Jihadi Bride, page 27
“When?”
“Huh?”
Erik shook him. “I said when! When is the attack?”
“Soon.”
He ground the pistol into Xarbi’s temple. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know! A week, two?” The voice from the vehicle changed, grew more urgent.
Erik nodded over his shoulder. “What’s he saying?”
“They’re asking me to repeat what I said.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“That you got free.” Xarbi lips tightened in a grim smile. “Reinforcements are on their way. They’ll be here any minute.”
“And where is here?”
Xarbi frowned. “Mosul, of course.”
“Thanks,” Erik said and smashed the butt of the pistol into Xarbi’s head. Xarbi went limp, and Erik studied him, restrained the urge to hit him again, then started when the voice on the radio spoke again. Xarbi might have lied, but Erik didn’t think so. Which meant he didn’t have much time.
He frisked Xarbi, found nothing useful, then stopped to take a rifle and some ammunition from the other fighters. He looked up, saw that the sun had already started to set, but if he got moving, he might be able to reach the front lines before all light was gone. From there, he might be able to make contact with the Kurds and cross back over – if he was careful.
He hopped into the remaining truck and started it up. He glanced into the rear and smiled at the sight of his backpack. He snatched it up, dug through the pockets and found most of his things there, including the two GPS trackers Jordan had given him stored in one of the inner pouches. He put the truck in gear and then it occurred to him that however this worked out, there was a chance al Kanadi’s men would recover the trucks he was leaving behind. He hopped out, activated the magnets on the GPS transmitters and attached them to the roll bars of both trucks. If nothing else, Jordan could at least find out if they worked. Then he returned to the truck he’d liberated and put it in gear.
Next stop, the front lines.
* * *
Mosul, Iraq
28 May 15 – 1815 Local
Yahya clutched the now silent handset and spoke into it again. “Xarbi?”
Static was all he got back.
“Tell me again what he said,” he said in a snarl to the man beside him, a young Syrian named Mohammed who was not even able to grow a beard.
“That the prisoner had been freed,” Mohammed said. “He told me to tell you, that it was important.”
“What did he mean? That he’s dead?” Yahya asked. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
Mohammed cringed. “Maybe, I think so. It was in English. He sounded excited.” Mohammed held up his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Idiot.” Yahya shoved him. There was no reason for Xarbi to report that the execution was done, he could do it in person when he came back. The ICOM vehicle radios limited the ability of Western forces to intercept their transmissions, but the risk wasn’t zero, so they’d been ordered not to use them unless they had no other choice. Even stranger was that having called in, Xarbi now wouldn’t answer. “Xarbi?” he asked again to no avail.
He shouldn’t be worried. No doubt, Xarbi would return in an hour or so. But something about this bothered him. The prisoner had been freed? It didn’t make any sense. He scowled at Mohammed. “Did he say the prisoner had been freed, or that he got free?”
“I don’t remember,” Mohammed said.
“Think!” But his exhortations did no good and he threw Mohammed to the ground and stalked off toward the library’s entrance. The easy answer would be to drive out and find Xarbi, but that would be admitting something had gone wrong.
“Everything all right?”
Yahya started, glanced up to meet al Kanadi’s gaze. “Emir. I didn’t hear you.”
“You seem deep in thought,” al Kanadi said. “Something going on?”
“It’s fine.” He gave a tight smile. He felt Mamdouh’s absence, and he didn’t want the Emir to worry he wasn’t able to take hold of his nerves. “Just anxious to get back to Raqqa.”
Al Kanadi clapped him on the shoulder. “A few loose ends to tie up, then we’ll be off.” He returned Yahya’s smile then walked away.
Loose ends, no kidding. Yahya’s thoughts went back to the prisoner’s execution. If Xarbi hadn’t returned in an hour, he’d go out after him. And that idiot Mohammed would be along for the ride.
* * *
Near Kalak, Iraq
28 May 15 – 2025 Local
A faint sliver of light clung to the western horizon, the sky a collage of orange and red. Erik searched for movement, lights, anything, but there had been nothing since he’d abandoned the truck. He could make it out a few miles back, stuck in the rocks where he’d tried to ford a stream. Bad luck, when everything had been going so well.
He’d stuck to back roads for about an hour and then came across a sign for Qaraqosh, which he recalled from the map in Rafiq’s headquarters. Iraq’s largest Christian town, at least at one point. If he remembered right, it was southeast of Mosul, about halfway between the Caliphate capital in Iraq and the forward defensive lines. He’d nursed the truck east along dirt paths, closer to friendly lines. When the sun had begun to set, he’d come across the stream and tried to cross, gotten stuck. After a few attempts to free the truck, he’d set out on foot, more or less due east.
By his calculations, he had to be close to the FLOT. He picked his way along a hard-scrabble ridge that would have a commanding view of the surroundings, especially to the east. From there, he might be able to see the Kurdish defensive line. He shifted the rifle in his hands and kept climbing.
At the top of the ridge, he paused, tried to see through the near darkness to the east. The ground dipped into a small valley, and on the other side, maybe a mile or mile-and-a-half away were several lights, as well as the sparkling glow of what might be a fire. A series of spotlights illuminated a road dotted with several large shapes that he took to be concrete barricades, and there was a building shrouded in darkness beyond the lights. That had to be a Kurdish checkpoint. He’d made it. He stepped down the ridge, then froze.
Staked into the ground was a small triangular sign bearing a white skull and crossbones and Arabic script on a dark background. Farther along the ridge was another sign, the same markings. A bitter laugh escaped him.
Minefield.
He considered his options. He could follow the signs and skirt the edge of the minefield, hoping to hit a road that led through, but even though he was close to the FLOT, he didn’t have a good idea where he was, or how far a road might be. Or how long the minefield extended. Or if the road would be mined.
He should’ve been more careful fording the stream. He glanced back to the pickup, then dropped into a crouch. Lights of two other vehicles had appeared near where the truck was stuck. Cold sweat trickled down his back. One set of vehicle headlights disappeared, then reappeared moments later, moving in his direction close to the path he’d taken. The other vehicle followed. Much closer and they’d be able to see him, even in the twilight.
Erik edged farther down the far slope bordering the minefield, then hunkered low where he was able to observe the vehicles without exposing himself. About a half-mile out, they shifted to the north. As they turned, the lead vehicle came into the tail vehicle’s headlights and he could see the distinctive roll bars and sandy colored paint, the same as the ones he’d left behind. Erik hugged the ground as the trucks creeped along, then stopped. Two men exited the lead truck and picked their way to the ridge. As they walked, the trail truck did a U-turn and headed south. Toward where Erik was.
He thought about hiding out where he was and dismissed the idea. The moon had risen low in the sky, but it was large and would provide a degree of light. If he stayed on the ridge he’d be found, and all he had for ammo was a few magazines, enough for a last stand but not a sustained fight. No, he needed to put distance between himself and these men. He pushed to his feet and stepped down the far side of the ridge, on the hostile side of the warning signs. His foot settled on a rock, rolled as the rock moved beneath his boot, then went firm. He let go of the breath he’d been holding, shifted his weight and scanned the ground. Nothing but more rocks and scrub.
The sound of a truck engine grew louder from the other side of the ridge. No choice but to keep going. He took one more look, then sidestepped down the ridge and into the minefield.
* * *
Near Kalak, Iraq
28 May 15 – 2112 Local
“There.” Yahya pointed out across the valley. “What’s that?”
Beside him, Xarbi raised the binoculars, and Yahya prayed he’d make something out. The moon gave a faint glow, but it hadn’t yet risen enough to help. While Xarbi scanned, Yahya stared at the horizon. Thirty miles to the east lay Erbil, tantalizingly close, although he had more pressing concerns. His gaze settled on the Kurdish check-point on the other side of the valley.
“What do you see?” Yahya asked. The two men crouched at the top of a ridge, mere feet from the edge of the minefield markers. Even this position was risky as the markers didn’t always start where mines themselves had been laid. And of course, this close to the defensive lines, either the Kurds or coalition drones would discover them sooner or later.
“There’s someone out there.” Xarbi’s tone did not inspire confidence.
“Let me see.” Yahya snatched the binoculars and peered into the darkness.
“About a quarter of the way across,” Xarbi said.
Yahya trained the binoculars at a spot about four hundred yards out, cursed, fixed on a darker spot among the rocks. It was small, but it could very well be a person. “Give me your rifle.”
Xarbi handed over his AK-47 in silence.
Yahya raised the rifle and took up a sight picture. He cursed again, strained to see the target in the dark.
“Is it worth risking a shot?” Xarbi asked. “The Kurds will see us.”
“We need to know if it’s him,” Yahya said. He resettled the rifle against his shoulder and tried to find the target.
“Then let me. I’m a better shot.” Xarbi took the rifle and went prone on the ground. There was a moment of silence, and then a shot split the dark with a loud crack. Yahya flinched, but he’d seen enough. The shape had moved. Xarbi fired again and the shape merged into the ground.
“Is it him?” Xarbi asked.
“Who else would it be, idiot?” Yahya focused the binoculars on the Kurdish checkpoint, where shadows had passed across the lights. The shots had been heard and time was ticking.
Xarbi shot again, and Yahya placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“If he makes it much farther, there’s no way we’ll hit him.”
The fool was right, and yet as it was, they’d need Allah’s intervention. The Kurds would already be trying to locate them, and no doubt had night vision, which meant the longer he and Xarbi stayed on this ridge, the riskier it became. Coalition air support might already be on its way. “Once more,” he said and then located the shape in the minefield, this time up and moving.
The rifle rang out again, and Yahya saw the person drop, but whether Xarbi had hit or not was anyone’s guess. Inshallah, the troublesome infidel would be dead. “Let’s go,” he said and scuttled backward until the ridge sheltered him from the Kurdish checkpoint, then stood and scrambled for the trucks.
Xarbi followed. “Did I get him?”
“I think so,” he said. “But if you didn’t, either the minefield or the Kurds will finish him.”
“You think so?”
“If you were a Kurd and came under fire at a checkpoint, then saw somebody in your protective minefield, would you think they were friendly?”
“No.” Xarbi sounded sheepish.
“Neither will the Kurds. They’ll shoot on sight.”
From Xarbi’s silence, he must have agreed. Either way, they needed to get out of this area, but when they were safe, he’d go up one side of Xarbi and down the other.
Then he’d try to figure out what to tell al Kanadi.
* * *
Near Kalak, Iraq
28 May 15 – 2231 Local
Erik eased himself to his feet. It had been almost half an hour since the last shot. To the east, the length of the valley stretched before him, the lights of the Kurdish outpost distant. To the west, the ridge where al Kanadi’s men had shot at him was a darker shape in the night, although as the moon rose, they would have better light with which to see him. He didn’t think they were still there, but he couldn’t wait any longer. Besides, at this point, his greatest risk was that the Kurds would shoot him.
He squinted at the outpost. He should have thought of that before, but it had been a distant threat compared to his pursuers and the minefield. Now, with the possibility that he might make the Kurdish lines, he needed to not be seen as a threat. Slow and deliberate, he set the rifle down and then raised his hands to his shoulders. He shivered. The night air, which had been warm when he’d started, now chilled him and his damp shirt clung to his body. He went to take a step, but his foot remained riveted to the rocks.
He closed his eyes. Standing here wouldn’t solve anything. There were two ways out, die in the minefield or keep walking. Whether he died by a mine, or a Caliphate bullet or even a Kurdish bullet made little difference. He called Arielle’s face to mind and readied himself to take another step. Her hair, he couldn’t remember her hair. It was brown, he knew that, but what did it look like?
A chill settled over his body. It hadn’t even been two months, and he had already forgotten his daughter’s face. Just like Audray. He thought of the old answering machine he’d kept, the one that held his wife’s voice and her soft, French accent. He would listen to it and remember making love, the memory cold across the years, heard her whispering, “oui, plus fort.” He forced his eyes open and before he could think any further, he took a step. Another. He scanned the ground, saw nothing, took another step.
Halfway across, at least.
Was it his imagination or had the sky grown lighter, a sliver of orange along the eastern horizon? What time would that be, three o’clock? Earlier, later? No matter. Take another step. The sweat had long since dried up. Now his mouth was caked as if the landscape’s sand and dust had infiltrated his pores and come to roost on his tongue. Focus. Another step. Another.
Two-thirds of the way across, the valley began to rise in a gentle slope. Something brushed his foot, and he stumbled, looked down and saw a shoe. A lady’s shoe, black, like a ballet flat except with an inch-tall heel. Out of place and yet he knew how it had come to be there. Another step.
And then he saw it. He didn’t know how, but there it was, five tiny prongs standing up among the rocks to point at the sky. He crouched and stared at the mine, which was a little more than a yard from his lead foot. The prongs meant it was a bounding mine, a Bouncing Betty. It was a mine that killed, not just amputated. An OZM perhaps, from Russia, or maybe a PROM-1. When he stepped on it, it would launch into the air, waist high, and spray molten hot metal fragments. If he was lucky, the blast would shred him. Not so lucky and he would bleed out through the morning, less a limb or two.
It occurred to him that there might be others nearby, especially since the prongs were visible. Bounding mines were often protected by other mines, ones that weren’t visible, like pressure-activated mines. He studied the ground around the mine and now he was sure the blacks and greys of the night had begun turning to browns and greens in the early morning light. But nothing showed.
He willed himself to relax and gave the mine as wide a berth as possible. Each step was an eternity, yet the sky was no brighter by the time he’d passed the mine, or even when he’d left it twenty feet behind. He stared up at the top of the slope, where the road dead-ended at a chicane of concrete barricades maybe two hundred yards away.
He’d almost reached the road when he heard men begin to yell. He glanced at the searchlights, and then five soldiers in combat uniforms appeared on the other side of the concrete barriers that formed the roadblock, maybe a hundred yards away. They aimed their rifles at him and shouted. One of them pointed at the ground.
Erik kept his hands raised. “Please,” he said in a croak. He licked his lips, swallowed. “Help me,” he said, louder.
Now the men yelled in English. “Come closer! Keep your hands up!”
The Kurdish soldiers cleared him closer then yelled at him to get on the ground. He lowered his backpack and lay spread-eagled on his stomach. Boots appeared beside him, and his body rocked as he was frisked, and despite all that, he felt like he could run a marathon. He’d made it.
“Sit up.”
He moved into a cross-legged position, and two of the soldiers pointed rifles at him.
Another soldier appeared between the two with rifles. “Who are you?”
“My name is Erik Petersson.”
“Caliphate deserter?” It was said with a sneer.
“No,” he said and shook his head. “I’m Canadian.”
“Do you think us stupid?” the soldier asked. “The Caliphate has Canadians as well.”
