Alone and Unafraid (American Praetorians Book 3) (15 page)

Yusuf drove us across the main east-west road, which happened to be one of the two paved roads in the entire town, and up into the residential areas.  We got some looks, but not as many as we would have if we’d rolled in as a bunch of big Westerners with guns.  I had no doubt we were recognized as strangers, even with two Iraqi faces in the windshield, but hopefully the meeting was actually going to
help cover our op; there was no way the ISIS fighters or their sympathizers in the town would know everybody coming for the meeting and their security.

After about twenty minutes of moving randomly through the narrow, dusty streets, we were in position, about a hundred fifty meters south of the police station, which we had determined was supposed to be the meeting site. 
It was well guarded, with ISIS technicals and up-armored Humvees posted around it, and the black ISIS flag flying from the roof.  There were more ISIS fighters up there, crouched behind sandbagged machine gun positions.  It looked a lot like an American FOB; I suspected we were seeing more Project influence.

Yusuf had parked next to a tea shop.  I was actually kind of surprised to see it open; ISIS wasn’t known for its love of leisure among its subjects.  I supposed that tea was one thing that even hard-core Islamists were okay with.  He and Hassan got out and went inside, leaving their rifles with us.  Neither was unarmed; Yusuf had an Arsenal Strike One 9mm under his shirt, and Hassan was never without his Beretta.

Bryan and I had a clear view of the police station from the shadowed back of the van, while Larry and Black watched the rear and flanks.  It actually wasn’t a bad setup for a hide, though I was still wishing for one of our Bears from up north.  A tanker truck parked on the side of the road
might
stick out more than a van, but there was no way for someone to walk up and look through a window in one of those purpose-altered Trojan horse vehicles.

We settled in to wait.  We had plenty of water on the floor under the seats, food, and comms.  It was fall, so the oppressive heat of the summer was starting to give way to the damp cold of the rainy season; the air conditioning didn’t have to be on.  It still wasn’t comfortable, exactly, but we weren’t broiling to death with the engine off.

The meeting was supposed to be today, judging by the intel Phil had brought, but we didn’t know precisely when.  Even if we’d had a hard time, it probably wouldn’t have gone then, anyway. 
Insh’allah
is the operating principle in that part of the world; time isn’t all that important.  We could have had a time it was supposed to begin, and then kept waiting and watching another four hours until all the players showed up.

As it was, I was rather surprised to see three vehicles pull up within half an hour of our arrival.  They didn’t really stand out; two HiLuxes and a black sedan weren’t exactly out of the ordinary.  However, they parked right in front of the police station, and
several Americans got out.

I immediately recognized Collins.  He was dressed in a cheap suit with no tie, much like a lot of Iraqis will wear. 
The rest were dressed similarly, though there wasn’t much their clothes could do to disguise the “meat eater” vibe.  These guys were shooters, and they moved like it.

“I’d say the Project has arrived,”
I murmured.

The shooters spread out, some of them talking a little with a few of the ISIS fighters.  Collins met with a man in a black dishdasha and black turban who came out of the police station, exchanged the kiss of peace with him, and followed him inside.

“Well, I’d say we’re definitely on the right track,” Bryan said.

There wasn’t a lot of conversation in the vehicle; we were too tense.  As many times as we’d all done this, it never got any less nerve-wracking to be sitting alone in the middle of enemy territory, one wrong move or glance all that stands between you and possibly getting shot to shit.

After about another hour, a new cavalcade rolled up.  This one was a little more ostentatious.  Two Land Cruisers and three Suburbans stopped in front of the station, and the first ones out were obviously muscle, dressed in more expensive suits and carrying AUGs.  That alone identified them as Caliphate; even with the increasingly eclectic assortment of weapons floating around Iraq since the US invasion and withdrawal, Steyr didn’t have a huge portion of the local market.

Once the goons had taken a look around and were satisfied, two of them went to the rear Sub and opened the back door.  We didn’t have best angle; I couldn’t see the door itself, but the occupants were briefly visible as they walked away from the vehicle and toward the police station’s gate.  One of them was dressed in a black suit, the other
in a full thobe and keffiyeh.

I had the binoculars up and was trying to get a glimpse of either VIP’s face.  I suspected one of them was
Waffa bin Khalid, and the other was probably Al Dhi’b, but unless I could get a good look, there was no way to be sure.  The fact that they were meeting Project personnel in an ISIS-controlled police station in Karmah meant they automatically qualified as bad guys in my book, but it would help the overall picture to know identities.

Hard on the Caliphate convoy’s heels, a trio of up-armored Humvees came down from the north.
  Looking at them through binoculars showed Iraqi soldiers in uniform in the turrets.  I glanced over at Bryan to see if I was the only one a little surprised that nobody seemed stirred up by the appearance of the Iraqi Army.  What the hell was going on here?

The question was partially answered when the Humvees parked across the street and
several shoddily-uniformed fighters, some of them in track suits and chest rigs rather than cammies, set up security and escorted out a man in an Iraqi Army uniform and red beret.  He carried himself with an obvious sense of importance and didn’t carry a rifle, but instead had a pistol in a shiny black leather holster.

“Is that who I think it is?” Bryan asked, peering through the binos.  He handed them over to me.

“Holy shit.  That’s General Abu Bakr,” I said.  “I thought he was staying neutral.”

“You and a lot of other people,” Bryan said.  “
This could be bad for a fuckton of reasons.”

General
Yasim Abu Bakr was one of the handful of Iraqi Army generals who had gone the way of the warlord after an ISIS truck bomb had decapitated the Iraqi parliament.  He was one of the few Sunnis still holding high rank in the IA at the time, and was one of Saleh’s bitterest political opponents.  Still, he hadn’t taken sides in the fighting since the bombing; he had seized and held on to Baghdad International Airport and given every indication of being in it for the power, money, and, most of all, his own survival.  If that was changing, how was that going to affect the rest of the situation?

“So, we’ve got a known Salafist bad guy, Al Dh’ib, meeting with Collins, ISIS, and
General Abu Bakr,” I said.  “This just keeps getting more interesting.”

“You think Abu Bakr’s throwing in with ISIS?” Black asked.

I kept my eyes on the police station as I replied, “I can’t think of any other reason for him to be here, unless Collins is trying to set him up as a potential new leader in Iraq.  Abu Bakr’s played things cagey enough that that’s the only way I can see to get him to come out of his comfort zone.  That way, Collins and whoever’s running him have some influence in the Iraq to come.  Or at least that’s what they think, anyway.”

“’Whoever’s running him?’” Larry said.  “So you don’t think he’s just gone off the reservation?”

“Hell no,” I replied.  “This is one hell of an expensive operation.  If he’s running this kind of op—and out of the Embassy no less—he’s got a backer.  At least one.  With a fuckton of cash to throw around.”

“Do we have any ideas what the meeting’s about?” Bryan asked, peering through the binoculars.  All there was to see at this point was the guard force; all of the bigwigs had gone inside.

“I’d say it’s mainly about Abu Bakr’s role in their plans,” I said, “but the fact that bin Khalid and  Al Dhi’b are here suggests that they’re talking about support from the Caliphate as well.  The Caliphate and Yemen have been funneling weapons to Syria and Iraq for years now.  This is probably about more of the same.”

“We’re still sticking with the plan, then?”
Black asked.

“Yep,” I replied.  “We’ve just got to make sure that none of the Project personnel get touched.  Can’t make anybody think
that this was aimed at them, now, can we?”

The meeting seemed to take forever, but was actually over in about an hour and a half.  None of the guard forces pushed out or patrolled; they seemed to be almost as wary of each other as they were of their surroundings.  The ISIS security seemed the most relaxed; they were on friendly ground, after all.  The big, ‘roided-out American shooters just mean-mugged everybody who came close, hands flexing on rifle grips.  They were the most professional group on the street; they didn’t chat, didn’t loiter around, just stood in pairs around the compound and vehicles, eyes out, vigilant and stone-faced.

Finally, Collins, a man in Multicam and a black combat vest who I recognized from photographs as Abu Hawid, one of
Baghdad’s major ISIS commanders, Abu Bakr, and the two Caliphate VIPs came out to the street.

They were still talking, though they were relaxed, and their demeanor suggested that at this point they had
moved on to nothing but small talk.  Their business was concluded, and since everybody looked happy, I suspected it had gone the way they all wanted it.  That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, given this group, but I was intending to throw a monkey wrench in their plans in short order.

I finally got a good look at the two Caliphate types.  The man in the thobe was definitely bin Khalid, which meant the guy in the suit had to be Al Dhi’b. 
I took the chance to study him briefly as the group walked out toward their vehicles.  These fuckers didn’t have a care in the world; either there weren’t any drones overhead, or Collins had made sure that any that were would be looking the other way.

Al Dhi’b wasn’t talking much, but he was watching carefully.  He was a dour, hawk-faced motherfucker with deep-set eyes, sunken cheeks, and a thin, neatly trimmed beard.  He wouldn’t be hard to identify in the future.

The group stood around for a couple of minutes jaw-jacking, then there was the requisite exchange of embraces and kisses on the cheeks as they parted.  I keyed my radio as Abu Hawid got into a pretty nice Mercedes, with two HiLux technicals as escort.  “Gabir, Hillbilly.  You have eyes on Abu Hawid?” I asked.  Gabir was one of Hussein Ali’s better English speakers.  I realized that we were going to have to find Team Hussein some callsigns.

“Affirmative,” he replied.  “You want us to take him?”

“Correct,” I answered.  “Your team takes him, unless the Americans are with him.  Then, just shadow them and report.  We will take the Caliphate targets.”

“Roger,” he said.  He was picking up our radio lingo pretty fast.  Granted, we’d been working side-by-side with the guy for several months now; I’d have been surprised if he
wasn’t
picking it up.

Al Dhi’b and bin Khalid climbed back into their Suburban.  After a few moments, their goons mounted up and the cavalcade began moving.  I keyed the radio again.  I trusted our encryption even against Collins’ people
, from what we’d seen so far.  “Kemosabe, Hillbilly.  Target vehicles are moving.  Two LCs, three Subs, moving west on main road.”

“Copy,” Jim replied.  “
We’re moving.”

This was going to be dicey.  Yusuf and Hassan had been listening in, and were already getting back in the van, Yusuf firing up the engine even before he closed the door. 
“Nice and easy, Yusuf,” I told him.  “Jim is on the south side, so let’s hang back far enough that we don’t get caught in the crossfire when he initiates.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied.  Half the time, that was what Yusuf said whether he understood what you’d just said or not, but Hassan looked back at me and nodded.  He at least was confident that Yusuf knew the score.  The guy was a decent soldier, his English just really sucked.

Yusuf pulled us away from the curb, keeping a good enough distance from the ISIS and Project security that was still out on the street to avoid attracting too much attention.  We still got eye-fucked by two of the meatheads with HK-416s standing on the nearest street corner.  They didn’t move to stop us, but they were taking note.  I suspected we were going to have to treat this van as burned.  Good thing we had four more, and if worse came to worse, I had no problem stealing cars for the sake of operations.

I watched the Project goons through the crack in the curtains as we drove by.  These guys didn’t look like the advisor type; I suspected they were Collins’
dedicated PSD.  I thought I might even have recognized one of them as we went past.

The Caliphate convoy wasn’t wasting time.  They were booking it down the street at about fifty miles per hour.  Unfortunately for them, speed didn’t provide quite enough secu
rity.

Chapter 11

We were following the rear Land Cruiser at about five car-lengths back.  It was risky
to follow that close, but then, we weren’t planning on shadowing them for long.

There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the streets of Karmah, probably because any ordinary people didn’t really want to be out and about with so many
hard-core jihadists running around.  Sure, a lot of them agreed with the vicious bastards with guns and bombs, but that didn’t mean they necessarily wanted to be around them much.

The lead Land Cruiser went around the curve toward the north and the canal crossing.  Less than five seconds later, a PG-7 round slammed into its side.

There was no Hollywood smoke trail, no fireball, and no vehicle tumbling end-over-end off the road.  There was a cloud of smoke and a blast of fire and debris out the driver’s side door as the shaped charge’s plasma jet punched its way straight through the driver and passenger.  It rolled off the side of the road until it crunched into the brick wall of an unfinished compound.

The lead Suburban tried to push past, but another PG-7 round hit it in the engine compartment. 
That stopped them.

Here’s the thing about up-armored civilian vehicles, or any up-armored vehicle for that matter; if you armor everything, the vic gets too heavy for the engine.  So usually, the only actually up-armored part is the passenger compartment.  The armor is to protect the people inside, not the vehicle itself.  That makes the engine compartment vulnerable.  The up-armored Suburban was no exception.  It took a few meters to grind to a halt, but halt it did.

Jim had picked the ambush site perfectly, especially considering the seat-of-the-pants way we had set this up.  Long experience meant we hated to half-ass the planning, but when you’re operating on what Gunny Poole called “recon pull” to the level we were, you’ve got to be fast and flexible.  That means you don’t get to plan out every phase; you study the terrain and prepare to adapt to whichever direction the situation veers to.

Larry had his hand on the rear door handle, and as Yusuf brought the van to a stop he threw it open.  The
four of us in back piled out, weapons up.  Larry and Bryan had their rifles slung and our last two RPG-27s prepped and ready.  Hassan came around from the front, his Zastava held ready.  I just pointed at our six and he nodded, dropping to the prone behind the van.  I brought Black with me.  I wasn’t going to turn my back on him if I could help it, but he had to at least feel like he was a part of the team, and I needed the extra rifle.

Bryan
and Larry led with the RPGs, while Black and I fanned out toward the flanks, forming a sort of C-shape, aimed at the convoy.  There was no sign that they were aware of any threat behind them, but then again, it hadn’t even been a minute since the first PG-7 hit.

Bryan
jogged up, dropped to a knee, cocked the 27, aimed, and fired, dropping the tube and swinging his OBR up to his shoulder before even registering whether or not it had hit.

It had; the round had struck the rear Land Cruiser in the back corner.  The front window shattered and the rest cracked under the force of the detonation inside the vehicle.

The convoy was now boxed in, with the lead Suburban blocking the road ahead and the hulk of the rear Land Cruiser blocking any retreat.  Concrete walls closed in the flanks, except for directly north, which was where Jim and the rest of the team were sited.

The Caliphate security types were starting to pile out to try to secure the area.  They at least recognized that with RPGs in play, staying in the vehicles was a losing proposition.  Unfortunately for them, we were
ready for them by the time they were able to clear their doors.

I had already crossed the street and was against the northern compound wall, my M1A in my shoulder.  It took only a couple of inches to bring it up and place the crosshairs on the first
dark-suited security goon who was piling out of bin Khalid’s vehicle.  He was less than twenty-five meters away, and his AUG was pointed at the street.  It was too easy.  I figured he was wearing plates under the suit, so I aimed at his head.  My rifle boomed, blood and brains splashed against the side of the vehicle, and he fell on what was left of his face in the dusty street.  The door was still open, too.  The front security man was turning, but he was also out of position, and it was a short transition to put three rounds in his upper torso and then his face.

More gunfire hammered from my left, as Larry and Bryan cleaned up that side. 
Black and I shot the guy getting out of the middle Suburban at the same time.  Leaving him to Black, I tracked to the next guy, who had ducked out and run around to the front of the vehicle, trying to take cover.  More shots cracked out from the north and I saw his rifle clatter to the street beside him.

I moved up to the rear Sub, waving to
Black to take the vehicle while I covered forward.  So far, none of us had said a word. 

Black
moved out toward me as I pushed forward, kicking the AUG away from the fallen front security man.  He was gone, a fist-sized hole in the back of his head, but good habits don’t suffer from being practiced regardless.  I took my eyes and muzzle off the forward sector just long enough to check the front seat.  The driver was slumped over the wheel, but I put a round in his head anyway, just in case.

I could hear yelling in Arabic as
Bryan moved to the open rear door on the other side.  It was quickly silenced by four rapid shots as he shot each Caliphate VIP twice at point-blank range.

We might have dragged them out and pumped them for information.  A Yemeni terrorist who had his hands in who kn
ows what, who’d been somehow involved with Al Masri in East Africa and was now doing business with ISIS in Iraq and Syria, and the Caliphate of the Arabian Peninsula’s intelligence chief would be treasure troves of intelligence.  Maybe.  It came down to time, facilities, who knew what, and, most importantly, mission priorities.

This wasn’t like Kurdistan, or Basra, or even East Africa.  We had next to no support mechanism, and any footprint we made outside the Embassy risked alerting
the Project to what we were up to.  Furthermore, under the circumstances, an assassination in the middle of an ISIS stronghold was going to serve our purposes better.

There were still at least two Caliphate shooters up by the lead Sub, but I didn’t have a shot at them. 
Black had started rummaging through the back seat of bin Khalid’s vehicle, and came out clutching a briefcase, calling out, “Clear!”  He was almost drowned out by four rapid shots from the other side, as Larry traded shots with the surviving security.

I keyed my radio for the first time since initiating.  “Disengage,”
I sent.  Black thumped me on the shoulder just before he turned and ran back to the van.  I gave him a five-count, then followed.

It took seconds to fall back to the van.  Hassan w
as up on a knee by the back door, which was open.  I shoved Black into the back, then counted the other two in before following and pulling the door shut.  “GO!” I yelled at Yusuf.  Hassan had already piled into the passenger seat.  Yusuf didn’t need to be told twice, throwing the van in reverse and turning us around, heading away from the smoking kill zone.

He
backtracked a short distance, then took one of the dirt roads heading south out of town.  Karmah was already starting to erupt with activity, as ISIS reacted to the ambush right in their territory.  No shots had been aimed at us yet, but it was only a matter of time if we didn’t make ourselves scarce with a quickness.  Fortunately, Yusuf didn’t need to be reminded.

We were at the southern canal and heading out of the area when I checked my watch.  The whole hit hadn’t taken more than five minutes.

Bryan had grabbed the briefcase Black had brought out of the Suburban and was plowing through the papers inside.  It was a nice case, all brass and leather.  What was in it was probably far more valuable, however.

“Hassan, can you read these?” he asked, handing
a handful of papers forward.  Hassan turned and took them.

“These are receipts,” he said after a moment, shuffling through the papers.  “This one is for ten billion dinar in cash, care of the Central Bank of Yemen.”  He held up another one.  “This is for another five billion dinar, from the Islamic Development Bank in the Caliphate.”  He paused, then turned to face us, holding up another page, that looked more like a list than a receipt.  “This is a packing list.  It is for an arms shipment from the Caliphate
.  It is coming through from Syria, due to come over the border at Al Qaim.”

The significance of that wasn’t lost on anyone in the van.  Hitting an arms shipment that the Project had been privy to would be a major blow, both to ISIS and to their relationship with Collins.  The trick
was going to be actually hitting it.  Al Qaim was a good distance away, through solidly ISIS territory.  “Is there a timeline?” I asked.

He studied the page again, then shook his head.  “No, there is not,” he said. 
“I will look through the rest; maybe I can find some more information.”

Fuck. 
Without knowing the timing, we couldn’t possibly be in position to ambush the shipment.  We didn’t have the time or the assets to sit on surveillance for days in Al Qaim, if for no other reason than our absence from Baghdad would be noticed.  “Keep looking, and we’ll put it on our target deck,” I said.  “If we can’t make it happen, we can’t make it happen, but hitting that shipment would definitely be a coup.”  As I thought about it, it occurred to me that maybe Renton could do something with the intel.  We couldn’t be the only assets he had.

Hassan continued to go through the papers, while the rest of us watched the outside for threats and began some of our after-action.  “You get a look at Collins’ goons?” Larry commented.

“Yeah,” Bryan said.  “Real bunch of Billy Badasses.”  He looked at Black.  “Is the entire Project that overconfident?”

Black shook his head.  “That’s just Collins’ personal PSD and Brute Squad.  They’re all former SMU doorkickers.  You’d have a hard time finding a more arrogant bunch of cocksuckers, but they can back it up
most of the time.  They’re fucking wrecking balls, every single one of them.  Dead shots and fast as fuck.”

I thought back to the black-clad, roided-out assholes on the street.  I’d seen the attitude before, in the Marine Corps as well as other Special Operations types I’d worked with.  If you aren’t careful, confidence becomes arrogance, and that arrogance can lead down some pretty nasty roads. 
I suspected Collins had, for whatever reason, selected for that arrogance.

What struck me was how badly I found I wanted to shove that arrogance back down their throats.  The fact that these self-absorbed motherfuckers had gone from defending their country to helping some of the same throat-slitting fuckholes we’d been fighting for so long pissed me off to no end.  I didn’t give a flying fuck for their reasons, or whatever “nuanced” bullshit Collins preached.  There’s a line.  It might get plenty hazy at times; I had no illusions about the shadiness of some of the people we’d worked with,
and I’d personally executed a couple of very nasty individuals that we’d wrung dry of useful intelligence, but throwing in with the likes of ISIS was crossing that line, regardless.  There was no justification for aiding and arming these goatfuckers.  It could only result in more dead Americans down the road.

And these fucks didn’t care.  I knew the type.  “Politics is for politicians,” a guy who I could easily see in that group had once told me.  “The warrior doesn’t care why he fights; he just lives for the fight.”  Bullshit.

I had to admit that part of why it made me so angry was that a dark part of my own mind found a certain commonality with that mindset.  As hard as I worked to stay on the side of the good guys, an atavistic part of me loved the fight, loved combat for its sheer raw
rush
.  There but for the grace of God go I…

We took the long way
back, circling north to Saba Al Bor, then coming down into Baghdad on Highway One, making it look like we’d been up reconnoitering another way out for the evacuation.  The less our driving around got connected with any incidents in Karmah, the better.

By the time we made it back to the Embassy, Hassan still hadn’t found any reference to a timeframe for the movement of the arms shipment through Al Qaim.  The list was pretty impressive; SAMs, RPGs, ATGMs, small arms, and a shitload of ammunition.  I called Renton with the information, and he assured me it would be taken care of.  So, I was right.  Whoever Renton worked for
did
have other assets in-country.

We met up with Hussein Ali’s team on Mosul Road, and loosely convoyed it back in.  The al Khazraji team would have a hard time getting into the compound without us.

We passed through security without incident, and made it back to our billeting.  It appeared that nobody had even heard about the shooting in Al Karmah, but then, how would they differentiate it from the rest of the violence going on throughout the entire fucking country?

Hussein Ali had a large duffel with him when we got out of the trucks.  I raised an eyebrow at him, and he gave one of those rare grins.  He opened it, to reveal it was packed with dinar.  “Two more in truck,” he said.  He’d grabbed most of the cash that bin Khalid had brought for ISIS.