by Joe Nobody
Whatever the truth, Ghost was now a trusted spirit, appearing out of the night and whispering vital information into prominent ears.
The men who ran the caliphate might place their faith in Ghost, but Salim did not. He hadn’t survived years of civil war by being a complacent, trusting soul. And he had good reason.
While war in any form was truly hell on earth, the Syrian conflict had achieved new lows into Satan’s sulfuric pits.
Spawned by the Arab spring, it had all begun as little more than a repressed people rising up against a ruthless dictator. Like so many of their neighbors, the Syrians rebelled against decades of repression, corruption, and discrimination.
But all that was long past. A simple quest for freedom and self-rule had morphed into a tangled nightmare of politics, religion, foreign influence, and tribal warfare.
The age-old clash of Sunni versus Shia found its way into the conflict, ushering in radicals and fringe elements from both sects. All the players put pieces on the chessboard that was Syria, from NATO to Iran; the war drew the moths of violence to the flames of bedlam.
Into the morass they came, Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, Wahabi, and the Revolutionary Guard. NATO bombed from the air while rejects from the old Iraqi Baath party tried to regroup after being chased out of their homeland. In short order, the social landscape became a confused, muddled cesspool of backstabbing, skullduggery, and treachery.
Alliances changed on a daily basis, yesterday’s ally today’s enemy, but tomorrow’s brother.
Out of the pandemonium arose a longstanding human trait, an instinctual reaction that dated to the dawn of man. Just like the Romans, the Hun, the Nazis, and the North Vietnamese, ruthlessness became the currency of power. Atrocity, shock, indecency, and fear equaled control and organization. The various factions entered a race to see who was willing to unleash the greatest brutality on their fellow man.
ISIS won.
Former henchmen of Saddam Hussein, the core group of men who formed the Islamic State were well educated, smart, aggressive, homeless, and above all else, ambitious. They had been wronged, exiled from power… and leveraged that burning grudge to fuel an unprecedented rise to authority.
They combined an ancient cult of Islam with modern social media. They used captured tanks on the battlefield, and primitive methods of execution in the public square. Their message tugged at the hearts and minds of a people drowning in an endless quagmire of pain and suffering.
The caliphate. The Islamic State. Sharia law. Utter, absolute, ruthlessness against all enemies of the revolution.
Western powers underestimated the misery of the people who flocked to their cause. The neighboring governments of the Middle East couldn’t believe such a movement would be accepted and were too caught up in their own troubles to heed the early warnings.
In the blink of an eye, ISIS gained strength, territory, power, and influence.
Salim hadn’t joined because of religion or faith. He’d sworn allegiance and pledged his life in exchange for rule of law. Any law. Any order to the bedlam, violence, and mass confusion that ruled his land. Sharia was better than anarchy, harsh governance superior to chaos.
And they were winning.
For the first time in the young Arab’s life, his kind had the world shaking in its boots. ISIS dominated the news, reigned supreme on the battlefield, and brought order to the land under its control. It was an undeniable momentum that was so desperately needed in the despondent hearts of young Muslim men.
Salim finally nodded to Ghost, accepting the older man’s logic. Besides, if the barrel was going to fall from the sky, it would have done so by now.
Raising his open hand and waving his men forward, the team leader whispered, “God is great,” and proceeded toward their objective.
They passed through block after block of wreckage and ruin, skirting major intersections and avoiding what few people still remained. Burned-out, rusted hulks of armored vehicles dotted the landscape here and there, as did the craters from artillery barrages and aerial bombardment.
Their journey continued through the valley of destruction, the odor of decaying flesh often waffling over the ruins. As per Muslim custom, human bodies were to be buried within one day. In many places, the few survivors struggled to accomplish that grisly task, leaving the corpses of livestock and other animals to foul the air. None of Salim’s men seemed to notice.
The area they were passing through was now a no man's land, a buffer zone between the forces of Damascus in the south and the ISIS stronghold to the north and west. On any given day, it could be held by one side or the other; sometimes neither, sometimes both.
Three hours later, the first hint of salt air came to Salim, bringing with it a welcome relief that they were almost to the end of the dangerous expedition.
Coming to a rise, Ghost motioned for everyone to take cover and get low. Crawling forward on his belly, the old man moved with surprising grace and speed as he crept to the crest.
Salim watched as Ghost produced a pair of small binoculars, scanned right and left, taking his time studying the terrain below.
Finally satisfied, Ghost turned and motioned for Salim to join him.
The younger man repeated the same approach, crawling low and slow until he was beside their guide. Reflecting off the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, the late afternoon sun caused Salim to squint and turn his head for a moment.
He soon adjusted, pulling his gaze away from the beautiful depths and focusing on the shoreline below.
Sun bleached roofs of white and red tile announced the village, the ribbon of a single roadway running between the small cluster of buildings and the rocky shore beyond. There was an inlet, a cut along the coast that contained a tiny harbor, complete with a dock and single cargo crane.
Before the war, it had probably been rare for any ocean-going vessel to use the facility. More modern ports and distribution hubs would have been available both to the north and to the south.
Those locations were no longer safe, either in rebel hands or subject to artillery barrages from ISIS. Small, lesser-known docks, such as the one below, now catered to everyone from refugee haulers to pirates and smugglers.
Rumors had circulated for months that Damascus was using such harbors to import everything from ammunition to spare parts. According to the briefing Salim had received, Assad’s ground forces would expand their control over the surrounding area for just long enough to unload and transport the precious cargo, and then withdraw back to their fortified lines surrounding Damascus.
The team leader didn’t know the name of the small, seaside village, and he didn’t care. Such places were common along the Syrian coast. What did draw his attention was the mid-sized freighter tied at the dock and the bustle of ant-like activity surrounding the vessel.
Despite the elevation and distance, Salim could see the crane lifting a large crate from the ship’s hold. There was a convoy of trucks queued up alongside the dock, complete with two armored vehicles standing guard.
“This vessel has been unloading for the last 20 hours,” Ghost whispered. “The port is primitive and unable to expedite the process. Allah, in his infinite wisdom, has granted us valuable time.”
“Do you know what is in those containers?”
Ghost nodded, “Yes. I was close enough to see the manifests. Damascus is receiving oilfield equipment from a new ally, and the leaders of our cause need proof to show the world.”
“Oilfield equipment?” Salim hissed, anger growing in his throat. “We risked the lives of my men to attack pumps and valves? What madness is this? I thought we were coming to destroy a shipment of weapons that would be used to kill our people.”
The older man smiled his understanding of Salim’s frustration, then nodded wisely. “You are a great fighter, Salim. One of the caliphate’s best, young leaders. But you know nothing of strategic warfare and international relations. What is down there in those crates is a far more powerful weapon for your mov
ement than any rifle… or tank… or martyr. Again, trust your leaders. They, with the blessing of Allah, have gotten us this far.”
There was that word again – trust. Salim had trouble digesting the concept.
Yet everything Ghost claimed, so far, had proven accurate. Shrugging, the young fighter replied, “God is great.”
Pointing toward a nearby ridge, Ghost continued, “Post your best marksman and two flankers on that elevated spot. If we are discovered, they can cover our egress. You and I, along with your two strongest men, will enter the port area after dark. Leave the rest here.”
“Egress? You expect us to run from Assad’s dogs? We will kill as many as we can before they take us down.”
For the first time since he’d been in the older warrior’s company, Salim saw anger flash behind Ghost’s eyes. His reply was full of ice and venom, “If you want to die young, that is your business. But I won’t have some young, hotheaded fool sending me to the Prophet’s promise before I’m ready. And today is not the day. Control yourself or I’ll leave right now… and then visit you in the night and slit your throat while you dream of virgins.”
“You threaten me, and yet you repeatedly speak of trust. It makes me wonder which side you’re on.”
Ghost chuckled, the low chortle genuine. With a knowing nod, he said, “That is a fair question that deserves an honest answer. I am on no one’s side, Salim. Loyalty to any cause, man, or earthly organization evaporated out of this old carcass like the sun pulls water from the sand. Now, I act only for God or my family.”
“So you do not believe in the caliphate? You are not a soldier of the Islamic State?”
“No,” Ghost answered in a hush. “Assad and I have unfinished business, and your masters in the Daesh pay well for my services. As the old English proverb states, I am killing two birds with one stone.”
Salim was stunned; Ghost’s blunt statements were enough to condemn any man to the headsman’s ax. Yet, he sensed no fear or remorse in the man’s face. There wasn’t any hint of a secret being shared or the need for confidentiality.
“Don’t worry,” continued Ghost, reading Salim’s thoughts. “Your masters in the IS are well aware of my feelings and lack of loyalty. Still, they ask me to do their dirty work again and again, all the while filling my pockets for the effort.”
“Why?”
“Because they know what it takes to achieve victory, my young friend. They know that cunning and guile are stronger than Kalashnikovs and roadside bombs.”
Movement from below interrupted the conversation, Ghost gesturing toward three different lines of soldiers snaking away from the port. “The patrols,” he whispered. “Now we must be silent and watch carefully. They are mostly mercenaries and are lazy. They’ll find someplace comfortable to rest the night and stay put. We’ll split the seam of their security and do our work after dark.”
Zach watched as the police car pulled out behind them, the image in the Cadillac’s rearview mirror prompting a knowing grin to cross his lips.
“He’s taking the bait,” he said calmly. “Here we go.”
A grunted, “Finally,” sounded from the passenger seat, Ranger Samantha Temple’s response followed by her hands moving to tug at the cutoff shorts that covered little of her legs. Zach found the futile attempt amusing, somehow managing to keep the smirk off his face.
“I’m still not sure wearing Daisy Dukes for this operation was such a bright idea,” Sam complained for the nth time.
“We have to look like tourists,” Zach explained as he checked the mirror again. “Wealthy tourists. A successful man of means… such as I obviously am… would have a beautiful woman along. We have to play the part. It’s in the ranger handbook.”
Sam shook her head, “I think it’s a weak cover. People are going to wonder how a guy like you landed a sophisticated woman like me.”
He didn’t answer, the banter having already played out an hour before. Keeping his attention on the road ahead, Zach slowly maneuvered the Caddy through the small town of Crenshaw, Texas, acting the part of a lost stranger.
It occurred to the ranger that losing one’s way in Crenshaw was probably next to impossible. The tiny berg, located in the middle of the Great Piney Woods, consisted of a single main street, lined with a few shops and about 900 residents, give or take.
It was a quaint little place, a textbook example of small-town America. Or, more accurately, small-town Republic of Texas.
The citizens of Crenshaw were well protected by all accounts, the town’s police department unusually large given the population, demographics, and rural surroundings. That was why Major Putnam had assigned Zach to the case, the ranger having barely landed in Dallas before he was sent packing on the new assignment. At least he was getting a chance to work with Ranger Temple.
“The cooperation between the U.S.A. and the Republic is degrading every week,” Zach’s commander had begun. “The big shots in Austin want us to give top priority to the cases being reported by the FBI. Our all-knowing leaders in the capital city believe that if we hold up our end, the U.S. federal agencies will respond in kind.”
Neither Zach nor Sam agreed, but their opinion didn’t matter. Orders were orders, and rangers didn’t get to pick their assignments.
“According to the FBI, several American citizens traveling through Crenshaw have fallen victim to what appears to be extortion. It seems the local chief of police is using a very broad interpretation of the Treaty of Secession and how Texas law applies to non-citizens.”
“Why send in rangers, sir?” Zach asked. “That seems more like a job for the county sheriff or local prosecutor.”
Putnam’s eyes indicated he agreed with Zach, but his words gave no such indication. “The situation in Crenshaw, combined with a dozen other complaints from around the new nation, is quickly escalating into a full-blown diplomatic incident. The word out of Austin is that the director of the FBI has stated that Texas is a worse neighbor than Mexico ever was, especially when it comes to law enforcement and extradition. The President wants these cases handled by the rangers, and that’s just what we’re going to do.”
The next few days had been consumed preparing their cover story, acquiring the proper identification, and creating a fake history that would stand up to a law enforcement background check.
The local officer was still behind them, now close enough to be running their plates.
The Crenshaw dispatcher would find the luxury car was registered to one Johnathan Richard Piedmont, a resident of Little Rock, Arkansas. A driver’s license under the same name was in Zach’s wallet, along with the usual plethora of credit cards, gym membership, and even a past due electric bill. Mr. Piedmont had no outstanding warrants.
Sam’s clutch contained a similar background.
Zach pulled into the town’s only gas station, finding an empty spot away from the pumps. “You have to use the restroom,” he explained as he watched the cop pull to the side of the street less than a block away.
Rolling her eyes, Sam said, “Whatever,” and pushed open the door.
“Could you get me a cup of coffee while you in there? Please? It may be the last java I get for a while.”
“Screw you,” she sneered. “It’s demeaning enough that I have to play trophy girlfriend, let alone coffee girl. Go get it yourself. I have to use the powder room.”
And with that, she was gone, sashaying gracefully toward the convenience store’s entrance.
“Women,” Zach grunted, turning off the engine and following his partner inside.
The ranger found himself at a counter cluttered with two different lottery ticket displays, several varieties of cigarette lighters, and at least three concoctions that would provide a body nearly endless energy and physical stamina.
Smiling at the older lady behind the counter, the ranger asked, “Coffee?”
“In the back hun,” came the gravelly voice. “Along that wall,” she pointed.
Zach found the two-bur
ner machine, containing a single pot half full. After taking a sniff and finding the contents bitter but acceptable, he extracted two Styrofoam cups from the stack and proceeded to pour the dark liquid.
Sam’s received artificial sweetener, his own two small buckets of fake cream. The ranger was just stirring the potion when she appeared at his side.
“The restrooms were nice and clean,” she announced, watching him throw the plastic sticks into the bin. “Did you ask for directions yet?”
“Nope. I wanted to get the last of this coffee before it morphed into road tar. I’m sure the lady at the counter can help us find our way.”
The couple headed back for the front, Sam taking a minor detour to examine an offering of candy bars and gum. She selected the latter; after all, minty freshness might be valuable if she found herself a guest of the county.
“That’ll be $5.80,” announced the clerk after making the register beep several times.
Producing a significant wad of cash, Zach inquired, “Could you tell us how to reach the antique mall? We saw the signs outside of town.”
“Sure hun, turn right out on Main and then take the second road to the right. You can’t miss it.”
After returning to the car, Zach indicated the street behind them with a tilt of his head, “Did you notice we now have the attention of two law enforcement officers?”
“Of course I noticed. Hell, I’m not blind. But in a way, I don’t blame them. You are a pretty shifty looking character. If you rolled into my town, I’d double up my manpower, too.”
Chuckling, Zach shifted the car in reverse and announced, “Let’s go antique shopping, darling. One of my favorite activities in the whole, wide world.”
“I can’t wait, hun.”
As anticipated, the cops followed the undercover rangers, maintaining a reasonable distance. Zach was as careful as a driving school instructor with a vehicle full of recruits, coming to a complete stop at every intersection, making sure to stay well within the bounds of all traffic laws.