by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
To the utter shock of the terrorists, he opened fire at the searchlights. He saw Ibrahim slump forwards. A bullet ricocheted off a lamp into the neck of the terrorist with the butcher’s knife. He recoiled as Ibrahim’s apparently lifeless body slid down the bonnet of the Toyota and fell down the stony slope. Ashe kept firing.
‘Give ’em hell, Toby! Just give the fuckers hell!’ Zappa turned to his driver. ‘Pinsker! Pull out! Give us a look at these bastards!’
Ashe ran back around the wrecked Merc as bullets from the Toyotas flew into the darkness. Ibrahim – incredibly not dead after all – crawled for all he was worth towards the back of the Humvee.
Pinsker reversed the vehicle. As Ibrahim heaved himself up, Zappa and Private Laski opened fire with the M240. In five seconds, fifty rounds of 7.62 mm bullets tore up the windows, roofs and passengers of the Toyotas; Dykins on the 249 sprayed the surrounding area, blasting at the hooded killers with 750 lethal rounds a minute.
Zappa was screaming at the enemy: he was part of the gun, part of the fire. ‘Ashe! Get Richmond into the vehicle! We’ll cover you! Go!’
Ashe slung the M4 over his shoulder, took hold of Richmond’s boots and dragged him across the open ground towards the throbbing Humvee. A grenade came over the brow of the dune right into the wrecked Merc. The explosion shot shrapnel and debris in all directions. Laski was hit in the face by razor-sharp torn bodywork.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ashe! Get up here! Feed me some ammo!’
‘Need help, Vinny! With the major!’
‘Private Dykins! Cover!’
‘Sir!’
Dykins turned the 249 towards the brow and kept up the barrage. Zappa jumped down, pulled Richmond over his shoulder and dumped him in the armament bay of the Humvee. ‘Feed me, Ashe! Get that fuckin’ ammo in this thing! Pinsker!’
‘Sir!’
‘Head back east – full speed!’
Another grenade was launched at the Humvee, exploding by its rear. The back wheels leapt up like a stallion, sending Dykins flying out of the vehicle.
‘Pinsker! Stop! It’s Dykins!’
Dykins got up off the ground, dizzy, and ran, groping, towards the Humvee.
‘Turn the fuckin’ lights off!’
A bevy of terrorists, all in black uniforms, stormed over the hill, screaming and firing their AK-47s into the darkness.
‘Shit! The bastards’ve got night vision!’
‘Here, Ashe! Just pull the trigger! The trigger, Ashe! Squeeze it!’ Zappa reached over the side. Bullets whizzed past and bounced off the armour plating. His hand caught Dykins’. ‘Go, Pinsker! Dykins, hold on! Hold on!’ Dykins ran alongside the escaping Humvee, grabbing desperately onto Zappa’s arm. ‘Jump, man! Jump! Now!’
Zappa had Dykins by the waist, his legs dangling over the side. A line of bullets riddled the side of the Humvee, thudding into Dykins’ body armour, rocking his torso. As Zappa hauled him aboard, one of the bullets thudded through Dykins’ armpit.
‘Dykins!’
Dykins gurgled, blood in his mouth. Zappa pulled the limp Dykins onto the floor, next to Laski’s by now unconscious body. Zappa then pushed Ashe back to the ammo feed.
‘Open another box. Right hand! Yeah, you got it! Good! Now give it to me!’
Ashe struggled with the mechanism.
‘For Christ’s sake, Ashe!’
The 240 jammed. Zappa reached for the 249 and began firing wildly as the Humvee sped away east. Dykins was moaning, his lung punctured.
Ashe reloaded his M4 and sent bursts of bullets into the blackness beyond. ‘Hit ’em! Hit ’em hard!’ screamed Zappa like a madman.
Another Toyota pickup revved up and started in pursuit.
‘Put your fuckin’ foot down, Pinsker!’
Ashe, in a frenzy of fire, hit the Toyota’s lights. The vehicle braked and skidded in a cloud of dirt and dust.
‘That’s fucked him, Vinny!’
Vinny was on his gun. Out of the darkness came an almighty smash. The Toyota had crashed into wrecked Hercules fuselage. The shouting and the bullets stopped.
In the far distance, US choppers were circling the Tel Afar oil outpost, searchlights sending weird, apocalyptic beams about the distant derricks, like the legs of some hideous creature from hell’s U-bend.
Ashe was shaking, vibrating with elation; elated to be alive, to have faced the evil and channelled the evil in himself. No, it wasn’t that. Something had come alive in him as if a stranger was in the driving seat of his mind and mindlessness.
In the starlight, Ashe looked into Vinny’s flaming eyes, and saw himself. And the quietness of the night seemed to take over, as the groans from Dykins grew softer.
‘We gotta get to Mosul!’
Richmond came to; the blood in his neck and shoulder had begun to clot.
‘How ya feelin’, Major?’
‘What’s happening? I thought I was dead. God, I feel sick.’
‘You’re OK.’
‘Where are we?’
Ashe stared at him. ‘We’re here, Simon. We’re here.’
Zappa turned to the interpreter. ‘Ibrahim! Take off your shirt!’
‘Yes, Mr Zappa.’
‘Thank you, Ibrahim. Wrap it round the major’s wound. Know first-aid?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Neither do I. Try and go easy.’
‘It’s OK, Vinny. I think the bleeding’s stopped. I guess it looks pretty awful.’
‘The red badge of courage, Major.’
‘Courage?’ Richmond laughed. ‘I slept through the whole thing.’
Ashe looked to the ailing Private Dykins. Dykins screamed for his mother with every cruel vibration of the Humvee on the desert rocks.
Ashe held him in his arms. ‘You’ll be all right, Private. We’ll be home soon.’
Ashe put his ear to Dykins’ trembling lips. ‘Where are we, sir?’
‘See those stars, Private?’
‘Sir?’
‘Look up, they’re showing us the way. We’re all together, Private. You and us.’
Dykins seized Ashe’s hand. ‘Sir, did I do OK?’
‘You did great, didn’t he, Vinny?’
‘Private Dykins, you’ve served man and God. Try to be peaceful till we’re home.’
Ashe held the dying soldier. Ibrahim gave him mineral water and prayed to Allah.
Dykins pulled once more on Ashe’s arm. ‘Sir, I don’t think I’m going to…’
‘That’s all right. You sleep now. We’re safe.’
‘Sir, is God…?’
The grip became a spasm, left behind as Private Abraham Lincoln Dykins died.
‘You see that, Ibrahim?’
‘Mr Ashe?’
Ashe showed the Iraqi a letter from Dykins’ blood-soaked breast pocket. ‘He’s got the same name as you, Ibrahim. Abraham. Father of nations.’
Ibrahim handed the water to Zappa who gave it to the thirsty Richmond.
Ashe looked to the stars and thought of the ladder that links man to his destiny.
‘Vinny, my friend. I was just thinking. Maybe the headlights?’
Zappa unclipped the rear window behind Pinsker’s driving seat.
‘Pinsker, how d’ya feel about front lamps, dipped? Doctor’s getting jumpy.’
‘Front lights only: dipped, sir.’
Pinsker hit the brakes.
‘Oh Jesus! What in fuck’s name is THAT?’
49
‘Hey, Pinsker, where d’ya keep the night goggles?’
‘Box in the rear, sir.’
‘What fuckin’ box?’
‘Dykins knows, sir. He packed ’em.’
‘Ibrahim, what you sitting on? Move your ass. That’s government property, bud.’
‘Pardon! Pardon!’
‘Only kiddin’, man. Yup, this is it.’
Zappa unclipped the box and withdrew a set of night goggles with adjustable sights. ‘Holy Shit! Here, Ashe, take a look!’
About fifty metres ahead
were two trucks packed with a crowd of Arabs standing up in the back, waving and chanting.
‘Can you hear that, Ashe? What they sayin’?’
‘It’s a welcome party, Vinny.’
Ibrahim interjected. ‘Welcome party, yes, sir. But welcome for Ansar al-Sunna – not US army.’
Richmond pulled himself up. ‘Give me a look.’
‘You sure you’re up to this, Major?’
‘Don’t be an arse. Give me the goggles.’ He focused his attention on the trucks. ‘OK, chaps. What you have here is a very mixed bunch of illegal immigrants. I’ll bet it’s the usual collection of Moroccans, Yemenis, Saudis, Syrians. They’ll have been brought over the Syrian border on al-Qaeda one-way tickets. I presume the guys we encountered back there were their welcoming committee, ready to tuck them into warm beds in Mosul, before a trip to suicide’s paradise.’
‘Suicide volunteers?’
‘Yes, Toby. Though they might not all be aware of that yet. You can tell from that unreal, happy look.’
‘Every insurance salesman’s dream client.’
‘Shit!’
‘Shit it is. I reckon they think we’re the welcoming committee.’
Zappa clicked shut the trigger chamber of the 240. ‘They’ll get some fuckin’ welcome, man!’
‘How many do you see, Simon?’
‘Two trucks. About twenty in each.’
‘Armed?’
Richmond strained to see the greenish images through the goggles. ‘Not yet.’
‘Four against forty?’
‘Element of surprise?’
‘Simon, what if we shut lights down, vanish into the night, no questions asked?’
Richmond sounded personally affronted. ‘And leave forty suicide bombers, Toby? What d’you think we’re here for? Just one of these guys can kill a hundred innocent civilians – women and children.’
‘Cool it, Major. Dr Toby ain’t chicken. You owe your fuckin’ life to this guy, and so do I. So I say we leave it to him to decide what we do next.’
Ashe didn’t need to think. ‘I don’t like suicide bombers, Vinny. Against my religion.’
Corporal Pinsker butted in. ‘Trucks have started up, sir. Coming our way.’
‘OK. I say we come real close, Major, duck down fast, and then let ’em have it!’
‘I second that, Vinny.’
‘Why, thank you, Major. You get the M249. Can you handle it?’
‘Fuck off, Zap. I’m OK with my left.’
‘Toby, you feed me the ammo. Keep it up and steady, right? When we’re within fifty feet, I’ll signal to Pinsker to—’
‘Sir!’
‘Corporal Pinsker?’
‘I got this viewfinder thing here, sir. And I’d say they’re wavin’ AK-47s. And… they’re heading straight for us, sir.’
‘Right, Pinsker. Lights out. We’ll race it. If they don’t know who we are, they’ll—’
‘And if they do?’
‘We do our duty, Corporal!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Skirting operation. Sweep round in a crescent. Give us a good view. Carry on.’
‘Yes, sir!’
The Humvee revved up towards the advancing trucks. Suddenly, the trucks switched their headlights off and skidded to a halt. Amid a flurry of shouting, the men jumped off the trucks.
‘Pull right! Pinsker! Right!’
The guns of the wannabe martyrs opened up on the Humvee. Zappa hit back, straight into the gunsmoke. Unable to load efficiently, the 249 jammed. Richmond grabbed the M4 and manoeuvred a fresh mag into position. As the Humvee skidded round the trucks, Richmond added wide bursts to the power of the 240.
‘That’s it, Pinsker! Round we go!’
A stray bullet hit a rear tyre. Collapsing instantly, the Humvee dived into an angled skid that tore a gash in the earth. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn! We lost a goddamn wheel!’
‘Engine off, Pinsker!’
Distant cries grew louder through the earth and billowing sand. Zappa spread some warning rounds in the direction of the voices.
‘You there, Ashe?’
‘I want to do some shooting, Vinny.’
‘Fix the belt on the 249. Major, can you help me with the ammo – left-handed? Just remember, Ashe, these fuckers are suicides.’
‘Just remember, Vinny, they’re deluded. Truth will prevail!’
‘You better believe it!’
Ashe unclipped the firing chamber and reset the magazine of the M249. ‘That’s done it. I’m ready.’
‘Then fire the bastard!’
‘Ibrahim! You take the major’s rifle. Only fire at the enemy!’
‘I never use gun.’
‘First time for everything, Ibrahim. It might save your life!’
Bullets thudded into the earth in front of the stricken Humvee.
‘That was close.’
‘We must have hit a dozen.’
‘Sure?’
‘Why not?’
‘Sir!’
‘Pinsker!’
‘OK if I get my weapon, sir?’
‘Permission granted.’
‘Join the party, Corporal. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What?’
‘Those lights?’
‘Not…’
‘It’s those fuckers from Tel Afar. There’s more of ’em. How we doin’ for ammo?’
‘Enough, but…’
Ashe looked at Zappa; Zappa looked at Richmond. Richmond smiled. A shared moment of cold reality: they knew. This was it; their luck had just run out.
The headlights got closer and closer as AK-47 fire spat out of the blackness.
‘What’s that sound?’
‘What fuckin’ sound?’
‘That sound. Listen!’
‘What the…? Is that a storm?’
A whirlwind roar whipped its way around the Humvee – an ancient sound, elemental, pounding. A voice from history on the heels of memory.
‘Weird fuckin’ noise, man.’
‘Sounds like—’
‘Guns. Thunder.’
Richmond coughed. ‘Haven’t you ever heard horses before? I think our luck’s in.’
In the distance, the jihadists started screaming out. They’d heard nothing about this in the madrasahs or on the videos. Ashe stared along the horizon. The black silhouettes of dozens of horsemen bobbed across the landline like demented shadow-puppets. The roaring force broke into two arcs: one hundred warriors on each flank.
‘I don’t fuckin’ believe it! It’s the Light Brigade.’
‘No, Vinny. It’s the Brigade of Light!’
Ashe’s eyes stretched wider and wider. He had never seen anything like it. In seconds, the horsemen had overwhelmed the jihadists with snorting, fiery horsepower – a vision from history, terrifying the enemy with memories long forgotten, buried in the mythic subconscious of their parents and grandparents.
Horseman after horseman swung their British SA80 semiautomatics like scythes before alien corn, letting loose a tornado of firepower that shattered and scattered the screaming forces of the killer fanatics.
50
‘Toby, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
‘You, Simon, are in no condition to introduce anyone.’
The silhouette of a man on horseback advanced towards them. Ashe jumped from the Humvee. Gracefully, the man dismounted. In the headlights’ glow, Ashe could just make out a long-haired man with a long, thin face. Above high cheekbones shone large, dark eyes. He wore the baggy trousers common among Kurdish men and women, but sported what looked like English hunting boots. Over an American special forces combat jacket hung a silk cape, embroidered in gold and silver. Beneath the jacket he wore a white shirt, loose at the front, with a wide collar, and fastened at the back. He had a shaven chin and a young man’s thin moustache lining his upper lip.
The man smiled warmly at Richmond, leaning over the Humvee’s side panel.
&
nbsp; ‘I am deeply honoured, Major Richmond. How may I serve you?’
‘Done enough for one night, Captain. Permit me to introduce my friend, Toby Ashe.’
‘Tobbiash! A friend of the Major Richmond is a friend of my heart and my people. I am at your service.’
Ashe clasped the man’s hot, smooth hand.
‘Toby, this is Jolo. Jolo Kheyri. I call him the Lord of the Mountain.’
‘No, no, no! Please, Major Richmond! This honour belongs to my kinsman, who is in Paradise. Hamo Shero. He is Chief of the Mountain!’
‘The mountain being the Jebel Sinjar, Toby.’
‘Hamo Shero fought with the British against the Turks in your first war with Germany. What your Lawrence of Arabia is to you, Hamo Shero is to us.’
‘Jolo lives in Shero’s image. We are blessed in… Agh!’
‘What’s the matter?’
Richmond clutched his shoulder: bleeding again.
‘Major Richmond, you need the field hospital in Mosul. Hasil! Hasil!’
Jolo’s deputy rode up to the Humvee. ‘Hasil! Call special forces in Kursi! Medical helicopter for Major Richmond. Inform them of this action.’
‘It is done, Captain.’
Jolo studied Ashe’s eyes. ‘I am from Kursi, Tobbiash, yes. Yesterday, as the sun rose, Kursi was a fine village. It sits on slopes of Sinjar mountains. We grew good tobacco on the terraces. Then, Ansar al-Sunna. Grenade launchers, guns, knives. They come to find me. I am not there. So the men defend women and children, you understand?’
‘That’s the attack on the village I told you about, Toby. Damn it! Pinsker’s morphine’s wearing off. OK, Jolo Kheyri is a relative of Sheykh el-Wezîr, the grandson of Hamo Shero, Chief of the Mountain.’
Jolo beamed. ‘A great man, Tobbiash! Pious and brave!’
‘A great man. We’ve been doing a bit of work round here setting up an irregular auxiliary force. In the past, we made the mistake of trying to fit Jolo’s people into our ways of fighting.’
‘Not good, Major.’
‘Now we complement one another. Jolo plays on his strengths; we support him. They’re very good at night, as you’ve seen. They’ve been doing great tidying up and reconnaissance work, and they know what’s going on. They know who’s new in the district.’