Authors: Brian Haig
“I got it,” I assured him. “An attack. The artillery barrage will start around three-thirty.”
“Yeah. And by three the whole city will be surrounded and isolated. My guys have been reporting heavy military traffic all day. So now we know why, right? These Marines are royally pissed off about what happened to four contractors a few months back. I knew them. These were good guys. It really sucked what they did to them, and it’s payback time.”
I looked at Bian. Without hesitating she said, “But not until three-thirty. One and a half hours from now. Plenty of time.”
Finder regarded her a moment, wondering, I’m sure, if she had a death wish. He thought about it for a while, then said, “The risk factor on this just jumped through the ceiling. So I’m going to ask you—why do you need to do this?”
Because we’re halfwits.
But I said, “We can’t afford to lose this man.”
“He’s
that
important?”
“In a word, yes.”
He looked at her. “We’re private contractors. But we’re also Americans, veterans, and we believe in what we do.” He leaned in closer until his face was inches from hers. “I’m going to ask once more, and I’d better hear the truth. This guy is
that
important?”
“You can’t imagine.”
He looked at me. I nodded.
“Okay. At three, we’re booking, whether we have him or not. This will not be subject to negotiation. Understand? If you want to stay, that’s up to you.”
He spun around, walked back to Captain Yuknis, and they held a quick whispered conversation, probably him telling Yuknis what a couple of idiots we were, which corresponded nicely with my own view.
Finder jumped back into the car, saying not a word to us. To be fair, this was more than he bargained for, financially and figuratively. In truth, it was more than I bargained for—or more accurately, it was more than I’d been
told
I bargained for. No good deed goes unpunished.
He jammed his night-vision goggles down onto his head and his foot down on the accelerator. As he drove, he spoke into his microphone and updated his team on this newest twist. I could overhear only his side of these conversations, and it did not sound like he got any guff from his team. Then he informed us, “Two cars are three minutes behind us. Yuknis promised to let them through without any delay or bullshit.”
Ten minutes later, I observed through the moon’s illumination the looming silhouette of a city, presumably Falluja. I checked my watch—2:00 a.m.—and reminded Bian, “Come three, we’re out of here also. That’s an order, Major.”
She patted my arm. A nice gesture, but it was not a reply.
I recalled from Eric’s briefing that we were entering the city on the western side, known on local maps as the industrial section. And indeed, we soon were driving through narrow streets between large warehouses and desolate factories. It had the appearance of a forlorn ghost town—appearances
can
be deceiving, though, and here was a case in point; the intelligence estimates predicted between five to ten thousand armed beings living within these streets, the world’s largest gathering of terrorists. Added to this overall aura of spookiness, no lights were on, though here and there I caught glimpses of flickering illumination from candles or warming fires. From my CIA reports I recalled that both the electricity and the sewage had long been on the fritz.
Well, in a few hours, illumination would be provided free of charge, courtesy of the USMC and United States Army Artillery Corps, and on the subject of sewage, the shit was going to fly.
The technical term for this is indirect fire, because the ordnance flung by mortars and artillery arcs through the air, as distinct from ordinary bullets that fly straight from point A to point B. Artillerymen cannot actually observe their targets; they impersonally adjust a few knobs and levers to set the elevation and deflection of their tubes and barrels, and let loose.
The result tends to be indiscriminate and amoral; a 155mm artillery round, for instance, has a killing radius of nearly a hundred yards, and it matters not whether within that circle are enemy soldiers or innocent infants—or gullible idiots sent by their CIA bosses.
Eric turned around in his seat and warned us, “One minute to the dismount point.” I wondered if Phyllis had known about the timing of this attack before she dispatched us. You never know what she knows, which is part of her charm, and the vicarious thrill of working under her. I spent a satisfying moment dreaming I had my hands around her throat, she was gasping for breath, begging forgiveness, and . . .
“
Sean
,” Bian interrupted. “I said it’s time to put on your goggles.”
“Oh . . .” I pulled my night-vision goggles over my eyes and the world turned varying shades of green. I looked at Bian, who also wore her goggles. Combined with the veil and chador, she looked spooky. As did I, apparently, because she said, “Haven’t we met in a horror movie?”
I laughed. “I’m the creature from the black lagoon. You’re from
War of the Worlds
.”
Eric glanced back and said, “You two are scaring the shit out of me. Put your magazines in your weapons, but don’t chamber a round. And remember—they stay on safe.”
He took a sharp left and turned in to a long alleyway between two large warehouses, turned off the ignition, and said, “Let’s go.”
Bian and I followed him back down the same alleyway we had just come down to the street, which thankfully looked empty of pedestrians. Ted remained beside the car, and I realized his job was to guard our getaway transportation, which showed good attention to detail.
We began to jog, and Eric seemed to know where he was going. Somebody better, because I didn’t have a clue. I had studied the city maps, but at night everything looks different, plus the jihadis had taken down the street signs, an indication they knew the Marines were coming and didn’t want to make it easy on them.
We jogged about a quarter of a mile, which is not as easy as you’d think in a long black robe that I kept tripping over. How do women survive? The streets were empty, but I had the odd sensation that we were being watched. Actually, I was sure we were being watched. But by whom?
Eric suddenly made a sharp right turn into the entrance of a large, two-story warehouse. This was the back side of the building, and Eric had already informed us that the front side faced the target building. The door we entered was garagelike—presumably this was a loading dock—and we raced through a dark, cavernous empty space and then up a narrow metal stairway that led to the second floor.
As we entered, I scanned the room through my goggles and noted, by a far window, two large green men walking toward us. Eric said to us, “My guys. Relax.”
The two men drew closer, and Eric gave them our names and introduced them to us as Jack and Larry.
We were all whispering, which was totally unnecessary. But I have noticed that in moments such as this, everybody lowers their voice a few octaves. Even badasses.
We exchanged pleasantries, and the one named Larry, who had a distinctive Queens accent, said, “Follow me.”
We did, walking over to a window that had been punched out, offering an unobstructed view of the street below and the target building across the street. On the floor directly beneath the window, I observed empty cans of pears, a large pile of balled-up candy wrappers, six empty soda bottles, and assorted other nutritional debris. Presumably this was the observation team Carl told me about, and from the evidence, they had been here all day, possibly the preceding night, and were now experiencing severe sugar overload.
Larry seemed to be in charge and he pointed a finger out the window. Speaking to Eric, he said, “Right there—your target building.”
We all looked at the two-story rectangular warehouse on a street corner. The narrower side faced us, while the wider side fronted the intersecting road.
He continued, “One goombah on the roof . . . right”—his hand shifted slightly to the left—“there. See ’im? Okay, another slimeball’s hiding inside the front entrance. We wouldn’t know, right? Only this hump sometimes steps outside to burn one.” He chuckled. “Smoking truly can be hazardous for the health. He’s mine.”
Eric spent a moment visually surveying the building and then, addressing his whole team, said into his microphone, “Target building’s two floors in height. Standard construction. Stucco over cinderblock, probably steel girders for the skeleton . . .” And so forth. He had an impressive mastery of architectural detail, and I wondered if he had been a builder before he became a destroyer. He turned to Larry and asked, “Other entrances?”
“Yeah . . . a regular doorway on the far side. Donny can grease whoever comes out that one.”
“Okay.” Into his microphone, Eric said, “There’s an exit—a door— on the far side. That’s yours, Donny. Anybody comes out, shoot for the legs.” After a moment, Eric instructed Carl, my old driver, “A three-story building’s due east of the target. You get up on that roof. When I give the go, take out the roof guard. Repeat that to me.”
Eric listened a moment before he said, “Uh-huh.” He then said, “This goes down in two minutes. Synchronize with me. Time is two-fifteen.”
He glanced at Bian and me for a moment, and seemed to recall that we were extraneous; I can do nothing without being instructed.
Larry, the New Yorker, dragged over a tripod I had not previously noticed from out of the shadows. The three-legged device was a sniper’s stand, and on the swivel on top was mounted a wood-stocked specialist European rifle I didn’t recognize, with a screw-on silencer and a high-end night-vision scope. These guys had all the bells and whistles. Somebody was deep into the Agency’s pocketbook.
Eric checked his watch and said to Jack, “Time to move.” He looked at Larry and said, “Don’t let these two out of your sight till I give you the signal.”
Larry nodded. Eric and Jack disappeared back down the stairs.
Larry turned to us and said, “Wanna watch?”
We did, so we morbidly edged closer to the window as Larry hunched over his weapon and began adjusting a knob I assumed was a brightener for his nightscope.
A moment later, a four-door sedan, silver in color, came rolling down the street, no faster than fifteen miles an hour. It pulled to a stop directly in front of the entrance, a man stepped out, and for a brief moment he looked around and observed his surroundings. The car windows were darkened, making it impossible to tell whether there were other passengers.
Larry concentrated on his task and whispered, “Tommy Barzani. He’s Kurdish-American and speaks the local patois. ’Cause of that, he always gets the shit jobs.”
The man appeared to be an Arab, and was dressed in Iraqi casual, tan slacks with an open-collared dark shirt with what looked like an AK-47 in his right hand. He moved confidently to the doorway and knocked, yelling loudly in Arabic.
Bian translated, “He says he is carrying an important message and please open the door.”
Larry, staring through his nightscope, mentioned, “The jihadis stopped using cell phones and radios months ago. They know we’re listening, they know we track the source, and they know it attracts missiles. Now they’re low-tech. Mail by messenger.” He drew a long breath and held it.
After a pause, the door opened and a head stuck out. I heard Larry’s rifle spit, and I saw the head explode, then the body connected to that head tumbled out of the doorway and into the arms of Tommy Barzani.
Almost instantaneously, two men, one carrying what looked like an Uzi, the other hauling what looked like a SWAT battering ram, jumped out of the car, lifted the feet of the corpse, heaved it through the doorway, and barreled inside.
Larry directed a finger at his earpiece and said, “Just got a confirmation from Carl. Rooftop guard’s out of the picture.”
My goodness—these guys
were
good.
Next, I observed two figures, Eric and Jack, sprinting willy-nilly across the street, then through the now unguarded doorway, into which they disappeared.
“What are they doing?” asked Bian.
“The initial entry team,” I told her, “should be clearing the ground floor. Eric and Jack will rush straight upstairs and begin securing rooms.” I said to Larry, “Right?”
“Yeah . . . like that. But likely, I just nailed the only goombah on the ground floor. All five should be upstairs by now.”
I asked, “The NYPD teach you to shoot like that?”
“I taught them to shoot like that. SWAT instructor. Ten years.”
“What takes you from the NYPD to here?”
Larry looked at us and replied, very slowly and very simply, “They fucked with my city. Now I’ll fuck with theirs.”
Interesting perspective. Interesting guy.
He cupped his hand to an ear. “What? Yeah, yeah . . . okay.”
He looked at me. “Eric says you should get over there right away. I stay here, covering the block.”
A minute later, Bian and I were crossing the street, and then we were at the entrance to the warehouse. I stopped and stood with my back to the wall by one side of the door; Bian stood by the other side. I whispered to Bian, “Weapons off safe.”
“Eric said—”
“Who cares?”
“Right.”
I said, “Cover me.” She took a crouch, and I announced, “Entering now.”
I went in, rolling on the ground, and then, coming to my knees, began scanning the ground floor through my goggles. I noted a lot of heavy machinery. This seemed to be a factory rather than a warehouse, and the nature of the equipment suggested the purpose of this building had once been tool die work. I also observed a line of thirty to forty large artillery shells standing on their bases in neat, orderly rows. These were not an ingredient normally associated with automobiles, unless they are being outfitted for one-way trips.
I continued my sweep. Supposedly this entire floor had been cleared by Eric’s men and thus was hypothetically safe. But I’d known guys who walked into “cleared” rooms and were carried out.
Aside from the heavy machinery, the artillery rounds, and a gory corpse with only half a head, I saw no living beings. I made my way to the base of the stairs and whispered to Bian, “All clear.”