Iman moved from his crouched position to retrieve Hasim. He saw that Hasim was gone. There was nothing left of him to save. Iman’s eyes filled with water as he accepted that his brother was gone from him, from the world of man. Then his thoughts turned to Rasa. He hoped that he could still save her from the village.
Bullets and rock chips bounced around as Iman arrived at her limp body. She was laid out on her left side. The woman, struck through the ribs, gasped for air. Iman regretted that he did not have time to treat her wound. He knew that every second counted toward any lifesaving efforts, but the village was still coming down on top of them. The enemy was full of vengeance and hate for what happened to their spliced leader. They would not show compassion for a wounded woman or a mangled Marine.
Iman reached down and scooped Rasa into his arms. He was defenseless as he ran along the trail away from the enemy. The weight of Rasa’s small frame slowed him down. A few jihadists caught up in pursuit to get a line of sight on Iman. They shot wildly. Their bullets were uncontrolled and missed all around the escaping lovers.
One of the insurgents ran out of bullets without ever hitting near his target. Rocks and sand kicked up all around Iman and Rasa. Another misfired and struggled to clear his weapon. The third insurgent spent his rounds to the south before his head ruptured open.
The man’s skull decompressed and sprawled to a heavy sniper round sent overhead by Sanchez. Iman realized he was in sight of his Marines. He had a renewed hope, a new faith that he was going to be able to make the run and save Rasa. He prayed to get her to Doc in time.
Yet Iman was still not safe. The insurgent with the jammed rifle was able to clear his chamber. Then he stepped out and opened fire again. One bullet made its way between Iman’s plates of body armor. The round cut through the staff sergeant’s back and exited his chest inside his vest. Small shrapnel pierced through the top of his right lung. The upper right lobe collapsed to the decompression of Iman’s chest cavity. He fell with Rasa in his arms. He was wounded, but he refused to drop his love. His elbows and knees dug into the sand as he absorbed the force of the impact to the ground. Rasa remained cradled in his grasp.
Sanchez did not let the opposition’s shot go without revenge. The sniper acquired the new target and fired. The insurgent tumbled backward as his heart exploded. Then the world went quiet for a moment.
Iman huffed. He was still alive. He couldn’t seem to hear anything, and he struggled to breathe. The Marine felt every ounce of suffocating pressure under his collapsed lung. He was drowning in his own blood. However, he continued clinging to hope. He knew that he could save Rasa. Save her. Save her. He mumbled to himself over and over through blood and pain. Save her. It became his mantra, ringing out louder than the struggled heartbeat thumping in his ears. Save her.
He ran with Rasa quickly fading in his arms. Both of them were unable to breathe. Iman’s legs burned with fatigue and lack of oxygen, but he kept on. He pushed until he could see the faces of his Marines become clear in the onset of daylight. “Doc!” someone screamed from the hole.
Iman looked up and saw Sergeant Ingle waving him away. The wounded man stumbled into the path of the laser, an ill-advised move to shorten the intended distance of the airstrike from the Marines’ area of operations. Iman staggered aside to clear the line.
“Doc!” someone screamed again. Doc Troy, the Navy corpsman with the team, ran from the safety of his prone position. He was not a Marine, but he had the heart of a lion. He was the only sailor any of the men ever cared to acknowledge. On the battlefield, he was their best friend. In the event of a wound, he was their medical messiah. He was Doc, and they knew he would forever put the Marines before himself even in the most futile of attempts to save a Jarhead from an injury that no one could survive.
Doc Troy sprinted toward Iman and slid on his knees to catch Rasa as Iman’s legs gave out. “Who’s worse?” Doc asked in an immediate attempt to triage their wounds. “Her…her,” Iman was able to muster without a breath.
Sanchez fired again. The large-bore rifle kicked rearward into the sniper’s shoulder. A heavy bullet spiraled down range until it found a bursting impact into the center of a terrorist’s chest. The pursuer’s left leg kicked out straight in front of him, removing any remaining balance from his body. It was a sure sign that Sanchez’s bullet severed the man’s spine. The Marines then finished the insurgent off, lobbing several rounds into the insurgent’s body. Overwhelming accuracy from the Marines’ shots suppressed the village remainder with fear of what might happen to any jihadists that became visible in the field of fire.
The encampment was fully armed and nearly at full count when the jihadists started pursuing Rasa and her two Marine escorts. They were able to kill one Marine and wound the other. The villagers intended to chase their enemy until nothing remained of the external threat. However, the terrorists had not anticipated running into a wall of hot lead coated in steel. The villagers withdrew from pursuit and tried to regroup in the safety of their tents. They recoiled like a frightened snake. The Marines held. Ingle’s laser stayed aimed, ready on target.
SMOKE
She’s gone, Staff Sergeant.” Doc Troy seemed to repeat the words to Iman with heartfelt remorse. Doc tried to make eye contact with Iman, but the senior Marine was a million miles away. His eyes were glazing over with the distance between him and life-giving breaths. The staff sergeant didn’t respond. He was slipping in and out of shock, aching for his brother and clinging to Rasa. Iman had his arms wrapped around Rasa’s shoulders. He embraced her with his ear to her chest. He silently pleaded for a heartbeat, any sound, any proof of life; but Iman was nearly deaf from the gun battle. The ringing in his ears drowned out all sound. He would not have been able to hear Rasa’s motionless chest even if her heart was still drumming an announcement of her well-being.
“She’s gone, man!” Doc said again, trying to reiterate that Iman no longer needed to hold onto the dead woman. The corpsman grabbed Iman by the shoulders and shook the senior enlisted man back to reality. Iman could hardly hear Doc Troy’s muffled words beyond the overbearingly high-pitched tone in his ears. “She’s dead,” Doc yelled to Iman. “You have to get back in the fight!”
Farhad had not ever considered any possibility of the southern defensive position being turned inward on the established camp. Therefore, no contingency plan was made for the ingress and egress between the main camp and the south. The Marines were in a secure position. They were dug in and ready to fight in all directions, but the Marines pointed all of their fury north-north-west. The enemy, if they dared to approach, had to go through a funnel into the tip of a heavily guarded trail. The Force Recon team stood their ground like mighty Spartans hacking at an invading mass. Every insurgent that appeared in the corridor was struck down and remained in place as a lump of dead flesh. Other insurgents were not willing to risk their lives for the sake of extracting wounded men and women. The terrorists stayed hidden until they could work up enough courage and pop out for a quick shot at the Marines. The American warriors responded with lethal accuracy and heavyhanded kills.
“If they keep showing up, there won’t be anything left for the airstrike,” a voice called out in jest from the right side of the line. A series of chuckles and war cries carried into the morning air. The team dismissed any need for noise discipline. They taunted the eager-to-die. They laughed, screamed, spit, and cussed to the camp while they dared the insurgents to show something worth shooting. Iman knew better.
Doc Troy was finally able to convince Iman away from Rasa’s body. The corpsman did what he could to patch the holes in Iman’s back and chest. The field dressings soaked before they provided any damming relief. Doc could only try to keep blood inside Iman’s body. Iman felt himself fading. Daylight dimmed despite the onset of late morning. Air was scarce no matter how hard he gasped. He struggled to stay awake. He fought for life with the same fervor that he used in battle. He was a warrior determined to win.
Iman, p
atched and weary, broke from Rasa. He remained present on the battlefield. He tapped the Marine to his right on the shoulder. The young man, Corporal Middleton, looked at the wounded staff sergeant and surrendered full attention. “What’s up, Staff Sergeant?” the corporal asked. The young Force Recon Marine was worried for the dying leader. Middleton listened intently, as if Iman were pulling together his parting words.
The senior Marine pressed on the hole in his chest. He tried to stabilize the pressure in his body, allowing his lung to inflate. He was unsuccessful. Drying blood cracked and flaked at the corners of Iman’s mouth. “Flank,” Iman said, pointing to their right side. Iman knew there was a broken trail leading to the high side of the hill next to the Marines’ position. The enemy would eventually make their way around and flank the Marines. The jihadists would gain a downward angle on their foes, and the Marines would be lost to the exposure of unabated gunfire.
“Roger that, Staff Sergeant,” Middleton acknowledged. Then he barked out an order to the two corporals at the end of the line. “Make your way to the top of the hill there,” Middleton said, pointing, “and make sure they don’t flank us. Keep them pinned down as long as you can.”
The corporals responded blindly to the order. They stood up from their prone positions and charged up the hill fearless of any enemy presence. They went looking for a fight and would hold until they won or died trying to win. Iman watched the Marines fade to the top of the hill. He wished them well and mentally marked the time. He guessed that the men would need relief or resupply by the middle of the night. Just hang on until then, boys. We’ll send you some support…eventually.
“Hey, Staff Sergeant,” Ingle took pause. He broke from his rifle long enough to check the laser. It was still on target. However, the battery was fading fast. “What are the chances you packed a backup battery for this thing?” Sergeant Ingle looked over his shoulder to the superior. Ingle imagined seeing Iman’s battery light fading like the laser’s indicator. Iman just grinned at the lost cause.
The laser designator was the team’s last desperate grasp to contact Command. The Marines prayed, and did so aloud. Every man called out to God, either through mumbled lips or announced prayer, and begged for a miracle. Then the top of the hill at their right flank erupted into small-arms fire. Iman was right in his assessment of the team’s position. The terrorists were coming to attack the Marines from the trail on the high side of the hill, but the corporals held the insurgents off in a hail of bullets and hand grenades.
The Marines fought well into the brightness of another snowy day. The men holding the hill killed three more jihadists before the village recoiled once again. Iman knew too much to leave a hole in his fight. He was privy to too many intricate details of the camp and surrounding trails. He was the Marines’ most valuable asset.
A full morning of fighting led to a sporadic afternoon of skirmishes. Then the night became long with waiting to fight. Jihadists proved to be inept during daylight. The insurgents were worse off at night. They crashed loudly against rocks. Their weapons rattled. They whispered too loudly from one man to the other. Every action that gave away a position was answered with a hand grenade or a burst of gunfire from the Marines.
A few jihadists made initial attempts to attack the Marines early in the night. Most who made an effort did not experience the luxury of returning to their camp. The village never realized Iman was in command of the American unit. They had no idea that one of their own returned to destroy them. Iman used his knowledge of the place to ensure the Marines had an advantage in the fight at all times. Every Plan B the enemy could muster failed as quickly as it came about. The insurgents withdrew to regroup again and again. They fell back and enjoyed the relative safety behind rocks shielding them from the Americans.
The village of terrorists was losing manpower every time they came into a Marine’s sights. The enemy had to reconsider their options for a counterattack, but none of them had the military knowledge required to mount anything effective. The village, beaten inward, was on the verge of surrender. Yet they fired intermittent, poorly aimed shots in the general direction of Iman’s team. They harassed the Marines through the night with sudden rifle cracks. Then they disappeared fast enough to avoid engagement. The brave showed in the open and were killed accordingly. The cowardly lived until morning light once again forced away the eerie darkness.
Rays of sunlight beamed over the rocky hills to the east. There was no audible call to prayer. The insurgents skipped early obligations to Allah for the sake of a fight. The Force Recon team knew some attack of some proportion was in the works. Yet no gunfire echoed the trail. The air was quiet and still. The Marines were exhausted and fought to stay awake. They had not slept for an eternity.
Iman, worse for wear, could no longer stand over his rifle at the edge of the fighting hole. He turned around and sat down with his back against the shallow grave. The muzzle of his weapon went vertical, and he rested his forehead against the hand grips to pray.
Fatigued and hurting, he called to Allah. However, the dying man could not feel the words he was trying to say. He stared into Rasa’s face, seeing her only for the first time in the full light. Sunlight glistened against her black hair. Her face was soft but sad. Rasa’s eyes were closed tight in death. Her lower jaw rested awkwardly and left her mouth agape in a shattered frown. Iman cried at the sight of the woman. He tried to stave off a sob, but he was beaten. He had no energy left to give for bravery. He was in an unspeakable amount of pain.
With tears in his eyes, he looked out to the southern sky over the open desert. Day brightened with each passing second. Iman wondered if the increasing light meant he was lucky enough to experience another day or if he was leaving the world of man. He looked out to the desert from the rocky hillside. Paradise. Iman stared into the distant gates of a promised land through blinding light. He squinted at a wonderful mirage. Iman saw two specs against the open blue. The winter air warmed under a clear sky. The sun was lifting ever higher as the day progressed. Then he squinted to confirm his hallucination. Two? Iman questioned the vision.
Iman reached over and tapped Sergeant Ingle’s shoulder. The Marine turned to give his attention and saw Iman pointing in the air to their rear. The sergeant’s eyes burned in a sleepy haze against the sunlight. Even still, Ingle was able to confirm that Iman was not imagining the vision.
“Inbound!” Ingle shouted with relief and excitement. “Inbound,” he called out again for the team to hear. “Pull them off the hill and everyone get in the hole!” Ingle’s heart raced at what was about to happen. He was distracted only for a second by his feverish want for the mission to end. Suddenly, bits of rock and sand bounced off the earth around his spot in the fighting hole. He was quickly refocused on the fight. Ingle turned his rifle back on the enemy and fired a single shot. Ingle’s bullet tore a hole through another terrorist’s neck, and the world went quiet once again.
“Clear out!” someone at the end of the line called to the corporals holding the hillside flank. Then the Marine turned and sprinted toward the fighting hole to join his team. Iman looked outward trying to identify who it was, but he failed to make out the man’s face for his blurring vision. The flank-defending corporals acknowledged with a faint response and withdrew from their position atop the exposed area. The men sprinted down the hill in an attempt to outrun incoming air support, but they were not fast enough.
The world erupted. The air shattered around them. Concussions of massive explosions along the north knocked both of them tumbling to the ground. The corporals, out of blast range from any fire or shrapnel, were still shaken into nausea by the blasts. Their lungs became void of any air. Their intestines nearly rattled loose inside them. Every nerve ending in their bodies felt exposed to the cold air. Their teeth felt hollow and their brains seemed to swell against their skulls.
One. Two. Three. The enormous bombs left even larger signatures on the ground. Day became brighter with the flashes of light just before the s
ky turned black with smoke. All the Marines hunkered down as tightly as they could inside the fighting hole. They compressed their bodies to combat the bowel-shaking blasts. A Marine at the end of the fighting hole reached out and dragged the corporals into the mix of blended bodies. Each of the men was dragged in headfirst and tried to keep from landing awkwardly on his neck. Then they balled up like the rest, hoping not to catch any blasts in the confusion of the attack.
Four. Five. Six. Gigantic blasts ensued. The earth rumbled. Rocks shook loose from the soil. The shape of the hill seemed to implode into a cave at the north. The main body of camp was a blackened crater empty of life. No structure remained. No bush was left unburned. No man, woman, or child captured any breathable air from the clouds of fire and smoke. The camp was laid to waste. Nothing remained but giant holes of ashen soil. Until there be no enemy, but peace. Amen. Iman cited the Rifleman’s Creed coyly as a slant against the dead.
The explosions stopped after the sixth bomb dropped. Remnant rolling thunder carried over the mountains and into the valley. The Marines stood in their hole and cheered. Victoriously, they roared at the forsaken. The enemy was destroyed. The mission was complete. Jericho was gone from the world, and all its inhabitants were permanently separated from any ability to kill Americans.
Steadfast as a leader, Sergeant Ingle checked the laser designator. The signal was gone. The battery had died at some unknown point in the conflict. He realized how lucky they were not to be caught in the raid. Then he recounted. He did not care to discredit the pilots’ skills and the Lord’s diviåne intervention for luck. “Thank you,” he said aloud to amazingly accurate pilots and to God himself. “Thank you,” he repeated through a whispered sigh of relief.
Operation Jericho Page 18