Black Ops #1 Page 4

  “So, what you are saying is, you are a pussy. Is that it?” Baker said to Williams.

  “I’m not . . .” Williams started, then sighed. “I would be glad to accompany you, Colonel.”

  “You and your cameraman can ride with Captain Chambers and Sergeant Baker,” Art said.

  “That’s my Humvee,” Baker said. “Over there.” He pointed.

  The sound of a dozen or more starting engines disturbed the quiet morning air. Art walked over to his own Humvee, got into the right seat, and settled down. His machine gunner stood in the back, freed the gun to slide around on the ring, cleared the headspace, and activated the bolt.

  “Let’s go, Jimmy,” Art said.

  Nodding in compliance, Art’s driver, Specialist Jimmy Winson, started forward.

  “I’ll tell you what I wish we could find, sir,” Winson said as he maneuvered the Humvee around piles of rubble that spilled over into the street from the buildings that had been destroyed in the fighting. “I wish we could find those sons of bitches that have been beheading people.”

  “That would be great,” Art agreed. “But they are so cowardly that they are never photographed without wearing their hoods, so finding them is unlikely.”

  “Yes, sir, but that don’t stop me for wishing we could find them,” Winson said.

  The surgical preciseness of the attacks was exemplified by the fact that, while buildings on either side of it were rubble, the Abu Hanifa Mosque, from which the call to prayer had come earlier, stood completely undamaged.

  Art twisted around in his seat and saw Sergeant Taboor Tacoob getting his equipment ready. Despite his Arabic name and heritage, Tacoob was 100 percent American, and an avid fan of the Detroit Tigers basball team.

  “All right, Sergeant Tacoob, do your stuff,” Art invited.

  Tacoob nodded, then began speaking Arabic into a microphone. His words were broadcast over a loudspeaker.

  “Mujahedeen fighters, don’t worry because you have tiny peckers. We Americans have medicine that can help you. Come out, let us give you the medicine that will make you into men.

  “Mujahedeen fighters. Come out into the street and face us like men. Don’t hide behind walls like women!

  “Brave warriors of Allah. We are here to help you become martyrs. Come into the street. Tonight you can be enjoying the passion of seventy-two virgins. Oh, wait, what good will seventy-two virgins do you if you all have such tiny peckers?”

  The broadcast taunting of the insurgents was in keeping with the tactics developed by the brain trust in the psy-war section. And, as it had in the past, it proved effective once again, when eight men suddenly rushed out into the street, in broad view.

  Shouting curses, six of the eight men began firing AK-47s from their hip. The other two appeared to be unarmed, until a closer examination showed that each was wearing a bomb-jacket, filled with shrapnel.

  Just above his head, Art’s machine gunner opened up. The big .50 caliber bucked and roared as it kicked out spent shell casings. Art could see the orange balls of tracer rounds, not only from his own Humvee, but from two others, converged on the insurgents who had shown themselves. The six armed insurgents were cut down.

  One of the two remaining insurgents detonated his bomb, killing himself. What he had not realized was that when he killed himself, he also killed his fellow fighter, who was cut down by the shrapnel before he could detonate his own bomb.

  Art continued to lead the convoy down the street. Then from the tower of the mosque came a rapidly moving stream of smoke and fire. A rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the vehicle just behind Art.

  A powerful blast ripped into the Humvee, shooting a cloud of debris high into the air. Two soldiers staggered out, one covered with blood. The Humvee’s right rear door was ripped off, the surrounding metal burned black, and the gunner was sprawled facedown on the side of the road.

  “Look for the shooter! Where’s the shooter?” Art’s gunner shouted.

  Bursts of rifle fire rang out as the soldiers in the convoy opened up with rifles, firing toward the mosque. Dillard fired in the direction of the shooting with his .50-caliber machine gun.

  From the Humvee trailing the one that was hit, Sergeant Baker jumped out, fired back to keep the insurgents down, and sprinted toward the disabled Humvee. Then, coming forward, he brought bad news.

  “Cap’n Mason is down, sir. So’s his driver,” Baker said. “They’re bad hurt, both of ’em.”

  Although armored, the RPG had entered through the windshield, then detonated inside. Machine gun fire from the mosque had followed the rocket attack.

  “Get over there, we’ve got to get out of their angle of fire !” Art ordered, pointing toward the curb on the opposite side of the street. Winson complied quickly, followed by the other vehicles in the convoy. Behind them, unable to move, Captain Mason’s Humvee continued to burn fiercely in the middle of the street. The two men who had been in the back of the Humvee were struggling to pull Captain Mason and his driver out. One of the would-be rescuers was hit by machine gun fire and he went down. The other ran to get out of the line of fire.

  Art dashed out into the street toward the fallen soldier.

  “Colonel!” Captain Chambers called toward Art. “Get back, you’ll be killed!”

  Green tracer rounds whizzed and popped by Art’s head as he ran zigzagging back and forth toward the burning vehicle. It took but one look inside to see that Captain Mason and his driver were both dead.

  “Mac, how bad is it?” Art asked Specialist McKay, the man on the ground. McKay, a young black soldier from Los Angeles, had been in Captain Mason’s Humvee.

  “I took a pretty good hit,” McKay answered, straining to keep the pain from his voice. “You better get back, Colonel.”

  Even as McKay was speaking, bullets slammed into the burning Humvee, making clanging sounds against the armor plate.

  “It’s getting pretty hot out here,” McKay added. “This is no place for you, Colonel!”

  “If I help you, can you walk?” Art asked.

  “Don’t think so,” McKay answered. “I think they shot off my kneecap.”

  “Then I’ll carry you,” Art said. He bent down and picked McKay up, then threw him over his shoulder.

  “You’ll never make it back,” McKay said.

  “Sure I will, Mac,” Art said. “Hell, I’ll just use you as a shield.”

  Despite the situation and his wound, McKay laughed. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

  “Colonel, run, run!” one of the men from the edge shouted, as Art started back.

  “Damn! Look at him go! Who would’ve thought the colonel could run like that?”

  “Well, he played football at West Point.”

  “Shit! He’s not going to make it!”

  “Come on, come on!”

  With McKay draped over his shoulder, Art dashed back through the machine gun fire, once more zigzagging until he reached the street curb, cutting the angle so that the shooters from the mosque didn’t have a line of sight, or a field of fire.

  Two others took McKay off his back then, and laid him on the sidewalk, while the medic came over to take a look at him.

  “Were you hit, Colonel?” Williams asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you kidding, Captain?” Sergeant Baker asked. “Colonel Jensen is my main man. We call him Super Colonel. How’s Habib goin’ to shoot the colonel’s ass? He’s faster than a speeding bullet.”

  “Have you got them spotted, Mike?” Art asked.

  “Yes, sir, they are all in the mosque. There’s at least forty or fifty of them,” Captain Chambers replied. “We’ve got to get inside.”

  “Let’s get some tracks up here,” Art said. “And get Mac back for a med evac.”

  Half an hour later four armored personnel carriers approached the front doors of the mosque. The doors were closed, and a sign posted on the outside read: AMERICAN SOLDIERS, THIS IS A HOLY PLACE. STAY OUT!

  “Blow the doors op
en!” Art ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” came the enthusiastic response.

  The recoilless rifle on one of the vehicles fired toward the closed doors, blowing both of them off their hinges. After the doors were blown, they fired three more high-explosive rounds into the compound, followed by a spray of .50-caliber machine gun fire.

  “Let’s go!” Art shouted, having temporarily taken command of A Company after Captain Mason was killed.

  Art led the men through the smashed doors into the open compound. Screaming in defiance, three insurgents stood up and began firing at the Americans as they came in. They were cut down in a hail of gunfire. In the next room the Americans saw several women and children, huddled together. The expressions on their faces indicated that they believed the soldiers were about to kill them.

  “Tacoob,” Art shouted to his interpreter.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Art nodded toward the women and children. “Tell them they have nothing to fear. We won’t harm them.”

  Tacoob spoke to them, and though they weren’t entirely convinced that they wouldn’t be killed, his assurances eased their fears somewhat.

  “Colonel,” an old man said, appearing from the middle of the group. From his dress, and from the respect the others gave him, Art knew that he was a sheikh. “May I speak with you?” The sheikh’s English was impeccable.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The dead,” the sheikh said. “As a matter of respect, I ask that you gather our dead.”

  “All right,” Art replied. “As soon as we are sure that the mosque is cleared, we’ll do that.”

  “What do you mean, as soon as the mosque is cleared?”

  “We were fired at from the top of the minaret,” Art said.

  “They are not there now,” the sheikh said.

  Art nodded. “All right. As soon as I am sure they aren’t there, we’ll gather the dead.”

  “Come with me,” the sheikh said. “I will show you that the minaret is now empty.”

  Art and two others followed the sheikh up the spiraling staircase to the top of the prayer tower. Art kept the sheikh well in front, figuring that if anyone was still up there, the sheikh would draw the first shots.

  They reached the top, and the sheikh turned toward Art.

  “As you can see, it is empty,” he said.

  Art nodded, then stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over the city. The balcony afforded a good view of Fallujah. The city was showing scars from the battle. Art had read one report stating that nearly ten thousand of the fifty thousand buildings had been destroyed, and half the remaining buildings showed significant damage. From this vantage point, Art was ready to concede the accuracy of the report.

  “All right,” he said a moment later. “The tower is clear. Let’s go back down.”

  Half an hour later, the bodies of all the insurgents had been brought together in one room.

  “How many are there?” Art asked.

  “I counted forty-two,” Sergeant Baker said. “Damn!”

  “What is it?” Art asked.

  “I just saw one of them move. The son of a bitch is still alive. We’d better get a medic in here.”

  Art watched as Sergeant Baker went over to the wounded insurgent. He squatted down beside him, then reached out a hand to touch him. “Hold on there, partner. I’ll get a medic to look at you,” he said.

  Suddenly there was a flash of light and a loud explosion. The insurgent was wearing a bomb, and as Sergeant Baker leaned over to tend to him, the bomb went off. Baker fell back, dead before he hit the floor.

  Several others ran into the room then, drawn by the explosion. Williams and his cameraman came in as well.

  “Holy shit, what happened?”

  “That son of a bitch had a bomb,” Art said, pointing to what was left of the insurgent. Nothing remained but a few chunks of bloody flesh.

  Art heard a sound behind him and, turning, saw one of the “dead” insurgents suddenly sit up.

  “Son of a bitch! He’s alive!” Chambers shouted.

  Art swung his weapon around and fired, hitting the insurgent right between the eyes.

  “He’s dead now,” Art said dryly. Turning back, he saw that the video camera was pointed right at him.

  Al-Rashid Hotel

  John Williams looked at the footage and chortled with glee. This was better than his coverage of the prisoner abuse at Camp Alpha. Those were still photos . . . this was video, clear, sharp, and damning.

  In the background, Williams heard the telephone ring.

  “John,” someone called. “It’s for you.”

  Williams picked up the phone. “Williams.”

  “John, this is Todd Tanner.”

  Williams sat up more sharply. “Yes, sir, Mr. Tanner.”

  “I just finished looking at your Fallujah tape. It’s brilliant.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  “Go to 26.23,” Tanner said.

  Williams ran the tape to the point designated by Tanner.

  “Play it.”

  “There’s nothing there, it’s black.”

  “There’s audio,” Tanner said.

  Williams turned up the volume.

  “. . . shit, the son of a bitch isn’t armed,” a disembodied voice says.

  “Oh yes, I heard that earlier,” Williams said. “But without video—”

  “I hate to lose that,” Tanner said. “Perhaps we could lay it over some video.”

  “But the video stops right after the shooting,” Williams said. “I’m not sure where we could put it.”

  “Perhaps just before the shooting,” Tanner suggested.

  “Mr. Tanner, if we do that it will change the whole dynamics. It will look as if Colonel Jensen knew he wasn’t armed before he killed him.”

  “It will also guarantee this to be the most powerful piece of journalism to come from this war,” Tanner said.

  Williams paused for a moment before he answered. “Damn,” he said. “Damn, what an idea!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Redha, Qambari Arabia

  Sixteen-year-old Amber Pease knew that there were many advantages to living in Qambari Arabia. Her father, Colonel Anthony Pease, was commandant of the U.S. Marine guards for the American embassy. It was an important assignment and because of her father’s position, Amber lived like a princess. They had a beautiful and very spacious home, complete with a staff of servants.

  But there were many things that she missed. If she had been in the States going to a normal high school, she was sure she would be a cheerleader. But her life wasn’t totally different from her counterparts’ back in the States. Amber, who was a junior in the American Dependent High School in Qambari Arabia’s capital city of Redha, had a boyfriend. He was Bobby Drake, a senior, and the son of the deputy ambassador. And just as she was sure she would have been a cheerleader, she knew that Bobby would be playing sports . . . football in season, then basketball.

  But none of that was to be. Sometimes she allowed herself to fantasize about what it would be like to cheer him on to victory in a big game, then go out with him after the game, to a dance, or a party. But this was the only American school in the whole Kingdom of Qambari Arabia, so there were no other schools to play. They did have dances and parties at the school, but they were always very carefully monitored. And there was absolutely no such thing as going out on a date with a boy. Such things were not done in Qambari Arabia. The Qambari teens did not do it, and protocol prohibited the young Americans from doing it.

  Amber got on the school bus with the other students and took her seat next to Bobby.

  “Amber’s got a boyfriend, Amber’s got a boyfriend,” a sixth-grade boy began to chant.

  “Why, Albert, the only reason he is my boyfriend is because you won’t be,” Amber teased. She leaned over and kissed Albert on the forehead. All the other kids in the bus laughed, and Albert’s face turned red.

  Amber and Bobby rode together, talkin
g quietly and sharing the secrets of young love, until Bobby reached his stop. She waved at him from the window, as the bus continued on its way.

  “Come up here and sit by me, Albert,” Amber said. “We can smooch until we reach my stop.”

  “You’re crazy,” Albert said as Amber laughed out loud at her little joke.

  Abdulla sat in the van and watched as the school bus stopped to let the young girl off. She was a pretty girl, blond as so many Americans were. She laughed, and shouted something back to the bus as it drove away. In her short skirt and uncovered head, her tight shirt and bare arms, he thought she looked like a whore. Didn’t the Americans understand the sensitivity of the Qambaris? They knew that women in Qambari Arabia were required to wear burkas but they made no effort to comply. Well, he would see to it that this little harlot paid for her heresy.

  Abdulla waited until the bus had pulled away before he started the van. Then, driving slowly, he approached the young girl.

  “Miss Pease, you must come with me quickly,” he called out to her, reaching over to open the door on the passenger side of the van.

  Amber hesitated, then took a step back and shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know you.”

  “I am one of the gardeners at your house,” Abdulla said. “Please, come with me quickly. Your mother has been hurt.”

  “My mother?” Amber took a step toward the van. “What happened to my mother?”

  “It is a very serious accident. Please, come quickly. There is no time.”

  Hesitantly, but frightened not to do it because her mother might need her, Amber got into the van.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Let me help you fasten your seat belt,” Abdulla said, reaching toward her.

  “I can get—” Amber started to say, but that was as far as she got. She struggled as Abdulla clamped a dampened cloth over her nose and mouth. There was a cloying smell . . . then dizziness . . . then nothing.

  It was every parent’s nightmare, learning that your child was missing. All the children on the bus reported seeing Amber get off the bus, and though nobody saw her getting into another car, two had noticed a white van. Both children had thought the incident was unusual enough to report it to their parents.