The Return Of Dog Team Read online

  He wore black garments: a knit cap, a sweatshirt, and pants. His face was daubed with camouflage black—war paint. He held a pistol at arm’s length. Screwed to the muzzle was a tubelike suppressor. A silencer. It was several inches longer than the barrel to which it was attached.

  Nasruddin barely had time to register what was happening, but it was long enough for him to realize that the slayer was an American.

  Kilroy squeezed the trigger, drilling Nasruddin through the forehead. The pistol’s little apologetic cough that sounded through the suppressor was drowned by the sound of the departing militiamen. There was no muzzle flare. Nasruddin whiplashed in his seat, a thin plume of blood jetting from the hole in his head.

  The driver cringed, throwing his arms up in front of his face as Kilroy’s pistol swung toward him. He opened his mouth to cry out but before he could, Kilroy fired. The silenced pistol made a sound like a man with a bad chest cold clearing his throat. The driver made more noise, flopping around in his seat, banging against the steering wheel and column. Kilroy put another round into him, finishing him off.

  Nasruddin, the gunner, and the driver all lay dead in the scout car. It had all taken place within the span of a handful of heartbeats. That’s how long it had taken Kilroy to actually deliver the fatal shots. It had taken some considerably greater length of time for him to get in position to do so.

  Earlier at dusk, Kilroy and Vang Bulo had gotten into the armored SUV, exited Border Base Foxtrot, and driven east, into the foothills on the Iraq side of the border. Several hours later, they left their vehicle safely hidden in a concealed nook in another wadi, one of the many that honeycombed these hills in an intricate, interlinked network.

  They made their way on foot for several miles, arriving at the place where the gun deal was scheduled to go down. Kilroy knew all the details as to time, locale, and disposition of hostile forces. He had an informant, a highly placed one, in Hassani Akkad’s gang. He and Vang Bulo arrived some time before Fadleel’s advance men, who scouted the area while the duo lay in their places of concealment, watching them. The scouts never even came close to where they were. Then Fadleel and the gunrunners and the armored car had arrived, and presently some of Akkad’s gang in two trucks.

  All were unaware of the presence of the uninvited. Kilroy and Vang Bulo moved into position on the armored car. Kilroy circled around to the back of it, crouched almost double, scrambling for cover from rock to rock. And there weren’t that many rocks. He’d had to lowcrawl for the last ten yards of the final approach to the scout car.

  It was no fun, a slow, painstaking, demanding process. Dust got in his nose, and he was afraid he was going to sneeze. Somehow he stifled the impulse. He’d had a bad moment when Maroof had stalked away from the scout car toward the sidelines. He lay flat on his belly on an open piece of ground a few body lengths away from the rear of the vehicle. But he’d been unnoticed as Maroof made his way over to the heap of stones, just happening to wander into the area where Vang Bulo was hiding. Not so unlikely, really. The boulders provided the best cover on the knoll.

  Kilroy had planned to take out all four men in one swoop. He never questioned his ability to kill all four before they could raise so much as an outcry, never mind actually defending themselves.

  As it was, Maroof had been a bonus. Vang Bulo had peeked out from behind a rock and given Kilroy the high sign that the noncom had been neutralized. That left three for Kilroy.

  The trucks below started their engines, triggering Kilroy’s onslaught. He rose, closing in on the scout car, the silenced pistol held out in front of him. His first shot had taken the gunner in the back of the neck just below the base of the skull, severing the spinal cord and negating all reflex nerve activity while causing instant death.

  The extermination action was carried out like a gangland-style hit And why not? Mob hitmen could be extraordinarily efficient. Besides, it made it look like the killings had been carried out by crime gang shooters, pointing the finger at Akkad’s people.

  Now it was done, with no one in the wadi any the wiser.

  Below, Akkad gang’s trucks were gone, leaving a pale ribbon of dust to mark their wake. The thin dust curtain faded into nothingness.

  The gunrunners stood grouped around their two vehicles, all eight of them, all but Fadleel and Khargis, who stood apart from the others. The two started toward the knoll where the scout car stood. Nasruddin had to get his cut; or rather, Captain Saq’s cut. The lion’s share.

  Fadleel and Khargis were used to the muted light of the trucks. Away from the glow, their eyes were slow to adjust to the dark. The scout car was a dim, bulky block outlined against the top of the knoll.

  Fadleel carried the briefcase. Speaking softly, he said, “You should not have made that remark about Saddam Hussein, Khargis. Some of Akkad’s kin were Saddam Fedayeen.”

  “Their kin, yes, but not Hassani or Jafar. They’re too busy with their infamies to court martyrdom. They should burn in eternal hellfire along with the tyrant Saddam,” said Khargis. “Besides, I have no fear of those Sunni dogs.”

  Fadleel’s sigh was that of a long-suffering man. “It’s a matter not of fear but of diplomacy. This is business. Why provoke one of those hotheads into violence that could undo us all?”

  They were about midway to the knoll when the scout car’s headlights came on. They were bright, dazzling. Fadleel raised his free hand and held it in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the glare. In the light, he and Khargis cast long, giant shadows across the wadi floor. Khargis growled. Ever suspicious, he was already unlimbering his AK-47 assault rifle for action. Behind him, the other gunrunners stirred, some shouting, all reaching for their weapons.

  Kilroy stood in the turret atop the rear of the scout car, manning the machine gun. Vang Bulo sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel.

  The scout car was empty of corpses, the dead having been dragged out and placed on the ground nearby, where they lay sprawled in grotesque attitudes of violent death.

  Khargis leveled his weapon, bringing the muzzle up in line with the scout car.

  Kilroy fired first, squeezing off a heavy machine gun burst that stitched Khargis across the middle. A quick burst—brrrip!—and it was done. Khargis crumpled.

  Fadleel was outraged. He couldn’t believe that he was about to fall victim to a fatal double-cross—he, who had engineered so many similar fatal reversals for others. The injustice of it!

  Kilroy chopped him with a stuttering burst. A line of fire ripped through the briefcase, popping it open, the high-powered rounds shredding wadded blocks of bills into confetti.

  With smooth, swift ease, Kilroy swung the machine gun muzzle toward the gunrunners milling around the trucks. He depressed the firing studs, pumping lead at them.

  They threw up their arms, whirling and dancing in the storm of steel that sieved them. Yellow flares speared from the machine gun’s muzzle. It ground out rounds like a mill—a murder mill. Gunsmoke clouded the scout car. The headlights’ beams probed through the haze.

  Kilroy sprayed the other gunrunners with machine-gun fire. Rounds ripped through truck metal with pinging sounds like a cowbell being struck. Most of the men at the trucks were cut down in the initial fusillade. Some lasted several seconds longer, then fell.

  One ran for cover. A burst cut off one of his legs. He fell down. He lay on the ground, writhing and screaming. Another burst danced across his prone form, silencing and stilling him.

  Kilroy eased off the trigger. There wasn’t anybody left to kill. He put some more rounds into their prone forms to make sure. Cordite fumes were thick in his lungs. He realized he was panting, like he’d just run a race. It was hard to catch his breath with the fumes choking him. Gunsmoke billowed up out of the wadi. Beyond the protection of rock walls, the ghostly gray haze was broken apart by the winds.

  Kilroy was pleased to note that the scout car and machine gun were well maintained and in good operating condition. Captain Saq’s border guards
were an elite unit, and he was a demanding taskmaster. Of course, if they’d really been an elite unit, Nasruddin and his men couldn’t have been taken so easily. But at least the hardware was well maintained. The machine gun had seemed fully operable and in good working order during the hasty but thorough inspection he’d given it before pressing it into service for the mass liquidation of the gunrunners.

  Still, one could never solely rely on somebody else’s weapon. Kilroy and Vang Bulo had kept their own assault rifles and some grenades near at hand, too, as a backup. But they hadn’t been needed.

  This way fit the frame better. Fadleel’s people and the other smuggling clans in the area would all think that Captain Saq had set the scout car to slaughter the gunrunners. Saq and his higher-ups would think that the scout car crew had been slain by Akkad’s gang, thereby sowing mutual distrust, hatred, and fear among the various interested parties.

  Kilroy picked up his own rifle, a Kalash. It fit the cover story that he was trying to lay down here. Besides, it was a superior weapon.

  He hopped down to the ground, landing lightly, eyeing the massacre scene. The gunrunners lay strewn on the wadi floor, their bodies contorted in twisted postures. The killing ground was littered with fallen leaves of paper that was money.

  Nearer was the body of Lt. Nasruddin. He lay flat on his back. His eyes were open, bulging, and staring. The hole in his forehead looked like a third eye. Kilroy turned out his pockets and patted him down, searching him. He found Nasruddin’s identification papers and took them. Such documents had value. He did the same with the driver and gunner.

  When he was done, he climbed into the front passenger seat of the scout car. Bloodstains splashed the compartment, but there was no place here for squeamishness. He ignored them.

  The machine’s diesel engine had an electric starter. Vang Bulo tripped it. There was a slight hesitation, then with a cracking sound like a logjam breaking, the motor turned over. It blapped, stuttered, then va-roomed into full, roaring action. The engine idled heavily, its vibrations agitating the entire vehicle.

  Vang Bulo worked the twin stick shifts and clutch pedals, throwing them into gear. The scout car lurched forward, its headlight beams hanging level for an instant, then pointing down. It rolled down the slope of the knoll, leveling on the wadi floor. It swung wide to avoid the bodies strewn around the bullet-riddled trucks.

  “A nice clean sweep,” Kilroy said. “Too bad we couldn’t bag Akkad’s gang at the same time.”

  Vang Bulo said, “That would ruin the buildup.”

  They were both shouting over the engine noise. Kilroy said, “With any luck, this should flush out Colonel Munghal to handle things personally. Especially with that big delivery coming up.”

  “Right.”

  “This scout car will come in handy, too. I have a use for it later on.”

  “Of that I’ve no doubt.”

  The scout car advanced, nosing into the westward branch of the wadi, the one taken earlier by the gang members. Leaving the carnage behind. Making for Iraq. Toward future carnage.

  One thing about the downfall of Saddam Hussein: it sure had enlivened the nightlife of such places as Azif. When Saddam was in power, prospects for nightlife were simple. There wasn’t any. Saddam didn’t like people running around unsupervised after dark—or in the daytime, either—but it was worse at night because the darkness made it likelier that somebody might get away with an anti-Saddam action, such as weeping over the fate of an executed family member or friend. Such mourning in itself was regarded as an act of treason, since the bereaved was lamenting the fate of one who’d committed the unforgivable crime of falling afoul of the Great Man himself. In Saddam’s day, night was for citizens to seal themselves up in their homes and hope that daylight would come without some of the dictator’s secret police breaking down their doors and taking them away.

  That was then. But Saddam’s downfall had also liberated Iraqi after-dark activities in town and country. Which is not to say that the citizenry had suddenly developed a passion for such nocturnal activities as taking in a show, nightclubbing, or barhopping. There were less of those kinds of activities now than there had been before the overthrow, because at least then the members of Saddam’s inner circle were free to drink, drug, and carouse to their heart’s content, as long as they remained in favor with the regime.

  But there was a soaring increase in some of the more traditional and time-honored pastimes of those who do in darkness what they dare not do in daylight. There was more crime, subversion, and wholesale killings of all sorts: personal, familial, tribal, religious, and political.

  Azif was a case in point. The typical nocturnal cycle went something like this: in early evening, the police halted their patrols, returning to the station houses and barricading themselves behind locked doors in hopes that they wouldn’t be attacked, raided, or blown up before dawn.

  The streets were given up to Red Dome Mosque militia patrols. Some drove around in cars and trucks, prowling the streets and alleys, looking for foes to tangle with or citizens to crack down on. They avoided the Shiite district on the far side of town. The Shia minority had their own militia and defense organizations, well-armed bands that were supported and supplied by their coreligionists in the Shiite-ruled town of Quusaah. They were able to defend themselves and their neighborhood; consequently, the Red Dome militiamen stayed away. Otherwise, Imam Hamdi’s followers had free run of Azif.

  An important role was played in the town’s domestic affairs by the imam’s Purity League patrols. Technically, their name was the Society for Suppression of Vice—the morality police. Their mission was to root out what they called violations of Islamic law. In practice, this meant the intolerant anti-Westernism preached night and day in the Red Dome Mosque.

  These zealots enforced the dress code that forbade women and girls to go about with their heads uncovered or wearing revealing clothing. Violators were subject to fines and whippings. Repeat offenders were subject to more serious penalties. And that was during the day. Any females found going abroad unescorted at night were regarded as prostitutes and were run out of town following a thorough beating.

  The one liquor store in Azif had been one of the first casualties. The owner and several family members were shot, and the store burned. Its stocks of alcohol made a splendid and spectacular bonfire to delight the hearts of the believers.

  Red Dome Militia purity patrols roamed the streets during the first half of the night, searching for violators so they could beat holy hell out of them. Those caught drinking or even smelling of alcohol on their breath were flogged right on the streets where they were taken, for all to see.

  By midnight, though, the purity police usually called a halt to their activities, leaving the streets to those with more lethal intentions. That was the hour that the Red Dome death squads came out. Their kill lists were long and varied: Imam Hamdi’s rival clerics from other mosques, local strongmen who refused to bow down to militia boss Waleed Tewfiq, Iraqi interim government officials, collaborators with Coalition forces, police chiefs, political foes, dissidents, grumblers, those of suspect loyalties—the lists went on and on. Red Dome disciples never doubted that all would come right in the end if only they killed enough people.

  Another power in Azif was crime boss Hassani Akkad. Nighttime was the right time for Akkad’s small army of thugs, thieves, gamblers, gunmen, extortionists, kidnappers, and killers to carry out the dark deeds of their criminal enterprises. There had been some embarrassing confrontations when crook-dom bumped up against militiamen as they made their respective nightly rounds. Neither side was eager to force a showdown with the other, especially during this vital Sunni time of struggle against a Shiite-majority government.

  To defuse the situation, Hassani Akkad and Waleed Tewfiq had entered into a kind of nonaggression and mutual-assistance pact. Akkad’s ability, through his Iranian contacts, to supply the militia with virtually limitless stores of weapons and ammunition at bargain prices w
as a major incentive to forging the new alliance. It was this alliance that had come under the gunsights of the Dog Team.

  One place that night prowlers of all persuasions shunned was the Graveyard of Martyrs. That made it useful for Kilroy’s purposes. Three o’clock in the morning found him in the graveyard awaiting a planned meeting.

  The graveyard was located about a half a mile south of town, on a lonely, forsaken flat. The site was old and undistinguished, and the landscape had a dreary quality. Marshy lowlands, no good for farming, grew mostly spiky thornbushes, bramble patches, and rank, weedy fields.

  The Graveyard of Martyrs had achieved its status during the Iraq war, when several companies of Saddam loyalists had dug in there in an attempt to withstand the advancing coalition forces coming up from the south. The defenders initially mounted a stiff resistance with artillery, mortar, and machine-gun fire, stalling the enemy advance. However, their defense was foredoomed from the start. It held for just as long as it took for the coalition to call in air support. Jets had bombed the site; AC-10 Warthog aircraft cleaned up with nose cannons and Gatling guns. What few survivors there were cleared out at the first lull in the shooting. Later, after the war, the dead there were buried in mass graves.

  The site had been bordered by a chest-high stone wall. Parts of it had survived the bombing, but not many. Of those, none stood unbroken for a span of more than three or four yards. Some sections of wall slanted out of the ground at acute angles.

  Within, the ground was torn up, cratered, and knobbed as though pummeled by giant fists. Grave markers stuck out at odd angles from plowed-up ridges and mounds. Sinkholes existed where rows of graves had been. The ground was weedy. Small, stagnant, scummy pools of water lay in the bottom of bomb craters. Bats flew overhead, circling above the graveyard.

  In the southeast quadrant of the site were several stone mausoleums dating back to the late nineteenth century. Most of them had been blown to bits, but a few had survived relatively intact. One of them had been half buried by a mound of bulldozed earth. It provided Kilroy with a good vantage point. By standing on top of it and looking northwest, he commanded a view of the graveyard, the flat beyond, and a handful of buildings at the southern edge of Azif.