Blowback

by Al Pessin

  “I’m ready,” Faraz said, and he let them strap him into a vest. It was heavy, weighted with explosives and metal pieces or, he hoped, with only rocks. He was sweating in the cool night air.

  “You are the only coward,” al-Jazar said to Jamal.

  “Commander, I . . . I am not ready,” Jamal said.

  “But you are here. You have been with us for months, far longer than Karim. If you are not ready, maybe you will never be ready.”

  Jamal had no response. He looked at the ground. Al-Jazar signaled the fighters who were holding Jamal, and they forced him to his knees.

  “Please, Commander,” he pleaded.

  Al-Jazar slapped him hard. Jamal fell sideways, and the men pulled him back to his knees. He spat blood. Al-Jazar held his AK against Jamal’s forehead. “We have no time for cowards,” he said.

  Faraz could only watch. Would Jazar kill him as an example? If that’s what he wanted to achieve, doing it at the camp, in front of everyone, would seem to be a better plan. Faraz smelled something. Jamal had peed himself.

  The young man looked down in shame as the urine soaked his trousers. “Please, Commander. I love Allah and His jihad.”

  Al-Jazar flipped his rifle and slammed the butt into Jamal’s face. The young man fell back into the gully by the side of the road, his nose broken and bleeding. He curled into a fetal position. “Please, Commander.”

  “Tie him,” al-Jazar ordered, and two of the men bound Jamal’s hands and feet. “Put him in the vehicle.” The men lifted Jamal into the cargo area of an SUV and slammed the hatch.

  Faraz breathed a sigh of relief. At least they hadn’t killed the guy. Maybe that meant there was hope for him, too, and for Ismail. Or maybe al-Jazar was planning to deal with Jamal back at camp, after Faraz and Ismail had done their suicide bombing.

  Al-Jazar turned to them. “Now,” he said, “you two will do Allah’s work.” He stood in front of Faraz and Ismail, looked into the eyes of each one in turn, and asked, “Are you ready, my brother?”

  “Yes, Commander. I am ready,” they each responded.

  “Good. Now we go.” Each fighter stepped forward in turn to hug the two foreigners and kiss them on both cheeks. Then they formed two lines, with Faraz and Ismail in the middle, and walked toward the town.

  Faraz could see the lights of what he assumed to be the hotel dining room. He heard rock and roll wafting across the desert. Through the windows, he saw people dancing.

  He needed a plan. Taking the vest off could trigger the explosion, but he’d have to take that chance. Faraz would drop the vest and make a run for it. He would shout a warning, if the aid workers could hear it over the music. If worst came to worst, his bomb would be the warning, from well outside the building. He and Ismail would be the only ones to die, or if he was lucky, maybe he could take al-Jazar and some of the others with him.

  But not yet. He had to play this out as long as he could.

  Faraz wiped sweat from his temples. He looked at Ismail walking next to him. The guy was about his age, a couple of inches shorter, with a baby face and a prominent nose. While Faraz worried his own face might show his fear, Ismail was stoic, walking with purpose. He was clearly convinced that this was his destiny.

  Faraz touched the front of his vest. He could feel no button or lever. He hadn’t been given a handle on a wire. Maybe it was a test after all. Or maybe the wire was clipped to the back of the vest, and they would give it to the bombers only at the last minute. Or maybe al-Jazar would detonate the bombs by remote control.

  Faraz’s heart was beating hard. It felt like it had moved up in his chest, making it hard for him to swallow. Adrenaline surged. Tunnel vision took over. His ability to reason was failing. They were getting very close to the hotel. He was near the point of fight or flight.

  At a bend in the road, al-Jazar led them down an embankment into a gully. This was the final farewell. This was where he would find out how the rest of the mission would go.

  The fighters gathered around the foreigners. Al-Jazar stood in front of Faraz and Ismail, stared at each for several seconds as if looking for any sign of weakness. The inspection seemed to last forever. Finally, al-Jazar spoke. “You will not be shahid tonight. We have other plans for you. These vests, they are for practice.”

  Faraz couldn’t help letting out a sigh of relief. He bent at the waist, nearly threw up.

  Ismail stood tall. “I will do it, Commander.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Not tonight, my brother. But you will have your time to fight for Allah, and to be a shahid, if it is His will. Now, you two will stay here.” Al-Jazar cocked his head, and most of the men followed him into the town. Two fighters stayed to guard the foreigners.

  Faraz regained his composure. He had come so close to blowing his cover and getting himself killed. He didn’t think about what would happen next until Ismail said, “Look, there.”

  Faraz turned his attention toward the hotel. He saw the team approach. The fighters sprayed gunfire through the windows into the celebration. The rat-tat-tat sounded particularly severe. He thought he saw several people inside fall. He lowered his head.

  “Do not turn away,” one of the fighters ordered. “It is Allah’s work.”

  Anger rose in Faraz. He wanted to jump the man, beat him to death. But that was not an option. Faraz balled his fists and looked back toward the hotel. The team moved closer, firing directly into the room from two sides. Even from a distance, the gunfire was loud, as were the screams. It was a bloodbath, without the need for suicide bombers.

  Faraz felt sick. Once again, he had participated in a terrorist attack. Once again, he had done nothing to stop it.

  He talked himself down. It would have happened even if he hadn’t been there. Letting it happen was part of his job. If he succeeded, he would stop much wider carnage. But that didn’t make it any easier.

  The fighters broke off their attack and ran back toward Faraz and the others, who joined them in sprinting to the vehicles. They were speeding toward camp only five minutes after the shooting had started.

  Faraz stared out the window, working hard not to appear as upset as he was. The fighters were whooping and congratulating each other. He heard Jamal moaning in the back.

  * * *

  When they came into the camp, there was a festive atmosphere. The fighters spilled out of the vehicles to hug and high-five each other. Faraz and Ismail stood apart, still wearing the vests. Ismail was smiling, having passed the test and witnessed a victory. Faraz should have smiled, too, but he couldn’t.

  Al-Jazar approached them. “We can take these off now,” he said, reaching to unclip Ismail’s vest. “You two did well tonight. We need brave men.”

  “What will happen to Jamal?” Faraz asked.

  Al-Jazar grunted. He shouted something, and one of the fighters got Jamal out of the vehicle. His face was bloody, his nose askew.

  Jamal collapsed at the commander’s feet. When he looked up, Faraz saw the panic in his eyes. “Please, Commander, please,” was all Jamal could say.

  Some of the other foreigners had been roused from sleep and came out to join the celebration. They held back when they saw Jamal.

  Faraz got his vest off and, moving slowly, he put it on the ground. He assumed it didn’t have real explosives in it, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Gather ’round,” al-Jazar said. He waved his hand toward Faraz and Ismail. “These two men did well tonight. They showed their commitment to Allah and His jihad.” There was a round of polite applause.

  Then al-Jazar turned toward Jamal, still cowering on the ground. “But this coward was weak,” the commander shouted, then kicked Jamal in the ribs. “We have no room for cowards.” He threw his arms out and turned in a circle, as if asking whether there were any other cowards in the group.

  Then he turned back toward Jamal and spat. “All of you must be prepared to perform Allah’s will at any time. All of you! At any time! Tonight, we moved against an easy targ
et, infidels from your countries who come here to spread immorality. Soon, we will again move against a much tougher enemy, and you must all be ready. This enemy is a usurper, a man who left us at the mercy of the dictator Assad for decades, and now returns and claims to be our leader. We will not allow it!”

  The Syrian fighters cheered, and a couple of them pointed their weapons into the air, ready to fire in support of what al-Jazar had said. He held up a hand to stop them.

  Al-Jazar continued. “This sand cat will be punished. But he will have another chance. We need all the manpower we can bring to this fight. But I warn you all. Do not fail me. The time for second chances is over. The time for action is here. Rest now. We shall double our training schedule starting tomorrow. No more building and painting. You are all fighters now.”

  * * *

  Alone in his tent, Faraz realized that al-Jazar’s speech was confirmation that the rift among Syrian terrorist groups was deeper than Washington suspected. It also meant al-Jazar was now not so much a rival to al-Souri as an enemy. Al-Jazar would not know al-Souri’s plans. Faraz was in the wrong place to accomplish his mission.

  Damn those idiots for sending him here, risking his life on a wild-goose chase.

  Faraz took deep breaths, as the docs had taught him. He directed his thoughts to something else, anything else.

  He thought about his mother. That was a mistake.

  It was past midnight in Syria, but approaching dinnertime in San Diego. Mohr would be eating alone in the kitchen. Or maybe she was having dinner with her sister, Johnny’s mother.

  That sounded better. He would go with that. They still had each other to lean on, to cry with over their sons.

  Faraz focused on his breathing. He had to keep it together, or al-Jazar would get him killed, and it would all have been for nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The next afternoon in the base gym, Bridget was wishing she could get an update on Faraz. Better yet, that he or someone would deliver the intel they needed so she could get a ticket home. She was feeling the strain of trying to run her new Washington-based task force from Baghdad.

  Meanwhile, the conversations and emails with Will seemed more and more stilted. Bridget could tell he was going stir crazy sitting at home and doing rehab and not much else. She suspected he was drinking too much.

  She blew past four miles on the treadmill and turned up the speed, punishing the machine with her frustration. The gym was almost as big as the workspace and had been the dictator’s diplomatic reception room. The crystal chandeliers were impressive. The faux gold décor was good for a laugh. The room was crowded with people who had few other recreational options.

  As the digital counter turned over to six miles, Bridget slowed to cooldown pace and stepped off, still breathing hard. Her racerback top was soaked through. The tip of her ponytail was wet from the sweat on her back.

  Bridget wiped her face with her towel and headed for the exit, eager for a shower and some chow. She nearly bumped into Carter as he was coming in.

  “Hello, Ms. Davenport,” he said. “You look like you’ve had a good workout.”

  “Hi, Carter. Not my best look, I guess. And I told you, call me Bridget.”

  “I think it’s a fine look,” he said, making Bridget wonder what her sweat-wet T-shirt was showing. “Perhaps we can grab some suppah laytah, once I’ve had a chance to at least trah to match your dedication.”

  Bridget wondered again if that accent could possibly be real. “I don’t know . . .” She started.

  Carter cocked his head to the side. “Aw, come on. Give a Georgia boy a break. It’s only a meal with several thousand chaperones in the D-FAC.” The D-FAC was the dining facility—what they used to call the mess hall.

  Bridget exhaled. “All right. How much time do you need?”

  “Shall we say an houah, if that’s not too long?”

  “Sure. Meet you at the entrance.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Operation Suppah shall commence at . . .” He looked at his watch. “At 1850 at the main buffet.”

  “Operation Suppah?”

  “Too much?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “Apologies. See you in an houah, then?”

  “Sure.” Bridget’s limited enthusiasm for this venture had already dropped several points. But hey, there’s a war on.

  * * *

  Bridget didn’t like loitering outside the D-FAC and being checked out by the hundreds of men streaming in for dinner. It was her own fault. Her obsession with being on time meant she was always early, and this was the downside. As a bonus, she probably looked too eager when Carter came ambling up the path, freshly showered and shaved, wearing pristine khakis and a sand-colored T-shirt that showed off his just-toned biceps.

  “So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “Am I late?”

  “No. Right on time.”

  “As we at Spotlight always strive to be.” He gave her a broad smile.

  Bridget returned a weak one. She didn’t want to encourage him. Mentioning Spotlight was not a good move on his part. Bridget was no fan of security contractors. It was true, they got some things done that needed doing, but they were difficult to control and tended to be arrogant. They didn’t have to kowtow to most of the military and government people they met. The company’s name was exactly what it worked hard to avoid, the spotlight. Perhaps their notorious founder had a sense of irony.

  “Shall we eat?” Bridget suggested, trying for a tone that said “let’s get this over with.”

  Carter seemed to understand. “Absolutely. After you.”

  At the end of the chow line, Bridget grabbed a bottle of water. Carter took a can of nonalcoholic beer from a cooler and showed it to her.

  “It’s sad, but one must make sacrifices for the cause.”

  “You won’t catch me drinking that stuff. I’m holding out for my next glass of Bordeaux.”

  “Not within a thousand clicks of here, I’m afraid.”

  “Now that is sad.”

  Carter laughed, and Bridget regretted making the joke. She didn’t want to appear to be flirting. On the other hand, she was stuck with him for half an hour or so. Might as well make the best of it.

  They found seats in the annex tent, and Carter scanned the crowd. Bridget couldn’t tell whether he didn’t want to see any of his colleagues, or whether he did want to see them, or whether scanning his surroundings was an occupational tic.

  The pepper steak in sauce with rice and mixed vegetables was not at the level of the chicken Kiev, but it was pretty good. Carter asked about her background, and was duly impressed with her West Point degree, combat zone tours, and PhD.

  “So, tell me about Carter Holloway,” Bridget said.

  “Oh, the usual. Country boy makes good, joins the marines, gets out before they kill him, G.I. Bill to UGA, degree in law enforcement, gainful employment. But the petty crimes of Effingham County, which saw fit to hire me as a civilian investigator, simply could not hold my interest. Certainly not compared to all this.” He swept his hand over the room.

  “Effingham County?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Accent on the ‘Effing.’ ” He stopped himself. “Sorry.” Bridget gave him a “don’t be silly” look. “Effingham County is on the Alabama border, about as far from my home as you can get without crossing state lines. But it was no improvement. Let’s just say, when Spotlight came a-callin’, Baghdad sounded like an upgrade.”

  Bridget couldn’t help laughing at that. “Hard to imagine, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  Some men came by carrying trays of food.

  “Good evening, sir,” said a short, stocky man with brown skin, black hair, and a bushy moustache.

  “Hi, guys,” Carter replied.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” the man said.

  “Bridget, this is Ben Castillo, my number two. Good man, even though he’s from New York. And these guys are . . . irrelevant, actually.”

 
; That got a round of grumbling.

  “Gentlemen, this is Ms. Davenport.”

  “Well, ma’am, it’s very nice to meet you,” Castillo said. “But I recommend you watch out for this guy.”

  “I have already been warned,” Bridget said, getting a laugh from the men.

  “Don’t you men have something else to do?” Carter asked. “If not, I’m sure I can find something.”

  “Not necessary, sir,” Castillo said. “You two have a nice evening.” He smiled at Bridget and led the men to a table on the other side of the room.

  “Those are your guys?” Bridget asked.

  “Part of the team. Good men.”

  “Yeah, they seem okay.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Bridget smiled. She was surprised. So far, the Spotlight guys she had met did not live down to their reputation.

  For the rest of dinner, the conversation flowed more easily than Bridget had expected. Robin was right—Carter was far from the worst of the men Bridget had met in war zones. He had a surprisingly philosophical view of war, especially this one. He was amusing, unfailingly polite, and not bad looking, for a jarhead. And he had gray eyes that grew crow’s-feet when he smiled. Bridget was surprised she hadn’t noticed that before.

  * * *

  Carter offered to walk Bridget back to her trailer.

  “Oh, thanks, but no. I think I can find it. See you around, Carter.”

  “I’m glad I ran into you. I hope we’ll do this again soon.”

  “Sure.” Bridget turned for her trailer and stopped suppressing a smile. That had been remarkably pleasant. Just to have dinner with a man, a bit of banter, some laughs. It was just dinner, but it was amazing how big a difference “just dinner” could make to one’s outlook.

  Bridget diverted to the office to check the secure email. She ended up working for over two hours. When she leaned back to stretch, she noticed that even pushing ten p.m., the room was half full. She decided to call it a night.

  A notification popped up on her personal account—a message from Will. “Miss you. Have time to talk?”