Don Pendleton - Atomic Fracture

The technique was known as a “flying block.” And it worked almost exactly the same way every time Nosiar employed it.

The army trucks screeched to a halt.

And gunfire erupted immediately.

Dark-haired, dark-skinned men—obviously of Arab descent but wearing jeans, T-shirts and other forms of Western dress—suddenly appeared from the Enclaves behind the trucks and rose from hiding in the beds of the pickups. AK-47s, some of Russian origin, others Kalashnikov copies made in China, began to sputter out 7.62 mm bullets to penetrate the canvas sides of the military trucks. Nosiar caught himself breathing faster and deeper as his men moved forward, still firing, to surround the trucks and shred the canvas.

Emad Nosiar was pleased to see that his prayer to God had been at least partially answered. Two of the three trucks did indeed contain Radestani soldiers. While the rifle fire from his men continued, he watched through the threads of canvas as the surprised troops jerked back and forth in death throes, having no time to bring their own weapons into play.

The third truck in the small army convoy appeared to contain rations. As the men who had appeared from the Enclaves poured round after round through the canvas, Nosiar saw cans of food explode and fly through the air. Ragged metal cans and broken glass bottles became impromptu shrapnel in the assault.

The odors of canned meat, vegetables and other food—rations that would never reach the government soldiers for whom they’d been intended—rose with the wind, all the way to the eleventh floor of the Hotel Salahudden to penetrate the cracks around the window and enter Emad Nosiar’s olfactory glands.

Along with those smells came the stench of death in the form of blood, expelled feces and urine. Not to mention the screams of terror as completely innocent and unaligned men, women and children along the sidewalks fell to wildly aimed rounds.

As Nosiar continued to watch through his binoculars, a large shard of glass flew through the air. It sliced into the hoodlike covering of a woman’s black burka at the throat. Then, unseen behind the garment, it severed her jugular and slammed her to her back on the sidewalk. Nosiar turned his binoculars downward and watched as blood raised the material in front of her neck, pushing it upward with each beat of her petrified heart. When the fire-hose stream had reached its height above her neck, it splashed back down, then ran to the sides, creating huge black pools on both sides of her head.

Her burka stayed in place and she died faceless.

Breathing even harder as he watched, Nosiar wondered for a moment if it was the will of God that he take such delight in such things. Especially with a woman who was undoubtedly a fellow Muslim. But the thoughts were disturbing so he attributed them to Satan. Yes, such thoughts had to come from Satan. The great enemy of God shoved them into his mind to slow his progress in the never-ending jihad.

There was always going to be collateral damage. That was simply life in the jihad. He could not afford to worry about it. The dead in God would go immediately to paradise as martyrs. Let the demonic Westerners—especially the Great Satan America—worry about collateral damage. They were the ones who would burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.

When the woman had bled out and lay still on the concrete, Nosiar turned his binoculars back to the trucks. All but one of the soldiers in the first two trucks was now dead. Some had fallen forward onto the floor of the vehicle; some hung awkwardly out over the sides, while others had fallen to the ground. The shreds of canvas tarp that had hidden them earlier now flapped in the breeze.

The one man who remained alive had been shot in both legs. He lay sideways on the street, the OD green battle dress pants of his uniform soaked black with blood. He was trying valiantly but vainly to pull himself to the curb with both hands as sweat ran down his forehead into his convulsively blinking eyes.

Nosiar continued to watch. One of his men, wearing faded blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt and carrying one of the AK-47s, broke off from the front of the truck and walked purposefully toward the lone survivor. Through his round glass lenses, Nosiar could see a sadistic grin on the face of that man. He glanced into the glass window once more at his own face. It was smiling very much like the man below who was about to commit murder.

The man in the white T-shirt stopped next to the broken soldier. Aiming his rifle downward, he shot him first in the right elbow.

The government soldier fell forward for a second. Then he raised his head slightly and tried to scratch his way forward using his left arm.

The muzzle of the AK-47 pressed into the injured man’s other elbow. Then it jumped slightly again with recoil.

Blood, tissue and bone fragments shot out from the now quadriplegic soldier. With no way left to crawl, he twisted at the waist and fell back against the concrete, looking up at his torturer.

Nosiar’s blue-jeaned man jammed the barrel of his rifle into the soldier’s forehead. For a moment Nosiar thought the AK-47 would end the man’s life right there. But the man in the T-shirt appeared to change his mind and pulled the rifle back toward him. Instead of aiming at the head, the 7.62 mm weapon was now pointed at the soldier’s lower abdomen. A 3-round burst exploded out of the weapon and the man on the ground grimaced in pain.

The trio of gut shots would ensure the man died before help could arrive. But it also ensured a slower, more torturous and lingering demise than a head shot would have provided.

Nosiar’s chuckle became an audible laugh. He had trained his men well. The screams of the dying soldier would send a message to the civilians on the sidewalks who had survived the attack.

The gunfire was over now. The Radestani military men had been vanquished. So Nosiar raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “Ali One to Three through Five. Did we sustain any casualties?” he asked.

“Negative,” came the responses from the men below.

“Good,” Nosiar said. “Gather up all weapons and extra magazines. If the trucks are still drivable, assign drivers and bring them with you. And make sure you shout enough ridiculous PSOF slogans so the civilians hiding along the street will believe you are from the People’s Secular Opposition Forces.” He could still feel the excitement in his chest and had to force himself to breathe shallowly. “Then proceed to the second site. Team Two may need backup.”

Without waiting for any answers, Nosiar let his binoculars fall to the end of their strap and picked up his own AK-47 from where he had rested it against the wall by the window. Without further ado, he left the hotel room and walked down the hall to the elevator. On the way, he passed a young couple who had undoubtedly heard the gunfire outside the building. Both stared at his rifle, then closed their eyes in terror and pressed their backs against the wall to let him pass.

Nosiar walked onto the elevator and took it to the twelfth floor, then walked down another hall to the other side of the building where he had rented another room. Inserting the key card, he entered and walked directly to the window, pulling back the curtains.

Below, he saw two more streets. Another busy intersection. And more parked vehicles that he recognized. As he waited, he saw the two pickups and Buick Enclaves turn the corner, their drivers looking for places to set up again.

Excitement still filled Nosiar’s chest as the vehicles pulled into parking spaces. The intersection would again be closed, and other vehicles would pull in behind to prevent a retreat. Again, the words “flying block” crossed his mind. The term had been coined by someone in the press when it had first begun to be used in the Syrian civil war. The technique, and the term for it, had caught on all over the Islamic world.