Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  “Master,” she said.

  “Do not call me that!”

  “But—”

  Darkness enveloped him. He swung his hand up, the knife blade cutting the air with a loud whoosh. Ghadab took a step toward the girl, whose body seemed to shrivel before him.

  Rage filled every corner of the room. Ghadab drew his arm back, ready to strike with the knife. The girl closed her eyes. Her lips moved in prayer.

  Something pulled his arm back. The blackness turned to gray, and for a moment there was nothing in the universe but Ghadab and the girl given to him as a slave.

  He could do whatever he wanted and no one would fault him.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

  She stopped mumbling her prayer and opened her eyes.

  “Go ahead,” he prompted. “Where were you born?”

  “Mosul. Iraq.”

  “Your tribe?”

  “Jubar,” she said. “But we are Sunni, my family.”

  Jubar was a large tribe, and a good portion Shia, as she intimated. He considered quizzing her on her beliefs—clearly she expected he would have some doubts, given the way she answered—but her eyes, rimmed with tears, convinced him she was sincere.

  “Why were you made a slave?” he asked.

  “My father and brother fought against the Caliphate. It is my great shame.”

  “Were they brave men?”

  She hesitated. “They were.”

  “Misguided,” prompted Ghadab.

  She didn’t answer. That stubbornness impressed him—she was loyal to her family, a good trait, even in one whose family had sinned.

  “I can please you,” she offered.

  Ghadab laughed. “I don’t want to be pleased. I’m going to give you back to the African.”

  She fell to her knees as if in slow motion. He could guess why—the African would think that she had displeased Ghadab in some way. At best, she would be whipped severely and passed on to another warrior. At worst, death, with unimaginable pain.

  Better to slit her throat himself; it would be more merciful.

  Ghadab looked at the knife in his hand. “Do you know what this is?”

  She didn’t answer. He stepped toward her and put the blade to her chin—gently. With a light touch, he pushed her head up to look at him.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked again.

  “A knife.”

  “Not just a knife. The curved blade?”

  She shuddered.

  “My grandfather ten generations ago was a prince,” Ghadab told her. He closed his eyes and saw the prince riding his stallion across the sands. The image, though borrowed from American cinema, was true to history; Ghadab’s ancestor had led his people against the Portuguese in a failed uprising.

  He was brave, but premature; he did not understand the prophecies as Ghadab did.

  Tears leaked from the girl’s eyes, though she struggled not to sob. Ghadab edged the blade against her neck, pressing very gently, rocking it back and forth.

  So easy to snatch her life.

  He withdrew the knife.

  “I am going to rest,” he told her. “Make sure no one enters.”

  36

  Undisclosed location—around the same time

  Besides fresh intelligence on Ghadab and Daesh, Massina had brought along a few more “goodies”—tools he thought would prove useful for Johansen in his operation. Among them were lightweight bulletproof vests constructed of a carbon-boron compound the engineers dubbed “Bubble Wrap.” The nickname was obvious: the inserts, which took the place of traditional ceramic plates in standard armor, looked exactly like the sort of stuff you wrapped delicate china in before giving it to FedEx.

  “It’ll take a fifty-caliber round to pop them,” Chevy quipped, showing them off to the two dozen members of the unit Johansen had assembled. Most were ex-military men recruited as paramilitary operatives by the CIA; all were on contract through a third-party company rather than being regular Agency employees.

  Plausible deniability if things went to hell.

  “The force will knock you down,” continued Chevy, “and it’ll hurt like a sonofabitch, but you’ll live.”

  Sweater thin, the vest was a spin-off from a survivable demolitions mech; Massina brought two of those along as well. Except for the material they were made of, they looked very much like standard bomb-disposal bots—six-wheeled critters with three arms, each optimized for a different task. One arm featured a soldering iron tip on the “finger” of one of the arms; field tests by the Army on an earlier model had suggested this would help the mechs modify bomb wiring to destroy the bomb in place using the bomb’s own circuitry.

  Far more versatile, though somewhat less durable, was “Peter”—officially RBT PJT 23-A, a bot with autonomous intelligence that Chelsea had led the development on. Unlike purpose-built robots, Peter could be given an assignment—“rescue the little girl from that burning building”—and then decide on his own how to proceed. Though it looked like a walking Erector set—it had four appendages that functioned as legs or arms, depending on the situation—Peter was far closer to humans in his capabilities than any anthropomorphic competitor.

  In the Smart Metal lexicon, mechs and bots differed in that the former were designed for a specific task and generally had limited native intelligence; the latter were more versatile and, at least to some degree, autonomous. But the line between them constantly shifted and blurred, and the terms were becoming interchangeable even within the company.

  UAVs were the aerial equivalent of the bots and mechs. Besides the ones that had been used in the morning exercise—Destiny, Hum, and Nightbird—Smart Metal had provided an aircraft small enough to be hidden in the palm of a hand. Made of metal, it looked like a boxy, twin-tailed paper airplane, with a micro-sized engine and a small propeller at the rear of the stubby body. Powered by a battery and launched with a heave, it could stay aloft for a little over ten minutes and was designed to provide immediate tactical video, relayed to a personal or central link. They called it “Stubby”—these were engineers, not poets.

  The CIA had its own goodies, including the Tasers or “Nerf guns.” Johansen would also “borrow” feeds from military assets already in theater—which basically meant Global Hawks, the large UAVs that functioned as spy planes. The team would use a new com system tweaked by Massina’s engineers to seamlessly interface with transmissions and feeds in a variety of formats. They had also tweaked a portable Arabic translator, making it small enough to fit into an earbud.

  Briefing nearly done, Johansen asked Massina to take the floor.

  “I just want you all to know how much we appreciate what you’re doing,” he said. “All of Boston is behind you. Godspeed.”

  This is a strange place I’ve reached, Massina thought as the audience applauded. Not one I could have imagined a year ago.

  “You ready?” Johnny asked Chelsea as she rose.

  “I’m just going to go to bed.”

  “I meant for tomorrow. For everything.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “I’m pretty excited,” he told her. “I feel like we’re really doing something.”

  She looked at him as if he’d just spoken in tongues and couldn’t decipher his meaning.

  “I’m going to get some rest,” she said. “You should, too.”

  “Come out with us,” he said. “We’re going into town.”

  “Thanks. But no.” She squeezed his forearm gently, then walked away.

  Massina followed Johansen down a hallway whose rough stone walls wore the marks of the machine that had bored them. The CIA officer stopped in front of a closed door and put his palm on a glass plate near the handle. A numbered keyboard appeared when he removed his hand; he punched a code and the door slid open, revealing a paneled lounge that would not have been out of place in a fancy hotel. An elaborate bar made of maple and exotic inlays stood along one wall. Tables covered with thick white tablecloth
s stood at intervals around the room.

  “Looks like a nightclub,” said Massina.

  “We needed a place to entertain the VIPs,” said Johansen apologetically, leading Massina to the bar. He reached down and retrieved a bottle of Aberlour Scotch.

  “None for me,” said Massina.

  “Hungry?”

  “No thanks.”

  Johansen filled a highball glass halfway. “We really appreciate your help,” he told Massina, swirling the liquor gently. “Everything.”

  “We’ll help in any way we can.”

  Johansen savored a sip.

  “Your unit tracking Ghadab,” he said pointedly. “I thought you were shutting that down.”

  “We are.”

  “Because we don’t want him knowing what we’re up to.”

  “I understand. I want to help you get this bastard,” added Massina. “I’ll do anything I can.”

  “You’ve done a lot. More than enough.”

  “We can do more.”

  “Some people in the Agency—” Johansen stopped short, then took another sip of the Scotch.

  “Some people what?”

  “You’ve been very outspoken.” Johansen was making an effort to keep his voice neutral; Massina felt patronized. “I think it would be better if you just took a step back.”

  “Why?”

  “Just . . . you shouldn’t be out front on this. Take it down a notch. Two notches,” added Johansen. “Seriously, anything you say—maybe it jeopardizes the mission on the ground.”

  “How?”

  “Back here. It’s complicated.” Johansen drained the glass.

  “You want me to shut up?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “How would you put it?”

  “Your appearances in the media—they draw attention. You don’t want that.”

  “That’s true. I don’t.” Massina rose.

  “Sure you won’t have a drink?”

  “Positive. I have to go.”

  Chelsea answered the door in her sweats.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Massina said.

  “Just studying my Arabic.” She held up a tablet. “Masa’ alkhayrsmall.”

  “Good evening to you. But you’re slurring a bit.”

  “You speak Arabic?”

  “A few words. Business.”

  “‘Udkhul. Come on in.”

  The room was about the size of a typical business-class hotel room, with similar amenities. There were two upholstered chairs on the far end. Chelsea took one, Massina the other.

  “I wanted to make sure you were OK,” said Massina.

  “OK? Sure.”

  “You can back out. Opt out. No problem.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I just want you to know I’m completely behind you, whatever you do,” he said. “I know this is dangerous.”

  “Did Yuri put you up to this?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You don’t think I can handle it?”

  “No. I just . . . want to make sure.”

  Massina couldn’t find the right words. What were they?

  I don’t want you hurt.

  “I’m going to be way behind the lines.” Chelsea’s tone was insistent, as if she were announcing that the project she was working on would work, despite early results suggesting the opposite.

  “OK. Good.” Massina reached into his pocket. “I brought you something. A watch.”

  It was a Timex knockoff, its main attributes being the ability to show the time in two different time zones and its price: under twenty bucks.

  “It doesn’t just tell the time,” said Massina. “There’s a locator in it. If you’re ever in trouble, remove the thin plastic at the back. Put it somewhere on your skin. It’ll send us a beacon. We’ll use it to locate you.”

  “It’s a transmitter?”

  “No, it’s passive. I don’t have the resources to outfit your entire team,” added Massina. “I’m giving Johnny one, too. If you’re in trouble, alert us. I’ll move heaven and earth to get to you.”

  Neither one of them spoke for a moment, Chelsea looking at the watch, Massina looking at her. The watch contained a rare isotope that could be detected by a commercial mining satellite; removing the film created an electric charge from the skin strong enough to activate a molecular switch that released the shielding. The isotope was ridiculously expensive, and the satellite’s services—only leasable for a full year—exorbitant, but the real roadblock to building more was the switch: it had to be constructed in a specialized lab and took a little more than a week to align properly. Massina had hoped to outfit all of Yuri’s team, but there simply hadn’t been time.

  “Thanks, boss.” Chelsea rose from the chair and hugged him. “Thank you.”

  There were only two bars in the nearest town. Massina found Johnny and his friends in the first one he checked.

  “Hey, boss,” said Johnny loudly. He had to shout to be heard over the blaring country music. “This is my boss,” he announced to the others at the table. “Louis Massina.”

  “Looks like you’re all ready for another round,” said Massina. “I’ll get it.”

  Johnny came over to the bar with him.

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” Massina told him as they waited for the drinks. “And give you something.”

  He handed him a watch. “If you get in trouble, pull the vinyl backing off. We’ll find you.”

  “Do I want to know how it works?” asked Johnny.

  Massina laughed. “Probably not. I don’t have the resources to outfit your entire team,” he added. “But both you and Chelsea have one. So . . .” Unsure what else to say, Massina dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “I have to get back to the plane.”

  “You don’t want a drink?” asked Johnny as he started to leave.

  “I have to get back. Stay safe.”

  37

  Undisclosed location (Arizona)—a few hours later

  The pounding on the door was so loud it sounded like peals of thunder. Chelsea cowered on the bed, knowing that any moment the locks would give way.

  It didn’t happen this way.

  This must be a dream.

  The terrorist barged through the door. Chelsea tried to get up but couldn’t. Arms and legs pinned to the bed, she saw him leaning over, climbing atop her.

  Wake up! Wake up!

  She screamed, and in that moment the nightmare evaporated.

  Alone in the room, embarrassed, Chelsea sat up and curled her arms around her chest. She listened for a long minute, afraid someone had heard her. But there was nothing.

  It was only a little after nine at night. Most of the team was probably still out drinking.

  “Should have gone with Johnny,” she said to the empty room. “Should have gone.”

  Her sweatshirt was soaked with sweat and needed to be changed. She slipped out of bed, pulling the shirt over her head as she walked to the dresser. As she bent down she remembered she’d already packed; all her clothes except what she was wearing and what she’d wear tomorrow were in the duffel bag by the door.

  Naked, she crawled back under the covers, willing herself back to sleep.

  38

  Palmyra, Syria—five days later

  Two weeks into their planning sessions, Ghadab sensed that his team had become complacent, even lazy. Ghadab himself had done the hard work two years before, planting deep agents, arranging for young devotees to infiltrate college programs, getting everyone in place. There was much left to do—security routines to be investigated, money to be moved, sleeper cells to be reactivated—but his team here seemed nonchalant, unfocused. They argued among themselves over petty things. Worse, several were spending inordinate hours at the cafés in town. So far as he knew, none were violating the law—if he had even suspected any of drinking alcohol, punishment would have been swift and final. But they lacked the discipline a successful operation required.

 
And so he planned an exercise in a desert village a few miles south of Dar al’Abid as Sud. Perched on the lowest slope of the mountains, the handful of buildings were grouped around what in ancient times was probably a river, but now was just an indentation in the scrubland. Government troops had recently moved through the village, setting up outposts along the highway to the east, between the settlement and Palmyra. It was roughly eighty miles away from his bunker, if they could have traveled in a straight line.

  That, of course, wasn’t possible.

  His men assembled at one in the morning, woken personally by Ghadab.

  “We are having an adventure,” he told the few who dared ask why they were being summoned.

  They boarded four pickups commandeered from local citizens. Using Caliphate vehicles would have entailed a requisition and unnecessary questions and even possibly interference, and Ghadab had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with such trivialities. It was far easier to walk up to the owner in the market and tell him that the truck would be returned in a few days, with a full tank of gas as payment.

  No one argued. He didn’t even have to show his gun, though one or two did glance at his knife—he’d bought a fine sheath for the khanjar and hung it from his belt.

  They drove on the highway for an hour, following Ghadab, before he veered off five miles short of the government checkpoint. He drove another ten miles southwest over the desert, doing his best to avoid the worst of the dunes and pits as he followed his instincts and a GPS unit he’d bought at the bazaar. The dim light revealed a succession of landmarks he’d memorized the night before; finally, he came to a wide, flat plain with loose sand and stopped.

  The rest of his team gathered in a semicircle around him.

  “The village of Hum lies in that direction,” he told them as they got out of the trucks, “ten miles. It is filled with apostates and nonbelievers. They are Shia, and they welcomed the blasphemer’s army. We will show them what happens to such sinners. Here is a map of the place.”

  Ghadab unfolded a paper image of the place from Google Earth that he had printed earlier. A pumping station sat at one end of the village; before the war it had supplied water for the modest farms on the southern end of town. “How do we punish these apostates? What are the steps?”