Hunting in the Shadows (American Praetorians) (34 page)

             
Larry popped up to my right, his FAL hammering out nearly an entire mag.  “We’ve got company!” he yelled.  I fired at another Khilafah fighter, winging him and sending him spinning into the dust, before looking.

             
Sure enough, there were more black and white trucks closing in, along with two tall, lumbering ILAVs.  I didn’t know how the PPF had gotten their hands on ILAVs, but those were not going to be easy to take down, even with some of the heavier firepower that Paul had in the van.  Unfortunately, the plan pretty well depended on putting the fear into the PPF, and that meant nobody but us was walking away from this graveyard.  “Apostle, can you take those ILAVs?” I sent.

             
“One at a time, but I’ll have to move as soon as I fire,” he replied.  “Kemosabe, can you shift fire onto the newcomers as soon as I’ve engaged?”

             
“Roger, Apostle,” Jim replied.  “Do it.  I’ve got you.”

             
There was a
bang
and cloud of dust and smoke from near the van, quickly eclipsed by the bone-jarring explosion as the RPG-27 warhead smashed into the lead ILAV and detonated.  The ILAV was a version of the US MRAP that had been developed during the Iraqi occupation, and was pretty close to mine- and IED-proof.  That did not make it proof against an RPG that was rated to blow up
tanks
.

             
The ILAV rocked under the impact, and the rear hatch popped open from the overpressure.  Flames shot out of the turret and the open hatch.  Several PPF bodies were scattered on the ground nearby, their organs pulped by the blast.

             
I couldn’t dwell on it; we had to finish the guys in the cemetery.  Between us and the PPF, there weren’t many of the Khilafah fighters left.  I could only count four or five, and they were huddled near a larger grave at the northwest corner of the cemetery, trying to make a last stand.  They had a decent position, and they weren’t exposing themselves much; it was going to be difficult to crack them out of there while still worrying about getting shot in the back by the PPF.

             
I could hear the rapid, thumping rattle of Jim’s M60, as he kept the second ILAV gunner’s head down with short, tight bursts.  The air was crackling with weapons fire, and the dust and smoke from the burning ILAV was starting to make things a little hard to see.  I dashed from cover, aiming to get a better angle on the surviving Salafists, and barely got there, throwing myself flat behind a gravestone as gunfire shredded the air over my head with a series of painful
crack
s.  That was a little too close, and I realized I didn’t even know who had shot at me.  Not that it mattered.

             
I rolled out just far enough to clear the headstone, and found I didn’t have a shot.  There was too much earth, graves, and low shrubs between me and the bad guys.  I tried to get up on a knee, but a storm of fire blasting overhead and pulverizing the top of the headstone force me back down.

             
Okay, motherfuckers.  If you want to play that way…
I started to crawl, moving laterally and forward toward another, larger, brick grave.  I heard Larry shooting, the heavy
crack
of his FAL drowning out a lot of the lighter AK fire.  I scrabbled over to the next grave, my elbows and knees screaming in pain from the rocks and hard ground.  Pulling my knees up under me, I popped up out of cover, bringing my rifle to my shoulder as I moved.

             
One of the Salafist fighters was up, his AK held almost over his head as he sprayed fire at my last position.  He caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye, and had just enough time to look surprised before I shot him twice, sending him sprawling back into his fellow jihadi, who was just finishing reloading his own AK.  I fired two more shots at him, and then ducked back behind the grave.

             
Larry had moved while I was shooting, and his fire picked back up as I got back in cover.  I stripped the nearly-empty mag out and rocked in a fresh one before popping back around the other side of the grave, just in time to catch a man in a light green shirt and black pants leveling his SIG 550 in Larry’s general direction.  I hammered him down with three fast shots, walking them up his side.

             
Everything seemed to pause for a split second again, as there was another
bang
, followed almost immediately by the earth-shaking
thump
of Paul’s second RPG-27 shot killing the second ILAV.  A glance in that direction showed that the vehicle had moved, trying to get away from the kill zone where the first one had died.  It hadn’t helped, as Paul had circled around through the side streets, and come out in a completely different location, with just the right angle to put the PG round right in the rear hatch.

             
The momentary distraction was enough.  Larry and I opened fire at the same time, from two different directions, and cut the last two Khilafah fighters down in a welter of blood and dust.

             
The PPF had apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor, especially after their second ILAV went up in smoke.  The remaining tan-uniformed troops were piling on the two black-and-white pickups that hadn’t been thoroughly filled with bullet holes, and were starting to fall back toward the city.  About half of them were still dumping fire indiscriminately into the cemetery.

             
“Apostle, are you clear?” I called out.

             
“Roger, Hillbilly, I’m out of the zone,” Paul replied.  “Standing by at Point X-ray to pick you guys up.”

             
That meant he was out of our line of fire, having circled back to a point off to the southeast of Zubayr.  “All stations, shift your fire to the PPF trucks.  Lane is clear,” I sent.

             
The cacophony of weapons fire increased, as we unloaded on the fleeing trucks.  Dust flew, glass shattered, and I saw several more PPF troopers who were riding in the backs fall, bloody holes blown in their bodies.  The volume of fire aimed at the cemetery slacked off, as they either died or ducked for cover.

             
One of the trucks was done, smoking and still, riddled with holes and splashed with blood.  The second was running for it, sparks starting to fly up from the road as it drove on two completely blown-out tires.  It fishtailed, but made it around a corner, and none of us had a line of fire on it anymore.

             
The shooting stopped abruptly, and it was as though everything had gone deathly silent.  It hadn’t, but the contrast was stunning.  My ears were ringing, in spite of the low profile earpro/radio headset I was wearing.

             
“Fast SSE and then we’re out of here,” I ordered.  I wasn’t expecting much of intelligence value from the bodies and vehicles the PPF had left behind, but the Ansar Al Khilafah goons might have something useful.  We were equal-opportunity jihadi killers.  We’d take intel that would lead to dead Salafists just as gladly as any that led to dead Iranians.

             
The Khilafah fighters were piled in a fairly central location.  We found a few papers and a couple of thumb drives, most of them fouled with blood, but the thumb drives at least would hopefully yield some information.  We left the weapons; we needed to move fast to get out of there, preferably before anybody tumbled to the fact that a bunch of Americans had just ambushed the PPF and Ansar Al Khilafah at the same time.  To the best of our knowledge, the PPF, and by extension the IRGC, didn’t know we were a player in Basra.  I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

             
I had a small digital camera in a pouch on my belt.  I took hasty photographs of each of the Ansar Al Khilafah fighters, as well as any PPF with any kind of serious rank.  They weren’t going to be the best photos, but we didn’t have a lot of time.  I was hoping to get a picture of just who we’d shwacked here. We’d go over them all in the post-op data dump, and see if we could figure out how it might affect the overall situation. 

             
We were shielded from most of Zubayr by the trees that grew on the north side of the cemetery, so we were actually able to do most of our site exploitation completely unobserved.  I kept an eye on my watch.  It was only a matter of time before the PPF responded in force, at a level we couldn’t deal with.  We’d pulled this off through the sheer element of surprise; I was pretty sure neither side had had the slightest clue what was going on.

             
Ten minutes had passed.  It was time to go.  I circled my hand over my head, and pointed east, toward X-ray, the van, and our extract.  It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

             
I led off at a fast trot.  The cemetery wasn’t walled, so we didn’t have to worry about going out the gate.  We might attract attention moving so fast, but I wanted to be away from the scene as soon as possible.  I hate doing these sorts of operations in daylight.

             
Paul had actually brought the van closer in that he was supposed to, which I’d chew him out about later, but right at the moment, it meant we could get out of there more quickly.  I was willing to cut him some slack as far as that went, as we piled in the back and pulled the doors shut.

             
Paul slammed the van in gear, and started us moving south, toward Route 8.  From there, we’d head north back to Basra.  Ahmed would meet us just outside the city, and get us through the checkpoints.

             
“So now we wait and see how Qomi reacts to this,” Jim said, already running a bore snake through his 60.

             
“Specifically, we see how his bosses in Tehran react to this,” Larry pointed out.

             
I shook my head.  “I doubt Tehran is going to step in directly just yet,” I said.  “They’ve been trying to pull this off through patsies and agents so far.  Yeah, they’ve moved their own people into leadership positions in the PPF, and who knows where else in Basra, not to mention moving facilitators in to support terrorists all over the country, but there hasn’t been any sign so far that they’re taking more of a ‘hands on’ stance than that.”  I ran my hand through my hair, which was now greasy and crusty with sweat, salt, and dust.  “We’ll have to see, of course, but I’m hoping that it throws Qomi for a loop.  If he panics, we might get a shot at him.”

             
“And if he doesn’t?” Juan asked.

             
I grimaced.  “Then we come up with a different plan.  It’s possible that this might backfire, and they just turtle more.  That would help, as they wouldn’t be as effective in taking over, but it would only slow them down.  But we knew that things might not go according to plan before we left the safehouse.”

             
“Nothing goes according to plan,” Bryan said.  “A plan is just a list of shit that ain’t gonna happen.”

             
I looked over at him.  “First Jim, now you.  Is everybody determined to take over my place as Voice of Doom?”

             
“Hey, it’s a fun gig,” Jim said.

             
It may seem callous, joking right after killing so many people.  The fact is the joking helped cope with the adrenaline letdown.  As for the killing, we were all pretty hardened to it by that time.  It was combat.  They would have killed us just as quickly as they’d been trying to kill each other.  It’s a level of do-or-die existence that most people back home had never experienced, and thus could never understand.

Chapter 21

             
Well, that did not turn out the way we’d hoped.

             
Within days, the PPF had gone to ground, while beefing up checkpoints.  Qomi hadn’t showed his face even on TV; he’d just ordered his goons to crack down.  Our plan to try to draw him out had backfired.  He’d turtled instead.

             
We were still snooping around, looking for targets of opportunity, but our movement had been severely curtailed by the checkpoints.  Unless we just started knocking off PPF patrols, we were getting down to only one option left.

             
“Security or no security,” Jim said, “we’re going to have to go into that station after him.”

             
“He can’t be staying every single fucking night in there,” Nick said.  “He’s got to go home sometime.”

             
“That’s assuming he has a home in Basra,” Haas pointed out as he came into the room.  “We might have another option.”

             
Everyone turned to look at him.  “Gilani talked?” I asked.

             
“A little bit,” Haas replied, as he grabbed a bottle of water and sat down against the wall.  “Maybe enough.

             
“The operations we ran into up north were a diversion; they were trying to sow enough chaos, using whatever hardline Islamist elements they could, to keep Baghdad’s attention there.  The main power play is here, in Basra, though he thinks they could be extending operations to Sadr City in Baghdad itself.

             
“While the country is predominantly Shi’a, and the government in Baghdad now reflects this, it’s still too secular for the Mullahs’ tastes.  They’re cracking down on their own people again; the Basij is apparently going Taliban-style in some places in Iran.  There’s more unrest than there has been in a few years, but the Mullahs aren’t having any of it.  The last thing they want is a successful secular state next door, much less one set up by the United States.

             
“Furthermore, while they have more influence with a Shi’a-dominated government, especially since the US pulled out, the parliament is still too Iraqi nationalist.  People in this part of the world have long memories.”  He grunted at the looks we gave him.  “Of course I don’t need to tell you guys that.  Anyway, there are still people who remember the Iran-Iraq war back in the ‘80s, and still hold grudges.  They don’t like Iranians on general principles, and vice versa.

             
“In order to get the kind of ally/puppet state they had in Syria before the civil war, the Iranians have to increase their influence, and the way they’re doing that is by taking over the south, province by province.  They want a buffer between them and the Salafists in Syria and Saudi, and Iraq is going to be it.  They also want a puppet within striking range of Israel.  Now that Hezbollah is barely holding on in Lebanon, and has been forced out of Syria, again, that’s Iraq.

             
“Meanwhile, Al Nusrah, Ansar Al Khilafah, and Jund Al Sham are pushing into Al Anbar, extending their reach into the ‘Sunni Triangle.’  It sounds like some of the tribal militias are resisting them, but they’ve been severely weakened at government insistence, since the Shi’a-majority government doesn’t want Sunni tribes to be armed.”

             
“What a fucking mess,” Bryan said.  “Still, how does it affect what we’re trying to do?”

             
“I’m getting to that,” Haas said, sounding a little annoyed.  “The Iranians, namely the Council of Guardians and the IRGC, are getting nervous about the increased activity out in Ramadi and Fallujah.  From what Gilani told me, they’re aiming to move up the schedule.  That means more Qods Force personnel, and their supposedly bringing in Hezbollah fighters who escaped from Syria.  He doesn’t know exactly when, but supposedly they’ve been waiting in Bushehr for the go.  He hadn’t sent it yet, but after the ambush in Zubayr the other day, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are on their way, along with a sizeable number of Basij.”

             
“Where are they landing?” I asked.

             
“It sounded like they were supposed to come straight up the Shatt al Arab and dock right here in Basra,” he replied.  That presented problems in trying to hit them.  We hadn’t decided on that course of action, but every one of us was thinking about it anyway.

             
“So, they’re still trying to do this with proxies?” Jim mused.

             
“For the moment,” Haas said.  “It’s safer than direct involvement, as has been shown rather graphically here, in Afghanistan, and in Libya.  They don’t have any of their troops coming home in body bags; keeps the unrest down a little, while they still can work on exporting their particular brand of extremism.”

             
“You said, ‘for the moment,’” Larry pointed out.  “Is it possible that could change?”

             
Haas paused for a long moment.  “It’s entirely possible.  The situation in western Iraq is getting them nervous enough that Gilani admits they’re thinking about direct intervention, mostly using the IRGC.  The Revolutionary Guard has something like 125,000 men, and can draw on another 90,000 Basij.  That’s a hell of an army for this part of the world.”

             
“That’s still about half the size of the Iraqi Army,” I said.  “They’d have to get the regulars involved as well.”

             
“I’m sure they will, but why do you think they contributed to the mess up in Kurdistan?” Haas said.  “Get the IA all tired out and beaten down fighting the Peshmerga, along with any other militants the Iranians could stir up, then hit them when they’re not expecting it.”

             
“It sounds like the IA aren’t the Iranians’ primary target, anyway,” Jim said.  “If they can find a way to get them out of the fight so they can concentrate on the Salafists…”

             
There was a long pause, as we all mulled the situation over.  “How the fuck do we fight that with less than fifty guys?” Paul asked.

             
“Not quickly,” I said.  “One thing at a time.”  I took a deep breath.  “Barring any more support, and it sounds like most of the other teams are pretty occupied up in Kirkuk, we’re just going to have hit what targets we can find.  Let’s look more closely at this Hezbollah business…”

              Of course, that plan didn’t end up working out, either.  At least this time it wasn’t because everything turned to shit.  Quite the opposite in fact.

             
Haas got a call from Hassan, and promptly disappeared for three days.  We lay low, watching and listening.  There was no sign of the Hezbollah ship, unless we’d missed it.  Matters didn’t calm down, but they didn’t escalate, either.  There were still hit squads moving around, but they weren’t as brazen as they had been at first, and the checkpoints actually did help keep the lid on things.  Too bad it was keeping the lid on for the Iranians’ purposes.

             
On the evening of the third day, Haas showed back up with Hassan, three young men in what looked a lot like a paramilitary uniform, and an older man with a long beard, black thobe, and a white turban.  The old guy broadcast “mullah” to me, and Hassan and the young guys obviously treated him with deference.  Haas ushered the old guy in respectfully, answering my wordless raised eyebrow with an expression that said,
wait and see
.

             
I signaled subtly to the rest of the guys to stand down, and got Paul working on some tea.  We kept some in the house now, thanks to Hassan, along with plenty of sugar.  Iraqi chai wasn’t complete without enough sugar to give the average person diabetes.

             
The old man sat down on the cushions in the main room, with his entourage sitting down behind him.  They were all armed with pistols, but so were we, and I was banking on the lot of us being faster on the draw at this point.

             
“Jeff, this is Mullah Abdullah al Hakim,” Haas said by way of introduction.  “He is a pretty big mover and shaker around here; when he talks, people listen.  He was a student of Al Sistani.”

             
“As salaamu aleikum, Mullah,” I said, forcing my legs to sit Indian style on the cushion across from him.  “What can I do for you today?”

             
“Wa aleikum as salaam,” the old man said, placing his hand over his heart.  “Mr. Haas tells me that you and your men had a part in the fighting in the cemetery in Zubayr.  That many Salafist fighters and PPF were killed.”  His English was impeccable, with a faint British accent.

             
I shot a glance at Haas, wondering what he’d been thinking, letting out that we’d been part of that.  I trusted him, mostly, but letting out that kind of information was dangerous, and I wasn’t happy that he’d done it without telling me first.  We’d have words later, and the look on his face told me he knew it, and thought this was worth it.

             
“We may have been there,” I acknowledged.  I wasn’t giving anything more than absolutely necessary away until I found out just what the hell was going on here.

             
He inclined his head.  “You have my thanks,” he said.  “There is quite enough trouble here from the Iranians without the Khilafah terrorists killing more people.”  He took a drink of chai.  “The tea is very good.”

             
“Shukran,” I answered, taking a sip of my own.  Too hot for the climate and way too fucking sweet, but that was how it was made here.  I didn’t say anything, but just waited.  The Mullah was going to get to his point in his own good time.  That was another part of the way things were done here.  His first words had already been astoundingly straightforward for the Middle East.  Small talk first, then business.

             
“Do you have a family, Mr. Stone?” the Mullah asked.

             
“Not much of one,” I replied.  “My parents are both dead.  I have a brother somewhere in the United States.  We don’t talk much.”

             
“That is a shame,” he said.  “Family is important.  Every man should have a family, with strong sons to carry on his name.”

             
“My work has kept me away too much for that,” I said.  The Mullah’s tea was almost half gone.  For all my understanding of how things were done, I was still hoping that he’d get to the point soon.  This side of working in the Mideast and Africa had always ground on me.  But I had to be patient, and let him come around to the reason for his visit, not to mention why Haas had brought him here at all.  In my head, I was already calculating how fast we could pack up and get to the fallback safehouse.

             
“Again, that is a shame,” he said.  He finally fixed me with his gaze and put down the glass of chai.  “You are wondering why I am here,” he said.  I inclined my head in tacit agreement.  He sighed.  “As Mr. Haas said, I was a student and follower of the Grand Ayatollah, may Allah’s peace be upon him.  The Ayatollah never condoned the terrorist tactics of the likes of Moqtada, and he resisted Iranian efforts in this region, believing that we needed to have a modern Islamic state here in Iraq.  I have always tried to follow his example, and there are many like me, and many who follow the Ayatollah’s teachings, that Jews and Christians are People of the Book, that we must try to live in peace with our brothers, and that we must not fall to the same level as the Salafists to the west.”

             
He took another sip of chai.  “Unfortunately, in recent years, the Iranians have pushed more and more of their influence into the Shi’a areas of Iraq.  They have fomented violence and terror, and nowhere more than here in Basra.”  He looked me in the eye again.  “Not all Shi’a are like them, Mr. Stone.  My people are not like them.”

             
“I never said they were, Mullah,” I replied.

             
He nodded, as if satisfied.  “I would like to propose we work together, Mr. Stone,” he said.  “I have quite a few men who follow me, who are tired of being pushed around by the IRGC Qods Force, and having their neighbors murdered in their homes for speaking out.  They are armed, and many of them are trained.  Some of them are, or have been, in the PPF.  They have realized that the only way to keep this province, this country from descending into a war like the one in Syria is to fight back.  Mr. Haas and my friend Hassan assure me that your company would be a great asset in this effort.”

             
I took another sip of my own chai, mainly to buy time.  So this was Haas’ angle.  I had to admit, it was a good one.  Most of us had some sort of FID background, even though it had rusted a little bit.  Trusting locals was going to be something of a hard sell.  We’d seen some pretty nasty results of dealing with locals over the years.  I wasn’t all that keen on the idea, myself.  On the other hand, we were struggling here in Basra.  This might just be the breakthrough we needed to put the hurt on the bad guys.

             
“What exactly did you have in mind, Mullah?” I asked.  “We are not the US Army, we don’t have unlimited assets of our own.”  Granted, neither did the Army anymore, but that was beside the point.  The last time this guy had likely seen any US Army soldiers, they’d been a lot better equipped and supported than the hollow shell that was now barely able to maintain its own bases Stateside.