by Jack Strain
Secretary of Defense Mahler was unable to hide neither his profound exhaustion nor his disdain for the nature of Operation Reckoning. Certain things were supposed to be below the dignity of the office, but like the good marine he was to his core, General Mahler followed his orders and acted with his known thoroughness to complete the mission.
Turning to President Wolfe, he said “Mr. President, NSA says we are in the green but need to act immediately. Are you ready, sir?”
Driven by demons that until three weeks ago he did not know he possessed, Wolfe felt a surge of emotion explode inside his mind as thoughts of his daughter flashed before his eyes. Wolfe’s face was suddenly flushed red, but he shook his head violently from side to side willing himself to command the moment. He looked towards his Secretary of Defense and said, “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
◆◆◆
Even in the field, the world’s most feared terrorist always maintained a near obsessive compulsion to keep his teeth clean, so it was little wonder that when Rahimi’s computer sprang to life, he was hunched over a basin brushing his teeth. He was swirling the mix of toothpaste and water in his mouth and had just bent his head back to gargle when his laptop suddenly came alive with the familiar sound of the Skype app.
Instantly on guard, Rahimi never received messages via Skype and in fact, had never even installed the program for fear Western intelligence agents would somehow be able to track him. He blurted out, “What the devil?” and rushed over to his computer and saw an image that astounded him. It was a live digital feed of himself inside his room in perfect color and remarkable focus.
Instinctively, he raised his arm and moved it in the air and watched as the image on the screen followed every movement. It was uncanny. Rahimi then leapt from the chair in front of the makeshift desk and started swirling about the room looking for the camera that somehow was sending the images but couldn’t find any.
His mind was screaming defiance, but Rahimi’s body was feeling something very different. His pulse was racing rapidly as the realization struck him that he was not in command of the moment. It wasn’t death that he feared. Rahimi had been living with the specter of death for as long as he could remember. No, it was something else. Something was happening, and for the first time since he unleashed the demon forces under his command, Rahimi felt a profound lack of control.
Back in the White House Situation Room, President Wolfe was enjoying a smug sense of satisfaction while he watched his daughter’s murderer run around his room like a child waking from a nightmare in the dead of night.
His advisers told him that Quds Force members were expected to learn English, so a translator was not needed, but one stood ready if need be. Glancing at the coterie of serious looking military and national security advisers in the room, Wolfe felt ready. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say several times, but now that it was the real thing, the moment threatened to overwhelm.
The feed was going out live to the entire world. Wolfe had decided that killing Rahimi wasn’t enough. He wanted the world to see his last moments. He wanted to see fear in his eyes. He wanted the world to see America’s justice.
Finally, National Security Advisor Wright counted down with his fingers, three, two, one, and then pointed his index finger at the president, and then they went live.
Filled with a loathing so pure, President Wolfe’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed into a threatening veneer of hostility as he looked directly into the camera and with a voice filled with righteous anger, he said, “Bahadur Rahimi, this is the President of the United States Douglas Wolfe, the father of a woman better than you or I will ever be, who you murdered along with a thousand other innocents. Today is your day of reckoning.”
In the small, contained, dusky room that Rahimi had called home for these past weeks, he saw the American president’s face appear on his computer screen and felt his chest tighten and eyes open wide in shock.
How can this be?
Slowly, almost in shock to some degree, Rahimi made his way back to the chair in front of his laptop and very carefully sat down making sure to use his hands to steady himself. He was above all else a proud man and would not allow himself to dishonor himself before this American. He sat down and pulled the seat closer and took a deep breath and looked back into the screen and said nothing.
“I am told that you understand English. Is this true?”
Rahimi couldn’t understand why, but right at this very moment, he felt a powerful desire to engage with this man, to speak truth to power in a way that no other jihadi leader had ever been able. What escaped him for the moment was the fact that he killed this man’s daughter, his son-in-law, made his grandchildren orphans. Why would he think that a man who butchered Muslims by the tens of thousands would want to talk? The idea that he would want to engage was really quite mad.
Rahimi’s expression softened, and he answered. “It is true. I understand English well though I speak it not so good.” The Iranian paused for a moment as he felt his strength return as the shock slowly evaporated and said, “Well, what do you want?”
Wolfe didn’t like the shock melting away so quickly and felt his own hostility rising, “What do I want? I want my daughter back, you bastard. I want the lives of all the innocents you’ve slaughtered back among the living with their families to live their lives. I want murderers like yourself to burrow in your holes and die and let the world live in peace…that’s what I want.”
Rahimi’s own anger rose to the surface, his back stiffened and his dark eyes flashed their own rage and with a voice filled with its own righteous anger, he said, “You who has more innocent blood on his hands than any combination of holy warriors’ dares call me a murderer and now claim you want peace? Whose peace, infidel? Your peace…on your terms. You have turned Muslim brothers against one another for decades. I say to you leave us be. We don’t want your disgusting culture filled with whores and depraved values turning sons and daughters against their families and culture. I would kill you all if I could.”
Wolfe could not hide the fury in his eyes as he shot back, “But you can’t kill us all. But I could with but a flip of a switch, end this once and for all, but I won’t because we are better than that. If America is truly as evil as you and your kind of false prophets have said for years why have we let you live? We allowed countries like Iran and people like you to literally get away with murder for decades. We will never be defeated by scum like you who pervert your religion and stoke the fires of hatred. It is you who is disgusting. We are the light.”
Rahimi’s face became flushed with anger, practically seething at the American’s words, and he was about to respond when the ever-loyal Arshad burst into the room shouting, “My brother, the Americans have filled the airwaves with you! Come now, we must leave.”
Rahimi pulled away from his fellow Iranian’s grasp and said in Farsi, “You go now my brother, save what you can. Tell my brothers that I’m not leaving, but they must.”
Rahimi saw through what the clever American was trying to do, to shame him in front of the world. Then turning quickly back to the screen, Rahimi answered back. “You are the light? Because you choose not to slaughter a billion people, that makes you the light? You destroyed whole cities and want to pretend that you are not a mass murderer. Maybe your own American papers are correct. You are a madman and unfit to lead such a powerful nation. Perhaps it is you who should be sitting under the threat of death that I am certain I am facing right now.”
Wolfe’s face was a deep scarlet red, he leaned forward in his chair, and his hands clenched into tight fists. He looked as if he was about to leap through the camera and strangle his daughter’s murderer. He swore to his National Security staff that he could control himself - that he would remain calm, but all sense of control had long since gone, replaced by a mix of rage and defensiveness at Rahimi’s accusations.
“This is not my war, it’s yours. Every child who lost a father, a mother who buries a child, a family wh
o must now survive in the rubble is on your head, not mine.”
Rahimi, too, was filled with a mix of emotions and immediately reacted, “All Muslims who died these past weeks are now in paradise and Allah shall embrace them for all eternity. Allah will embrace all Muslims who join together and kill the infidels and create an Islamic Caliphate to last a thousand years. Now go, my brothers and sisters, remember what you have seen, burn into your memories the images of proud Islamic warriors fighting the Great Satan without fear, for Allah is with all of us. Forget if you are Shia or Sunni…take up the sword and never put it down until the last infidel is drenched in their own blood.”
With those last words, Rahimi closed his eyes and held out his hands and began praying while a billion people around the world watched this amazing spectacle.
Shaking his head from side to side and with a voice echoed with resignation, Wolfe practically whispered the words, “The only thing you people know is death, and if it’s death you want then death it shall be.” Then he gestured to someone clearly off-screen and resolutely jabbed his index finger in the air and signaled the end was coming.
Three minutes later, a flight of four F-15 Strike Eagles each released a single five thousand-pound GBU-28 bunker buster. It took less than twenty seconds for the first one to penetrate the factory roof and slice through the fifteen feet of reinforced concrete until its warhead exploded sending black smoke and an eruption of concrete and dirt flying through the air. Three more struck with exact precision killing Bahadur Rahimi and every member of Allah’s Avengers who were in the bunker complex.
However, that was not the end of it. As swirling black smoke poured from the four gouges in the earth where moments ago the most feared terrorist on the planet was engaging the American president in a war of words, a lone MC-130H Combat Talon II flew towards the shattered factory complex. As the American four-engine prop plane cruised overhead, its main cargo door opened, and a single object was released, a GBU-43B or Massive Ordinance Air Bomb, the most powerful non-nuclear bomb in the American arsenal.
The twenty-two thousand-pound “mother of all bombs” contained nearly 19,000 pounds of H-6 explosives and when it exploded, a massive fireball rose hundreds of feet high into the sky and it leveled a radius of nearly one mile causing catastrophic damage throughout this heavily-fought-over Syrian city. An overhead Global Hawk surveillance drone fed the footage live into the feed the White House set up so that the world could see with their own eyes the ultimate demise of Rahimi and his followers.
Unfortunately, more than four hundred Syrian citizens paid the price for President Wolfe’s PR spectacle. Among the corpses littering the shattered landscape lay none other than Khaled the Baker who was so determined to become Khaled the Avenger. The Americans had warned him that he had less than ten minutes to race away, but he wanted to see with his own eyes. His blackened corpse would be returned to a grieving family who would never know just how close they had come to escaping to America.
◆◆◆
Eight thousand miles away a jubilant reaction played out in the Oval Office, as President Wolfe’s senior advisers and staff let out loud audible cheers when the bombs struck home. Vice President Martha Brentwood was the first to offer a warm embrace, whispering, “Your little girl is looking down at you right now, Douglas, knowing her Daddy avenged her. May God bless you for what you’ve done for her and this country.”
Caught off guard by the vice president’s well-meaning words, his face betrayed his unease, but a positively beaming Baxter Davis thrust out his hand and shook Wolfe’s hand firmly and said loud enough for the whole room to hear, “Mr. President, you showed the whole goddamned world what happens when you fuck with us. History will never forget this moment.”
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, the excitement died down, and one by one people left the Oval Office. The Joint Chiefs maintained a professional decorum throughout the mini-celebration and refrained from the unbecoming exuberance on display. After a quick briefing, they exited the room leaving an emotionally spent president sitting in his desk chair and staring out into space. Instead of relief, all he felt was an emptiness inside - a profound sadness. He was so drained that he could barely move his arms and legs and slumped back in the soft leather chair until a wave of tears came upon him and washed down his face like a torrent.
Oh, Liliana, I miss you so much….
Chapter Forty Five
October 31st
Georgetown, D.C.
It was early, not quite 6:30 a.m., but old habits were hard to break. Dutch Schultz had been up for more than an hour and was annoyed that the New York Times had not been delivered yet. Wearing an old, thick, comfortable cotton robe his wife had gotten him years ago, he shuffled towards the door and scanned the porch for signs of the paper. Nothing. Annoyed, he opened the heavy oak door, went outside and found it perched under the porch furniture he never bothered putting away. He felt a shiver go up his back when a stiff early winter breeze blew through and he quickly headed back inside with the Times tucked securely under his right arm.
He grabbed his third cup of coffee - acid reflux be damned this morning - and set the steaming mug on the coffee table along with the paper. He plopped down in his favorite stuffed morning reading chair as his wife referred to the somewhat out of place aging recliner in the sitting room by the sunroom. As he had done for four decades, he opened the Times with a resounding flap of the paper, grabbed the front section, and scanned the headlines.
“Violent protests continue in cities across the country. Church leaders call for calm.”
“American Marines and Israeli forces capture remaining Hezbollah positions in Lebanon while the Third Intifada erupts in occupied territories.”
“Saudi Prince denounces the U.S. and calls for all American military forces to exit Gulf military bases within 60 days.”
“North Korean leader Kim Jong Un vows to expand nuke program and threatens more missile tests.”
“President Wolfe makes it four days in a row without a public appearance. Rumors about his mental well-being circulating in Washington.”
“Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War will convene tomorrow. Big names expected on the opening day of questioning.”
That’s the one I was looking for this morning. What in the hell are those jokers waiting for anyway? Christ, it’s three days since I talked to Mitchum’s people.
Forty minutes later, Schultz’s cell rang, and a familiar voice said, “Hope you didn’t put away your summer suits Dutch cause you’re going to be sweating like hell when your ass is on the hot seat in two days.”
A loud chortling laugh could be heard on the other line, and the less than amused former White House Chief of Staff snorted back, “You always were an asshole, Mitchum.”
Still chuckling a bit after getting under Schultz’s thin skin, the senior senator from AZ responded, “Can’t argue with you there Dutch, but I’m an asshole who’ll be asking the questions.”
“Yeah, but whose questions will you be asking now that your Templeton’s little sidekick? You’ll make a good prop in her next round of political ads.”
That struck a nerve, so Mitchum shot back. “Well at least I’ll be able to vote in the next election. Remind me Dutch, can convicted felons vote in Presidential elections?”
The two men had some bad blood between them after then-candidate Wolfe said some pretty nasty things on the campaign trail about the aging senator who apparently was in the mood to rub it in a bit. Clearly annoyed, Schultz said, “I don’t need your bullshit this morning. What do you want?”
“I’m busting your balls Dutch, but I’m also giving you a heads up. Your boy has a lot to answer for, and Templeton’s people on the committee will be coming for blood.”
Schultz’s chest tightened at the prospect of appearing at tomorrow’s hearing, he said, “Look I appreciate the heads up, but I don’t know what you expect me to say. Executive privilege covers pretty much every conversation I’ve had
with the president. This is all going to be some kind of circus unless you do something about it.”
Mitchum fired back, “What the hell do you expect, her goddamned house was vandalized by those fanatics. There were six more deaths last night. College campuses are protest zones, and there must be half a million people in town. Half of them want to impeach him, and the other half want to make him President for life. And your buddy hasn’t said word one all the while his people are still storming all over the country sweeping up Muslims and apparently anyone else who he doesn’t like. More than a dozen journalists have been reported missing. For fuck’s sake Dutch, something has to be done.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? I’m out of a job.”
“You two go way back Dutch. Why don’t you reach out to him and see if he would be willing to entertain the idea of resigning? It would save this country one hell of a mess. Lots of whispers going on in this town and not all of it out of Congress. Some folks on his side of town are starting the whisper campaign.”
“Like who?”
“Now you know that I don’t like to repeat rumors but looks like some of Martha’s people are already looking to call in the movers and set up shop if Wolfe really has lost his marbles or is impeached by us.”
Martha’s been Douglas’ top supporter practically from day one. No way. Not buying it. Mitchum’s just trying to fuck with me to lean on Douglas to resign.
“Look, John, I’m not saying that I believe those rumors that you just hate to repeat, but I just don’t see Martha stabbing Douglas in the back like that.”
Offering up an almost whimsical laugh on the other end of the line, Mitchum said, “Dutch, I forget sometimes that you're still pretty new to this town. No offense intended, but Martha Brentwood is smart, calculating, and a true believer. Yeah, she backed your horse, but Martha is always playing her own game. Bank on it.”