Abbas moved closer to them and pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket. He began waiving it wildly, and then held up both fists, telling Mukhtar Kennedy was in the second Suburban. It was the signal they had been waiting for. Mukhtar turned to the fourteen men standing at the back of the shop.
“They are coming. Put on your hoods.” The Lebanese terrorist grabbed his cell phone and hit the send button. Three rings later an eager voice answered. Mukhtar said, “It is time.” He did not wait for a response. He dropped the phone to the floor and drew his Markov pistol. The one he had told each man he would use to kill them if they did not use proper restraint.
38
The orange-and-white taxi had been cruising the southern edge of the old city for the better part of an hour. One man sat in back and the other drove. They stopped for coffee once and at a newsstand a second time. Fifty minutes into their patrol they headed further south. They had selected their spots the evening before. The locations were some of their best. Both were within two miles of the base’s main gate, which was crucial. Sahar and Ziba were Iranian revolutionary guardsmen who were now attached to the Quds Force. They were part of a small cell whose specialty was mortar attacks. They’d been in Iraq for only five months, but they knew their way around well.
When they received the final call they were only three blocks from their first launch point. The small car sped down the garbage-ridden street and stopped next to a dilapidated warehouse. Both men jumped out. The car was left running and the trunk was opened. Sahar, the larger of the two, grabbed an M224 60mm mortar. Fully assembled, it weighed close to fifty pounds. He set the base plate down exactly in the middle of a chalk-drawn circle that he had put there the night before. He then moved the feet of the bipod so they were positioned directly on top of two marks. The elevation and traversing screws were already dialed and locked in. Sahar stepped away from the mortar and on his way back to the trunk passed Ziba, who was headed toward the tube with a round in each hand.
Sahar put on a pair of heavy leather gloves and grabbed two rounds for himself. They had done this dozens of times, but they had attacked the main base only once, and that had been months ago. They had found out the hard way that the Americans had very advanced, fire-finding artillery radar. One of their first missions had been to fire on the main runway as a cargo plane was coming in for a landing. They set up their mortar, got a shell, and then dropped it in the tube. With a thud and whoosh it was gone. They stood there waiting to hear the explosion. It came a few seconds later and they clapped and laughed with elation. Sahar was about to drop a second round in the tube when they heard the whistle of an inbound artillery shell. The only thing that saved them was a nearby sewage ditch that they reached as the first of six shells pounded their position. The car was completely destroyed. Sahar had lived and learned.
On this particular day Sahar and Ziba were less than enthusiastic about their job. The man from Hezbollah had told them what he expected of them, and it was too much. Six mortar rounds fired from one tube would take nearly twenty seconds. More than enough time for the Americans to fire back at them and with shells a hell of a lot bigger than the ones they were firing. They told him his plan wouldn’t work and he immediately called their devotion into question. Even their manhood. Sahar and Ziba had taken the bait and had told the man they would do it. Neither man had slept well, and in the middle of the night they agreed that four shells would be enough. They would then drive to a second position and fire two more.
Sahar returned to the mortar tube and looked at his friend who nodded that he was ready. Sahar dropped the shell in the tube and each man took a half step back. There was a loud bang and whoosh as the shell was sent skyward. Gravity would play its role within a second and pull the round back down to earth, hopefully placing it near the front gate of the base. Ziba dropped the second round in the tube and off it went. The last two shells were launched, and Sahar grabbed the hot tube with one hand and the bipod with the other. He heaved the fifty pounds of metal into the trunk and ran for the driver’s door. Just as he was sliding in behind the wheel he heard the bloodcurdling whistle of an incoming round. Sahar stepped on the gas with all his might and the small Toyota took off. A second later the first round hit causing the ground to shake for blocks in every direction. The rear window shattered from a piece of shrapnel, but the car kept moving.
Ziba was now sitting in the front seat with Sahar. The two men looked at each other and laughed nervously. At twenty-four and twenty-five, they still found humor in such things. Eight blocks later they pulled up to their second location. Again Sahar grabbed the mortar and Ziba grabbed two rounds. Sahar placed everything on the proper marks and then reached out for Ziba’s second shell. He nodded for his friend to proceed. Ziba cradled the shell with both hands and tipped it until it slid backwards down into the tube. The 60mm shell boomed out of the tube with force.
This street had dirt and sand covering most of the asphalt. The launch kicked up a cloud of dust, which caused Sahar to lose sight of the tube for a second. Once he reacquired it, he rushed to load his shell. His nerves were frayed and the dust was making things difficult. Under better conditions he probably could have loaded the round without incident, but as soon as he heard the demonic shriek of multiple inbound shells, he panicked and missed the tube entirely.
The shell hit the ground with a clank, and Sahar thought for sure that it would explode. Both men froze for a moment, looked into each other’s eyes and then without having to say a word, starting running like hell for their idling car. With every step Sahar was cursing himself for allowing the Hezbollah man to goad him into doing something so foolish. When he reached the driver’s door, the first 155mm howitzer round impacted a mere seventy feet away. Razor-sharp shrapnel flew in every direction at more than 16,000 feet per second. The concussive blast and the molten hot shrapnel tore through both men in a flash.
39
Mukhtar kept his eyes on the street and said to Rashid Dadarshi, the Quds Force commander, “Bring up the first wave.”
Mukhtar was referring to the RPG teams who were tasked with taking out the convoy’s first two vehicles. Mukhtar and Dadarshi were in complete agreement that they had assembled more than enough firepower to handle the meager five-vehicle convoy. Dadarshi, however, had stressed that they would possess that advantage for a limited time. Maybe only minutes. He availed Mukhtar of story after story where the Americans had sent reinforcements, either by ground or air, within minutes of a fight starting. Mukhtar had worked to negate the American firepower from the start. He had instructed President Amatullah to make sure the Ministry of Intelligence made it clear the meeting would be canceled if any American units were seen within two miles of its site. The Americans appeared to be honoring the security agreement that both sides had reached. Dadarshi’s scouts had reported that the city was quiet.
Mukhtar knew American military doctrine well. He had studied it for years. He knew they would have one of their quick reaction forces on standby. That was why he had deployed the mortar team. If the shells they lobbed managed to hit a few of the vehicles all the better, but Mukhtar’s real intent was to create confusion and hopefully put the base into lockdown mode. Every second could prove to be crucial and his plan would hopefully gain them whole minutes.
Mukhtar was also willing to bet there were very few people at the base who knew that Kennedy was in Mosul. Whatever it was that the Americans wanted to talk about, they were certainly taking a huge risk to do it. That was why they were holding this clandestine meeting with spies instead of diplomats. They wanted deniability. While it suited their purposes, it also happened to suit Mukhtar’s needs perfectly. The Americans could try to tell the world that it was Iranian insurgents who had destroyed Iran’s nuclear facility, but Mukhtar knew better. The Americans were behind the attack. He had no proof, but his faith told him they were guilty. He was going to show them for the liars that they were, and with Amatullah’s bold help they would begin driving them out of
the region.
Mukhtar saw the police vehicles that had been blocking the street begin to move. He kept his eyes on the street corner and said, “Send them out, and move the next group up.”
The Quds commander signaled for the first four men to move. They filed out the front door of the shop and turned left. They were working in pairs. All four were dressed in plain clothes and carrying backpacks, none of them wearing masks. Mukhtar watched them hurry up the sidewalk, the second pair trailing by thirty feet. He reached down and pressed the start button on his digital watch’s stopwatch function just as the first white Toyota SUV rounded the corner.
“Easy,” Mukhtar said loud enough for the second wave to hear. “I’ll tell you when to move.”
This second group was composed of six men. Four were holding RPGs and two were carrying 7.62mm Russian-made PKM light machine guns with bipods. They were all wearing hoods.
The first Suburban entered his view and then the second one with Kennedy on board. The lead vehicle began to pick up speed as did the others. The final SUV came into view and started to turn onto their street. Mukhtar stuck his right arm out and was about to tell the men to go when the first shot was fired by one of the big guns at the other end of the street.
“Go!” Mukhtar screamed. “Go! Go!” He stepped over and began pushing the men out the door. The idiot policemen were supposed to wait. The front of the convoy was supposed to be attacked first, not the rear.
The first man out the door sprinted across the street and stopped between two parked cars. By the time he reached his position the second man had already made it to his spot on the near side of the street. He hefted his RPG onto his right shoulder, took aim at the grille of the lead SUV, and fired. The 85mm rocket-assisted grenade belched from the smooth-bore tube and screamed its way down the street. The shaped-charge warhead slammed into the engine block of the Toyota, sending a fireball skyward. The vehicle swerved to its left sideswiping two parked cars before it was completely disabled by a second RPG.
Of the four men who had been sent out first, only three were standing. The last man had been knocked to the ground by one of the RPG blasts and was slowly struggling to get to his feet. The other three men already had their backpacks off and were moving between parked cars toward their targets. Each backpack contained a shaped satchel charge designed to breach the underbelly of armored vehicles. In unison, they each pulled the fuse cord on the charges and sent the backpacks sliding across the pavement. Two came to rest under the first black Suburban and the third stopped just under the front bumper of the second Suburban. All three men turned and ran for cover.
Mukhtar watched as the double blast of the first two satchel charges lifted the lead Suburban clear off the ground. Virtually every sheet of bulletproof glass on the vehicle was blown free, as well as one of the doors. The vehicle landed with a metal-crunching thud on its side. The blast stirred up so much debris that Mukhtar could not see how the second black vehicle had fared. He resisted the urge to rush outside and find out. They were not done. Mukhtar watched as the last satchel charge was thrown under the first vehicle, the one that had already been hit by two RPGs. The vehicle and everyone in it appeared to be out of commission, but the man was going to carry out his orders. The explosion ripped the Toyota to pieces.
With the column stopped and the lead vehicles destroyed, Mukhtar felt it was time to move. He turned to the Quds commander and said, “Let’s go see what is left.”
There was still a lot of gunfire. Dadarshi said nervously, “I would feel better if we waited a little bit longer.”
As Mukhtar put on his black hood he asked, “Are you afraid to go out there?”
Dadarshi grinned and shook his head. “I was ordered to make sure nothing happened to you.”
Mukhtar remained unflinching as he walked past Dadarshi. “Nothing will. Allah has plans for me.” He stepped outside the building and began walking calmly up the sidewalk. The five men around him were all moving in a crouch. Gunfire was everywhere, but not so close that one could hear the supersonic snaps of bullets whistling past.
Through the settling dust, Mukhtar glimpsed the other truck. Its hood was blown off and it looked to be resting on its fender, but other than that the passenger compartment looked intact. Mukhtar allowed himself a smile as he savored what was a sure victory.
Bullets thudded into a parked car in front of them, and before Mukhtar knew what was happening he found himself thrown to the ground.
He twisted his neck and found the dark eyes of Dadarshi peering through the two slits in his mask. “Get off of me,” Mukhtar ordered.
“In a minute.” Dadarshi grinned. “Allah wants me to keep you safe until things have settled down a bit.”
In spite of himself, Mukhtar laughed loudly. There weren’t many men who would have dared to defy him.
The Quds commander ordered his men ahead to clear the way. Mukhtar looked at his watch. Only a minute and forty-one seconds had passed. They were making good time, but they could not afford to get bogged down. Finally, after another twenty seconds they were up and moving. Mukhtar was even more pleased when he finally got a clear glimpse of the second Suburban. It was disabled, but not destroyed. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, but the man in the front passenger seat was moving.
Mukhtar approached the vehicle to get a good look. Right there, in the middle of the back seat, he locked eyes with the director of the CIA.
“She is alive,” he said loudly as he stepped aside and pointed at the driver’s side passenger window. “Take it out.”
One of Dadarshi’s men shouldered a .50-caliber rifle and took several steps back. Everyone, including Mukhtar, covered their ears. The first shot splintered the glass and left a small hole the size of a quarter. The second shot took out a fist-sized hole. Mukhtar held up his hand, signaling the man to stop shooting. He approached the window with a smoke grenade in one hand and his Markov in the other. He pulled the pin with his teeth and stuffed the grenade through the hole. Another man was standing ready with an industrial saw in case they needed to cut into the vehicle. Mukhtar didn’t think they would need it. These men would choose survival, even if it were only for a few more seconds.
As they waited for the smoke to build up, two cars skidded to a stop just short of the Suburban. These were meant to transport Mukhtar, Kennedy, and a security detail.
“Remember,” Mukhtar yelled, “nothing happens to the woman.” He stepped closer to the truck and made sure he stayed away from the opening in the window in case one of the bodyguards decided to fire out the hole. “Come out and no one will be harmed!” He waited a few seconds, checked his watch, and started to get nervous. He was about to tell the man with the saw to go to work, when the rear passenger door opened.
One of the security men stumbled out of the vehicle with his empty hands above his head. Coughing, he was immediately thrown to the ground. The director of the CIA came out next. Mukhtar grabbed her roughly and pulled her away from the smoky vehicle. Two more men came out of the truck also gasping for air and coughing. They were thrown to the ground next to the first one.
Mukhtar yanked the hijab from Kennedy’s head and slapped her across the face. Her sunglasses went flying. She staggered for a moment and then slowly turned to face him. The man from Hezbollah looked into her eyes relishing the fear he would find, but instead was confronted with the blankest expression he had ever seen. There was no emotion in her eyes. In fact, she looked as if she had been drugged. Mukhtar slapped her again. She lowered her head for a second and then slowly regained her posture, standing up straight and staring back at him with the same flat, brown gaze.
Mukhtar forcefully grabbed her hair and dragged her back to where her bodyguards were lying on the pavement. He pointed his Markov pistol at the first man and squeezed the trigger. With all of the explosions and heavy machine-gun fire that had been going on, the relatively light report of the 9mm seemed ridiculous. The damage it caused, however, wasn’t. A pool of bloo
d began spreading beneath the man’s head. Mukhtar forced Kennedy to look at the dead man and then held her firm while he shot the next two men in the head.
“You,” Mukhtar growled in Arabic, “will do exactly as I tell you, or you will suffer the same fate.”
Before Mukhtar could pull her head up to see if he had finally gotten through, two explosions rocked the intersection just to the north. Mukhtar looked up to see one of the police vehicles aflame and another car burning.
The Quds force commander grabbed Mukhtar by the arm and started pulling him away from the dead bodyguards. “We need to leave,” he yelled over increasingly loud gunfire.
Mukhtar did not disagree. He grabbed Kennedy and began dragging her toward one of the waiting vehicles.
40
Rapp rushed down the stairs with a loaded Glock .45 in his left hand. As much as he had wanted to bring his distinctly American M-4 rifle instead, he thought it best to leave it behind. Rapp hit the landing with a thud, grabbed the railing, and started down the next flight. He couldn’t get the vision of the burning white Toyota SUV out of his head. The thing had been cut to shreds in a matter of seconds. Kennedy’s armored Suburban would fare much better, but it would not hold up indefinitely. He needed to get out there and help them.