Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup Page 20

  The group reached an open area and dashed across the street. They should have used bounding overwatch, Ethan thought, where half the platoon stayed behind and provided overwatch while the others moved forward, but Ethan wasn't about to start making strategic suggestions, not unless his life was in imminent danger. He was embedded with the enemy, after all, and he wasn't sure yet how much he actually wanted to help them.

  Abdullah made Wolf Company hug the line of buildings as he headed northwest. In a reversal of the trend, most of the structures proved intact, there. Ahead, several platoons of mujahadeen were queued against the edge of an intersection. Artillery shells from the Field Guns outside of town were battering the neighborhood beyond. The rumble of exploding matter was almost deafening.

  Abdullah glanced over his shoulder at his unit and smiled widely. "They are softening up the Kurds for us!" he shouted. It seemed risky as hell to be that close to the barrage, but none of the militants seemed to mind.

  Upon the rooftops at either side, Ethan saw mortar men adding to the assault by repeatedly dropping 82mm shells into their Soviet M-37 mortars. He spotted DShK machine guns mounted behind sandbags on some of the buildings, and these fired randomly into the same general area.

  The main artillery bombardment abruptly ceased. The mortar men and machine gunners noticed a few moments later and stopped firing in turn.

  The front became eerily quiet.

  Ethan could feel the tension in the air. It was almost electric.

  "Go go go!" came the order over the two-way radios.

  The mujahadeen queued at the edge of the intersection diffused into the ravaged neighborhood like termites spreading over a burnt log.

  The house-sweeping had begun.

  Abdullah split the group into two squads and gave Suleman command of the second.

  Ethan was part of Abdullah's squad. The emir led them past the collapsed houses beyond the front, which he inspected only cursorily. He paused before an intact building sandwiched between two caved homes. The squad lined up on either side of the doorway, backs to the wall.

  Abdullah waved Baghdadi forward.

  The Tunisian slid in front of the door and kicked it open.

  The next thing he knew, Ethan was sitting on the ground about five feet away with a sudden pounding headache. Fida'a lay on top of him. Ibrahim, underneath.

  He shoved Fida'a off of him and helped Ibrahim stand. Everyone was accounted for save Baghdadi—the only sign of the Tunisian were the simmering boots still standing in the obliterated doorway.

  "Zarar, Sab," Abdullah pointed at the charred entrance.

  The two of them maneuvered inside. The big man went low, Sab high.

  "Clear!" Sab said, peering out the door. That was a mistake: the moment he spoke the word he shook violently, and chunks of gore spat from his chest in multiple places.

  Zarar unleashed his assault rifle at an unseen attacker inside the house as Sab collapsed.

  "Now it is clear." Zarar dragged the lifeless body of Sab out of the way.

  "Don't touch anything," Abdullah said. "Booby traps could be anywhere."

  The squad split up and cleared the remaining rooms. Ethan kept back, happy to let the others martyr themselves, but they encountered no further resistance.

  He heard an explosion in the next room, followed by, "I'm okay!"

  Ibrahim emerged, covered in soot. He was grinning sheepishly. "Found a booby trap."

  Ethan shook his head. The youth was lucky to be alive.

  In the main room lay a bricked up staircase.

  Fida'a rushed forward, sledgehammer in hand. In moments he'd broken through.

  Zarar went first, poking his head and upper body through the trapdoor in the ceiling. "Clear!" he shouted down.

  The others climbed the stairs onto the roof, where they crouched and fanned out.

  The eastern rim had small crenelations filed into the stone, probably by Kurdish snipers. The western rim, which faced the town center, didn't have any.

  "Sniper," Abdullah commanded.

  Ethan low-crawled to the emir, who lay prostrate on the northwest corner of the roof. The man was peering past the rim. Ethan followed his gaze; he had a clear view of the street from there.

  "Stay here," Abdullah told him. "Provide cover."

  Ethan nodded. He was just about to suggest the same thing. And not because he wanted to cover Wolf Company.

  The others absconded the roof.

  Ethan settled into an overwatch position. Below, he saw mortar men and machine gunners following the house-sweeping squads. Some of the DShK gunners set up at the intersections, while the mortar men joined the squads inside the buildings and took up residence on the cleared rooftops.

  Ethan was used to sniping in teams of three, taking turns with another sniper while a heavy gunner guarded the rear. While that setup worked well, Ethan was glad to be alone in that particular situation. It allowed him to perform certain clandestine duties.

  twenty-nine

  Ethan plugged the USB stick into his Android phone via the adapter, extended the RF antenna, and activated the DIA messaging app. Death Adder and Constrictor were online. Like Ethan, William and Aaron were the designated snipers in their platoons, and had ample time alone to set up their smartphones.

  A third member was online. Black Mamba. Doug.

  Hey mambo man, Ethan sent. Ready to dance?

  Always, came the reply. Good to see you finally joined the party, Copperhead.

  Ethan sent his GPS coordinates to Doug. No fire zone, please.

  What's that? Fire zone? Transmitting to the Lancers now...

  Funny, Ethan sent back. Did Death Adder send the coords to the new forward camp yet?

  He did. But I'll need you to confirm your location.

  Ethan did so.

  The ground rumbled a few minutes later.

  Forward camp is no more, Doug sent.

  Ethan scanned the enemy lines through his 4x scope. Far to the west he saw a single Kurdish rebel hiding behind a concrete Jersey barrier beside the rubble of a collapsed building. Ethan had a clear shot but he didn't take it.

  He moved on to the Islamic State units. Militants breaking down doors, taking fire, dying. He felt no emotion for them. None whatsoever. They had come here to die in jihad. They were achieving that dream.

  He spotted a group of militants pinned down behind the rubble of a collapsed building. A Kurdish machine gunner shot at them from behind a hole hammered into the third floor of an apartment across from them. Ethan had somewhat of a shot, but again chose not to fire. He had resolved only to kill Kurds if his own life was at stake.

  He swept the scope to the left. There. He spotted what he was looking for. A cluster of Islamic State militants were rushing inside a municipal building in a nearby neighborhood. Several of them began to congregate on the rooftop, and used the strategic position to shoot down at the Kurdish lines. Mortars and DShKs were erected in force.

  Ethan grabbed the USB stick and was about to activate the laser pointer, but he paused first to check his flanks: a couple of mortar men lurked on the rooftops of an adjacent street, but that was it. There were probably a few Islamic State snipers that he couldn't see, though he doubted any of them were paying him any attention. Even if they did spot him, they would assume he was using some kind of laser range finder to aid with his sniping. They were used to the mishmash of foreign equipment, and certainly wouldn't be able to discern his target, not from their locations.

  He pointed the USB's laser toward the municipal building. Useless. He couldn't see the laser dot at all from that distance. He retrieved the modded TruPulse 360 laser range finder instead and peered through the eyepiece. Much better. He shaded the unit with his free hand, not wanting the sun glinting off the lenses; Aaron claimed the device had an anti-reflective coating, but Ethan wasn't all that trusting of it—most coatings still reflected at least some light.

  He recorded the target's position. The building was a little under six hu
ndred meters away. Not the safest radius from an airstrike, but Ethan decided to transmit the coordinates to Doug anyway.

  Got some grub for you, Ethan sent Black Mamba. Recommend a thousand pounder.

  He wasn't familiar with the precise inventory of a B-1B Lancer, but he figured with that advice, the bomber would probably deliver something like a GBU-16, a laser-guided JDAM dropped in pairs or multiples.

  Send the grub. I'm forever hungry, came the reply.

  Ethan messaged William and Aaron and confirmed their positions first. Doug would perform the same location verification—it never hurt to double- or even triple-check, not when the lives of friendlies were on the line.

  When he was done, Ethan set down the smartphone and returned to scanning the fray.

  A few minutes later the high-pitched keen of two bombs pierced the air, followed by two near simultaneous explosions. The blastwave was deafening, and sent building fragments over his head. A piece of cement slammed into the ledge beside him about a meter from his head. Perhaps he had been located a little too close after all.

  The target had vanished in a cloud of dust and smoke, along with most of the surrounding buildings. The dust cloud overcame his own position, and he covered the lower half of his face with the scarf, trying to form an impromptu air filter. Didn't work very well.

  He suspected the Lancer had ignored his recommendation and dropped a couple of two-thousand pound GBU-31s instead.

  Damn it.

  When the smoke finally cleared about ten minutes later, he saw that the municipal building—and the militants on it—had been completely flattened, and although the surrounding buildings had suffered fragmentation and shrapnel damage the structures were relatively intact. Everything was coated in a fine layer of cement dust, including himself.

  He returned his attention to the front. Most of the Islamic State squads and fire teams had advanced to the next block by then. Ethan decided to move forward. He climbed down the stairs, slunk through the streets, and chose a new house whose cratered entrance was surrounded by body parts.

  "Abu-Emad, where are you?" Abdullah's voice came over the two-way after Ethan had settled in along the western edge of the new rooftop.

  "Just moved to a new forward position, emir," Ethan said, then described it. Abdullah detailed his own location, and Ethan picked him out with his scope. "I see you. Got you covered."

  Throughout the day Ethan sent along four more GPS coordinates. He'd learned his lesson after the first strike, and made sure the bigger targets were at least a thousand meters away. Even so, twice no bombs fell at all, once the strikes landed an hour too late, and the fourth time a couple of five-hundred pound GBUs actually dropped on cue, plinking two technicals placed conveniently close together. Other airstrikes fell in the surrounding neighborhoods, presumably guided by William and Aaron, or the Kurds.

  Ethan avoided targeting any positions near Wolf Company. It was one thing to kill men he didn't know, and another entirely to eliminate those he'd worked with, even if they were on the wrong side. He doubted Doug would target them, either, even if he had their serial numbers on his Stingray, because of Ethan's proximity to the company. Besides, they seemed eager enough to kill themselves on their own. Ethan wondered how many of them would be alive when he got back.

  Ethan turned off his phone between targeting opportunities to conserve battery power. When he eventually returned to the forward camp he would have to seek out a diesel generator.

  A DJI Phantom 2 flew over the city at one point. One of the foreign fighters had apparently smuggled the camera-carrying consumer drone into Syria. It flew dangerously close to the front lines; the Kurds must have picked it out shortly after Ethan had, because a few seconds later the off-the-shelf quadcopter scooted skyward, ostensibly to avoid gunfire. Or maybe it was one of the infamous flyaways the model was known for. Whatever the case, the Phantom must have been struck because it lost altitude shortly thereafter and plummeted to the streets below. Ethan never saw it again.

  When darkness fell he returned to his unit, which sheltered in one of the cleared homes. Without proper night vision clip-ons and infrared WeaponLights or AN/PEQ-2s they couldn't continue the house sweep until morning.

  There had been two other casualties that day. Fifteen-year-old Yasiri and big Zarar. Though the latter had been the emir's oldest friend, Abdullah seemed in good spirits. As did the others. Why shouldn't they be? The fallen were enjoying the well-deserved fruits of paradise.

  The men placed heavy blankets over the windows, then Abdullah activated a flashlight. He produced two pairs of AN/PVS-7 night vision goggles from his backpack. He gave one of them to Ibrahim, whom he ordered to the rooftop, and the other to Raheel, whom he dispatched to the front door.

  The rest of the unit prayed. There had been no time to do so during the day—a fatwa allowed them to skip prayer during the fighting, of course.

  Suleman assured them he knew the direction to Mecca. Ethan almost laughed—he was in a war zone, and praying to Allah in the proper orientation seemed the least of his concerns. Then again, God was potentially the only one protecting him from a random bullet or shrapnel fragment to the head.

  After prayer they sat back and ate cold rice with pieces of chicken chopped into it, stored in a canvas bag. Fida'a had apparently retrieved the meal at dusk, along with several canteens of water, traveling back to the eastern perimeter of Kobane to grab the food from one of the delivery vehicles.

  After dinner the militants found spots for themselves on the bare floor and prepared to sleep. Swatting flies, Ethan sat near Abdullah, and watched enviously as the emir produced an AN/PVS-22 Universal Clip-On Night Sight from his pack and attached it to the forward rail of his M16A4, in front of the ACOG 4x32mm fixed mag scope.

  Apparently noticing his jealous gaze in the dim light, Abdullah said, "What? I have given out night vision goggles for the watch to use."

  "But they can't shoot with them," Ethan complained. Not easily, anyway.

  Abdullah shrugged. "If the watch spots something, they will call me."

  Great plan.

  * * *

  Ibrahim awakened Ethan three hours later and he took his shift on the rooftop with the NV goggles. The time passed uneventfully. The streets were utterly quiet that night.

  Ethan's face felt itchy, and when he scratched he felt pain. He realized he'd received his first batch of fly bites while he slept. It took all his volition to resist scratching for the duration of his watch.

  When the three hours were up he went downstairs and chose Suleman as the next rooftop watchstander. Though flies buzzed around him, he fell asleep almost immediately.

  Morning came and Wolf Company headed west to queue up behind other Islamic State units, waiting for the latest artillery pre-assault to end. When the barrage on the adjacent neighborhood stopped, the units quickly fanned out.

  Ethan soon found himself in an overwatch position on a rooftop not all that different from his previous hides. His cheeks and forehead felt itchier than ever.

  Aaron didn't check in that morning. Ethan sincerely hoped he was all right. William assuaged his fears, telling him via the encrypted messenger that Aaron probably simply hadn't had a chance to leave his unit yet. Whatever the case, Ethan and William couldn't designate any targets until Aaron contacted them, because their friend might be among any militant positions marked for bombing.

  Around the middle of the day, right after Ethan had switched hides—and before he had a chance to update Doug with his position—the Islamic State lines were abruptly pushed back. Squads and fire teams fled on all sides. The Kurds were making a concerted sally forward: scores of them had been holed up within the nearby homes and apartment buildings, and swarmed onto the streets like fire ants from a disturbed nest.

  Before he knew what had happened, the Kurdish front had swept right past his hide, trapping him behind their lines.

  He watched Kurdish trucks roll forward, towing artillery. Mortar men set up and launched
shells at the fleeing Islamic State militants. Kurdish fighters moved from building to building, performing their own house cleaning operations.

  Ethan's radio squawked to life. "Abu-Emad, what is your status?" It was Abdullah.

  He ducked beneath the rim of the building and turned down the volume of his two-way. "Trapped behind enemy lines. You?"

  "The same." Abdullah described the position of his squad.

  Ethan carefully peered past the rooftop edge and surveyed the area through his scope. He couldn't find the squad's location at first, but when the emir mentioned he was two homes away from a group of house-clearing Kurds, Ethan spotted the rundown place immediately.

  "I see it."

  The Kurds were quickly closing on Abdullah's location.

  "Can you help us?" the emir said over the radio.

  Ethan wasn't sure what to do. Should he let the Kurds assassinate his team? In theory the answer was yes. But what about Ibrahim and Harb? A sixteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old. Just kids. Friends, even.

  Intending to contact Doug, Ethan grabbed his smartphone and USB stick, but as he distractedly telescoped the antenna the Kurds formed up in front of the house where the Wolf Company squad was hidden. There was no time to reach Doug.

  Ethan dropped the phone and lined up his targeting reticule over the Kurds. The men had taken places on either side of the front door, which was slightly ajar.

  The Kurd nearest the door kicked it open; bullets riddled his body from within the house.

  Ethan chose a Kurdish target. His finger twitched on the trigger, but he didn't fire.

  "Abu-Emad, can you help us?" Abdullah asked again, more urgently.

  The Kurds nearest the door unleashed covering fire into the foyer, while another Kurd dashed across the street. When he was opposite the home, the fighter lifted an M79 Osa rocket launcher.