Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

“We got nothing,” the skipper told Barkley.

“That’s too bad,” the first sergeant said, and Colonel Snow stepped close to hear. “Any sign they had been there?”

“Air flew recon but saw no vehicles,” the captain said. “Of course, this close to the river, they can hide a battalion in the salt cedars. We took a run through the village and saw zero. But the one citizen who would talk to us reported seeing several gun trucks come through this morning, rally around, then depart to the south. One fellow wore a fancy uniform, and had a black jihadi flag flapping on his Haji Humvee.”

“That would be them,” Snow said.

“Could they have gotten word we were coming?” the captain asked.

“More likely Zarqawi changed his mind,” Elmore said.

“Or the whole thing was a ruse from the get-go,” Crenshaw said, and added, “which is a distinct possibility.”

“Regardless,” Elmore said, “they’ve departed the area, apparently south. My bet, they’re headed to Omar’s headquarters. We believe it’s one of these water stations out in the big middle of nowhere, to the southwest of our location.”

Barkley added, “Except for the gun wagons with the dozen Hajis they may have headed back here. And however many other trucks split off to go back to their outposts.”

“Good point, but maybe they haven’t split up yet. Or maybe they’re all going to Omar’s house for a festive beheading and goat roast, now that Zarqawi’s obviously not a factor,” Snow said, and unfolded his tactical map across the hood of the first sergeant’s Humvee.

After he gave it a good look, he told the captain on the radio, “Skipper, I suggest that you will do well to collect your force and move with all haste to overtake this bunch. If they’re unaware of our presence, which I believe, they will likely move at a leisurely pace.

“Bear in mind they have a goodly-sized force; therefore, I expect that they’ll travel in wide intervals, scattered in small bunches, but coordinated. Close enough so they can reinforce each other. As such, they’ll be difficult to spot from air assets, and challenging to engage, given the terrain and their tactics. Lots of rat holes and gullies to run through. This is their backyard, not ours.

“But, I think that if we move our forces on them from two directions, cutting off their head and running up their tails, we’ll have a good shot at killing a bunch of them.

“We’re going to roll fast, cross-country to the southwest, and press hard to intercept their column before they reach their headquarters. We believe they have Gunny Valentine at that location. Ultimately, all our forces will converge on Omar’s headquarters. Hopefully, we will take out his army while they’re in movement and arrive in time to save my Marine.”

“Roger that,” the captain said, his voice bouncing with his body as his war wagon ran at high speed, going south, picking up the trail left by the Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah legion of trucks. “We’re on our way.”

“Outbound, too. Meet you in the middle,” Barkley told the captain, and clicked off the air.

Then he looked at the American soldiers and ragged crew of Iraqi troops. “Colonel, you think these housekeeping commandos can handle a dozen Qaeda guns running at them in Haji home-built Hummers? If those boys decide to come home?”

“They’ll have to,” Elmore said. “We’ve got to roll hard to intercept Omar before he gets his force home. They beat us there, they’ll ensconce themselves in their hardened defenses, hold us at bay, and kill Jack.”

In two minutes, eighteen up-armored Hummers, turrets pointed to battle, fifty-four Marines riding inside, blood in their teeth, put a dust storm in the air. They ran hard and fast, racing cross-country to head off Abu Omar.

Taking a Lawrence of Arabia dramatic pose behind the driver side of the cab, his white keffiyeh fluttering down his back, gripping his Russian machine gun, tanker goggles covering his eyes, Omar Bakr stood tall and proud in the bed of his truck. His force motored behind his Toyota at a comfortable speed along the base of a ridge, heading south. On the opposite side from him, a trusted captain held the grips of the other Kalashnikov PKMS.

Abu Omar’s soldiers had taken the black al-Sunnah flag that the legion had unfurled in Rawa, and planted it in the stake hole by the tailgate of Omar’s Toyota. As the banner waved, and a sea of odd-colored gun wagons spread behind him in a series of lines like chevrons on a uniform, Field Marshal Abu Omar Bakr Abd al-Majid al-Tikriti now felt truly royal.

Zarqawi not showing in Rawa, word coming that he had fallen ill, Omar Bakr scoffed at the excuse as, “A likely story.” He stood on the tailgate of his pickup and gave a great speech to his army, calling them to unite all al-Qaeda Iraq forces under his true Iraqi banner. The cause of Jamaat Ansar al-Sunnah represented the true Sunni faithful, not the Jordanian Palestinian expatriate. Omar branded Abu Musab a coward and declared victory. Now the graybeard led a glorious parade home in celebration of the propitious day.

As such, he had rallied all of his army behind his flag and commanded them to come and celebrate with him, just as Arabian sheiks of old had once done. Thus he stood in the bed of his truck, riding crop held high, pointing forward, grand in his uniform and bright sash, leading the parade like Patton.

In his self-aggrandizing daydream, Omar envisioned himself sitting on a leopard-skin-and-gold-covered throne beneath his date palms, surrounded by his warrior tribe, goats roasting on skewers over a dozen fires. In the evening, they would triumphantly sharpen their knives and cut off Jack Valentine’s head.

A return to true greatness. He smiled as he daydreamed the grandeur, and his forces rode comfortably behind him.

“What did you do to me?” Yasir said as he opened his eyes. Then putting his hand on his aching head, he looked up at Sabeen, who cradled him across her lap. Tears ran off her cheeks and splashed on the old skunk.

“I am so sorry! I had to do it. Forgive me,” she wept, then, having his attention, she clutched his face with both of her hands. “Please, Yasir. We must go! Quickly! My family in Jordan. They have money. They will take care of us both. We can go there, and live very happy. Please?”

The goatherd liked the thought of fleeing from Iraq and the war. Leave behind this horrible life, living in the dirt, sleeping on a stone floor. Then he noticed the open cell, and he pulled away from the young woman.

“You have killed us all!” he shouted, fighting to his feet. “You fool! You fool! Do you know what you have done?” He pulled Sabeen up by her shoulders and wrapped his hands around her throat. His eyes filled with rage, and the heavy girl screamed as Yasir squeezed.

“No, Yasir,” she struggled, his thumbs pressing hard into her throat, shutting off her cries.

“Stop! What are you doing?” A voice at the top of the stairs shouted, and Yasir let up his grip.

“Why would you kill the one who chose to stay and help us? You always were the fool, Yasir.”

As Sabeen stepped away from his reach, Yasir looked up the steps at the one surviving guard, and whined, “But she hit me! With the frying pan!”

Throwing his guts up had cleared Haazim the gunman’s stomach of the toxic chemicals, and he began to recover from the effects that the eyedrops had had on his central nervous system, wrecking its ability to control blood pressure and body temperature, among the many other side effects. Now the angry jihadi wanted revenge.

“Those three Christian whores, they fled with the American!” Haazim said. “They had this planned. They poisoned our food. In the vegetables. I could taste it.”