Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  “Looks like she might be packing something else,” Rip said.

  They laughed. The routine ended to applause and hoots from the Asian and Russian contingents at tables behind them. Then a delicate, very young-looking woman came out carrying a birthday cake with sparkler candles. The women sang an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” to Akil.

  Afterward, the Russian dancers sat with them. They didn’t speak English, so the conversation was awkward, but everyone seemed to have a good time.

  Chapter Nine

  Write on my gravestone: Infidel, Traitor. Infidel to every church that compromises with wrong; traitor to every government that oppresses the people.

  —Wendell Phillips

  From his position high atop the reviewing stand, Sheikh al-Sufi looked over the heads of the thousands of residents of Raqqa who had been summoned to the traffic circle in front of the Raqqa Museum in the city’s al-Mukhtaita industrial district. The three-story museum had once housed antiquities from the region, including a large collection of pottery from the Ayyubid dynasty of the twelfth century led by Sultan Saladin.

  Months ago, the sheikh had ordered the destruction of much of the colorful underglazed painted ceramics and inlaid metalwork, because he viewed them as the idols of devil-worshipping Assyrians and Akkadins, who made sacrifices to the gods of rain, agriculture, and war. He was following the example of Mohammad, who after capturing the holy city of Mecca in 629, ordered the demolition of the cult statues kept inside the Kaaba—“reducing them to fragments,” according to the Quran.

  Today’s assembly wasn’t about history or destroying statues and idols. It was about punishing activities that shamed Allah.

  Hundreds of ISIS militants, dressed head-to-toe in black, waited in the adjoining streets and alleys in case of a Coalition or Assad government air attack. They manned Russian-made DShK and ZU-23-2 Sergey antiaircraft guns, Russian-made shoulder-fired 9K32 Strela-2 missiles, and American-made FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missiles. Lookouts searched the skies for drones and jets.

  Meanwhile, ISIS special religious police checked to see that all females in attendance were accompanied by male escorts and wore the required two black gowns to hide their body shape, black gloves, and three black veils. Those who didn’t or smelled of perfume were led away to a nearby prison for punishment.

  The crowd faced a platform that had been erected in front of the five-story Governant Building catercorner to the museum. That’s where al-Sufi stood with his lieutenants listening to a speech by Imam Abu Anau Zabas, who recited the seven articles of faith (imān): belief in the Oneness of God, the angels, the Sacred Scriptures, the messengers of God, the Last Day, destiny coming from God—whether good or bad—and resurrection after death.

  The imam explained passionately that God (Allah) was the sole creator of the universe and its absolute controller and regulator, and how everything in the universe had a predetermined course (al-qadar). “Nothing can happen without God willing it and knowing it,” he said.

  Then he related the story of the city of Sodom on the western shore of the Dead Sea, whose residents robbed and killed travelers, and the men had sex with men instead of women.

  “At the height of their crimes and sins,” Imam Zabas said, “Allah revealed himself to the Prophet Lut and told him to summon the people to give up their indecent behavior. Lut warned them of Allah’s punishment. He asked, ‘Will you not fear Allah and obey him?’”

  As the Imam spoke, al-Sufi’s thoughts drifted to his two deceased sons—Mustafa and Jamir. Both died before they reached the age of twenty—Mustafa as a result of a U.S. air strike on their hometown of Tikrit during the invasion, and Jamir while fighting U.S. Marines during the Battle of Fallujah in 2004.

  He remembered two dark-eyed boys chasing each other across the red tile floor of their house and sitting in his lap as he told them stories about their grandfather—a hero of the 1980 war with Iran.

  They were good boys, filled with spirit, and both loved chocolate ice cream. Now they were martyrs living in the gardens of heaven.

  A profound sadness came over Sheikh al-Sufi as militants fired guns in the air and all attention turned to the roof of a five-story building behind him. A hush came over the crowd. Militants wearing black hoods escorted four young prisoners in orange jumpsuits onto the flat roof. The men’s heads had been shaved and black bandanas tied over their eyes. One, with long legs and narrow shoulders, resembled Mustafa.

  Crows cawed from rooftops. Pigeons circled in the air.

  “Nothing is lost. Nothing is forgotten,” Imam Zabas declared. “Allah sees and is all.”

  Large black Islamic State flags flapped in the breeze as militants led the prisoners to the edge of the flat roof and forced them to their knees. All of this was captured on videotape by other militants with cameras—footage that would later be distributed through ISIS propaganda networks and posted on jihadist websites.

  The imam, his voice cracking with emotion, read a passage from the Quran through the PA system. “‘As a prophet of God, Lut said to his people: Will you commit lewdness such as no people in creation ever committed before you? For you come to lust in men in preference to women. No, you are indeed people transgressing beyond bounds.’”

  There was a long moment of silence. The old imam’s knees started to buckle and he was helped into a plastic chair. Sheikh al-Sufi thought he could hear the thousands of hearts beating together like a single drum.

  Two militants came up behind the first kneeling prisoner and pushed him off the roof. The sinner pitched forward, flipped over twice, and hit the pavement with a violent snapping sound. The thousands of men and women applauded and cheered in triumph as though they were at a soccer match and their team had just scored the winning goal.

  The rapturous applause filled al-Sufi’s chest with pride. Tears filled his eyes as he remembered his sons and longed for the day they would meet again in the gardens of paradise. “‘For those who have faith and work righteousness, they are the companions of the Garden. Therein shall they abide forever…’” he muttered.

  Three more times, a condemned man was pushed over the roof, and three more times the crowd exploded with applause and al-Sufi’s chest filled with pride.

  Then at the moment of sunset (Maghrib), everyone in the plaza turned to face Mecca, went to their knees and prayed, ignoring the four twisted, broken bodies that would later be picked apart by rats and vultures as a reminder of their indiscretion to God.

  Crocker sat in a little room in the base communication center talking over a secure line with his commander, Captain Sutter, who was at ST-6 HQ camp in Dam Neck, a few miles south of Virginia Beach. A cold wind howled outside.

  “I think you know what this is about,” Sutter said.

  Crocker saw a prompt on his cell phone indicating that Séverine was calling. He wanted to talk to her, but couldn’t now.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you and your men have been in the field more than three months without a break,” his commander continued. “I assume you know what that means.”

  Before this assignment to Kurdistan, Black Cell had spent six weeks in Yemen training forces from Saudi Arabia and units from other Arab countries who were fighting al-Qaeda. There they had tested a new JSOC data collection program known as SKOPE, which predicted insurgent movement. Prior to that they had been in eastern Afghanistan going after HVTs (high-value targets) including Ahmed Sufredi Khan, one of the top military commanders of the Taliban. The latter had been a success; the former not so much.

  “Sir, another four to six weeks should give us enough time to wrap up our missions here,” said Crocker.

  “Not in the cards, Chief Warrant,” Sutter countered. “Your time’s up. You’re headed west for R&R and training, now.”

  “Colonel Rastan just informed me that he needs our help in Mosul. The situation there is desperate.”

  “Dammit, Crocker.…” Sutter started, his Kentucky accent sounding thicker than usual. “When
are you gonna get it through your thick head that we’re all accountable to rules and regulations that are put in place for a purpose?”

  “What purpose is that, sir?”

  “To keep guys like you from crossing the line and wandering into stupid and self-destructive situations. Bottom line, you and your men need a break and are coming home.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I know my men better than anyone and they’re good for another four weeks,” Crocker argued. “Besides, what about the mission to eliminate Abu Samir al-Sufi, the Viper? We haven’t started to move on him yet.”

  “The intel on him has never coalesced. He’s somewhere in or around the city of Raqqa, right in the middle of Islamic State headquarters. They’re dug in deep; he’s heavily guarded.”

  “I’ll sit down with Rastan and his men tonight and make a plan,” Crocker countered.

  “Mosul’s the main focus right now.”

  “Then we’ll go to Mosul.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Maybe we hit the Viper now when he doesn’t expect it.”

  “No, get your asses on a plane and come home! An order’s an order. Besides, you need to get acquainted with your new intel team back here, BC-2.”

  “What? We’re not taking our orders from the Agency anymore?” Crocker asked, referring to the CIA.

  “You will continue to receive your missions primarily from them, yes. But the daily stuff…Briefings and updates will be handled differently. When you get here, I’ll explain.”

  Crocker didn’t want to go home, not because he didn’t need the rest. But because home was complicated, and the transition from field to pre-phase (a.k.a. R&R and training) was always a bitch. Besides, he liked the Kurds and wanted to help them.

  “Sir, you hear about all the Yazidi women and children Daesh is holding in prison camps in eastern Syria? Apparently, it’s a real human rights nightmare. Colonel Rastan is planning a raid and wants our help.”

  “Not now!”

  “Sir, is there any way I can talk you out of this?”

  “No, Crocker.”

  “Anything you want from Erbil? A carpet, silver jewelry, a Russian hooker?”

  “Your presence in my office in two days.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  First call Crocker made was to his girlfriend, Cyndi. Calling her a girlfriend could be an exaggeration, because although they’d met a year ago in Las Vegas, he and she had only been together twice since then. Crocker Skyped her whenever he had a chance, and tried to stay involved in her life, even contributing $300 a month to help pay for her daughter Amy’s treatments for a rare blood disease known as Diamond-Blackfan anemia.

  “I hope you’ll find time to visit,” Cyndi gushed upon hearing that he was returning soon.

  “You know I will.”

  Cyndi was a beautiful, talented dancer who usually sounded upbeat, even when she was dealing with problems that included serious knee pain that she was afraid might require surgery and could jeopardize her dancing career with Cirque du Soleil, an alcoholic mother, and a musician ex-husband who was currently in rehab.

  “How’s everything with you? How’s Amy?”

  “Okay. I’m so excited to see you, Tom.”

  He’d researched Diamond-Blackfan and found out it was a genetic abnormality that could result in serious organ damage and delayed growth.

  “Just okay?” he asked, sensing worry in her voice.

  “Well, sorry, but today was kind of…challenging,” Cyndi answered. “Hearing from you—”

  He cut her off. “No reason to be sorry. What’s up?”

  “I saw Amy’s hematologist, who told me the monthly blood transfusions and steroid therapies aren’t working. We’ll find another way.”

  “Not working? What does that mean?”

  “I hate to lay this on you, Tom. You’ve got your own problems.”

  “Tell it to me straight.”

  “It means her body’s still not producing enough healthy red blood cells. And the steroids are messing with her appetite, so she isn’t getting the proper nutrition. She’s supposed to start kindergarten in September, and…”

  Cyndi had the heart of an angel, and the tenacity of a pit bull.

  “Are there any other courses of treatment besides blood transfusions and steroids?” Crocker asked.

  “There are, but they bring…other…problems.”

  “What?”

  “Seriously, Tom, don’t worry about it. Get home safe.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All right, the treatments are expensive, and my health insurance doesn’t cover them.”

  “What kind of treatments?”

  “The doctor says she might need a bone marrow transplant.”

  “Oh…”

  “And the transplants don’t always work. So before I try anything I want to consult this other hematologist I’ve heard about.”

  “Sound thinking.”

  “Except he isn’t in our network.”

  “Go see him, Cyndi. I’ll pay for it.”

  “That’s so sweet, Tom, but—”

  “Schedule an appointment tomorrow. No excuses.”

  Next, he called his father, who seemed to have recovered fully from the triple bypass surgery of nine months ago. After that, his daughter, Jenny, told him that she’d just moved in with her boyfriend.

  “How’s that going?” Crocker asked.

  “It’s kind of an adjustment for both of us. He’s more of a neat-freak than I am.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He was proud of her. At twenty, she was assistant manager of a restaurant and taking business management classes at junior college. It seemed like a month ago when she was in his lap, asking him to read Goodnight Moon for the ten thousandth time.

  The challenges and concerns of home crowded his head as he sat on the bunk in his wet hooch, checking his e-mail for the first time in a week and a half. An invitation to a Frogs with Hogs motorcycle rally in March, an ST-6 colleague’s wedding in June, a notice about a memorial service for his buddy Suarez, who had died on the mission to North Korea last year, various solicitations from veteran charities and purveyors of ED medication.

  SOS…same old shit…

  He was about to close his laptop when his Viber app starting pinging. Though he didn’t recognize the number, he accepted the call anyway. Séverine’s smiling face appeared on the screen of his laptop with his grizzled visage in the corner. With his salt-and-pepper beard he thought he looked like he could be her father.

  “Hey, Séverine,” he said. “Great to see you. Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier. Where are you camping these days? What’s up?”

  “Am I interrupting something? Is it too late?”

  “No, no.…Not at all. What’s going on?” He saw light curtains in the background and a painting of some kind on the wall.

  “I’m in Istanbul,” she answered. “Luxuriating in a four-star hotel. Please don’t tell anyone, okay? It doesn’t fit my image.” Her French accent was charming. She looked more relaxed than last time he had seen her in Qabusiye.

  “Istanbul…nice. One of my favorite cities.” The last time Crocker was there, he got involved in a firefight with some of Assad’s agents near the Blue Mosque. Taken one out, sent another two to the hospital. He wasn’t sure Turkish authorities would welcome him back.

  “I hitched a ride here with some colleagues,” Séverine explained. “I decided I needed some time off, and some of…what you call…personal care.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant by that. “Good for you. You deserve a break.”

  “I arrived yesterday, you know,” Séverine continued. “Spent the day sightseeing and shopping. I never shop!” She laughed, then covered her mouth. “Maybe I’m a little drunk. Where are you?”

  “Erbil. We leave tomorrow for the States.”

  “That’s good, yes? You like it there?”

  “Erbil or
the States?”

  “Erbil.”

  “Yeah.…I mean, it’s changing all the time. New shopping malls, new restaurants, a brand-new airport…Séverine?” The line went dead.

  She called him right back.

  “It’s so nice to see you again,” she joked.

  “What’s it been? Five seconds? It’s good to see you again, too.” He meant it. She was pretty in an unconventional way, with dark, soulful eyes and a longish nose.

  “I called because I want to thank you again. You were really kind to me in Qabusiye.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He flashed back to the town, the survivors at the town hall, the boy on the stretcher.

  Tonight, Séverine didn’t seem to want to talk about Qabusiye. Instead, she wanted to tell him more about herself. How she’d learned English while living in New York City, moved there with a girlfriend at seventeen, later attended Columbia University and majored in European History, and then she switched to pre-med.

  “You’re way more educated than I am,” Crocker admitted. “I barely made it out of high school. Graduated last in my class. Something I’m not proud of.”

  “But you’ve got real life experience and knowledge, yes?”

  “I guess.”

  “Alors.…You were probably more interested in girls and sex.”

  “Girls, motorcycles, and generally raising hell. Not in that order.”

  “Are you married?” she asked, apropos of nothing.

  “No. But I’m twice divorced.”

  “I was married once, too,” she said, pushing her straight hair off her forehead. “It lasted less than a year. I was completely unhappy. The sex…was terrible.”

  He started to imagine how she’d feel in his arms, then stopped.

  “If the sex was lousy, why’d you bother?” he asked, figuring she was probably fifteen years younger than him.

  “Guilt, naiveté, lack of confidence…” Her smile conveyed a beguiling mix of sadness and longing. “You have to be ready. And you have to be with the right person. N’est-ce pas?”

  “I’m still not ready.” He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, or whether she viewed him as colleague, friend, or possibly something else. “How long have you been with Doctors Without Borders?”