Chapter 27 in Col. Josh Abrmas adventures in Iraq and discoveries about why we are at war in Iraq.
Mordecai Cohen’s Haircut
The next night the Americans began moving into their tactical assembly areas (TAA) for the assault on Fallujah. The payback for April was at hand in. It was November, the day after the election. Mordecai Cohen was aware of energy in the air and he felt it happening in his bones during the evening as the earth rattled from the movement of the M1A1 Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting machines.
"I am dressed like a Bedouin, this is madness," he said to himself. He took out a pair of electric clippers and went to work. He gave himself the typical Marine haircut, a so called jarhead. He removed all hair on the side up to the top of his head, till all that was left was the skin that was visible all around the sides. He left a sharp line between skin and the thatch on top. Next he replaced his Bedouin garments with the new digitally imprinted US Marine Corps desert camouflage uniform. The uniform had a digital pattern of brown black and tan dots interspersed with a digital representation of the US Marine Corps insignia, the eagle, the globe and the anchor. He gave himself the rank of sergeant, placed an inverted large black V on the outside of his minivan to demarcate it as a coalition vehicle, and grabbed a few winks. His counterfeit US dog tags were around his neck and his Nagant-Mossin sniper rifle at his side. The night was punctuated by the tremendous boom-boom of US 155mm. Howitzer fire and the 500 pound not so smart US Air Force bombs that were intermittently dropped amidst the occasional cruise missile coming in from the carriers in the Persian Gulf or from the Eastern Mediterranean. Mordecai Cohen was tired. He had been in Baghdad and across western Iraq without a break the past week. He needed to rest, but once he was satisfied that Nasir was bedded down for the evening he woke himself up and took off in his minivan and went to the eastern edge of Fallujah where a Christian Lebanese hospital had been set up. This hospital flew a Red Cross flag and also a Red Crescent Society flag. The hospital’s mission was to care for the civilians who may be injured in the upcoming battle of Fallujah. Mordecai parked his van outside the entrance to the hospital, just beyond a couple of Texas cement barriers. As he left his van he we greeted by a couple of guards armed with Kalashnikovs that had a folding wire stock.
"I’m here to see your director," said Cohen in French as he flashed his military ID card and his MNFI ID card. A US marine with all the papers, there were no further questions and he was shown into the small wooden office of the director.
"Je suis Monsieur Cohen," he said. "I’ve been told by the Vatican that you would be expecting me and would help me."
"Oui, mon cher," replied the dark skinned though European appearing director who was about sixty years old, with smooth skin and lightly tinted wire rimmed glasses. I have been expecting you but had no idea you would be with the Americans," he said.
"Forget the Americans, I’m working for the Vatican and this uniform just makes getting around that much easier. You are to help me find a young boy and his mother. "We have been working our intelligence sources on this, but it seems that you have already found them, we are told that you are camped outside the building where we believe they are staying."
"Well, I’ve been following an Iranian who is also on their trail, and I’ve camped outside the Iranian’s hooch. So it is fortuitous that I’ve also found the mother and boy. That changes things. Time is shorter than I had thought. Merci, beaucoup. Have you met them?"
"No sir, we’ve been told to help you but to stay out of this situation. We believe that tomorrow we will lure the Iranian outside for you and you will have the chance to kill him. He has communicated from the mosque with his superiors in Iran. Then he was told to leave the mosque and never return. We work well with the Sunnis here and they gave us access to their phones. The Iranian is not aware that he is being followed. He is planning on killing the boy tomorrow. Instead, we shall set it up for you to kill him."
"But what about the mother and boy?" asked Mordecai Cohen? "They are most important, killing the Iranian is secondary."
"First things first. You need to kill him, and then you will be able to approach the mother and the boy. They are guarded by the boy’s uncle, but he is one of us and this will not be an issue."
The director, the two guards and Cohen discussed the plan for the morning and they were in agreement. Cohen was shown out to his minivan. He got down and checked underneath the vehicle looking for unusual packages or wires. There were none. He said good-bye to the director and the two guards and drove back to his stakeout. He moved his van till it was one hundred yards from the lean-to that was housing Nasir for the evening. He serviced his rifle once again, loaded up an extra clip of 7.62x54 ammunition, and laid down in the van. He covered himself with a lightweight camouflage blanket and was soon, against all odds, asleep.
Cohen hadn’t had the time to think about this mission, he was so busy carrying out the directives of his superiors. If he did, he would have confused himself and he preferred sleep to confusion. He looked out and saw the quarter moon rising in the east. He took a couple of deep breaths and was again asleep. He wasn’t sure how the Lebanese would get the Iranian out in the morning.
He woke to the call to prayer. It was still before the sunrise. He had slept in his clothes and was fully awake in a heartbeat. He looked out and saw no motion from the lean to. He readied his weapon and poured himself a cup of Joe from the thermos he had stashed away earlier yesterday. A half hour passed and a beat up garbage truck made its way down the street. Two Arab men, the Lebanese guards from the day before, jumped off the truck and began to empty garbage from the lean-to. Suddenly the men were yelling at a man who was inside the lean-to, amidst the garbage. Two pings rang out, the retort of a 9mm hand gun. First one garbage man, then the other, the two Lebanese guards, fell over; each in his own pool of blood. Cohen grimaced. His weapon was ready, braced against a foam support on the side of the minivan.
He waited; snipers must be patient above all else. A couple of minutes later his patience was rewarded as Nasir looked out from the lean to and glanced up and down the street and saw the garbage truck sitting there on the side of the street, engine running, and with a loader in front which would be a fine deflector of fire directed his way. Inshallah, he had armor. The time had come, he must move.
To Be Continued.......