old truck and was not designed
for mountain ascents. Soon the wheels began skidding. The momentum of the truck
slowed and then stopped altogether. Refusing to give in, the driver put pedal
to metal and the diesel motor roared. The wheels skidded and slid. Small rocks
spat from the wheels and flew into the trees behind it.
The
soldiers could hear the Iraqis now, although their words were obscured. The
passenger was shouting and gesturing angrily to the driver who shrugged his
shoulders helplessly.
“What
does this prick think he’s driving? A fucking V-8 turbo Land Cruiser?” Scott
whispered.
“Alright
knock it off,” chuckled Steve.
Steve
continued watching them through his binoculars. The Iraqi passenger turned to
the driver and said something, before leaning out of the window and shouting a
command to the back of the vehicle. He banged the side of his door with his
hand. The engine dropped to an idle and the vehicle slid back several metres.
The driver was quick to pull on the hand brake before the backward momentum
increased.
“Oh
Christ, here we go,” muttered Dave as Iraqi soldiers spilled from the back of
the truck.
There
must have been close to forty soldiers. Half of them spread out to the right,
the other half to the left. Eight of the soldiers posed more of a concern,
however. Most of the Kurds wore civilian clothes, and carried AK-47s, which
meant they were probably local militiamen with little or no formal military
training. But a small number were dressed in neat, dark green military
uniforms, which spoke of discipline. They appeared to be the soldiers in charge
and were probably the full complement of the guard responsible for Hazareen.
It
was possible they were Republican Guard, but their rank, corps badges and caps
had been altered to make them look less like Iraqis and more like the newly
formed Kurdish military. There had been just two soldiers stationed in the
house last night, so the other six must have arrived that morning from the
opposite side of Barzan. It was now a distinct possibility that Hazareen and
his personal guard had died in the first contact. If a contact was to take
place these eight soldiers were the ones to drop first.
The
truck, now free of its load, began to crawl once more up the hill towards the
waiting men. The enemywere little more than 100 metres away and were clearly
visible now. For the most part, their faces were tense and they had fear in
their eyes. They knew that enemy soldiers had taken out the Toyota and killed
the men inside, including the General who they had sworn to protect. As for the
eight disguised Iraqi soldiers, if they lived they knew Saddam would not be
pleased with them. They also knew that their enemy was around the area
somewhere.
The
militiamen were patrolling clumsily forward alongside the truck and Steve was
thankful it was not an APC. If it had been, the small patrol would have been
well and truly up shit creek not only without a paddle, but probably without a
canoe.
The
pursuers came closer. Christ, thought Steve, if they continued on this course
they would be on top of them within minutes. Sooner rather than later, Steve
would have to initiate the contact and he knew it.
Slowing
as it came to a steeper part of the incline, the wheels skidded and, for a
moment, the truck stopped. The man at the wheel stamped on the accelerator, the
engine roared, the wheels span again, spewing out churned earth and rocks. The
vehicle lurched forward, continuing to defy the hill.
Steve
dipped his head slowly so that he was staring down the ACOG scope. He fixed the
crosshairs over the driver, exhaled, and fired a short burst. The windscreen
shattered and blood sprayed in a fine mist which tinted the windows claret. The
soldier who had been driving sat up in the seat with a grimace before sliding
to the right. His head slammed into the side window. The two Minimis barked
into life and three Kurds were down before any of them could react.
The
militiamen
for mountain ascents. Soon the wheels began skidding. The momentum of the truck
slowed and then stopped altogether. Refusing to give in, the driver put pedal
to metal and the diesel motor roared. The wheels skidded and slid. Small rocks
spat from the wheels and flew into the trees behind it.
The
soldiers could hear the Iraqis now, although their words were obscured. The
passenger was shouting and gesturing angrily to the driver who shrugged his
shoulders helplessly.
“What
does this prick think he’s driving? A fucking V-8 turbo Land Cruiser?” Scott
whispered.
“Alright
knock it off,” chuckled Steve.
Steve
continued watching them through his binoculars. The Iraqi passenger turned to
the driver and said something, before leaning out of the window and shouting a
command to the back of the vehicle. He banged the side of his door with his
hand. The engine dropped to an idle and the vehicle slid back several metres.
The driver was quick to pull on the hand brake before the backward momentum
increased.
“Oh
Christ, here we go,” muttered Dave as Iraqi soldiers spilled from the back of
the truck.
There
must have been close to forty soldiers. Half of them spread out to the right,
the other half to the left. Eight of the soldiers posed more of a concern,
however. Most of the Kurds wore civilian clothes, and carried AK-47s, which
meant they were probably local militiamen with little or no formal military
training. But a small number were dressed in neat, dark green military
uniforms, which spoke of discipline. They appeared to be the soldiers in charge
and were probably the full complement of the guard responsible for Hazareen.
It
was possible they were Republican Guard, but their rank, corps badges and caps
had been altered to make them look less like Iraqis and more like the newly
formed Kurdish military. There had been just two soldiers stationed in the
house last night, so the other six must have arrived that morning from the
opposite side of Barzan. It was now a distinct possibility that Hazareen and
his personal guard had died in the first contact. If a contact was to take
place these eight soldiers were the ones to drop first.
The
truck, now free of its load, began to crawl once more up the hill towards the
waiting men. The enemywere little more than 100 metres away and were clearly
visible now. For the most part, their faces were tense and they had fear in
their eyes. They knew that enemy soldiers had taken out the Toyota and killed
the men inside, including the General who they had sworn to protect. As for the
eight disguised Iraqi soldiers, if they lived they knew Saddam would not be
pleased with them. They also knew that their enemy was around the area
somewhere.
The
militiamen were patrolling clumsily forward alongside the truck and Steve was
thankful it was not an APC. If it had been, the small patrol would have been
well and truly up shit creek not only without a paddle, but probably without a
canoe.
The
pursuers came closer. Christ, thought Steve, if they continued on this course
they would be on top of them within minutes. Sooner rather than later, Steve
would have to initiate the contact and he knew it.
Slowing
as it came to a steeper part of the incline, the wheels skidded and, for a
moment, the truck stopped. The man at the wheel stamped on the accelerator, the
engine roared, the wheels span again, spewing out churned earth and rocks. The
vehicle lurched forward, continuing to defy the hill.
Steve
dipped his head slowly so that he was staring down the ACOG scope. He fixed the
crosshairs over the driver, exhaled, and fired a short burst. The windscreen
shattered and blood sprayed in a fine mist which tinted the windows claret. The
soldier who had been driving sat up in the seat with a grimace before sliding
to the right. His head slammed into the side window. The two Minimis barked
into life and three Kurds were down before any of them could react.
The
militiamen
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