Amazon
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: CreateSpace/Devine
ISBN-10: 1535127821
Type: Fiction
Pages: 258
Copyright: August 10, 2016
ISBN-13: 9781535127820
Price: $3.05 (eBook)
A love story where the juxtaposition of family life in two different cultures is dramatic and eminently readable
Security contractor, Matt Couper, returns from Iraq with memories of a fifteen year old Assyrian girl, Tara Nasrim, whose life he saved. Five years later, as a refugee, Tara shows up in New Zealand. Even there, Islamic extremism rears its head. Religion clashes with love, vengeance is pursued, and Matt’s world overturns.
Excerpt
Chapter 1 (NZ English)
Matt Couper and his spotter, Freddy Terrell, were in position by the time the sun rose over the Tigris floodplain. As soon as sufficient light spread, Matt took his AW sniper rifle out of its soft transit-case. The weapon was sturdy but lightweight, a L96 bolt-action model with an aluminium chassis extending the entire length of the stock.
Having settled prone in the dust, Matt edged the stainless steel barrel out in front of him, lowered its bipod stand, and set the weapon in the narrow gap between two boulders. A metre or more high, the rocks afforded him cover from the rural village below. At the rear, he had to rely on minimising his movements and being partly cloaked by his camouflage uniform. It bore no military insignia but had discrete Baxters Security (UK) Ltd logos sewn on the shoulders of the shirt.
Though Matt and Freddy were foreigners, they were reasonably safe unless insurgents undertook a sweep of the wider area. If a sweep occurred, and the insurgents arrived in sufficient numbers, the mission could prove fatal. It was, however, a risk both men knew they were well compensated for in the eyes of their employer, and one they were prepared to take as part of the job. For both men, nothing compared to the adrenalin-driven challenge of slipping into enemy territory, accomplishing a mission, and returning unscathed; ideally, with ‘one shot, one kill’ efficiency.
Their support on the mission was a light armoured vehicle (LAV), manned by a crew of three British soldiers, which sat concealed from the roadside a kilometre outside the village. The Brits had dropped the two Baxters employees off in the dark to make their way stealthily on foot through croplands. Both were expert at orienteering and each had the use of night-vision goggles.
In planning the mission, using recent aerial photography, the two men had settled on taking up a position on the crest of a dome-shaped knoll (bereft of trees or bushes) less than six hundred metres from the near edge of the village.
Matt glanced to his right. Freddy had taken up a similarly concealed position and was studying the surrounding countryside through high-powered binoculars. A semiautomatic assault rifle was strapped on his back. Like Matt, he was wearing camouflage trousers and, over his breathable Ubac shirt, a Molle webbing vest.
They didn’t need to converse about setting up for the job; each man was an expert. If their wait became prolonged, and though Matt was the superior marksman, they would periodically exchange positions and roles to avoid fatigue. Matt had trained in the New Zealand Army after graduating from high school and had undertaken one term of enlistment, though he’d failed to qualify for the SAS (special air service). Freddy was ex-British Army, and had been in the British-commanded Multi-National Division – South East, seeing action in the Iraq Invasion of 2003.
Matt took the lens covers off the Schmidt & Bender 6x42 telescopic sight on his rifle and set them aside. He tilted the barrel down-slope and reshuffled his prone position with economical movements.
“See anything interesting?” he asked Freddy, and got a negative grunt in reply.
He focussed the scope until it brought up a view of the target house on the near side of the village. It was a stand-alone, two-storey building made of adobe. Though the design was simple, the dwelling looked more prosperous than any other in the village. At the front, it opened directly onto the main street.
Flying insects began to buzz around Matt’s head, attracted by his sweat, but he ignored them.
He shifted his view to the opposite end of the dwelling. It had a rear yard enclosed on three sides by a high adobe wall that connected to the back of the building. In the rear face of the wall, on the left, a two-door wooden gate provided an exit. From Matt’s position, the whole yard was visible except for the part in the shadow of the near wall – a potential hiding place for militants. It wouldn’t, however, allow them to return fire unless they found something to climb on to look over the top.
The yard contained an outhouse, a stone circle indicating the top of a well, a single palm tree near it, a vegetable garden against the far wall, a stack of firewood – mainly sticks – and a two-wheeled wooden cart of the type that might be towed by a horse or donkey. It was tilted towards the knoll and had a flat bed with debris of hay strewn across it. There were no other features of interest at the back of the house.
Matt glanced at his watch, noting the progress of time. Half an hour later he checked it again then tensioned and released each of his muscle groups in turn without shifting his position. He was accustomed to working under stressful conditions with long periods of waiting. He’d easily passed the standard EFL fitness test for the army when he enlisted and, with little difficulty, a more stringent one for Baxters.
Settled again, looking through the scope, he saw a girl emerge from the house and walk over to the well. She was barefoot, of slight build, and wasn’t wearing a head covering. Either she hadn’t reached the stage of womanhood where she was obliged to or she was at home with just family members. He couldn’t be certain of her age.
The girl took a heavy bucket from the ground on the far side of the stone circle and let it down into the well on a rope. After she hauled it back up, she poured a full measure of water into an earthenware pitcher she’d brought with her. Then, using two hands to clutch her burden against her midriff, she returned to the house with short steps.
Matt glanced towards Freddy. “Any suspicious activity in the village?”
“Nothing unusual.”
Matt let himself relax a little, on half alert, and took his one-eyed gaze off the scope. His mind ran back through the briefing he and Freddy had received at Baxters’ field headquarters. They’d both asked questions; his first, at the outset, “Can we be told who the client is?”
“The CIA,” said the most senior man in the room.
The information didn’t come as a surprise to Matt. The CIA used private military and security companies (PMSC) to perform sensitive special missions, including clandestine raids on insurgents.
The senior man went on, “They’ve received intel that an al-Qaeda operative – the leader of a terrorist cell – is planning the assassination of the Shi’ite mayor of a rural village just north of Amarah.”
The CIA informant knew the date of the raid, a Saturday, but not the time or any information about the strength of the al-Qaeda team. Nor could the informant be sure that the wanted insurgent, Abdullah Hamade, would take part personally. If he did, it was an opportunity the CIA didn’t want to pass up. Considering Hamade an enemy better dead than alive, they’d made swift arrangements with Baxters.
Freddy and Matt were told that their insertion and extraction would be by British Army vehicle, and Freddy’s main question had been, “Are the Brits providing anything more than non-aggressive logistical support?”
“They’re fully in the picture, according to the CIA, but have only agreed to assist with secure transport. However, if they come under attack they’ll defend themselves, naturally.”
Since PMSC tended to operate in a legal vacuum, Matt asked, “Are Freddy and I cleared for any collateral damage that taking out Hamade might involve?”
A tight chuckle. “Just don’t shoot up the whole goddamned village.”
From his outlook above the settlement, Matt watched the girl disappear into the house. He wasn’t happy with the thought that she might end up amongst the ‘collateral damage’. But saving her and the other members of her family was not part of Baxters’ brief.
Over the next hour, the members of the mayoral household emerged from the rear doorway in succession and, one by one, used the outhouse. The mayor and his wife looked to be in their late forties, but the age of the girl who’d carried the water became no clearer to Matt as he watched her lightly cross the packed-earth enclosure. Two younger children – a girl no older than eight or nine and a smaller boy – stayed outside to feed the chickens in the yard, and then to chase each other around the well and cart.
Matt didn’t like looking at civilians through his scope – the cross-hairs that floated over them made their lives seem all too flimsy – but the safety-catch had shown white when he double-checked, and the family were in no immediate danger.
When the young ones gave up playing, and went inside, Matt made radio contact with the LAV. The Brits had nothing to report. Freddy took a break to drink from his canteen then Matt did the same, turning on his side. The heat of the day was intensifying, and wearing military-style clothing had become increasingly uncomfortable. He took off his webbing vest and placed it, and its four magazines, on the rifle’s transit case, within easy reach. A quick downward hitch of his trousers made the heat lessen fractionally. Then, with characteristic self-discipline, he went back to ignoring his general discomfort.
Neither man noticed a flight of Marbled Ducks from the Shatt al-Arab marshes pass over their heads, travelling south.
The radio crackled. A British voice said, “A black SUV is heading your way. It may be the visitors you’re expecting. Out.”
Matt’s heartbeat shot up a notch.
“About time,” Freddy said, taking an audibly deep breath. Moments later, he added, “I have them in sight. They’re travelling like a bat out of hell... Or were. They’re slowing down now.”
Matt took his attention off the scope, lifted his head, and looked beyond the village. He could see the plume of dust from an approaching vehicle under a kilometre north on the road. The SUV drew closer to the effective range of his sniper rifle, but his target was far more specific. His instructions were to identify Abdullah Hamade by sight if he could, take him out, and otherwise attract no avoidable notice.
Matt swivelled his rifle until he had a view of the point where the road entered the far side of the village. Moments later, the SUV appeared, advancing slowly. Matt speculated that the driver was under instruction either to be cautious of a trap or to strike fear by making sure the villagers became aware of the al-Qaeda presence; or the insurgents might simply be looking for the mayor’s house. Matt had no idea whether they’d carried out any reconnaissance in advance.
“Villagers are heading off the main street fast,” Freddy announced.
Matt wondered, ‘Do they know what’s going to happen to their mayor, or are they just afraid for their own lives?’ He was fairly sure they wouldn’t put up resistance. The village was not, according to CIA intel, a haven for any Shi’ite militia – ‘Shites’, as Freddy called them, without regard for whom he might offend.
Matt tracked the SUV as it drove down the street. It went past the mayor’s house without slowing or stopping.
“Maybe it’s not them,” Freddy speculated, almost sounding relieved. Then the brake lights of the vehicle went on. It started to do a U-turn. Freddy ducked his head. “Fook!”
Matt re-focussed his telescopic sight to bring up the street outside the mayor’s house. The light conditions were good, with the sun not directly in his eyes. His view wasn’t, however, ideal. At the angle he was at, he was unable to see the front door of the house directly, though his position had better line-of-sight than others offering equal concealment.
All the same, the SUV would have to park in the middle of the street for the best chance of identifying Hamade as he stepped out. If he couldn’t be identified going into the house, or emerging, the fall-back option would be taking out the SUV as the insurgents left. It would mean greater casualties but, to Baxters and the CIA, that was a lesser consideration. The men in the SUV were all combatants operating on the wrong side; that was what counted.
Matt adjusted his weapon for bullet drop and gravity. The rifle was fitted with a muzzle brake, so he didn’t have to worry as much about recoil, jump and flash. He chambered a NATO 7.62x51mm cartridge, then flipped the safety-catch. It showed red. The repeating procedure would be easy; the rifle had been designed so that the bolt handle bent to the rear.
The SUV stopped outside the mayor’s house, but too close to the front wall to give Matt an opportunity to see its passengers emerging. It was almost as if the al-Qaeda operatives knew that a sniper was lying in wait. He caught sight only of the driver, a rifle over his shoulder, as he hurried round the back to the other side of the vehicle and out of sight. Matt couldn’t tell how many terrorists went into the house or whether or not any remained in the vehicle.
His course of action postponed, Matt spared a thought for the family inside the dwelling. It went against his nature to do nothing but he was under orders.
In ten minutes, Matt’s ears had detected no sound of gunfire from the mayor’s house. Without looking in Freddy’s direction, he asked, “Any sign of the villagers getting ready to resist?”
There was a pause. “Nothing I can see.”
They waited long moments more then Freddy exclaimed, “Backyard.”
Matt quickly pivoted the rifle to the rear of the building. Three terrorists had emerged, two dragging the older daughter with them. Matt ran the cross-hairs over the men’s faces but none resembled the primary target.
“Do you see Hamade?” he checked with Freddy.
“Negative.” There was a pause. “Bloody hell! What do you reckon they’re planning to do with her?”
Matt re-focused. The trio of men had reached the edge of the well. The girl struggled as one of them attempted to lift her with the obvious intention of dumping her headfirst down the shaft. Without hesitation, knowing only that the situation required an immediate humanitarian response, Matt found a target and fired. He smoothly worked the bolt and, within seconds, had fired again.
The third, and only unscathed member of the al-Qaeda trio, had seized the interval to duck for cover.
“What the fook are you doing?” Freddy hissed.
“Saving the girl.”
Two more of Matt’s shots chipped stone off the well-surround. The third insurgent made a break to the cover of the cart on a route towards the back door of the house. Matt ensured he didn’t reach it.
Satisfied that none of the men were alive – or at least weren’t moving – Matt swung the rifle towards the back door in case other terrorists emerged.
“The SUV!” Freddy directed.
The vehicle was already picking up speed when Matt found it with his scope. He fired until his magazine was near empty.
“Bingo,” Freddy announced triumphantly.
The SUV had swerved to the right and into the adobe-braced corner of a house. The bonnet looked crushed and smoke or steam was coming from it.
For a better view of the scene through his binoculars, Freddy took a crouched position, his elbows resting on top of a boulder. Meanwhile, Matt replaced the magazine in his rifle.
“Survivor!”
A bloodied insurgent had stumbled from the front passenger door of the vehicle. Matt fired. The single shot, wherever it hit, proved effective. Immediately after, Matt cursed himself. Anyone else left alive in the SUV, knowing the fate of his comrade, would stay out of sight. Matt tried to excuse himself for his hasty action, ‘A bird in the bush...’
Matt instructed Freddy, “Take over.” He rolled out of the way, leaving his rifle in place, and Freddy quickly took his position. “Shoot anything that comes out of the SUV.”
Freddy grunted an acknowledgement as he focussed the scope. He asked, “What are you going to do?” Matt had got to his feet, crouched low.
“Head down the hill to confirm a kill, or carry it out if Hamade’s still alive in the SUV.”
“Shouldn’t I be coming with you, mate?”
“Provide cover from here.”
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