Chapter 3: Just like you and me.
"There are no atheists in the trenches"
-Popular proverb.
Red Square, Moscow, Russia
The dim lights of the Russian night were quite interesting; a game of reddish lights in the dark, and passing vehicles. She was wearing a heavy trench coat, and a typical Russian bearskin hat. She felt safe, in her cloth bunker, watching the space. It made her look larger than she really was; she was far too skinny to be attractive to Russian males, and she didn't have the curves for the American public. She was any European's dream. Her brown eyes were alert, sweeping the area.
Her short hair twisted and bent with the frozen wind. Her lips felt frozen, the extremely thin layer of saliva's temperature dropped rapidly. She doubted how so many people could live there. She was Russian, yet not accustomed to the cold. She had spent most of her breathing life in a former Soviet mental institution. They kept their loonies warm.
Not that she was insane; but it easier to say that Nadezhda Slonoskova was mentally ill rather than to face the horrid fact that she had been the KGB's plaything, The war on Capitalism had required extreme measures, including creating psychic units. Not many believed in them, but Yuri Andropov did. He had spent millions of his budget in researching Nadia's and many other's heads, searching for these so called Psychic Powers.
They were the insane ones.
"Nadezhda Slonoskova?" A voice asked from behind, a Russian male coming from the back.
"Hello?" She asked to the dark. The figure approached; tall, with his eyes darkened by the shadow of protuberating eyebrows and a fur hat.
"Ma'am, my name is Pyotr Nikolayevich, I'm here to help you."
"Were you the one who called?"
"Yes, Nadia. I hear you want to leave Russia."
"Wouldn't you?" The thin woman snapped.
"Pravda. But it's not me we are talking about."
"Me, right?" She asked, as if he had offended her. Her gazing eyes stared.
"Yes. That's why you need to stay put, follow my commands, and don't say a word, understand? I need your help. And you need mine." He said, advancing. Typical Russian, his eyes were cold and his jaw finished in a "V". His clothes were dark, as was the whole atmosphere around him. "C'mon, girl, we don't have much time."
He took her deeper into city; the smell of wet paint, dirty water lurked among Moscow's streets; the cold was almost palpable, and her breath was visible and stunning. They got into an alley. In Nadia's opinion, these were used only for drug dealing; the Russian Mob (The name the Russian authorities gave to their renegade KGB agents) was en expert in that, along with selling Soviet weapon systems to the highest bidder; from Chechen Freedom Fighters to Central Asian terrorist in Tajikistan.
"Here."
"Were the hell are you taking me, Pyotr?" Nadia asked, showing her strong side. Her voice was high-pitched, and too sober for most Russian's liking. Vodka doesn't freeze, she grinned.
"I need to ask you something." The man informed. He leaned as he got his hand into his pocket. Nadia's eyes widened as she noticed, the small, black revolver; and pointed it to Nadia's head. "Don't move a muscle!"
"Drop that Nagant!" She snapped. She was panicking; looking everywhere for help; no one was around; it was not safe to walk around Moscow at night. She then stared at the gun. The hammer was not cocked, but that could change; her heart was pounding, her face's expression was similar to the one of someone who swallowed a lemon. There was a slight refraction of light in a dark, metal emergency stair, some 20 meters away, across the street..
"Don't make noise!" He said, as he got closer and put the gun against Nadia's pale forehead. "I've been sent to clean up scum like you!"
"Please, don't do it, Pyotr! I don't deserve to die!"
"Kill you, girl? I don't think you understand. We need to fix our mistakes... You are one!" His eyes were cold and psychotic as always. She was a dead woman breathing. Her eyes leaned to the left. The glint was there... It looked as if the light of the light post was reflecting in a piece of glass in the dark. But who would put glass in an Emergency stair?
A tear run down Nadia's cheek. "You will drop that Revolver and I'm going to call the police."
Pyotr cocked the hammer. Nadia closed her eyes in a reflex motion, as she head the finger slowly pressing the trigger. She heard the gunshot and blood on her face. Odd; people who are killed shot never get to hear the gunshot, as the bullet is quicker that sound. Then...
---
Boris Yuryevicht Growslac was a sharpshooter for the Moscow Police. He had stayed hidden for three hours in the cold, in the dark, in an Emergency Stair. He had positioned himself so that his SV-99 Short Range sniper rifle's scope could pick up the light post's light.
That miniature .22LR Precision Rifle was charged, and aimed. It was specifically designed to be silent, small in caliber for non-lethal neutralization, and other tasks, assigned to the Police.
It was within a second that the person he was expecting; Pyotr Nikolai Kolanevsky (or Suspect 1, as he was supposed to call him), a representative from the Russian Mob, raised a small American-made Smith & Wesson revolver, caliber .32 S & W. It was really hard to see, and knew he had to save the life of that woman, codenamed Skinny 1.
Skinny 1 was visibly shaking as Kolanevsky's revolver approached her forehead. His crosshair started shaking; indeed, his heart rate was growing, knowing that woman's life was at stake. He played it like he had done for what seemed a trillion times; think it's just training, just an exercise. His grip became firmer.
The small 4x scope was more than enough to choose a part of Kolanevsky's body, at those few 46 meters. He had a few choices; firing to the knee, although easy, was very risky; the average person suffers a spasm whenever shot, so he would pull the trigger and blow Skinny 1's brain into a grayish mass.
The revolver in itself was risky as well; if it had been an automatic handgun, he could have just shot it, but being a revolver (upon closer inspection, a cheap imitation of a Smith & Wesson) the round could detonate the exposed cartridges and Slonoskova would be lucky if she didn't have her torso ripped to shreds.
The head would be plain stupid; the .22 round, at this distance, would not be able to piece the skull, and again a tactical dead end. But, what about the Suspect's hand? The palm was half exposed because he was holding the Revolver only with his fingers and the upper part of the palm (Proving he was not a professional). He would have to break the revolver's handle, which wouldn't be so tough. He aimed carefully at the hand of the hostile, and then he noticed it was slowly moving; a hand could tire after aiming for more than 5 seconds. Skinny 1's lips were still moving; maybe she was talking him out of murder, but Boris had not become a figure in the Moscow Police department for taking chances.
He touched the trigger softly with the articulation between the first and second phalanxes. He then put the first phalanx on the other side. This done, he started pulling slowly.
---
"Please! You'll be put in jail!" Slonoskvo repeated. "Is that what you want?"
"You little bitch... " Kolanevsky sneered.
That was the second before Boris' leather-clad finger finished the long process of pulling the trigger, sending a miniature needle through the .22 Long Rifle caliber cartridge. All working fine, the gunpowder was effectively detonated, pushing a small lead piece forward with great strength. All the gas generated by the miniature explosion was concentrated and pushed forward through the barrel. As the small grains of cordite settled, the round went right through Kolanevsky's hand's metacarpus, effectively shattering it.
The pain was unbearable; the small bones were broken and the bullet destroyed the revolver's handle, as a small cloud of blood filled the scene. As small as the bullet was, the shock was immense; Kolanevsky was forced to fully open his deformed hand and let the revolver fall defenseless to the small, and cried as a wounded animal. The blood sprayed Nadia's gentle face, and she fell backwards to the snow.
"Go! Go! Go!" Boris shouted through his radio, informing that he had wounded Kolanevsky and ordering the Moscow police SWAT team to advance. Simultaneously, he pulled the small bolt of his SV-99 and inserted another almost pathetic .22 caliber cartridge into the chamber.
"Sasha!" Apparently, Pyotr was calling for backup, while holding his blood dripping hand intensely, and turning the snow into a pinkish rug. Meanwhile, the young Nadia raised from her cold bed and watched as a group of men with tactical SWAT outfits entered from the entry of the alley, using sub-machineguns and Kevlar vests and helmets.
---
Boris shifted his attention to see one of the rusty doors of the alley open, to reveal a large man in his 40's, probably a fellow Russian mobster, with a beard that reminded of Lenin and the body of a bear. But a man of his profession was not scared of size; he was scared of firepower, and that man sported a deadly AKMS – the folding-butt version of the antique and famous AK-47. He was carrying the butt-stock folded, meaning he had just picked it up. So that must be Sasha...
As soon as Sasha dared to aim the AKMS, one of the SWAT officers (A young Sergeant named Dmitri Kalehnikht) aimed in a much more systematic fashion his SMG –a cylinder-barreled Bizon, chambered for the 9 x 18mm Soviet rounds, designed to be the counterpart of the German 9 x 19mm Luger round (although the name sounded rather Nazi and it was changed to "Parabellum").
Anyways, those bulky cylinder-shaped magazines, set under the barrel, could handle up to 66 rounds (more than enough to clear a room without ever releasing the finger from the trigger) It was somewhat pretty, but Soviet weapons designers never cared too much about how their weapons looked. That was a bourgeoisie practice, they would say. Kalehnikht pulled the trigger. Thanks to a titanic rate of fire, almost 17 bullets sprayed Sasha and turned his head into purple goo.
He could see the police taking Miss Slonoskova to safety. He would take part in the debriefing, if all went as normal.
---
Downtown Baghdad, Iraq.
It took him around an hour to get used to the dryness and the heat, but he had been there before and it took mainly memories to get Elijah used to the temperature. The hardest thing, though, would be mixing with the crowd; blue eyes, blond hair, and a suit weren't so common, and he was sure he was an attention caller. He didn't mind.
Eli's Kurdish status used to be more than enough for arrest back in the good old days of Saddam. And arrest was no fun –torture was what could be expected; electrical cables set to Testicles (Elijah wasn't quite sure what they did with women, but he suspected rape), a quirky version of the "submarine" (diving the victim's head back and forward into a pool of water, trying to cause effects of drowning) using battery acid, and Slervansk had once heard the story of a woman with whom Uday Hussein (Saddam Hussein's son, commander of the Republican Guard) had raped. He had sort of fallen in love, in his own psychotic way. Anyway, she refused Uday's preposition. Who would not? The Kurd wondered.
So, he kidnapped her at night, raped her through every possible orifice in her body, then killed her and mutilated her (Maybe not in that order) and dumped the pieces at her parent's home's doorstep. Elijah was now thinking about two things:
First was the horrible feeling that those monsters could have tried something like that on his sister, his Layla. Elijah considered himself a modern Muslim; he respected women and much more if the one in question was from his own blood. Maybe they drove her insane. They could do that.
The other was a much less natural feeling, and this only went through his mind thanks to Eli's analytic nature; were these people just crazy because of power, or should have been just another man, he would still be a killer? He was always respectful of authority; even when he had his own thoughts, he carried out his orders. It was his job.
Elijah had now entered the open Market region; in this anarchy, everything was up in sale; although officially occupied by IRI; the Sunni Triangle pretty much handled itself. It was a true sanctuary protected by the UN; Why? Before Gulf War II, the UN had been criticized for supporting the United States no matter what.
In order to dissipate such arguments, the United Nations put the Security Counsel in order to vote the prohibition of international security forces in the Sunni Triangle; including US Marines and Kurdish Peshmergas. The last directive held by George Sears, of the Republican Party, as a President, was to veto such a suggestion.
Unfortunately for the country of the stars and stripes, Sears's moderate stance after his predecessor, the also Republican George W. Bush, made him an easy target to the socialist governments in France, Spain, and Germany, elected by the Anti-American outrage following Gulf War II. The UN decided to restrict America, and forbid Sears from action in the Defense Counsel of the UN.
The veto was ignored.
Sears, outraged, left the UN, and decided that America would be better off outside the world picture for a while. Then, the newly elected representative from the IRI, with support of France and Spain, within the counsel, and Iran, Syria, Libya, and Pakistan outside, suggested, that the Islamic Republic of Iraq was allowed to move three divisions into the Sunni Triangle in order to protect it. The subliminal bit was that it had to protect it from US imperialism, and their thugs in the region, namely Israel and Kurdistan.
Sears didn't even bother to veto, seeing as his opinion would be ignored anyway. Although the Germans and the British were doubtful, France and Spain sped IRI into launching those units. They were convinced that they could bring some sort of peace, and besides, 75,000 men are in no way enough to look after the rebellious population of the Sunni Triangle. It was all just for show.
The Media sort of congratulated the decision; the ones ignored were two; the Republican Party, and the Military analysts; they were the ones who had two questions in mind; Why to launch 75,000 men to a certain death if UN had taken control so quick, and what did IRI do to build an army so fast?
Elijah, who was trained in espionage by MOSSAD, Israel's Foreign Intel Services (As opposed to the ruthless Shin Bet, the ones in charge of local intelligence) assumed that Proscription could build armies in seconds; after all, it just took Hitler ten years to build 32 Divisions, which more than enough to take over Europe.
The Kurd also considered Mercenaries; Conservatives and Right-Wingers in general claimed that IRI had been laundering some money from local drug runners, coming from Afghanistan. The multimillion dollar business of Heroin could provide enough currency to buy some... 10,000 Weekend warriors? (Weekend warriors was a nickname the British had for cheap Mercenaries)
So, Elijah, every once in a while, spotted jeeps with some four Iraqi Infantrymen, not much more. They were more like cops. Cops with Assault Rifles. Not that it bothered him.
His senses were at full alert; he never quite knew. The good thing about a lawless country was the products; Elijah spotted, at about ten yards from him, a large wooden table, in which some fifteen Kalashnikov assault rifles rested, peacefully. There were also a couple of RPG-7 tubes and about eight Anti-Tank rounds. The seller; a slightly over-weight Arab man, who was dealing with a tall man in his 40's wearing a coat.
Elijah, after living for three years in a country where guns were banned, felt quite weird; as far as he was concerned, U$S 150 could buy a fully auto AK-47, (Those guns, probably remnants of Saddam Hussein's army, were so cheap using them as a present would be a robbery) which would probably knock out the average British liberal. Being able to use a Glock C18 (As his weapon of choice while escorting the ambassador) and a SIG Sauer P228 (his favorite gun for Embassy protection) while most civilians were defenseless –unarmed- he corrected himself for the sake of political correctness. He possessed an Elite status, in his own way.
Elijah kicked a bit of dust from beneath his shoes. He had come in such a hurry to find answers that he really never thought how to find that man –Syed Hisdan, his name was. Iraq was a very fucking big country, and searching for man of Hisdan's connections was like trying to catch anchovies in the Atlantic Ocean with a Snorkel and his bare hands. Maybe it he still had some side-effects of that Sodium Pentothal, because those comparison didn't really sound like him.
---
"Range?" The voice asked, through the radio. A ray of light entered through the window, quite clear in the darkness of the room; the windows were sealed with wooden plaques, except for that small area in which the sunlight went through, and the barrel of his rifle.
"30 meters, at best? Damn, this Kurd won't know what hit him." He said, looking at him. The 6x scope could pick up anything, given he was in the proper light. His target –a Persian (or Kurd, whatever) slave by the name of Elijah Slervansk- was standing right in the middle of the market; surrounded by small businesses, selling fruits, oil tanks, and weapons.
"What about Hassan's team?"
"They should be on their way; as soon as they arrive, I'll take my shot." He said, while shifting the scope's red dot to Slervansk's head from his heart. Death would come quicker that way. His rifle was a Czech-made 700a sniper Rifle, chambered for the .308 Winchester round. His head rested on the heightened butt stock, his breathing slow and calculated.
---
"Hassan? Where are you?" The radio spouted, the voice suffering extreme deformation due to the static electricity of that old, military-issue radio.
"I'm on my way. Is the target at the market?" He answered.
"Just as expected. That tracking device is working... "
"Yes..."
Hassan's ride was a Chevrolet pickup; in military terms, a "Technical"; a civilian pickup, sometimes equipped with heavy machineguns or rocket launchers, meant as a high-speed support combat system for low-budget guerrilla warfare. Americans were used to this cheap counterpart of the jeep, and even small arms fire could penetrate the hull and kill the passengers; most anti-vehicle measures were over-kill against Technicals.
There were three of them; each carrying 5 men equipped with Kalashnikovs and an RPG per crew. Besides, each Technical had a driver and support gunner; each handling a .50 cal Browning machinegun. His crew of around 20 was considered to be one of the best "Hired Guns" team in the Sunni Triangle, a nice term for mercenaries.
He didn't cost much; just the feeding in long term missions and the ammunitions for more violent jobs. This one fitted more into the latter; a simple ambush and assassination. He was also working with a couple of former "Fedayeen Saddam" snipers, who were now tracking the subject. Those men were plain old killers, and Hassan was sure that they were good. Almost eighteen arms all aimed at the same man; what was his employer so afraid of?
They were now crossing the dust streets, just in form Karrada Out, Baghdad's most important street. The non-paved streets though were shaky and made him nervous; he used to be a Sergeant in the Republican Guard, but none of his men were true fighters; some of them just were in the "Resistance". The whole thing was bad because his own men packed full-auto rifles that were loaded and safeties off. A little bump in the road, and one of his men might lose his brain.
---
Elijah shifted his attention; the crowd was dense, a lot of people walking around. A woman came by; (he could tell by her Burkha, which is not of common use among Kurdish females, so he assumed she was Arab) and she then faced him.
"Are you American?" She asked, with clearly difficult English; she must have learnt from the recently gone occupiers, Elijah reasoned. She sounded mysterious, and a bit jumpy. Because in Iraq, especially in the Sunni triangle, Americans weren't welcome.
"No. Can I help you?" Eli's half-British accent gave all the explanations needed.
"You must get out." She said, doing her best to sound well. "Or you will die." She was a bit short, so Eli had to bed his neck in order to face her correctly.
"What?"
"I heard some man talking... He said he had to kill a Western looking man..."
Elijah made a quick scan of the scene; large crowd, hard to see. Besides, he didn't have much time to analyze and determine possible threats.
"How would you know it's me?"
"Taken a look around?" She asked, bending her head.
"Good point." He said, half-closing his eyes.
---
"Who is he talking to?" His spotter asked.
"I don't know, my friend... Women seem to fly around Western dogs..." He answered. He knew, since his wife was always too helpful with foreigners. Too much for his liking, in any case, who he thought they were invaders, no matter if those were soldiers, businessmen, or tourists.
"You think she's warning him?"
"Might be. That man, Hassan, he's a fool."
"Too loud, I agree." He noticed his pulse moved the rifle's aim and he was now targeting Slervansk's abdominal region. "I think he's entering now..."
---
The small alley lead into the market; the dusty Technicals entered it and, ignored by the roaming crowd, started surrounding the middle. Slervansk was quite surprised. Why weren't they running and cowering, hiding from the men with the big guns? They were now dropping down, shouting in Arabic.
From what Elijah could understand, the bad guys were apparently looking for someone. Eli was fluent in Arabic as long as all was quiet and the person talking to him was just one. That loud crowd in the open market with armed grunts wasn't the case.
"Please, you must live." She said. Elijah's blue eyes met hers. It wasn't a romantic scene, but Eli noticed her worry, her pain.
"Why are you doing this?" Elijah asked, while he shifted the attention. Among wooden sticks that supported most stands, he could see some men that looked like militiamen approaching, loaded guns in their hands.
"You would never understand."
"Who sent you? Who are you working for!?" Elijah's eyes were fully open, and he seemed worried. Why was that woman warning him?
"He called himself "House of God"... Allah left this land a long time ago." She said, her brown eyes becoming teary, wetting the Burkha covering her face. "Please, just go. Leave Iraq."
"But you just told me to..."
"I'm disobeying my orders... please..."
"Who sent you?" Elijah sounded worry.
That was the moment in which Eli saw a glint of light in one of the dark windows in the building surrounding the open market. Then, the window lit up with flash of a rifle. By the time the Kurd heard the gunshot, it was late.
The shot, meant for him, was received by that woman... The gunshot went right through her lower spine, to then graze her spleen and finally exiting right above her navel. To then hit the ground next to Elijah's left foot. With her spine severed, she lost control of her legs and fell on her knees, to be grabbed quickly by Elijah who was shocked and couldn't react well.
"Why did you do that!?" Elijah knew the woman had seen the flash before him, and decided to die instead of him. His tactical instincts were telling him to leave her to die and to cower; it case the sniper's rifle was semiautomatic, every second counted.
"You are Layla's brother, are you not?" She said, blood creeping from her mouth, as she raised her hand and grazed Elijah's face's side, like a mother admiring her son's growth. Elijah's lip was trembling, as the Victoria Falls of Emotional stress rained on his back. "You are her spitting image... Except your eyes... They have brightness... A passion... She lost that. Never let that be taken from you, Elijah."
"Who are you?" Elijah was a step away from absolute mental collapse, and that reflected in the weakness of his voice.
"Look for... "House Of God"..."She said, her eyes slowly heading upwards. She was entering into shock. Elijah noticed the men around him were aiming their rifles at him. He had his mind on other things.
"Who is he? What do you know about him?" Elijah's voice slowed down, trying to be easy to understand to someone who was dying quickly.
"He said... he was a "Blood Cardinal"."
"A catholic?"
"House of God..."
She repeated that. She was no longer making any sense. After the third time, Elijah's grip started to weaken as her eyes went blank and life slipped from her. Elijah lowered his head, as he let her fall slightly backwards, leaving the corpse in an awkward, bent posture. As he let her be, he saw two men surrounding him. There were shooters entrenched in the more complex stands, as civilians looked motionless at the scene. Maybe they thought this could end bloodlessly. Poor fools.
Elijah knew the sniper wasn't going to kill him, now that they could capture him. The sons of bitches were yelling at him, but he was also numbed; not clearly understanding what was going on. The dust entered his eyes.
---
"If he does anything stupid, take your shot!"
"What are you talking about? Hassan's men got him and -" He said, confidently, until he was interrupted.
"I know this man, Yosuf. He's a born killer."
What was his friend saying? There were two men with Kalashnikovs at less than four meters, not to mention that one with the pistol approaching him from behind. His scope targeted his throat now. A small trigger pull would end it this soon.
---
Elijah felt a footstep behind him, and a cold barrel pressing against his kidney, and a disturbing breath harassing his ear.
"Stand up, now!" The man behind him yelled.
Elijah complied. There was no point in arguing. His head ached and he had the sun on his face, and that man behind him was aiming. So, was this how it was supposed to end? Ambushed by mysterious armed group, a dead civilian next to him. They were being kicked out by the gunmen, a quite smart procedure if the enemy wanted a good publicity. Eli couldn't blame him. He felt his own sweat slowly coming down his forehead, racing down his neck and soaking his back. He painstakingly slowly raised his arms, impotent and nearly defeated.
Furthermore, he could clearly see the two snipers; one posted in the buildings in front of him, the other in the lowly apartments, their line of sight perpendicular to one another. That technique almost assured that no hiding spot could avoid the two of them. Eli had to come up with something, fast.
---
Northern Iraq, 50 miles south of Mosul. Three years earlier.
Michael Gray rested assured; he had the best of the best at his side. He had been assigned to that job his unit commander, a Major that chances were would retire after this, and probably be shelled by civilians as he returned home, those ammunitions being insults and mildly decomposed eggs.
His enemy was no longer the Iraqi army; they had been called in south, fighting the British in Basra. This time it was a terrorist organization; his first job in the Middle East had involved something similar; Al Qaeda encampments deep into the Arabian Desert. No, this was a whole different deal.
Ansar Al-Islam was a terrorist organization that reached around 700 members; originally Kurdish, had declared war on one of Kurdistan's parties, the PUK (Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, a pro-US Right Wing organization who had sent most of its Peshmergas to fight with US troops ) With time, they had Arabized themselves, becoming more and more radical; destroying beauty Saloons, shooting women because they wouldn't wear Burkhas, were along its usual crimes. No wonder they hated seeing Kurds becoming more and more Western.
They also possessed a Taliban style enclave near the Iranian border; surrounded by Kurdish Militiamen under the orders of PUK and their US officers, it seemed like the end was near. They had received not much less than a million American Dollars from Iraqi Intelligence to sabotage the Peshmerga/Green Beret advance in the region, along with a few 66mm Mortars and AK-47s.
So, there they were. The Pesh amongst him were, once again, scattered and all awaiting orders. That Kurdish marksman, -Elijah Slervansk, his name was- was scanning the area with his binoculars. The sun was going down.
"So, we attack at nightfall?" The US officer asked politely.
"There's no point in that, Captain Gray." The Kurd informed factually, as he kept looking through the binoculars. "We don't have Night Vision equipment as you do. Going uphill against .30cal machineguns and 66mm mortars in the dark –bad idea." Slervansk, apparently, enjoyed showing Gray how good his English was.
"Then, we only have less than half-an hour" Michael blurted, as he stared at the sun, slowly retreating into the mountains; in them, the Ansar Al-Islam had set machinegun nests and mortar positions, in order to protect a radio position that coordinated Iraqi forces in the North; if Ansar fell, so would the Iraqi army.
"Not quite. We'll stay for the night, and attack at sunrise."
"What? You mean we'll lose eight hours?" Michael was oblivious to what –if anything- was going through the Peshmerga's mind at the moment.
"They won't be lost. We'll be waiting for reinforcements. Your fellow Green berets, along with 100 of our fighters are approaching this position; we just pinpoint the location."
"Acceptable." The American admitted. "You're still packing that M9?"
"Yes. It was a gift from one of your compatriots." He pulled it out of its holster, and grazed it with his hands. "Nine millimeters, perfect aiming system, 15 rounds, plus one in chamber... How could someone not love this gun?"
"9mm, dude. Won't stop these Izlamazoids, I tell you." Gray smiled, and put his arm in the Kurd's shoulder.
"Guess so."
"What's this quarrel with you guys anyway?" Michael was really interested in the whole deal, so he preferred asking an expert.
"These Izlamazoids, as you call them, hate the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan because we represent what Iraq could be after Saddam's finished. Look at our streets; women can show their faces, we have movies, cafes, Internet..."
"You seem pretty proud."
Elijah smiled. "I am. But, just like Anti-American bastards like KDP or "Commies", as you call them, from the PKK (Partiya Karkaren Kurdistan, or Kurdish Workers Party) Ansar doesn't want that. They want Kurds to return to the Stone Age, like our Arab counterparts. Sorry, but I won't take part in that. "
"So, you're a Politics buff?"
"You can say I am." The both of them relaxed. They were among high grass and were hard to see, so they just forgot about the whole thing for a second. "I don't really get the people in your country; why some of them don't want to help us..."
"You really like American Politics, huh?" The Captain asked. "Why, I wonder."
"My education, perhaps."
"You are a big mystery, Elijah. For instance, where did you learn speaking English?"
"My foster parents had a lot to do with that. My foster father was a businessman in Istanbul. He wanted me to follow the family business. I went to English classes, and all that. I was barely a teenager when they heard about Kurdish Ultra-Left-Wing elements attacking Turkey. I know my foster mother wanted the best for me, but I think my Foster father was afraid I may become a nationalist. So they enlisted me in the least Islamic spot they could find. Tel'Aviv University, Israel. I was lucky I didn't turn into a rabbi, though my faith in Islam grew very weak. I studied languages and political sciences, but had to drop it. How about you?"
The Captain smirked. "Not much. My parents could be classified as Hippies. They took me so deep into Vegan culture and all that shit I didn't want to hear anything from "Cultural Relatvism" or "Flower Power". They almost died when I told them I joined the Army. Infantry Officer School. I was Airborne for a couple of years, 'till my C.O., the one I told you about, decided he wanted me to move on. I was sent to Fort Bragg. Virginia, the next day."
"Special Forces, huh?"
"Yeah, the Elite of the Elite." He then looked at Eli's red beret. "You are a Peshmerga Elite Officer yourself."
"I didn't tell you the reason I dropped Political Sciences. I was sucked in, through a Mossad contact, into the shadowy underworld of American Foreign Intelligence." The Kurd said, with an ironic tone. "The CIA dragged a few hundred Pesh to form a Special Forces entity, with a bunch of foreign educated, Right Wing leaning, young Kurds, who had the physical and mental ability, of course. I qualified, for the marksman section."
"Really? I've always been the CQB type. " He said, touching the SOCOM in his leg holster.
"Too gruesome. Not that I'm easily shocked, but I don't want Izlamazoid brains all over me." Both of them giggled.
"What is worth this? I mean, killing your country men..." the Sergeant hissed. Maybe he had swollen the doctrine of the Army, and thus, he understood the meaning of nationality. Maybe that was why he got called "Nazi"so often?
"They fight for... A dead ideal. Well, one that never really existed. Sometimes I feel it's the same with us. Everyone fights for ideals." The Iraqi explained.
"Things that don't really exist? I don't know. Ideals... Only the country exists..."
Elijah would have liked to argue, but there was no point. "To shorten up, they fight for what they believe in."
"Just like you and me." Elijah was a bit discomforted by that answer.
It would take six hours of difficult sleep before the attack begun.
