by Jack Strain
He continued to follow the path that he had walked several times a week for the past three months until he saw the familiar shattered remains of an old government warehouse that had been destroyed early in the civil war. At first, he had felt a great deal of pride providing his sweet treats to the man who had risen to such fame fighting the Russians and calling for unity of the Muslim world. Now, he felt nothing but shame for allowing Rahimi and his fighters a single morsel of his delicacies.
He followed a path that was strewn with rusted rebar and shattered wooden beams along with sheets of rusted metal roofing material. Khaled knew that mines were laid at various entrance points. After a month, Rahimi’s men had finally shown him the approach so that he could deliver his warm baked goods first thing in the morning. Khaled followed the haphazard path very deliberately not wanting to fail now. He took his steps very slowly looking for solid colored markers on pieces of rebar to guide him. Every step closer seemed to make his pulse race faster, and his body began to tingle as his nerves felt like live wires sending pulsing sensations throughout his already taunt body.
This is madness. I told the Americans exactly where he was, but that wasn’t good enough for them.
Stopping for a moment to adjust the two boxes in his strong hands, Khaled took a deep breath and prayed.
Please, Allah, give me strength.
Finally, he reached a thick metallic hatch and looked up to an overhanging metal frame that held a camera. Moments later, it opened with a resounding clang. Rahimi’s personal bodyguard, a man known simply as Arshad and whose face never ceased to shock him with its disfigurement, climbed up the ladder that led to the underground bunker buried two stories below. Though Arshad normally wore a fearsome scowl, Khaled watched as his face immediately beamed when the smell of fresh baked goods hit him.
He offered a warm greeting, “As-salāmu ʿalaykum Khaled, come…come, we were hoping that today you would bring your little treasures.”
Khaled tried desperately not to allow his face to betray his emotions. He struggled for a moment, almost frozen with fear, but weakly smiled back and said, “As-salāmu ʿalaykum, my brother. I knew that I must come this morning to honor your sacrifices. My wife begged me to make something special for brother Rahimi. I would be honored to deliver it to him in person.”
The fierce bearded warrior who jealously guarded Rahimi was immediately on guard for treachery and said, “Khaled, the commander is very busy. Today is not a good time. The fighting grows more fearsome, and the commander needs to remain focused.”
Before Khaled realized it, tears sprung from his eyes and that is when Rahimi’s trusted bodyguard noticed the baker was draped in black from head to toe and then it hit him, “My brother, what happened? Who have you lost?”
Shocked at his tearful outburst, Khaled said with a voice filled with sadness, “My little girl, Haya, was killed by the Americans yesterday. My wife is heartbroken, but my soul cries for vengeance.”
With two powerful callused hands, the Muslim warrior stood close to Khaled grasping him close as a brother and spoke in a surprisingly soft voice, “Take heart, my brother, for surely your little girl is being held in Allah’s loving embrace.”
Taking a hesitant step backward, Khaled wiped some wetness from his face and felt a tinge of indecision sweep over him. No. I can’t do this…not to a fellow Muslim…it’s wrong.
Before Khaled could answer, Arshad added, “Maybe it’s time to stop baking and learn how to kill infidels.”
Khaled immediately felt a lump in his throat as an image of his wife wailing and him holding his daughter’s broken body flashed before him. Closing his eyes, he shook his head violently from side to side and thought.
No. I won’t do it. These people, they are all the same…in love with death…their only answer is more death. No more.
Clearing his throat, Khaled spoke more forcibly and said, “Yes, my brother, maybe you are right. Maybe, it is long past time for me to throw away my baker’s hat and take up jihad. Please, I beg of you to let me see the commander to thank him for showing our people the way.” Khaled then untied the smaller top box and opened it and said, “Look, I have something special. I used the last of my Jordanian Medjool dates to make the best stuffed Maamoul pastries he has ever eaten. Here, take one, but let me deliver the rest.”
The flaky pastry was still warm and light sugary powder floated in the air as Khaled handed one to Rahimi’s dedicated servant. Unable to resist, a large meaty hand reached out and grabbed the sweet treat and smiled as he said, “Well if Allah calls me to paradise today, I will be coming with sugar on my lips. Come, I will bring you to him, but quickly my friend.”
Khaled felt a surge of pride and nearly broke into tears again but maintained his composure and instead focused on going down the steep ladder with only one arm while the other carried to the two large containers of baked goods. Slowly but surely, he made his way down the dark circular hatch until after about six or seven meters he saw bright lights and several men dressed for war performing various tasks, and as his feet touched solid ground, he silently whispered to himself.
Praise be to Allah. Please guide me now to end all this death in your name.
A younger soldier let out a loud yelp at the sight of the big box brimming with goodies. Khaled smiled and said, “Eat them while they are warm, my brothers.”
He was nearly knocked over by the mad rush as these grown men fought over the selection of treats like children. Arshad’s loud, booming voice punctuated the room, “One per man or I swear before Allah that I will skin you alive. And save some for the wounded, they above all deserve these little treasures. Now go.”
Next, Arshad motioned for Khaled to raise his arms so that he could search him. “Quickly Khaled, raise them up. It must be done.”
Nodding, Khaled put the small cardboard box down on top of an overturned ammunition crate of some kind, put his hands high in the air, and tried not to react to Arshad’s rough hands as they firmly patted him down. Khaled let out an audible yelp when the Iranian’s left hand squeezed his left shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
Khaled slowly pulled back his collar and showed a stained bandage roughly taped to his shoulder and said, “It’s fine brother just tender from yesterday. The missile that killed my daughter also struck me. I’m fine.”
Arshad continued with his inspection, roughly patting down Khaled’s shirt and trousers he felt something in his right pocket - something round. He growled, “What’s in your pocket?”
Remembering what the American said, to act like he forgot they were there, he lightly bumped his forehead and smiled as he said, “Sorry my brother, these are my kids. I keep them on me because they are so easily lost. See just marbles.”
With that said, Khaled reached into his right pocket and pulled our three smooth round metallic marbles and held them out so Arshad could inspect. Desperately trying to control his trembling hand, Khaled slowly slid the marbles into the callused and scarred hand of the fierce Iranian in front of him and said, “My son lost a set of beautiful marbles that my father passed down to me two years ago during the siege at Aleppo. I found some peddler along the way who made these metallic ones. Not as pretty but they work.”
Rolling them around in his hands, Arshad tried to feel for warmth or some potential threat, but after a few seconds, he handed them back and firmly said, “Come, let’s get this over with. Commander Rahimi is very busy.”
Khaled felt his heart skip a beat and his pulse seemed to race. It was as if he could actually feel the blood coursing through his veins, racing into his heart, and moving like a raging flood throughout his body. His legs felt leaden, but he willed himself to follow Rahimi’s trusted brother in arms. They walked down a poorly lit hallway and weaved left then right until they reached a wider opening. There stood two armed fighters whose own visible body scars told a story all their own, which only added to the tension building up in Khaled.
Arshad barked, “Wait h
ere.”
Khaled nodded back and gripped the cardboard box of breakfast treats so tight his knuckles were nearly white and several indents were visible from the grip. He ignored these sensations and waited until the door opened again and Arshad’s menacing voice rang out from behind the door. “Bring the baker in…”
The two guards quickly stepped aside, opened the door and as Khaled entered the closed-off room, he was greeted by a man whose bearded face and voice he had seen and heard dozens of times. He was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotions ranging from awe to fear.
Immediately dropping to his knees, Khaled reached out to kiss his hand and emphatically said, “What an honor, commander Rahimi, thank you so much for seeing me this morning.”
This was not the first time a fellow Muslim greeted him like he was Saladin, but today it moved him. A warm wave swept through his chest as the Iranian born son of the Revolution knew to his core that it was for Muslim brothers such as the simple man before him that he was willing to give his life.
Smiling broadly, Rahimi felt honor bound as was tradition to make his guest feel welcome, so he warmly said, “So this is the baker who has made my mornings a joy. Please, my brother, stand up and greet me as one of Allah’s servants to another.”
The two men warmly embraced. Khaled was taken aback by the man in front of him. Where was the bloodthirsty killer who called out to the world to drown the infidels in their own blood? Where was the man who used chemical weapons to murder more than a thousand innocent people in the holy city of Jerusalem? Where was the jihadist who beckoned the Americans to come to this poor city already brutalized by years of civil war?
Instead, Khaled saw the spirited smile of a man who, in a different time, could have come to his bakery to drink hot steaming cups of coffee, eat a morning pastry, and talk of the latest football scores or pass the time telling tall tales about some of the pretty women in the neighborhood.
Khaled proudly presented his specialty Maamoul pastries and watched as Bahadur’s eyes lit up. He took the box and raised it to inches from his face and deeply inhaled the sweet aroma of dates and buttery scent from the flaky dough. Like a little boy, the world’s most dangerous man lifted his hand to grab one, but he moved it slowly back and forth unable to decide which one to try.
Always happy to see the faces of those who loved his treats, Khaled smiled and pointed at the plumpest piece with sweet dates threatening to spill out and said, “That’s the one my brother, please try that one. Trust me.”
Nodding hungrily, Rahimi grabbed it and took a large bite and laughed as some of the sweet jellied treasure dripped on his beard and said, “That, I will save for later.” The three men all laughed, and Rahimi insisted both Arshad and Khaled join him. For a few wonderful moments, they indulged themselves drinking warm tea and eating pastry as if it were a time of peace until the war came to the fore again when a soldier dressed in a blood-stained olive-green tunic urgently entered the room.
“Sir, the Americans are setting up more checkpoints. The nearest is three blocks away.”
The revelry evaporated, and Rahimi didn’t hesitate and said in a commanding voice, “It’s time to send the young martyrs to meet the Americans. Do it quickly. Have our brothers ready to immediately follow up and attack these checkpoints.”
Forgetting his place, Khaled innocently asked, “Young martyrs? I don’t understand.”
Arshad’s dark voice answered, “Orphans, baker. Ones without anyone to care for them. They will go to the Americans and enter paradise before all of us.”
Instantly Khaled’s stomach cramped up and he realized that he had forgotten his mission, forgotten his little Haya.
Forgive me, my sweet child. I forgot who this man is and what he does. He brings death to us all. Soon my child, soon.
Rahimi looked over at Khaled and said, “Arshad tells me you lost a child and want to take up jihad, my brother. Well, there is no better time than the present. Were you a soldier? Do you know weapons?”
Shaking his head, “Not really, my brother. I spent some time in local militias but little real fighting. I cooked for the fighters whenever I could but chose to stay with my family. But now I am ready. Let me go home and say goodbye to my wife and remaining children, then I will return later this afternoon and whatever happens will be Allah’s will.”
Pleased at converting another fellow Muslim to the cause, Rahimi gripped the baker’s shoulders and said, “Okay, go now brother and send my condolences to your wife and then come back ready to serve Allah and kill the crusaders once and for all.”
Khaled started moving towards the door but stopped short and bent down to tie his shoe. Nervously he glanced left to right and listened as the two Iranians spoke in Farsi and seemed to ignore his presence for the moment. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the three round, metallic spheres the American gave him hours ago. Khaled did as he was instructed and rubbed them together and rolled them behind a cot three feet away. The cylinders didn’t make a sound as they crossed the earthen floor, smoothed out like hard clay.
Allah, please let the Americans magic toys work and let me return to my family and bring them to safety.
Five minutes later, Khaled the Baker was walking back towards his home. The entire time being watched by an overhead surveillance drone. Unbeknownst to Khaled, the Americans knew Rahimi’s exact location the moment he entered the bombed-out warehouse. But, the president wanted something special, and ten minutes later it would begin.
Chapter Forty Four
Twenty thousand feet in the air above Al-Bukamal
The twenty-seven-year-old Cal Tech graduate with a perpetually curved neck from a lifetime of staring at electronic devices found himself sweating through the dark blue button-down Air Force utility shirt his supervisor had hastily given him six hours ago. More at home alone in a darkened basement than a two hundred million dollar airplane with three dozen very serious military and senior intelligence officials onboard, the pressure was building up to more than his normal dose of Xanax could handle.
What the fuck is this guy waiting for? All this coffee running through me. I gotta pinch one off, but the asshole in charge said no one leaves their consoles without a qualified replacement to cover and no one can do what the fuck I can do. Goddamnit, I just want this to be over.
Rivet Joint 317, an RC-135 surveillance and communications plane, was playing a critical part in Operation Reckoning. The intel bird bristling with antennas and exterior data links was searching through every active Wi-Fi link waiting for that one special node to go active. The entire operation depended upon securing this link up.
Jeremy, a notorious Black Hatter before he got caught and put on the government’s payroll, reached for his third Five-Hour Energy and old-school Jolt Cola shotgun when his screen went active. “Oh, shit…here we go people. We’ve got a live signal. Looks like our boy is inside.”
A very serious high-ranking NSA operative was literally breathing down Jeremy’s neck as he was fixated on the computer display making sure it was the real deal. “Confirm the reading. Are sure it matches the RFID (radio frequency identification) Chip we implanted in the baker’s shoulder.”
Although he had the reputation as a notorious wiseass, the man formerly known by his Black Hat name as Quicksilver didn’t say a word and simply nodded up and down. He was locked and focused on accessing the malware backdoor the NFC (near field communications) antenna in the chip just dropped into Rahimi’s laptop computer. While the baker was sipping tea and eating pastry, the NSA team on Rivet Joint 317 was busy scanning every inch of the laptop, confirming its owner, and finally taking over the local network.
Meanwhile, ten minutes after Khaled the Baker left the room to return to his family, the first of three metallic balls, each barely four centimeters in diameter, would now be warm to the touch as the MAV’s or micro air vehicles (also known as micromechanical flying insects) emerged from their protective cocoons and went active. DARPA (Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency), the legendary organization that created everything from the internet to Agent Orange, began development of miniature drones that mimicked a range of creatures from birds to snakes to insects in 2007.
Each MAV represented a marvel of modern science, the 3 cm miniature drone was shaped like a six-legged mosquito with zirconium titanite flapping wings. Two were configured for active surveillance and equipped with a digital recorder and microphone that tapped directly into the Wi-Fi and transmitted to the Rivet Joint plane in real-time by accessing the compromised laptop. The other MAV had a backup RFID Chip in case the Baker’s chip somehow failed to successfully access the laptop.
Slowly all three flying insect drones spread throughout the small dimly lit room. Each was being operated by its own controller on the Rivet Joint plane. The instructions for the two controllers flying the camera-equipped MAVs were to provide the best range of visual coverage of Rahimi and the room. The images were extraordinary.
Knowing that time was limited, he grabbed a telephone that connected him directly to Fort Meade and said, “Inform the President that we are in control of the laptop, and Rahimi is still in the room. We need to act quickly.”
The Director of the National Security Agency, a thirty-three-year veteran of technical intelligence and literally a mathematical genius in his own right, maintained a professional demeanor and did not betray the sense of urgency or fear of failure to execute the most unusual operation the NSA had ever been part of throughout its entire existence. He picked up another phone that connected him directly to the White House Situation Room and said, “Mr. Secretary, we’re active, but we need to act now. Is the president ready?”