Into The Shadows

by Michael Brady

  His headquarters, filled with dust, a few rations of food, cases of water, and batteries for his radios, remained mostly barren with few Islamic State fighters.

  Akbar, like many Islamic State fighters, communicated using short-range radios on the battlefield. He also used couriers, depending on the situation. Though easily intercepted, they provided a cheap method of communication. Specific tactical orders were rarely issued, but their commanders used the radios in cases of imminent danger or inspiring words of wisdom.

  Usama Bin Laden famously thanked his loyal fighters at the Battle of Tora Bora in 2001, using short-range radios. Before slipping through the eastern passes leading into Pakistan, it appeared he and his fellow Al Qaeda fighters lost the battle. Al Qaeda quickly became overwhelmed while fighting Afghan Mujahedeen, the CIA special activities division, countless military aircraft, and United States Special Operations Forces.

  Akbar’s encrypted cell phone rang. He and other regional commanders used them in Syria and Iraq, along with senior members of the Military and Intelligence councils.

  “Hassan. It is Ahmed. One of the Caliph’s bodyguards has gone missing. I think he may be heading north.”

  “So, what, Ahmed. Why is this my concern?”

  “The Caliph wants him captured quickly but kept alive. They go back many years from their days in Iraq.”

  “Ahmed, again, why is this my problem? You know what I’m dealing with here.”

  Hassan Akbar exercised great control on the phone. He despised Ahmed and felt he did not belong in Shirazi’s inner circle. He was devious, temperamental, and showed little concern for the Caliphate. An ex-Iraqi senior intelligence officer for Saddam Hussein, Ahmed was driven by greed rather than by ideology.

  Shirazi paid Ahmed well and their relationship dated back to Shirazi’s imprisonment in Iraq in 2001. There, Ahmed showed Shirazi restraint from brutal interrogation typically performed by Iraqi intelligence. When Shirazi needed ex-regime soldiers and intelligence officers to expand the Islamic State, Ahmed was near the top of the list.

  President Saddam Hussein did not have much on Shirazi then, and Ahmed figured he could be a reliable source for the regime in the future. He did not foresee President Bush and General Tommy Franks’ expertise to crush Hussein’s Republic Guards and remaining military forces in a matter of weeks in 2003.

  In addition to Ahmed’s status as ex-Iraqi intelligence, Hassan also disliked the man’s lack of combat experience. While he and his fellow Islamic State loyalists fought the Kurds, Syrian regime forces and western allies, Ahmed sat in Raqqa doing nothing. The Caliphate was expanding without Ahmed spilling his blood.

  “The Caliph and I are concerned with his disappearance. The amount of information he holds on our operations here are significant. We cannot let him be questioned by Syrian forces, Turks or the United States.”

  “Why don’t you send some of your men, Ahmed?”

  “I can’t spare them, Hassan. We are stretched thin since the Caliph is moving more frequently.”

  More gibberish from the Iraqi, Hassan thought to himself. Nevertheless, Shirazi’s orders were clear and he had to obey.

  “Who is he?” asked Hassan indicating his desire to get back to the business of capturing Kobani.

  Ahmed revealed his name.

  “Haris? Really? I never thought he would leave. Tell the Caliph I’ll get the word out.”

  “Call me first, Hassan, if you have any news.”

  Unimpressed by Ahmed’s arrogance and disrespect by issuing him the instruction, Hassan simply hung up the phone. Ahmed did not deserve a response nor was he worried about what he might think. Shirazi had always sided with his military commanders in the past.

  Hassan sat back a moment and thought about what might happen if Haris tried to make his way toward Kobani. Worse yet, what if he slipped through? There were no good outcomes here, he thought to himself.

  First, Shirazi would blame Hassan for his escape if the former bodyguard slipped through his lines. Secondly, Ahmed would probably get credit from the Caliph if his forces captured Haris. Therefore, there was nothing in it for him or his men. Third, by sending troops to set up additional security checkpoints around his area of operations, it left his fighters more thinly stretched than they already were.

  Hassan issued orders to his deputy commander. There would be additional security patrols along the roads leading into and out of Islamic State positions around Kobani. His deputy would also send a dozen men to help patrol Jarabulus, one of Akbar’s strong points in the region.

  Creech Air Force Base, Nevada - November 6, 8:58 PM

  Lieutenant Colonel (Lt Col) William Johnston sat at his console. One of the most experienced drone pilots in the United States Air Force, he had the good fortune and added pressure of flying one of the drones in support of CIA over Syria. He did not know who the man on the ground was, or why CIA wanted him alive, but he had a good imagination.

  His only job tonight was to observe and report movement along Haris’ route and engage any targets authorized by his Commander, Colonel Travis O’Malley, a stubborn and hard-headed Irishman from Long Island, New York. O’Malley, piloting the second drone, would be in constant contact with Michael Brennan using a secure satellite link. He would only refer to Michael as his call sign, Ghost Rider.

  “I see some movement south of Kobani. Looks like four pickup trucks traveling southwest at approximately sixty kilometers an hour,” said Johnston, a graduate from the United States Air Force Academy, located in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

  “Copy. Keep eyes on them, Billy. Too bad we are flying protection detail tonight. These are good targets for Central Command.”

  “Wilco.”

  Johnston updated his boss again a few minutes later.

  “They are moving away from Kobani. Now ten kilometers and still moving southwest.”

  “Do you see anything else?”

  “Negative. I see nothing else moving in the area.”

  “Zoom out and check for additional moving target indicators (MTIs).”

  “Still nothing.”

  “Copy. Stay with the pickups.”

  “Ghost Rider, we have four pickups moving toward Jarabulus. We see nothing else.”

  Michael simply replied, “Roger.”

  Haris was in trouble. Akbar’s fighters only had to travel forty kilometers until they reached Jarabulus. He had no idea just how critical the brash and experienced Air Force Academy graduate would be in the coming hour.

  Karanfilkoy, Turkey – November 6, 9:30 PM

  Michael and Elif slowly approached the south side of Karanfilkoy. Walid and Nanook were already at their observation points. A barren desert lay in between the city and the Syrian border.

  “What is the distance from you to the border?” asked Michael.

  “Just under two hundred meters,” said Nanook.

  Michael observed the terrain, using his scope, and noticed two trails leading toward the border. He determined it made more sense to redeploy Nanook and Walid closer. The open area from Jarabulus to the linkup point was approximately one thousand yards, and he wanted to cover Haris’ escape from the town if he came under fire.

  He turned to Elif and offered the suggestion, respecting her authority over the two men. Elif agreed, and Walid and Nanook began their approach to the border.

  Both men would slowly move along the trail and settled atop dunes located mere yards from the frontier. They could see Jarabulus clearly from their vantage points, checked in with Elif, and indicated they were in position. Michael was satisfied.

  A few moments later, Elif’s cell phone rang. It was Haris.

  “I am approaching Jarabulus now. Another fifteen minutes or so,” said Haris.

  “Okay. We are ready, Haris. You may be speaking to my boss as he has direct contact with the drones flying above. Just make your
way to the linkup point regardless of what happens. We are waiting for you.”

  “See you soon, Ayse.”

  Michael would have to wait a little while longer before Haris made his way to the extraction point. The man’s intelligence had better be good, he thought to himself.

  Kenema, Sierra Leone – November 6, 9:55 PM

  Sheikh Cissi sat in his office. Foday soon joined him while carrying a large backpack. He wore jeans, sneakers and a casual red t-shirt with a Coca-Cola logo on the front.

  “Are you ready, Foday?” asked Sheikh Cissi.

  “Yes. We are leaving shortly and will make our way to Sulima. Fallubah assures me he will be off the coast by midnight. Manjo and I will arrive shortly before eleven o’clock. That will give us time to get to the beach and wait for the boat.”

  Sulima, a tiny coastal town in southeastern Sierra Leone, was the ideal location for Manjo and Foday to begin their voyage across the Atlantic. Located at the entrance to the Moa River, Sulima’s pristine beaches would offer Foday and Manjo ideal spots to join Fallubah. Freetown, the largest city and port in Sierra Leone, did not afford Foday the secrecy he and Manjo required, due to local police and maritime surveillance forces.

  “I pray for a safe and successful journey, my old friend. May Allah watch over you,” said Cissi.

  Foday stood up and offered his Sheikh a final tribute for entrusting him with the undertaking. This was his honor, and he would not disappoint Cissi or their Caliph.

  A few minutes later, Foday and Manjo departed Kenema and headed south to Sulima. Manjo would never see his home again.

  The forty-five-kilometer trip to Sulima took the two men nearly an hour, as they had to travel slowly over the muddy dirt road.

  Foday finished issuing instructions to his driver who then turned the vehicle around and began to drive back to the Mosque. This would be the last time Foday communicated with Sheikh Cissi until the mission was over. The Caliph would eventually learn of its success or failure soon enough.

  Foday and Manjo turned south along the beach and walked for approximately two hundred meters. There were no souls in sight; only the sounds of the crashing waves hitting the beach.

  Manjo carried the lightweight and inflatable two-person rubber dinghy with them. Once the two men arrived at their chosen departure point, Manjo inflated the dinghy. Their next move was to simply sit and wait. Thirty minutes went by until they observed the boat in the distance.

  Using his flashlight, Foday signaled three bursts of light toward the boat. Nothing.

  A few moments later, he tried again. A flashlight aboard the boat did the same. Time to move.

  Manjo and Foday grabbed their backpacks and slowly walked into the frigid Atlantic Ocean. Manjo worked his way into the dinghy as the waters began rising past their waistlines. He was not an experienced swimmer, and so Foday would have the burden of swimming out past the waves as Manjo worked the aluminum oars.

  Foday no longer had to contend with the rolling three-foot waves as they were now approximately sixty yards away from the beach. He quickly joined Manjo, and both men began rowing toward the boat awaiting them.

  They reached the anchored vessel within fifteen minutes. Foday and Manjo kept rowing until they reached the boat’s stern side and stepped onto the fifty-foot yacht using the ladder on the swim platform.

  “Fallubah. Nice to see you,” said Foday with a large grin emanating from his face.

  “Welcome aboard the Black River, Foday,” said Fallubah.

  The Black River, a modern monohull carbon fiber boat was capable of averaging fifteen to twenty-five knots in good sailing conditions. Fallubah secured the anchor, entered the captain’s cockpit and fired up the engines. The three men were on their way to Jamaica, nearly four thousand nautical miles away.

  Foday turned toward his native Sierra Leone and gazed into its mystical beauty one last time.

  Jarabulus, Syria – November 6, 10:23 PM

  Haris was now about three kilometers from Jarabulus. Islamic State took the small town sitting along the border before the campaign to capture Kobani. It was an ideal location to move men and supplies across the Euphrates. Due to its historical insignificance, the Kurds concentrated on Kobani to the west and Aleppo to the southeast.

  Haris knew the actual number of Islamic State fighters in the town to be less than twenty. Jarabulus, already sparsely populated before their arrival due to Syria’s civil war, was even less so now. For all practical purposes, the city was a barren wasteland filled with empty buildings and lifeless residents who could not escape.

  Haris stopped just short of the city’s entrance on Highway 4 like before. He noticed an Islamic State checkpoint as expected. He then reached into his bag and pulled out the radio. Scanning the known frequencies of Islamic State, he quickly identified what channel the local fighters were using.

  He heard chatter regarding the movement of some vehicles to block the entrances into the city. However, it appeared they reinforced the southern checkpoint and even had reconnaissance patrols in the area.

  Haris wasted no time and drove off the road and into the desert. He turned off his lights and slowly drove across the sand toward the southwestern part of Jarabulus. The city was just a few kilometers away as the moon’s light radiated in the distance above the town. He wondered if it would be smarter to make the remainder of the trip on foot. It would take more time but he was ahead of schedule, and the vehicle would be easier to detect.

  Haris exited the vehicle, grabbed his rifle and looked at his map and the surrounding terrain one last time. The extraction point with Ayse was now approximately two and a half kilometers to his northwest. He verified the GPS coordinates on his cell phone and began walking. Haris only carried his automatic rifle, map, cell phone and radio as he moved toward the border.

  Haris was close.

  Two hundred yards into his hurried pace, Haris heard a sound coming from the other side of a nearby dune. It sounded like an engine. He froze instantly to hear more. Suddenly, an Islamic State fighter appeared at the top of the dune looking right at Haris.

  Haris immediately drew his AK-47 and fired at the man striking him in the abdomen. A few seconds later, he heard two men shouting over the radio. The chase was on.

  Haris began sprinting as fast as he could in the loose desert sand. Within seconds, he heard the explosion.

  “Engage the target. Take him out, Billy,” said Colonel O’Malley.

  “With pleasure.”

  A few seconds later, Lieutenant Colonel Johnston acquired his target and fired another AGM 114 Hellfire II missile.

  “Target destroyed,” said Lieutenant Colonel Johnston.

  “Roger. Zoom out and look for any additional movement.”

  “Cannot see anything right now. Turning north toward Jarabulus.”

  “Copy. That should keep the others pinned down in the city.”

  Colonel O’Malley continued to keep Haris within his sights. He zoomed out to get a better view of Haris’ surroundings. He saw no signs of activity within fifty meters of his current location.

  Haris continued to move northwest. He glanced down at his phone and realized he was within two kilometers. Only two long kilometers over open terrain, he thought to himself.

  “Ghost Rider. One vehicle destroyed near your asset. We see no other threats as of now.”

  “Roger. We heard it.” Michael did not engage in further communications. It was unnecessary as his military drone operators were involved in the fight and he had little to offer anyways.

  “You guys see anything yet?” asked Michael.

  Walid and Nanook turned their scopes toward the direction of the explosion but saw nothing. There were too many dunes between them and the blast area.

  A few moments later, Nanook reported seeing some smoke or dust, but he could not be sure which. Michael saw it as well an
d turned to Elif.

  “I think I’m going to move forward to the linkup point. Haris will not be here for some time, and I would like to move closer. I don’t see anything up ahead.”

  “I will join you, Michael,” said Elif.

  Michael and Elif slowly crawled over the border, cautious of any Islamic State snipers that might be in the area. A few minutes later, they reached their objective.

  “Nanook and Walid. Can you see us?” asked Elif.

  Both men saw them clearly. They continued scanning the open area southwest of Karanfilkoy, but only observed a few old buildings and farmhouses. The two trusted contractors saw no signs of enemy movement.

  Haris continued to march closer to the extraction point. Just to his north, he saw an empty bombed out shed. As he approached the structure, he heard a radio. The volume was low, and he was unable to recognize the chatter.

  He attempted to bypass the location by moving west. The detour would add time to his journey, but he could not risk further confrontation. He came across a hill forty-five meters later.

  Haris began traversing the hill and decided to assume a low crawl position to deliberately work his way over the crest. Haris reached the top of the hill when he felt the bullets fly by and spraying into the sand around him. Islamic State had found him and notified their headquarters in Jarabulus.

  Haris quickly sprung to his feet and raced down the hill. He sprinted for approximately thirty meters until he found some concealment in the nearby brush.

  “Engaging targets,” said Colonel O’Malley.

  The Colonel did not see the two Islamic State fighters tucked behind the shed from his viewing angle. Nevertheless, they were now visible and moving toward Haris. O’Malley fired a single Hellfire missile at the men.

  The missile struck the desert floor just a meter from the lead pursuer and killed him instantly. The blast knocked the second man to the ground. Clearly injured, he was not an immediate threat to CIA’s asset.