Mosul, Iraq, 2016 - once ISIL’s greatest conquest but fast becoming a giant graveyard, where the difference between a gruesome death or wretched survival is just a matter of chance. As attacks by the Western coalition forces devastate the city, even senior ISIL officers like Karl realise defeat is inevitable.
On his instructions, two ISIL jihadists travel across the EU Schengen Zone, planning to bring terror to a Western European city. German police officer Max Kellerman is on their tail - can he find them in time to prevent a catastrophic loss of life?
Hema and Faqir Al-Douri flee the Mosul death trap in search of peace and safety in Western Europe. As poor, homeless refugees, they face the impossible task of crossing unfriendly borders in Asia and Eastern Europe to reach the safe-haven they dream of. Their journey is fraught with danger and protecting their family demands sacrifices they could never have imagined.
The Al-Douri’s desperate attempt to find freedom in the face of heartless bureaucracy, murderous violence and venal corruption is in stark contrast with the jihadists’ dark intent as they journey across a borderless Europe.
As with his bestselling African Diamonds trilogy, Christopher Lowery combines detailed factual events with a gripping multi-stranded plot, whose topicality is inescapable. From North Africa through Eastern and Western Europe, The Mosul Legacy confronts the reader with the devastating truth behind today’s newspaper headlines.
The perfect read for fans of Gerald Seymour, Chris Ryan and Roger Pearce.
THREE
Cologne, Germany
March 2016
"Hello big brother, how are things?"
"All the better when I hear from you, little brother," Ibrahim laughter,as he always did when he spoke to Jamil. The boy was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise miserable,dreary,boring town, a town he intended to wake up the reality of the world outside very soon.
"Are we going to the park on Saturday?"
"That's a silly question. You're off school, the forecast is good, and you and Fatima need some sunshine and fresh air, so of course we're going."
"Cool, I'll tell her, she's already asking what you'll get her for her birthday, but I haven't said anything."
They talked for a few minutes and after promising to pick them up on Saturday at ten, Ibrahim put away his mobile with confused emotions. He knew he would miss his brother and sister after the event, and they would be sad too, but it was a sacrifice he had to make. It was too late to back out and his duty to his father's memory was paramount. He had to follow his example, whatever the price, and afterwards Jamil would be so proud of him that he would quickly forget his sadness.
Ibrahim was not part of a cell; he had no partners in his project. Using the Imam as a conduit and his father's reputation as a bargaining chip, he had made contact via the shadow internet with a high-ranking member of ISIL and put his proposal forward. An ISIL operative met Ibrahim in Essen and he passed the test, even though he imposed his own conditions:
They must never contact him without his instigation. He would initiate all contact and would work to his own timetable.
He insisted on acting as a lone operative. There was an existing cell in Cologne, but he knew the leader, Ahmad, in his opinion an arrogant idiot, blinded by ideology and incapable of organising a walk in the park.
They offered him instructions, a PayPal account (in the name of Klaus Ritterman, with a Berlin address) and a new, apparently unbreakable 'Encryption App'. He accepted these contributions, without any conditions attached.
Ibrahim wanted both the rank and opportunity of fame and martyrdom to be his alone and because of his father's reputation, his conditions had been transmitted to a higher authority. An Emir, the ISIL commander who would manage him in Iraq, contacted him a few days later to confirm their acceptance and set up the internet procedure. His job at a friend's car repair garage provided him with the money he needed, but the PayPal account was useful to make untraceable payments. Now, only the internet and his brother's help were required to prepare and execute his plan. Installable! If Allah wills it.
After printing out the first set of instructions, Ibrahim had studied the various options in detail before he had his final choice; the manufacture of TATP, Triaceptone Triperoxide. He shivered with fear and anticipation when he went back into the shadow site to request part two, with its list of specific requirements. There were six more pages and drawings with numerous warnings, written in red capitals and illustrated by bloody photographs of previous accidents. He ignored the warnings and looked at the complete itemised list of requirements. The banal supermarket items were listed first, and the cosmetics and chemical purchases were at the bottom of the page, marked in yellow. He cut the list in half; the top part he would give to Jamil on Saturday and the rest of the items he would buy himself from the pharmacy and hardware store.
There had been a lot of noise recently on the websites he visited. He knew something was going to happen in, something in Europe, but he didn't know what or where. Selfishly he hoped he could launch his attack before anyone else - show the way, execute the next Charlie Hebdo or
Paris Massacre event, but on German soil. Show the world that no European country was safe from retribution, ISIL style.
Then on the morning of Tuesday 22 March, he switched on the tv and stared in amazement and dismay at the screen; reports and images of the attacks by gunmen and suicide bombers on Zaventem international airport and the Maelbeek metro station in Brussels, close to several European Union institutions. The almost simultaneous attacks killed thirty-two people and injured scores more. Like the Paris Massacre, the Belgian event was breath-taking in its planning,execution and results. He checked every other channel; they were all showing the same thing, The Brussels Bombings it had been named. The murderous images were being transmitted around the globe, to every country on the planet. It was an historic event.
Ibrahim felt strangely dejected. His own project had suddenly become a pathetic effort by comparison. How could he hope, single-handed, to compete with such a powerful statement of intent? That evening he went to listen to the Imam, who said something that resonated in his mind. Mohammed applauded the massacre and announced, "Paris and Brussels were historic steps in the March towards our liberation and world ascendance. But each was only one step of many. A single step which will be followed by many more until all those steps become a stampede from which the infidels will flee. Each of us must take our own step. It is our duty to Allah."
On his knees, Ibrahim understood the significance of the Imam's words. Every action against the west was a historic event, however small and trivial it might appear. Each successful act in itself was a moment of triumph, a tiny spotlight of fame for the perpetrator and another tiny chink in the armour of the infidel. The accumulation of all these acts, however paltry individually, would inevitably outweigh the strength of the opposition.
As forecast Saturday morning was sunny, and he took Jamil and Fatima to the park and bought them fruit, drinks and sweets. His cousin, Hassan, came with them. He was a year older than Ibrahim and the only other remaining member of his mother's family in Germany. Hassan's own mother, Ibrahim's aunt, had died on the boat trip from Iraq to Greece, then he was orphaned when their fathers had died fighting together in Mosul. He was making his way from Hamburg to stay with an uncle in Munich and had borrowed Ibrahim's bed in the room he shared with Jamil, staying for a few weeks and making small but welcome contribution to the rent. Unlike Ibrahim, Hassan detested ISIL movement, and he had told him nothing of his plan, but they tolerated each other for the sake of the family.
They went to the shopping mall where he gave Jamil some cash and the top half of the shopping list before sending him into the supermarket. In the toy store he chose a gift for his sister's seventh birthday that coming weekend, then walked around the pharmacy and the DIY store with Hassan,attempting to look innocuous,talking about redecorating his flat, looking for the products on his list. Step by step, Ibrahim's project was taking shape.
Mosul, Iraq
"We've lost Abu Furqan, he was killed by a rocket shell in Quyyara. Probably from a howitzer at that US base in Makhmur. They're moving west, towards El Nasr where we've got all those vehicles stored. We can't afford to lose them. Get back there and take over immediately."
The man called Karl was in the chemistry laboratory of Mosul University, the buildings chosen for ISIL's headquarters in the city. Despite the perpetual shelling and bombing of the city, a large part of the campus was still standing, including the lab and many of its store rooms. A team of scientists, explosives experts and engineers, had been working for over a year, developing bombs and other weapons from the large stocks of materials hidden in the well-equipped premises. They had already succeeded in concocting several new types of explosive devices, as well as training a team of unqualified militants to build them. Over the past few months, the lab had become a manufacturing plant, producing increasing quantities of deadly weapons to be used against ISIL's perceived enemies, military and civilian alike. Roadside bombs, suicide vests, handheld and rocket propelled grenades, all ideally suited to urban fighting, were being churned out of the university as if it were a factory assembly line.
The previous week the campus had been evacuated when a coalition-led air attack blitzed the buildings, killing five workers, but the chemistry lab was left more or less intact. Karl had been pulled away from his post of south-west Mosul field commander to inspect and advise on the situation to see when they could reopen their manufacturing line; the military council wanted to see them back in production ASAP. Now, on the orders of his boss, Salam Abd Shabib al-J bouri, the supreme commander of Mosul, he had to drop that assignment to return to his day job at Qayyarah. Another typical day of total chaos, he said to himself.
He checked the time; it was 8:00am. "Why do you think it was a US rocket?"
"It's almost thirty k's away from their lines. Those Iraqi clowns couldn't hit a mosque at twenty paces. Get moving, now."
Karl's motorbike was parked outside the lab and he sped along University Highway then south on Highway One at 120 km/h, thinking about the commander's message. The dead man, Abu Furqan al-Misry, was someone he detested. Like Karl, he was an ISIL commander, but also a notorious executioner who revelled in finding new and even more gruesome ways to dispatch his victims. In Karl's opinion, he wasn't a true ISIL believer; the only thing he believed in was sadistic murder and the caliphate gave him ample opportunity to practise it. His latest triumph had been three hundred Iraqis mowed down by truck-mounted, condemned for whatever crime he'd invented on the spur of the moment to satisfy his bloodlust. It's no wonder US soldiers are firing rocket-assisted shells at us, I'd be doing the same.
At ten o'clock, he ran into the warehouse that housed the Qayyarah headquarters. The sound of exploding shells rang out constantly around the village. "What's the situation?"
His latest second-in-command, Qadir, had been with him for only a week, since his predecessor had died in the university air attack. He couldn't remember how many adjutants he'd outlived over the years, but it wasn't something that bothered him any longer. If they were useful while they were alive, that was all that mattered.
"The Iraquis crossed the river at daybreak and they've taken Garmandi, Kudila and Khurburdan. We lost ten men and the rest fell back to Al-Nasr and we're holding it for now." Al-Nasr was a village about 20 kilometres south east of Qayyara, where ISIL had a large number of booby-trapped jeeps and lorries stored, the vehicles al-Jbouri had mentioned. Part of the defence armaments they'd need when the inevitable fight for Mosul itself would occur.
"They're shelling us here from Al-Nasr? Who's feeding you the info? How many troops?"
"Nissam called a half hour ago. Around a thousand Iraqis. Says the Kurds didn't show up, thanks to Allah, they're still sitting on their arses in Makhmur."
"So how did we lose those villages against a thousand spineless, shit-scared Iraqis?"
"Coordinated air strikes, and the Americans at that new base are firing rocket-assisted shells. Even the Iraqis are brave when the Americans are firing missiles at us."
What about Al-Nasr and the vehicles? What do we have there to hold it?"
"Mortars, machine guns and about two hundred men. There's a dozen with suicide vests taking the Iraqis out. And now the aircraft are gone they're up shit creek. Nissam said they've fallen back to regroup."
"So the pressure's off for the minute, alhamd lilah. I'll go when I've had a coffee. By the way, I heard al-Misry was killed?"
He'd just arrived here, said he'd heard two of our guys had been seen retreating from the fight when we attacked the US base last week. He'd come to arrest them and take them back to Mosul for execution. He got in his jeep to drive to Al-Nasr ..."
"And Allah or the Americans decided otherwise," Karl laughed. "I don't know what to think. Have you had much evidence of then there?"
They're firing to support the Iraqi sorties, but every now and then they send a couple of shells in our direction, just to prove they can. No harm so far, except Commander al-Misry." Qadir kept a straight face and went to get a coffee for his boss.
Karl arrived in Al-Nasr at eleven-thirty and ran into the disused schoolhouse where Nissam Bukhari, his Pakistani communications officer, was speaking on the phone while tending a wounded man, binding up his leg. It looked like the man's knee had been shot off and he didn't give the leg much chance, but he just acknowledged the men and went to the window with his binoculars. He peered through the blanket of dense smoke that hung around the village. That's the Americans firing smoke bombs to blind US, so the Iraqis can sneak up like the cowardly shits they are. He panned across the scene, squinting through the lenses, and made out some of his men shooting from the protection of the burned-out buildings that stood on the outskirts of the village. Other fighters manned rocket launchers on the square in front of them, and heavy machine guns mounted on trucks parked at the sides of buildings were firing continuously.
Bukhari had finished bandaging the man's leg and Karl called him over to the window. Iraqi rockets and shells from the US howitzers were falling continuously and the cacophony of noise from their own mortars and rockets launchers was deafening.
"How many men have we lost?" he shouted.
"About twenty, that's counting six suicide bombers, but the Iraqis have regrouped and they're starting a pincer movement. I gave the supreme commander the same information. That was him on the phone from Mosul."
"Did you tell him I have arrived?"
"Sure, but he didn't want to talk to you."
Karl thought about this for a split second. "So he told you something he didn't want to tell me. What did he say?
"We have to hold Al-Nasr and save the vehicle park at any cost. Any man who retreats will be executed, if he's still alive."
"He's a hell of a strategic thinker. Right, he's just ordered me back here as commander on the spot, so ignore what he said and listen to me, I take full responsibility, OK?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Are there any Iraqis or Americans on the west side of the village?"
"No, they're attacking the east."
"OK, we're going to do two things. First, get as many vehicles as possible out and on the way back to Qayyarah, we'll lose a few on the road, but we'll save a lot. Then get our fighters to evacuate the village. Set up firing positions two k's to the west and sit and wait."
"I don't understand, the supreme commander said ..."
"He said anyone who retreats. We're not retreating, we're regrouping to the west of the village. From there we cover the vehicles as they and we wait."
"What happens to Al-Nasr?"
"We leave a few suicides here and let the iraqis take from the east, then we shell the shit out of them from the west. They'll be sitting ducks. We'll take it back again when they go running off with their balls hanging out their mouths. Come on, let's get them moving."
...
Karl got back to his Qayyarah headquarters at ten o'clock that night. His strategy had been partly successful. The Iraqis had taken over the village at midday and his remaining two hundred men had pounded them with shells, mortar rockets and heavy machine guns all afternoon, until they'd fled back to Kudila, leaving two dozen bodies behind, including six killed by suicide vest wearers. The bad news was that a group of Kurdish Peshmerga soldiers had advanced with them and, held their positions. There was a stand-off for several hours, each side shelling the other, before the Iraqis slowly came back to the village to join the Kurds.
His decision had saved about thirty booby-trapped vehicles and one hundred men, but the same number had been killed in the battles and El-Nasr was now on the list of lost causes. By defying the supreme commander's orders, he'd protected half of his men from a certain death, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. To make it worse, during the fighting he'd received a call from Qadir. While he and his men had waited to the west of the highway, the Iraqis had sent an artillery unit to the north, past Al-Nasr, and heavily shelled their headquarters in Qayyarah before retreating back towards Makhmur.
He arrived back to mourn the loss of twenty-five more of his brothers-in-arms, including men he had fought with since taking Mosul, men for whom he would gladly have given his own life. Then a call from the supreme commander informed him that Iraqi military aircraft had targeted their missile development plant in Al-Hawijah, 100 kilometres south east of Makhmur, with the loss of thirty-five more fighters. Karl was not a mathematician, but he knew how few fighters ISIL really had, and he knew that number was becoming perilously low.
During the next couple of weeks, Karl received more bad news. In early April, a force of Kurdish Yazidis, natives of the Sinjar mountains in north-western Iraq, fighting alongside Iraqi tribal warriors, took control of the territory between Sinjar and the Syrian border. A simultaneous air strike by RAF and US bombers destroyed a bridge over the Tigris which was the main entry into the safer north-western zone on Mosul. This combined attack effectively cut off key supply lines from Raqqa by Route 47 and Highway One, ironically, the route taken by Karl's forces when they stormed Mosul in 2014. Then Iraqi forces attacked the city of Hit, near Ramadi, releasing fifteen hundred civilian prisoners from the underground jail. Hit was one of the remaining towns still held by ISIL in the Bagdad area and it looked like it would soon be lost.
AUTHOR BIO
PUBLICATION DATE : 27th September 2018
PUBLISHER : Urbane Publications Limited
GENRE : Political,Action&Thriller
PURCHASE LINK....
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mosul-Legacy-gripping-thriller-author-ebook/dp/B07FLCQ28F/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1544388207&sr=1-1&keywords=the+mosul+legacy
No comments:
Post a Comment