My job was security and logistics. Mostly I have been moving meds and people to the various clinics and refugee camps.
Many of the people are raw nurses trained in Mosul from the Mosul Medical College of Mosul University. I tell you, I love that school. The girls are a bit weird though. So many different cultures that don’t see eye-to-eye with others completely. It’s not bigotry it’s obsessive focus on their own thing, probably after years of their people having to defend who they are. Some of the Yazidis and the Christians are so beautiful and strong in their determination not to be driven from this their land. But they are so naïve about the world with such limited experience. In a few months if they survive on the program and want to continue working for the RSAC they look older by years and smarter by centuries. Amazing people.
They get training at the RSAC-M3 which is awesome and they think they know it all and can travel to any Refugee Camp and be of immediate help. OMG sweet nurses but the green ones will drive you to consternation if your job is to keep them alive.
My last big trip was at the end of January 2015. For 8 months, despite the occupation of Mosul by the “Islamic State” (I say “Daesh”) I could move in and out of Mosul easily. We were smuggling hundreds of people at a time but the Daesh were getting furious. But after that the Daesh shut me in Mosul pretty much. It’s very hard to get in and out, I must admit. But I know what I am doing and I get it done.
We had an operation where we moved 472 people out the NW in March and the reprisals cost us two nurses, one killed and one kidnapped.
I have a huge price on my head. The Daesh hate me.
The 23 security guys I work with are pretty awesome. (Some are also quite pretty.) There is one chick who is a nurse who is our boss from the protectorate side. She tells us what she needs and I get it delivered. Big girl. Very strong. Very tall and muscular. None of the guys want to get in her way. We have a trade off with the security guys so my role with them is as much liaison as it is authority. They give me back-talk but not her lol. They take on their own missions for a purpose outside of MUR and RINJ-RSAC which is how we pay their salaries. No explanation is going to be offered you but at least you get an idea of the relationships. I can never let a mean word come from my mouth. Everyone I work with I love and respect. We are bonded. Period.
One day the Daesh went too far. Their own chaos and out of control foreign fighters brought us hardship. We were on our way back from handing off 123 families to the Peshmerga outside Mosul up north when we decided to go back to one of our old clinics to salvage somemeds. The news was bad. The background is that the Daesh had forced us out when some losers with chain guns (Chechans) set up camp in a building near ours. We had to shut down. Losing contact with their caregivers 6 teens suicided in the two months they were not getting therapy. I sucked up the tears and turned it to rage.
We had been scouting another building and so we made plans to grab it. We have teams in the area that kill any Daesh that come within a block. If we dirty up our block we pull the bodies into one locate and light the place from a nearby rooftop after calling in an airstrike. Blaming the corpses on coalition fighter planes takes the heat off us and brings the Daesh down harder on the foreign fighter jerks who keep stealing and looting houses anyway.
We went door to door in the following weeks to find our protected people in their Christian, Yazidi and Jewish communities nearby M1 and get them back. We set up classrooms for the little kids. I watched Sunni and Kurdish nurses with tears dripping in their eyes unfolding cots and bedding, receiving bags of food and books from the grateful ladies coming through the basement access; the back doors; the front…. RSAC-M1 was reborn. I started to feel whole again, but enraged.
We had really screwed up by letting the Islamic State force our downsize. The people there we cared for could not find their way to our nearest clinic/community center and were suffering. I felt it was my fault. I am security.
I watched the security men angrily smash away broken timbers in the alleyway to clear a path to the back door; moving rubble so the ladies’ garments would not snag the debris. Knuckles were bleeding and tempers were covering the lumps in their throats. The women walked by offering food and drink to the security guys-come-construction workers. They all had wet eyes.
We run training programs for the girls and women. “Don’t line up to be raped,” we would tell them. “Kick, bite, scratch,fight, get clear and RUN!” We need to follow our own advice.
You will be raped and eventually killed or worse if you are 8 years old or older and they stop you on the street or on a checkpoint you get stopped.
RSAC-M1’s demise could have been prevented if we only had good intel on the huge influx of foreign fighters that poured in after whichever stupid American announced that in April they would invade Mosul. The Daesh took that seriously. The foreign fighter THUGS came pouring in. Even the Daesh have killed them, maybe as many as we have killed. They are revolting murdering, raping, thieving, looting dirty filth.
The blowback is now large and it is on the Daesh. Something was bound to happen where people in our authority chain lost their diplomacy front and went POOOleeece on these mofos. Finally.
I worked with a team to grab back that nurse from al Raqqah.
We are still not talking extensively about that. There is another chapter on that shit to be written. What they did to here is not going to stand. If you are not Daesh and are in al Raqqah, get out. Only warning.
When I was working in Cambodia my job was sniper (among other things I don’t want to talk about) using the worst piece of junk rifle you could imagine. It wasn’t better than a plumbing pipe with a firing mechanism.
When I was in Israel years laterhanging out with some IDF friends (who I still hang out with in Mosul hah hah) I came into contact with some swell firearms. My world changed.
There is some amazing equipment available but the following is how I define my tool.
- Muzzle Brake, Jump compensator & Flash suppressor. These additions will, when firing, reduce recoil and movement by 30%, thus enabling the sniper to observe HER target through the telescope and allow an immediate firing of an extra round if necessary. (I always have my next shot rehearsed and ready in my head. Before I take my first shot I have already drilled through 1st, 2nd, and 3rd).
- The magazine capacity of 25 rds. facilitates continuous firing without the need to reload so my theory above works perfectly.
- Telescope X10 and the reliable scope mount, maintains excellent zeroing even after disassembly and reassemble of the telescope. I mean I don’t come down off the roof very often but I am forever changing my place and even hopping from roof to roof. You can see how important theteardown is.
- The Nimrod telescope is Mil Standard but I have some mods I like.
- Folded stock, along with 25 round magazine, enables the rifle to be used as an assault rifle during urban warfare which is something I prefer to avoid mainly because my helmet is so heavy I can hardly walk with it. When I have to I am on the ground with my guys–I like to jump sometimes.
- Adjustable (up/down) cheek rest is important because my head and neck get so tired from the heavy helmet.
- Ergonomic pistol grip and an adjustable hand support is also important because the hours that I am in one position will give me carpal tunnel syndrome if I am not comfortable .
- 100% interchangeable parts means that I don’t have to fart around with non-standard, non-inter-operable, non-common shite.
- Two stage type trigger design, which contribute to the reduction of sniper firing errors.
- Silencer can be mounted on the Muzzel Brake / Jump compensator. After mounting the silencer and zeroing the weapon, disassembly and reassembly of the silencer do not have any effect on zeroing which I explained earlier is important for position changes.
- Backup sights include tritium for night combat which nowadays is almost 50%.
I love my Barrett and I love my IWI Gailil Sniper Sa. So I use both in pre-positioned spots on my fave roof. And I protect my people from overhead, every day I am alive.
If you want to chat with me sometimes I use a freedom-sat Wafanet satellite dish and connect maybe once a week to this Facebook Group known as MUR – Mosul, Iraq
The Mosul Underground Resistance. (More info.)
The group is the public interface of the Mosul Underground Resistance
I live in Mosul now. Join me at least on Facebook in this group.
In Mosul the Islamic State has declared on Good Friday 2015 that they have rid the city of all Christians. The truth is that from the community outreach programme the RRSACs and the MUR hide many.
The MUR began on Easter Sunday to punish enemy war criminals by taking the lives of Daesh fighters who murdered dozens of Christians by stoning them to death with large rocks. Rage has turned to resolve. Death to the devil.
Those people who are assisting the Islamic State in any way will be summarily imprisoned for treason and a trial will be held when hostilities end. In the alternative and upon resistance to arrest they will be summarily put to death.
Her face went grim. Through her AN/AVS-6 vision goggles she scanned her field of view. The Reaper searched the night streets of downtown Mosul seeking a particular evil.
A lock of her straight black Asian hair came loose from her pony tail, flopping in front of her face. She took a moment to fix her pony tail, wipe her brow and sip some of her ginger tea. She remembered one particular girl, Julie, who had described the behaviour of these Daesh bastards in Sinjar after the Iraqi-Peshmerga soldiers had abandoned their posts and run away, the cowards. They were misbehaved in their time in Sinjar as well but nothing like the invading Islamic State who were more brutal rapists but also bloodied butchers of humans.
The Reaper continued to guard from overhead the building she laid upon. It was full of medical workers who provided health care and shelter for hundreds of ethnic minorities in Mosul; people outlawed by the Islamic State, officially not allowed to live.
Sitting on the roof there is no break. She wants none. There is only one thing she wants, so she waits like the sniper that she is for a moment of triumph. If the security guys get this bastard, that is fine, but he will not enter her zone without his life being taken.
There has been a horrible series of war crimes against women and childrenbut this one has shaken her. The Daesh commander who rewarded his fighters with many girl prisoners including one who had become the Reaper’s friend, is in town. She winced. Friends are not allowed in this work. He is a rapist of young girls in the Shingal region–that’s enough reason to end him. She wiped a tear for Julie from her cheek. No friends allowed because nothing matters but the mission.
She will get him, ending the misery his existence on this earth has brought.
The Reaper remembers hearing from another rape survivor how he stunk. Groan. K. (How can you not feel those women’s pain?) K. No friends allowed, no emotions, because nothing matters but the mission.
Her mind drifted for a fleeting moment back to Cambodia. She saw her sister’s face and shook her head hard. No feelings allowed, no emotions, because nothing matters but the mission. Sadness is too familiar but rage can help sharpness. She sucks up the wish to cry. Thank God the pain still comes back. She is not really a Reaper, she is a baby girl sold as a sex slave and raped throughout a childhood she never had. She is that little girl but she got bigger. Now she has a better gun and the highest skills honed to use it well. She threw her arms around herself–the hug her sister would have given her– she squeezed. More solid than ever. Back to work.
The Reaper looks hard with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes.
Single minded now in her approach, she has watched for him, knowing he has been bunked in an abandoned house within her range. Most of his moves have been tracked by everyone she could get help from including some of the nurses in the hospital and from other ‘watchers’.
He is supposed to show tonight after touring around the city.
The Reaper lurks overhead always, where nobody knows her presence save a small few of her protectorate.
The rapist has no idea that he is being watched, observed, and targeted. (C’mon you skumbag, show yourself. The Reaper awaits you, c’mon asshole.)
She waits, her heartbeat like a dark, soft, silent energy source ready to operate at military maximum effort.
The Daesh Commander is a Child Rapist, Easy to Hate
His beard hides an ugly face covered with scars from a fire bomb exploding too close in 2010 when an American made mortar caught him sleeping in that hut. He was lucky to get out alive. The other eight guys bit the dust that night. He was badly hurt but he survived thanks to a Syrian doctor who would have been his next victim of torture had it not been for the doctor being his instrument of survival. But, he continues to pay it back, if not the doctor—someone else.
He tortured, beat and raped those terrorized Yazidi girls the reaper had sat and listened to as the nurses fussed over the escapees her fellow soldiers had rescued. She had not let the tears come but shoved the emotion into her gut–anger stored for later use. Plenty of anger.
The fat bastard Daesh boss had loved it when the girls squirmed with excruciating pain; the fear on their faces excited him; praising Allah as he took their prepubescent bodies and man handled them one after the other until they were both dead. He got up and walked away like he forgot something in the other room, no remorse, no guilt, just the relieved feeling of expelling his built up seed. If Allah was pleased— and he was—then he was pleased. He praised Allah thinking unworthy thoughts, of how the Prophet enjoyed the nine year old Aisha, in his bed of glory. But he wipes that from his mind.
All that history comes to an end tonight.
(“I have something for you,” the Reaper mutters under her breath.)
The Reaper’s sleek, hard but feminine body registered a slight tremor; she remembered hearing the story of those Yazidis who lived through their ordeal with him. One of the kids, he took her twelve times over a five day torturous period, and then turned her over to his friends. The kid wanted, begged for death. Once rescued the nurses had watched her like hawks as she tried everything possible to kill herself during her convalescence. At one point they sedated her heavily and fed her intravenously. Yes, she wanted to be dead as many of the Daesh rape survivors do. The nurses had become skilled at dealing with traumatized kids. It’s not like their training. Nothing can prepare you to fathom this severity of agony. The nurses who couldn’t cut it were long gone. The ones who survived and learned are perfect angels.
The Reaper’s mind flashed back to a childhood memory. She shook her head hard–put it aside. She, like those Yazidi girls who survived their ordeal with these brutal inhumane thugs had fought and fought hard to live.
Vengeance for the many children and young women raped by this evil Daeshrested on a bipod, it’s lethal cold steel mechanisms cradled in the Reaper’s two hands. Yes, vengeance and the termination of a scourge of inhumanity would come tonight.
The Reaper’s face is grim.
(“Where is that bastard. If I can’t do it tonight I may fail until next he returns to Mosul.”)
The Reaper: My Weapon is my Life – My Life is My weapon
She puts down the vision goggles and checks her weapon, rubs her eyes to help refocus. The sleek clean tool of killing, she caresses it skillfully, breathing in unison, tuning her senses with the electronics of the rifle’s accessories, melding her lithe body with the great length of the rifle, finding oneness with its power.
I am it, and it is me.
(“I will end your stinking life of crime against children, you fucking pervert.”) She checks the focus of the scope, verifies the range and azimuth and confirms the chambered full bore 50 caliber killer round waiting to sing her song. A faint smile. Her NATO 7.62 rifle was ready on her north-facing side. The 50 faced East toward the Tigress River.
(“It’s a cool thing my Barrett, the muzzle break, the 25R magazine capacity, my X10-Mod scope. Yes, I can bring down a lot of Daesh with this sweetheart.”)
The Barrett wants him too.
A sound drifting up the street; a car approaches the Daesh Commander’s quarters in the distance. She gazed through the rifle scope, altered the azimuth slightly in anticipation of who might exit a now stopped vehicle .
(“Be there, be there.”)
The Reaper sees the car door slowly open and watches–her hand caresses the grip, finger poised across the outside of the trigger guard.
Bodies are moving around inside the vehicle as if they are getting gear to take out of the car. She observes, one leg seemingly ready to exit, but it sways back and forth like the owner is picking something up, revealing the ridiculous look of an old worn western-made loafer with no socks on calloused dirty feet; incongruity with his Arab attire.
Her body tightens slightly as she waits. Waiting is her thing. Her patient steady breathing melds with her long weapon. He moves her finger inside the guard and hovers it over the sensitive gun trigger.
Two men emerge from the vehicle into view, not him. And—then , there! There he is wrapped in his headdress and white Daesh commander issue, his fat belly filling his clothes like an over-stuffed trash can.
(“This is it Mr. Scumbag. Now is the time to say your prayers to Allah, because you’re not going to him, I am sending you to hell.”)
She checks cross-hairs slightly ahead; waits for him to walk in the death zone.
She fired head on, first to his groin for pain and effect, (“as I promised that girl you pedo-fuck”), severing his dick and scrotum, the parts falling inside bloodied white clothes.
He doubles over and spun to the right.
As she had just rehearsed in her head she moves the long barrel fractionally to his stomach area, a side shot, because that’s what nurse Bonnie told her through clenched teeth would bring the most amount of pain of any gunshot wound. The bullet enters the near side of his gut, rips through stomach and intestine, exiting his bloated body the other side removing part of his kidney.
He falls, writhing. She leaves him to suffer and swings the barrel half a degree or less and picks up the back of another’ Daesh’s head and pressures the trigger to send the large round screaming through the air. 600 Meters travel was quick but before the round took half the driver’s head off she was sighting the third man out, softly touched the trigger and ending him.
She turned back to the fat rapist writhing in front of the building, doubled up in pain. She paused and reflected . She remembered the twisted, weeping baby face of one of his victims. Her screams and cries in the middle of every night as the nurses tried to bring her brain back from that death. A small tear rolled across her cheek. Two men burst out of the building and whirled toward the car and the downed Daesh she had just killed. One turned and looked in her direction and she killed him with a shot to his face. The other she brought down by completely removing the back of his head with a side shot.
(“Yes, you assholes you can go with him, none of you deserve to breathe my air. And now finally, back to you.”)
The Reaper ended the writhing fat rapist with a shot that sent the round into his skull from under his jaw, pushing bone, teeth and cartilage fragments through the center of his cerebrum splitting his skull in two and splattering blood and gray matter across the side of the building to the right of the door. Dead Daesh.
She wiped what must have been a tear for each of the Yazidi girls–a flood–from her young cheeks. She had never shown anyone in her life that she knew how to cry, except maybe one special guy.
She surveyed the scene. Five bodies. No newcomers. All was quiet.
Satisfaction rolled over her whole being, like a cozy warm blanket on a cold night.
She reached into her blouse and pulled out a lollypop, slid it out of its wrapper and pushed it between her lips. Sweet. The Reaper slowly looked up to the stars. (“That’s for you to, sis. I love you, baby.”) She would radio her soldier guys to clean up the mess.
After making the call she shifted her mind to the next target.
Her face went grim.