The Shia militia’s eight technicals crossed the second runway and fanned out as they approached the hangars. The lieutenant could feel the excitement, even as he wished he had more vehicles to show Khazali and the Righteous. They had never ventured this far into the military base or come this close to ISIS’s headquarters. He wanted to yell something to his men, to inspire them, but he didn’t know what.
“’Iilaa al’amam!” he yelled, as his technical surged toward the front. Forward! It was a dumb thing to yell, he knew, since they were already moving forward, but it was the first thing that came to his head.
“Allahu Akbar!” he yelled, and that seemed more correct to him, especially since they were within range of the enemy’s fifty-cals, but the enemy wasn’t firing.
They are afraid, he thought. They know the Righteous are here. Maybe they have run. He tasted victory. Funny, he thought it would taste like cinnamon, but it burned his nostrils, like acetylene.
Boooom. The Toyota next to him was blown fifteen meters in the air.
Hidden bombs, he thought, as his driver eased back on the accelerator. Like al Qaeda, ISIS liked to bury artillery shells in the earth. It shall not save them.
Six hundred meters. Five hundred meters. The eight vehicles formed a single front, facing the enemy. Four hundred meters. The hangar’s door was partially open. Three hundred meters. One of his men started firing and everyone followed, as a barrage of lead hit the cavernous building. Bits of the hangar flew apart. Two hundred meters. Two ISIS pickups parked inside fell to pieces in a blizzard of bullets. One hundred meters.
The line decelerated as they entered the hangar. They drove two laps around the football-field-size area. No one was there.
“La yutlaq alnnar ealayk albulida’,” a voice yelled. Don’t shoot, morons. The lieutenant’s heart leapt. The enemy was surrendering, although it was odd that a beaten foe had called them morons.
His heart sank when he saw Khazali, leader of the League of the Righteous, drive out through the hangar door. He was standing in the back of the pickup behind twin ZPU-2 antiaircraft guns that could put 150 rounds of 14.5 millimeter lead into a target eight klicks away. Next to him, squeezed into a corner of the truck bed, was a twelve-year-old boy. During a fight, he would help reload the ammo boxes.
Khazali jumped out of the bed of the technical. Beside him, an older man in an Iranian Quds uniform stepped out of another technical. Their men had formed a professional perimeter, the lieutenant couldn’t help noticing with admiration, even as it caused concern.
Khazali and the Quds commander walked to an area with cots and blankets. Khazali picked one up and smelled it. A copy of the Koran was open, as if for prayer. On a makeshift table were a partially filled AK-47 magazine and pile of rounds, the task abandoned.
“What happened here?” someone behind the lieutenant asked.
Khazali didn’t hear. He bent over a small cooking stove and kettle. The stove was still on, the kettle’s water yet to boil. Next to it was a pot with tea at the ready and nine cups. Whoever was here left in a hurry, and did not even bother with a rear guard.
“Lieutenant,” Khazali said.
“Yes sir,” the young man said. He hadn’t left his technical.
“You told me this was ISIS’s headquarters.”
“Yes, sayyid,” the young man stammered.
Khazali scowled. “Then what do you think happened here?”
The lieutenant groped for the best possible answer. “They ran. From us. No, no. From you.”
“You are a coward and an imbecile,” Khazali said, loud enough for everyone to here. “You have failed your mission. You have failed your people. You are relieved of command.”
The young man winced. The militants stood silently, watching him, as he stepped out of the technical, wondering what he was supposed to do now.
An explosion sounded in the distance, like an exclamation point at the end of his final embarrassment. He wanted to go home, but not to the home he had: broken, burned, most of the people he had loved dead or fled. He wanted to go back to who he used to be, but the explosions kept coming, followed by gunfire.
He looked up. The Quds commander had turned north, toward the battle. Khazali had turned to listen as well, but when he turned back to address his men, he didn’t seek the older man’s advice or consent.
“Allahu Akbar,” he said calmly. “Allah is merciful. The battle is heading our way. All of you,” he said, including the lieutenant’s men in his glance, “ride with me.”