Moral Imperative (14 page)

Chapter 27

U.S. Embassy

Bagdad, Iraq

8:31am AST, August 15
th

Master Gunnery Sergeant Mark Morris had spent the last twenty-two years of his life in one Marine Corps post or another. After enlisting in the Marines at the age of eighteen and serving his first tour as a 0311 (infantryman), Morris volunteered for MSG (Marine Security Guard) duty. He wanted to see the world and figured embassy duty was the best way to do it.

A meritoriously promoted corporal and sergeant, the clean cut Texan was a perfect fit for MSG. He’d been on embassy duty off and on since, serving all over the world.

This was supposed to be his last tour, a promise to his wife. She’d been pissed he’d wanted to go to Iraq of all places. He’d assured her that the enormous embassy in Baghdad was a fortress that couldn’t be breached.

He was eating those words now. While he wasn’t ultimately responsible for the security of the entire embassy, the Marine in Morris took it personally. This was
his
embassy.

He was standing on the roof of the highest building in the complex, giving him the best vantage point. But it also made him a perfect target. Luckily, the walls he kept peeking over were reinforced with enough metal and concrete to stop anything but the highest grade explosives. And not that the bastards hadn’t tried. The vehicles south of the river had slammed them with rockets and high caliber rounds, wounding three of his Marines already. His boys were still mobile, each taking a quick bandaging and going back to their duties.

The situation on the ground was chaotic, but it wasn’t anything compared to the airplane that had almost taken them out. Morris saw it all, how that crazy air jockey had somehow pushed the larger aircraft into the Tigris. CMH for sure for that brave bastard. Thousands of lives saved.

While the normal staffers ran to secure locations, the operators working for the embassy, and even those just passing through, had run to the sound of battle. It was Morris’s job to help coordinate the defense and possible counterattack. He’d already had more than one heated conversation with American military commanders who’d cited Baghdad’s rules of engagement (ROEs) as a reason for not sending in artillery and close air support.

Luckily, whoever the pilot was flying the second Navy F-18, he took out the BM-21’s and paladins pounding from across the river. With that group taken care of, and the civilian jet at the bottom of the river, what was left, other than the occasional mortar round, was the screaming crowd trying to get through the gate.

The last Marine he’d sent to get a better look, a new kid from Cali, had never come back. He was about to send another scout when the door of the stairwell emptying out onto the roof slammed open. Armed men streamed out, the lead guy coming straight toward Morris. The others fanned out, trying to get a better view of the surrounding area. Some looked like foreigners.

“Master Guns?” asked the man. Young face, but cool eyes. He carried one of those 7.62 rifles that SEALs loved. FN-something.

“How can I help you?” asked Morris, not really in the mood to brief strangers. He was busy.

“A fellow Marine sent me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Rich Isnard.”

Morris’s eyebrow rose. Most people thought the CIA station was a prick, but Morris liked the guy. In fact, the two Marines had hit it off from the beginning, even getting together occasionally to take money from the senior embassy staff who thought they could swindle a couple of grunts over a few games of Texas Hold ‘Em. They’d become friends. If Isnard sent this guy, he probably liked him,
and
he was a Marine. Good enough for Morris.

“How can I help, Mr.—”

“Stokes. Actually, I wanted to see what we could do to help you.”

Morris thought about it for a moment, another mortar round exploding a building away. He noted that none of Stokes’s men flinched. Pros.

“The shacks at the main gate were overrun. I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I’ve already lost one Marine and was about to send more to see.”

Stokes nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

The grim smile on the man’s face made Morris curious. He’d never seen the guy before. “Can I ask what you guys are doing in Iraq?”

The smile widened. “I could, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Morris nodded, returning the smile despite the dire situation. “Good luck, sir. Oh, and take this.” Morris handed Stokes a handheld radio.

Stokes nodded and walked to where he could better see in the direction of the front gate. He said something to a man carrying a M40 sniper rifle, the preferred weapon of Marine snipers. The guy with the blond pony tail nodded and gestured back to Morris. They exchanged a few more words and the man looked at the master gunnery sergeant again, throwing him an amused wink.

I’d bet my next paycheck that guy’s a Marine too
, thought Morris. It almost made him laugh. For some reason, despite the smoke and mayhem, Morris breathed a little bit easier as Stokes and his men rushed down the stairwell. He’d have to buy those guys a round at the club if they made it back alive.

Chapter 28

U.S. Embassy

Baghdad, Iraq

8:37am AST, August 15
th

They had to get a good view of the mob. Impossible from the inside. If they scaled the walls, there was the very real likelihood of being shot. The screams were deafening as they approached the main gate. Mortar rounds had taken out chunks of pavement and pieces of the protective nine foot blast walls. Dead bodies littered the way, staffers who’d died in the initial barrage. Cal didn’t see any dead Marines.

Daniel pointed to an oversized construction excavator up ahead, its tilting bucket now lying on the ground.

“Maybe we can get a better look with that,” he said as they ran.

“You know how to use one?” asked Cal.

“I’m sure one of the others do.”

They got to the Caterpillar brand excavator.

“Anyone know how to work this thing?” Cal asked the rest of the team.

Valko raised his hand. “I can.”

“Good. Me and Daniel are gonna take a look. Don’t drop us, okay?”

Valko nodded and made his way to the vehicle’s cab. Apparently the keys were still in the ignition because the Bulgarian cranked it up immediately, maneuvering the arm around so that the front of the cab now faced the high wall.

Cal and Daniel hopped into the bucket and were lifted into the air. They had decent cover behind the metal plating unless someone had an RPG, Cal figured. The tracked vehicle shifted into gear and moved forward, its arm extending out and up, reaching.

They could see over the first wall and then the second. Arms waving, some members of the mob were carrying flags.

“They don’t look like terrorists,” said Cal, scanning the crowd as they lifted into a better vantage point, careful not to expose themselves too far from behind the clawed bucket.

Daniel had a pair of mini binoculars to his eyes.

“I don’t see any weapons,” said the sniper.

“What? How is that possible?” Cal had never faced down a group this large. The crowd extended back as far as he could see, easily filling the street abutting the embassy.

Daniel didn’t answer for a moment, and then pointed suddenly. “There’s a guy with an AK.” The sniper unslung his rifle and took a look through his scope. “I could take him out, but…Cal, the rest of those people look scared.”

Cal grabbed Daniel’s binoculars and panned over the screaming crowd. Everything came into focus when he saw the tear-streaked face of a woman carrying a wailing child in her arms. “What the—?”

A round pinged off the thick bucket, making both of the Marines duck.

“I don’t think this is what we thought it was,” said Cal as he motioned for Valko to lower them down to the ground.

“Me neither,” agreed Daniel.

The leaders of the international teams gathered around when they touched down.

“What’s the situation?” asked Gene Kreyling, the Brit obviously ready to do something productive.

Cal shook his head. “I can’t be sure, but this doesn’t look like a mob that wants to storm the embassy.”

“They already overwhelmed the first layer of defense,” argued Owen Fox, the Aussie’s wavy hair held back by a red bandana.

“I think we’ve got agitators in the crowd, probably prodding the rest. The worst thing we can do is start firing at innocents,” said Cal, trying to figure out how they could deal with the situation.

No one said a word. It was one thing to kill an enemy. It was quite another to find them like a needle in a haystack and kill them without wounding everyone else.

The initiative was taken from them as the first head popped over the wall, the man throwing his arm and then leg over. He was not armed, eyes wide as he took his first look into the complex.

“Fox, take your snipers to the best vantage point you can get. We may need your cover. Daniel, you go with them. The rest of us will split into two teams and hop over the wall. Maybe we can get around the crowd and find out who’s pulling the strings.”

There were no objections, their options limited. Already there were more embassy security forces sprinting to the main gate. They could take care of the people climbing over. Cal had to find whoever was controlling the thousands just outside the embassy walls.

Less than five minutes later, Cal’s half of the team, which included MSgt Trent, the Bulgarians and the Japanese, scaled the wall at a point where they’d determined the crowd couldn’t see them.

The Japanese went over first, assisted by thin but sturdy black line with grapple hooks that snapped open with a click.

Cal couldn’t believe how fast Kokubu and his men went up and over. Nimble ninjas. Cal, Trent and the Bulgarians went next, not as swiftly, but successfully.

Cars littered the road, drivers having decided it was better to leave them where they were rather than getting caught in the ongoing battle. The team spread out and trotted toward the crowd. In less than a block the mob came into view.

The crowd’s attention was on the embassy gate, giving Cal the ability to get his team in close. Apart from the yelling and lack of weapons, nothing seemed out of place.

A moment later Cal heard a distinctive rifle shot in the distance. It had to be the snipers. One down and who knew how many left to go.

The crowd pulsed with agitated energy, surged forward and back as if willing the front row through the heavily reinforced embassy walls. As they neared, one man turned around, his face hard, concentrating. His eyes bulged when he saw Cal’s men, his arm lifting from under his robes, a sawed-off shotgun rising in hasty aim. Cal and Valko were the first ones to respond, easily putting three rounds apiece center mass, the man going down before he could pull the trigger.

“Let’s split off in twos. Valko, you’re with me,” said Cal.

The Bulgarian didn’t argue.

Cal assumed the ring leaders were probably on the periphery just like the guy they’d just shot. It would make it easier to find them and kill them. Sure enough, not thirty seconds later, another weapon popped out. Cal disposed of the shooter with a clean shot in the face.

The next guy jumped on Valko from behind, but the strong Bulgarian flipped the man over his body, crashing into scared onlookers who backed away as much as they could in the cramped crowd. Valko didn’t hesitate, crushing the man’s face with three powerful strikes from the butt of his assault rifle.

Three more shots from Daniel and the Aussie snipers. Good, but not good enough. Cal was starting to think it could take forever to find the rest of the enemy when Kokubu walked up holding a katana blade, its razor sharp edge lined with blood.

“We saw armed men running away from the crowd and found the demonstration organizer. He’s American,” said Kokubu, in his matter-of-fact tone. Cal couldn’t believe the guy was holding a sword. There’d be time to ask about that later.

“Where is he?”

Kokubu pointed back over his shoulder.

Cal found the American sitting on the street, his pants soaked, probably with his own urine. He was shaking as he tried to gulp water from the canteen one of Kokubu’s men had given him.

“You okay?” asked Cal.

The man, who looked like a prototypical Ivy League bookworm, shielded his eyes from the sun with his free hand.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Cal ignored the question. “Tell us what happened.”

The trembling man told them the story, including how they’d been ushered at gunpoint toward the embassy and how one of his assistants had been shot for refusing to scale the wall.

“I mean, they just shot him, right there in front of me. This was a peace march for God’s sake!”

He was crying as he cradled the canteen to his chest.

“Where did they go?” asked Cal, who was nervous standing out in the open. The others were covering him, but he was still a sitting duck.

“The shots started a couple minutes ago, and the guy in charge heard something over his earpiece. They took off right after that.”

“How was he communicating with the crowd?”

The man pointed to something lying on the ground a few feet away. Cal saw the megaphone and went to pick it up. It was cracked from where someone had dropped it on the ground, but it still came to life when he switched it on.

He held the thing out to the guy on the ground.

“I need you to tell them that it’s over.”

+++

Somehow there weren’t many wounded peace marchers. Most were scared and more than happy to disperse when Martin Gleason, the march organizer, told them it was okay to go home. Cal directed Gleason to tell them to take their time leaving so no one would get trampled.

Whether because of tired relief, or the thought that guns were still trained on them, the crowd broke up gradually. Friends huddled together, crying as they held each other close.

The wounded were triaged by the Japanese while the dead bodies of the ISIS soldiers were left for someone else to clean up.

Cal knew they’d been lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse. His team had come away unscathed, but they were all as ready as Cal to go on the offensive. They left the cleanup to the embassy security personnel and the Iraqi police. Cal and his men slipped through the throngs and made their way back inside the embassy.