A Cold Day In Mosul (5 page)

Using the GPS in his rooted phone for guidance—he had the device attached to the dashboard via one of those magnetic mounts—Ethan made his way across the desert, giving the checkpoint a wide berth. After about five minutes of off-road driving the Land Cruiser hit an area of denser sand. The tires dug right in and stopped turning.

"Told you we were going to get stuck," Doug proclaimed.

"Not much of an off roader, are you?" Ethan told him.

"What do you mean?" Doug said, sounding cautious.

"Watch and learn." Ethan grabbed a pair of ballpoint pens from the center console compartment and exited the vehicle. He tossed a pen to William, and together the two of them jabbed the ballpoint tips into the air valves and proceeded to deflate the tires by half, which had the dual effect of distributing the weight of the vehicle more evenly so that it wouldn't sink as deeply, while also increasing the surface area of the rubber in contact with the ultra-fine sand, providing greater traction.

"Well that's great," Doug said as they worked. "But what are we going to do when we reach the road again?"

"There's a portable inflator with the spare in the back," Ethan said.

"Oh."

When the tires were ready, Ethan slowly stepped on the accelerator, and brought the Land Cruiser out of the deep sand. He continued through the desert, which soon became more rocky and steppe-like—and unfortunately more bumpy. After being tossed about for several more minutes, he finally steered the vehicle back onto the highway and halted to reinflate the tires.

"What if we encounter these rival Al Nusra terrorists they're worried about?" Doug asked while Ethan plugged the portable inflator into the lighter plug.

"Then it's time for more moon dust surfing."

"Exactly," Doug said. "So don't fill the tires too much."

That was a good point. Ethan only added five PSI per tire, leaving them slightly deflated.

Eventually the highway merged with the M4, and finally they headed east toward the distant Iraqi border.

Traveling on the M4 highway, they passed several Islamic State controlled towns and cities along the way, among them Ain Issa. For the most part, the dreary, monotonous moonscape dominated. There was a moment of green as they passed farmland and a village that had sprung up around the Nahr al Balikh River, but the color of life was gone all too soon. It didn't help that every city or village they passed seemed perpetually coated in a thin layer of that dust.

They turned south off the M4 about twenty kilometers out of Tall Tamr, as the way was blocked by an Islamic State roadblock. Apparently the rest of the highway, including Tall Tamr, was under Kurdish control.

Highway 7 took them east again, but roadblocks forced them around the contested city of Al Hasakah; they headed south past Ash Shaddadi, turning east onto the 715.

Finally, six hours into the drive, they neared the tall sand berm that formed the Syria-Iraq border. A path had been bulldozed right through it. Two technicals had been placed alongside the route within the razed section of berm. The black standards of the Islamic State waved proudly beside the anti-aircraft guns in the truck beds. Beyond the road, concertina razor wire and a couple of Jersey barriers blocked the remaining space through the berm. 

As they neared, Doug quickly stuffed the Iridium Go and his SatSleeve into the glove compartment and locked it, slipping the key into his mouth.

The paved highway abruptly ended and Ethan drove onto a road of compacted sand. There was only one vehicle ahead of them, another Land Cruiser. Ethan slowed, matching the speed of the SUV, and halted as the driver ahead paused to converse with the border guards.

"You think they'll ask for our passports?" William said.

"What do you mean?" Ethan asked.

"In theory, passports and IDs aren't needed to cross the border, because it doesn't exist anymore. Neither Syria nor Iraq are recognized here. We're in the land of the Caliphate now."

"Oh they'll ask all right," Ethan said.

The SUV drove off and the militant waved Ethan forward.

He halted beside a hooked-nosed militant in a turban, who peered into the vehicle.

"ID," the guard said.

"Passports?" Ethan said.

"Fine." The guard wiggled his callused fingers impatiently. In addition to the AK hanging from one shoulder, he carried a worn scimitar at his waist. For beheading infidels caught at the crossing?

Ethan gathered the passports, mouthing "told ya" to William in the process, then handed the identifying documents over to the guard; the nervous smile he wore wasn't entirely an act.

The guard looked at their faces and passport photos in turn, and remarked: "You've changed your beards."

These were the same passports they'd used to get inside Syria six months ago; in the photos, they wore the thick, mustacheless beards of the devout. Too bad they hadn't had time to prepare new passports.

Ethan shrugged. "We're going to Iraq. We want to look like Iraqis." His eyes flicked toward the man's weapon, and without conscious effort his mind reviewed the ways he could subdue the militant and take the AK from him. Of course, there was the problem of the other mujahadeen at the crossing...

The guard finally shrugged and handed the passports back. "You are Sunni?"

"Yes, of course we are Sunni," Ethan assured the man.

"What is it you wish to do in this area of the Caliphate?"

"We heard the border is no more," Ethan said. "And wished to visit our relatives in Mosul. And perhaps stay, if we find good work." Ethan had a few fake names and addresses prepared, but the man never inquired further. Instead he instructed Ethan to pull to the side of the road.

After driving to the roadside, another guard had the three of them exit the vehicle and patted them down. He searched the passenger area of the Land Cruiser, then moved on to the cargo space; he rifled through their backpacks, setting aside the various belongings: extra clothing, Qurans, duct tape, flashlights, batteries, matches, insect repellent. When he discovered the six-pack of bottled water, he confiscated three of the bottles. He ignored the USB sticks and smartphones—despite the fact that there were two phones per person—and focused his attention on the tiny network cameras he found next.

He held one of the devices up suspiciously.

"We sell cameras," Doug said.

The mujahid showed it to another militant nearby, who regarded it with a shrug.

"You cannot have these," the mujahid said, seizing the devices. There were more network cameras hidden along with the Internet gear in the glove compartment, but Ethan wasn't about to volunteer that information. With luck, the militant would forget to search it.

The man had Doug activate the laptop he found, and when he was convinced it was real, the militant focused his attention on the spare tire. He ordered Ethan to remove it from the vehicle, then he checked the inside for hidden contraband. Satisfied that there was nothing inside, he made a final examination of the vehicle, first checking the back seats, then the front. He tried the glove compartment door. It was locked, of course.

"Open it," the fighter said.

"We lost the key," Ethan lied. "Nothing in there anyway." He didn't really want to give up the Internet devices hidden inside, but he knew the things were basically lost by that point.

The militant smashed the compartment with the butt of his rifle a few times, to no avail. He went to one of the nearby technicals and returned with a crowbar, trying again. When that didn't work, he called over another, stronger militant, and the new guy gave it a go. Though the man placed all his weight on that crowbar and pried with all his strength, he, too, couldn't get it open.

"We could try a winch?" the stronger guy said.

The smaller militant glanced at Ethan wearily. "Do you solemnly swear that there are no weapons, cigarettes, or alcohol stowed in that compartment?"

"On the Quran, I swear this is true," Ethan said. And it was.

"Then go." The militant tiredly waved Ethan and the others on.

When the border was behind them, Doug fished the slimy key out from under his tongue.

"Told you we should've put a few Makarovs in there," William said from the backseat. "A Land Cruiser's glove compartment can stand up to anything."

"You should work for Toyota," Ethan commented dryly.

He navigated the SUV onward. This side of the border didn't look any different from the previous; they had merely driven from one side of the same desert into the other. Ethan could see why the Islamic State wanted to get rid of the border, which was, when it came down to it, an arbitrary line drawn on a map after World War I.

"Ah Iraq," William said, sighing loudly. "Otherwise known as the Sandbox. Here I am again. My life story: The Shit That Didn't Wanna Flush. Y'all ever have that?"

Doug chuckled. "All the time."

"Speak for yourselves," Ethan muttered.

William didn't look away from the window. "I'm not sure what I missed more: the sandstorms, the muj, or the camel spiders."

"Sandstorms and muj I can deal with," Doug said. "Camel spiders, on the other hand... those things always freaked me out. Kind of added to the whole alien feel of the place. Sometimes it felt like we were fighting on a different planet."

"I didn't think they were so bad," Ethan said. "Made tasty snacks when you cooked them. Raw, not so much."

"You're joking, right?" Doug said.

Ethan glanced at Doug and snickered. "Yeah. I'm just messing with you."

"Have to agree with Doug here," William said. "Those things always creeped me out. When they got in the rooms, it was like bunking with the face-huggers from Aliens."

"Should I tell The Story?" Ethan said, eying William in the rear-view mirror.

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" William said. "And I don't think Doug wants to hear it."

"I want to hear it," Doug said eagerly.

Ethan grinned. "Okay. So. We were living at the Camp Denver CHU farm." CHU stood for Containerized Housing Unit, basically a CONEX shipping container with a linoleum floor, beds, power, vents, and air conditioning, shared by four soldiers. Usually Jersey barriers were placed around it for protection. "One night, a camel spider got into the latrine unit. It was one of the bigger spiders out there, about the size of both hands put together. The platoon had just finished watching Aliens, so we were all commenting on how eerily similar to a face-hugger it looked. Anyway, William was out like a light back in the housing unit from a rather intensive PT session. He also had a bit of a problem with the stomach flu."

"A bit of a problem is an understatement," William deadpanned.

"A few of us came up with a plan," Ethan continued. "We captured the spider with an old laundry bag and put it in the lieutenant commander's portable freezer. We took it out when its movements were nice and sluggish. When we got back to the housing unit, William was fast asleep, so we emptied the bag on his face. William woke up right away, but it took a few seconds for it to click that the cold, slimy mass on his face was moving. It bites him in the cheek. He gets up, tears the thing off and throws it into a corner, then shouts at the top of his lungs, 'Get my A4! Get my A4! There's a motherfuckin' face-hugger in here!' He finally realizes it's only a camel spider, but by then it's too late. The rest of us are just cracking up, because there's this black stream of sludge oozing down his leg. Funniest moment of my entire deployment."

William shook his head. "Torment a helpless man suffering from dysentery, would you? Bro, you've got no decency."

"Won't disagree there," Ethan said. "Welcome to Iraq. Enjoy your stay. Don't piss off the camel spiders, don't drink the water, and most of all, don't leave home without your Depends."

William punched him hard in the bicep.

It took Ethan a while to stop laughing.

five

A
fter the border, they traveled another sand road for five kilometers before hitting a highway. Taking it north, eventually Ethan turned onto the 47, which led to Mosul.

"About time," William said. Two hours to go.

The terrain transitioned from desert plateau to alluvial steppe. If it was summer, that loamy plain would have been dry and parched, but as it was, the steppe was relatively green thanks to the many varieties of grass and shrubs. He saw sheep grazing in the distance. The flat terrain was occasionally broken by hills and low mountain ridges made of gypsum and limestone.

Smashed and burned-out vehicles littered the roadside, evidence of the latest sally launched by the Kurdish Peshmerga from the nearby Sinjar Mountains, a one hundred kilometer east-west trending mountain ridge considered sacred by the Yazidis. Ethan steered past several blast craters, too, although those were more likely created by coalition airstrikes.

A roadblock led him on a detour away from the highway, forcing Ethan to give the besieged city of Sinjar a wide berth. Said city was the site of the Islamic State attack in August 2014 that sent roughly forty thousand Yazidis fleeing into the mountains, sparking a humanitarian crisis as the stranded refugees struggled to survive. American, British, and Iraqi forces airdropped food and water in scarce quantities. The Peshmerga finally opened a corridor over the range, allowing the refugees to escape, but not before several hundred Yazidi women were taken as slaves by the Islamic State, with several more hundred Yazidi men, women, and children beheaded or buried alive. The fighting there was continual. The Peshmerga had almost liberated Sinjar in December 2014, but the Islamic State was too firmly entrenched in the southern parts of the city.

Traffic moved slowly on that dirt road, congested thanks to the reduced number of lanes. Much of it was large semi trucks—this was one of the main routes IS used to transport supplies between Mosul and their capital, Raqqa.

Eventually Ethan turned north and rejoined the main highway, heading east once again. He passed the Islamic State occupied Tal Afar, the last major city before Mosul. The place was surrounded by tiny mountain ridges and green hills.