by Milam,Vince
“With the armor of God!” Luke said, animated.
“We rely on God’s power, not our own!” Jude added.
“We pray in perseverance and holiness. Make our appeal to God!” Francois said.
“The power of scripture!”
“The Word!”
“The righteousness of Great God Almighty!”
The three sat back and nodded to one other, satisfied. Luke drank coffee and Jude, cognac. Francois lit another smoke.
Jean locked eyes with Cole and said, “Gotcha. You and I can talk later.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. “But I can’t take that back to DHS. No checkbox on the government counterthreat form for power of God.”
Francois shrugged, Luke chuckled, and Jude shook her head.
“So here’s the deal,” Nadine said. “I need information.”
“Information?” Jude asked.
“Yes. Feed me data. Even if only hunches, inclinations. Doesn’t matter. I’ll take it from there. But don’t hold back, right, Francois?”
Francois lifted his snifter, observed it empty, and pointed toward Luke’s still-full glass of cognac. Luke slid it across the table. Hands now filled with a cognac and a smoke, Francois addressed the group.
“Oui. In the secular area, our Nadine is most formidable. Do not doubt her spiritual strength, I must add. But her abilities to seek, to find answers among earthly matters remain—as I believe Monsieur Capellas stated—legendary. Oui. Provide her information, mes amis. Most important.”
“Nadine, can we talk later?” Nick asked.
“No worries, Nick. Everyone, please, please tell me what’s going on. Feelings, thoughts, patterns, you name it. Jude? Luke?”
The pastor and the bishop agreed and the table fell silent—a signal the evening had come to a close. Cole winked at Nadine. She smiled back.
Francois wiped his bushy mustache and raised his snifter of cognac. “If I may be so bold. A toast. To our assemblée. Our group. Our gathering.”
Coffee cups, water glasses, and beer bottles joined the toast.
“To our gathering,” Luke echoed.
“Our band,” Jude said. “A band of believers.”
“Oui. Most apropos. We gather as seekers. May God be with us.”
Chapter 13
A stone-and-mortar coffee house on the edge of Raqqa served as their meeting place. Two naked lightbulbs provided illumination; the small interior offered a collection of wooden chairs and tables scattered across a stone floor that displayed years of accumulated grime.
Uday Masih occupied a dingy corner. He ordered coffee and a hookah for each of his men and instructed the coffee house owner to remove the few other patrons who weren’t part of his core team. The owner, and the other patrons, complied without question.
“A new project,” Masih said, to begin the conversation. “No. More than a project. A new battle, grand and glorious and an extension of our efforts.”
His three prime recruiters and the ISIS technology coordinator nodded with anticipation, looked at each other, and smiled. They waited for the owner to light the hookahs, silent. As the five men drew on the long mouthpieces and produced apple-flavored tobacco smoke, Masih contemplated the majesty and danger of the mission.
The technology assets of the Americans tempered ISIS’s actions. Danger lurked at each web posting, social media discussion, and email transmission. The use of proxy servers and encryption software and the constant changing of computers mitigated the danger. To date, the strategy had proven effective, but this entered a new realm. War of this nature, daily and incessant attacks on America, would bring the full force of the enemy’s assets against the caliphate’s online actions.
“This effort requires the utmost care, my brothers,” Masih continued. “A level of precaution we have yet to use. Need I emphasize this further?”
The gravity of the question brought focused acknowledgement from his team. They would not have forgotten the burning alive of the three previous members of the inner circle. Protocol had been broken—the justice swift and terrible. Such a lesson need not be given twice.
“We shall bring mighty jihad to America.” Masih paused and allowed the statement to settle, be absorbed. Two of his team whispered, “Allahu Akbar!” The other two displayed malicious grins.
Europe had received the glorious wrath of the ISIS caliphate. A grand expansion of war, beyond regional conflicts. Beyond the capture of Syrian and Iraqi territory. Beyond the conversion of captured populations to true believers, and the subsequent actions toward those who did not comply—the slaughter, crucifixions, beheadings, hangings, and stoning. Women and children—both boy and girl—auctioned off as sex slaves. Splendid endeavors—bright and shining and magnificent—but confined to their region of the world.
The attacks in Europe brought even greater glory. Fear and terror spread throughout those lands. The black flag of the caliphate was seared into the minds of European infidels and apostates. Yet the greatest prize remained. Alone, ripe, vulnerable. America.
A single vehicle rumbled past the coffee house and rattled as it hit potholes. The coffee house owner returned to serve the coffee, dark and sweet. Masih gave a dismissive head gesture, then barked at the owner and pointed to a corner’s floor.
Remnants of a Byzantine mosaic, azure and yellow, showed through the grime of the stone floor. Long embedded and ignored by the room’s occupants for centuries, it offended. Art. Art created by nonbelievers.
“Remove this insult. Tomorrow. Have it destroyed,” Masih said.
The owner bowed, mumbled acquiescence, and disappeared through the back door. He would not appear again.
“We have brothers in America. Brothers to do our bidding. They wait. Silent,” Masih said. “And many more there have shown interest in our efforts. Some wish to join us. Join us here for glorious battle. This we know through our social media. Is it not so?”
“Most assuredly, Uday,” one of his recruiters said.
“New contacts daily,” another said. “Many of faith, many others searching. They search for meaning.”
ISIS’s social media communications—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, a variety of forums—went through different servers with each use. Proxy servers, spread worldwide. Paraguay, Italy, Singapore. Slovakia and Nigeria. China, Honduras, Senegal. A different proxy server for each communication, each posting, each video. Proxy servers packed with encryption software. Masih’s team accessed the proxy servers from different laptop computers, changed frequently. And never through a laptop used for the ISIS private internal network. Never.
This system of social media communication allowed uninterrupted service. The enemy’s technology people attacked and hacked but the ever-changing array of ISIS proxy servers around the world kept the system up and running. A game of cat and mouse.
Communications from ISIS headquarters to key and secret members, such as those embedded in Europe and America, were conducted on cell phones. Cell phones used one day, and one day only, then destroyed. All communication originated from the caliphate. The European and American contacts understood the phone number used to communicate with them would disappear by the next day. One-way initiation of calls, and one-time use of the initiating phone number. Always. This kept tracking of calls near impossible and ensured if one of the secret members in Europe or America were captured, that no trails led back to the caliphate’s headquarters. No collection of phone numbers to tie these secret assets together. No common thread. Random. Segregated. Untraceable.
“Each of you,” Masih said and pointed to his three recruiters. “Select one. One Islamic State brother in America. Your most trusted. The most capable.” Masih pulled a folded road map of the United States from his leather pouch and spread it on the table.
“One brother near here,” he said, pointing to the Bay Area of California. “To find seven holy warriors. Seven of absolute commitment. Seven to kill. Seven willing to die.”
His four men exchanged glances, exci
ted, filled with anticipation.
“One here.” His finger slid to the approximate intersection of Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Oklahoma. “To find eight. Eight committed to kill. Dedicated to martyrdom.”
Nods of agreement and wolfish grins.
“And one here.” His finger landed on Washington, D.C. “To identify six. Six warriors of absolute sacrifice.”
“Glorious,” one of his recruiters muttered. “Great and glorious.”
Masih explained the plan. His four men became even more excited at the seven, eight, six configuration of the jihadists. Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim. In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. From the ancient language the letters added to 786. A most auspicious number. Most auspicious. A holy number. “Allahu Akbar!” the IT coordinator blurted. One of the recruiters raised his fist and shook it with exultation.
“786,” Masih said. “Together they create twenty-one. Each of the selected twenty-one to kill one infidel a day. One. At random. This is most important, and they must be instructed. Random deaths. Men, women, children. Kill and move. Each day a different location within their region. Each day. Strike a blow for the caliphate. Kill. Move. Kill again.”
The beauty and magnitude of such a plan draped the room. Masih sat back and drew on his hookah. He allowed his men to contemplate, to dream. So dissimilar, this plan. Not a singular attack, a bomb or massive shootout. Not one horrific incident that left the infidels time to prepare for the next.
A rolling attack, ongoing and daily. Each day a new dawn, ensured killings on the horizon. Terror, fear, and panic would permeate the land. It would cripple America and bring it to its knees. It was war, holy war.
Masih’s men left their reverie, exchanged glances, nodded, and smiled. Their eyes displayed a fervor and passion derived only from such a great mission. Masih allowed his men to chatter among themselves. Excitement and energy flowed.
“A great number of choices among the Americans,” Masih said. “You must instruct the three Islamic State brothers you select in America to find the most committed. The most prepared. Nothing else will do. Is this understood?”
Masih received verbal affirmations. “Communication between the three recruiters you select in America and the twenty-one holy warriors must not take place electronically. Is this understood?”
Again, nods of understanding. “They are to identify prospects through our social media. Locate and talk with the potential warriors in person. Face to face. There shall be no violation of this rule. Need I stress the importance of this?”
“This will be made clear, Uday,” a recruiter said. “A wise approach.” The others gave similar assurances.
Masih drew on his hookah, exhaled two streams of smoke through his nostrils, and raised his hand. Palm inward—a gesture as prelude to an important message. A holy message.
“The divine and vengeful power of which I have spoken before will assist. This force, great and sacred, will promote the proper selection of our twenty-one. This has been assured.” His men did not question the wonder of such a power, for it had helped so often in the past. “Absolute allegiance to the mission, assured. The Telling, the power, has informed me.”
Again, none of the four men questioned or commented. Such power had proven clear and shining and terrible during previous endeavors. Such a power, on their side, provided warmth and surety.
And yet the American enemy, clever and deadly when engaged, must be considered in these activities. Caution and care exercised. The electronic trails covered, hidden.
Masih turned to his IT coordinator. “The twenty-one, once selected. How best to communicate their contact information?”
“But you have instructed, Uday,” a recruiter said. “Instructed us that no electronic communication take place with the twenty-one.”
Masih leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “And so it shall be. Yet I require their contact information. Cell phone contact. To receive a text message. At the appropriate time, I shall instruct them to begin.”
“A danger, Uday. The collection of the contact information,” the IT coordinator said. “I would not recommend it.”
“The phone numbers of these twenty-one holy warriors shall reside with me. With me alone. At the appropriate time, I shall unleash them. Jihad. Holy war. This is my right, my privilege.”
The IT coordinator sat back, smoked, and contemplated. Masih waited. His three recruiters sat silent. One slurped the last of his coffee. The yelps and howls of jackals as they maneuvered the outskirts of Raqqa drifted through the open door.
The IT coordinator placed his hookah stem aside, laid forearms on the table, and pursed his lower lip. “Have the three brothers inside America read out the numbers to these three.” He paused to point at the ISIS recruiters around the table. “The American brothers should purchase a unique cell phone for this one use. And read them aloud. No texts. One number on each call. Or groups of two. No more.”
It was a considered approach, sound and solid. The Americans captured many text messages and numerous voice transmissions. Millions each day. Perhaps billions. Arabic voice recognition software helped identify key words. A spoken phone number, or two, would fail to register with the enemy’s software. A phone number spoken between friends or family and lost in the clutter.
“Each of you will provide me the phone numbers you receive. You will do so on paper. No electronics. Do you three understand this?” Masih asked his recruiters, who confirmed they understood.
“Again, I would add caution,” the IT coordinator said. “Danger lies there. To keep the seven, eight, and six holy warriors segregated would provide the best protection.”
“I shall unleash this great effort, this war against the infidels,” Masih said. “The information shall reside with me. Me alone.”
They reviewed the plan details twice more. Complexities were discussed until a common consciousness formed. Yet the attack, once initiated, so simple, Masih thought. So powerful. So perfect.
“We shall proclaim victory each day jihad is carried out,” Masih said. “We shall proclaim it on our social media platforms and our websites. But withhold the exact number. Do not reveal twenty-one. Leave it to the American imagination. It will multiply tenfold there. Perhaps a hundredfold.”
Masih finished the meeting, and added a final edict. Leaked word of the plan to anyone else—anyone—meant death. Death to each of them. Death to their families. Every member of their families, their line wiped from this earth, forever. An ugly death and bodies displayed for consumption by the public and the flies.
Glorious jihad would soon start. War in America. It would continue until the infidels crumbled, their society frozen with fear. They would seek safety and order and a framework within which to live their lives. The Islamic State would provide this. The Americans stood ripe, ready. Filled with a lack of direction, they wallowed and scuttled through their chaotic lives. They would come to know the correct path. The path of the Islamic State. It would be glorious.
Chapter 14
Cole strolled on the Greenbelt to clear his head. He wore a light windbreaker to protect against the cool breeze, hands in pockets. The river rushed by, the pedestrians and bicyclists sparse, the morning crisp. The previous night’s gathering had cracked open a new perspective. A new reality, filled to the banks with excitement, possibilities, and danger. Strange, strange deal we’ve got here, Lord. Glad I’m a part of it, I suppose. But the rest of us—outside Francois, Jude, and Luke—are bit players, as I figure it. He stared along the Greenbelt path, lost in prayer and thought. Except maybe for her.
Nadine approached, head down, her deliberate pace and focus on the ground indicating a deep-dive mental state. Her ponytail stuck out the back of a blue Boise Broncos ball cap. Jeans, sneakers, and a burgundy fleece jacket completed her attire. Maybe it’s a good time to do a heart-to-heart, he thought. We’ve danced around it too dang long.
Cole stopped and waited. She lifted her head as she approached and smiled a
greeting, which he returned.
“Great day for a walk,” he said.
She stopped a few feet away, and turned to watch the river cascade by. “Gorgeous. I love this spring coolness.”
They stood and listened to the river. Wind rustled through the new leaves of overhead cottonwoods. “Walk with you?” Cole asked.
“Sure. Free country,” she said. They strolled together, a measured pace, close to each other.
“What did you think of last night?” he asked.
“Weird. Wonderful. New ball game. New players.”
“Yeah. Any idea of a game plan? Today, tomorrow?”
Her lack of an immediate response made him glance at her. Nadine’s tongue tip peeked between her lips, an affectation he’d viewed often.
“I saw Francois, Jude, and Luke huddled at breakfast,” she said after a pause. “I suppose we’ll take their lead, and act accordingly. We both know the drill.”
A comfortable silence followed, their pace slow, shafts of morning sunlight cast at irregular intervals across the path.
“We don’t have a lot to say about it,” she added. “You expect me to have answers—that’s usually the case—but I’m feeling a bit left out of this. Those three have the strange gift.”
“Well, they do, for a fact.”
A mallard duck hen waddled across the path, followed by several suitors. They paused to let the entourage pass.
“And I don’t always expect you to have the answers, Nadine. I sure wish I could have supplied more of them. Especially about us.”
They continued along and shared quick glances. “It’s hard for me to discuss,” Cole said.
“Hard for both of us.”
Her cell phone buzzed an incoming email. She retrieved it while they walked, digested the information, and returned the phone to her jacket pocket. “On your left,” came a voice from behind, and Nadine scooted next to him, making room for an older lady to pedal by on her cruiser bicycle. Nadine bumped him as she moved over, and her casual touch caused him to sink with remembrances.