Chapter Nineteen
One mile west of the Jordan-Iraq border
Thirty-five miles southwest of Rutbah, Iraq
They drove in relative silence for the next twenty minutes. A series of small villages dotted the area, but Justin was reluctant to stop at any of them. According to intelligence reports, they were in the hands of extremist groups linked to Al-Qaeda and the Islamic State. If Justin made a mistake, it would cost the life of everyone on his team. It was vital to get medical help for al-Rawi; but even more crucial was to ensure the survival of everyone under Justin’s command.
They pressed on close to the midway point between the border and Rutbah. A couple of villages along Highway 10 were supposed to keep a neutral position amidst the fighting, opposing insurgents of all creeds, but also not throwing their support behind government or army forces. Justin could only hope the reality matched the intelligence reports.
As they drew near the first one, Al-Zemrah, Justin glanced at al-Rawi. The man had not made a sound throughout the entire trip. Justin slowed down and leaned closer to al-Rawi’s face. A very low, barely noticeable breathing came from him. Justin wondered if the man’s life was worth the added risk to the team. But he’s a team member too. If I were sitting there, with two bullet holes in my body, I would want someone to do everything possible to save my life. He nodded. As much as he might not like it, it was the right thing to do.
As anticipated, a crude checkpoint was set up near the entrance to the village. The skeleton of a burned-out army truck and heaps of debris, along with coils of barbwire, stretched across a wide section of the road. Only a narrow one-lane gap was open, and that led between two white Toyota trucks with heavy machine guns mounted on the backs.
“Justin, are you sure about this?” Carrie’s voice filled the SUV through the radio.
“We have to go in. Al-Rawi’s life hangs in the balance.”
“All right. Let’s hope they like the Peshmergas.”
“Yes. Who doesn’t?”
Justin heaved a deep sigh then slowed down as he headed toward the checkpoint. His arrival had been noticed by the fighters. One of them swung a machine gun toward Justin. A couple raised their rifles. Another gunman pointed his rocket-propelled grenade launcher in the SUV’s direction. Even if the gunman was the worst shooter ever, at a distance of thirty yards, it was unlikely he would miss.
I hope this isn’t a grave mistake.
Justin stopped when he was about ten yards away from the barbwire. He rolled down the window, then called to the men, “Salam alaikum.” It was the customary Muslim greeting that meant Peace be with you. Justin spoke in Arabic in a warm tone, “We have a wounded fighter who needs a doctor, urgently.”
“Alaikum wa salam,” came the reply in a loud gruff voice. Peace to you too. “Leave all guns inside and get out.”
Justin was not certain about the source of the voice, but it sounded like it came from a stocky man standing by the left-side Toyota. “We come in peace and our brother—”
“Get out now,” the voice rose to a shout.
“Right away, I’m doing that.”
He removed his Beretta pistol and placed it on the console between the two seats. Then he stepped outside and walked toward the man.
“That’s good, stop, stop. Stay there,” the man shouted. “Go search him,” he called to one of the young gunmen armed with assault rifles.
The gunman dashed toward Justin and gave him a thorough pat-down. The gunman removed two grenades from Justin’s ammunition pouch, then a knife from an ankle holster. “Hadi said no guns.”
“Those aren’t guns.”
The young man’s face produced an evil grin. “You should have left them in the SUV.”
When he finished, he shoved Justin toward the Toyota. “Walk. Faster.”
Justin glanced at the SUV. “Please bring a doctor to my—”
“Keep walking.”
The man with the rocket-launcher drew closer to Justin. “I’ve got him now. Go check the others.”
Justin looked at the new fighter. He had a clean-shaven face but for the obligatory mustache worn by almost every Iraqi man. He gestured toward Justin’s arm patch. “YPG?”
Justin shook his head. The man was referring to the People’s Protection Units, the largest Kurdish army fighting Syrian and Iraqi government forces. “No, we’re Peshmergas, fighting only against terrorists who sow hate and bring about the death of innocents.”
The fighter seemed to give a small nod. He tipped his head toward the Toyota. “Let’s go.”
Justin crossed the distance and looked at the stocky man, whom the first gunman had called Hadi. He had a weather-beaten face and dark, deep-set eyes that gave Justin a piercing gaze. “Peshmergas?” he asked in a voice louder than necessary.
“That’s right,” Justin said and looked around.
The fighter sitting behind the machine gun had turned it toward Justin. Another gunman stood ready near the other Toyota. His rifle was also pointed at Justin.
Hadi said, “You’re quite far from your base outside Rutbah. What are you doing in this area?”
“Coming up from the border. We were meeting a few comrades but ran into trouble.”
“Patrols?”
“Yes. One of our brothers is gravely wounded. If you can—”
“What’s your name?”
“Halmat Mardini.”
“Where are you from?”
Justin stifled the frown forming on his face. “I’m from Irbil, but I grew up in Egypt. My teammates are foreign fighters, who’ve joined our cause.”
Hadi nodded. “Yes, I noticed a hint of the dialect.”
Justin had been told by many native Arabic speakers that he spoke like a native Egyptian. Justin had served in Cairo, the capital of the North African country, for the first few years of his career. Youthful stamina, a natural talent for languages, and an overdose of stubbornness had allowed him to master the language. “You’re right, and you’re a keen observer.”
Hadi nodded his big head, which had a badly receding hairline. “You know survival in these areas isn’t for fools. You really think I’m going to take your word for it that you’re a Peshmerga?”
Justin shook his head. “No, of course not.”
Hadi stepped closer to Justin and took hold of the collar of his jacket. “Uniforms like this sell for a few dollars all over Iraq.”
“You’re right.” Justin nodded. “I invite you to check my words. My team reports to Commander Sharifi, operating in Tal Afar. And you can check with many Peshmergas across Iraq and Syria. They will all verify what I say.”
“I will do that.”
“I’ll give you their names and phone numbers,” Justin said in a confident voice.
He had already contacted Commander Aza Sharifi looking for his support, as he had done in a couple of other operations. The commander would not blow Justin’s cover. The other names were fighters with whom Justin had battled jihadists and Turkish occupation forces. They would be telling the truth, albeit not all the truth.
“But while we wait, if you give me a gun, I can show you my skills.”
Hadi gave Justin a sideways glance. “I don’t think so.”
Justin shrugged. “It would move things along.”
“Where are your teammates from?”
“Al-Rawi’s from Rutbah. The two women are from China and France. Now, can we get that doctor?”
Hadi thought about it for a moment, then gestured to one of the gunmen. “Call the doctor.”
“Thank you.”
“You and I aren’t finished.” Hadi motioned for Justin to walk in front of him. “You’ll come with me and wait until I’ve checked your story. And there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“I can, but it’s better if you find out for yourself.”
Justin stopped. “My team’s coming with me.”
“Of course not.” Hadi shook his head. “But they’ll be in the best care my men can give. Nothing will happen to them. But if you lied to me and it ends up you’re an Iranian spy, then—”
“I’m not an Iranian spy.”
“We’ll see. Now get going.” Hadi tipped his head toward the nearest Toyota.
One of the gunmen ran in front of them and climbed into the driver’s seat.
A second gunman walked behind them, his rifle still pointed at Justin.
When they reached the truck, Hadi took the front passenger seat, while the gunman sat next to Justin. He drew in a deep breath. Who is this mysterious person, and why do they suspect I’m an Iranian spy?