The older brother then silently cursed himself. He was the one who had briefed McKenzee on equipment available at each site. Iman was the man in charge of choosing patrol routes based upon natural layouts and covered approaches to each of the enemy’s fighting holes. He should have known where the night-vision goggles were. He had all the information he needed to win the battle against opposing combatants, but he was quickly losing his personal war against fatigue. Then he started to question his ability to lead the mission.
Hours of running through a frozen desert, followed by hours without food, drove the men to equal doubt. Exhaustion, another formidable enemy in any battle space, was one of the most horrible things the Marines had to face. If they dozed off, they could be killed without ever having put up a fight. If they closed their eyes, they would be visited by their nightmares. They would break noise discipline and surrender their whereabouts to their foes. Iman wished he could be asleep. He yearned for rest but knew he would not be able to shut his eyes until Jericho no longer existed.
Iman regrouped his senses. He gritted his teeth and soundlessly stirred himself awake. He was present on the battlefield once again. Iman pointed his flattened hand across the void between him and promised cover from enemy machine-gun fire. Hasim and three other Marines acknowledged Iman’s order without a word. They ran on feather-light feet until they found the protection of large stones to the north. Iman then guided the next small group of warriors across the open area. They ran and made it safely across as well. The process continued until Iman stood alone.
He was on the edge of open terrain. Logic and reason told him to sprint. The wise warrior within knew that being exposed, even at night, was an extremely dangerous endeavor. He paused for a mere second longer then put his concerns aside.
Iman ran across the fifty-meter field. His feet smashed into frozen soil and sent crunched echoes of announcement into the night air. The leader was no louder or lighter than any other member of the team, but he could hear every amplified step as his heart thumped in his ears. Finally, he finished the journey safely and approached the rear area of his team’s new rally point. The moon gave Iman barely enough light to conduct a quick head count as he arrived. He squinted to confirm everyone was present. All men made it safely across. He was relieved by the small success.
The leader’s relief was not dictated by the fact that he had guided the team back to mission priority despite a horrific crash. Nor was his respite sigh given in the fact he was able to account for every living Marine lucky enough to have survived the fall. Instead, he felt the relief of being back on mission schedule, the window of time that determined who would live and who would die.
Iman and his team arrived at the rock formation only two hours behind their intended time. Command understood the woes of combat even before the first shot was fired, so the unexpected was taken into account when creating operations timelines. No expectations were set to-the-minute in basic consideration that variables cause delays. While the team did not have communications with Command beyond a laser designator that Iman recovered from the crash site, they did have an achievable timeline to arrive on target. Iman and the hardened warriors, set to cut a destructive path through the heart of the enemy, met operational deadlines and would be able to achieve their objective. It was a minor accomplishment to be recognized, but one integral to any hope of success. Had they been too far behind schedule, Command would assume them to be dead. No one would monitor any communications networks or target designators. No one would see desperate smoke signals being sent out by the forward Marines.
Mission success, as on any other day in the desert for Jarheads, took precedent over personal comfort. Tight windows of limited seconds provided the team no room for rest as previously planned. They would have to forego any last bits of ease. They had no time to find relief from hunger pangs or the muscular burns flashing throughout their bodies. Even still, they were ready in place and looking to fight. They were hungry hounds of hell frothing at the mouth on the edge of confrontation.
Each of the Marines had his weapon pointed north. They were stacked on top of and around the rocks providing them broad cover. The Marines could engage enemy combatants while presenting minimal targets for return fire. Hasim then took charge as predetermined in the flow of operations to strike at Jericho.
The younger staff sergeant moved down the firing line until he found Corporal Sanchez, a razor-edged Mexican American from south Texas. Sanchez finished Scout Sniper School more than three years prior to deployment into Afghanistan with Force Recon. He had been deployed in urban sniper missions several times, battles throughout Iraq that he had fought and won. The corporal had even carried out missions that he could not disclose to any other member on his team. Sanchez had the skills needed to cover those who would inflict hatred upon a clueless enemy.
Hasim lightly patted Sanchez on the shoulder without saying a word. Then the staff sergeant moved away to let the young corporal get to work. Sanchez understood the gesture. The sniper eased out of his pack and withdrew a night vision capable scope attachment for his bolt-action, long-range rifle. The sniper’s lethality would not be limited by darkness.
Sanchez thought for a moment and remembered distances he studied on operation-centered maps at the command post. He knew they were back on schedule and back on their mission of destruction. Three hundred and twenty-two meters, Sanchez thought to himself as he set the elevation on his scope, one click up from his battlefield zero. He scanned the area to the left and to the right. He searched ridgelines and rock contours until he found his target area. The locale was still. No winds would impede a shortly lofted shot into the center-mass of any villain vapid enough to become visible against the night sky.
A machine-gun muzzle jaunted upward into the air. The bipod was spread wide, but no one rested behind the weapon. No guard stood ready to pull the trigger on any advancing foe. Iman’s hope to catch the enemy off-guard was intact. The gun was unmanned. The enemy, poorly trained and undisciplined, was blind to the approaching Marines.
Sanchez gave a quick nod to Hasim. He let the senior Marine know all was set. Sanchez was ready to take a shot at anyone unlucky enough to be on post that night. Hasim moved away to rejoin Iman as Sanchez steadied deeper into his prone position. The sniper was eager, but steadfast in control. The team’s fail-safe was in place. Any two men tasked to advance on the southern defensive position would be covered by an acutely accurate marksman. However, Sanchez was only meant to fire on orders from the unit leader. Any shot ringing out from his large-bore sniper rifle would allow the team to go loud, but would give away their position sooner than planned. Then there would be no hiding from an overwhelming enemy. An ensuing fight would rage until the last living Marine fired his last round of ammunition. Iman hoped to avoid such sudden conflict so as to accomplish maximum impact on the collective enemy.
The Marines were not afraid of an expected fight. They simply worried about mission success above all else. The American warriors were heavily outnumbered by armed jihadists. The terrorists could quickly compromise any ability to complete the mission, so the Marines remained quiet and still. They waited to move and would only do so if ordered out of their hushed positions.
Iman took another moment in the silence of the night. He collected his thoughts and considered the next step in a shaky battle plan. With Sanchez in place, Iman knew the next thing to do was tap Perry and Jackson on the shoulder. They would cross a wide area where they held cover between the rock formation and the southern defensive position, approach the likely sleeping guard, and cut his throat. The only problem impeding a next step was that Murphy visited the team with the full force of his law. Jackson was lying shoulder-to-shoulder with Lieutenant Gibson. He was miles behind the team and far too dead to carry out any assault on a machine-gun nest.
Hasim remembered who had been selected to carry out the two-man task just as Iman was considering Jackson’s replacement. Perry could have strolled into the defense and
handled the problem by himself. However, the younger staff sergeant realized what he must do in the interest of their mission. Hasim decided the best course of action was to volunteer himself as Perry’s support. No other candidate was as well suited as one who had worked in the defense prior to moving into the offense. He knew just where the guard rested, the best way to get in and out of the fighting hole, and where not to step to avoid making noise. Then Hasim considered that Perry was actually going in support rather than it being the other way around.
Perry snaked out of his position and assumed a kneeling hold while he waited for Hasim to join him. A sudden and tight grip found Hasim’s forearm as he started to move toward the enemy. Maybe this plan wasn’t such a good idea when the CIA came up with it. Iman projected his innermost thoughts to Hasim with nothing more than a sorrowful look. Hasim grinned sadly and patted his brother over the top of Iman’s hand. I’ll be fine. Stop worrying. He reassured Iman without a sound. Hasim then looked at his older brother and realized how false the reassurance was.
The younger staff sergeant joined Perry. He knelt next to the Force Recon Marine and patted him on the shoulder. He gave the universal sign that he was ready to move in on an unfortunate enemy sentry.
Iman watched them move until they faded into darkness. He slid the shoulder straps of his pack down and off his arms. The edges of the pack dug into his fractured ribs, and he winced involuntarily. However, the toughened man remained quiet as he withdrew his night-vision goggles from their sheath. Iman alternated between watching Hasim cross the three hundred meters and looking for the defenseman to show any sign of life. Iman watched nervously as Hasim hemmed his way through rough brush and steep rocks. He hoped that his brother was able to remain silent despite nature’s noisy traps. Then he hoped the same for Perry.
Like any big brother, Iman wanted to protect Hasim from bullies and threats of harm. However, the younger brother had slipped too far out of Iman’s protective reach. Iman watched helplessly as Hasim slithered closer and closer to the enemy. Iman knew that the kill had to be quiet and quick. Otherwise, the next defensive position would come alive from behind the rock formation that shielded the Marines from an increased enemy force.
“Good man,” Iman whispered so quietly that no one else could hear him. It was more of a heavy breath than a whisper, but it was still too loud. He needed to remain silent regardless of his pride for his Marines. He cursed himself again.
Iman watched as Perry slipped to the southwest corner of the enemy fighting hole. He grinned when he saw the Marine pull a stick out of the hole. Iman knew that stick-looking figure appeared harmless in the green of the night-vision goggles, but it was actually an AK-47.
Hasim and Perry successfully moved in undetected. The sentry was either asleep or unaware of the Marines’ presence. Either way, the soon-to-die guard was without his assault rifle and out of reach from the bipod-mounted machine gun. Iman grinned and watched a horror film unfold before him.
Perry slid the rifle out of enemy grasp. Then Hasim slowly and surely stepped into the hole. He disappeared from Iman’s line of sight. Iman’s heart stopped. His inner voice screamed at him once again. I should have gone. I should have been the one. Hasim…he was too close. He’ll carry this with him forever. Iman’s inner voice screamed louder than any noise made by a dying man only a short distance away. No one heard a sound come from the enemy position.
Suddenly, three infrared flashes blinked across the night sky. Then three more followed. It was Hasim’s signal. The fighting position was clear. The team could move into place for the final violent act of their mission.
Iman stood into a low and hunched posture. He was still on patrol despite the black night and the unabated approach to the southern defense. Surely Farhad knows that we deserted by now. He has to be informed about the escorts’ bodies found in the desert, the missing vehicle, and the fact that the suicide mission went to nothingness. The senior Marine was distracted from his environment. I hope he did not find out that Rasa discovered us. If so, she is dead, and I’m happy to bring hell to this place. Iman gritted his teeth as his feathered touch eased his boots across the harsh terrain.
The team moved without having to be told a single command. They etched their way across rocks and sand with precision. They moved like a well-armed and highly motivated drill team. Every rehearsal and practice run prepared them to sneak in, attack, and withdraw from an enemy that would never know of Force Recon’s existence in the area. They were magnificently quiet, deadly in their hardline discipline.
Hasim was unstirred by the team’s sudden appearance. He had assumed a defense in the captured position and focused all his energy toward Jericho. Perry aimed his weapon at the enemy post due-west of their location, but acquired no targets on account of the rocks between them. Hasim pointed northwest where he knew the main camp to be.
The canvas tents were still eight hundred meters away. Hasim did not anticipate any enemy encroachment without the Marines being able to acquire and eliminate targets quickly. Darkness lingered and the morning hour was still too early for Fajr. The pre-sunrise call to prayer would not sound for a few more hours. They finally found a moment of pause on the battlefield.
“Easy,” Iman whispered to Hasim. The younger brother seemed to whip his weapon around in search of targets outside of the fighting hole. Hasim’s adrenaline was pumping electric currents of fear and excitement from his head to his toes. “It’s dead out there for now,” Iman reassured through the lightest of sounds.
Hasim relaxed and faced northwest once again. However, his demeanor had changed. He was distant even in the closeness of the fighting hole. Iman wondered what might be on Hasim’s mind. Then Iman accidentally kicked the reason Hasim had suddenly developed a new chasm in hatred.
Iman’s curiosity got the best of him. He knelt down and turned the dead body over. Iman tried for a moment but could not recognize the slain guard. Hasim had not simply killed the man. Rather, he ensured that the kill would remain silent. The younger staff sergeant pierced into the right side of the man’s neck and sawed all the way outward until blade cleared clinging flesh. The jihadist’s throat was splayed open like a butchered animal. Then, out of rage or need to quiet the dying man’s gurgles, Hasim stabbed into and around the guard’s face until there was no noise. Iman was sickened by the brutality of Hasim’s attack at first, but considered the means necessary. Hasim had to silence the enemy, or silence his rage within. Iman accepted the justification by both accounts. The sentry was dead and the Marines held a high-value position.
Iman stood up from the body. He looked at Perry. Perry, still facing west, continued to glance over at Hasim. It appeared as if the subordinate Marine was in awe of the staff sergeant. Only a day prior, the Force Recon team assumed that Iman and Hasim were nothing more than spooks set on ruining a perfectly good mission to kill the enemy. Perry had not previously needed to know what the Arab Americans were capable of in combat. However, any doubts he had for Hasim’s willingness to kill were put to rest and sent to hell with that dead terrorist.
Who is that? Iman questioned silently to himself. He tried to determine if the dead man was someone with whom he or Hasim might have shared prayer time, or a meal, or a weapon. He wondered if he had been gone from the camp long enough to have forgotten names and faces. He tried to determine if his connection to the people in camp was even real. Then he thought of Rasa. Could I even pick her out in the crowd? What was I feeling? Did I love her or was I infatuated by the lack of threat? He paused. Then he reveled as his heart fluttered to the thought of her name. I love her…I hope that she will find me in Paradise if only to forgive me.
MOVE
Eight hundred meters was an insurmountable distance in the dark. However, the abyss between Marines and their enemy was set to disappear as soon as the sun lurked over nearby mountaintops. They would soon be successful in their mission, or they would be discovered and killed. Even still, the devoted heroes refused to die without expending
their every bullet for the sake of killing as many of them as possible.
Every Marine cursed the opposition. They dehumanized their foe, making it easier to kill the enemy. Perry wished his bullets were made of pork in a simple and snide attempt to ensure none of the bad guys found their way to Paradise. The Marines readied for a fight. Their fangs gnashed. Their snouts snarled. Their eyes blared. Their trigger fingers twitched.
Hasim remained in the corner of the fighting hole. Perry stood to the senior Marine’s immediate left. Iman was steadily opposite both of them. The rest of the team fanned out into a staggered line lateral to the established position. If the enemy engaged, the American warriors would present a much bolder face than what was true to their number. They would answer small-arms fire with an array of weapons and hate. They would win at least two skirmishes before being overrun and killed. Every man was sure of their initial successes long before the first shot was fired. The Marines carried with them confidence as sharp as their sheathed blades and as deadly as their loaded weapons. They readily waited for the fight and tried not to grin.
Eight hundred meters? Iman’s thoughts betrayed the mission once again. He hoped and prayed that McKenzee would keep to the plan. The long distance in the dark was certain to reduce in the light. Eight hundred meters between Iman and Farhad would soon be swallowed in gunfire or earth-shattering explosions. Every ounce of Iman ached for a swift end. He and Hasim had been in the fight for so long, torn from their kinsmen and themselves for so long, and dedicated to destruction for so long that Iman did nothing shy of beg for finality. The conclusion, the inevitably bloody end, would only be realized if McKenzee kept to the plan.
The team was to set sights on the camp with a laser designator, their only remaining connection to any other Americans in-country. Air support would then respond with Mark-82, five-hundred-pound bombs. However, McKenzee wanted to make sure that no one escaped the gate to Hades. He wanted to make sure everyone in camp died and that no one could be identified for propaganda later on. The operations leader decided that one bomb simply would not do, so McKenzee’s kill order called for six.
Operation Jericho Page 15