Chapter Twenty-two

 

 

Outskirts of Mosul, Iraq

June 20, 6:45 a.m.

 

Justin had hoped they would arrive in Mosul under the cover of darkness, but they had traveled all night, over rough roads in battered vehicles. One of Reza’s trucks broke down just outside Irbil, when they were still about fifty miles east of Mosul. It had taken over thirty minutes to fix the problem. The convoy skirted the large populated areas and those pockets that were under the control of ISIS troops.

It was not until early morning that they reached the small town of Bartella, about ten miles away from Mosul. The air was dry and warm, the guarantee of what was going to turn into a hot day. Peshmergas in desert camouflage uniforms adorned with their insignia and the flag of Kurdistan—red, white, and green stripes with a golden sun in the middle—and wearing their purple berets, defended this Christian stronghold. In Bartella, believers still used the Aramaic language when lifting up prayers to God, like Jesus did when he walked this earth. Bartella’s population had recently swollen with Mosul residents leaving their homes to escape the wrath of ISIS fighters. Peshmergas had set up checkpoints at both entrances to the town, and stopped Scot’s sedan, the first one to come to the checkpoint, followed shortly by the two black Honda SUVs of the Peshmergas. Reza’s three black trucks caught up to them in a couple of minutes. Justin, Scot, and Nebez talked to the Peshmergas, who were informed in advance of their operation, and got a brief update on the situation on the ground.

Unlike a few years back, when only about eight hundred ISIS militants along with local supporters defeated the Iraqi Army and took over the city of nearly two million people, this time ISIS fighters controlled only certain neighborhoods of the city. They were mostly concentrated on the left coast of the Tigris River that meandered through the city, splitting it into two parts. A large number of fighters had set up positions and checkpoints in and around the neighborhood of Qazah, in the eastern part of the city.

Justin’s sat-phone rang and interrupted their briefing. It was McClain with an urgent update, which turned out to be very bad news. Someone had alerted ISIS about Mustafa’s whereabouts and they were scouting the area, searching for him house to house. Paralyzed with fear, Mustafa was trapped inside a house in Qazah without any possibility of escape. He would not be able to meet the team at their prearranged location. They would have to enter the neighborhood and pick him up at his house.

The team did not allow this latest blow to their operation to deter or divide them. They had come so far and had expected some complications. They drove away from Bartella toward the north and through the sandy hills with scrubby vegetation until they were away from anyone’s sight. Some of the team members donned black outfits, similar to those worn by ISIS jihadists. Justin hung the black-and-white flag of ISIS on one of the side windows of their truck. The flag’s Arabic letters spelled the shahada, the declaration of the Muslim faith, and the white circle at the center represented the official seal of the Prophet Muhammad. The image brought to mind the ancient Arab history and its powerful Islamic caliphate, an era ISIS had fought hard to bring back to life. Reza also put up a flag at the back of his truck. The team and the convoy were now indistinguishable, at least at first glance and from a distance, from the hordes of ISIS vehicles roaming in Mosul.

The convoy peeled off to the right and headed toward Mosul, leaving behind Bartella and entering no man’s land. As they reached the highway, they noticed a large white banner floating in the soft breeze. It was tied to two rusty iron poles driven into the side of the highway. The writing in large letters in Arabic read: Warning! Do not go beyond this point.

Justin tightened his grip around his C8SFW assault rifle. His breathing slowed down and he instinctively became more alert. His mind switched to overdrive mode. It happened every time he drew near the most critical point of a mission. He saw and heard things he had paid no attention to until moments ago. Nebez’s heavy breathing. Scot’s nervous finger tapping along the edge of the steering wheel. The smell of sweat saturating the warm air inside the cabin.

The no man’s land was a three-mile stretch of the two-lane divided highway, with abandoned houses, restaurants, and gas stations alongside. They passed by the charred hulk of a semi-truck turned on its side, then a couple of Iraqi Army Humvees that had suffered a similar fate.

The first sign of the ISIS roadblock came into view. It was a large black army truck crowned with the ISIS black flag and flanked by two white trucks. Heavy machine guns were mounted on the back of the trucks and two masked men in black uniforms manned the weapons. Another six or seven black-clad men were crouched or standing behind two greenish vans parked near the trucks. They were all brandishing assault weapons. Large dirt piles had been staggered in a way which served as crude physical obstructions to slow down vehicles reaching the checkpoint. A long coil of barbed wire had been stretched on both sides of the highway to block any attempt of vehicles trying to escape the roadblock.

Justin glanced at Scot clutching the steering wheel.

“Here we are,” Scot said, his eyes taking in the lay of the land.

“Let’s make it happen,” Justin replied in an equally calm voice.

Scot tapped the brakes as the sedan began to zigzag around the dirt piles.

Justin touched his chest rig and double-checked his rifle. He felt the bulletproof vest underneath his jacket and rubbed his fingertips along its edge. The layer of protection gave him an extra ounce of confidence, but only for a brief moment. They were entering the lion’s den. No sense in denying it or the fear that he was sure was being felt by the rest of his team. Some people claimed they had no fear, no matter the circumstances. He had learned that, at least for him, the secret to staying calm in the middle of any treacherous situation was to conquer his fear.

He whispered a muted prayer as the sedan took the last turn. They were now about fifty yards away from the checkpoint.

Scott straightened the steering wheel as four gunmen approached the sedan, two from each side. They carried their weapons in a ready-to-fire position as they took slow and careful steps while studying the sedan and the rest of the convoy stopped behind. Two gunmen drew closer to the sedan, while two remained behind, providing cover for the advance team by keeping the sedan and the first SUV in their crosshairs.

Justin’s finger rested over the rifle’s trigger guard. They’re acting like pros. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to fighting them.

The gunman on the left side stopped when he was about four feet away from Scot. He lowered his rifle a couple of inches and motioned for Scot to stay in the car and to roll down his window.

The other gunman stood about ten feet up ahead and to the right side of Justin’s window.

When Scot had obliged with the request of the first gunman, the man asked in Arabic, “Who are you? Where are you coming from?”

Scot replied, “I’m Omar and these are Yazid and Muhammad.” He tipped his head first toward Justin, who pretended to be Yazid, and then Nebez, who was supposed to be Muhammad. “Our ID cards, if you want to check them.” He held up three forged Iraqi identification documents that listed their names and Mosul as their hometown. “We’re coming from Akre. The infidels’ air attacks missed us as we were protected by the invisible hand of Allah.”

The gunman picked up their IDs and held them up as he compared the pictures to their faces.

Justin could sense the wheels spinning in the gunman’s mind as he thought about Scot’s words. Their cover story included a real bombing last night by Super Hornet fighter jets on a series of abandoned buildings and warehouses in Akre. The strikes had received broad international media coverage, along with the beheading of three American aid workers, which was believed to be the work of one Yazid al-Jubouri. The reason was not so much the beheading in itself, since there had been numerous cases of such atrocities. What made the recent beheading unique was the fact that Yazid did not cover his face, like all other executioners, but proudly looked at the camera throughout the entire barbaric act. Of course, the beheadings were staged, but with the help of the Israeli makeup artists, they looked very real.

“I . . . I know you,” the gunman said to Justin with a voice that displayed a certain amount of admiration. “You’re al-Jubouri.”

Justin gave the gunman a stone-cold look. “Yes, you’re right. And we know about your good fight in the city,” he said in a strong, steady voice.

The gunman nodded and gave Scot and Justin the index finger gesture, the symbol of ISIS. It showed their belief that God is one, tawhid, the main element of the Muslim belief. And it also pointed out the ISIS position that there was no other interpretation of the tawhid but their own extremist view. “Who are the other fighters with your group?”

“Strong brothers dedicated to fighting the infidels in our homeland and everywhere they are,” Scot replied.

The gunman peered through the back window at Nebez, then glanced at the ID cards again. “I have to search the other cars,” he said when he handed them back to Scot.

The gunman’s voice carried a slight apologetic tone. It sounded as if he did not want to submit these great fighters to such humiliation. But it was probably the order of one of his chiefs to check all passengers before they were allowed to pass through the checkpoint.

“Do what you need to do,” Scot said and pressed a button to roll up both windows.

The gunman shouted at the other three fighters, informing them of who was in the sedan. He might as well have been describing war heroes. The gunman to the right took a few steps forward to get a closer look at the famous fearless executioner. The other two fighters relaxed their postures, and dropped their weapons, their barrels pointing harmlessly to the ground.

Justin held his rifle ready for action. He could not afford to drop his guard. He wanted to be prepared in case the gunman noticed something suspicious in the other vehicles of their convoy.

The gunman moved to the first Honda SUV and asked for the driver’s and the passengers’ IDs.

Justin readjusted the rearview mirror and followed the gunman’s movements in silence. It seemed everything was going smoothly. They should be able to cross the roadblock without problems.

Scot drew in a deep breath.

Justin glanced at the fighter who was staring at him but not saying anything. The silence was golden, as it allowed Justin and his team members to be fully aware of any and all developments in their situation. It was quite tense, but in Justin’s experience so were all searches at checkpoints manned by armed terrorists.

The gunman finished checking the third SUV and then moved to Reza’s truck.

Justin shifted in his seat and his eyes caught the gunman’s movements: the same calm gestures of collecting the IDs, lifting them up to his eyes to compare the pictures, and asking a few harmless questions.

Then came the gunshot.

Justin felt the world around him slow down to almost a halt. The lifeless body of the gunman fell backwards, and his head hit the ground hard.

Reza stepped out of his truck, pistol in hand and rage in his eyes. He took one step toward the gunman and put another round in his chest.

Justin turned his head toward the fighter ahead to the right and saw him raise his AK. He aimed it at Justin’s window, then his hand pulled the trigger and he fired a barrage.

Before Justin had a chance to duck, the first bullet struck the glass right at eye level. Justin flinched but felt no pain. The bullet lodged in the bullet-resistant glass of the window and formed a small spiderweb crack.

The second bullet thumped against the door, followed by a third bullet hitting the window, about an inch lower than the first round. Another crack appeared, larger than the first one. The glass pane shook violently. No holes yet, but the window was going to give in at any moment.

Justin aimed his rifle and fired through the windshield. His bullets pierced the glass and cut through this gunman’s chest and legs. He toppled to the side and the AK flew out of his hands.

Scot rolled down the window and fired a quick barrage with his M4A1 carbine. He hit one of the two fighters who had stayed back, guarding the advance team. The fighter fell on his left knee and kept shooting at the sedan. Scot fired again and planted a round in the man’s head.

“Out, out, out,” Scot shouted.

He pushed open the door and turned his carbine to the other fighter, who was hammering the sedan with a long barrage. Scot’s bullets missed the fighter, who rolled on the ground and slipped down a ditch on the side of the highway.

Justin had already crawled away to the back of the sedan. He dropped low near Nebez, who had set up his PK on its bipod near the sedan’s left side. Nebez fired off a few rounds, then looked at Justin. “Are you hit?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll take out the left truck. You cover the right side.”

Justin nodded and peeked around the right corner. Two bullets almost blew off his head. One scraped against the side of the sedan, inches away from his face. The other bored a deep hole in the ground near his arms.

One of the gunmen in the white truck fired his heavy machine gun. The large-caliber bullets began to tear through the sedan, sending shreds raining over the agents.

Scot had retreated toward the back, and he and Nebez were firing back, trying to counteract the onslaught. But the barrage continued and intensified as the other heavy machine gun began to pour forth a torrent of lead at the target. The agents were sitting ducks, and the sedan was not going to hold forever. They had only two options: retreat to the truck behind them or advance.

Justin chose the latter. He struck the trunk with his rifle’s butt stock and popped the cover. As bullets hit almost everything around him, he groped for the rocket-propelled grenade launcher. He had seen two in the trunk, loaded and ready for action, when he had tossed in his knapsack and helmet.

His fingers first found his Kevlar-reinforced helmet. He pulled it out and fastened it on his head. Then he recognized the shape of the launcher and drew it quickly as a couple of rounds punched holes in the trunk’s cover. He reached again and fumbled for a couple of moments. He grabbed the second launcher and dragged that out of the trunk as well.

He fell back and checked the launcher. It was intact. “Cover me,” he shouted at Nebez over the sound of bullets clanking against the sedan.

“Got it,” Nebez replied.

He brought his machine gun to the right and opened up with a series of short bursts, swinging the gun over its bipod, to cover a wider area.

Justin shouldered the launcher and cocked the weapon, still hiding behind the sedan.

“Now, do it,” Nebez said and pulled back, giving Justin the necessary space.

He aimed the launcher at the white truck and pulled the trigger.

The warhead speared up from the mouth of the launcher at five hundred feet per second. It tore through the air, leaving behind a gray streak. White smoke from the weapon’s breech covered the sedan.

A moment later, the projectile smashed into the side of the truck. The impact threw the vehicle and its crew to its left side.

Almost at the same time, Scot fired the other RPG launcher. The warhead whooshed toward the target. In a split second, it slammed near the front wheels of the black army truck, which caught on fire and burst into bright orange flames.

As Justin fell behind the sedan, Nebez slid back to his position. He began to blast away at a few gunmen scurrying away from the burning truck. He picked off two or three of them, then turned his attention to the two vans.

Two gunmen were shooting from behind one of them. They were lying flat near the front tires and taking turns firing and providing cover for each other.

Nebez fired the last of his bullets, then shouted at Justin, “Another warhead.”

Before Justin could reach into the trunk, an RPG projectile hit the front of the sedan. It sent a hail of shrapnel and debris over the agents. Justin felt the crackling of metal pieces and shards of glass against his helmet. Dust and smoke enveloped the men.

Justin blinked to clear his eyes. He smelled burning tires and diesel. “Scot, Nebez, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Yes, move back,” Scot replied.

Justin reached to his left for Nebez and his hands touched the Peshmerga’s arm. “Nebez, Nebez, you’re . . .”

As the smoke cleared, Justin saw the blood-covered face of Nebez. A large metal sliver had torn through the left side of his neck.

“Move back, come on,” Scot called at him.

Justin lay flat on the ground and began a low crawl, advancing fast toward the black truck about ten feet behind them. He kept his head and body down as bullets flew over his head or skimmed over the highway’s asphalt. He pulled his rifle along his side, with the muzzle up.

He had almost reached his new position when a bullet struck the side of his helmet. His head fell down, and his chin hit the asphalt. It felt like taking a heavy punch that almost knocked him out and left a strong ringing in his ears.

Justin felt the strong hands of two Peshmergas dragging him to safety behind the truck. One of them was talking to him, and he could see the man’s mouth moving but could not hear or make out the words.

He was placed near the back of the truck and he stood there catching his breath, waiting for the ringing to subside. He touched his helmet and noticed the bullet had stripped a piece of the camouflage fabric. If it were only two inches below. He rubbed the right side of his face and scratched his chin. Or if I didn’t have the helmet. I would be stretched back there next to Nebez.

Slowly he began to hear the sounds of the battle. Gunfire. Shouts. RPGs screeching and slamming against vehicles.

One of the Peshmergas returned. “How are you?”

“Fine, I’m fine. What’s our situation?”

“We’re advancing. There are maybe two, three dogs left.”

The hammering of a machine gun came from the right side.

Justin climbed to his feet and crouched behind one of the truck’s open doors. He surveyed his surroundings and took note of the Peshmergas firing on both sides of the truck. “Scot? Where’s Scot?”

“Right here,” Scot replied from the other side. “Front wheel. You got clipped?”

“Yes, but thank God for my helmet.” Justin knocked it with his left fist.

“You would have missed all the fun.”

“Yeah, that would have been a shame.”

He checked his rifle, then slid on his stomach near the front of the truck. He aimed at a gunman who popped up from the right side of one of the vans, and fired a two-round burst. It was one bullet too many. Both hit the gunman in the head.

Justin stole a peek underneath one of the truck’s wide-open doors.

One gunman was still cranking off round after round from a machine gun set up inside the other green van. He was well protected behind a steel-armored plate and was firing through a small crack in the door.

Justin aimed his rifle and fired a three-round burst. A bullet broke what was left of the glass in one of the windows about a foot away from the gunman. The others raised sparks very close to him and he stopped his volley.

But only for a brief moment.

He reappeared behind his fortification and restarted his torrent of bullets. Justin ducked behind the door and glanced at two Peshmergas huddled a couple of feet away. “Cover me,” he told them.

“Cover us,” Scot said.

The Peshmergas nodded.

A couple of rounds pinged against the doors. A few others ricocheted off the asphalt on Justin’s opposite side. “Another shooter.”

“Yes, I’ll take him out,” Scot said. “We go at three. Ready?”

“Ready,” Justin replied.

He raised up his left hand and began to count with his fingers in case the Peshmergas did not hear or understand Scot.

“Three, two, one. Go, go, go,” Scot said.

The two Peshmergas on Justin’s side began to fire their assault rifles at full automatic. He sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the sedan. The heavy fire curtain had forced down the gunman in the van. No shots were coming from his position.

Justin slid behind the sedan’s mangled hulk and aimed his rifle. He aligned the crosshairs of his Aimpoint 3XMag scope with the empty space right over the machine gun’s protective plate. He waited for the right moment, when the gunman would resurface.

Single equally separated rounds sounded from the left. It had to be Scot, directing his assault on the last remaining shooter. But he had not sought cover behind the sedan. Was he continuing on foot all the way to the other van? That would be near suicide.

Justin wanted to turn his head and check on Scot, potentially provide extra cover if he was in an exposed position. But he did not want to botch his planned kill shot. And the Peshmergas were still squeezing their triggers as if their ammunition was endless.

He slowed his breath and closed his left eye. Come on, get up and give me a clean shot. He prayed for a steady hand so he could hit the mark and put an end to the standoff.

A few long moments dragged on, then the Peshmergas’ firepower dwindled; soon it ceased altogether. Scot’s side was also silent, a tense eerie silence that could be shattered in a heartbeat.

Justin blinked to clear his eyes.

That was when the gunman materialized behind his machine gun.

Justin pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore away the left side of the gunman’s face.

Justin kept his eye on the scope and his finger on the trigger, in case there was another gunman hiding in the van. It was hastiness during the aftermath of a battle that killed a good number of brave soldiers. He maintained his position and listened to every sound.

No gunfire, volleys or single shots. No shouting. No rushing footsteps. Just the spine-chilling silence.

He brought his rifle to the right, then to the left, combing around the van and the wider area. No movement. Everything was quiet.

He picked up his rifle and gazed on the other side of the sedan. Scot was standing near the other green van, searching that area.

Justin got first to one knee, then to his feet. He inspected the area from behind the sight of his rifle, and began to advance with a slow, careful step. After he gained about ten yards or so, he gestured for the Peshmergas and the rest of their team to follow suit.

His first stop was the van, where he found three dead gunmen and a huge arsenal of weapons and machine-gun ammunition. He quickened his pace as he reached the white truck tipped over to the side. The bodies of two gunmen were sprawled near the truck.

He met up with Scot as they reached the burning black army truck. A horde of bodies were scattered about the area. They all seemed dead, but Justin began to check to make sure he and the others did not turn their backs to a wounded gunman.

The first five or six had taken two or three wounds, and each would have been fatal on its own. When he got to the seventh man, Justin was surprised to find he still drew in breath, albeit just barely. The gravely wounded man had been shot in his side, right underneath his heart. He had made the beginner’s mistake of going into a fierce firefight without a bulletproof vest.

Justin leaned over him and gazed at the man’s dusty and bloodied face. He was no older than thirty, with a short beard, a pale complexion, and blue eyes. “Do you speak English?” Justin asked him.

The young man coughed and wheezed, then said a few words in a low voice and in a language Justin did not understand. It sounded like one of the Slavic languages, but it was not Russian.

“Do you speak Russian or Arabic?” Justin asked.

The young man again replied in his own language.

What is that? Serbian? Bosnian?

“I don’t understand you,” Justin said.

“You’re wasting your breath.” Scot stood over them. “He’s a foreign fighter, and if he doesn’t speak English or Arabic, well, we’re pretty much out of options. Perhaps your Iranian friends can give it a try, but that language didn’t sound like Persian.”

Yes, Iranians and Reza. Why did he have to start this firefight?

Justin stood up as a group of Peshmergas gathered around them. He did not need a translator to understand their attitude toward the wounded captive. Their unforgiving faces, hand gestures, and harsh voices needed no explanation. While Justin could not be sure about his fate, he knew they were not going to be in a hurry to take him to a doctor, if they even considered getting him medical attention.

Justin looked around and saw Carrie running toward him. Eli and Raphael were following behind her. “Justin, how are you? I heard you were shot.” She began to check his head and neck, then moved down to his chest and arms.

“Yeah, a headshot. The bullet bounced off my helmet.”

Carrie bit her lip. “Oh, everything’s okay?”

“I’m all right. The helmet not so much.” He showed Carrie the tear in the fabric and the dent in the helmet.

“You’re lucky.”

“Very. How are you doing?”

“Bored. Out in the back, we got none of the action.” Carrie’s voice rang with disappointment.

“You’ll get your chance when we enter Mosul.”

He nodded at Eli and Raphael. Before he had a chance to talk to them, Reza came into Justin’s view, and he stormed toward the man. “Why did you shoot him? We almost made it through the checkpoint untouched.”

“He recognized me and was about to give the alarm. I had to kill him.” Reza shrugged but did not sound the least bit displeased about the turn of events.

Justin untightened his fists. He had no way to validate Reza’s version of the story and no time to investigate it any further. Reza’s hands were itching for a fight, and he would probably have shot the gunman regardless of whether he made him or not. That’s why you should have stayed on that side of the border. He looked to the east and regretted the decision to take Reza and his crew with the team.

“What’s done is done. We can’t undo it,” Justin said. “And we’ve lost Nebez.” He let out a deep sigh. “Eli. Raphael.” He called the two Mossad agents and waited until they were inches away from him. Then he waved at Scot, who was chatting with some of the Peshmergas about twenty feet or so away, and gestured for him to join them. “If the checkpoint guards didn’t notify their associates, then perhaps we won’t head straight into another battle as we enter Qazah and look for Mustafa. We’ll split up into two groups. Carrie, Reza, Eli, Scot, and I will go find our target. We’ll also take a couple of Peshmergas, the ones who are most familiar with the area and who are the best shooters. Raphael, the rest of Reza’s men, and the other Peshmergas will create a diversion to draw ISIS fighters away from the Qazah neighborhood, clearing the way for our insertion. Questions?”

Reza shook his head.

“Good plan,” Scot said. “I know exactly the two Peshmergas we need for our infil.”

Eli nodded. “It’s a sound plan.”

Raphael did not seem too happy to be thrown in with the other team, which he probably thought was secondary to the main operation, but did not say anything. Still, Justin kept his eyes on Raphael until he gave a small nod.

Then Justin said, “All right, let’s get to it.”