The final chapter of Nimrod Rising describes the most horrific battle for the heart of the Middle East and for the destruction of mankind that you may ever read in a fictional novel. Saddam, an only relatively powerful man had already set the Middle East ablaze before his ultimate death at the hands of those he had previously terrorized. Imagine a world leader who possesses all the power of hell taking the reigns of authority and marching the whole world towards oblivion. Therefore, the actions in the Middle East take a primary place in the events that will lead up to the final battle that will change the world forever.

Read part Two of my expose on Saddam's Iraq and get a feel for a novel that will explain why we are seeing the scourge of Terrorism in the world today. It's as real as it gets!

Part 2 - Nimrod Rising Author Steven Clark Bradley - On the Road to Iraq

It was about 3:15 PM when I boarded a minibus for the boarder town of Harbour. The trip was astounding. The periodic police stops and the road that ran along the Syrian border created a tense situation as outposts were set up from both sides about every 100 yards. It was easy to see guns trained on each side. It was dark when I arrived in the boarder town so I took a taxi all the way to the US military encampment. The officers were not ecstatic about my presence, but they gave me a smoldering place to sleep in the radio room. The next morning would be one to remember.

Early in the morning I met with the director of the UN in the town. He informed me that if I entered the country of Iraq and was captured, I would be responsible for myself. That was not delightful to hear, but I had already known that. The bus dropped me in front of a checkpoint. Out in front of me was a long bridge. The other side of that bridge was the land of Saddam, which had only recently been pummeled to bits by Coalition forces. There were not even any Iraqi government authorities at the checkpoint and everyone was coming and going at will. I walked up to the bridge and began to walk across. When I arrived to the center of the bridge, a sign was posted that indicated that one or two more steps would plant my feet in the country of Iraq. I did pause momentarily, but nothing could stop this event whose time had come for me. I walked on and felt the weight of entering a land like this one. I had previously visited 32 other countries. This one was by far the most intriguing. I had made a promise to Hassan, and I intended to let his family know that he was alive and well.

When I reached the checkpoint on the Iraqi side of the bridge, this time I could see many security officers, but with the appearance of something out of the Arabian Knights. These guards were called the Pesh Merga. They wore large turbans, patchwork gowns and strapped across each shoulder was either an automatic riffle, rocket launcher or bazooka, not to mention knives and swords at their sides and the bullet belts strapped on their chests. I was of the impression that security was to put your mind at ease. To say the least, it did not. I walked up to one of them and handed him a letter that I had received from my Kurdish friends at the Besh Yildiz Hotel in Ankara, Turkey. He read it and then called over two more officers. One of them motioned to me to come over. He took me by the arm and placed me in a taxi. I was on my way; to where, I had no idea.

The trip was definitely not one for the faint of heart. The roads were rough and the trip was one that made me wonder where I was going from under the blanket placed over my body in the back seat of the taxi. At first, I thought that I was being hidden from danger but I quickly understood that I was not to know where I was going which ended up being the headquarters of the Kurdish resistance. I recall feeling the taxi stop and being asked to get out of the car. I looked up and saw the rugged mountains all around me and in the distance and also close up I could see the battered shells of Saddam’s military outposts almost every 200 yards. It was easy to see how his brute-force tactics had kept the very independent and rugged Kurds in check. Soon another car came and took me just outside the city of Zeweita.

I was led into a large room where several elderly imam types were seated on the beautiful hand-woven carpets on the floor and reclining against the soiled and drearily painted white-washed walls. I sat down as they were and they all nodded their heads in a welcome gesture. I sat there waiting for something to happen or for someone to arrive. After about 20 minutes of deafening silence, a man came in. He was in a military uniform and looked worn and ready and tough. He walked over to me and I stood to greet him and to hand him the letter I had from my Kurdish friends back in Ankara. He read it and then asked me to sit back down. As I did, he joined me. He pulled out a gun from his left side and one from his right. He laid one next to me and placed the other at his side. I surmised that this was a gesture to symbolize that he trusted me. Then a woman carried in a large round dish and placed it in front of us. It was full of rice, dolma, (various stuffed vegetables) and two spoons.

We ate and as we did the wise soldier, Mr. Yasmadine Yusef told me about the history of Saddam towards his people and how they had been so disappointed that America had not finished the job. He was nevertheless grateful because the Kurds had found a unity that they had never possessed before. He said that the Kurdish people would never let Saddam take them by force again and so he was right. I was very impressed with the people and their commitment of making the Kurdish people’s lives much better. Nothing can describe what one feels when you see such an oil-rich land as Iraq is and yet living is such dire poverty because of the greedy, evil and vicious desires of a tyrant such as Saddam. There was no doubt that the intensions of this evil dictator had been to rule the Middle-East. I will never forget the emotions and feelings that were engendered by meeting this fearless man and his troops. I will never feel that such a people should be left to fend for themselves when the civilized world has the power to set them free, and so we should have. That had to be left for another time.

After leaving this place that was so representative to my imagination of what the Wild-Wild West must have been. I knew that I would never again simply take my freedom for granted. I knew that I would never again view the freedom we hold dear as one to be simply coddled, but defended at all cost. I asked the driver to find the address of my friend Hassan’s parents.

After we managed to find the house I walked up to the door and banged on the metal and it clanged loudly. A middle-aged man stuck his head out then a woman and then several young faces. I was startled and yet so very excited, for I brought good tidings of great joy for them. I tried to explain though I clearly could not. Then I held up a photo for them and the woman snatched from my hands and exclaimed, “Hassan! Hassan!”

The man said in broken English, “You know our Hassan?” I shook my head in the affirmative. I gave them the money and the letters and Hassan’s mother grabbed me and began to hug me and kissed my cheeks in great joy and unbelief. Through translation, I was told that they had given up hoping he was yet a live and after two hours and a great meal, I left them with a new reason to live. I will never experience anything as exhilarating and powerful again. The joy of families knowing their kids have a life that is worth living and that there is a future for them better than the life they had experienced is worth helping them to live with out fear, domination and death all around them.

So, America, today as we battle the forces of evil in a land so far away, do not believe the voices of decent who scream loudly in support of killing babies and marrying same-sex couples but decry America’s noble causes of ridding America of the threat of a terrorist regime like Saddam’s. Remember all the Hassans who long to spread their wings and cry out with their voices in the same way we do; with the voice of freedom.

Steven Clark Bradley

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