Hunting in the Shadows (American Praetorians) (43 page)

             
The nearest crossing
might
have held the car’s weight, but I didn’t trust it.  It wouldn’t do any good to get away only to fall into a canal only a few blocks away.  I didn’t think they were after us, though those clowns who’d shot at us might get the idea in their heads that we were with the Jaysh al Mahdi fuckers.  Instead I took the straightaway, barreling toward the next hardball road faster than was probably smart in these tight quarters, with blind corners ever couple hundred feet.

             
A man on foot in a white man dress ran out into the street without looking, and I damned near killed him.  As it was I swerved, almost lost control, smashed the front right tire into a pile of trash, skidded, did lose control for a second, then fishtailed back onto the straight-and-narrow in a cloud of dust and gravel.

             
I slowed down as we got to the main road.  Fortunately there wasn’t a lot of traffic, given how early it was.  We blended into the few cars and trucks going about their business, trying to avoid getting caught up in the violence going on just a few blocks away.

             
As always, I avoided a straight route back to the militia FOB, not that the place was a secret to anybody.  Taking a predictable route anywhere is a good way to get ambushed, however.

             
It took about an hour to get back to “friendly” territory, given the route I used, and the frequent stops and double-backs to make sure nobody was following us.  We also had to steer around at least four checkpoints, only one of which had been set up by the PPF.  The battle lines were being drawn, and the city was openly fracturing along tribal and sectarian lines faster and more thoroughly than I’d thought possible.

             
When we pulled into the factory, which was now about as overt an armed camp as you could find outside of the PPF stations, it took only moments and showing the guard our faces to get waved in.  Daoud Al Zubayri’s militia was handling security for the FOB; I didn’t know exactly what all Hussein Ali’s people were up to.  Their security, while obvious and well-armed, still was lacking some professionalism, but I wasn’t sure how to help that, especially as so many IDs in the country were falsified and unverifiable anymore.

             
I pulled the car over to our outbuilding, but didn’t go in as soon as I got out.  I was looking for Hassan.

             
I finally found him halfway across the factory complex, smoking a cigarette, talking, and laughing with several militiamen who were standing or squatting in the peculiar way Iraqi men had of neither sitting nor standing.  I waved him over, and he excused himself to come and talk.

             
“Mister Jeff,” he said, dropping his cigarette on the ground.  “You are back early.”

             
“We ran into some complications,” I said.  “Where are Hussein Ali and Daoud?”

             
“I am sorry Mister Jeff, but they are not here.  Daoud al Zubayri went to see his family last night, and has not come back yet.  Hussein Ali is meeting with one of his cousins who is fairly highly-placed in the PPF, to try to convince him to bring his unit over once we move against the Iranians again.  I think we will be ready once he convinces his cousin.”

             
Dammit.  “I need to speak to both of them as soon as they get back,” I told him.  “I don’t think this is going to be as simple as knocking over the Qods Force operation in the PPF.”

              It was late afternoon before either of them showed up.  I had no idea where Daoud had been, and he wasn’t forthcoming, though he was upbeat enough.  I didn’t think he’d sell us out, in large part because I was pretty sure Hussein Ali would have his head cut off if he did, and I was pretty sure, from the way he acted around the older man, that he knew it.

             
I’d learned a long time before that you can’t expect Iraqis or just about any other Third World group to ever be on time.  For anything.  They simply don’t perceive time the same way Westerners do.  It can be intensely annoying, but you eventually get used to it.  When you aren’t setting the timeline at all, then you just endure it and wait, even if there is something important that needs to be addressed.

             
The fact that they might not see it as nearly as important as you do is also a hazard of working with militias in these places.

             
“Look, I understand that the Iranians have had more influence here since, well, since the invasion,” I argued.  “But AQI and the other Salafists are smuggling more and more of their men into the city.  They practically own entire neighborhoods now.  This isn’t going to be nearly as clean as knocking out the Qods Force leadership in the PPF.  Jaysh al Mahdi, Hezbollah, AQI, Ansar al Khilafah, Al Nusra…there are too many irregular groups to think this is going to be simple.”

             
Daoud smiled tolerantly.  I was starting to get really pissed at that expression.  “He says that they have dealt with the insurgents before,” Hassan translated.  “Once they have control of the PPF and the militias it will be easier, he says.”

             
The militia leader went on.  “He says that the Jaysh al Mahdi will be a challenge, but the Salafists do not have enough of a support base here to make a difference.  There have never been enough Sunnis living in Basra for them to have much influence.  They might attempt to attack a mosque or two, but they will be no match for the combined forces of the PPF and the militias.”

             
Frustrated, I looked at Hussein Ali, who had been playing his “man of few words” act for the entirety of the meeting.  He just shrugged, and spoke briefly and curtly.  “He does not believe the Sunnis have the strength to oppose the PPF and the militias either,” Hassan relayed.

             
I took a deep breath and blew it out in an explosive sigh.  I wasn’t going to convince either of them.  Maybe they were right.  They’d been on the ground a lot longer than I had, and they had to have a better understanding of the local ground truth.  It didn’t fit with what I’d seen or with what Jim and Larry had reported, though.  We’d intercepted one group of Ansar al Khilafah fighters, and with the report of more fighters being smuggled in while making a marked attempt to avoid the PPF, a trend was becoming visible.  But if our allies wouldn’t accept the information, there wasn’t much we could do about it besides be prepared for the worst.

             
Finally giving up, I made my farewells, and got up to go join the rest of the teams.  If we were sticking to the plan, we’d be rolling out in the morning, and there was plenty of prep to happen before we could call it a night.  The next day was going to be a long day, no matter what happened.

Chapter 27

             
The morning dawned clear, cool, and still, with the muezzin’s calls to prayer echoing over the mostly empty streets.  You could feel the tension.  Only the bravest or most desperate were out on the streets that morning.  From the factory, you could usually see the makeshift souk that had sprung up along the main hardball to the north.  Over the last few days we’d seen the shopkeepers setting out their vegetables, fruits, and breads for sale before mealtimes, with the locals coming to get their breakfasts or suppers.  That morning, the stalls were still and closed.

             
The militia was gathering in the factory complex, either driving in a variety of cars, vans, and small pickup trucks, or walking with their rifles slung over their shoulders.  We were still mostly inside our crowded outbuilding, going over gear and ammo and running last minute comm checks.  We still had to make sure we had good comm with the Iraqis, but internal comms came first.

             
When I glanced out the window, I saw that Hussein Ali and Daoud al Zubayri were standing nearby, talking and waiting.  I finished strapping my plate carrier on, scooped up my M1A, and called to Mike.  He looked up from where he was fiddling with his radio, and I jerked my thumb outside.  He nodded, stuffed the radio back in its pouch, grabbed his OBR, and followed me out.

             
Daoud brightened as he saw us coming.  The contrast between us was less than one might think.  Both men were wearing body armor and chest rigs.  Neither wore a helmet, I think more out of bravado in front of their men than anything else.  Hussein Ali was still cradling his AK-103, while Daoud held an M4 with rails and just about every tacticool accessory he’d been able to get his hands on.  At least he only had one flashlight on it.

             
Hassan had come over to join us as Mike and I walked up.  Daoud embraced us both, speaking jubilantly.  “Today will be a great day, my friends,” Hassan interpreted.  He sounded like he believed it himself.  “Today we will take Basra away from the forces that would destroy it.”

             
“I hope so,” I replied.  I still thought they were discounting any Sunni threat a little too blithely.  Even an IED that nobody saw coming at the wrong time in the wrong place could be fatal to our little endeavor.  When Mike and my teams were the primary assault elements for a pretty large-scale takeover, we were running on a little too much of a shoestring to get comfortable, but both the militia leaders seemed relaxed, even happy.

             
We chatted for a little while.  There wasn’t much discussion of the upcoming operation; they had their plan, what parts of it didn’t devolve into “Inshallah.”  I knew that Hussein Ali’s planning was much more thorough than that, but I’d heard enough of Daoud’s planning to know him for the enthusiastic amateur in the group, and therefore the wild card.  Both Hussein Ali and I would have to be prepared to work around whatever Daoud did once things got started.  Not my favorite way to operate, but Semper Gumby—Always Flexible.

             
Finally, Hussein Ali started drifting off toward his men and his green-painted Ford Ranger with the Kord mounted in the back.  Daoud took that as his cue, and shook both our hands thoroughly before heading for his own vehicles.

             
The rest of our teams were coming out of the outbuilding, and starting to load extra ammo, water, and medical supplies on the trucks that Hussein Ali had loaned us.  We had four diesel Rangers that somehow Hussein Ali had gotten surplus from the Iraqi Army.  Whether he had actually gotten them surplus, had a cousin placed properly, or bribed a requisitions officer, I didn’t know and didn’t ask.  They were decent trucks, and had mounts for the four old PKMs he’d also loaned us.  Mike and I had discussed using the M60E4s instead, but the local supplies of 7.62 NATO belts were thin.  Better to use the PKMs.  Larry and Bryan had spent a good amount of any down time they’d had over the last couple of days going over the guns and making sure they were in good working order.  Like most old Russian weapons, they didn’t need much.

             
Mike and I looked at each other.  He shrugged.  “At least we’ve got
some
backup,” he said.

             
“Yeah.”  I spat in the dirt.  “Just keep your heads on a swivel, man.  I think this is going to get a lot more complicated than our friends think.”

             
He nodded.  “It always does anyway, but I know what you mean.  Unfortunately, we’re kind of stuck letting them handle security for now.”

             
“That’s the way of it out here,” I said.  “We’re never going to see the kind of US forces out here in the shit that our mentors did, and even if we did, the odds of them helping us out would be pretty fucking thin.  The locals are what we have to work with.”

             
“Or we’re what the locals have to work with,” he pointed out.  “They’re paying
us
, remember?”

             
“True, but when it comes to combat, I don’t think like that.  I can’t.”  I stuck out my hand.  “Be safe, brother.”

             
Mike clasped it hard.  “You too.”

             
We separated and headed for our trucks.  Bryan was already up on the PKM, Paul was in the back seat, and Larry had squeezed his bulk into the driver’s seat.  Windows were rolled down and rifle muzzles out.  There wasn’t going to be anything covert about this morning.

             
I climbed into the passenger seat, checking that the map was taped to the dash, and the callsigns and freqs were all written on the windshield in map pen.  Paul had one of our heavier-duty radios in the center console, and I pulled out the handset.  “Kemosabe, Hillbilly.  You ready to roll?”

             
“Let’s do it, brother,” Jim replied.  “No time like the present.”  Which with Jim was another way of saying
let’s get this the fuck over with
.

             
I looked over at the Iraqi trucks, and got a wave from Daoud.  Time to go.

             
Hussein Ali led out, followed by his personal bodyguard in three trucks.  We followed, with the rest of Hussein Ali’s guys and Daoud’s militia coming after.  It was a pretty impressive armed convoy.  It was also overt enough that I was absolutely certain that we were going to get hit long before we got to the first target.  I was right.

             
Hussein Ali forged north, up the eight-lane main highway, toward Saad Square.  The cloverleaf at Saad wasn’t exactly the best choke point, but it was the place the PPF tried to put their first check on us.

             
I could see them even over the top of Hussein Ali’s Ranger, which was bristling with armed men, to include the guy on the Kord.  There were two ILAVs on the overpass, their turrets trained down the road.  Several clusters of up-armored Humvees squatted on the side roads, similarly armed.

             
The terrain sucked.  There was no cover easily accessible aside from a single long building on the left side of the road.  A weird, modernist shark statue was in the middle of dusty nothing on the right.  It wouldn’t provide cover, either.

             
There wasn’t time to skull out the tactical implications of it all.  The ILAVs opened fire, their turrets lighting up with huge muzzle flashes that were visible even in the morning sunshine.  Massive tracers floated by overhead or smacked dirt and grit into the air when they hit the ground.  The noise was horrendous.

             
Trucks scattered, trying to get out of the line of fire.  Larry wrenched the wheel over, following close behind the SUV we were following, doing an admirable job of keeping them between us and the heavy machineguns.  Not that it was going to make all that much difference when one of those rounds could probably go through the SUV long-ways and hardly slow down.  I’ve been shot at by heavies before, and it’s never a good feeling.

             
The SUV suddenly swerved toward us as massive rounds punched into its engine compartment, and the glass in the windows shattered under more impacts.  There was a loud
bang
as one of the rounds hit the rear of the Ranger.  It would have hit further forward, but Larry mashed the gas and sent us bouncing and roaring toward the scant cover of the single one-story building that sat closest to the square.

             
I twisted around in my seat.  “Everybody all right back there?” I yelled.

             
“So far,” Paul replied.  “We almost lost Bryan, but he grabbed onto the gun mount in time.”  Paul had his rifle out the window, but didn’t have a target.

             
“Larry, stay behind the wheel,” I said.  “Paul, you’re with me.”  I piled out and ran around to the back.  Bryan was still in the bed, leaning into the PKM, pointing it just past the corner of the building.

             
“Dude, I’ve got no shot right now!” he yelled.

             
“You’d barely scratch those fuckers,” I replied.  I rummaged in the gear in the back until I found the RPG-29s we’d gotten from Hussein Ali.  I hauled them both out and shoved one at Paul, who grabbed it awkwardly with one hand while he tried to sling his rifle onto his back with the other.  “Cover the flank and make sure we don’t get shot in the back,” I hollered at Bryan, then clapped Paul on the shoulder and headed back toward the road.

             
We’d gotten lucky, getting out of the line of fire as fast as we had.  Right in front of me, one of Hussein Ali’s trucks hadn’t made it.  It was sagging on its tires, its hood and windshield smashed, as it started to burn.  Pulped, shattered corpses lay in and around it, their blood soaking the pavement.  One of the militiamen was caught by his gear on the PKP mounted on the roll bar, still half-standing, the top half of his head a macabre mess, dripping brains and gore into the bed.

             
The gunners were still hammering away at the road, though our militiamen were starting to return fire.  The enemy’s elevated position was making it hard to try to suppress the gunners, and still would have even if our guys had been better shots.  The only thing we had going for us was that the gunners were just as bad as our militia.  If they’d known what they were doing, we’d all have been turned into hamburger already.

             
I took a knee, manhandling the 41-pound, 6-foot launcher onto my shoulder and lining up the left ILAV.  “I’ve got left!” I yelled at Paul.

             
“I’ve got right!” he acknowledged.  I didn’t wait to try to coordinate our shot or anything.  I armed the weapon, checked my back-blast area, got the sights on target, took a breath, and fired.

             
The concussion of the shot rattled my teeth.  Just because a weapon is “recoilless” doesn’t mean you don’t feel anything when you fire it.  I was instantly engulfed in a cloud of smoke and grit.  I had fired before Paul; he waited until the cloud had dissipated enough he could see, then slammed the next round downrange.

             
My target was burning, its gun gone silent.  I was able to see Paul’s round hit, his target momentarily disappearing with an orange flash, quickly eclipsed by a huge puff of black smoke.  When the smoke cleared, the entire front end of the vehicle was just
gone
, a twisted, mangled mass of metal and fiberglass, belching dark smoke.

             
The up-armored Humvees on the flanks were already moving, trying to get away from the crazy bastards using weapons that could take out a T-72 with a single direct hit on lumbering armored trucks.  Even as I was moving back to the trucks, a near-miss with an RPG smashed concrete out of the side of the overpass.  Both sides were dumping automatic weapons fire at each other now, neither doing a lot of aiming.

             
In a few minutes the firing started to die down as the PPF withdrew out of the square.  I knew better than to think that was the last we’d see of them short of the police station that was our first target.  We had over a mile to go, and in built-up areas that could be a long way.

             
I ran over to Hussein Ali’s truck.  Two of his men had been hit; one obviously had died instantly, his upper chest and shoulder smashed into shredded meat and shattered bone by a direct hit from either a 12.7mm or a 14.5.  Hussein Ali was bent over the other, who was rapidly fading, his hands quivering around the blood-soaked bandage another militiaman was trying to wrap around his midsection.

             
Hussein Ali looked up as I crouched down next to him.  I realized I didn’t have Hassan with me, but as I looked up he came running over.  The guy was better at keeping track of me than I was of him.

             
“We can’t just keep pushing up this road,” I told Hussein Ali through Hassan.  “They’ll be waiting for us, and they might just be better prepared than this bunch was.”

             
“He agrees,” Hassan interpreted.  “He does not want to leave the vehicles behind, but he does think that we need to proceed with greater caution, and along a less obvious route.  He is concerned, however, that some of the less-experienced militia may become lost.”