by Clay Martin
“Willie, that’s you and me then to string a rope between the med shed, the chow hall, and our TOC.” The TOC was our Tactical Operations Center, at least in theory. Old habits die hard, the word TOC would indicate we were doing anything tactical. Mostly it was a glorified radio room, with some maps on the wall, and some sofas. We tried to stay by the radio as often as we could, but it wasn’t like being in the real Army. It wasn’t a requirement that we man it 24 hours a day. Still, being close to it let us keep an ear to the ground, and by default, it became our usual hang out spot. The ropes were the only way of ensuring we could travel between the three in the sand storm. A hand on the rope, or better yet a carabiner on your belt snapped into it, would keep you from getting lost. A bad enough storm, it was entirely possible to wander around your own tiny compound until you died. “Did I miss anything?”
Willie chimed in, “Worst haboob I have ever seen lasted four days, best we prepare for slightly longer. Let’s drag some bunks into the chow hall, we can sleep there. Hooches will turn into easy bake ovens without the power anyway.”
That was a valid point. Our living quarters were CHU rooms, or containerized housing units. Often called the tactical trailer park, the CHU was ubiquitous across Iraq. It looked exactly like a tin shoebox, usually five feet wide by twelve feet long. The door and window were on the short side, and they were bolted together to make blocks of any length you liked. It was said they could also be double stacked tall, though I had never seen that. Leave it to the DOD to send American’s to war in micro sized camping trailers. The CHU was great for quick housing solutions, and offered a level of privacy unseen in any other war at any time. But the sheet metal walls wouldn’t stop a Red Ryder BB gun, and they became stifling sweat boxes the second the air conditioning went out. The TOC or ops cen was a plywood building with a 10 foot roof, it would be a lot more comfortable.
Just then, Frank burst in the door, dragging a large plastic box, backpacks on his front and back.
“Jesus, Frank, not really the time for a garage sale” I said to him with a smirk.
“I’m not spending a potentially multi-day haboob holding hands with a dying man in a roaster pan. My med shed is too small to circulate air with the door sealed. Besides, if he is contagious, Paul and his crew already have it too. Unless you plan to quarantine them, we might as well all be in here. Maybe one of you knuckle dragging idiots can play nursemaid too, learn something for your trouble.” Medics are notorious for telling you how they deserve more pay than everyone else, usually about the time they are patching up your stupidity. And when you have pieces of you on the outside of your skin that should never see daylight, you tend to agree with them. There is a time to tell your medics how the cow ate the cabbage, but this didn’t look like one of them.
“Alright, Princess, you can have a sleep over. Anything else from your shed?” Even when they are making sense, a smart leader takes shots at his medics on principle. Just to keep them on their toes.
“Yep. My table and IV stands. Best not to do this on the floor like savages if we don’t have to.”
I walked into that one. The patient table was heavy, I had already helped Frank re-arrange his shop once. Me and my stupid mouth. “That’s not what your mom said,” I quipped as I ducked out the door, barely dodging a roll of gauze.
Not long after Willie and I finished Frank’s move, in rolled a tinted windowed Suburban. On my orders, men on the gate didn’t even stop them. Paul and his associate Jim popped out of the front, moving to the driver’s side rear to help the last of the team out of the truck. Paul’s Ranger was a giant named Alan, easily six foot five and two eighty. We just called him Ranger as a matter of course, since he was the only one around. His relative youth implied that he also had limited service time, no way the kid was over twenty-five when most of us were past forty. How he ended up with Paul’s crew, I had no idea. Rangers are not known as the smartest guys around, in fact mostly they are known for hitting things with a hammer exceedingly well. Ranger smash! Compounded with this one’s immense size, I had no idea what he was doing out here in the employee of the agency. Maybe they used him to squish the skulls of the guys that wouldn’t talk. Whatever he was for, today Ranger Alan was a mess. Paul and Jim looked like kids trying to support him as they pulled him out of the Suburban, and I was thankful they were able to get his legs under him. This wouldn’t have been a fun stretcher carry, even the 30 feet into the TOC.
At Frank’s direction, the four of us got him maneuvered onto the table. It was also made for a normal sized man, so his legs hung off the end. Frank went to work with his tools, checking his temperature and heart rate while quizzing Paul. Ranger Alan was pale and sweating buckets, way too delirious to answer any questions of his own. Paul was clearly not accustomed to being asked about his whereabouts anymore, and had to focus to keep from being evasive. Willie and I went outside, hoping to make Paul a little more comfortable about the OPSEC. A few minutes later, he joined us.
“Thanks for giving us some shelter from the storm. I owe you one. You guys need any help?” he asked.
Willie and I were taping the door seals on our trucks. Save us some detailing work later.” The rest of the 240s still need to come off of these turrets, so you can start with that. Then I recommend you guys grab some lickies and chewies from the chow hall for tonight. We have mostly dark booze, so grab your mixers accordingly.”
Without a word, Paul set to pulling the machine guns free of their mounts. I always liked working with other team guys. They asked what needed to be done, and then did it.
Less than an hour later, all of our collective jobs were finished. I had just finished checking the last of the guard towers, and met the rest of the guys in front of the TOC. Everyone was enjoying some last moments of being outside, in spite of the heat. Like a switch had been flipped, suddenly the light got dimmer. On the horizon, like a tidal wave of dust, the lead edge of the haboob came into view. Two thousand feet high, a solid wall of flying sand. Above that, lighting flashed in dark clouds. You could actually watch the storm eat up the distance between you and it, one of the strangest parts of a haboob. As it relentlessly crashed towards us, the air picked up speed. First a gentle breeze, then a blowing inferno of superheated air. I always thought a haboob coming on looked like the beginning of the apocalypse. Unfortunately, this time I was right.
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Chapter 1
Tariq stared at the camera. I will do this.
Hot wind swept across the desert, pushing against him, rippling his black cotton shirt and blousy pants. A black scarf encircled his head, exposing only his dark eyes.
Two nine-millimeter automatic pistols hung loosely at his sides, each in a brown leather holster dangling from shoulder straps. A knife in his left hand, he felt invincible.
I was born to jihad. I have known that since I was very young.
Tariq put his right hand on the shaved head of the American journalist who knelt at his feet, a knee against the bound man’s back. The journalist wore orange prison garb, mimicking the men in Guantanamo who Tariq considered his brothers in global jihad.
They stopped me from going to Somalia to join al-Shabaab. They stopped me from marrying the woman of my dreams. They wanted me to betray my Muslim brothers. They will suffer and pay for their arrogance.
Tariq glanced pitifully down at the journalist’s pale skin and scruffy beard, the hands bound behind his back.
The prisoners call us the Beatles because we are British. But, we are not British. We were born on sacred Arab soil, then raised among the infidels. It was not of our choosing. The others say we are not true jihadis. But they lie. I will show them what a true jihadi does. They will tremble in awe.
Tariq lifte
d his eyes to the camera, drew a breath, and began to talk, his voice deep and resolute, muffled by the scarf. “I’m back, President Harris, and I’m back because of your arrogant foreign policy towards the Islamic state.”
Tariq pointed the blade at the camera.
“You continue to bomb our people despite our serious warnings. You, President Harris, have nothing to gain from your actions but the death of another American. Just as your missiles continue to strike our people, our knives will continue to strike the necks of your people. You, President Harris, with your actions, have killed another American citizen.”
Tariq waved his knife.
“This is also a warning to those governments that enter an evil alliance with America against the Islamic State to back off and leave our people alone.”
Bracing his knee against the journalist’s back, he grabbed the man’s chin with his right hand and pulled up, exposing and stretching the throat. Tariq’s stomach knotted. His heart pounded.
Do it! Do it!
With a furious burst, Tariq drew the thick blade across the American’s neck, the blade biting , unleashing a torrent of blood spilling over the man’s chest.
Moments later, Tariq’s hands shook, his body pulsating with the pounding of his heart.
Calm yourself. This is for the glory of Allah.
The eyes of the American were empty, lifeless. He bent over the body to finish the job. He rolled the American’s body onto its back and placed the severed head on the chest. He stood back to inspect his work. He exhaled, the task complete, his hands still shaking.
“How does it look?” Tariq asked the jihadi behind the video camera.
“Excellent,” the jihadi said. “God is great.”
“That will show the American infidels that we are serious,” Tariq said. “God willing, they will all die if they try to defeat us.”
Another jihadi handed Tariq a bucket of water and a rag. “Tariq, you are destined to be the face and the voice of all jihad.”
“In’shallah,” Tariq said. He dipped the knife and his hands into the water and washed, turning the water a deep pink.
Chapter 2
At the fitness club south of Santa Fe, New Mexico, Kyle Dawson hovered, his hands poised just above the wide, chromed bar that held 265 pounds in iron weights. On the bench below him was Raoul Garcia, whose face was taut and red. Raoul lowered the bar to his chest, held it a moment, then groaned as he pushed it back up, fully extending his arms.
Doubting he could hold the bar if Raoul’s arms gave out, Kyle gripped it and guided it to the rack. The bar clunked into place.
Raoul exhaled noisily through puffed cheeks and stared up at Kyle.
“One more? Just one more?” Kyle coaxed, envious of Raoul’s build and bulk.
“Remember,” Raoul said, “you’re next.”
His face beaded with sweat, Raoul sucked in a couple of quick breaths as Kyle helped him ease the bar up and off the rack. Exhaling slowly, Raoul lowered the bar to within an inch of his chest, then struggled to push it back up. His elbows bent, his muscled arms quivering, the bar stopped moving upward.
Kyle grabbed it and strained, providing just enough lift for Raoul to get it back onto the rack. His armed splayed, Raoul panted and growled, “Holy mother of God.” He sat up and massaged his triceps.
“They’ve got a gym up there at Vista Verde, don’t they?” Kyle asked.
“They got every damned thing,” Raoul said. “That’s how we keep the trainees occupied. They’re working out every day, twice a day.”
“Must get boring.”
“It’s a lot of things, but it’s never boring,” Raoul said. “Most days, I feel like a drill sergeant. But it’s a damned paycheck, so I can’t complain.”
“A damned good paycheck, from what I understand,” Kyle said.
“They want me to work overseas again,” Raoul said, his words hanging in the air.
“Let me guess. You told them you’d had enough of Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“I’ve been lucky, Kyle.” Raoul tapped each arm and leg. “I’ve still got my limbs. I know too many guys who don’t. After a while, you wonder how many lives you have left.”
“So, what do they want you to do? Or can’t you talk about it?”
“Green zone security. Baghdad.”
“At least it’s not night raids hunting for hajjis.”
“Been there, done that,” Raoul said with a shake of his head. “I’ve got Miguel and Viviana to think about.” He gazed at Kyle. “But family never stopped you, did it?”
That stung. Kyle swallowed hard, but Raoul was right. He’d spend the past dozen years moving from one war zone to another as a correspondent for the Washington Herald. A year each in Afghanistan and Iraq, mixed with stops in the Congo, Kenya, and Somalia.
But now he was back in Santa Fe where he’d started. His son Brandon was in the Santa Fe Little League and his daughter Erica was a standout on her high school freshman soccer team. He was seeing his kids regularly, no longer the absentee father who occasionally talked to them on Skype from parts unknown.
“How’s Miguel doing, anyway?” Kyle asked.
“He’s finishing his freshman year at UNM,” Raoul said. “Came through with a 2.7 grade average first semester. Not bad, but I know he could do better.”
“The first year is always tough,” Kyle said.
Raoul shook his head. “He’s got a girlfriend, already. I think he spends too much time with her.”
“That can be a good thing,” Kyle said. “Keeps him out of the bars.”
Raoul stood and massaged his shoulders. “She’s Iranian. Drop dead beautiful.”
“What’s her name?”
“Aliyah Muhadi.”
“How did that happen?”
“Like it always does. Boy meets girl.”
Kyle nodded. “Hmmm.”
“Her father’s a scientist,” Raoul continued. “Fled the Ayatollah Khamenei. Now works at Sandia Laboratories in Albuquerque.”
“Probably his reward for telling the CIA all he knows about the Iranian nukes.”
“Probably.”
“Physicist?”
Raoul shrugged.
“Does Miguel have a roommate?” Kyle asked.
Raoul nodded, drying his hands with a small towel. “A kid from the north.”
“The north? As in northern New Mexico?”
“Yeah. Smart kid. Carlito.”
Kyle nodded. “That’s good.”
“Yes and no,” Raoul said.
“What does that mean?”
“The kid’s a Muslim.”
“What? Carlito? A Muslim? Everyone in northern New Mexico is Roman Catholic. Santuario de Chimayo and all that. Easter pilgrimage. People walking all the way up there from Albuquerque.”
“I know,” Raoul said. “The way Miguel explains it, Carlito hooked up with some people at a mosque over there in Abiquiu.”
“There’s a Benedictine monastery in the north. Christ in the Desert, it called. So, what’s with the mosque?”
“That’s all I know Kyle.”
Kyle stared across the weight and workout room and out through the windows, remembering his first big story in northern New Mexico. He’d worked for the Santa Fe daily newspaper back then. It seemed like ages ago. “I knew a kid named Carlito from the north,” Kyle said slowly. “I wonder if it’s the same one. His father was shot and killed by the state police. I was there. The kid saw the whole thing.”
“Shot and killed?” Raoul asked. “What the hell was going on?”
His mind swimming in a sea of memories, Kyle shook his head and focused on Raoul. “It was a land grant protest. It got real ugly.”
“I guess so.” Raoul pointed to the bench. “Your turn, buddy.”
Kyle drew a deep breath, then
glanced at one of several flat-screen televisions hanging on the wall. He lifted a hand. “Hold on.”
The face of CNN’s Anderson Cooper, cropped white hair and black rimmed glasses, filled the screen. “CNN has just learned that the Islamic state has released a video depicting the beheading of what appears to be American photo journalist Nathan Kennard,” Cooper said. A grab shot of a man wearing an orange prison jump suit filled the screen. The man was on his knees, his arms tied behind his back, in front of a figure clad in black.
“The executioner in the video,” Cooper continued, “who intelligence officials are calling Jihadi John, says that the killing of the journalist is in retaliation for US air strikes against Muslim extremists of the Islamic state, a territory carved out of portions of Syria and Iraq.”
Cooper’s face was replaced by another slightly blurred shot of the black-clad executioner pointing his knife at the camera, his voice barely audible in the blowing wind. “Intelligence officials in the UK and the US are analyzing the voice on the video in hopes of positively identifying the killer.”
Kyle stared, his mouth agape, his stomach knotted. “That’s Nate,” he groaned, clenching his jaw as he stared at Raoul. “We worked together in Afghanistan.”
His arms folded across his chest, Raoul shook his head in disgust. “Fuckin’ animals.”
“Nate went to Syria because no one was buying photos about the war in Afghanistan anymore,” Kyle said.
“He jumped from the frying pan into the fire,” Raoul said.
“They killed him, Raoul!” Kyle said, his throat tight, his voice rising. “They cut his head off!” He looked at Raoul with wide, angry eyes. His mind roiling, Kyle shook his head slowly, and still clenching his jaw, settled onto the bench. “Take a couple fifties off the bar,” Kyle said. “I can’t lift like you.” As Raoul removed some of the plates, Kyle stared at the overhead lighting, his head filled with images of Nate’s moments before his death. Kyle shook his arms to warm them.