by C. G. Cooper
Over the last two days, he’d met with the Jews on three more occasions. He didn’t necessarily trust them, but understood the benefits of having a common enemy. They’d told him about the attack on the ISIS leadership, their smiles wide as they described the exploits of their countryman. Patient, those Jews, and ruthless.
“That is what we need, Hasan. We need to do what we can to help penetrate their army, hit them in unexpected ways. They must think that the opposition is everywhere,” Timothy had said.
It sounded good at the time, but Hasan had witnessed the retribution ISIS’s new caliph leveled against the Iraqi people. The mass murder at the University of Mosul was only the beginning. No longer were they targeting specific groups; labels didn’t matter. The message was clear: You are either with us or against us.
Hasan had heard of at least three insider attacks, two in local police stations and one in a military outpost. In each case, a supposed ally had turned on his men, slaughtering as many as he could until he was killed himself.
The death toll was rising. Iraqis who’d once turned a blind eye to the atrocities, holding more of an ‘it’s not my problem’ attitude, were now watching ISIS with mounting alarm. There had always been the problem of sectarian violence, Sunni against Shia. Radicals against moderates. Muslims against non-Muslims. The divides were many and had been for as long as humans inhabited the Mesopotamian region.
But the killing of the university students had changed everything. Not only had Christians been killed, so too had foreigners and followers of Islam. ISIS was no longer asking for volunteers, it was join them or die.
It made Hasan wonder how long it would take the fragmented Iraqi population to wake up, or if they ever would. The Kurds knew how to take care of themselves. He’d had enough interaction with the people in the north to know they would fight to the death before they allowed outside forces to take over their land. Hasan knew the Kurds stood the best chance of surviving, having already held off ISIS forces with the help of air support from the Americans and their allies.
It was the rest of Iraq that Hasan worried about. His people. Always fighting. To the eyes of the world, the coalition victory and march through Baghdad in 2003 marked a much-needed change in Iraqi leadership, a triumph to celebrate. While some things changed, the underlining tension did not.
As he made his way to the meet-up with the Israelis, Hasan prayed that his people would put aside their differences, stand as one, or die trying.
Chapter 22
Joint Base Andrews
12:13am, August 15th
Everyone’s gear had been stowed on the C-17 Globemaster III that would be taking them straight into Baghdad. They were scattered against the bulkhead, having plenty of room in the fifty-plus seats. Some of the men were already settling in, blankets and jackets balled up as pillows, headphones plugged in, time to sleep.
MSgt Trent took one last look out the back of the aircraft, taking in a deep breath of American air before the pilots got the bird rolling. He hadn’t planned on leaving U.S. soil again, but Cal’s invitation was too much to resist. This was his family. It was Cal’s father, Col. Stokes, who’d given MSgt Trent a second chance. Spurned by the Marine Corps, it was SSI’s founder who’d hired him and allowed him to regain his honor. He said his thousandth silent thanks to the man who was probably watching them even now, smiling as they departed to fight together.
Cal, Trent, Daniel and Gaucho. There wasn’t a day where they didn’t spend time together. Now they were off to war. Arm in arm. Together. It was humbling for the huge Marine to be with such men, his sense of pride swelling as he prepared himself for what was to come. There were no other people on the planet he would rather shed blood with, possibly die with. Despite his size and strength, Willy Trent cherished sentimentality, never taking his friends for granted. With his heart full, the Marine master sergeant took one more breath of treasured air and turned to join his companions.
As he turned, he caught a set of headlights in the distance out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and squinted. One vehicle morphed into two and then he could make out the small convoy as it neared. Trent walked farther down the ramp and headed out to meet the vehicles. They weren’t expecting visitors.
The two lead vehicles peeled left and right, making room for the armored limousine to pull up to where the plane sat waiting.
Trent smiled and strode out to meet their guests as the Secret Service agents did their thing, securing the area and opening the rear passenger door.
President Zimmer stepped out, followed by Travis Haden and Gen. McMillan.
“Well this is a surprise. Isn’t it past your bedtime, gentlemen?” asked Trent as he joined up with the three.
“We thought we’d come by and see you off,” said the president, shaking Trent’s hand. He looked up fondly. “I couldn’t send you off in harm’s way without saying goodbye.”
“The men will like that, Mr. President.” Trent nodded to Travis and McMillan. “Why don’t we have a little fun with the boys,” said Trent, grinning. He led the way into the aircraft, no one paying attention as they walked up the ramp.
“Surprise inspection, ladies. Drop your cocks and grab your socks!” boomed Trent.
The elite team looked up in surprise, half of them coming to an involuntary position of attention.
“You crazy Marines,” the president said with a smile, patting Trent on the back, making his way to the rest of the men. By now everyone was on their feet in varying levels of confusion.
“I know you’re on your way out, but I wanted to stop by and say good luck,” said Zimmer.
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Cal.
“Yes, I did.” Zimmer met the gaze of the international team. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from guys like Cal and Master Sergeant Trent, it’s that you guys are the tip of the spear. I have a job because you stick your neck out when the rest of the world is content to sit on their asses.”
There were murmurs of agreement, nods and grim smiles.
“I can’t overstate this, gentlemen. What you’re about to do is vitally important. You all know that. Some of you have seen the enemy in previous tours. This time it’s different. You fly off to face the best financed terrorist force in the world. Misguided citizens from around the world defend them and flock to their call. You know the truth.
“I want you to know that I’m behind you, that I’ll do anything I can to make sure you come out victorious. You are warriors of the highest caliber, like the Spartan warriors of old. You’ve come together from across the world, men dedicated to freedom and what is right. Few you may be, but beware the enemy who encounters you on the battlefield. Thank you for your continued sacrifice. Your duty will not be forgotten. Good luck to all of you, and God bless.”
President Zimmer moved down the line, shaking each man’s hand, looking them in the eye with a personal thank you. Finally, he came to Cal, his friend, the man who’d done the most to open the president’s eyes to the dangers of the world and the bravery of its heroes.
“When did you get so eloquent?” asked Cal.
“Lots of practice.”
Zimmer shook Cal’s hand and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Be careful, Cal.”
“I always am.”
“Good luck.”
Cal nodded and watched Zimmer go. Trent joined his fellow Marine as the president’s security force converged and escorted their liege back to his chariot.
“Nice of him to stop by. That’s a good friend right there,” said Trent.
Cal shook his head. “No, Top. That’s a great president.”
Chapter 23
Baghdad, Iraq
3:50am AST, August 16th
Close to twenty-four hours later, Cal and his international team touched down at Baghdad’s airport. They didn’t have to play the customs game. Instead, they were ushered to a small convoy of vehicles waiting on the tarmac. A Marine in utilities met them as they made their way off the Globemast
er.
“Mr. Stokes?” asked the Marine gunnery sergeant.
“That’s me, Gunny.”
“Sir, I’m Gunny Mason. We’ve got vehicles waiting to take you to the embassy.”
“What happened to the helos?”
“They were grounded last night. Someone decided to take pot shots at our birds, so the ambassador decided it was safer to drive you there.”
Cal could tell by the look on the gunny’s face what the Marine thought about the order.
“Lead the way, Gunny.”
Once out of the airport, an escort of Iraqi police pulled in front of them and led the way to the embassy. It was a short ride, the roads nearly empty. You could see the heat in the electric haze, making it look like it was foggy out.
At the embassy gate, the Iraqi police peeled off and went on their way. The embassy vehicles never stopped, pulling straight in, the reinforced doors closing behind them, the Marine guards watching them pass.
They parked in front of a row of nondescript buildings, and Gunny Mason led them to their temporary quarters. The plan was to get a couple hours sleep before meeting with the ambassador. He and the CIA station chief were the only ones they’d be dealing with. The ambassador to Iraq was a holdover from the last president, but Zimmer told Cal he was a pretty good guy.
Sunrise came quickly. Cal yawned as he looked in the mirror, opting not to shave. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. If the ambassador didn’t like the way he looked, screw him.
Cal and Daniel were the only ones going. The rest of the men had been told to get what rest they could. They’d be leaving later that day.
As the Marine sentry guided them to their meeting, Cal looked around at part of the 104-acre embassy. At a cost of nearly $1 billion dollars, the American embassy was the largest of its kind. Opened in 2009, the exact number of people employed varied depending on who you asked. Cal had heard anywhere between 5,000 and 15,000. He was betting on the larger number just by the size of the place and the amount of workers already heading to their jobs.
Cal had heard the news reports detailing the recall of certain diplomatic personnel in light of ISIS’s progress. He knew no fortress was impenetrable, but this one sure looked like it. Patrols, both foot and vehicle mounted, passed them at regular intervals as they walked. Cal knew heads would roll if the new embassy was ever overrun.
They approached the impressive stone structure that looked more like the Pentagon than a diplomatic outpost. The damn thing had to have walls twenty feet thick.
The Marine corporal who’d picked them up from their quarters showed them to a private conference room. He said he’d be waiting outside when they were finished. Cal thanked him as he and Daniel stepped inside.
They were early, and yet two men stood to greet them. One Cal recognized immediately from the picture he’d pulled up on Wikipedia on the flight over. Ambassador Luke Brighton had the air of someone who came from money. A career civil servant, the one-time attorney had an easy smile and silver-streaked brown hair. Cal thought he looked like one of those male actors you saw in financial planning commercials, brilliant teeth and perfect hair.
The other man was his polar opposite. Short where Brighton was tall, and nattily dressed in a mussed tan suit, Rich Isnard looked like he’d run life’s roughest roads. Although he appeared to be in his late fifties, Cal had learned that the man was only in his early forties. Already a legend at Langley, the recovering chain smoker had come highly recommended by the CIA director. “There are few better than Rich,” he’d said.
Ambassador Brighton greeted them with the flourish of a career politician, smiling at Cal like he was a long lost son. Isnard was more reserved, no smile, just penetrating eyes that seemed to take in every bit of the visiting Marines.
They took their seats and Brighton began. “Well, gentlemen, the president had nothing but good things to say about you and your team. While I don’t know the specifics of your mission, I hope we can be of assistance.”
Cal had at first disagreed with Zimmer’s idea of meeting with the American Chief of Mission, but the president had asked for the favor. He wanted Cal to show his face, to the right people, of course. That way, in case there was an incident, there would be more incentive for the CIA and the ambassador to help. Brighton had only been told that Cal’s team was in the country on a surveillance mission, to get a better lock on the ISIS threat.
Rich Isnard, on the other hand, knew everything. He’d be a key link for Cal and his men, if Cal chose to use him. According to the CIA director, not only had Isnard’s staff developed a network of contacts in and around Baghdad, he also had access to resources throughout the country, having personally spent time in Basra and Mosul prior to taking over in Baghdad. If there was anyone who knew Iraq, it was Isnard.
“Thank you, sir,” Cal replied. “Hopefully we won’t be needing anything except a few hot meals and a place to stay. I promise we’ll keep out of your staff’s way.”
Brighton nodded. “Good. Now, if one of you can flip the light switch, I’ll run you through the current situation. Rich, feel free to chime in.”
An hour later, Cal sat back and digested what Brighton had shown them. It was obvious the man knew his stuff, rattling off locations, names and troop strengths like he’d memorized them the night before. Isnard hadn’t interrupted once. He’d opted to listen and watch.
“Any questions, gentlemen?” asked Ambassador Brighton.
“No, sir. Thank you for taking the time to put it together for us. That gives us a good snapshot of what’s going on,” said Cal, anxious to get back to his men.
“It was my pleasure. Hell, I feel like I give the same spiel every day.” The others laughed dutifully, even Isnard. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have breakfast with a Jordanian delegation in ten minutes.”
Brighton rose from his chair, the others following suit. As he went to grab the doorknob, he turned and said, “Have a safe stay in Iraq, Mr. Stokes,” and left the room.
The Marine corporal poked his head in once the ambassador was gone and asked, “Are you ready to head back, sir?”
Cal started to respond, but the CIA station chief spoke first. “I’ll take them back, Corporal. We’ve gotta make a stop on the way.”
“Yes, sir. “ The Marine nodded and closed the door.
“We can find our way back,” said Cal.
Isnard grinned. “What, and miss out on my dime tour? Come on. Let me show you around.”
The CIA man wasn’t joking. He literally gave Cal a tour (Daniel left them to brief the rest of the men), showing him the huge Olympic-sized pool, the PX and even the laundry facility. Cal was starting to think the guy was nuts when he took them up to the rooftop of one of the apartment complexes that housed the embassy employees. Cal had things to do and this guy thought they were in Disney World.
Isnard nodded to a pair of Marines that were doing some kind of inspection, looking out over the Tigris, probably half expecting an incoming round. Once they’d made their way back downstairs, Isnard pulled out an electronic cigarette and took his time clicking it on. After taking a long drag, letting out the thin cloud of vapor, he said, “Andy tells me you’re a good man.”
The comment caught Cal off-guard. “What did you say?”
“Captain Andrews, or should I say Major Andrews, says you’re a good man.”
Marine Major Bartholomew Andrews, Andy to his friends, had served with Cal in the Marine Corps. Andy had been Cal’s platoon commander. They’d fought and almost died together, each earning a Navy Cross for their exploits on the battlefields of Afghanistan and Iraq. The last he’d heard, Andy was at Marine Barracks, 8th & I, leading one of the silent drill platoons.
Cal had honestly been too busy to keep in touch, assuming that his good friend was probably in the same boat.
“When did you see Andy?” asked Cal.
“He came through about a week ago.”
“Isn’t he still at 8th and I?”
Isnard shook
his head. “He’s interning with us.”
Cal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If anyone was going to be a career Marine, it was Andy. Hell, Cal had tried to recruit Andy no less than five times over the last couple years, but Andy stood firm. He wanted to ride out his time in the Corps, continue to lead Marines.
While part of Cal respected him for it, another more cynical part of the former staff sergeant had often wondered how long the warrior would last in the increasingly bureaucratic confines of the Corps. Andy was one hell of an officer, probably the best Cal had ever served with. He could get a high-paying job anywhere he wanted. A natural leader, the guy just got it. Cal found it hard to believe that Andy was planning on going into the CIA. Why hadn’t he called?
“Interning with you? What are you talking about?”
Cal was starting to get pissed. It felt like the spook was toying with him, telling him things he should know but didn’t. A game.
“If you’re wondering why he didn’t tell you, blame me,” said Isnard.
“You’re not making any sense. How about you get to the point. I’ve got things to do.”
Between puffs of nicotine, Isnard said, “Nice attitude, Marine. You’re momma know you’re out playing cowboys and Indians?”
Cal almost cold-cocked the guy. He glared at Isnard, and then noticed the grin creeping out from behind the hard eyes.
“What?”
Isnard rolled up his right sleeve and showed Cal his arm. There was a faded Eagle, Globe and Anchor tattooed on the man’s forearm.
“Corporal Richard Isnard, USMC at your service, jarhead.”
“You prick. I was about to throw you off the roof,” said Cal, but he was smiling now. Marines and their off-color sense of humor.
“So you wanna tell me what Andy was doing here?” asked Cal.
“He’s on his way to Afghanistan. Keep that under your hat.”
“Why did he come through here?”
“Like I was saying, I recruited him. I happened to be at an evening parade at Eight and Eye last year and we got to talking. Not many Navy Cross winners in the Corps, and I was curious. I figured he wasn’t one of those pansy-ass officers and he didn’t think I was one of those too cool for school James Bond types. One thing led to another and he took me up on my offer.”