The Mark of the Rebel

by B K Thomas

  A look of pain spread across Sahila’s face. “You don’t know the pain like I do, and I don’t want our family to suffer more because of us.”

  Yaqeena is determined to win over her sister. “But you have the chance to speak out about it and maybe even put an end to it. If nothing else, isn’t that worth it? Is that worth fighting for?” She let the words hang. She knows it is all true and her sister will agree but she also knows her sister will have to realize it for herself. Yaqeena takes her phone back and starts to skim the messages.

  Sahila sits down and puts her hand to her head. Every day is full of stress and pain. Now it is compounded with the fear of drawing other people she loves into this cat and mouse game they have started. She looks at Yaqeena buried in the phone and is sad. Her sister’s youth allows for zeal that transcends the concerns of the moment. The blindness of youth eclipses the reality of pain and danger lurking all around them. The cost is very real now and she is unsure of how to keep death and destruction from enveloping her family.

  “Sahila!” Yaqeena exclaims. A gasp escapes and her hand goes to her mouth. She reaches the phone over to her sister again. “You must read this!”

  Sahila sighs and takes the phone back. She looks at the screen and is drawn in by the words the further she reads.

  “Your voice is strong. Use it. Use it for us. We have been murdered, raped, beaten and have lost our friends and family. I was captured and had things done to me that should never happen to a woman. They stole the light from my eyes. I am no longer a woman men will want. I hardly want myself. When I hear you speak my heart jumps! You are right! You must tell the world. The world will listen to you. I do, I am waiting for your next message. Help us!”

  Sahila’s mind is swirling. She feels sick to her stomach. She didn’t expect this; she is being pulled in a direction against her will. She had just spoken out in anger and grief but now she can see clearly the moment is building into something bigger than she could have imagined. Yaqeena scrolls through the messages on the phone and tells her there are many more women pleading with her to help them. They speak of friends that have been abused at the hands of the rebels or the government forces. They speak of their daughters, sisters, and mothers being kidnapped, tortured, abused and killed. They speak of their brothers, fathers, and friends that had disappeared, never to be seen again.

  The argument for action is strong. Their plea is too much for her to ignore. Their hearts speak to hers and they win Sahila over. She has to stand up somehow and if only through these video protests, she will do it. Tears flow down her cheeks. She is overwhelmed by their faith in her voice. She is convinced anyone who says the things she says will receive a similar response, but she knows something is happening beyond her. The enormous number of followers she has accumulated is evidence for her. She is worried about her parents. Her mind is racing. She knows the government is no better than the rebels and both will kidnap and kill to silence the opposition. She has to be careful about her videos. They have to try to protect each other and their families.

  Sahila stands up and lets out a deep breath. “Ok sister. We will do this all the way to the end. We have to be careful. We cannot shoot videos anywhere near our home. We must choose places that do not give away our location. We need to make our spots random, so no one can find us.” She declares with purpose as Yaqeena pauses to listen to her sister’s demands.

  Yaqeena nods in agreement, “Yes, you are right. We must be smart about it. I think I was carried away with the responses and the idea of it all at first. I didn’t really think of those things.” She throws a hand up and nods. “You’re right. We must find ways to be careful with all of this.”

  Sahila does not need to be careful about what she says. She will speak the truth and let those who hear her deal with it. She has been silent too long. It has taken a tragedy to make her take a stand in the fight but now she will be the voice people are seeking. There is a need, she is going to be part of the solution.

  “Sister! I have some messages asking about donating money to help you spread your message.” Yaqeena is excitedly reading and her lips are mouthing the words as she reads with a big smile on her face. “There are a number of ways to do this. We can use your message account to receive money or there are some apps people are telling us we can use. We need to set these things up!” She relays enthusiastically.

  “I just said we have to be careful! What are you even talking about? Do strangers want to give us money? Why? What for?” Sahila demands in disbelief.

  “Like the message you read. People are drawn to you, your story, your voice. They want to help. They can see something in you. They want to help, and we should let them. It will make it possible for us to survive. Thousands of people want to help.” Yaqeena assures her.

  “This is all moving too fast. I need to think about it. How do we stay safe if there is money coming from people everywhere? The government will know. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Sahila’s face reveals the fear that lay beneath the courage.

  “I know. I know. We need to be careful. I will see what I can find out.” She pauses and adds, “maybe we can get enough to leave.”

  Chapter 12

  ASG, Jordan

  The Sergeant is scouring information to see if he can find anything new when a ding on his computer notifies him of a new email. He moves his mouse over to open his mailbox. The subject line reads, “Iraqi General kidnapped”. He reads the email and his wheels are spinning.

  “Hey Major,” the Sergeant calls out with a slightly higher pitch than normal. The Major knows something good is coming, it always did when the Sergeant got that tone in his voice. When the Sergeant sees the Major turn toward him, he continues, “the Israelis just confirmed the story on the Iraqi general. He was kidnapped yesterday.”

  “Anything else?” The Major asks hopefully.

  “No sir, that’s about it. They say they are busy working on it, but not much more, Sir.” The Sergeant states.

  A look of disappointment settles on the Major. He had hoped there was more information. He knows the Israelis probably don’t know any more than he does but he hoped they would have a little something extra. For all he knows, their source could have been the same as his, but he is always looking for the extra nugget. “Ok, I’ll read it in a minute.” The Major responds without much enthusiasm.

  The Sergeant smiles. He knows the Major wants more details than what they received but they both know the Israelis don’t give them everything. It is part of the game they all play with each other. They both know the Israelis don’t give away anything they are working on while it is still fresh. Not too early anyway. They aren’t very forthcoming when the action is close to home unless they need something. Even then, they still might not hand over all the details. He looks back at his monitor. He knows the Iraqis will be looking for the guy, but he probably has better odds of getting a date with Gal Gadot than the Iraqi intelligence apparatus has locating him. He smiles at the thought; a guy can hope.

  The Major reads the email. He shakes his head slowly. Generic, nothing there aside from the barebones. They can at least make it worth reading. He stares at the screen while the cursor keeps blinking at him. He lets out a sigh, pushes himself away from the desk and turns from the monitor. He thinks of when he was a Lieutenant during the hunt for Saddam. They had informants everywhere. Uncle Sam was passing out cash like candy and people were talking. Of course, Saddam did have a lot of look-a-likes and the loyalists were willing to help spread disinformation to muddy the water. The easy money for leads didn’t make the task a slam dunk. The mass volume of misinformation and the urgency from the top to find Saddam didn’t allow for good vetting of the sources. They really were chasing a ghost. At first, he was everywhere and nowhere. The longer the hunt lasted, the better they were at vetting the information. They compiled a large cache of data and kept track of the sources, so they were able to gain traction as the hunt progressed. He knows the information people on the ground ca
n provide is critical. This time he doesn’t have the network, the money or the time to make it work. The clock is already ticking on this one. He shakes his head and announces to no one in particular, “We’re not going to win the war on terror with this level of intel.”

  ***

  Mossad, Tel Aviv, Israel

  It has been a long, uneventful, twenty-four hours for Captain Ben Haim. His sleep is restless when he has a new project and this one is the perfect one to keep his mind running late at night. He came into work this morning with a slight headache. He has become accustomed to whiskey, but his body still complains once in a while. He fell for the sweet taste years ago when he visited the United States on a training deployment. It was his first realization there are great experiences to be has everywhere across the world. He had the time of his life at Ft. Bragg where he learned about American Whiskey and its friend Caribbean Rum. That history led to a slight headache this morning. A smile spreads across his face as he remembers last night. Can’t always be superman. He smiles at the thought. He loves the Americans and their love for heroes. He wants to be one but never learned how to fly. He smiles as he walks into the office.

  Captain Ben Haim is informed, the General has crossed into Syria. The group has multiple vehicles. They passed the border near Al Bukamal. There are three travel routes from the checkpoint. One route leads North to Raqqah, then Aleppo, another leads to Homs and the third leads to Damascus. The odds are against any other routes across the roughly untamed desert. These guys have friends everywhere. Aside from their own sympathizers, the splintering of the resistance movement in Syria led to alliances between groups that normally would not work with each other. The new environment has groups cooperating that have nothing in common except they want to expel Assad and his government. They are willing to decide the new government after the existing one is taken out of the picture. The majority of rebel groups have agreed to a tentative peace among them. It will do more to help rid them of Assad than the continual infighting. With Russia supporting Assad things have become more challenging and the groups need each other. Captain Ben Haim reads the transcript carefully. He knows for the moment they have three vehicles. He needs eyes on the group before he loses track of them.

  “Sergeant”, he calls out.

  “Yes, sir” the Sergeant answers.

  “We need to task a drone to get eyes on this group. I want to know where they are headed and any options, based on the routes.” The Captain relays.

  “Yes sir, I’m on it.” The Sergeant turns and picks up the phone.

  Captain Ben Haim looks back at the map. There is one split at Al Bukamal. One road leads directly to Raqqa the other road splits again and leads to Homs or Damascus. He has a fifty-fifty chance, but his gut tells him they are heading straight to the King’s den. They are headed to Damascus and they are in a hurry to get there. They have the man that is going to show them where the weapons are, and they aren’t going to waste time as long as they are confident. They are ahead of their enemies. These men are bloodthirsty and ruthless, but he knows their leaders are smart. They are on a path to victory at whatever the cost. If the cost is high, it is even better for them. The more infidels they can take out along the way greater the reward for them anyway. The infidels are looked upon as a disease upon the earth and they are more than happy to get rid of them. He will get the drone in the air to find them and take them out. He can’t risk them making it to their destination. The cost will be too high.

  “Sir, the drone will be on target in forty-five minutes.” The Sergeant informs him.

  “Thank you, Sergeant, keep me posted on the progress. I’m going to take a walk.” The Captain glances back up at the map then heads outside. The sun is blinding as he walks out of the office. He squints in the bright light and tilts his face away as he thought over the routes. He walks across the complex to get the blood flowing and clear his head. He knows the odds of being able to grab any of these guys are slim to none. The stakes are too high to risk a misstep. He has to take the General out and whoever is handling him. He has been hoping they would be able to grab one of them and pry some intel from them, but the reality is things are just too dicey on the ground. He already has the approval to move forward at his discretion based upon the extreme nature of the situation. He fantasized about being the hero and leading the charge to get the bad guy. But he has been a soldier long enough to know the reality is much messier and the chance of something going sideways is massive. The situation in Syria is, as his American friends like to say, a cluster. Most of the guys involved probably won’t be useful in sorting the mess out and it’d probably be better just to eliminate them. These aren’t the type of guys to become good peace-loving citizens.

  There is other activity his people are tracking in the area, but he has tunnel vision trying to figure out what the General’s whereabouts and what to do about him. He is comfortable with the decision to eliminate the group so he can get them out of his mind.

  The bad guys are always trying to get weapons with more kick. When they are able to take over outposts and cities, they take everything they can get their hands on, especially sophisticated weapons and equipment. Equipment the left behind or handed over by various groups the clueless Americans have trained by their CIA. The Americans are suffering from tunnel vision of their own. They are putting weapons back in their enemy’s hands as they have in Afghanistan only to pay for it again later. All they can see is getting rid of Assad, whatever the price. He isn’t willing to accept their demands or surrender. Captain Ben Haim has seen enough of their work in the Mideast with all the death and destruction that has come about from their interventions. Assad is no good, but the replacement, or no one in charge at all only to leave a vacuum, could be even a worse nightmare. The devil you know is sometimes better than one that you don’t. It wasn’t long ago when a penniless, rejected artist takes over a nation and did everything he can to exterminate Ben Haim’s people. There is no doubt, they will take out that convoy, the sooner the better.

  ***

  ASG, Jordan

  “Do we have anything new?” Major Westbrook asks hopefully.

  “No sir, nothing.” The Sergeant answers.

  “That’s it.” He shakes his head. “Find out what the Israelis are up to.” Major Westbrook demanded. “Call your friend at the CIA. I’m blind here and there’s a good chance ISIS is chasing the WMD ghost. I don’t want to be the guy who knew about it but did nothing if they get lucky and find something big and deadly.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Sergeant turns to his computer and begins hammering away at some emails. He reaches out to the intelligence units in Iraq, Syria, and Israel. He calls his friend in the CIA but that is empty as well. If anyone knows what is going on, they aren’t talking about it.

  He stands up and stretches. The waiting is the hardest part. He grabs his coffee mug and walks over to the pot and pours himself a cup. He leaves it black. That’s how he likes it now. The Major’s coffee habit has rubbed off on him. He has developed a refined palette and is drinking more than a cup a day. He doesn’t need a bunch of sugar and milk to make it tolerable. He enjoys the bite of pure black coffee. The bitterness reminds him ever so slightly of the stout beer that he enjoys back home. He is a fan of the Russian stout, but the plethora of new beers and brewers back home are expanding his options. He smells the aroma of the cup he has pours. It gives him a faint reminder of the beer he enjoys so much at home. He lets out a sigh. It will be a while before he has a good stout. He turns and looks back across the room. He can see the Major huddled over his computer. Sergeant Jackson reviews the data in his mind. He can’t find any gaps and decides it is time to call his friend in the CIA again.

  “Hey Tim”, Sergeant Jackson greets him. “Yeah, we’re kind of blind here. We have some assets looking but haven’t really found anything. You hear anything at your end?”

  “Well, yes and no.” Tim pauses to collect his thoughts. “It looks like the Israeli’s are busy in the ki
tchen. I think you should give them a call.” Tim directs.

  “Roger that Tim. You keep up the good work. I owe you, buddy.” Jackson acknowledges with a smile.

  “Yeah, you can send me a nice bottle of Scotch when you get off this call and tell that Major of yours, he should pay for it,” Tim tells him with a laugh as they get off the call.

  Sergeant Jackson knows he is serious and jumps over to a web site to get a bottle delivered to his friend before he forgets. He orders two bottles of Scotch and put a note on the order. “Remember to toast the guys in the sandbox!”

  “Hey Sir, we have a lead. My CIA contact says we need to reach out to the Israelis, and you owe me because I sent him a really nice bottle of Scotch for you.” Sergeant Jackson says with a smile.

  Major Jackson whistles and walks over to Sergeant Jackson pulling his wallet out of his pocket, “Can’t you just send him a six-pack? That seems a bit steep.”

  “Well sir, he’s been helping us on a few operations now, so I thought it was time to make the deal sweet for him to keep the information flowing.” Sergeant Jackson reasons.

  “Okay Sergeant” the Major smiles. “So how much do I owe you?”

  “Well, I figured while I was at it, I should order one for us too.” Jackson updates him with a sly grin.

  “You better be glad my stock is doing so well, or I’d be looking for you to chip in too.” The Major chides. “Okay, so a couple of hundred?” Major Westbrook asks while digging into his wallet.

  “Close sir, let’s make it one fifty and we’re good.” Jackson smiles.

  “I don’t have it all so here’s a hundred.” Major Westbrook drops a hundred-dollar bill on the desk. “I’ll get you the rest later but don’t drink it without me. We’ll have something special to toast with that bottle when we’re done with this one, I bet.”