A Cold Day In Mosul (3 page)

"That was the last of them," Doug radioed. "Regroup. Follow the yellow brick road."

Ethan scanned the buildings one last time through his range finder. Satisfied that Doug was right, Ethan retrieved his smartphone and connected a USB stick via an adapter. That stick contained an RF antenna that could be used to send encrypted messages, among other things. Doug was using his own stick to radio his position, and it appeared on Ethan's phone as a flashing dot on the GPS map.

Ethan and Alzena picked their way across the rubble-strewn street, the bricks of collapsed buildings forming long fans across the asphalt—the "yellow brick road." The air felt crisp, the deceptively bright sun imparting little heat to the landscape. It was good to be moving again, if only for the body heat the motion generated. He half-wished he had a sweater layered underneath his combat jacket. A T-shirt didn't really cut it in the middle of winter, not in that country.

They reached the town square shortly. Bronze statues had been spaced around the square on plinths, but most had toppled. Lounging against the yellow rim of a half-destroyed fountain in the center awaited Doug and William. They were dressed in the same fatigues as Ethan and Alzena.

"To a job well done." Doug raised a beer bottle in toast.

"Where the hell did you find beer out here?" Ethan said.

"One of the fridges," Doug said. With his bronze skin, sharp nose, and thick brows and beard, he was the spitting image of a typical Gulf Arab. In actuality he was from California.

Doug took a long sip, spilling suds on his dusty beard, then fetched a bottle from the six-pack beside him and offered it to Ethan.

"No," Ethan said, refusing the beer. "You can't be looting homes like that."

"It's just beer, bro," Doug said. "It'll spoil if we don't drink it. We're doing the homeowners a favor."

"Come on, go ahead," William urged. "I'm sure they won't mind, given all we've done for them." That thick Texan drawl seemed out of place coming from William's olive-skinned face: like Doug, he looked very much a citizen of the Middle East.

Doug pressed the bottle into Ethan's chest.

"All right all right." Ethan snatched the bottle and shoved Doug's arm away. He studied the label. "The hell's this? Al-Shark?"

"Best beer in Syria," Doug said. "Brewed in Aleppo."

Ethan spotted the large deposit of sediment at the bottom and grimaced.

"The beer that drinks like a meal," William commented.

"I'll bet." Ethan placed the seam of the bottle cap against the rim of the fountain and gave the beer a hard tap with his other hand, popping the cap off. He brought the lip to his nose and inhaled. "Smells a bit musty."

William gazed at him, eyes shining with amusement.

"What?" Ethan said.

"Nothing."

Ethan cautiously took a sip and immediately spat it out.

"What's the matter, don't like warm beer?" William said with a chortle. "That reaction was classic."

Ethan grimaced. "Tastes like camel piss."

"You
would
know what that tastes like." William took a swig from his own bottle. "Isn't the best tasting beer, I admit. But it'll do."

Reluctantly, Ethan forced himself to have another sip. It tasted a little better the second time, and he actually didn't spit it out.

"But you're right," William continued. "Wouldn't surprise me if the jihadis pissed in these bottles and then popped the caps back on. A little parting gift for us."

Alzena shifted beside Ethan. He offered the bottle to her but she shook her head.

"There's no sharia law out here," Ethan told her in Arabic. "You can drink alcohol if you want. This land is free now."

"Free, yes," Alzena said, staring at the ruins. "Though sometimes I wonder at the cost."

Ethan didn't have an answer for her. Wanting to distract her obviously troubled mind, he extended the beer again. "Come on, drink. If only to spite the Islamic State."

"I thought you said it tastes like camel piss?" Alzena answered. She could understand most English, but couldn't speak a word of it.

Ethan laughed. "Just a figure of speech."

"I prefer wine," she said.

Ethan shrugged, then downed another mouthful of the terrible stuff.

"Who do you think he was?" William gestured at the bronze statue of some mustached Iraqi standing on a plinth beside the fountain, the only statue that had survived the destruction. The bluish patina coating the surface was a testament to its age.

"Dunno," Doug said. "But if you ask me, he looks like he could use a beer."

"Hey, bro, want a beer?" William asked the statue. He paused. "Says no."

Snickering, Ethan glanced at Alzena. "This is what happens when you get them drunk. They start conversing with statues."

"If a statue survives an airstrike, what does it mean?" William said. "Is it a sign of things to come? Does it symbolize the fight of the people it represents, and their unwillingness to give up? Or is it just some random thing, the arbitrary dispersal of a bomb's fragmentation pattern?"

Ethan mouthed to Alzena: "Drunk."

William caught him. "Hey, I'm trying to have a philosophical discussion here. Something I can't do when I'm sober."

"That's because you're too wound up when you're sober," Ethan said.

"Exactly. In our line of work, if you're not wound up, then there's something wrong."

Ethan pressed his lips together. "I won't argue that." He perched on the fountain beside Doug, and Alzena joined him.

"Got some news on Aaron," Doug said after a short sip.

Aaron was another DIA operative who had been embedded in the Islamic State with them. He was recovering in a German hospital from grievous wounds suffered in Kobane.

Ethan glanced at Doug expectantly.

"His shoulder is responding well to surgery," Doug said. "The doctors are saying he should have full range of motion back in six to eight months. That's including the three more surgeries he's scheduled for."

"Good news," Ethan said. When he had seen the injury, Ethan had doubted Aaron would make any sort of recovery at all. His shoulder had been basically destroyed. "The wonders of medical science."

"Medical science has nothing to do with it," William said. "He's a hell of a fighter. He's not going to let some injury keep him down."

"He's got heart, that's for damn sure," Ethan agreed.

A gaunt man in his late forties approached. He had a brown beard flecked with gray, a weathered face with sharp lines climbing to his forehead, and dark eyes that could glint with humor one second and cold calculation the next. He would have looked like a street vendor if not for the fatigues.

Battle emir Seyed Baksi.

Three Kurdish deputies, one of them a woman, hovered protectively behind him.

Ethan and the others rose in a sign of respect.

Seyed grinned, shaking each of the operatives' hands in turn. He clutched Alzena's just a little longer than the others, eyes twinkling with obvious attraction. Then he released her hand and spoke in Kurdish.

"He thanks you for helping us in this fight," Alzena translated. "Without you, he fears we would be losing this war."

"Does he mean us, personally?" Ethan said. "Or the airstrikes?"

"Probably the airstrikes," Alzena conceded.

Ethan nodded. Though it pained him to admit it, in truth the operatives weren't making all that big of a difference in the war, not anymore. They had trained the Kurds as well as they could in the art of house-to-house fighting, but more importantly, they'd given them modified LLDR 2H target designators and shown them how to use the devices. Kurdish teams could pick out Islamic State targets for the bombers on their own now. And should the designators ever fall into the hands of the enemy, these versions could be disabled by serial number via a simple radio command.

Yes, Ethan and the others weren't really needed. Doug had already mentioned there was work available in Jordan or Turkey, if Ethan wanted it. That he had stayed as long as he had was only because of one person.

He looked at Alzena. She conversed quietly with Seyed. When she glanced at Ethan, he forced a smile and turned away.

two

T
hat night, Ethan ate a supper of chicken and rice by candlelight with Alzena. He resided in the single-story dwelling Seyed had honored them with, one of the few houses still left intact in that town. The Islamic State front line had retreated to the neighboring village; tomorrow's attack would be a long-ranged affair, with bombers and artillery hammering the IS positions. The enemy would dig in for a few weeks, bolstered by fresh recruits from Raqqa, until the airstrikes and night raids weakened them enough that they were forced to retreat to the next village.

It was a pattern that repeated itself throughout that war, with the Islamic State slowly ceding territory. Having fought side-by-side with the enemy, Ethan admired their tenacity, but sometimes he wished the fighters would come to their senses and simply surrender. Given how fervent most of the participants were to their cause, somehow he doubted that would ever happen.

He thought of Abu Harb, the thirteen-year-old who had been a member of the same IS brigade as Ethan. Harb had died in his arms during the fighting, after an ambush by Kurdish fighters. Ethan could still see his face, filled with pleasure from the lie Ethan had told him, the lie that he would awaken in the embrace of virgins in paradise.

Alzena gently nudged his hand, bringing him out of his reverie.

She nodded at his plate. "Eat. You will need the energy for tonight." Her eyes shone amorously.

But Ethan wasn't in the mood for flirting. He scooped up a portion of rice with his hands and shoved it into his mouth without vigor.

"What is it?" she said. Concern had replaced the desire in her voice.

He scooped up another fingerful of rice. "Nothing."

She wrapped her hand around his. "Tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"
Tell
me," she pressed.

He sighed. "It's just... so many innocent people have died. On both sides. And it's not right. It's not good."

"War is never right. War is never good."

He nodded slowly. "No it's not."

"You were thinking of the boy again?" she asked.

Ethan deflected the question. "You told me once that I should fight where I was needed. Do you remember this?"

Her eyes became distant. "I remember it as if it were yesterday," she murmured, as if she already knew what he was going to say next.

"Fight where I am needed," he mused. "What am I doing here, Alzena? There's nothing for me in this place. The Kurds don't need me anymore. The Islamic State is on the run. I feel like a third wheel."

She nodded slowly. "I don't want to hold you back. I never wanted this."

"I'm not saying your holding me back, only—"

"You can go whenever you wish, Ethan Galaal," she interrupted him. "I won't stop you. I always knew you would leave, one day. It was inevitable that we would be parted."

"But it doesn't have to be that way." He tightened his hand around hers. "Come with me."

She pursed her lips sadly. "You already know I can't. I must stay here and help my people."

"Marry me," he pressed.

She regarded him with amusement. "You're joking?"

He shook his head. Words escaped him.

She smiled wistfully. "Oh Ethan, I'm flattered. But the answer is no. I'm sorry."

A part of him had hoped she'd say yes, though the more rational part knew it was a terrible idea. His work brought him to hotspots of war and upheaval around the world. How could he do his job in good conscience, knowing that his wife could be widowed at any time, his children left fatherless? Still, no one liked rejection, especially Ethan.

"You could do worse than me," he said peevishly.

"You are not even Muslim," Alzena told him. "It would never work."

"We'll just have to get you to convert."

"I?
Me
?" She laughed so hard that tears rolled down her face. "You are quite funny. You would make a great comedian in my country. But the fact of the matter is, you are the one who would have to convert."

"But I won't," he said, becoming serious again. "I could act the part on the outside, yes, and go through all the necessary rituals, but on the inside, I wouldn't believe. I couldn't lie to you like that. If I did, I'd be betraying not only myself, but my feelings for you."

Her eyes were sad; a flicker of a smile formed on her lips, only for an instant. "And that, Ethan, is why we will never marry."

"You could still come with me," he pressed.

She exhaled for a long moment. "You always knew our relationship would be short-lived."

His throat felt dry. "I didn't."

"It was implied."

"No it wasn't," he insisted.

She looked at him crossly. "Yes it was."

Ethan stopped arguing. She was right and he knew it. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

"Do you remember what you told me?" Alzena said. "
Cherish the moments we have together. Every day could be our last.
The time has finally come."

"I never said I was leaving," Ethan said.

"But you are, aren't you?" she told him. "You've already made the decision in your mind, even if you haven't realized it yet. I can see it in your eyes."

"That may be true," Ethan said. "But I'm not leaving just yet. Maybe in a week. Or two."

"Every day you linger only makes the parting harder," she said.

He sighed. "I don't care."

"But I do," she said. "Tonight is your last night. Don't squander it."

He leaned forward sadly. The way she had spoken those words...

Tonight is your last night.

It sounded so final.

He brushed his lips over hers in a light peck. He gazed into those sparkling blue eyes, watching them flare with desire. He gave her another light kiss. Another. Each time, the lust in those eyes grew, and her breath became more ragged.