Lilith
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3: Mosul
FORWARD OPERATING BASE MAREZ
ERBIL, IRAQ
MARCH 2015
The heat hit like a wall when the C-17’s ramp lowered.
Shira had experienced Middle Eastern heat before—the Golan Heights in summer, the Negev during training—but Iraq was different. Drier, hotter, carrying the smell of dust and diesel fuel and something else she couldn’t quite identify. The smell of war.
She shouldered her pack and lifted the CheyTac case, following the other Rangers down the ramp onto the tarmac. The FOB sprawled before her—a military city of blast walls, sandbags, prefab buildings, and armored vehicles. Apache helicopters sat on flight lines. Humvees rumbled past. Soldiers moved with the purposeful efficiency of a combat zone.
“First time in Iraq?” the Ranger sergeant who’d sat across from her asked. His name tape read COLLINS.
“First time in Iraq,” Shira confirmed. “Not my first deployment.”
“Right. IDF.” Collins nodded toward a cluster of buildings. “That’s where we’re headed. Third Platoon, Bravo Company. You’ll be attached to us for the rotation.”
They walked through the FOB, past barriers and guard posts and soldiers who glanced at her with curiosity. Female soldiers weren’t uncommon on base, but a female sniper with a Ranger unit was still rare enough to draw attention.
Collins led her to a low concrete building reinforced with sandbags. Inside, it was marginally cooler—air conditioning struggling against the Iraqi heat. A dozen Rangers were scattered around the common area—cleaning weapons, reviewing maps, sleeping.
A master sergeant looked up from a map table. Mid-thirties, lean and hard, with the Ranger tab and combat patch that marked a veteran of multiple deployments. His name tape read Garrett.
“Collins, this our new sniper?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant. PFC Abrams, arrived on the bird from Benning.”
Garrett walked over, studying her with the flat assessment of a man who’d seen too much combat to be impressed by anything. His eyes went to the CheyTac case.
“That what I think it is?”
“CheyTac M300 Pretorian, .408 caliber, Master Sergeant.”
“Jesus.” He looked at Collins. “They weren’t kidding about the long-range capability.” Back to Shira. “You know how to use that thing?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“We’ll see.” He gestured to the map table. “Come here. Let me show you what we’re working with.”
The map showed Mosul and the surrounding area—a sprawl of streets, buildings, and terrain marked with enemy positions, safe routes, and objective areas. Red circles indicated ISIS strongholds. Blue marks showed coalition positions.
“Mosul fell to ISIS last June,” Garrett began. “Since then, it’s been their stronghold in Iraq. Population about a million before they took over—probably half that now, the rest fled or got killed. ISIS uses the city as a base for operations throughout the region.”
He pointed to various locations. “We run raids almost daily. High-value targets, weapons caches, intelligence gathering. Most operations are at night, fast in and out. The enemy is dug in, knows the terrain, and doesn’t mind dying.” He looked at her. “Your job is overwatch. You find a position with good sight lines, you protect the assault element, and you drop anyone who threatens the team. Understand?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Good. Your range with that weapon is what—1,500 meters?”
“Effective range is 2,500 meters. I’m reliable to 2,000.”
Garrett raised an eyebrow. “That’s over a mile.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“We’ve never had a sniper who could reach that far. Changes how we can plan operations.” He studied her. “I’m told you earned a call sign on the flight over. Lilith.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Well, Lilith, welcome to Third Platoon. You’ll bunk in the female quarters—across the compound. Chow is at 1800. We brief at 2000 for tomorrow’s operation. Be there.” He paused. “And Abrams? I don’t care that you’re Israeli, that you’re a woman, or what you did before you got here. I care about one thing: can you do the job when it matters. We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
He dismissed her with a nod.
Collins walked her out. “Don’t take it personally. Garrett’s hard on everyone. Lost half his squad two rotations ago—IED. He doesn’t trust anyone until they prove themselves in combat.”
“I understand.”
“The rest of the guys will come around too. Just ... give them time.” He pointed toward a building. “That’s your quarters. Get settled. I’ll come find you before chow.”
FEMALE QUARTERS - 1600 HOURS
The room was small—four bunks, lockers, a single window with a view of blast walls. Two of the bunks were occupied by gear, indicating other female soldiers stationed here.
Shira chose an empty bunk and began unpacking methodically. Uniforms in the locker. Personal items minimal—photos of her family, her IDF dog tags (she kept them separate from her U.S. tags), and a small book of Hebrew prayers her mother had given her.
She carefully stowed the CheyTac case under her bunk, locked with a cable. The rifle was worth more than most cars—she wasn’t leaving it unsecured.
As she worked, another soldier entered—a specialist, Hispanic, mid-twenties, with a medic patch on her uniform.
“You the new sniper?” the specialist asked.
“Yes. Shira Abrams.”
“Maria Rodriguez. I’m with the platoon medic section.” She dropped onto her bunk. “You really Israeli?”
“Yes. Immigrated two years ago.”
“Damn. That’s different.” Rodriguez studied her. “You seem young for a sniper.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Still. Most snipers are old guys with like ten years in service.”
“I started training when I was seven.”
Rodriguez blinked. “Seven? Like, seven years old?”
“Yes. My father was Mossad. He trained me.”
“Holy shit.” Rodriguez laughed. “Okay, that explains it. You actually see combat before this?”
“IDF, two years. Lebanese border, mostly.”
“So you’ve done this before.”
“Yes.”
Rodriguez nodded slowly. “Good. Half the guys in the platoon are on their third or fourth rotation. They’ve seen some shit. They’ll respect you more if you’ve been there too.” She stood. “I’m heading to chow early. Want to come?”
“I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Collins.”
“He’ll find you. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people who aren’t assholes.”
Shira grabbed her cover and followed.
DINING FACILITY - 1730 HOURS
The DFAC was crowded—soldiers from multiple units, contractors, support personnel. The food was institutional but decent: chicken, rice, vegetables, bread. Better than MREs.
Rodriguez led her to a table where three other soldiers sat—two men, one woman, all with Ranger tabs and the worn look of combat veterans.
“Guys, this is Abrams. New sniper attachment.”
The woman—a staff sergeant named Palmer—looked up. “You’re the one with the CheyTac?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
“I heard about that thing. Supposed to reach out past a mile.”
“It can.”
One of the men, a sergeant named Kim, snorted. “Reaching that far is easy. Hitting something is different.”
“I’ve hit targets at 2,000 meters,” Shira said evenly.
“On a nice range in Georgia, maybe.”
“And in combat. IDF service.”
Kim studied her. “You actually shoot people, or just targets?”
The question was a test. They wanted to know if she was a warrior or just a skilled technician.
“I’ve killed,” Shira said quietly. “Hezbollah fighters on the Lebanese border. Nineteen confirmed, probably more I didn’t see drop.”
The table went quiet.
Palmer nodded slowly. “Okay then. Welcome to the team.”
The other soldier, a corporal named Hayes, leaned forward. “How’d you end up with Rangers? Most attachments are older guys, senior NCOs.”
“I speak Arabic and Farsi. And I can make shots most snipers can’t. JSOC wanted me here.”
“Arabic and Farsi?” Kim looked impressed despite himself. “That’s actually useful. Half the time we don’t know what the hell the locals are saying.”
“I can help with that.”
Collins appeared at the table. “Abrams, there you are. Garrett wants you at the briefing in thirty minutes.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Collins looked at the others. “You guys coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Palmer said. “Want to see what Lilith can do.”
Shira kept her expression neutral, but internally she noted: word had already spread. Her call sign, her capabilities, her background. The Rangers were a tight community. Information moved fast.
She finished her meal quickly, dumped her tray, and followed Collins back to the platoon area.
BRIEFING ROOM - 2000 HOURS
The room was packed—twenty Rangers from the assault element, plus support personnel. A large satellite image of Mosul dominated one wall, marked with grid coordinates and notations.
Master Sergeant Garrett stood at the front with a lieutenant—the platoon leader, LT Morrison. Young, maybe twenty-five, with the lean intensity of a West Point graduate who’d chosen infantry.
“Listen up,” Garrett barked. The room went silent. “Tomorrow, 0400 hours. We’re hitting a target in the Al-Nour district, eastern Mosul.” He pointed to the map. “Intelligence says we’ve got an ISIS cell commander operating out of this compound. Name’s Abu Khalil, mid-level leadership, responsible for IED networks in the area. He’s killed at least thirty Iraqi soldiers and probably more civilians.”
He clicked to a new image—a walled compound with a central building, surrounded by narrow streets.
“The objective is capture or kill. Preferably capture—we want intelligence. But if he fights, we drop him.” Garrett looked around the room. “We go in fast. Breach the compound, clear the building, secure any personnel and materials, exfil before reinforcements arrive. Time on target: fifteen minutes max.”
LT Morrison took over. “First Squad leads the assault. Second Squad provides security and blocking positions. Vehicles stay two blocks out for quick reaction. Abrams—” he looked at Shira “—you’ll be on overwatch. We need a position with good sight lines to the compound and the surrounding streets. Your job is to protect the assault element and drop any threats before they become a problem.”
“Yes, sir,” Shira said.
Garrett pointed to a building on the map. “This structure, 600 meters northwest of the objective. Four stories, abandoned, good elevation. You’ll insert with the main element, then break off and get into position while we move on the compound.”
He looked at her directly. “This is your first operation with us. I need to know you can do the job. Can you?”
Every eye in the room was on her.
“Yes, Master Sergeant. I can do the job.”
“Good. Any questions?”
She studied the map. “Rules of engagement, Master Sergeant?”
“Anyone with a weapon who threatens U.S. or friendly forces is a hostile. ISIS doesn’t wear uniforms—they blend with civilians. Use your judgment, but if you’re not sure, don’t shoot. We’ve got enough PR problems without killing the wrong people.”
“Understood, Master Sergeant.”
“Anyone else?” Garrett scanned the room. No one spoke. “Outstanding. Get your gear ready. We roll at 0330. Dismissed.”
The Rangers filed out, heading to prepare weapons and equipment. Shira followed Collins to the armory.
“Your first mission with us,” Collins said. “Nervous?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t be. You’ve done this before, just with a different unit.” He handed her a comm radio and earpiece. “You’ll be on the platoon net. Call sign Overwatch. If you see a threat, you call it and drop it. We trust your judgment.”
“Understood, Sergeant.”
“And Abrams?” He met her eyes. “We’ve had snipers before, but never one who could reach 600 meters like it’s nothing. If you’re as good as they say, you’re going to save lives tomorrow. Just do your job.”
“I will, Sergeant.”
She returned to her quarters and began preparing her equipment. The CheyTac came out of its case—she fieldstripped it, cleaned it, inspected every component. Loaded ten magazines with .408 rounds. Checked her rangefinder, ballistics calculator, weather meter.
Her ghillie suit—the one Sarah Chen had helped rebuild—went into her pack along with water, ammunition, medical supplies, and comm equipment.
She laid everything out systematically, the way Simon had taught her. Preparation prevented problems.
At 0200, she gave up trying to sleep and prayed instead. In Hebrew, quietly, asking for clarity and protection. Not for herself—for the Rangers she’d be watching over.
At 0300, she dressed, armed herself, and walked to the staging area.
It was time to prove herself.
STAGING AREA - 0330 HOURS
The Rangers moved with practiced efficiency in the pre-dawn darkness. No talking—just hand signals and the quiet sounds of final equipment checks. Magazines seated. Radios tested. Night vision mounted.
Shira stood beside her assigned vehicle—a Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) truck, heavily armored, designed to survive IED blasts. She wore full combat gear: plate carrier with ceramic plates, helmet, night vision, radio. The CheyTac was slung across her back in a drag bag, along with her pack containing ammunition and equipment.
Collins appeared beside her. “You good?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Vehicle order: First Squad in the lead vehicles, you and me in truck three, Second Squad following. We drop you at your overwatch position, then continue to the objective. You get set up, call when you’re ready, then we hit the compound.”
“Understood.”
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