A Cold Day In Mosul (8 page)

Othunan frowned. "My troops are ill-equipped. Before I can help you I need supplies. Arms."

"You will have them," Doug said.

"Modern weapons," Othunan said. "Not more AK-47s. I want M16s. With laser sights. And night vision scopes."

"Of course," Doug said.

"And plated armor. And grenades. Yes, rocket propelled grenades. Oh, and I also want target designators. To direct airstrikes."

Doug shook his head. "Can't give you designators. They're beyond the scope of this operation."

"But we need airstrikes," Othunan said stubbornly. "Think beyond your little operation... if we are to push the Islamic State from this city, we must bomb them to hell. Like Kobane and Sinjar."

"Kobane is in ruins now because of those airstrikes you covet so badly," Doug said. "And Sinjar is well on its way to the same fate."

Othunan threw up his arms. "The West encourages us to fight and rise up against the illegal Caliphate, and yet it refuses to grant the supplies, training, and airstrikes we need! And don't even get me started on the useless Iraqi army. We have waited for them to arrive for months. Months!"

"You're forgetting the goals of this operation," Doug said. "I don't give a rat's ass about the liberation of Mosul. I really don't. It would be nice, sure, but in the overall scheme of things it really is an internal Iraqi matter. All I care about is getting my operative back. I can give you supplies, and arms, but no airstrikes. Can I rely on you for help, or not?"

Othunan opened and closed his fists for several seconds, apparently fuming inside. But finally he seemed to relax. "Yes, I can help. But if I am to work for the American government, I will require a monthly fee."

Doug compressed his lips. "I think I can arrange something."

"I want three hundred thousand US dollars. Per month."

Doug stared at Othunan for several seconds.

"This is bullshit," Doug abruptly announced in English, then made a beeline for the warehouse exit. "Let's go, Emad. We've made a mistake."

Othunan stared wide-eyed at Doug's back.

Ethan didn't move. He regarded the resistance leader thoughtfully. He'd dealt with men like Othunan before. He was simply another war opportunist looking to cash in on the chaos and uncertainty brought about by the occupation; he had no intention of making any real difference. Sure, he'd performed a few attacks against the Islamic State, random strikes meant to draw Western attention and funding. Or maybe he just wanted to grandstand. Either way, his endgame was likely some position of power in post-Islamic State Iraq.

"Now you deal with me," Ethan told the resistance leader.

"I do not speak with underlings." Othunan started to turn away.

"Don't you move!" Ethan said angrily.

Othunan froze.

"I'm not an underling." Ethan glanced over his shoulder. He knew that William had been silently shadowing them, moving from shelf to shelf as well as he was able, because the resistance fighters assigned to watch him had moved, too. So he raised his voice, and said, "Put Othunan in your sights."

The red dot returned to Othunan's chest. Ethan raised his A4, adding the threat of his own weapon to the mix.

The two escorting resistance fighters immediately lifted their AKs; one aimed at Ethan, the other William. Ethan didn't flinch. Other men emerged from the shadows and clumsily repositioned themselves, placing one or the other operative within their sight lines.

Ethan smiled patiently.

"Are you all in position?" Ethan asked the resistance fighters. No one answered. "Good." He returned his attention to their leader. "How much is your life worth to you, Othunan? Ten thousand US dollars? Twenty thousand? Three hundred thousand, perchance?"

Othunan regarded him with a glower. "Three hundred thousand, at least."

Ethan tapped his chin. "Three hundred thousand US dollars. Seems reasonable. Tell you what I'll do. You agree to help us for one month, just one whole month, and I give you your life. Seems a fair exchange."

"If you shoot me," Othunan said. "My men will mow you down an instant later."

"They can certainly try," Ethan said menacingly.

"You won't shoot me," Othunan persisted. "You need my help."

"Do we really?" Ethan said. "We would
like
your help, but that's way different than
needing
your help. Trust me, we're very capable of finding and springing her on our own if we have to."

That was somewhat of a bluff, as Ethan knew it would take a lot less time to find her with a hundred men watching the comings and goings of the Islamic State as opposed to three. Plus, the compound where Sam was held would likely be well defended. The more men able to provide backup, the better.

Othunan worked his jaw, but said nothing.

Ethan softened his expression. "Look." The word came out as a half sigh. "We'll give you a monthly stipend. Okay? But it'll be more like three thousand, not three hundred thousand. And if you do well, we might even double it. Do spectacularly, and we'll triple it. Now agree, damn it, so my sniper and I can lower our rifles. Agree."

Othunan clenched his jaw, probably trying to pretend he was angry, but Ethan wasn't buying it. He could see those beady little eyes calculating all the things that could be purchased for three thousand dollars a month.

"Six thousand," Othunan said.

"Three," Ethan returned instantly.

The resistance leader glanced up at William again and licked his lips nervously. "Four thousand—"

"Three," Ethan interrupted. "Take it or leave it."

Othunan must have realized he wasn't going to get a better offer than that, because he said, "I agree to your terms."

"Good," Ethan told the resistance leader. "But one thing." He stepped right up to the man from the side, staying out of William's shot. "How do we know we can trust you? What's the Islamic State to you? Why do you fight them?"

Ethan wasn't sure what he wanted to hear. He'd already concluded that the man did it solely for the potential money and prestige, rather than out of any sense of obligation to his people, so it took him by surprise when Othunan lifted the cap he wore low on his brow, revealing an ugly cross-shaped scar branded into his forehead. His ears had been cut off, too.

It was a punishment the Saddamists had instituted upon draft dodgers and deserters after the First Gulf War.

"The Islamic State, and those they are descended from, will always be my enemies," Othunan said. He replaced the cap angrily.

"Perhaps I misjudged you," Ethan said quietly. He stepped back, and pointed the barrel of his A4 at the floor. "Lower the rifle, William."

The laser dot left Othunan's chest. The man maintained his defiant posture as he told his fighters: "Stand down."

Ethan discovered Doug pacing back and forth outside.

"This is one of those times when I wish I hadn't given up dipping tobacco," Doug complained. He proceeded to describe all the things he planned to do to Othunan, none of them very nice.

Ethan raised a hand, interrupting him. "You might want to go back inside. I think you'll find him more amenable."

"What did you do?"

Ethan shrugged. "Nothing. Your little walkout had the desired effect."

"Well, there you go," Doug said proudly. "That's a free negotiation lesson for you from the master. Never be afraid to walk away."

Ethan smiled widely. "A useful lesson indeed."

eight

A
fter sealing the deal, the three of them left the abandoned refinery behind. After only a minute of driving that deserted street, an Islamic State technical approached in the oncoming lane. It swerved in front of them and cut the Land Cruiser off.

"Open up the map," Ethan said urgently. He unclipped his phone from the dash and hid it in a pocket. He didn't want the militants to know he had a working GPS.

From the storage compartment in the center console, Doug grabbed the street map of Mosul they'd brought along, and opened it.

A young, bearded militant emerged from the passenger side of the pickup and, carrying his AK menacingly, approached the Land Cruiser.

"What are you doing in this area?" the militant asked Ethan sternly. He was a local, judging from the accent.

"We're lost?" Ethan said, keenly aware of the rifles hidden underneath the cloth blankets on the floor behind him.

The militant looked inside the vehicle and regarded the other passengers, who were doing their best to appear meek and docile. When the militant noticed the map in Doug's lap, he pursed his lips. "Your IDs."

The militant raised an eyebrow when Ethan produced the passports.

"You are not from Mosul?" the young man said.

"No, we're visiting relatives."

"If you are going to stay longer than three days, you must report to one of the
Dawla
"—State—"administration offices. They will get you a proper ID."

"No one told us this," Ethan said.

"Well I'm telling you." The militant quickly perused the photo pages, then handed the passports back. He surveyed the street around them. "This is a dangerous area. Bandits, Kurds, and other enemies of Islam sometimes hide in these buildings. It is not safe."

Ethan nodded toward the map. "Can you point us toward the nearest main road?"

"I can do better. I can lead you."

And so the technical led them through the neighborhood. Ethan followed closely; the militant in the truck bed scanned the sky constantly, his anti-aircraft gun ready to fire at any airborne targets. It was a futile effort, Ethan knew, given that most of the allied bombers would be flying well out of range.

The technical emerged into a more populated area, and Ethan waved his thanks to the mujahadeen before pulling over to the side of the road as if to further consult his map.

When the pickup vanished down the street, he had Doug put the map away, then he clipped his phone to the dash once more and re-entered traffic.

At the forward operating base, William went off to fetch more food, leaving Doug and Ethan in the courtyard.

Doug set the Iridium Go down near the middle of the yard for the best reception, then worked on an email to the Secretary regarding their progress. Ethan meanwhile lounged upon the dry grass beneath the sprawling terebinth tree. Most of the courtyard was in the shade as the sun was close to the horizon by that point. He watched a sand fly land on a blade of grass beside him. That reminded him of something.

Ethan reached into his pack and retrieved the DEET-based product he'd brought along, and rubbed it into his skin. Then he sprayed his clothes with permethrin repellent. Though he hated the smell of the products, using them was a necessity, especially if he was going to be sleeping outdoors, as the chemicals protected him from sand flies. Terrible little insects, they could infect a man with leishmaniasis, a flesh-eating parasite that inflicted the equivalent of third-degree burns at the bite site, causing several incredibly painful boils, not to mention insomnia and short-temperedness among other psychological affects.

When he was done, he put his arms behind his head and lay back. Though he stunk of chemicals, he could finally relax and enjoy a peaceful moment to himself.

He thought of Alzena, and prayed she still lived. He hoped her country became the free nation she dreamed of.

He thought of Sam, and the torture she must be enduring. If Doug didn't get any hits within the next day or so, either from his own contacts or their newfound allies in the resistance cell, the operatives would have to start asking questions on their own. Things would get messy. Sam wouldn't be held in a known location: a valuable prisoner like her would be kept in the equivalent of a DIA black site. Who could say how many militants Ethan and the other operatives would have to capture and kill until they found someone who had any knowledge of her whereabouts?

He sighed, closing his eyes.

He hadn't intended to nap, but exhaustion from the long day got to him. Consciousness faded, and with it came nightmare.

The night sky was lit by unnatural light. Artillery rounds were going off. Assault rifles firing.

He saw a boy's face, sparkling with incandescent particles of white phosphorous.

He's burning!

Ethan threw him into the river, dousing the flaming particles, but the moment he brought him to the surface again, the fires reignited. He hauled the child to the bank and began piling clumps of mud over the burning particles. By the time Ethan finished, it was too late.

The boy wasn't breathing.

Ethan started CPR, but eventually gave up. He stared at that destroyed face. That innocent face. It spontaneously combusted.

"Ethan," William said.

Ethan sat up, startled. "What?" His heart was pounding out of control. The courtyard was even darker than before, though the sun hadn't set fully.

"You were mumbling in your sleep," William said, setting down the plastic food container he'd purchased.

"Mumbling what?" His cheeks felt wet, and he wiped them. He noticed that his underarms were drenched in sweat, though it couldn't have been more than a few degrees above zero.

William shrugged. "I couldn't hear a word."

Ethan glanced at Doug, who also sat nearby, but the other operative was very careful to keep his gaze on the laptop.

Ethan looked William straight in the eye. "Tell me."

William stared at the ground and lowered his voice. "You said,
he's burning
. Over and over again."

When his Iraqi deployment had ended all those years ago, Ethan had joined Black Squadron, the clandestine division of Seal Team 6. For one mission, he dressed in tribal clothes and sneaked into a village to plant cameras and listening devices. He also interviewed some of the residents, who told him where the militants had gathered in the village. Ethan had no authority to pull the trigger at that point—he was functioning as an advance force operator, gathering intel for the hunt and kill teams.

The boy caught him planting a camera on the rooftop of one house. Ethan gave him a chocolate bar, and they became friends of sorts.