ethan Jones
Chapter Six
January 12
Two miles south of the Iraqi border
The second bullet shattered the windshield, sending a hail of shards over Behrooz’s and Justin’s heads.
Behrooz hit the brakes, and the truck stopped.
Justin did not wait for the third bullet. If the truck was not armored, it offered little protection. He threw his shoulder against the door, then rolled outside.
Bullets whizzed overhead, thumping against the door. Justin fired a quick burst at the invisible target, by following the bullets’ trajectory. A muzzle flash appeared to his right, and rounds pinged against the tailgate, so he crawled underneath the truck.
A moment later, Vale slid next to Justin, who asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Justin fired another burst.
More bullets pounded the side of the truck. A couple struck next to Justin, who fell back behind the rear wheel.
Then a round pierced the right front tire. It erupted with a loud pop, and the truck dropped. Now there was about an inch or so of space between the axles and Justin’s head. He crawled backwards, hoping none of the bullets would blow up the rear tires, and called to Vale, “This way. To the back.”
As he came to the back of the truck, Justin aimed his rifle at the last place he had seen muzzle flashes. He emptied his magazine, firing in an arc. He spread his rounds, so they would cover a large area where the attackers might be hiding.
No return fire.
He glanced at Vale, who nodded. “I’m good.”
“Cover this side.” Justin pointed to their left, at about the eleven o’clock mark.
He reloaded his rifle, then peered around the tailgate, at the left side of the truck. Behrooz was stretched on the ground along with one of his associates near the front wheel. They were firing long barrages, alternating between the two, as the associate would climb to one knee and fire over the hood. Their gunfire was aimed at the right side, the direction from where had come the first volley.
Justin’s eyes examined the terrain on the left side. Scarce vegetation, but a few large boulders and the broken terrain offered a certain level of protection. It’s the perfect place for an ambush. But why aren’t there shooters on this side? Are they so well-hidden that I can’t see them?
He fell behind the tailgate. “How’re you doing?” he asked Vale.
“Good. Seems they’re gone.”
Justin nodded and retrieved his night-vision goggles from his chest rig. Then he looked through them. Everything around him took on a tinge of green. Grainy images filled his eyes. No shooters. He turned his head to the left. No one had taken position on that side. Strange, very strange.
Justin put the goggles back in their pouch, but kept his gaze on the threatening terrain. Maybe they don’t have enough fighters. Or they don’t know what they’re doing.
He glanced at Behrooz, who had flipped onto his back and was reloading his Steyr AUG rifle. Justin recognized the unique shape of the weapon’s buttstock. Behrooz cursed the shooters, then said to Justin, “Give us a hand.”
“How many?” Justin dropped to a knee near Behrooz’s teammate.
“At least three positions.”
“None on this side,” the teammate said.
“Still, keep watch,” Behrooz ordered him.
The teammate and Justin switched places. He put on his goggles and noticed a silhouette slithering to the right. Another one was running to secure a position further up along the hillside.
Justin aimed his rifle. He squeezed off a short burst at the running man. Then he raised his rifle about an inch and moved it to the left. He double-tapped the trigger, sending a couple of rounds toward the silhouette. He waited for a moment, then double-tapped his rifle again.
Behrooz also fired a long barrage. Then he looked up at Justin, who whispered, “Cease fire.”
“What? They’re all dead?”
“Cease fire,” Justin repeated.
He studied the hillside through his goggles but could make out no crawling or running silhouettes. A dark figure was slumped over one of the shrubs; another one was sprawled unnaturally further uphill. Justin examined the rest of the area and saw no movement.
“So?” Behrooz asked.
“Shhhh, let me check,” Justin replied.
He walked to the back of the truck. “Vale, sitrep,” Justin asked for a situation report.
“All quiet.”
“Cover me.”
“Got it.”
Justin wanted to ask Behrooz and his teammate for cover, but was worried they might end up shooting him in the back. So he said, “Stand down. Wait for instructions.”
“What are you doing?” Behrooz’s teammate asked.
“Checking. Stand down, and do not fire.”
Justin advanced up the hill, carefully covering every angle with the sight of his rifle. An eerie silence echoed in his ears. He longed for a sound, a scraping against the rocks, a rustling behind the shrubs. Nothing but the dead silence and his feet shuffling over the sand.
Both fighters were dead. A third body was lying further to the left. Justin cut to the right and found a fourth dead fighter. He was probably the one firing at the back of the truck, considering his location.
Justin drew in a sigh of relief. He cast another sweeping gaze at the battlefield, then began to walk back to the truck. Behrooz and his teammate were carrying the limp body of their associate to the back of the truck. A large bloodstain on his chest told Justin that the man was no longer among the living.
“Who were the gunmen?” Vale asked Justin.
“Don’t know. I’ll ask Behrooz to take a look.” He walked to them. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Behrooz cursed the shooters and their mothers. “He died fighting, an honorable death for us all.”
“It’s four gunmen. They’re all dead. Come take a look.”
“Why? They’re dead, and we should go.”
Justin cocked his head. “Why? Maybe you’ll recognize someone. Then we’ll know who’s behind this ambush.”
Behrooz nodded, but the frown remained in his face. “I doubt that, but I’ll go.”
He struggled to climb the slope, as his round belly got in the way. Behrooz used a couple of the shrubs to help him up, then used his rifle as a walking stick. Justin noticed Behrooz was hobbling on his right leg. Was he just wounded, or did he have the limp, but I didn’t notice it?
Behrooz’s associate stood near the lowered tailgate. A frown had darkened his face. His eyes were glued to his lifeless teammate.
“They were waiting for us,” Vale said.
Justin nodded. “Yes, Behrooz took a wrong turn.”
“He did.”
They exchanged no other word until Behrooz returned. He let out a string of expletives directed at the shooters, then shook his head. “A waste of time, as I predicted. I don’t know them.”
“Never seen them before?”
“That’s what I said. Let’s change the tire and go.” He headed toward the back of the truck.
“Your wound.” Justin pointed at Behrooz’s bloodied leg.
He shrugged. “Flesh wound. I’ll get it looked at when we reach Musayri. We’re only ten minutes away, if we don’t fall into another ambush.”
Behrooz and his associate replaced the tire in a matter of minutes.
“How did they know we were coming?” Justin said when they had climbed inside the truck.
“This is a very dangerous area, the road especially,” Behrooz replied. “Lots of ISIS thugs, thieves, robbers. They just lie in wait and attack whoever comes along.” He gunned the engine.
“You’re telling me they weren’t waiting for us?”
“No, I’m telling you they were waiting for anyone.”
“So we were at the wrong place and at the wrong time, right?”
“Yes, unlucky, very unlucky.”
“Like Hamid.”
Behrooz glanced
at Justin, then shrugged. “I guess so.” He sighed and returned his eyes to the road. “And my friend in the back. But we survived. And we need to get away as fast as we can. The gunfire might draw other fighters or the army.”
Justin nodded. He glanced through the window. The night’s blackness stretched as far as he could see, punctuated only by a series of flickering lights in the distance. The town of Musayri was only a few miles away. He drew in a deep breath, then said, “You don’t know them, but they didn’t seem well-trained.”
“I don’t understand,” Behrooz said.
“I’m not saying we’re better fighters, but they came across as amateurs.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, no one attacked from the left flank. The hill on that side was jagged, with plenty of easily defended positions. But they all came to us from the right.”
“And the back,” Vale added.
“Yes, but still the shooter was on the right side. Why no one on the left?”
Behrooz shrugged. “There’s a lot of wannabe fighters around here. Young men with no education, no trade, no prospects. Unless they leave the country, they don’t see a future here. And when so many of their friends parade weapons and enjoy the loot pillaged from other towns, the temptation to pick up a rifle and rob is very strong.”
Justin nodded. Behrooz’s explanation made sense. But this was the first time Justin had seen such an incident. It was a half-baked attempt by a bunch of thugs who thought guns made them strong. He shook his head. Such a waste of life. He saw it at every corner of these blood-soaked, hate-filled lands. He had tried to understand it, but he always failed.
They drove the next few minutes in silence. Justin’s mind was in overdrive, racing to analyze the impact of the lengthy delay on the rest of their trip. And he thought about Erbil, and the search for the forger and banker who had disappeared. Yes, that will be challenging. But we’re closer to finding them here than in Brussels or Vienna.
He glanced at Behrooz, who seemed to be lost in thought. A deep frown creased his broad forehead. Whatever was left of his receding hair was ruffled, but Behrooz had failed to notice. Or maybe he did not care. Perhaps he’s mourning his friend. He died protecting us. Well, himself as well. But if we weren’t here, if Hamid was still alive . . . Perhaps that man would be alive as well. Justin shivered at the thought that he did not even know the man’s name.
Behrooz had proved to be a good fighter. Yes, the enemy wasn’t the greatest at strategy or firepower, but still he knows how to handle a gun and himself. Perhaps Behrooz might be of service, even beyond Musayri. And there’s always the exfil out of this hole. But it’s too early to think of that. Right now, let’s just deal with the present. We must reach Musayri safely and continue to Erbil.
Chapter Seven
January 12
Five miles south of the Iraqi border
The rest of the trip to Musayri was uneventful. At the town’s outskirts, the truck came to a checkpoint manned by Peshmerga fighters and Shiite volunteer militias. One of the Peshmergas, Rojan, recognized Justin from when they were both fighting alongside the Kurdish People’s Defense Units or YPG, and was glad to see his old mate. Justin had only a vague recollection of the man, but then, he had been in the company of dozens of fighters during the time he went rogue in Iraq.
While Justin and Rojan exchanged war stories and intelligence about recent battles in the area and their larger geopolitical impact in the region, Vale contacted their guide for the next leg of their trip to Erbil. The guide was reluctant to begin the long drive, considering the delay and the increased number of clashes in the area and the Iraqi army troops on the roads. The following day, more accurate information about the situation should be available. Maybe we can go tomorrow night, the guide had said.
Left with no choice, Justin and Vale decided to remain in Musayri for the night. Behrooz repeated his offer to continue to provide safe passage to Erbil. Justin grinned when Behrooz mentioned the word “safe,” replaying the recent gunfire in his mind. But the man had not broken under pressure and could still be an asset, especially if the guide did not come through. Justin told Behrooz that he would receive an answer in a matter of hours. Then, they parted ways, and Justin and Vale went with Rojan.
He led them to a small one-story house near the southern edge of Musayri. It was not Rojan’s residence, for he lived in Duhok, about an hour west of Musayri, but it was a relatively safe place. Rojan described the house as the safest I know. Four other Peshmergas were sharing the two bedrooms, so Justin and Vale set up their gear in the living room. A couple of old, worn-out couches were going to be their beds for the night, but Justin was not about to complain. He had slept under worse conditions.
Rojan offered them food, rice, shlai bame or okra soup, and kolache, a date-filled flaky pastry. It was a simple past-midnight meal, as he did not want to wake up everyone in the house. Vale devoured everything, while Justin ate very little. He was not that hungry, plus his mind was preoccupied with the rest of the mission. He took the guard shift until daybreak, since sleep was hard to come by. Vale objected, but after Justin’s insistence, Vale hit the couch and dozed off. He was snoring within two minutes.
“Let’s sit on the porch and chat,” Justin said to Rojan, who had started to clean his assault rifle, a Steyr AUG similar to the one Behrooz had used in the gunfight. The sight of the gun reminded Justin of the four bodies. Behrooz had not recognized them. But one of Rojan’s friends might know them.
“Sure. I’ll finish this later.” He began to reassemble the rifle.
Out on the small, concrete-slab porch, Justin sat on a straight back hard plastic chair. He waited until Rojan joined him, then Justin told Rojan about the ambush.
He was not exactly surprised and pointed out a series of similar incidents. But when Justin mentioned the faulty tactic, Rojan’s face twisted into a dubious smirk. He ran his hand through his thick black hair and shook his head. “That’s so stupid. Even a five-year-old knows better.”
“Can you send someone to look at the bodies? Maybe they’ll identify them.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.” Rojan pulled out his phone. “Considering the hour and the distance, it may take a while, maybe until morning.”
“Do what you can. The sooner, the better.”
Rojan made the call, while Justin stretched out on the seat. He buttoned his tan desert camouflage jacket and pulled up the collar. The night had grown cold, with a sharp wind whipping around. He refastened his headdress, covering a part of his exposed, frozen neck. Then he glanced at the cloudless sky. He identified some of the bright glowing stars and constellations. Sirius, the brightest of all stars, pointing to the south was an easy find. Canopus, the second brightest, took a bit of searching, but Justin found it further down near the horizon, just above the terrace of the house across the street.
When Rojan ended his call, he said, “It’s your lucky day. A couple of guys are heading out as we speak. We should know in half an hour or so.”
“Perfect, thanks.” Justin nodded toward the sky. “Marvelous, eh?”
Rojan shrugged. “Stars. Skies.”
Justin laughed. “Not an astronomy fan, I guess.”
“No, not any more. I used to gaze all the time when I was a kid.” He took a puff of his cigarette, then blew a large gray cloud of smoke.
“How’s Mertal doing?”
“Quite well. He retired from fighting.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, shortly after you left. He’s a politician now, running for mayor of Rewandiz.”
“No way. A mule has more diplomatic skill than Mertal.”
Rojan laughed. “That’s what I thought. But many believe in him. He’s gaining considerable support.”
“What about Wissam?”
“Still fighting like a wild lion. He’s commanding his own platoon now.”
“With YPG?”
“Yeah, YPG until the end.”
“And Siwar?” Ju
stin asked about another one of his former brothers in arms.
Rojan shook his head and did not answer right away.
Justin clenched his teeth, and his hands balled up in tights fists. Rojan did not need to say anything. The silence said it all. Justin cursed whoever had taken Siwar’s life. He was . . . he was but a child, who had just turned fifteen back in November. Justin remembered the celebration as if it were yesterday. He sighed and shook his head. Life was cheap in this God-forsaken land.
Rojan puffed out another swirl of smoke. The wind carried it toward Justin, who tried hard to refrain from coughing. He thought about mentioning to Rojan the deadly consequences of cancer, but decided against it. Like many other fighters, he would probably die from a bullet or shrapnel wound long before cancer had taken its grave toll.
Justin asked about a few other fighters he knew by name and with whom he had broken bread, had fought alongside until they had killed all enemy combatants, had danced around fires after victorious battles, and had mourned brothers lost to the cause of freedom. He was reluctant to ask about one in particular: Azade, a beautiful Kurdish fighter, who had fallen in love with him. In another time and place, Justin would have given her his heart and his soul. But this was a time of war, not a time of love. “How . . . how is Azade doing?”
Rojan did not answer right away.
Justin’s heart almost stopped beating. He turned toward Rojan and said, “Rojan, tell me, where is Azade?”
“Uh, Justin, she’s . . . well, she’s not dead.”
Justin heaved a sigh of relief. “But you hesitated. What’s going on? What happened to her?”
Rojan shook his head.
Justin said, “Tell me. I’ll find out sooner or later, but I’d rather it’s now.”
Rojan sighed. “It’s . . . something really bad happened to her. She . . . Azade was taken.”
“Taken? By who?”
“ISIS thugs. They overran one of our camps. Well, I . . . I wasn’t there when it happened. All the fighters in the camp were either killed or captured.”
“But Azade lives.”