Hunting in the Shadows (American Praetorians) (23 page)

             
I hit the dirt again, just as a jundi tried to come up on a knee to engage the crazy American mercenaries who were actually charging them.  He had me, until he suddenly jerked sideways and dropped in the mud.  One of the guys on the second floor must have gotten him.

             
By now, the jundis in the ditch weren’t showing themselves much, but they weren’t moving out of the kill zone, either.  We had pretty effectively pinned them, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk right up to them to finish them off, either.  These guys were US SOF-trained, I didn’t expect them to fold like the jundis of 2003, or even the regulars nowadays.  They might not be willing to risk putting their heads up, but I didn’t figure they’d be willing to go out without a fight if that was what it came down to.

             
Good thing we weren’t just limited to rifles.

             
I twisted around in my prone position so I could see Larry, who was about to get up and move forward.  I signaled to him to stay put, and continue firing on the jundis in the ditch.  I was going to move up.

             
I got to my feet and dashed forward at an angle, keeping to the three second rule and trying to avoid moving in a straight line.  When I hit the ground again, I slung my rifle across my back and kept moving, crawling through the scrub toward the canal.

             
When I figured I was close enough, I propped myself up just enough to double-check my guess, just as Larry put two rounds into the dirt right in a jundi’s face.  The Iraqi ducked back down, as I rolled to my side to get at one of the pouches on my belt.

             
It didn’t take much of a heave to get the DM51 grenade into the ditch.  The concussion thumped through the ground and threw mud, water, and bits of jundi into the air.

             
I was up and moving before the cloud had settled.  I advanced more slowly, my weapon at the low ready, prepared to put a double-tap into anybody still moving.

             
I needn’t have bothered.  The jundis had put a little too much faith in the cover afforded by the ditch, and had clumped up.  I think the grenade had actually landed on top of two of them.  They weren’t moving.  I made sure anyway.

             
The guys upstairs had been watching closely, and had shifted fire without my having to call for it.  They were now hammering the jundis to the north, who didn’t even have the kind of cover that these poor bastards had had.

             
Crouched down, I started moving along the canal.  It wasn’t deep, but shallow cover is better than no cover.  I didn’t have much hope that the rest of the squad somehow hadn’t noticed the grenade explosion in this direction, but maybe, being hopefully preoccupied with the fire coming from the rest of my team, they might think we were survivors trying to regroup.  The best I could really hope for was enough confusion for us to get the drop on them and put them out of the fight before the rest of their buddies got the road cleared and showed up in our rear.

             
No such luck.  “Hillbilly, Kemosabe,” Jim called.  “The Iraqis are pulling back toward the helos.”
             
Fuck
.  If they got in the air, and decided to continue to try to prosecute this, we were in trouble.  I wished for a couple of Stingers, or even a couple of the Igla-S missiles that had been floating around the black market since Gaddafi fell.  But you can wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.  We didn’t have SAMs, so better to try to deal with these fuckers on the ground.

             
Unfortunately, they were breaking contact like pros.  Their suppressive fire was heavy and pretty accurate. Larry and I had to hug the bank of the shallow canal, as the air overhead was filled with a snapping storm of bullets, and more smacked into the dust, mud, and rocks in front of and around us, kicking up puffs of dust and frag with each hit.

             
“Fuck this,” Larry announced.  He brought himself to a high prone, laid his FAL on the lip of the bank, and started shooting.  A heartbeat later I followed suit, gritting my teeth against the withering hail of incoming 5.56.  We were low, we weren’t much of a target in the darkness, but with that much fire coming your way, it’s easy to get unlucky.

             
The Iraqis kept bounding back, their return fire about balancing our own suppression.  The necessity of keeping our own heads down kept us from putting out that much of a volume of fire, while our own fire kept them from gaining enough fire superiority to move with any sort of impunity.

             
I pumped a trio of shots at a fleeting silhouette, then ducked back down as a flurry crackled past my helmet, so close that I felt the rounds go by more than heard them.  The fire slackened as the Iraqi got up to move, and I popped right back up, hoping to catch him on the fly.

             
Instead, I spotted their first mistake.  These guys were US-trained, and had been therefore trained in the way that a lot of US troops fought.  For a long time, that had meant dash, go to a knee, and lay down suppressive fire.  It’s quicker, and especially if you’re wearing a pack, much easier to get up and move.

             
In the open like this, though, it also makes you a target to a trained shooter in the prone.

             
Barely above the level of the ground, my plates and magazines digging into my midsection, mud soaking my legs, I placed the reticle on the fuzzy green silhouette of an Iraqi commando who was shooting at the buildings in a textbook kneeling position, and shot him three times.  He dropped like a sack of rocks.  I moved to follow his buddy, who faltered in his rush as he saw his fellow commando fall.  Two more shots, high in the torso.  He staggered and fell to a knee, where I shot him four more times, until he went down.

             
That shook them up, more than anything else that had happened.  You could see it happen, when their confidence completely fell apart.  They had been the big dogs, the guys who moved like Americans, the guys that no militia or terrorist group could see coming or stand against.  And we’d just smashed them to the dirt in the middle of a drill that should have gotten them off the X with minimal trouble.

             
Their firing got more intense and more ragged at the same time.  Their rushes got uneven, as a few tried to put more space between them and us, and others didn’t want to be up long enough to get shot.  Their formation started to fall apart.  Their volume of fire started to drop off, and get ragged.

             
As tired and sore as I was, I knew we couldn’t let them go.  They’d regroup and come back at us.  So I hauled my creaking body out of the ditch and dashed forward, reloading as I went.  Push the fight.  Never let up.

             
One of them saw me coming from the side, and turned to spray a long burst in my direction just as I hit the dirt.  I banged my elbow painfully on the rocky ground, but his fire ripped past overhead.  I took a second to calm myself as I drew a bead on him, and put three in his upper torso.  He staggered, fell on his ass, then scrambled up and ran.  I must have hit low, in his plate.

             
I kept up the fire, sparing a pair for each silhouette I settled on, trying to make sure they kept their heads down while Larry caught up.

             
Larry had just dropped to the prone a few meters to my left when my radio crackled.  “Hillbilly, Kemosabe,” Jim called.  “I know you’re getting your kill on out there, but we’ve got contact to the south.  Need you to fall back to the buildings; we won’t be able to support you guys well enough out there.”

             
“Roger, en route,” I sent back, and yelled at Larry, “We’re falling back to the building!  Bound back!”

             
Larry responded with a thumbs-up, then heaved himself to a knee before lumbering back toward the buildings, keeping to an angle that wouldn’t cut off the fire coming from the upper floor.  I turned back to the jundis, who were mostly now just straight up running for their lives, and only knew that Larry was in position when his firing picked up.  I got up, sent another three rounds at the Iraqis for good measure, and ran back toward Larry’s position.

             
A long, hammering burst of fire came from the building.  That would be Little Bob with his M60.  I resisted the urge to just sprint for the building, instead turning and dropping to the prone to cover Larry.  I found that the Iraqis had actually all but completely stopped shooting at us.  I held my position and watched for a target to present itself, but they were really just running at that point, or crawling, and weren’t presenting much in the way of silhouettes.

             
Larry and I bounded back to the building anyway, though we were holding our fire for the time being.  Little Bob’s machinegun fire was providing us with enough covering fire, and if we had more jundis coming from the south, I wanted to conserve the ammo.

             
“Friendlies coming in,” I called, as I pounded up to the door, taking a knee and waiting for Larry.  He shambled up to the building like a bear, and passed me to go in.  I swung around to follow him through.

             
There were four Rimrock guys on the ground floor, covering the two entrances.  Larry and I hiked up the stairs to the top floor, where Jim had the team deployed to cover the approaches.

             
Larry and I were soaked and caked in mud and dust.  I brushed some of it off my rig, and did a quick ammo check.  I’d burned through almost a third of my rounds.  Shit.  Larry reported that he’d done much the same.  Then Jim came over with some welcome news.

             
“I don’t know if you noticed the fireworks to the north, but Sam brought the helos in and pulled a gun run on the Iraqi birds,” he reported.  “They’re not lifting to hit us from the air.”

             
“I hadn’t,” I admitted.  “I got a little preoccupied with the jundis on the ground.  Good news, though.”  I pointed toward the north windows.  “They’re broken, for now, but let’s keep the pressure on.  Any of them sticks his head up in our direction, I want it blown off.  How far out is the southern element?”

             
A sudden burst of fire from the southern windows answered my question.  “They’re here,” Bob called out over the noise.  “Stupid bastards are still on the road.”

             
I moved to the window and looked out over Bob’s shoulder.  Sure enough, they had pulled the still-intact Humvees around the one that Jim had blown up, and were now trying to approach on the road, albeit slowly.  I imagined they’d been counting on being able to use the heavy guns in the turrets to suppress us but from the occasional spark of bullet impacts on metal, Juan, Nick, and Bryan were doing a pretty good job of suppressing the gunners.  The front tires of the lead vehicle were also flat, and there was steam or smoke coming from the radiator.  Up-armored Humvees aren’t armored around the engine.

             
The other two vehicles were trying to get around the stalled lead vic, and running into the same sort of problems.  I saw one of the turret gunners slumped against the DShK; apparently he hadn’t turned the turret fast enough to keep the armor plate between him and one of us.

             
Suddenly struck by something, I looked around the room.  “Where’s Paul?”

             
I got my answer when an RPG-27 round slammed into the Humvee that still had a live gunner.  The vehicle rocked sideways, and half disappeared in the cloud of dust, smoke and flying metal that engulfed it.  Shrapnel whickered through the air and smacked into the hillside.  A few pieces made it to the building, pattering off the bricks.  One whizzed through the window and past my ear.

             
The last vehicle stopped dead, and the jundis piled out of it, running for cover beside the road.  Unfortunately for them, while Paul might not be able to blow them up from there, we had a much better angle from the second floor.

             
It was over quickly.  The gunfire fell silent, and I called the helos in to pull us out.  No doubt the jundis had reinforcements on the way.

Chapter 13

             
We arrived back in Erbil just in time for a meeting.  Fucking joy.

             
Imad had met us at the airport and informed us that John Summerfield, the operational manager for Liberty Petroleum in Iraqi Kurdistan, had called it for first thing in the morning, which amounted to about thirty minutes from when we touched down.  Liberty leadership, Rimrock leadership, and the Praetorian team leaders were expected to attend.  I voiced the opinion that Hal and Mike probably wouldn’t be there, their respective teams being occupied with operations in Kirkuk City.

             
“Caleb won’t be, either,” Imad had said.  “He’s chasing down a Qods Force officer that the local militia spotted in Mosul.”

             
“They’re in Mosul, too?” I asked.

             
“We’re picking up known IRGC operatives in Kirkuk, Mosul, Basra, and Baghdad,” he’d replied.  “It’s picking up.  We’re going to have to move fast if we’re going to roll these fuckers up.”  He’d paused for a second.  “I guess you guys are going to have to move fast.”  His voice was low, and his knuckles had whitened on the steering wheel.

             
I’d kept my mouth shut.  Imad had had time to adjust to being a headquarters guy, but the fact that his arm was too fucked up for him to keep running and gunning still left a bitter taste in his mouth.  None of us rubbed it in.  If it hadn’t been quite the sore spot that it was, we would have, but every one of us knew, some of us firsthand, how Imad had gotten that wound, and none of us held it against him.  It wasn’t something he wanted to hear about, so when he got morose about it, the best thing to do was just stay quiet.

              So I found myself in the main Liberty conference room, two floors up from our Op Center.  I had dropped my kit and rifle, though my pistol was now on my hip.  My fatigues were caked in sweat, mud, and dust, and I stank.  I just smirked at some of the looks I was getting.

It was crowded, mostly with Liberty personnel and the half dozen Rimrock project managers.  Collins was there, along with his lackey, and two Kurds whom I vaguely remembered were with the KDP.  Alek and I were the only Praetorian leadership present, probably because we were working.  Of course, few of the people in that room knew exactly what we were doing, but we weren’t about to enlighten them.

              “Is everyone here?” Summerfield asked.  “Are we still waiting for anyone?”  There was a general looking around, and a murmured negative.  “All right, then, we may as well get started,” he said.

             
“It’s come to our attention that the Iraqi government, for whatever reason, has seen fit to target our personnel as criminals,” he said.  “Twice now, our friends from Praetorian Security have had to rescue our people.”  He held up his hands at the murmur that that engendered.  “I know, I know, many of us, myself included, would rather things had been handled in a less…kinetic manner.  The shootout at K1 Airbase and again last night at Installation Two have only made our situation more precarious.”

             
“Given that two of my guards were murdered when the Iraqis attacked our compound in Kirkuk,” Freddy Vega, the senior Rimrock project manager put in, “I’m not inclined to say that the Praetorian guys overreacted.”

             
“You can’t say those men were ‘murdered,’” Collins suddenly burst out.  “The Iraqi government does not murder Americans.”

             
“Says who?” Vega shot back.  “Your damned State Department white paper?  I’ve seen the security video, Mr. Collins.  My guys did not shoot first.  They weren’t that stupid.”

             
Collins waved Vega’s objection away.  “Whatever happened, it doesn’t justify what amounts to an act of war against the Republic of Iraq.”  He glared over at Alek and me, to our pointedly bored lack of regard.  “In fact, I would suggest, Mr. Summerfield, that you turn the Praetorian Security personnel over to my custody; I’m in communication with Washington for authorization to arrest them for acts of terrorism against our ally.”

             
For a moment, everybody in the room looked at him like he had a dick growing out of his forehead.  Alek and I slowly looked at each other, then at him.  Summerfield was looking at him with a combination of apprehension and disbelief.  “Given the circumstances, Mr. Collins,” he said, “arrest them yourself.  If you think you can.  I personally don’t think you’ve got the firepower.”

             
Collins flushed.  His lackey just leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.  I got the impression that the other guy really didn’t like Collins, didn’t care to have to work for him, and wasn’t about to give him any support.  The general feeling in the rest of the room ranged from hostility from the Rimrock guys to the Liberty people being downright uncomfortable.  The two Kurds said nothing, but watched impassively.

             
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, I’ll give you that, Collins,” Alek said slowly.  “By definition, what we did wasn’t terrorism.  ‘Terrorism’ is deliberately targeting noncombatants for political purposes.  We defended noncombatants against armed force.  Not the same thing, and we’ve got lawyers who are ready and able to cram that down your throat.

             
“And, by the way,
your
custody?  Just what makes you think you can hold us?  Your bosses can’t even control anything outside of maybe DC and New York as it is.  We had to fill in for your people in East Africa last year because the military and intelligence had slipped, and from what I’m hearing, things have actually gotten worse over the last year.  And your federal law enforcement isn’t doing much better.  Hell, when’s the last time
you
got paid?”

             
When Collins didn’t answer, Alek sneered at him.  “Go back to your desk and your delusions of adequacy, little man.  Leave the real world to the big boys.”

             
By this time, Collins’ face was bright red.  For a second, he didn’t look like he could even speak.  When he finally forced out words, they were, “Fine.  See what happens now.”  Then he stormed out.  His lackey, who still hadn’t said a word, simply nodded to Alek and me, and followed.

             
There was another brief silence after the door slammed, sort of like the semi-shocked silence at a family reunion, when you finally tell your uncle that he’s an asshole.  Everybody’d been thinking it, nobody had the balls to say it, and they’re all a little perturbed that you did.

             
Summerfield broke the silence.  “While I can’t say I disagree, Alek, that wasn’t the most tactful thing I’ve ever seen.  I wouldn’t put it past him to try to follow up on his threats.”

             
I snorted.  Alek shrugged.  “We’ve been on some very influential people’s shit lists for over a year,” he said.  “I doubt this made things much worse.”

             
He wasn’t kidding.  The fact that we’d been hired to accomplish a mission in Africa that should have been SOCOM’s, if they hadn’t been underfunded into paralysis, had offended more than a few politicians back home.  Our body count hadn’t made them think any more kindly towards us, in fact it was that alone that had led to the powers-that-be cancelling the mission, and leaving over eighty Americans to rot in a Muslim Brotherhood prison in Egypt.  To the best of our knowledge, they were still there.

             
A few of the better-informed also had at least guessed at our subsequent operation to raid Little Aden in Yemen, and kill the Egyptian Mukhabarat officer and terrorist known as Al Masri.  They didn’t like the fact that we could pull that off, and we’d apparently disrupted more than one deal in the works in the process.  Even more than the open hostilities in Djibouti and Somalia, that had made us persona-non-grata.  Fortunately, things were in such a state of flux and chaos at the moment that the people who would like to see us disappear into a deep, dark hole somewhere couldn’t get to us.

             
How long that was going to last was anybody’s guess.  The Colonel had an extensive set of lawyers, accounts, and some serious information security to keep us insulated; I don’t think the Feds even knew for sure who made up Praetorian Security anymore.

             
“Well, it’s your neck, I suppose,” Summerfield said.  He looked around the room, pointedly picking out the other Liberty employees.  “However, I have the safety of my people to consider.  After two attacks, one of them well inside KRG territory, we have to consider whether or not to continue operations here.”

             
“There’s definitely money to be made here,” Angus Ryan piped up.  “There’s plenty of oil, and the Kurds are asking a very reasonable cut.  That being said, we’ve got a price on our heads now, regardless of what we may or may not have done.  Money isn’t worth much if you’re in an Iraqi prison, or dead.”

             
“I don’t like cutting and running.”  Annette Styers was one of the administrative personnel.  She was in her early fifties, and was harder than some of the roughnecks, in her own way.  “I particularly don’t like running from a bunch of bullies using American weapons and American training to attack us just because we’re Americans.  Screw these bastards.”

             
“I admire the sentiment, Annette,” Summerfield said, “but I can’t justify staying on when our people are the targets they are right now.  As professional as they are, sooner or later, our friends with Praetorian aren’t going to be in position to help us, and we will lose people, not because they were standing up for some great principle, but because they were trying to make a living.  I can see where staying
would
be standing up for principle, but in my mind it doesn’t offset the cost.  The money be damned, I don’t want to attend the funerals.”

             
Alek and I shared a glance that went unnoticed by most of the rest of the room.  Summerfield had no idea of some of the funerals we had attended in the course of our work, to include an impromptu one in a wadi just outside of Djibouti City.

             
Summerfield shook his head.  “I’ll put it to a vote, but I’m inclined to pull our operations out of here.  There is still some money to be made in Brazil; they’re not licensing as many outside companies these days, but there’s less violence.”  Less, but not none.  As with everywhere else, foreigners were getting less and less welcome in Brazil.  It was still vastly better than Mexico, but no paradise.

             
The meeting sort of dissolved into a mess of murmured conversations.  Vega came over to the two of us.

             
“What are you guys going to do if Liberty pulls chocks?” he asked.

             
“We’ve got other contracts pending in the area,” was all Alek said.  Vega raised his eyebrows, then glanced over at the two Kurds.

             
“With our friends, perhaps?” he asked.

             
“Non-disclosure agreement,” Alek replied.

             
Vega gave a vague nod of semi-understanding, though his expression showed he was a little disgruntled that we wouldn’t talk to him.  The fact was, we had no such agreement with the KRG, the KDP, or the PUK, yet.  That didn’t mean we intended to leave as soon as Liberty did.

             
When it became apparent that we weren’t going to be any more forthcoming, Vega drifted off.  It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, necessarily.  He just wasn’t one of us.  We vetted our operators thoroughly, putting them through a four-week selection course up in the Rockies.  Only after they’d passed, and agreed that they wanted to put up with the hardship and the training, did we bring them in on our
other
missions.

             
Vega didn’t need to know, so he didn’t get to know.

             
Eventually, Summerfield cleared his throat loudly enough to get people to start winding down the conversations and get back to the meeting.  Alek and I hadn’t said much, just stood against the wall with our arms folded, watching and listening.

             
“Can we take a vote now?” Summerfield asked.  “Everyone for staying?”  About a half dozen hands went up.  “Leaving?”  The rest of the hands in the room, aside from mine and Alek’s, went up.

             
“All right, then,” Summerfield said.  “I think we can safely say that all our equipment in Kirkuk Province is probably a loss.  It would be too risky to try to go there to retrieve it.  It’s going to take about a week to get everything else ready to move.”  He looked at Alek and me.  “Is that going to be doable, security-wise?”

             
Alek nodded.  “It shouldn’t be a problem.  After last night, we need to be ready for contact anywhere close to the borders with Kirkuk, Ninawa, Salah al-Din, or Diyala Provinces.”  He grinned.  “Of course, my guys are always ready for contact, so, business as usual.”

             
A lot of the people in the room looked a little uncomfortable at that.  Annette just smirked, especially when she looked around the room at the rest, who were pointedly not looking at us.  I suppressed the urge to let out an evil laugh at their discomfiture.  Rabbits.