Hasim signaled to Iman. The route was clear. Iman crossed the trail to the left and they approached the southern edge of a canvas tent. The area would have been silent if not for the heavy breathing and snoring of deep sleepers. The Marines anticipated an imminent wake-up call. Hasim tried to keep track of their time spent on approach and infiltration.
Time, precious minutes, were dwindling into grains of sand through an hourglass. Iman hoped that they could retrieve Rasa before Fajr. He prayed that the laser designator’s call to destruction had not yet been answered by Command. He silently begged McKenzee to delay. Just a little longer. Don’t send the zoomies yet, McKenzee. Iman tried to communicate his plea despite the radio missing from his hand. He willed the thoughts to McKenzee with nothing more than desperation in his heart. Then he prayed. Please don’t let me die here…please don’t let me die without her. His blood ran red-hot through his veins. He tried not to tremble at the idea of a coming fight. Iman knew they had to move quickly if there was to be any chance for survival.
Iman arrived first at the rear corner of a quiet tent. He made a quick check around the edge and found no guard anywhere along the row of canvas pop-ups. He hoped no one was out of sight, between the flapping structures, that could surprise the intruders as they approached Farhad’s impromptu house.
A rifle muzzle protruded into fading darkness as Iman turned the corner with his weapon at his shoulder. He swept away from the walls of the large semi-structure so as not to trip over tension lines tethered between roof and grounded stakes. The shivering Marines looked over the dark tent and envied its promised warmth.
The morning air became crisp. A slight breeze pushed winter into the creases of their camouflaged uniforms. Chilled temperature drops were the first sign of an approaching sunrise. Fajr, the morning call to prayer, would be on them just before a swarm of jihadists. Iman prayed that they would be lucky enough to be killed quickly in a firefight. He considered the comforts of swift death as an alternative to being forced into surrender within the camp. He dared not think of what Farhad would do to them, especially the devout Hasim, if they were captured. Then he measured the ultimate exit. Iman decided that he would swallow his sidearm before being confined by the village. He regretted his decision to encroach for the sake of an emotion. He lamented the idea of dying for a woman he did not know, but he was committed to his word. He made a vow and was willing to face death in the name of honor.
Spare me. Spare me. Spare me. Rasa’s written words haunted Iman as his boots pressed over desert-defining sediment. Rasa’s note flew around in Iman’s brain. Spare me. Spare me. Spare me. He could not back out of his personal mission.
If he was successful in the unsanctioned raid, he would be court-martialed with a smile on his face because he would live out his days with his love. If he was not successful, then military legal matters would no longer be of concern as he would be dining in Paradise. Spare me. Rasa’s unbroken but quiet spirit called to him.
Irony churned in the pit of Iman’s gut. He returned, taking the southern defensive position to bring fire into the village that he once protected. He returned to the village bringing war to Rasa. He returned to destroy life, but he yearned to save it. Then he set philosophy aside and moved forward.
Hasim followed Iman’s sweeping route around the tent’s lines. Iman cleared gaps between the tents ahead of his younger brother, but Hasim repeated the motion. People are mobile beings. Hasim understood that Iman might have had a clear area, but that would not prevent a guard from stepping into place as the older brother passed. Hasim took nothing for granted among known hostiles.
The younger man was not confident in the overall success of their mission. Without communications gear, a lone-standing team of Marines would only be as useful as the ammunition they carried. The men could only bring destruction a few bullets at a time. They would kill more than a hundred insurgents before ammunition ran dry.
Hasim was confident in the team’s ability to fight, but he doubted Command’s ability to pick up the laser signal on an unexpected broadcast from men considered lost to the war. We were shot down and written off for dead. They aren’t coming…but I’ll see to it that Farhad doesn’t live another day. Hasim’s inner beast clawed out of him with hatred and revenge. He quickly laid his reservations to rest. He no longer regretted their presence on the outer edge of the village.
Hasim was happy to help his brother extract love from hate. He had fantasized about getting back to the United States. He dreamed of living on a cul-de-sac next door to Iman and his wife. Uncle Hasim. That has a nice ring to it. Hasim fought back a smile as his distracted mind remembered to clear the next area between tents. Then he shifted his thoughts back to war.
Iman reached Farhad’s tent just before Hasim. Then they silently evaluated the best way to enter without being heard by the sleeping inhabitants. The lower edge of the tent was held in place with several sandbags to prevent a winter draft from causing any discomfort inside. Hasim turned outward to watch for troops while Iman removed the sandbags one at a time. Iman squatted and moved quietly.
Hunched over, Iman finished the job. Sandbags were stacked aside and the bottom flap of the tent opened enough for him to slide under. He secured the tent, sweeping his weapon from left to right, and found that no one was awake. He looked to the heavyset man wrapped in blankets upon a cot. Farhad was in a deep sleep and likely enjoying his last minutes of rest before prayer. Then Iman looked for Rasa.
The younger brother interrupted Iman’s search as Hasim slid under the tent wall. A light scraping sound announced Hasim’s arrival as combat gear dug into the sand. Hasim slowed to a silent crawl until he was able to return from the prone position. He joined Iman at the back of the tent. They stood together in the heart of the beast, but they had different objectives. Iman was there to save a life. Hasim was there to take one.
Rasa would be easily identified. Iman knew she would be separate from Farhad’s several other wives. Hasim scowled as his older brother searched for his love. Farhad’s wives slept in an intertwined pile, a godless harem. They were naked beneath their twisted blankets. The women weaved into each other for warmth or for affection from the night prior. Hasim hated Farhad more. The hypocrisy of Farhad’s self-proclaimed righteousness stewed in Hasim as he stepped to the elder’s cot. He hovered over the sleeping man. Hasim’s heart raced. His breaths became a heaved notion of anticipation, but he waited.
Iman stepped to the outsider among the women. Rasa was not mingled into the heap of wives. He tried not to think of the deeds she was forced into the night before. To him she was pure, and he wanted to hold onto that notion alone. He knelt next to Rasa and placed his hand over her mouth. Iman worried that she would scream in a waking fright. She would not recognize him without a beard or turban. His hair was cropped short. He was in Marine form. She would react to the weapons and gear, to the darkness of his shadow, to the paint on his face, to the war in his eyes. She would be right to do so. He was an intruder coming to take her away.
Rasa’s eyes sprang open, and she stirred only for a second. Her eyes caught Iman’s, and they exchanged their familiar glance. Her heart crashed loudly against the inside of her chest, first in the fright of the sudden wake-up, then to relief. Iman watched her face flood with tears. Then the captor bent down and breathed lightly into her ear. “Iman,” was all that he whispered and all that she needed to know. He had come for her.
Iman nodded and Rasa returned the gesture. His war-crazed eyes softened. His nerves settled. He removed his hand from her mouth and stood. He helped her to her feet. Finally, he looked to Hasim.
The older brother held up one finger to Hasim’s eagerness. Just one minute. Iman pleaded for patience. Killing Farhad was the younger brother’s main focus, but Iman wanted to remove Rasa from the coming blood. Iman lifted the bottom of the tent wall and slid out first. He made sure that all was clear before lifting the tent once again. Rasa shivered as she hurried from the warmth of the tent into t
he morning air. She leaned into Iman for comfort, for warmth, for his protection as she joined him in the war.
Hasim waited until purity was gone from the canvas room. Then he quietly unsnapped the sheath on his chest. The blade was still coated with coagulated blood from the man he had slaughtered in the south, but it cleared the leather case without obstruction.
Lurking in the shadows of the tent, Hasim stepped closer to Farhad. The Marine wrenched his fist into the old man’s blankets. In a single motion, Hasim jerked the fabric clear of Farhad and stabbed his knife down hard into the side of the old man’s throat. A gurgled yelp dissipated into the cold morning. Farhad choked for life, but could not scream for help. The steel blade entered the left side of the old man’s neck and exited the right. Hasim sawed through flesh and wind-giving tissue as he was trained to do. He cut so deep, so fueled with vengeance, that he tore through the cot’s fabric beneath Farhad. The tip of his blade clinked against the cot’s metal frame. Hasim hoped it was not enough noise to cause a stir. The gurgling and choking, the kicking struggle, and the clink were far more than what should have been produced. Yet Hasim was resolved to make sure Farhad died an uneasy death. He served the false prophet a swift dose of penance. No man would ever be sent to his death, to murder innocent people, or to carry out orders from Farhad’s forked tongue ever again.
Farhad’s eyes widened with glazed fear. His jaw slacked open. His throat was left agape. Hasim was satisfied. He watched the light in Farhad’s eyes quickly match the darkness of the tent. Then he moved away to join his brother outside.
Hasim turned his back on the pile of women as he bent down to lift the bottom of the canvas exit. Bending down saved his life and nearly cost Rasa hers. Hasim ducked and tumbled under the tent wall. His body surged with hot pain and forward momentum created by gunfire and adrenaline.
A single shot was fired from inside Farhad’s tent. One of the wives was roused by the noise of her husband’s brutal death. Initial shock from the sight of a violent shadow wore off quickly. The woman reached for her nearby pistol and tried to kill the dark figure looking to make its exit. Her bullet tore at the flesh of Hasim’s shoulder. Tumbling metal missed the edge of his body armor and met exposed meat on his right arm. Then the bullet carried through canvas and almost struck Rasa in the back of the head before disappearing into oblivion.
Hasim dove under the tent wall to the sound of women screaming in panic. All the wives were startled by the shot. The wife with a pistol in her hand began to fire wildly without aim into darkness and despair. She hoped to hit anyone on the other side of the wall. Another of the wives made a final, fatal error of sitting up during a gun battle. She was struck in the side of the head at point-blank range by the woman indiscriminately jerking on a trigger. Panic fire ensued and the entire village was brought to fright-filled life.
Iman and Hasim answered the panic fire. They aimed their weapons at the tent and sent hot bullets into the direction where they thought the wives would be. The brothers killed two without ever having seen the damage done. Then the renegade trio fled from behind Farhad’s tent.
Noise discipline was gone. The camp was alive with rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. Every man, woman, and child was outside of their tents trying to assess the direction of fire and assert their defenses accordingly. The war had come to the village. The terrorists, young and old, were prepared to defend the small patch of land they knew to be home.
Iman’s left hand gripped to Rasa’s right so tightly that her fingers ached. He had to make sure that he did not let her go. He knew that rocks and difficult terrain were going to tear Rasa’s feet into raw meat, but it had to be. There was no time to better prepare for their flight from the camp with shoes and warmer clothing.
They reached the edge of the outermost tent in the village confusion. Iman led with Rasa in tow. Hasim pulled up the rear. Just on the other side of the thin structures, jihadists screamed at one another trying to figure out what had happened. Several insurgents fired blindly into the hills thinking the shots came from outside of camp.
Iman and Rasa stepped out from behind the corner of the last canvas-wrapped pergola and came upon their clearing. The spot that once held so much peace for the paired lovers was filled with nothing but fear. Iman knew that they would have to cross in the open, in front of the entire village, before they could reach the trail heading south. He hoped that the discombobulated mass would still be too distracted to see them run for the path.
Hope was lost. Iman and Rasa broke for the trail just as one of Farhad’s wives crawled from the front of the leader’s tent. Her naked body was brought to light just as the sun appeared over the lip of the mountains. She was covered with bullet holes and trails of seeping blood. She was dead despite her ability to crawl.
The woman’s theatrical exit drew the village’s entire attention toward Farhad’s tent as Hasim tried to cross the clearing behind Iman and Rasa. He was caught in an array of gunfire before arriving at the mouth of the trail. Hasim’s body armor broke to the several bullets that hit him in the back. The force knocked him from his feet. Iman looked back from his sprint and saw Hasim fall to the ground.
“Hasim!” the older brother screamed against the noise of incessant gunfire. Panic filled Iman’s heart, but he was well trained. “Go!” Iman yelled to Rasa in Arabic. “Run to the south position with your hands all the way up. Surrender to the men there!” He prayed that Ingle would not be the first to see Rasa on approach. Ingle was a warrior, bloodthirsty and ready to kill any outsider on approach. He knew that the young Marine was disciplined on the trigger, but Iman and Hasim had already informed the men that there were no friendly forces in the camp. Ingle would have no reason to think that Rasa was not running at them strapped with a bomb.
There was no time to worry. He had to get to Hasim. Iman left the shelter of the trail’s edge and sprinted back to his brother. He returned the enemy gunfire with fast pulls on his trigger. Two insurgents dropped from sight, but they were quickly replaced by three others. Iman was thankful that the jihadists were not able to shoot with any accuracy as bullets bounced all around the Marines.
Suddenly, two men from the weaker defensive position at the southwest appeared wielding their rifles. They opened fire on Iman and Hasim from the west. Then they turned to Rasa with a direct line of sight on the sprinting woman. One of the men shot Rasa just before she disappeared behind rocks along the trail’s edge. The bullet entered her right side, tearing through flesh and breaking bone. The weight of the bullet’s impact tripped her to the earth. Iman screamed “No!” and immediately regained the western guards’ attention.
Furious and fearful, Iman lobbed a hand grenade as far as he could. The fist-sized explosive detonated directly between the two encroaching guards, and they disappeared into a bloody mist of shrapnel and flesh. Then he turned to the approaching village and repeated the motion. He threw every grenade on his belt until he had none left to give to the enemy. Then he threw Hasim’s.
The grenade attack was immediately successful in casualty and suppression. Several men and women were blown apart or wounded enough to be drawn out of the fight. Others slowed their approach and tried to take cover. “Get up! Get up, brother. I need your help!” Iman begged Hasim. However, Hasim could not move. He was not conscious.
Iman knelt behind his brother and turned to face the enemy again. He placed well-aimed shots into the center of any target that presented itself. Then his rifle ran dry. He flung his rifle back on its sling and transferred to his pistol. Shot after shot, the villagers dropped to plumes of blood and dust.
“I’m up. I’m up,” Hasim announced into the ground. He regained consciousness and realized he was down in the fight. Facedown, the young Marine was scared for lack of the rifle in his hands. He could feel the percussion of Iman’s pistol firing over the top of his back, so he picked his head up only enough to locate his weapon. The rifle lay only a couple of feet away, resting naturally where it had been dropped when
Hasim was shot in the back.
The younger Marine slid on his belly to reach his rifle. He found comfort and security in the pistol grip of his assault weapon. Hasim rejoined the fight. He forced himself over and shot in the direction that Iman was pointing. However, his shots were errant. He let loose in panic as he came back to life. Hasim was suffering the temporary lapse of balance and control following a period of unconsciousness.
“Can you move?” Iman asked through the noise.
“Yeah! I think so,” Hasim reassured him. Iman gripped his brother by the wounded shoulders and hoisted the younger man to his feet.
“Let’s get the hell out of here then!” Iman screamed as he turned to run for Rasa.
Iman ran to the eastern edge of the southbound trail and turned to face the enemy again. He had not reached Rasa, but he could not leave his wounded brother without cover fire. Iman opened into the enemy once again with hot metal. Hasim shuffled and tried to run farther south down the trail. Hasim sprinted in the opposite direction of Iman’s aim. The younger brother tried to run for cover. He would kneel and set himself to suppress the enemy in Iman’s egress. Hasim hustled to a small pile of rocks in the hopes they would protect him from enemy fire. Then a single bullet outran Hasim.
The projectile pierced the back of Hasim’s neck and exited his lower jaw. Hasim’s brain stem was severed from his body. The narrow gap between his plastic helmet and the collar of his body armor served as the slightest window of opportunity for a kill. Such opportunity was answered by an insurgent who was shooting wildly at one Marine and accidentally hit the other. Iman returned the favor and shot the insurgent through the heart.
Operation Jericho Page 17