Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  He was 17 when he’d learned of his father’s once lofty position and eventual fate. Until that time, his family had always claimed the elder al-Shaar had died in the Yom Kipper war. Details were far and few between, timelines and facts often hazy at best.

  “Your father was a great man,” was all his uncle would say, gazing off into the distance with a look of pain every time the subject was broached.

  In reality, it was two years later when the nightmares began in earnest. After learning of his father’s execution, Ghost had started digging, prying open the few available sources of information regarding his family.

  It seems the King of Syria hadn’t been satisfied with merely executing one of his officers. No, in a fit of rage over his army’s defeat, Assad had ordered the murder of the entire al-Shaar clan.

  With a sequence of events rivaling the Christian Bible’s story of Moses, the first son of Colonel al-Shaar had been smuggled out of Damascus, eventually landing on the island of Cypress in a great-uncle’s care.

  Ghost’s adoptive family had treated him as one of their own, providing an even-handed environment and solid education. But they had always hidden the truth, never explaining what had actually happened to his family.

  After discovering the actual history of his bloodline, Ghost had reacted with a burst of hot-headed, rebellious emotion. His soul demanded revenge, his heart craved retribution. But how do you strike at a king? How do you extract vengeance upon an army?

  Some inner intellect took over, no doubt saving the reckless young Arab’s life. Realizing he had no skills, experience, or connections with which to inflict revenge on his enemies, Ghost decided to make a radical, life-altering decision. He joined the French Foreign Legion.

  The training was brutal, the equipment second class, the assignments often bordering on suicidal. Ghost ate it up like honey on sweetbread.

  He learned about explosives, small unit tactics, unarmed combat, and most importantly, discipline. Given he was a native Arab speaker with more than a casual grasp of Farsi, the French intelligence apparatus provided even more opportunity to the young warrior.

  One of the most alluring aspects of the Legion was that all successfully serving volunteers could request a French passport under any name they desired. Ghost, with long-term plans of retaliation, needed to hide his true identity and family name.

  After eight years, he left his fellow Legionaries and reentered the civilian world. The Americans were just completing Saddam Hussein’s deposition, and firms like Blackwater, Triple Canopy, and Aegis were hiring men with unique skills and impressive military records. The pay was excellent, especially for a Frenchman who spoke like a native.

  Ghost always claimed to be from Morocco, which passed muster for all but the most intensive background checks. With his olive complexion, dark features, and excellent command of the French language, he was a natural fit.

  For a while, he worked for the British against Al Qaeda before switching sides. During the insurgency and resulting chaos that was Iraq, he received paychecks from Hezbollah, the U.S. State Department, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, and a variety of intelligence agencies.

  Long before any of his colleagues, he knew America was going to win in the short term and hedged his contracts in that direction. Throughout it all, he marshaled both cash and connections, receiving an advanced education in Middle Eastern covert ops and the governmental workings of all involved.

  It was a war chest with a single goal in mind – extract revenge on the Syrian regime.

  Slowly, cautiously, he began the campaign. There was the sabotage of a key oil pipeline, information sold to the Israelis that resulted in the capture of a Syrian intelligence cell, and a string of mysterious disappearances involving agents of the king’s secret police.

  One of the now-retired, elderly generals who pronounced his father a traitor was murdered in his sleep. The two henchmen who killed his mother and siblings vanished without a trace.

  Bit by bit, act by act, Ghost inflicted pain on his nemesis without letting the enemy know they were under attack.

  After some years, the realization of the Arab Spring was a blessing from Allah. Already growing impatient with nipping and nibbling at the king’s heels, Ghost had gotten sloppy and nearly been caught in a recent operation.

  As he watched the uprising in Egypt unfold, he quickly developed a new strategy.

  In Syria, “the movement,” soon had a strong ally. Ghost began channeling his efforts, flaming the fires of rebellion against his arch nemesis, the bloodline of the man who had murdered his family.

  As time passed, he became a prominent figure in the background of the revolution, helping with cash, weapons, logistics, and strategy. Throughout it all, Ghost managed to play the game with a deft touch and brilliant execution. All sides thought the shadowy figure was their ally, and that was just fine with the only surviving al-Shaar.

  A light knock on the cabin door sounded. “Sir, we’ve arrived in New Orleans and cleared customs,” the captain’s voice announced. “You are free to disembark at your pleasure.”

  “Thank you, captain,” he replied in accented English. “I’ll be off your ship in 30 minutes.”

  True to his word, Ghost was climbing down the metal stairs that served as a gangplank a short time later. Adjusting the small carry-all hanging from his shoulder and toting an oversized metal briefcase, he turned to stare at the Liberian freighter that had been his home since departing from Italy six days ago. He wouldn’t miss the confined spaces and lackluster mess, but the ocean would always be his friend.

  There were no customs agents waiting for him on the dock below. Only a single car idled at pier #7, parked away from the steady bustle of trucks, forklifts, and dockworkers that plied the Emerald City’s industrial channel.

  Arriving undetected into any country was doable with the necessary resources and connections, he thought, strolling casually toward his transportation. With its massive ports and locked down international airports, traveling within the United States required less effort than most. China was complicated, Russia almost as bad, Israel the worst.

  Entering the backseat, Ghost nodded at the young, swarthy man behind the wheel. The driver was an ISIS recruit, part of a cell that now had a newly arrived commander.

  After acknowledging the non-verbal greeting, the driver pulled the shifter into gear and sped away.

  Several hours later, Ghost was unpacking his belongings at the hotel, his mind already processing each step of what was sure to be one of his easiest assignments in a long time.

  He took a moment and glanced out at the waters of Lake Charles, his new home’s namesake.

  They were the most incompetent group of men Ghost had ever encountered, and that was being kind.

  The night before, he’d purchased two cans of spray paint at a local department store. The designated intersection was only a short walk away from his hotel. It had taken less than 10 seconds to paint the black, flag-shaped rectangle. Then, just as quickly, he added the letters “MP,” in white within the black. Another few moments and the number “11” appeared underneath.

  And then he was rambling across the thoroughfare, one of dozens of revelers and tourists still on the street despite the late hour. After reaching the next block, Ghost turned and admired his artwork. Satisfied no one would notice his message amongst the layers of graffiti that covered practically every horizontal surface along the alley, Ghost continued on his way.

  The black flag signaled ISIS. The “MP” stood for Millennium Park, a public space bordering the eastern edge of the lake. The “11” was the hour.

  At the designated time, Ghost ventured to his sixth floor hotel window, observing his new lineup as the disparate and obviously unskilled crew gathered. Shaking his head in disbelief, his rage first simmered… eventually reaching a rolling boil… so much so that he considered alerting the American authorities himself. After all, he concluded, Homeland Security probably already has these idiots on their
radar.

  One of his “team” talked openly on a cell phone while he waited. Another used an ATM machine across the street. A third parked his car nearby, flirting with two women as they strolled along the sidewalk.

  Shaking his head, the new team leader reevaluated his prediction of an easy assignment, as well as his billing rate. This ragtag group of spoiled adolescents was going to get him killed.

  Only the Mexican showed any sign of tradecraft or street sense. It took Ghost almost 15 minutes to spot the sole non-Arab member of the local ISIS organization. “That makes sense,” he mumbled from the balcony. “He’s like me, in this for the money, a professional.”

  A full half hour after the arranged meeting time, Ghost walked through the square, a plain, black baseball hat on his head, the air feeling strange against a face that was clean-shaven for the first time in over 30 years. Beards, a warning indicator for every major intelligence service in the world, were now forbidden by orders of the ISIS council.

  They spotted him, the tall, thin man with the black hat, just as they had been briefed. They shadowed him.

  Ghost continued down the street, watching in the storefront glass as the line of ducklings followed its mother for two blocks. He was also scanning for any others who might be paying just a bit too much attention to their gathering.

  He entered a small bar, smiled at the older man behind the counter, and then headed toward the restrooms at the back. Instead of opening the door labeled, “Men,” he exited into an alley and waited.

  “Hand me every fucking cell phone, laptop, and homing beacon on your persons,” he ordered as soon as the gaggle of ducklings had all arrived. One by one, each man complied.

  To say that his team was shocked when Ghost began smashing each phone under the heel of his boot was an understatement. “Let that be our first lesson of the day,” he hissed. “If any of you ever meet me again with a mobile device, I’ll slit your throats and dump your carcass in the nearest Bayou. Now pick them up. Littering is illegal.”

  The man who used the ATM began to protest, the words, “Who the fuck do you think you…” making it out of his mouth before the wedge of Ghost’s hand slammed into the complainer’s Adam’s apple. The blow had been measured, but only because disposing of a body would delay the schedule.

  Down plunged the grumbler, dropping to his knees as the searing pain overwhelmed the fellow’s nervous system. By the time he drew a breath, Ghost’s knife was at his throat. “I am three times your better as a man. I am your father, master, and lord,” he rasped in a low whisper. “Challenge me anytime you wish, but first you better have your affairs on this earth in order. I have sent more than I can remember to meet Allah, and yet my arms suffer little fatigue.”

  Making eye contact with the rest of the assembly, Ghost continued. “Not that it matters all that much. You are sloppy, haphazard, ignorant, and sure to meet your God without any violence from my hands,” he stated coldly. “Your only chance of living through the next few months depends on your ears absorbing my instructions and your heart being pledged to this cause.”

  And then he did something completely unexpected. With a kind smile, Ghost bent and helped up the man he just waylaid. “There, my friend, are our differences past us now? I must say, you have some fortitude. Most men would have cried out in pain after such a blow.”

  As the shocked onlookers watched, Ghost mothered and nursed his victim, making sure the man’s larynx was unharmed, listening to his breathing, and generally making amends. Only the Mexican smiled knowingly, recognizing fundamental leadership in its most primitive form.

  Ghost then motioned his crew inside the bar and made for a large, dark table in the back. “From now on, you will not carry cell phones to any meetings or assignment. Even if the battery is removed, the Western intelligence agencies can track your location. If I catch anyone with a tablet computer, mobile phone, or any other device with Bluetooth, wireless com, or internet connection, I will kill you immediately without warning. Do you understand?”

  The new team leader’s grave eyes shifted around the table, taking in each man’s nod.

  “Furthermore, doing stupid things that can identify your location will not be tolerated. I’m speaking of using a bank machine, flirting with females, ordering food with a credit card, or any other activity that draws attention.”

  Again, he paused, making sure every seated man acknowledged his instructions.

  “Our job is quite simple. With basic discipline and tradecraft, we should be able to execute our defined tasks with minimal danger to ourselves or our benefactors.”

  Before Ghost could continue, one of the men spoke. “Do you come from the homeland? Is the caliphate really doing as well as the internet would have us believe?”

  The question drew a frown from Ghost, but that was the extent of his reaction. “I will answer both of those questions in a moment. First, there are certain words and phrases we will never use again. You will never say, write, text, email, or even whisper the words caliphate, ISIS, IS, ISIL, jihad, counterfeit, prophet, or any other phrase that would associate us with the situation in Syrian and Iraq. It only takes one listening device or curious ear to bring the authorities down on our operation. Is that understood?”

  After making sure everyone was clear about his wishes, Ghost answered the questions. “Yes, I was in the homeland less than 10 days ago. As far as the success of the cause, I can tell you for certain that territory is being absorbed, and brave men are joining our ranks every day. But the real indicator is my presence and your cell being activated. Doesn’t that prove that our comrades are taking the fight to the Americans? Isn’t that proof that the battlefield is expanding to a global cause?”

  The remarks brought smiles and nods from the seated group, all but the Mexican excited to hear the news. Everyone loves a winner, Ghost conceded.

  Letting the mini-celebration atmosphere linger for a few moments before continuing, the newly arrived leader used the uplifting event to study his team. The Mexican had a question. “Sir, what exactly is our new assignment?”

  Nodding, Ghost explained, “We are going to continue our campaign against Texas, but our methods are about to become far more damaging.”

  “Finally,” spouted the man next to the Mexican. “I’m so tired of wasting time. I want to make Texas pay for helping Assad. Are we going to smuggle explosives? Nuclear waste? Biological weapons?”

  “No,” Ghost grinned, encouraged by the man’s enthusiasm. “We’re going to do far worse than that. We’re going to hit them where it hurts the most – we’re going to party like rocks stars, as the Americans say.”

  “What?” a surprised chorus of voices chimed.

  “You heard me. You will be informed of the details when the time is right. We are going to damage our enemy, but not in the traditional way.”

  “But what good will that do?” asked the youngest of the group. “It doesn’t reduce their numbers. It won’t stop them from supporting our enemies and bearing false witness against the prophet.”

  Like a snake’s strike, Ghost’s arm uncoiled, slapping the objector hard across the face, practically knocking him off the chair.

  Fire flashed behind the victim’s eyes, but before he could blink away the sting, he was peering at the point of Ghost’s knife. “You spoke a forbidden word,” growled the obviously livid leader. “Were it not for your impetuous youth, I would have already slaughtered you. No more warnings.”

  No one spoke for several moments, all of them stunned by the speed and harshness of Ghost’s discipline. “Listen to me,” he growled, “and listen closely. You must all learn to be Americans. At all costs, you must blend in, be unnoticeable, anonymous, and remain under the electronic radar. How many Yanks do you hear speaking like our young friend here? How many average citizens say such words? An overheard conversation… a slip of the tongue… these are the things that will kill you.”

  This time, several of the men nodded in agreement, casting disconce
rting looks at their guilty comrade. Ghost continued, “Now, I could care less about your lives. My heart carries more compassion for my dog than for all of you combined. But your discovery will lead the authorities to me, and I’m not ready to become a martyr just yet. Any breach of discipline is a threat to my life, and I will murder to defend myself.”

  The conference lasted another 30 minutes, Ghost doing most of the talking. The business of terrorism was like any other, requiring logistics, payroll, facilities, and communication. They would gather again in two days, each man with a series of assignments and deliverables.

  As the team rose to leave, Ghost made eye contact with the Mexican, a silent exchange that informed the non-Arab he was to remain behind and have a private word with the new management.

  “I know so little about you,” Ghost began after all the others had shuffled out of the bar.

  The Latino shrugged, “What do you wish to know?”

  “A little… a lot… enough to have confidence in who I’m dealing with,” Ghost smirked.

  “My story is straightforward enough and has been verified. I worked for the cartels for many years. I’ve been a collector, guide, coyote, and enforcer. When Texas seceded, much of our business dried up. Your people were looking for someone who knew how to penetrate the border. In 18 years, I was never caught, and I never lost a single shipment.”

  Ghost digested the man’s response for a few moments, already having been briefed on each team member’s background while still in Syria. He then asked the most pressing question of the afternoon, “What do you think of the team?”

  The Mexican seemed surprised by the inquiry, his normally neutral expression wrinkling into a frown. With a shrug, he responded, “They are not the worst, but they are far from the best I’ve worked with.”

  It was clear to the Arab that his new friend had more on his mind but was hesitating to continue. “Go on,” Ghost prodded. “You are my second in command. There must be honesty between us.”

  “As you’ve already discovered, they are too cocky. They’re convinced of the superiority of their cause… and their God… and they do not fear death. This arrogance concerns me. Every time I take them out into the field, they walk and talk like they are superman or some shit. I prefer to work with men who have a healthy respect for death, as well as those who oppose us. The Texans may be infidels, but they are not to be underestimated.”