Into Darkness (30 page)

“
He gets right to the point, doesn’t he? So why are you telling me this?
” Ritter translated Abu Ahmet’s second question.

“We need you to attack the compound at sunrise, six fifteen a.m. to be precise. The same time I attack Rasheed,” Shelton said and Ritter translated.

Abu Ahmet shook his head. “
I’m all for killing al-Qaeda, but your helicopters will blow me and my tribe to hell when they see us on the roads
.”

“
We thought of that, and we have a solution
,” Ritter said as he opened a cardboard box. He pulled out a yellow reflective panel, which was the size of a beach towel, and handed it to Abu Ahmet. “
Put these on top of your vehicles, and the helicopters won’t shoot you. For your men, we have these
.” He took a reflective vest, meant for road guards, from the same box.

Abu Ahmet accepted the two gifts and angled the panel so it caught the waning light. “
You’re kidding me
,” he said.

“
We have plenty more
,” Ritter said.

“He’s going for it?” Shelton asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“
If this will keep the evil eye of your helicopters and your drones off us, then it will have to work. Tell me more of your plan and what you want me to do
,” Abu Ahmet said.

Shelton outlined his maneuver plan for attacking Rasheed. At Ritter’s insistence he gave no instructions to Abu Ahmet other than insisting on the time for Abu Ahmet’s attack on the compound. The simultaneous attack would fix al-Qaeda in both locations, preventing one from reinforcing the other.

“
What route are you taking from here to Rasheed?
” Abu Ahmet asked.

Ritter tensed as Shelton considered the answer. Telling Abu Ahmet their route would invite a devastating ambush if word leaked to al-Qaeda or if Abu Ahmet decided it was time to return to a career as an insurgent.

“Abu Ahmet, you’ve saved the lives of me and my men. I’m going to trust you with this,” Shelton said as he traced his planned route. Once the laser pointer’s dot reached a triple fork in the road system north of a canal gate, Abu Ahmet shook his head furiously.

“
No, don’t take that road. Al-Qaeda has mines on it
.” He stepped onto the sand table and pushed cigarettes into the dirt along the route. “
Take the road to the east. You call it Route Molson
.” Ritter explained Abu Ahmet’s objections.

Shelton cursed and called Lieutenant Kovalenko and Sergeant First Class Young over to discuss the change.

“
Ritter, there are some details we should work out. What should I do with any prisoners we take?
” Abu Ahmet said.

“
I want anyone who knows where the missing Soldiers are hidden, or who knows where we can find Mukhtar
,” Ritter said.

“
And the prisoners who know nothing?
”

Ritter shrugged.
“I don’t care
.”

Abu Ahmet smiled. “
What about the house?
”

“
Treat it all as
al-anfal
, spoils of war
,” Ritter said.

“Al-anfal
! You know us all too well, habibi
.” Abu Ahmet chuckled as he rubbed his hands together.

Ritter’s jaw clenched when Abu Ahmet said
habibi,
a word he’d used right after he murdered Jennifer. To stand so close to a murderer and masquerade as his friend filled Ritter with revulsion. The only thing that kept him from tucking the barrel of his pistol behind Abu Ahmet’s ear and ending this farce was the knowledge that Abu Ahmet’s end was already in motion.

Shelton ended his conference and said, “Abu Ahmet, do you have enough time to do your part of this mission?” Ritter translated.

“
In 1990, I was in Saddam’s Special Republican Guard. One day the phone rang, and he ordered us to invade Kuwait within the next twelve hours. The rest of the Iraqi Army found out about the attack when it hit the news. Iraqis can move like lightning when a strong man orders it. I’m more worried that you’ll be late because you ran over a chicken and had to wake up the farmer to pay him
,” Abu Ahmet said.

“Ah shit. No one said anything about chickens,” Lieutenant Kovalenko said after Ritter, paraphrasing.

A vein in Shelton’s forehead throbbed as he slowly turned his head to the young officer.

“Sir, I’m going to go find some extra grid squares for the mission,” Kovalenko said as he backpedaled from his commander, then turned and jogged back to the headquarters building.

“
Do you think Mukhtar is here?
” Abu Ahmet asked.

“
We don’t know. But this might get him out in the open where we can capture him
,” Ritter said.

“
If he’s smart, he’ll give himself up to you. I can have no mercy on him
.”

For the first time that day, Ritter smiled. “
Mercy…yes. That’s what I have waiting for him
.”

That night, a beat-up and otherwise unremarkable sedan drove through a Baghdad suburb. The street was empty, the inhabitants taking advantage of the presently working electricity to bask in air conditioning and watch the Iraqi national soccer team battle the hated Syrian team. The sedan passed a two-story home, protected by a high outer wall and buffered from its neighboring homes by several yards of junk and sand.

Carlos, the driver, cast a glance at Mike, who put his hand on the door handle. No need to ask; the thin man was always ready. Carlos brought a satellite phone to his mouth. “Asset in position. Cut the power.”

A moment later the power to the entire block and the rest of the neighborhood went dark—another apparent victim of Baghdad’s feeble power infrastructure. Mike slipped from the car and sprinted to the two-story home. He leaped into the air, caught the lip of the wall, and slipped over the wall with barely a sound. Carlos pulled the passenger door shut and kept driving.

Mike landed in the courtyard with a cat’s grace and located the house’s small generator. A second later, his back was against the house. He sidestepped toward the back door, ducking low as he passed under a window. He stopped next to the back door and felt for the hinges of the door with one hand, ensuring he was on the same side. With his other hand, he drew a matte-black Applegate-Fairbairn knife. The steel-gray edge glinted in the moonlight.

He heard a brief argument from inside the home and waited.

The back door flew open. Mike stopped it from slamming into his face with his fingertips. An Iraqi man breezed right past Mike, who was hidden by the door. The Iraqi muttered and swore as he walked to the generator.

Mike pushed the door almost shut, then crept up on the Iraqi, his blade held low near his hip. The Iraqi pulled the yoke of the generator, eliciting only a faint rumble.

“What a piece of—”

Mike wrapped an arm around the Iraqi’s throat and slammed his blade into the man’s back. Mike felt his knife quiver as it pierced the heart. He gripped the hilt tight to feel the final spasm. The Iraqi arched his back in his final moments. Mike used the momentum to ease the dead man onto the ground.

Mike pulled the blade loose and wiped it clean on the man’s shirt.

One down.

Mike eased the door open and entered the pitch-black house.

“Mohammed! What are you doing out there? Jerking off?” a voice yelled from up the stairs. The glow of a cell phone pressed into service shone like a flashlight, preceding the man who tromped down the stairs. Mike slipped into the darkness beside the bottom of the stairwell and waited.

Mike reversed the grip on his blade and swung his arm like a hinge as the man with the cell stepped foot onto the first floor. The blade plunged into the man’s abdomen, stopping when the hilt hit flesh. The blade punctured the abdomen and pierced a lung; Mike’s victim made a short grunt. Mike pulled the blade free and stabbed the other lung. Mike swept the man’s legs out from under him and snatched the cell phone away before it could clatter to the ground.

Mike watched the man die. With perforated lungs and diaphragm, it was impossible for the man to breathe. The man pounded his hands against his ribs as his wounded lungs refused to work. He gurgled as his head shook from side to side, then stopped moving.

Two down. One left.

Mike turned his attention to the stairs. He kept the cell in front of him; its light would trick the last occupant into thinking the second man was returning.

The second floor was an open room with bedrolls arrayed around a television. A tea set was on a small glass table, two of the three glasses empty. There was no sign of the third target. Mike glanced into the lone bathroom, which was empty.

Mike smacked his lips in frustration. The drone Shannon had parked over this safe house showed three military-aged males, but it had returned to the airfield hours ago. Their spotters in the neighborhood, however, had confirmed that all three were present.

“Rooftop,” his earpiece crackled.

Mike went back to the stairwell and ascended.

He found the third man asleep on the roof. Mike strolled to the prostrate man, his imagination running wild. The Iraqi, not trusting the fickle power supply, must have opted to sleep on the roof. That practice wasn’t unusual during the hot summer months.

Mike straddled the sleeper, who lay on his stomach, then dropped his knees onto the backs of his arms, pinning him to the ground.

The third man snorted and tried to lift his head. Mike grabbed him by the hair and pressed the tip of his blade into the base of his skull. Piercing that part of the skull was on par with sliding a blade into a melon. The Iraqi quaked as his nervous system was severed; he made a sound like a fish struggling to cough up a hook before going silent.

Mike put a foot on the dead man’s head and used the leverage to extract his weapon. He wiped the blade on the man’s pillow.

Mike keyed his radio three times and waited.

“Roger, building neutralized,” Carlos said in his ear. “Stand by for the target.”

Mike made his way back to the ground floor and dragged the first body inside. He left the body on the kitchen floor and went into the living room. He sat in a large chair, which was ostentatious with its gold trim and faux classical style.

Mike pulled a tin of dip from a pocket in his shirt, then gave it three hard shakes to shift its contents to the same part of the tin. He opened the tin and tucked a wad of chewing tobacco into his lip and waited.

“Mukhtar! Mukhtar, wake up!” A rude voice ruined his sleep. Mukhtar sat up from his bedroll and groped for his AK-47 resting against the wall.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Yousef stood in his doorway, backlit by dawn light. He held a cell phone near his ear. “Hamsa says the
Shi’a
house is under attack. It’s the Qarghulis!”

Mukhtar sprung to his feet and took the cell phone. “Hamsa, you have thirty fighters and our last machine gun. Are you telling me you can’t handle a bunch of peasants?” There was no response. Mukhtar cursed at the dropped call and mashed the keys to get Hamsa back on the line.

“Get two trucks of men together. We’ll head over as soon—”

He heard the hiss of the incoming missile a split second before it blew through the house. The floor heaved, tossing the two men across the bedroom. The bedroll did little to cushion Mukhtar’s fall. Atomized cinder blocks and plaster filled the room with a noxious fog.

Mukhtar couldn’t hear himself cough; the overpressure temporarily wrecked his eardrums. Yousef pulled him to his feet and mouthed the word
Americans
. Yousef hustled him into the smoke and concrete dust that remained of the front of their house. The missile had taken out the front room; a bright-red mess in the rubble marked the remains of one of his men.

They made it outside, where a handful of Mukhtar’s men armed themselves with assault rifles from the bed of a truck. All the men burst into rapid-fire questions at the sight of Mukhtar, questions Mukhtar couldn’t hear.

“
Allah akbar!
” Mukhtar yelled. It was the only thing he could think to do. The men repeated the war cry as they raised their weapons over their heads. Yousef spun Mukhtar around; more of his men poured from the neighboring house.

The ground under their feet exploded as 30mm rounds from an Apache helicopter’s cannon annihilated his men. Mukhtar heard the hiss of passing fragmentation. Something tugged at his forearm before Yousef tackled him to the ground.

“You need to get out of here!” Yousef’s tiny voice made it through to him. Mukhtar’s arm erupted in pain as he tried to push himself up; blood flowed freely from a hole, which was the size of a pencil eraser, in his forearm. He clamped a hand over the wound and rolled onto his knees.

One of his men fired at an unseen enemy, emptying an entire clip in one long and undisciplined bust. The fighter remained in the open as he tried to jam a fresh magazine into the rifle. The fighter’s upper body exploded in a shower of viscera as one of the American .50-caliber rounds ended his jihad. The fighter’s legs remained upright for a few seconds, blood squirting into the air as the arteries tried to feed the absentee’s heart.

Mukhtar suddenly found his desire for martyrdom lacking and turned to run. He and Yousef charged back into the destroyed house; a sedan was parked beyond the outer fence. The car was untouched by violence.

Yousef drove the car like he’d stolen it, tearing past bewildered al-Qaeda fighters. Mukhtar saw a mother covered in a
burka
pushing and prodding two children away from the fighting.

“Stop next to them!” Mukhtar ordered. He reached over to Yousef with his good hand and pulled his driver’s pistol from the holster.

Mukhtar left the still moving car as it pulled in front of the escaping trio. He leveled the gun at the mother. “All of you, get in the car!” The two-year-old in her arms broke into shrieks at Mukhtar’s command.

The mother, her face inscrutable behind the black fabric, balked and tried to push her eldest child, a boy of four or five, behind her body.

“Sir, my husband is waiting,” she managed to say before Mukhtar wrenched the two-year-old from his mother’s arms and stuffed him into the backseat. The mother, her voice shrill with panic, followed her baby into the back of the car. Mukhtar checked that child locks were set on the door and slammed it shut.

“Baghdad. Hurry!” Mukhtar said to Yousef, who nodded and drove on.

Mukhtar turned to his prisoners and brandished the pistol over the top of his seat. “You are my family, and we are fleeing the American attack. Keep your mouths shut, and I’ll drop you off in a Sunni neighborhood with money for a taxi. Fool around, and I’ll drop you off in a
Shi’a
slum. Understand?”

The woman gave an exaggerated nod as she tried to calm her two bawling children.

Mukhtar caught sight of distant American Humvees, their turret-mounted weapons flickering with fire as they destroyed everything he’d had in Rasheed. First, they’d taken Atif. Then all his money had vanished from his Saudi accounts, along with every contact he’d had in the Kingdom. Now his strongholds were likely gone.

None of that mattered to Mukhtar. So long as he drew breath, the jihad would continue. He had one last bargaining chip. There were those in the insurgency who would pay well for the two Americans he’d kidnapped. With new resources, he could rebuild his cell in a more hospitable part of Iraq, one far away from Ritter’s attention.

Mukhtar took a small cell phone from his pocket, a cell phone he’d used only to call one number. He flipped the phone open with his thumb and almost dialed his wife’s number, then closed the phone. It could wait until he was safe. No need to worry her with the fact that the Americans were on his heels.

Once things calmed down, he’d go see her. A day with his wife and children before his jihad began anew.

Ritter had to admit the pucker factor was high every time they passed an armed Iraqi wearing a reflective vest. Abu Ahmet had two- and three-man teams spread out around the former al-Qaeda compound—angry men with hard eyes that looked none too happy to see the Dragon Company Humvees approaching the compound.

“Sir, what percentage of these guys were shooting at us a few weeks ago?” Kovalenko asked. They passed a fighter in full jungle camouflage, his face hidden behind a black ski mask, complete with his non tactical, yellow reflective vest.

“If you ask them, I’m sure they’ll tell you the answer is zero percent. But do you really want to know the true answer?” Ritter said.

Kovalenko remained quiet.

“Find bliss in your ignorance,” Ritter added.

Their convoy of four vehicles parked outside Abu Ahmet’s new command post. The blue door to the compound was off the hinges; it had been one of the first casualties of the assault on the building. Bullets pockmarked the outer wall and the second- and third-story facades, every pane of glass broken into a shattered maw.

Abu Ahmet, twin bandoliers of 7.62mm bullets crisscrossed over his chest, stepped through the doorway and waved to the lead Humvee carrying Captain Shelton.

“We’ve got Pancho Villa on our side!” Sergeant Morales said from the turret as he watched Abu Ahmet embrace Captain Shelton.

Ritter pushed the heavy door open and walked toward the animated Abu Ahmet. He heard raucous cheers from the other side of the wall; a party was well under way.

“
Ritter, my habibi, al-Qaeda barely put up a fight! We’ve chased them back to Ramadi. You should have been here
,” Abu Ahmet said, the smell of whiskey on his breath.

“
We were busy in Rasheed. Do you have anything for me?
” Ritter said.

“
Business later! Come, we have a goat feast waiting for us inside. We found plenty of Jack Daniel’s in there too. Can you believe those sons of bitches outlawed booze for everyone but themselves?
”
Abu Ahmet took Shelton by the hand and led him inside.

“Ritter, what’s happening? Am I on the menu for dinner?” Shelton asked.