Warning Order (26 page)

While it had fallen easily enough during the 2003 invasion, keeping the peace was a different story altogether. The airfield had been a crucial linchpin in the supply system that had kept the American soldiers fed, armed, and protected, but this time it was supplying the jihadists.

Al Qatar knew that the Americans had left more ordnance and ammo in the bunkers than almost any place in the country, and as his convoy approached the main gate, he was still surprised that the Iraqi army hadn't attempted to defend it.

The concrete barriers placed along the road leading into the airfield forced his driver to slow as he serpentined his way toward the towers that guarded the approach. Like two reinforced sentinels, the towers dwarfed the metal gate, which stood open for the invaders. Their looming shadows played across the hood of the Ford F-150 as he passed beneath them.

If the Iraqi army had put up even a half-assed defense, al Qatar knew he would have lost a lot of men just trying to breach the outer defenses. Even now, he could see the unmanned barrels of the .50 caliber guns poking out over their sandbags, silently observing his men as they drove past.

Everywhere he looked, the signs of the American occupation were stamped on the airfield like perfectly preserved ruins of their technological advances. The tan exteriors of the modular housing, stacked row after row in orderly lines, offered a glimpse of how many soldiers had been stationed on the base, and he knew from his time in American captivity that, day and night, this area would have been filled with infidels preparing to run operations in the city.

In the distance, sunlight glinted off the glass of the control tower in flashes of red and orange as his driver headed for the flight line. All along the road stood concrete shelters built to shield the soldiers from the nightly harassment of rockets and mortars that his brothers had rained down on the Westerners.

Al Qatar's plan was coming to fruition, and despite the lingering loss of Ali, he felt a tinge of excitement as he read the gray letters identifying the salmon-colored terminal as the gateway to the Mosul airfield.

The recently repaved tarmac lay like a reptile soaking up the sun beneath a neat row of six Black Hawk helicopters, parked with bowed rotors before the tidy hangar.

“Get the trucks that we need,” he said into a small radio he held in his hand. A group of vehicles came to a halt behind his truck.

“Yes, Emir,” came the reply. Jabar drove around the helos and headed to their destination.

Al Qatar had been watching the news almost every day since his attack on the American carrier, and he knew that no matter how much the US president wanted to avoid another war in Iraq, his people were demanding blood. Last night he had addressed the nation and promised a swift and deadly response, which had put al Baghdadi and the rest of his clerics on edge.

They were scared of what was about to happen. There was talk of going back to Syria, but al Qatar was having none of it.

“What will happen when the Americans come?” Jabar asked, pulling his boss from his thoughts.

“They will bomb us first,” he replied, watching his second-in-command out of the corner of his eye.

Al Qatar wanted the Americans to come back to Iraq. The airfield that he now held provided the perfect staging. Still, he wasn't sure if his men would be able to stand up to the bombardment that would proceed the main assault.

“We will need much more of that,” Jabar replied, motioning to the large bag of methamphetamine lying on the floor in the backseat.

“The men will have more than they need,” al Qatar replied with a satisfied nod.

His plan was simple: he was going to dope his men up before the attack. Once the Americans were committed, he was going to destroy them with their own bombs. To do that, though, he needed to get into the ammo bunkers, which rose like ancient burial mounds on the horizon to the south.

“Do you see them?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes,” Jabar replied.

The convoy stopped short, and one of his men jumped out with a pair of bolt cutters. He snapped the lock off the section of heavy chain securing the silver fence that enclosed the neat rows of bunkers. Stretching around the perimeter of their target was a roughly eight-foot-high dirt berm designed to protect the airfield in case of an explosion. Once the gate swung open, al Qatar's truck rolled along the gravel road that led to the first row of bunkers.

The heavy doors slid silently open on well-oiled tracks, revealing pallets of ordnance stacked neatly along the concrete floor. The first bunker was full of small-arms ammunition and grenades, and he waited while the rest were opened one after another. Each one contained different ordnance, all arranged by type, and he could hear his men marveling at the amount of ammo they had just seized.

“Rockets, Emir,” one of the men exulted, stepping out of the way as al Qatar peered inside. Stacked against the southern wall were case after case of AT-4 antitank weapons and LAW light antitank weapons. On the other side, he made out the distinctive markings of portable surface-to-air missiles.

The first of a line of heavy cargo trucks pulled in behind him. He commanded the men to take all the surface-to-air missiles out of the bunker and then continued on to the next one.

Inside was what he had been after all along, and he motioned for one of his men to drive one of the vehicles over to him. As the driver pulled up, he stepped inside and ran his hand over the tips of the 155 mm artillery rounds, weighing almost ninety pounds apiece, stacked from front to back inside the magazine.

“Load as many as you can onto each of the four trucks,” he told Jabar.

He knew it would take the men most of the morning to load the heavy shells, but it didn't matter. While the rest of his fighters were securing weapons and ammo, the most important thing he had to do was load the trucks with the rounds. After that, all he needed to do was send them to the Mosul dam and wait for the Americans to attack.

M
ason opened his mouth wide to prevent his eardrums from bursting, and he squeezed his body tight over the wounded sniper as the 500-pound bomb passed overhead. The fins of the Mk-80 whistled as they cut through the air, floated gently over the disabled deuce-and-a-half, and slammed into the group of fighters who refused to break contact.

Cruuump.

The explosion struck like an invisible hand, slapping Mason in the back. Its heat licked savagely over his unprotected neck. He felt his body being lifted off the ground, and for a moment, he was weightless. The world slowed around him. The air rushed from his lungs in a ragged gasp as a black, noxious cloud enveloped him in darkness. Then he crashed back to the earth.

He vaguely heard someone calling his name over the radio as his eyes fluttered open. Mason's face was buried in the ground next to Grinch's, and he saw the terror in his teammate's eyes as he gasped for breath.

“Mason,” the voice yelled again.

He shook his head in a vain attempt to restart his addled brain. His hand searched for the rifle that had been ripped from his grasp. Next to him, Blaine forced himself to a sitting position.

Suddenly the air began to clear, and he looked up to see a V-22 Osprey floating down above him. The heavy twin rotors beat the ground, swirling smoke and grit all around. As soon as it touched down, a group of marines charged down the ramp and quickly set up a 360-degree perimeter. The A-10 remained orbiting above the chaotic scene.

Mason groaned as he got to his knees and wiped his hand across his face in an effort to clear the dirt from his eyes. A corpsman was suddenly in his face, shouting “Are you good?”

“Help him,” he croaked, pointing down at Grinch.

“Hold on, buddy,” the marine said.

Mason was struck by how young he looked as he went to work on Grinch, checking his wounds with a precision born of countless repetitions.

“Mason.” He recognized the voice: Zeus.

“I'm good, get them to the bird,” he said.

“I need a litter,” he heard the corpsman yell into his radio.

Mason looked around, taking in the mangled deuce-and-a-half, and then the blackened hulks of the fighters' vehicles, still burning among the twisted remains of the dead jihadists. It was a hellish scene, and he felt his stomach turn as the men loaded Grinch onto the stretcher.

“We have to go,” Blaine yelled, helping him to his feet.

Mason ducked his head, stumbling amid the prop wash of the massive blades turning about his head. As they neared the ramp, he pulled himself free of Blaine's grip and waited as Zeus and the civilians they had saved rushed into the cargo hold of the Osprey.

Sara had her arms wrapped around another woman, who was obviously terrified to board the aircraft. Mason could see her mouth moving as she spoke encouragement into the woman's ear, and Mason found himself marveling at her strength. Her face was a mask of dirt and grime, and she ignored the thin rivulet of blood streaming down her scalp and over her cheek. A grim smile passed over her face as she walked up the ramp, and then she was inside.

Mason took one final glance at the battlefield. For the second time in the last few days, he swore to avenge those who had fallen.

  •  •  •  

Blood had already soaked through Grinch's stretcher, and in the dim light of the cargo compartment he looked pale and small. His breathing was increasingly erratic, in contrast with the sound of the Osprey thundering through the air.

Most of the civilians stared blankly at the floor, refusing to look at the half-naked American who had saved them. Mason wanted to hate them, wanted to blame them for the unequal trade-off that was occurring before his eyes.

“Look at him,” he ordered over the roar of the engines.

Sara was the only one who met his gaze, and he could see the mix of anger and sadness in her eyes.

“Look,” he ordered, trying to get to his feet while pointing down at his dying teammate.

Zeus grabbed him by the shoulder, trying to pull him back, but Mason shrugged him off. By now, tears were falling freely down his face. But he knew that no matter how angry he got, what had happened to Grinch was on him.

He had failed him just as he had failed T.J., Boland, and so many others that he almost couldn't keep count.

The marines were staring at him, but he didn't care what they thought.

Sara got to her feet, shielding the woman who was crying next to her. “This is not their fault. Blaming them won't save him,” she yelled in Arabic.

Suddenly Grinch began convulsing on the stretcher, and Mason stood by helplessly as Blaine and the corpsman started chest compressions. Zeus's arms closed around him and pulled Kane back onto the nylon bench.

“Don't do this to yourself, not now,” he said, placing his mouth next to Mason's ear. “It's not what he would have wanted.”

The Osprey began to descend, and Mason felt his heart sinking into his chest. It was all over. Blaine reached for a solar blanket from the aid kit, but the corpsman held up his hand, motioning for him to stop. The young marine got to his feet, and headed to the front of the aircraft, where an American flag hung from the ceiling. Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the 550 cord attaching it to the metal strip before turning back to Grinch. Ever so carefully, he draped the flag over the dead warrior's body, tucking the edges beneath him so that they wouldn't touch the ground.

Blaine wiped a bloodstained hand across his face, leaving a crimson trail mixed with sweat. The medic locked eyes with Mason for a moment before dropping his head.

Mason would have gladly traded his life for Grinch's, but for some unknown reason, it was his fate to live while those closest to him died.

The landing gear locked into place with a thump, and the massive engines rotated upward as the bird hovered, stabilizing before dropping to the tarmac below.

The wheels touched down with a distinct bump, and as soon as the bird settled, the marines got to their feet and reached down for the litter. The ramp lowered with a mechanical whine, and they lifted the fallen soldier from the floor and carried him toward the ramp.

From his place near the back of the aircraft, Mason watched the wind catch the edge of the flag. A group of men from the base rushed low under the spinning blades of the Osprey. Yet once they saw the flag-draped body, they stopped short, assuming the position of attention. Mason heard one of them yell, and, in unison, they saluted the fallen soldier.

L
ike the rest of the troops at the airfield, Renee felt restless. The initial excitement that came with prepping for a mission had long dissipated, and while the paratroopers passed their time by checking and rechecking their equipment, she tried to read a book.

Sergeant Major Mitchell had managed to persuade Colonel Anderson to let her stay, but instead of going into action with one of the strike teams, Renee was going to be jumping in with the main assault. She had set up a cot near the back of the hangar the troopers were using so that they wouldn't have to find her if something new came down. She was lying on her back, trying to pay attention to her book, when she heard Parker yell her name.

“Yeah?” she called, dog-earing the page.

“Someone's been hit on Mason's team. They're coming in now.”

“What? Who was it?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“No idea. C'mon.”

She threw the book onto the cot and followed Parker out onto the tarmac.

A medical team was already standing by, ducking against the downdraft driven by the Osprey's massive rotors. The ramp was lowering, and she felt her heart catch in her throat as soon as she saw the flag-draped litter being carried from the back of the bird.

“Oh shit,” she murmured. “Please don't be Mason.” She prayed silently as the marines stepped onto flat ground and loaded the body into the back of a Chevy Silverado pickup.