Two stun grenades shattered the mess window. Struck in the head, the force blew al-Qasr and his chair into the wall. Massive flashes blinded everyone save Aslan. As Koglu lurched, disoriented, from side to side, gripping his ears in pain, Aslan, who had bided his time, pushed the desk sharply into Koglu’s legs. The general fell moaning to the ground. Seizing the general’s gun, Aslan put it to Koglu’s mouth, and fired.
Outside, the general’s special forces let rip on Aslan’s relief force. Amid desperate shouting, a shower of mortar shells scoured the darkening skies, then scorched the horizon. The barrack house exploded, shooting blast debris in all directions.
Al-Qasr, blinded, wriggled on the floor. With blood pouring out of his head and over his burning eyes, his bound legs kicked the guard. Coming to his senses, the guard panicked. Seeing al-Qasr screaming at him, he flicked the Uzi’s safety-catch and squeezed the trigger. Two bursts of live rounds rent through al-Qasr’s writhing body. As the blasted corpse vibrated and rippled against the wall, the guard turned on Aslan. Aslan stepped back, tripping on Koglu’s body as the guard let rip.
Gambolling out of a line of fire that sent splinters and sparks shooting across the mess, Aslan lost grip on the pistol. Seizing the moment, Ashe leapt forwards, straining for the gun. As the guard tried to refocus, Ashe fired. The guard reeled backwards as the demented Uzi punctured the tattered ceiling with aimless rounds.
Beneath a storm-shower of plaster, al-Qasr came to, desperate to prop his crumbling body against the wall, but his time, and his life, had run out. With blood flooding from his face, al-Qasr slumped, rigid, to the floor.
Aslan leapt onto the dazed guard, grabbed the Uzi and struck the guard hard in the neck, knocking him out cold. Reaching for a spare magazine from the guard’s blood-soaked belt, he reloaded. He stared at Ashe. What did that stare mean? Ashe’s capacity to react stuck like a heavy boot in a dune. Fearing he was next, Ashe tried to raise his gun at the colonel. Aslan smiled. ‘Don’t bother, Tobbi. Save yourself. Under this carpet is a trapdoor. Meant for me. It leads to the hillside. God be with you!’
Though Aslan had suspected Koglu was intent on humiliating him, and had made precise preparations, he hadn’t reckoned on al-Qasr’s death. Standing tall in the scattered chaos, Aslan gazed for one last moment at what was left of Sami al-Qasr: ‘Goodbye, Sami!’ Then he turned quickly to Beck and Fless, gesturing with the gun. ‘Follow him!’ Aslan saluted Ashe, smashed the rest of the glass with the Uzi’s butt, and, gun blazing, launched himself into the crossfire outside. Smoke soon enveloped him.
The battle stormed on until both sides realised there was no one giving orders. By then, the facility was engulfed in flames. Every scrap of authentic DNA material from the Baba Sheykh went up in the conflagration that lit the skies until dawn. Aslan’s body was presumed destroyed in the furnace that overwhelmed the laboratory.
In the morning, it was reported in the press that resistance in Fallujah was stiffening, but futile. Ashe’s experience did not find a place in the annals of history, for are we not told that it is the winners who write history? And in this case, the question remained – and would always remain – who had won and who had lost?