Authors: Michael Bray
"He won't go down," The agent shouted. "He took three bullets already and he won't fall!"
"Shoot him in the head," the President shouted, struggling to be heard against the explosions and gunfire which seemed to come from all directions.
"I have a better idea," Pycroft replied, reaching into his jacket. He pulled the pin from the grenade and tossed it over towards the corner of the room, then immediately dived on top of the president. The explosion was deafening, blowing the windows out onto the pristine lawn below. Their makeshift shield was obliterated, as was the door and a section of the wall where their attacker had stood. For a few seconds, even breathing was impossible. Pycroft coughed and stood, pushing splintered wood from his back and legs, and pulling an equally bloody and dusty President Fitzgerald to his feet. The fleshy remains of their attacker were smeared all over the walls and in chunks littering the room.
"Come on sir," Pycroft said, still calm. "We need to get you to a chopper."
III
Over six thousand miles away, underneath the city of Baghdad, Branning, Hamada and the rest of the survivors huddled around the television screen, watching the grainy images of the attack and finding themselves quite unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Grainy helicopter footage of the building with smoke pouring from its windows and pockmarks on its outer walls looked more like something from a movie than real life. Akhtar stood with his brother – who was perhaps the only one amongst them who didn't understand the history-making images on the screen.
"This is insane," Branning said, fists clenched as he watched. "Where the hell is the army? They should be all over this."
"What army?" Hamada said, glaring at Branning. "Your country spreads itself too thin. All your forces are deployed across the world leaving you vulnerable."
"No, we have plenty of troops."
"Reserves perhaps. But the real soldiers, they are here, or helping out the British or French."
"It was a trap wasn't it? Whoever is doing this attacked overseas first to make sure we were unprotected." Branning grunted.
"Of course, they did," Hamada said. "They know how arrogant you Americans are. How much better than everyone else you think you are. It was only a matter of time before somebody decided to try such a bold move."
"Well if you people would stop attacking civilians-"
"Come on," Hamada cut in, shaking his head. "You know why we attack you. You know why my people put Jihad on you."
"You got something to say to me?" Branning said, squaring up to Hamada.
"There you go again," Hamada said, shaking his head. "Always thinking you have the right to be violent and aggressive. Think about where you are. Think about which country you are in."
"We're here to protect the civilians from people like you."
"No, that's only what you have been led to believe. You are here at the orders of some man who hides behind a wall of lies. A man who decides it is acceptable to invade my country and impose his will on my people then has the audacity to call me a terrorist."
"Don't twist this around and give me this shit." Branning spat.
"You were never wanted here. You Americans and British come and try to change us, and then act with aggression when we defend our beliefs."
"You're the one who spills the blood of innocent people. The suicide bombings and random car bomb attacks are on you, not us. The blood of those people is on your hands."
"No, it isn't. Nor is it on yours." Hamada said, remaining calm. "The blood is on his hands."
Hamada pointed to the TV screen which was still showing live footage of the White House. "He's the one who sends men to fight his battles. He's the one who cares nothing of the consequences of his actions because it will never directly affect him."
"What do you mean by that?" Branning snapped.
"After the attacks on your World Trade Centre when the country was in crisis, did your President help those in need? Or did he hide away in his underground bunker until the threat of more attacks had passed? You people blame us for this war, yet it wouldn't have started if your country hadn't involved itself in business that didn't concern it."
Branning was furious, at first at the audacity of Hamada for calling him out in front of everyone, and secondly because a lot of what he had said made sense. As determined as he was not to pay any attention to what he deemed to be propaganda and attempts to undermine him, there was a certain ring of truth to Hamada's words. Branning had often spoken to his squad mates, fellow soldiers thrust into the baking desert heat, and the question would arise as to why they were fighting the wars of other people.
Branning sighed and looked away from Hamada's penetrating gaze, choosing to stare at his own boots instead. "This isn’t the time to get into this. We need to make plans. We won't be able to stay here for long."
"Why not?" Akhtar said, terrified at the idea of going back to the surface.
"Because eventually they will find us, and when they do we're sitting ducks."
"What do you suggest?" Hamada asked, happy to keep a fragile peace for the time being despite his differences with Branning.
"I don't know yet, but we need to move soon. I think we can both agree those pictures on the TV change things for all of us. It's obvious we're dealing with a group who don't have limits, and whatever they want, it can't be good for any of us."
"I agree," Hamada said. "This is unlike anything I have ever seen before."
The others standing around the television screen gasped. Hamada and Branning only saw the end of the collapse of the west wing of the White House. Fire crackled, smoke billowed and mushroomed into the air from the structure.
"Jesus..." Branning muttered.
On the TV coverage, the reporters were in frenzy, showing a replay of the collapse, the windows filled with a flash of light before the building collapsed in on itself.
"We have to do something," Branning said.
"What can we do?" Hamada replied. "We have no power to affect the outcome of this attack."
“I mean here.”
Hamada looked at Branning, brow furrowed. “What can we do here, Branning?”
"We can fight and take back the city."
"That’s impossible. All you Americans are crazy with your grand ideas."
"You call it crazy, but this is how we do things. Not behind people’s backs or involving civilians in our disputes, but face to face. Man to man."
"Do you not remember how close we came to death before we escaped to the sewers?" Hamada said, shaking his head. "We were fortunate to survive."
"I refuse to sit here and wait for them to find us."
"So what do you say we do? We have nothing." Hamada was clearly frustrated but was holding back from starting another argument.
Branning hesitated, and then looked Hamada in the eye. "We can fight back."
"You and I?"
"All of us."
Hamada frowned, trying to figure out if Branning was serious. "We have nothing to fight with. No weapons. No vehicles" He said cautiously, looking at the frightened faces around the two who were now more interested in his and Branning’s conversation rather than events in Washington. "Besides, these people are not soldiers."
"That doesn’t matter," Branning countered. "Earlier you said about getting involved in the wars of others. Just look at the news. This isn’t just happening here, it’s happening all over the world. Whatever this is," he pointed to the television screen for emphasis "Now involves all of us. It's everyone’s war."
"These people are civilians, peasants for the most part. It would be like herding sheep to their deaths. That’s no fight, Branning. That’s slaughter."
"Not if we train them, show them what to do."
Hamada shook his head. "Listen to yourself. Train them? Show them? All we would show them is death and a swift and merciless one it would be. We don’t have the time, and even if we did, it would be fruitless. Look at the television, Branning. You think we can battle against a force which is capable of that?"
"At least, I’m trying to do something," Branning snapped, slamming his fist on the desk. "It's better than just staying down here and waiting to starve or be captured."
"You think any of us want to die?" Hamada countered. "Like it or not, these people don’t have the training. They’re not like us Branning. They don’t know what it means to fight and know your life could end at any moment. They don’t know the taste of fear or how to overcome it. You would be condemning them to death."
"Okay, so what do you suggest? If you have a better idea I’m sure we'd all love to hear it."
"I do actually have a suggestion," Hamada said, choosing his words carefully.
"Go on."
"As I mentioned, of everyone here only the two of us are soldiers. Sure enough, we fight for a different cause, but we still fight." He paused, waiting to see if Branning would interject. When no objection came, he continued. "Outside of the city in the mountains of the Anbar province, my men wait for me. Good men. More importantly, good soldiers, fighters willing to die for their freedom."
"No," Branning said, shaking his head. "I won’t work with terrorists. I won’t have them here and jeopardise these people."
"Terrorists? Did you not just say how this is everybody’s war now? You choose to label them as terrorists, I choose to see them as men who are fearless, trained and disciplined. They are exactly what we need."
"I won’t bring them here. I won’t give you the power to take control."
"Come on Branning, you talk as if it’s still you against us. You think the fact that you are an American soldier makes any difference? Much the same that my allegiance now matters little. From the second we were forced to flee here to the sewers, we have been engaged in a private war of our own, perhaps stupidly. Now we must work together. If you want to fight, if you want to try and take a stand like you say, then you need my men to do it. There is no other choice."
Branning paced, heart and head screaming different instructions. He turned back towards Hamada. "Assuming I agree, how will you get word to them to come here?"
"We can’t get them here, Branning. I have no means of contacting them. We will have to go to them."
"You expect me to go with you into Anbar province? Do you think I’m so stupid? I know what your people would do to me. Prisoner of war, fucking beheadings. I've seen it."
Hamada waited, calm and patient. "If you had suggested such a thing a few days ago, then yes. I would say you were correct. Things have changed Branning.” He spoke next in Arabic.
“
عد
و
عدو
ي
ه
و
صديق
ي
, it means -"
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Branning cut in.
"Your Arabic is quite good," Hamada said with a small smile.
"You can guarantee my safety when we get there?" Branning replied. "If not for me, for these people?"
"You have my word, Branning. As unlikely as it seems, it would appear an alliance is in all of our best interests. We need each other, Branning. Neither of us may like it, but that is the situation we are facing.”
"And what if I refuse?"
"You won’t."
"How do you know?"
Hamada raised his eyebrows and held his arms out to his sides. "Look at the alternative? What choice do you have other than to wait here and die in the filth?"
Branning looked at the dozen or so people in the room and knew Hamada was right. There was no alternative. Against every instinct, he made his decision.
"Alright," he said with a sigh. "I’ll come with you. When do you want to leave?"
"Tonight. Under cover of darkness."
"If you screw me over Hamada, if you try anything at all or do something I don’t like... I won’t hesitate to kill you before you get a chance to take me out."
A flicker of a smile passed over Hamada’s lips. "Understood. I, in turn, give the same warning to you."
With nothing left to say, both men left the crowd standing around the TV screens to prepare themselves for the mission.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
KOPAR KHAIRIANE
INDIA
SUVARI AND THE CHILDREN hid in the dark, the dilapidated textile factory providing adequate hiding places from the dangers of the streets which had become places where nobody now dared venture. She peered through the grimy glass and looked out over the water to the city. It was lit by an orange glow from fires which still burned freely. She still wasn't sure what was going on, she had no reception to her phone. She was desperate to speak to Marcus, to let him know she was alright. She assumed what was going on was some kind of uprising. She had seen more groups of men seemingly attacking citizens at will as she had fled the city. Others were rounded up and loaded onto trucks headed for a fate she presumed was no better than those left dead and dying in the streets. Her stomach growled, and she glanced at the children cowering in the shadows, their eyes wide and pleading. They were her responsibility now, and it was up to her to keep them safe. None of them had eaten since they crossed the bridge and fled the city, and like an old friend, the once familiar pains of hunger raced through her. She didn’t think it was something she would ever have to go through again, especially after all she'd done to make a life for herself, however, the familiarity of an empty stomach returned to her as if it had never left, and in a way was far more frightening than the current situation.