The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  The Iraqi was blunt. “How long we are safe is anyone’s guess. No one is safe with those murderers on the rampage, the ISIS swine!” Sulla’s anger and disgust were apparent. “They soil the name of the Sunni even worse than the Al Qaeda scum! Sadam would have nothing to do with such animals. They are so much worse than he was, so much worse even than his sons! Now they are rampaging against Kurd, Sunni and Shia alike!” He hugged his daughter and nodded to his wife. “They are animals!”

  “We’ve heard some things about them,” Killer said carefully. “There are reports of mass executions, mass beheadings, and mass rapes—are they true?”

  “They are all true,” Sulla nodded. “Anyone found with the army, the police, anyone who might have worked for Malaki or the Americans—no offense intended—is summarily executed. Even Shias who took no part in any of this are being herded out, loaded into trucks and shot. That’s not the worst.”

  Sulla closed his eyes as if in pain. When he spoke it was with a thick, guttural voice laden with emotion. He showed them pictures on his iPad. “When they took one of the bigger towns they took exception to the playground for children. It wasn’t Allah’s way, so they said, so they beheaded the children and set their tiny heads on stakes around the playground. It was a warning to the other children. It’s barbaric, even for the Al Qaeda scum!”

  Sulla frowned, paging through his iPad. He found what he wanted and handed it to Kincaid, saying nervously, “That’s just the beginning. They are truly demented these ISIS pigs. They are servants of the Devil; it is the only way to describe them.”

  Those were strong words coming from a Muslim.

  Kincaid looked at the iPad, turning it so that Slade could see it as well. It was a photo of a poster stapled to a telephone pole on a dusty street. The poster informed all inhabitants of the town that they were now part of a new Caliphate and thus subject to Sharia Law. In addition they were expected to support the jihad. Specifically, all unmarried girls between the ages of twelve and thirty were to be brought to public buildings so that they could be married off to the jihadi warriors. If they failed to comply the full weight of Sharia would fall upon their shoulders.

  Sulla held his little girl, telling the two Americans, “So under pain of death fathers are to take their little girls, just like my darling Adara, to them so that those animals can rape them! I cannot believe it! I simply cannot believe it!”

  Kincaid downloaded the contents of the iPad to his phone, but told Sulla, “We’ll do what we can, Sulla. However, you know as well as I that the current administration is not eager to interfere militarily—in anything. The chances of American boots on the ground in force is nil.” Killer sighed, and shrugged, “This is all you’re going to get. It’s your ball game Sulla. I wish I could do more.”

  “Then the President is simply going to allow this caliphate, this terrorist state to exist?” the Iraqi exclaimed, clearly dumbfounded.

  “We’re going to supply the airpower and Special Forces support, but we’re hoping that the locals will provide the muscle on the ground—you’re just as good as these guys—you’ll be fighting for your homes and families,” Killer said gravely.

  “Our men need to learn anger instead of fear, but you are right, we must fight these devils ourselves.”

  “My advice is that you get your family to Bagdad. That’s still the safest place in country; or I could get you out of the country seeing as you’ve been an asset.”

  “I will not leave Iraq to these animals—these degenerates who want jihad for the sake of jihad—all they care about is blood, plunder and rape. I must fight them in any way I can, even if I spend my sons and daughters. If I can’t raise my children in a country without fear then I must fight for that country.”

  “We will do all we can,” the Delta commander repeated. “That’s why we’re going to interdict that meeting tomorrow. We hope to isolate ISIS. We don’t want them making any deals with the Iranians or even Al Qaeda. The goal is to build distrust between ISIS and the other players and then systematically take out their leaders.”

  Sulla turned to Slade and looked at him and the Barret slung over his shoulder. Smiling, he said, “So you brought your father to do that work for you?”

  Slade smiled, but it was a deadly, mirthless twist of his thin lips. It was not a pleasant expression.

  “He may be old Sulla, but he’s also one of the best operatives in the world,” the Delta Force commander reassured the Iraqi.

  “I am only joking my friend,” Sulla said, patting Slade’s arm tentatively. “I have a great deal riding on you Americans. We all do.”

  Slade’s expression softened. He nodded toward the little girl. “I have a niece Adara’s age,” he told Sulla. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “I do not doubt that, but when it is all said and done we must defeat this scum ourselves,” Sulla agreed. “With Allah’s help we will do so.”

  Killer nodded, but he reminded his host, “The longer we stay the more danger you’ll be in Sulla, so let’s get down to business.”

  Sulla took back the iPad and paged through to another screen. Laying the tablet on the table, he showed them a diagram of the village. “Here is the house where the meeting will be taking place. It will occur tomorrow at three, tea time, in the back room,” he said, pointing out the various tactical situations.

  “The house is on the outskirts of town, but they will not have many guards. This is necessary because if you brought two rival factions like ISIS and Al Qaeda in close proximity you would be guaranteed a bloodbath; the hotheads would egg each other on until there was a full blown war. That would be good for us but very bad for their plans. Therefore there will be only four guards apiece. The ISIS guards will cover the street entrance, the Al Qaeda guards will be on the back terrace.”

  “And the Iranians?”

  “They will stay in their vehicle!” Sulla said with a laugh.

  “What’s over here, do the sheppard’s graze their flocks in these fields?” Killer asked, pointing to the open area beyond the veranda.

  “No, no one uses those fields,” he said, his finger thumping on an area about a kilometer south of the house. “This is a low ridge with a dirt road beyond. The road goes south but is seldom used even by the shepherds.” He glanced up at Slade and his Barret. “It is a perfect spot for someone with a nice long rifle and a good eye!”

  “About twelve hundred yards—perfect,” Slade said.

  Killer held up his hand and his face turned suddenly grave.

  Slade heard Alpha report over their comlink. “We have a small group of civilians approaching the house. Two adults and a bunch of kids; it looks like a family. They’re all worked up but we can’t tell why.”

  “There’s nothing else?” Killer demanded.

  “Nothing—hold on—it looks like a group of Tango’s are entering the north side of the village about two hundred meters behind them. There are a dozen Tangos armed with automatic weapons, but I don’t see any support trucks or troops. They might be a patrol.”

  “Keep me informed,” Killer ordered. He told Sulla what they’d seen. There was the unmistakable sound of voices outside the front of the house and a sudden, urgent pounding on the door. Sulla’s wife had gone to the door and opened it. Sulla turned off the kitchen light and rushed to the front room.

  Killer and Slade melted into the shadows, listening to the strained voices of men, women and children from the front of the house. The conversation was too fast and agitated for them to discern much, but Sulla returned a moment later with a man.

  “Things are not good,” he informed them. “This is Hamad. He and his family are friends, Shia from the next village. The ISIS animals are raiding the homes, killing the men and raping the women and girls they find regardless of who they are—they have a Fatwa from a Saudi cleric as their justification—Allah help us! The Shia and Christians are being slaughtered.

  “Hamad fled here, hoping to find refuge with us as my family did with him when
Malaki’s people were rooting out former Sadam supporters.” He wiped his brow, obviously nervous. “I don’t even know if I’m safe with these scum! What are we to do?”

  “There’s only a dozen of them so far,” Killer told him. “We can’t afford to compromise the meeting tomorrow. So whatever we do we’ll have to do it quietly. For now, keep them here and keep them quiet. We’ll play it by ear.”

  As the refugee family settled in the dark of the kitchen, looking hopefully at the two Americans. Killer got back on the line with his squads, keeping tally of the ISIS group’s movement. The news wasn’t good. “They must have marked where the family was going, because they’re coming here.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Sulla asked.

  “If you can talk them out of this it would save a lot of trouble,” Killer sighed.

  Sulla went over to a cabinet and got out a Quran. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I will try.”

  “Don’t worry Sulla,” Killer told him. “We’ve got your back. Try to bribe them. Make the best deal you can. If they don’t want to deal then we’ll take care of this the old fashioned way—permanently.”

  Killer talked to his squads over the radio, “We’ll cover the front yard through the windows. I want Alpha high and Bravo down low covering the flanks and rear.”

  “Alpha has a good view from the roof across the street,” reported the team leader.

  “Bravo ready,” reported the other team leader.

  Moving through the new arrivals, their eyes wide with surprise and fear at the sight of Killer and Slade armed to the teeth, they chose a window inside the small front bedroom. It was just to the right of the front door. Slade went to the south side of the window, opening the curtains just enough so that he got a good view of the yard and the street.

  He could hear the ISIS group approaching, and then he saw them, advancing south toward the house. They were either undisciplined or more likely they feared nothing from the villagers. They were talking and yelling but they weren’t paying any attention to their flanks or the rooftops. Every door and window was closed. The fear was palpable.

  The first few terrorists pointed at the house and crossed over the yard to the door. Slade caught only a little of what they were saying, but the AK-47’s made their intentions clear. Before they got to the door Sulla opened it and met them outside holding the Quran.

  “You’re hiding some of the Shia swine in your home,” one of them said tritely. “Give them up; it’s no use hiding them.”

  “By this holy book you shall not have them!” Sulla told them firmly, holding up the Quran. “They are Muslim, loyal to Allah, why are you pursuing them? What wrong have they done you?”

  “They are Shia dogs, do we need another reason?” said the first.

  A second terrorist motioned at Sulla with his rifle, and said, “Bring them outside. We will shoot them and be on our way; we have many more to track down tonight. Do it quickly or it will mean trouble for you and your family, not just the Shia!”

  CHAPTER 4: It only Gets Worse

  The ISIS terrorists were insistent, but Sulla stood his ground waving the Quran in their faces. “I cannot give up my guests! They are Muslims. They sought my aid in good faith. I would be violating all we hold dear.”

  “They are going to die!” the terrorist told him firmly, motioning his men forward, shouting to two of them, “Go around back and see that none escape.”

  Two of the terrorists headed around the corner of the house to the back door. Slade heard Killer whisper in his mike, “Bravo, two Tangos coming to you—quietly!”

  “Bravo!”

  As the rest of the ISIS party approached the front door, Sulla tried desperately to bribe them. That caught the terrorist’s attention. “They are a middle aged man, his young son, wife and three girls; what possible threat could they be to you? I will pay for their safety!”

  The terrorists talked it over amongst themselves. While they did so Slade heard Bravo team report in a matter-of-fact way, “Tangos are down.”

  At that moment the ISIS party made their decision. Four terrorists pushed past Sulla and forced the door open. They were met by screams and shouts. The head terrorist told Sulla, “We will take your money for the lives of the woman and girls. They will satisfy my men, but we will let them live. The man and boy we will shoot!”

  “You cannot shoot the boy!” Sulla objected, tearing at his beard. “How can you say such a thing; he is only fourteen!”

  “We have fighters already his age,” the ISIS terrorist said, yanking Sulla out of the way as his men shoved open the door. “Besides, what do you care; he is Shia? Do you have some love for these dogs?”

  Slade heard yelling in the next room, screams from the women and girls, and guttural curses from the ISIS thugs. Calm and cool, Killer’s voice came over his headset, “Easy boys, no one makes a move until they get outside and we have a clear line of fire. I don’t want a firefight inside the residence with all these women and girls—steady now. Shooter’s got the triggermen. Everyone on his mark!”

  The KRISS Super-V was already steadied in the corner of the window. The room behind him was dark, so Slade was invisible to those outside. He had a perfect view of the entire area in front of the house through his red-dot sight. It wasn’t a scope, but Slade didn’t need one at twenty meters. He could have placed a round up the lead bastard’s nose without leaving a mark.

  The ISIS terrorists dragged the man and boy outside. The father was pleading for the life of his son. The boy was skinny and gangly at that age; awkward and stumbling. He was in shock. His eyes were round and staring at the ground, not registering what was happening. For Slade, his deep seated rage turned him to ice—everything slowed down—he was in complete control. The entire scene unfolded as if he were a movie director editing the film, frame-by-frame, picking his time and his spot.

  The boy was thrust to his shaking knees, falling almost prone before the ISIS scum yanked him viciously upward, shouting, “On your knees boy! I want your father to see you die!”

  The father’s voice was one long drawn out wail. Every pair of ISIS eyes looked at the boy, lusting for the slaughter of the innocent. A short rumble of automatic fire split the night air. It was just a burst, a split second long, and the boy flinched, his hands spasmodically jerking toward the back of his head as a spray of blood splattered over him.

  The blood erupted from a ragged hole in the ISIS thug’s face. Three forty-five caliber slugs slammed through the sweaty, greasy flesh at the narrow isthmus of the uni-brow, punching into the festering, diseased brain and blowing out the back of his skull. The material not exiting the crater in the terrorist’s head sloshed back forward in a fountain of blood and chewed up brains, exiting through the hole like sludge from a sewer pipe.

  Before the terrorist’s knees began to buckle, Slade had already shifted his sights to the ISIS thug holding the father. The KRISS finished its slight recoil, bucking up almost imperceptibly thanks to its delayed blowback mechanism. He centered on the shocked expression of the terrorist and pumped three bullets right up his nose.

  The terrorist’s head snapped back, certainly breaking his neck, and he collapsed like a rag doll, dropping his pistol. The father reacted instinctively, leaping across the space and tackling his son, smothering the boy beneath his own body to protect him from the incoming hail of bullets.

  That fire came swift and deadly.

  To his consternation, Slade didn’t have an opportunity to get in another shot. The Deltas were strikingly efficient and deadly, dropping the other eight terrorists in short, concentrated bursts of fire. The firefight was over in seconds. When the last body dropped to the ground Killer’s calm voice penetrated Slade’s earpiece.

  “Alpha is everyone down?”

  “No more Tangos,” Alpha said calmly.

  “All right,” Killer said tersely, “let’s get these bodies in the back. We don’t want ISIS to know any of this happened.”

  Slade walked bac
k out to the front room. Both families were huddled together, sobbing, praying; happy to be alive but frayed. As the Deltas dragged the bodies out back, Sulla was already speaking to Killer, his voice still heavy with excitement.

  “When ISIS finds out these men were killed here they will slaughter everyone in the village—everyone!”

  “Now Sulla, we’ll put them in the desert,” Kincaid told him. “No one will find them for days—if ever. You’re going to have to bug out by then anyway.”

  Sulla argued that his neighbors would have to face the repercussions, but surprisingly it was one of the neighbors who provided a solution. He’d watched the firefight from his window and hurried over to Sulla’s afterwards, afraid for the same reasons.

  “I drove from the village north of us today, just ahead of the ISIS dogs. There is a place only a few kilometers from here on the road where we can get rid of the bodies,” he said eagerly. “No one will ever know they attacked our village and died.”

  Slade wondered why today was any different than any other day on the road, but Killer just shrugged. Sulla and his neighbor got their cars and the Deltas loaded up the bodies. The Deltas and Slade piled in while Sulla’s family packed.

  “Don’t worry, the ISIS scum won’t bother us anymore tonight,” the neighbor said. “These pigs were after this family. The rest are too busy raping and celebrating—some warriors of Allah!”

  Killer was riding in the front bench seat with Sulla. The back seat of his white Renault had four bodies stuffed into it. When Sulla and his family fled they were going to have a disgusting time of it. The ISIS thugs stank in life but dead they smelled like the Devil himself crapped on them.

  The neighbor drove an old battered station wagon. It was a rocking, rolling ride as Slade rode on top, lying prone in the luggage rack. One Delta rode in the front seat with the neighbor and the refugee father, leaving Slade and three others on the roof, two facing front and two facing the rear. The back was filled with dead ISIS terrorists; stacked like firewood.