Hammer of God

CHAPTER 5

The HAWCs followed the signal frequency given to them by the Israeli Metsada, and it led to a small building on the edge of town. It was still dark, but dawn was coming fast. The small flat-topped building had curtains drawn and was tomb silent, but Alex knew they were being watched from the moment they approached.

He turned to Casey Franks. “And you behave, or you can walk home.”

Franks nodded, her mouth never losing its scar-pulled sneer. “Always.”

Alex knocked on the door, standing slightly to the side of the frame. He looked to Sam. “Give me thirty seconds.”

The HAWCs spread each side of the door as it was pulled inwards a crack. Alex pushed on the door and stepped into the ink-black room and waited. He could sense the people, three of them, without seeing them. One to his left and another to the right, both watching him from their dark spaces; the third was seated directly in front of him.

An oil lamp was suddenly lit, but it was turned down so low it only cast a tiny yellow circle of light over the person beside it. Alex lifted an arm and pressed a small stud at his neck. The full face shielding telescoped back into the collar of his suit.

There came a soft laugh. “Of course it would be you.” The woman smiled, and in her eyes there was genuine interest, and perhaps even delight at seeing him.

Alex gave a small bow, looking at her more closely. She seemed relaxed but he knew there was lethal power coiled in that athletic frame. She wore two Israeli designed Barak pistols, which meant “lightning” in Hebrew. They were blunt and business-like — the power punch of a magnum without the weight. She had them both strapped on her front so the gun barrels pointed down toward her groin, creating a “V” shape for rapid access and firing.

“Adira.” Alex straightened, waiting.

He expected her, and knew she expected, or maybe hoped, it would be him. He knew everything about her — her name meant “mighty” in ancient Hebrew, and it suited her. She was related to the famous Chana Senesh, who was sent by the Kibbutz Sdot Yam to save Jews in the Nazi-occupied countries and was betrayed to the Nazi regime. Severely tortured, she never informed on her friends, never gave in, and for that she was sentenced to death. Adira Senesh had all of her ancestor’s grit and courage.

She rose to her feet; above average height, with a smooth olive complexion and dark eyes like pools of oil. She smiled disarmingly, but Alex knew she was a fierce warrior in the Metsada, and was responsible for single-handedly entering a Hamas terrorist tunnel network and rescuing a captured twenty-two-year-old border guard from a nest of ten Hamas butchers. No terrorists had survived.

Alex looked to his left. “Come into the light.” He turned to the right. “You too.”

Adira nodded. “It’s okay, we’re old friends.” The two large men came forward. Both cradled skeletal-looking automatic weapons in their arms. “Friends…” Adira repeated and shrugged. “Sort of.”

Alex half turned. “HAWCs.”

Casey and Sam came in fast, taking up positions just inside the door. Sam’s bulk filled the space, and Casey slowly shut the door behind them. They both retracted their face shields.

Adira looked coolly at Casey, the female HAWC returning the steady gaze. The last time they had met at the foot of the Black Mountain, Adira had bested her in a one-on-one fight. Casey hadn’t forgot it. Adira nodded, but turned away, not interested in the woman’s blazing glare.

Adira’s smile returned and she stepped forward to tap on Alex’s armor. “There’s still a man in there, yes?”

“It’s good to see you again, too.” Alex smiled. “And yes, still here, just a little more battle-scarred.”

“Like us all.” She stood in front of him, looking into his face. “Unfortunately, it’s the business we are in.” She turned to the giant figure in the room. “Sam Reid; big as a house as ever, I see. Still part robot, I assume?”

Sam grinned. “Only the best parts… and they all still work.”

She shook his hand warmly, and then called her own team forward. She motioned first to a dark eyed, formidable-looking man, whose eyes darted from one HAWC to the other, missing nothing.

“Agent Eli Livnat.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. She then turned to other man. “And Moshe Levy. Both are experts in explosives, weaponry and combat.”

The three HAWCs examined each of the men. They appeared capable and if Adira had selected them, then they’d be as good as they looked.

“We’re in your hands… for now,” Alex said. “We should compare Intel, and then investigate the Mosul facility.”

“Tonight, we go in. Today, we scout the area and make a plan.” She half smiled, her eyes going to Casey and Sam. “Where we are going is into the belly of the beast — over a thousand fanatical jihadis, light and heavy weaponry, and unfriendly eyes everywhere. You walk around looking like that, you’ll have exhausted your ammunition before you even get inside the city walls.”

“What about the local population — any chance of friendlies?” Alex asked.

“Maybe once.” She tilted her head. “Most of the sectarian civilian population fled months ago. Those that stayed were either killed or learned quickly to become informants, sycophants, or themselves turned into butchers. Daily, the Hezar-Jihadi brings back captives to either sell as slaves, rape, torture, or simply execute for the enjoyment of the blood-hungry crowd and the western media. This place has been turned into hell, Captain Hunter.”

She walked to a large plastic bag and emptied it on the ground. Mounds of clothing piled on the floor of the cabin and she began sorting and then throwing garments at the HAWCs.

“Thawbs. Traditional robes of men in the area; it will conceal everything. One for each of us.” She tossed one to Casey. “You get one too as you can pass as a man.” She half smiled.

“No shit,” Casey said, snatching the robe from the air.

“Moshe, the map.” Adira moved to a small table.

Moshe Levy brought a tablet computer to the table and opened a satellite view of Mosul. He drilled down to the building they had targeted.

“In here.” Adira moved the image around, pointing at different sections of the street and other buildings. “There will be people watching. I would place them up here, in here, and here.” She looked up at Alex. “They need to be taken out first.”

Alex nodded. “But we go in together.”

“Then you better be quick.” She looked back down at the map. “In and out, because if we stall and get trapped inside, no one is coming to our aid.” She drew the image back to take in the entire city center, a sprawling metropolis, with many of the roads blocked now either by formal gates, or simply piled high with the rusting hulks of cars.

Adira looked at the HAWCs. “Which of you speaks Arabic?”

Sam nodded and said a few words to her.

“Not bad, but a terrible accent,” Adira said. “Though the primary language is Mesopotamian Arabic, most other dialects are spoken and understood. For you, Sam, I can hear a touch of American, so speak only if in an emergency. I suggest each of you accompany one of us. Team one, Alex with me. Team two, Sam and Moshe.” She turned and grinned. “And Eli gets Casey Franks all to himself, as team three.”

Eli Livnet’s eyes went to Casey, and hers to his. She seemed to snarl, and he looked away slowly, clearly not impressed with his choice.

“We’ll do all the talking,” Adira said. “But hopefully we can avoid anyone else.” She looked at a wristwatch and then opened another plastic bag full of clothing. She sighed. “And a niqab for me.” She holstered weapons and knives, and then pulled on layer after layer, the clothing even covering her face, leaving just a slit for her eyes.

“Stifling.” She adjusted the heavy cloth, and pointed again at the map. “Alex and I will take this route — Jalba, the direct one, and leave first. Five minutes later, team two will enter through Al Jaddid Road, this route. And then in another five minutes, team three will walk east toward Yarmuk, here. These are fairly small thoroughfares and unlikely to be guarded.” She looked up. “But they’ll be watched by a dozen eyes; hopefully none of them Hezar-Jihadi.”

“Good.” Alex, Sam and Casey pulled on the thawbs. The loose fabric concealed most things, but not that each of them was oversized.

Adira looked at them and then shook her head. “Shizza. Both of you bend forward slightly. The only ones to stand so cockily upright are the fighters. Everyone else should be bent, humble, and permanently living in fear.”

The HAWCs rounded their shoulders and hung their heads.

“Better,” she said. “We meet back here at 1200 hours. That will give us plenty of time to observe from many different perspectives. There are numerous coffee shops still open — better to be seated in one, than to be loitering.” She looked at each of their faces, her eyes narrowing behind the niqab. “If you hear gunfire, screams, anything, you ignore it; it is a common thing here. You will see things that will frustrate you and horrify you, things that will demand your intervention, but do not engage. We have a priority mission, and that is not to spend our time rescuing individuals.” She waited. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Alex said.

She held his eyes. “I mean it.” She turned back to the table and pulled on a pair of black gloves. “Pull your cowls over your heads.” She leaned forward onto the table. “And one more thing; don’t get captured. The last high-value foreign fighter they managed to take prisoner ended up locked in a cage and burned alive for the pleasure of the online wanna-be jihadis still scattered around the world. The more barbaric the act, the more it works as a recruitment tool.”

Alex’s jaws worked as he remembered the brave Jordanian soldier. He ground his teeth. Inside him something stirred, whispering for revenge, wanting to obliterate, to crush and butcher the butchers. He shook it away; they had bigger fish to fry this day.

Adira pulled up her sleeve and checked her watch one last time. Her dark eyes found Alex. “Don’t be taken alive. Being beheaded would be a mercy compared to what these animals would do to you.”

“It won’t be us that dies this day,” Alex said evenly.

She nodded and then turned. “Reid, hunch over more, you’re still as big as a mountain. Let’s go.”

The groups left at their allotted times, and entered the sprawling city from different roads.

Alex kept his head down, but marveled at the mix of new and ancient structures. He also noticed how quiet it was, and worse, saw there were huge patches of rust-brown in the dusty streets, and knew it for what it was: old blood. Mosul was an age-old city first mentioned by the Greek historian Xenophon in 401 BC. At its peak just a decade ago, it had nearly two million residents. Now over a million had fled, and the modern city was rapidly sliding back to being a medieval stronghold, complete with torture, stonings, and beheadings.

New military hardware was stationed everywhere — ever since the Iraqi armory in Kirkuk was overrun and around a billion dollars of American equipment was stolen, each barbaric terrorist now had modern weaponry, anti-aircraft batteries, and tanks and armored vehicles were parked at strategic places in the streets. Alex had no doubt that many of the rooftops would have surface-to-air missiles and heavy RPG launchers ready in the event someone was brave enough to try and drop in. And a full airborne strike, the preferred option, would be impossible while there were still so many inhabitants living there.

They continued along Jalba Street, moving swiftly along its rubble-strewn pavement, close to the industrial area and the gas power plant. There were a few people moving around now, and a few sullen-looking soldiers glared from vehicle windows, but a woman, seeming old and bent over, accompanied by perhaps her son, should not have raised suspicions. At least that’s what they hoped.

They turned into Al Shazani Road and spotted the flat two-story building they needed to examine. At the far end, coming in the opposite direction, was a pair of figures in brown shawls, their size unmistakable to Alex.

“Your Franks and Eli, — don’t even look at them,” Adira said.

Alex grunted his acknowledgement, and just kept his head down. He allowed his eyes to move over the streetscape.

“Here, Café Jaralqmar.” Alex nodded to a shop entrance where a roller door had gone up. An old man was placing chairs on the pavement, and wiping down tables.

Adira half turned, her expression impossible to gauge behind the heavy head covering. “Good, but too early; we don’t want to be the first in. We’ll circle the block.”

Alex spoke softly into his throat mic as Casey Franks came abreast of them. “Franks, on your left; target is flat-topped building with the green paint.”

“Got it, boss,” came the immediate reply.

“And we already called the café.” Alex smiled within the hood.

“Shit, I need my caffeine hit,” she growled.

Adira stopped, and pulled a packet of cigarettes from a slit in her niqab. She turned and handed them to Alex. “Light one, take your time.”

Alex nodded and took the pack. “I thought it was banned.”

“It is. Like a lot of other vices it has been declared haram. But men can flout the rules.”

Alex opened the red and white pack and first took the small plastic lighter out, then one of the filtered cigarettes. He put it in his mouth. Adira stood facing him, but her eyes wandered over the rooftops, windows and dark door entrances of their target building.

“Seems abandoned,” she said. “Big enough for a chopper to land on the roof, but if it is some sort of bomb factory, then it should be heavily guarded.” She looked along its façade. “Its ground floor is fortified, steel grills across windows and doors, but the second floor is wide open.” She frowned. “Those symbols painted on the walls and door are strange. It’s very ancient Arabic, in fact I think it’s an extinct dialect of Northern Arabic — not spoken by anyone anymore.”

After a moment she said, “Hard to read, doesn’t make sense.” Alex saw her frown as she concentrated on a translation. “It says something like, praise those who choose, or are chosen, to become the fire of god.” Adira spoke softly. “Maybe a jihad reference, but why write it in a language that is mostly forgotten?”

There was a flicker of movement in one of the windows.

“Time to go,” Alex said. “Seems there is somebody home after all.” He flicked the cigarette away, and together they ambled down the street and turned the corner.

Casey walked beside Eli. Both were looking at the street, assessing, searching for anything that would hint at danger or higher risk. She spotted Sam and Moshe at a far intersection but ignored them. Theirs, Alex’s, and also Sam’s risk assessment would all feed into the coming night’s insertion plan.

“Fucking graveyard,” Casey muttered. There were a few people about but behind the walls and doors, there was silence.

“Music is banned, singing is banned, secularism is banned.” Moshe snorted. “Welcome to paradise under Hezar-Jihadi rule.”

“Yeah, real fun place,” Casey growled back.

They turned into an alley, this one more decrepit, with a few of the buildings looking abandoned. Doors hung open or teetered on bent hinges, and beyond their entrances was nothing but darkness. From further down in the alleyway there came a squeal, like that of a hurt animal.

“We should go another way,” Moshe said.

“Why? If there’s a risk, I want to see it and assess it now, rather than tonight.” Casey lifted her pace.

“Hey… ach.” Moshe scurried after her.

At an open doorway, a man lay sprawled in the street, and an older woman was trying to cover him with her hands. A girl was being held by the hair by one of two men in army fatigues who stood over the group.

“What the fuck?” Casey hissed through clamped teeth.

“Do not intervene,” Eli said, grabbing at her. “These men are Morality Police. They enforce strict religious rule. Leave them be.”

“What? Like maybe they saw her through a window singing, or more likely with her hair uncovered? That’s not policing.” She half turned. “What’ll happen?”

“That depends. They may beat them, or maybe just imprison her for her crime.”

“What freaking crime?” Casey’s teeth were bared as she yanked her arm free of him.

Eli shrugged. “They make up rules that suit them. But we cannot get involved.”

“Like hell we can’t,” Casey growled. “Think I’ll show them my rules.” She continued toward the two men, who still held so tight to the girl’s hair that her head was pulled back, exposing her neck.

Casey could see that the elderly father had already suffered severe blows to his face, probably just for the insult of trying to defend his own daughter.

“This will be bad.” Eli tried to keep pace with Casey.

“Damn right it will be,” Casey spoke over her shoulder. “If the strong do not protect the weak, what is the point of being the strong?”

“Shitzn, wait, let me do the talking.” Eli sped to overtake her.

Both men attacking the family paused as Eli and Casey came down the lane toward them. Eli raised a hand. “Brothers, can we help with this foolish family?”

The men looked briefly at each other and shook their heads. “No, be on your way.”

“Then the girl… is she for sale?” Eli put his hand in his shawl. “She is a beauty; what is her price?”

One of the men snorted. The other looked down at the girl, nodding. “Yes, she is that. But she must be taught a lesson. If she acts like a whore, she will be treated as a whore.” He looked at Eli and grinned. “You can have what we leave… for free.”

He started to drag her away. The girl screamed and the mother wailed, wanting to stand, but the father was in too much of a mess to release his bloody head from her hands.

“Well, you’ve had your turn,” Casey said to Eli as she threw her shawl back. Her white crew cut, fair skin and ice pick blue eyes glared at the two Mosul fighters. Both froze momentarily, not sure what they were actually looking at.

The man holding the girl dropped her like a sack and fumbled with his gun. Casey crossed to him in three quick steps and brought a blade up and under his chin, jamming it through his larynx and up into his brain. His mouth opened, showing a hint of dark steel at the back of his throat, and his eyes rolled back.

“Bye bye,” Casey said into his face.

Eli still had one hand in his pocket, and through the folds in the material a soft spitting sound emanated as a tiny hole appeared. The second soldier stood shocked momentarily with a corresponding hole between his eyes, before he fell back like an axed tree.

Eli turned to the family. “We were never here, they were never here.” He pointed at the blood on the ground. “Clean this up and speak of it to no one.” He bowed. “Enshallah.”

Eli then turned to Casey as he grabbed one of the bodies by the shoulders. “Take the other one. We’ll hide them in one of the empty buildings.”

Casey grabbed the other body and together they dragged them twenty feet down the street to the first abandoned building they could find. They pulled them inside, past broken doors and smashed furniture. Piles of rubble created perfect burial mounds. Casey lifted a huge sheet, and scoffed.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” She pointed. There was already a body hidden there, desiccating in the dry air. She grinned down at it. “Would you like some company, pal?” She lifted the sheet higher and then threw the new body on top of the old. Eli added his corpse, and together they dropped the huge sheets and more debris on top.

Eli turned to her, his hands on his hips. “You feel better now?”

Casey shrugged. “Sorry. Hey, what did you say these guys called themselves?”

“Hezar-Jihadi; Party of a Thousands Martyrs,” he responded.

She snorted. “A thousand minus two now, huh?”

“This is not funny.” Eli looked at her from under heavy brows. “You should follow your captain’s orders, and his example.”

“Yeah, right.” She started to turn away but paused. “Come on, and I’m warning you; no distractions this time.” She laughed as she pulled her hood up once again.

Eli groaned and followed.

Alex and Adira sat outside at the café, several hundred feet down from their target building. There were a few other patrons inside, but they were the only ones seated on the street. Half a dozen other tables sat waiting for their food and drinks.

Adira had ordered coffees, and the dark thick rich liquid was poured at the table. A plate of dates was also set down for them. Alex lifted the small glass cup in the ornate gold holder to his lips.

“Whoa, like a triple espresso on steroids.”

Adira laughed softly, the sound muffled from under the folds of her niqab. “It’s Turkish style — brewed, rebrewed and then cardamom pods added. It enhances the flavor and strength. Why do you think they’re all wild eyed in these parts?”

Alex ate a date, and let his eyes travel down the street. “If that’s the right building, then I think we’ve missed the party.”

“Someone may be still inside, but I think you’re right. If nuclear weapons were being assembled and dispatched from that place I would have expected a fortress. Or at least a significant military presence.” She looked at the surrounding rooftops. “And much more security in the adjoining structures.”

“I think they’ve done what they needed to do, and then moved on. Still, we need to go in and check it out,” Alex said. “Front door is too visible from the street.” He looked along the rooftops; the buildings were jammed up against each other and all were of comparable height. “Be better to enter next door, and drop down through the roof.”

“Yes, this might work.” Adira faced the building, peering at the ancient Arabic writing on its façade. “What happened here? That writing is only on the one building. I can partly understand its words, but not its meaning.”

Alex remembered her translation of the script. “Praise those who are chosen to become the fire of god.” He turned to her. “And what better fire than a nuclear one?”

“Yes.” Adira continued to stare at the writing. She turned back. “It is time we take a small risk.”

The café owner was approached. “Enshallah, brother,” Adira said. “We are visiting relatives from over the far side of the city. My brother here,” she motioned to Alex, “is a teacher of languages, and was wondering about the writing on the wall.” She pointed one gloved hand at the Arabic script.

The man looked down the street to the wall. His eyes narrowed. “One day it just appeared. I cannot read it, but an old customer who comes here told me that it is a warning.” He became furtive and leaned toward her. “Dark magic,” he said.

“Shukran.” Alex slid a five thousand dinar note across the table. The man took it and bowed his thanks before departing.

“Dark magic,” Adira repeated. “That would work to keep the superstitious away.”

“Maybe that’s why there are no physical guards — the superstition provides enough of a barrier for the locals,” Alex said, sipping his dark liquid. “And they’re not expecting there to be anyone else in this place.”

Adira sat back. “I have seen enough to know that you cannot discount magic. This land has known human habitation for nearly ten thousand years. Long before the machines there was alchemy and sorcery, and there are ancient tomes written by the foremost scientists of their times. The things they included would not make sense in these modern times.” She looked around. “Unless the modern times were being rolled back.”

“And that’s exactly what’s happening here; no music, no women on the streets, education outlawed. Barbarism is rushing to reclaim this part of the world.” He sighed and nodded toward their target.

“Looks wide open. We enter via the next building, and then onto the roof.” Alex finished his coffee. “We should head back. See what the other teams have found for us.”

As the morning began to give way to midday, the streets started to fill with people, and Adira led them quickly to their house. Suddenly the few woman started to scatter, and the remaining men moved to the walls, clearing a path and watching and waiting.

“Heads up,” Alex said, turning back along the street from under his shawl.

Adira turned away, looking in the reflection of a window. From down the street jogged a group of armed men. There were three lines of them — the outside lines all wore black balaclavas. They were strung with ammunition and were armed. The inside men had hands on their heads and were tied together, a rope looping each of their waists. Each of them was barefoot, and many had blood to the ankles, the sharp debris of the roadway uncompromising on bare flesh.

“Hezar-Jihadi,” Adira whispered.

Occasionally one of the soldiers would reach inwards to slap one of the prisoners over the head, urging them on. In among them was a man dressed in the remains of a flight uniform. This one also had the extra disadvantage of being tied to a huge man on both his left and right — a special prisoner. As he approached, Alex and Adira could see a tricolor patch in his sleeve. He was French, then. The man’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were already vacant,in a slack, blood smeared face.

At their rear, one of the men — stouter than the rest — carried a hard suitcase. Alex could tell by its size and shape that it was recording and satellite equipment. It seems there was to be a show.

“They make them run to their execution,” Adira said.

“Enemy fighters?” Alex asked.

“Maybe the wrong religion, maybe a petty crime.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Everything is punishable by death in this city.” She watched them from the corner of her eye. “And the one big prize — a captured western pilot — him they will undoubtedly burn alive.”

Alex was still staring at the lines of men as they jogged down the street and around a corner. “I’ve seen it before. They’ll take them to a killing field, set up their cameras and film it for consumption by their fan boys around the world.”

“And fan girls.” Adira snorted. “Weekly, hundreds of young women flock to this land, even from comfortable homes in the west. They seek to become jihadi brides, or even frontline fighters.”

“A madness,” Alex said, but then shook his head. “No, more an infection that is contaminating the Middle East.”

“It is a madness and an infection. But like all severe infections, it will burn itself out.” Adira shrugged. “We have been dealing with the terrorist mind for decades, you have not. You need to be patient. Guns alone will not solve this problem.”

“Guns will do for now,” Alex said, as he continued to watch the now empty street. “We are the sword and shield.” His words were whispered. “They want a show? We’ll give them one to remember.”

“No, you will not intervene.” Adira came and stood in front of him. “We can call in their position for a strike. But if we intervene, we may put our mission at risk.”

Alex looked down at her. She was right, but logic didn’t matter now. The coiling hate inside him was demanding something more. “Where will they take them?”

She stared, perhaps wanting to argue more, but she saw something in his face that changed her mind. Perhaps she remembered what he could be like. She sighed loudly. “A field, a vacant lot.” She looked up at the sky. “They will want to be away from the city crowds, and will need good light for the filming.”

“So, they’ll be away from their main command, isolated?” Alex smiled grimly, pulling the shawl further down over his face. “Let’s go and enjoy the show.” He spoke quickly into his throat mic. “Sam, on my position, now.”