Moral Imperative

by C. G. Cooper

  Not merely a brute who used force indiscriminately, The Master was cunning, first studying his targets. Where his peers were happy to travel in caravans killing at will, The Master saw the weakness in such tactics. They had to curry the favor of the people through a careful combination of fear and acceptance if their new empire was to be ruled.

  It was inevitable that certain elements would have to be eliminated, but The Master understood that unlike the old days, ISIS could not simply rape and pillage. They did not have a logistics train that could supply them on the move. It was necessary to live off the land, taking what they needed as they traveled. A well destroyed was no longer a well.

  The Master had killed every man in one of his particularly overzealous units. Instead of following his orders, the band had terrorized a key community of government leaders known for its ability to flip sides as the tides turned. The Master saw the officials as a vital part of controlling the town, but they’d been paraded through the streets before being shot and thrown into an open air pit.

  The lesson relayed, the guilty party’s heads now sat atop spikes mounted to his vehicle. No other incidents had occurred without The Master’s specific direction. His word was final.

  “Have you found the priests yet?” asked The Master.

  “Only one, commander,” said the underling, his head bowed in deference.

  “Find the others and bring them to me.”

  The captain knew he was being dismissed and left the compound without another word. There was much to do.

  The Master stood and walked to a map tacked to the wall, portions colored in as they’d moved through their new kingdom. He reached out with a finger and slowly traced a line around the city of Mosul.

  Chapter 6

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  10:20pm, August 11th

  The fire crackled in the stone fire pit, every once in a while letting off a soft hiss from a piece of still wet wood. Bass thumped in the distance, the nearest fraternities mere blocks away. The parties were just getting started, the murmur of students passing by on their way to the beer taps.

  Cal heard none of it. He’d been nursing the same drink for over an hour. He had a lot to think about. Everyone else was either in bed or almost there.

  The president and Gen. McMillan had really thrown him a curve ball. His four months of prodding had worked. He couldn’t believe it. He’d asked for it.

  Thinking back to the meeting in the Commandant’s home earlier that day, he wondered how it would all pan out.

  After introducing him to the room, Gen. McMillan explained what was going to happen.

  “First, thank you all for coming. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t come on the personal invitation of President Zimmer through your countries’ leaders. Now, let’s talk about the situation. The Islamists of ISIS, ISIL, IS, whatever we’re calling them these days, they’re swallowing up vast portions of Iraq and any material they can find. You’ve seen the videos. Some of you have even been on the ground. Coerced religious conversion. Plunder. Mass murder.

  “The bad news is that most world leaders are reluctant to return conventional troops to the region. Hell, we were the ones spearheading the draw-down.” The disgusted look on McMillan’s face showed the room what he really felt about the blanket withdrawal from the Middle East.

  “The good news is that some of us believe it’s time to put away the white gloves and come out swinging. ISIS thinks we won’t answer. That leaves us with the men in this room. Except for yours truly, the rest of you are private citizens, civilian security contractors, military veterans. You received this invitation because it’s time to join efforts, to combine our talents.”

  Cal had looked around the room. There were nods from most. Stern men. Serious operators. The first thing he’d thought when walking into the room was that he was being inducted into some secret warrior society.

  McMillan continued. “You’ve answered the call, and for that you have my thanks. As you may have noticed, you each brought three representatives from your respective countries. President Zimmer and I have been working for months on forming this unofficial coalition. Publicly, none of this exists. If captured, you’re on your own. Unofficially, we’ll do everything we can to provide you with support, and get you out if the need arises. You’ll be supplied with a list of supporting arms and close air assets, much of it coming from our carrier group in the Persian Gulf. That being said, let me introduce the respective leaders in the room.”

  In total, there were five groups, each comprised of three men. Five countries had come to the president’s call.

  The first two groups Cal expected.

  The British contingent was led by Gene Kreyling, a former SAS operator with his left eye patched. He only nodded when introduced.

  The Aussie team leader’s name was Owen Fox, a tall freckle-faced man with a mischievous smile. He looked more surfer than operator, but was apparently a former Australian commando. Cal liked him immediately.

  To Cal’s surprise there was a Japanese contingent led by a wiry guy by the name of Takumi Kokubu. His English was perfect, if a bit clipped, and his mannerisms were proper, like many of the Japanese Cal had met over the years.

  Another revelation, the Bulgarians, were introduced next, the gruffest of the bunch. Their chief, Stojan Valko, stood at ramrod attention as he was introduced, leveling a wary glare at Cal.

  The Italians were led by a man with a cocky grin who bowed to the crowd as if wooing a pretty woman. He looked like he might’ve been more at home giving roses to passing female tourists on the Spanish Steps in Rome. His name was Stefano Moretti, and he reminded Cal of one of those fancy Italian actors who was always sweeping foreign women off their feet in movies. “A pleasure to meet you all,” he’d said eloquently.

  “There will be time for you to get to know each other soon,” said McMillan. “Are there any questions for me?”

  Cal had been the one to ask the obvious question. “General, I’m sure everyone’s wondering, who’s leading our merry band off to war?”

  McMillian answered with a look of amusement. “I’m surprised you hadn’t put it together, Cal, seeing as how you’ve been the one bugging the president about…how did you put it? Getting his hippie ass up and doing something?”

  There were chuckles from the Aussies and Italians. Cal shrugged. “He asked my opinion, General.” It was the truth. Cal had heard enough of the hemming and hawing. Something had to be done about ISIS.

  McMillan looked to the others. “In case you hadn’t figured it out, gentlemen, Cal Stokes will once and always be a United States Marine. Hard to get us knuckle draggers to keep our mouths shut, isn’t it, Cal?”

  Cal had grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me make it official. Cal will lead the American contingent and will be the de facto leader of this merry band of warriors, as Cal so eloquently put it. Anything you need goes through him.”

  Cal could tell by the looks on their faces that the others weren’t happy with the decision. These men were leaders, their countenance said as much. The only people they were used to taking orders from were their own governments.

  “Are there any other questions, gentlemen?” MacMillan asked.

  There were none. Everyone was digesting the news, most leery of the new alliance. It was natural. Cal knew how he would’ve felt had he been in their shoes, but he wasn’t. None of the others could deny that the United States had the best chance of turning the tide. It might take time, but Cal knew he’d prove to them the decision was based on merit, something any good warrior understood. The best man for the job.

  Cal swallowed his last sip of scotch as he walked into the house. He needed sleep. My ass is dragging. He had no idea when he’d get another chance to get a full night’s rest.

  Chapter 7

  Mosul, Iraq

  1:28am, August 12th

  He crept along swiftly, his movement marked only by the slightest sound. A muted shuffle or gravely crunch t
he only things left in his wake. Imperceptible to all but the keenest of ears.

  There was gunfire in the distance, the repeated staccato of automatic weapons. The invaders. Extremist devils.

  Hasan put the thought out of his mind. There would be time to think later. This was a night of mourning. No, not mourning. A celebration of life.

  The outskirts of the city were the most dangerous. Less cover. More patrols. He had to be careful. A prayer escaped his lips as he moved. Lord, guide me…

  It was a small unmarked cemetery. No tombstones. Only the close knit community knew about the sacred spot. It was ringed by boulders in sort of a half moon. Holy ground. The others were waiting, respectfully silent.

  “Welcome, my son,” said the priest, a short man who looked to be in his sixties, his beard pearl white in the soft glow of the moon. Hasan had known Father Paulos since his conversion to Christianity. It was the kind priest who’d baptized Hasan under the proud gaze of his brother.

  “Thank you, Father,” said Hasan, gladly accepting the loving embrace from the church leader.

  “Come. All is prepared.”

  Hasan followed the priest, nodding to the others, four priests and a handful of fellow Christians. There was the youthful Father Yousef, who liked to play soccer in his flowing robes, often besting the neighborhood children with the glee of a toddler. Then there was old Hasem, the one-legged proprietor of a spice shop in the market. He’d lost his family long ago, another purge. He knew loss and looked upon Hasan with knowing eyes.

  They’d already dug the holes and placed the wrapped bodies of his brother and nephews on a bed of lush green grass. Hasan could smell the fresh scent of the newly cut bedding. It reminded him of the days spent swimming and sunbathing with his family on the banks of the Tigris. Good days. Blessed days.

  The others moved closer, hands settling on Hasan’s shoulders and arms. A young boy’s hand wrapped in his, an old woman’s in the other. His people. Sharing in his grief.

  Father Paulos began. “I remember the first time I met Mikhail. He told me a Christian priest shouldn’t walk the streets…”

  Fifteen minutes later the service was over. Hasan cast the first handful of dirt onto each of the three graves. The others did the rest, expertly filling the holes with practiced skill. There had been too many deaths over the years, too many graves.

  Hasan watched as they worked. His tears were gone. His family in his heart. They were close by. He could feel their presence. Mikhail’s gnarled hands on his shoulder, Yazen smiling, holding a soccer ball under his arm. Sweet Dalir tugging his pants leg, trying to get his attention.

  Hasan closed his eyes and smiled, savoring the feeling, thanking God for the vision. The images floated away into the darkness and he opened his eyes.

  “What was that noise?” he whispered to Father Paulos.

  Everyone froze. In his past life, Hasan al-Mawsil was a thief, a gifted street urchin surviving off of his skills as a pickpocket and small time enforcer. His senses, honed from years of skirting the law, aided him now. The others knew to listen.

  “Quick, get the others and go, Father,” he said.

  Father Paulos looked at him and then nodded to his fellow priests. Each produced an American-made assault rifle from under their robes, hanging from tactical slings. Hasan had never seen them armed before. It seemed so out of place.

  “You take the others, Hasan. I will maintain the vigil,” said Father Paulos, handling his weapon as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “But, Father, they are dead and buried. Come with us. You are priests, not warriors. Let me stay,” pleaded Hasan, not wanting his friend to sacrifice himself for the sake of the gravesite. The others were moving, gently urged by the other priests.

  The fatherly head of the church smiled and placed his hand over Hasan’s heart. “There is much love in you, my son. Remember to look to God when you doubt, when all looks lost. He will guide your hand. Listen to Him.”

  “Father—”

  “Go. My brothers will be with you. There has been word from the Americans.”

  “The Americans?” Hasan asked, glancing over the priest’s shoulder. There was light in the distance. Muted shouts. The enemy was closing in.

  “Yes. Now go, Hasan.”

  There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes, only the supreme confidence of a man who’d accepted his fate. Father Paulos turned, weapon in hand, and walked to meet the coming demons. Hasan said a prayer for the man who’d guided him to God. When others had said Hasan should be thrown out of the church, it was Father Paulos who’d defended him, taking him under his tutelage and showing him God’s word. Always patient. Always loving.

  Hasan took one last look at the priest’s fading form, then turned and followed the others.

  +++

  Father Paulos was an Iraqi by birth, but he’d seen much of the world in his youth. Raised in a wealthy family, he’d lived as a playboy might. He’d rebelled and taken his riches for granted. It wasn’t until his mother and father had been killed by a suicide bomber that he’d hit rock bottom. He sat for days in his London hotel room, drinking from an endless supply of room service liquor, his father’s pistol cradled in his lap. Suicide seemed like the only answer.

  On the third day of his binge there was a knock on the door. He’d answered it, surprised to find a young priest standing there with a piece of paper.

  “I’m sorry, is this the Granger suite?” asked the priest in English.

  “No,” he’d moved to close the door, but the priest stopped it with an outstretched hand.

  “I’m supposed to be performing the last rights for a gentlemen on this floor. You wouldn’t know where I might find him, would you?”

  “The Grangers live at the end of the hall,” Paulos had slurred, again trying to shut the door. Still the priest held it.

  “Are you well, son?” asked the priest, pushing into the room.

  Paulos had stood there, wobbling, a pistol hanging in one hand. The priest wasn’t shocked. He only nodded.

  “Give me the gun.”

  For some reason he’d done as the priest had asked, handing the weapon over. The priest had set the pistol on a side table.

  “Come. Help me usher Mr. Granger to the afterlife and then we will talk.”

  Again he listened, even allowing the priest to help him get cleaned up. They’d walked into the Granger suite and Paulos had watched as the priest blessed the dying man, a strange look of serenity lighting the old man’s eyes.

  Father Paulos remembered that look as he marched toward the approaching horde. He didn’t hate them. He pitied them. But that would not keep him from protecting his flock.

  Someone fired three warning shots not five feet from where he stepped. He kept walking.

  “Stay where you are, priest,” came the call, the word priest said like a vile curse.

  Father Paulos felt the light fill him, his body tingled. He began to sing, lifting his weapon and firing a three round burst at his attackers. Then another. There were shouts and they returned fire.

  A bullet hit him in the thigh, making the priest stumble. He willed the pain away, singing to God all the louder, joy blazing in his eyes. Something told him the others had gotten away safely. He could rest easy.

  Suddenly the flare of a high powered light illuminated the lone priest, almost as if God was opening the gates of heaven. Father Paulos knew what was coming but didn’t flinch. He continued his song as the rounds ripped through his body, his life blood pouring from the fatal wounds. As he fell to the ground, the blackness swallowing him, he said a silent prayer for Hasan, that he finally listen to his heart and become a leader for his people.

  Chapter 8

  Camp Cavalier

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  9:28am, August 13th

  Cal watched as the Bulgarians moved through SSI’s elaborate live fire range. They were good. A bit brutish for his taste, but still good. He doubted any of the three, and espe
cially Stojan Valko, felt any pain. He’d probably give the giant MSgt Trent a run for his money.

  Someone blew an air horn, marking the end of the allotted time. The range officer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  Cal made his way over to where the others were prepping. They’d started just after 7am, taking turns as teams of three. He’d gone through two times with Daniel and Gaucho, then once with Daniel and Trent. There’d been some grumbling about Cal’s four man team, but Cal had ignored it. It was his operation and he knew there would be bitching regardless. A leader’s job was to facilitate his commander’s intent; in this case it was the president’s intent.

  Besides, both of his groupings were as fast if not faster than all but the Japanese. The unassuming Takumi Kokubu was a master of swift movement and pinpoint accuracy. Like a ninja. He’d risen more than a few steps in Cal’s estimation. He wondered how the de-weaponized Post World War II Japanese had been able to train such elite warriors.

  As he watched the Bulgarians exit the range, Cal noticed blood on Valko’s face. It must’ve been from when the ballsy bastard ran headfirst through a locked plywood door.

  “You okay?” Cal asked, motioning to his cheek.

  Valko reached up and wiped his face with his hand. He licked some of the blood off of his fingers and walked past Cal without saying a word. Cal chuckled. There was always one hardhead in the bunch. As luck would have it, Cal had more than his share in the testosterone mix of alpha males.

  The Brit, Gene Kreyling, had started it off. Despite the fact that Cal had deferred to the others on how they approached the range time, even letting opposing teams reset the configuration at will, the Brit couldn’t help but complain about the arrangement.

  “Not the way we do it back home,” he’d grumbled.

  Some of his bluster was lost when he watched Cal’s first run through the path Kreyling had designed. Flawless.