by C. G. Cooper
Zimmer’s eyes lightened, a smile appeared where moments before a scowl stood firm.
“To the citizens of the world, I tell you that help is coming. Stand with us. Raise your voices for good. Do what is right, not what is convenient. Help your neighbors. Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”
The president’s voice trailed off. The only sound in the hot room was the clicking of pictures and whirring of video cameras.
“So there it is. You’re either with us or against us. Choose wisely, for as President Teddy Roosevelt once said, It is only through labor and painful effort, by grim energy and resolute courage, that we move on to better things. Thank you for your time, and may God bless you all.”
President Zimmer turned and walked off stage, the roar of the reporters’ questions following him out.
Chapter 30
Mosul, Iraq
4:16pm AST, August 15th
It was almost two hours after the American president’s address that The Master got to see it. The power had been out most of the day along with his internet connection. No doubt the Americans were somehow involved.
He watched Zimmer’s address three times, silent, listening to the man who’d so abruptly taken over the helm of leadership in the land the caliph considered his greatest enemy. The man formerly known as Kiril Valko digested the news without blinking. For months he’d tried to get an indication of what Zimmer’s response might be, what kind of man he was. It wasn’t until today that he got a true sense of Zimmer’s agenda, a glimpse into his soul. Always careful in his planning, Kiril knew ISIS had overstepped. He had planned poorly.
Every detail of the Bagdad operation had been planned with simplicity in mind. He’d learned that years ago when first commanding a group of illiterate peasants who couldn’t read a map, let alone follow a set of complex orders.
Overwhelming force virtually guaranteed their success, but cruel fate stepped in. If the attack on the embassy had gone as planned, nothing else would have mattered. The Americans could bomb them until their dollars were spent and he could care less. It was supposed to be the key to decades of future recruitment around the world, much like the attacks on 9/11. Videos of the death and destruction could be used for years to come. Outposts and strongholds built. Armies raised.
Unfortunately, the Americans had gotten lucky, thwarted his brave warriors and the Iraqi army officers who he’d paid handsomely. Even now the Iraqi colonel tasked with the military parade diversion was being tortured, soon to be within an inch of his life. He’d hidden the millions somewhere, but the interrogator told The Master that the information would soon come. After all, they had the rest of the colonel’s family watching their patriarch, waiting for their turn in the blood drenched cell.
Kiril clicked his laptop closed and inhaled deeply. The reports were coming in from across Iraq and Syria. The Americans and their allies were bombing his brothers, many scurrying for hiding like cowards. If he wasn’t careful, his troops could be decimated. Although he believed those killed would live happy in the afterlife, he couldn’t let it happen. He needed his men if his plan was to succeed.
Establishing the caliphate in the Middle East was important, vitally so, but there were still other things to accomplish. Kiril Valko, Bulgarian by birth but a faithful follower of Allah by reawakening, stood from his chair, raising his hands to the ceiling, eyes cast to the heavens. Guide me in my quest.
+++
Erbil, Iraq
Kurdistan Regional Capital
4:57pm AST, August 15th
Hasan al-Mawsil marveled at the level of advancement in the Kurdish capital. He’d been there many times over the years, each trip finding that many things had changed. In the decade since Saddam’s ouster, a huge influx of international aid, primary American, flowed into the Kurdish stronghold. New buildings rose into the sky on what seemed like a daily basis. Shopping centers and office building housed international corporations that saw the Kurds as valuable allies.
Erbil was prospering despite the infighting in Baghdad and the encroachment of ISIS. The city of 1.5 million residents stood strong against the horde, one of the few bright spots in a tangled web of Iraqi inconsistency and bickering.
Hasan sat in the ancient Citadel of Erbil overlooking the rest of Erbil from its 100-foot plateau. Shaped in a rough circle, the original heart of the city looked like a shallow bowl from the sky. Some said the citadel was the oldest continuously inhabited town in the world. Hasan had heard that only one family remained in residence while the old fort was renovated, cranes and trucks dotting the streets at regular intervals. There was deep history in its stones. Hasan could feel it.
He felt a million miles away from Mosul even though the distance was just over fifty miles. A short drive.
His contacts said the Americans would meet him soon, probably under the cover of darkness, as was their way. It couldn’t happen soon enough.
He’d watched the American president’s address with a mixture of excitement and fear. Hasan knew that if the Americans wanted to do something, they would do it. Their warriors were said to be the best in the world. He’d met many Americans over the years. Most were courteous and humble, people Hasan could respect. Brave like his brother. Who else would fight far from home, death likely every day, all for the freedom of a foreign land?
There were still hours until the appointed time, and Hasan allowed himself to relax for the first time in months, gazing out over the city, waiting for the sunset, and the Americans.
+++
Iraq had experienced it before, the might of the American military, the relentless bombings, the deep thrumming of tremulous explosions. They’d been warned to lay low, allow the attacks to commence, not get in the way. Even now the distant booms from cruise missiles and drone attacks could be heard intermittently. It was beginning.
It would be worse when darkness fell, the invisible specters of high altitude bombers and swooping aircraft dropping their pinpoint payloads. Death dealers in the night.
Much had changed since 2003, but many things had not. The ancient system of cronyism and bribery resurfaced despite the best efforts of America and its allies. It was too entrenched from centuries of corruption. Every day its dark tentacles reached out to ensnare more willing servants. No one was safe, least of all the politicians hidden safely in their compounds, lording over the masses.
But now the American president was saying he would deal with these tainted men, those who sought to suppress freedoms, not just in Iraq, but around the world. It was too hard to believe, that one man could do such a thing. How could he dare it? Would he succeed?
No one knew the American president, this Zimmer, but they were about to find out about his resolve. Iraqis would experience a night filled with the screams of the dying, the last gasps of jihadists, the silence of the dead. The ISIS Passover had begun.
Chapter 31
Outskirts of Mosul, Iraq
2:19am AST, August 16th
Not a light in the sky. Clouds blanketed the area, portending doom. The air was heavy, like something had sucked out the oxygen and replaced it with a lingering breathless fog. These were good things for the small troop moving swiftly through the night. Not a word was said.
Hasan al-Mawsil stopped mid-stride, peering into the darkness with the night vision goggles the American had given him. His breathing measured, Hasan pointed with the index finger of his right hand like the compass of fate directing dark angels to their target.
Still without speaking, the American and his team left Hasan where he stood, fanning out in the night. Soon they were gone from his sight. He sat on a rock and waited, his job finished for the time being.
+++
The tiny village, ten crude homes situated in a rough L pattern, came into view moments later. Daniel had taken point. None of the others argued, each understanding the Marine sniper’s uncanny ability to sniff out danger and point unerringly toward the enemy.
He heard a dog bark in the dist
ance, followed by a loud yelp. Probably a kick from its master. It didn’t come from the village, but farther north, maybe a click away. Noise carried in the desert.
Daniel filed the thought away as he released his grip, allowed himself to slip into the killer, the beast whose primal urges clawed to the surface. He’d tamed it over the years, released it only when needed. Daniel suppressed a growl when he saw the first signs of movement ahead.
Guard, came the thought in his head. Without thinking, he signaled to the men behind him as he unslung the sniper rifle from his back and replaced it with his assault rifle.
Silent as death, only the light scraping of boots on the hard packed earth, the Brits pushed past Daniel. They would breach the perimeter, followed by Cal and the Bulgarians. Daniel and the Aussies would provide overwatch from afar while the rest of the team moved in to support the raid.
A silenced round spat twice, followed by the falling body of the ISIS guard hitting the ground. Daniel moved off to find more prey, the beast eager, panting for blood.
+++
Gene Kreyling checked to make sure the man he’d shot was dead, then followed his man Rango further into the village. A second later, Tango Number Two fell to the ground, three silenced rounds in the face from Rango’s weapon.
The guy from Mosul, Hasan, said there were twelve to fifteen ISIS men hunkered down in the small outpost. ISIS was supposedly using it as a processing station, sifting through the trucks carrying confiscated valuables and weapons on their way to an unidentified location. Hasan thought maybe this was where they were caching weapons for their army.
Kreyling wasn’t taking any chances. In his experience, if a native said twelve to fifteen, you best prepare for at least double that number.
A drunken shout came from one of the huts. Kreyling went that way, feeling Stokes and the others close behind. He heard the faint sound of three more guards taken down before he got to where the shout had come from. Had to be the Japanese. Those boys were good.
The shout repeated, this time more urgent, annoyed. Kreyling didn’t speak Arabic, but figured it was probably the commander calling out for his guards. He guessed he had maybe a minute before the man came out of the dimly lit doorway and actually did his job.
The British team of three stacked just outside the wooden portal, Kreyling in the lead. Three, two, one.
Kreyling smashed through the brittle wood, quickly entering the twelve by twelve space. A surprised half-naked fundamentalist looked up from where he was mid-thrust into the backside of a naked girl. There were two more watching, both sitting against the wall.
The observers had weapons. They died first, barely having time to get their hands off their crotches and reach for their triggers. Kreyling leveled his weapon at the open-mouthed ISIS commander.
“Go to hell,” growled the Brit as two bullets left his weapon and took the man in the throat, his head lolling to the side weirdly as he fell to the ground, blood gushing from the wounds.
With his two men guarding the entrance, Kreyling approached the girl cautiously. She looked shell-shocked, a single tear running from her blank eyes. Who knew how long they’d had their way with her. Bastards. The poor thing reminding the Brit of his own daughter, a fifteen year old spitting image of his ex-wife.
He lowered his weapon as she backed away, doing little to cover her exposed form.
“It’s okay,” he said, picking up a discarded blanket from the floor and handing it to her. For the first time, life flickered in the girl’s eyes as she grabbed the offered cover and brought it against her body.
Kreyling grabbed the flickering gas lantern from the ground and gave it to the girl. He saw bloodlines running down her exposed legs. His mind raged. This was why he’d come, why he’d left an easy job of ferrying rich businessmen around the world. There was absolute evil on this planet, ISIS being one of the many culprits. The innocent trampled by the whims of power hungry zealots who masked their ambition with religion.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, pulled by the sound of Arabic shouts from outside. The girl could wait.
Kreyling put his finger to his lips, and motioned for the girl to stay where she was. She nodded mutely, wrapping more of the blanket around her body.
“Let’s go, boys,” said Kreyling, eager to send more of the bastards to their final resting place.
+++
There’d been fifteen men manning the ISIS outpost. They were all dead. No casualties for Cal’s team, just a couple of dings that Kokubu was attending to.
“That hut was stacked full of weapons,” said MSgt Trent, who’d just returned from inspecting the village with Gaucho.
“All kinds of stuff, boss,” said Gaucho. “AKs, M-16’s, even some HKs and Barretts. Ammunition is in the hut next to it.”
“Did you get video of everything? Faces too?” asked Cal. One of the things he wanted to make sure they had was proof of the guys ISIS was recruiting. They needed to know where they were coming from. A few snapshots and some video would give them what they needed. Neil would do the rest.
“I did,” answered Trent.
“Good. Moretti, can you take care of the weapons?” asked Cal. They’d brought enough explosives to dispose of any cache they couldn’t carry out.
The Italian nodded. “Give me five minutes.”
Cal looked at his watch. The helos would be there in just under ten minutes. One raid down, one more left before daylight. The Marine wanted to get as many missions completed before ISIS got wind of what was going on. With their army being pounded day and night by the international coalition, it was only a matter of time before ISIS either ran or made their last stand. Cal hoped they were stupid enough to fight back.
Chapter 32
West of Mosul, Iraq
3:41am AST, August 16th
Aden Essa was beginning to regret his decision to follow his schoolmates to Iraq. Three weeks earlier, the twenty-year-old Egyptian was enrolled at Al-Azhar University in Cairo. He’d studied business under the insistence of his father, and was less than a year from graduating. Once Aden completed his degree, he would be first in line to take over the family business, a small electronics company housed in a dingy third floor box in Cairo.
He hated the place, even though his proud father had spent years building it. To Aden, the shop represented all that was wrong with the Arabic world. The toil of hardworking Arabs who would never see the riches they so desperately deserved.
Aden envisioned a utopia, a land where Islam flourished after the defeat of the infidels. A place where goods and services were shared amongst brothers. No one would be hungry. No one would be without a home.
His college friends believed in the dream as well, and they’d watched banned ISIS videos on a university computer owned by the president of the university himself. The old crab had never installed proper security measures in his office or on his computer. It was an easy feat for the innovative young men to break into the room. Should the use ever be detected, it would be the head of the university who would be implicated.
Ever since ISIS moved into Iraq, the five friends had plotted their escape. ISIS was looking for warriors, men who would see the Word of Allah spread to every corner of the globe. Aden Essa wanted to be such a man. A hero to millions.
But now, driving the lead vehicle in a five truck convoy laden with toddlers and pre-teen boys, Aden’s doubt grew. He’d seen things. Terrible things. While it was one thing to watch a beheading on a computer, it was quite another to witness it first hand, to clean up the slimy blood from floors and walls. To smell the bowel waste and sour piss of dying men, women and children.
He wasn’t a warrior; he was one of hundreds, if not thousands, of janitors tasked with cleaning up the ISIS’s carnage. The first two times he’d vomited, violently. The older men had laughed at him along with two of his friends. The second time he’d thrown up in his sleep, memories of the smell still in his nose as he dreamt of the massacre reaped hours before.
Lik
e a sailor gaining his sea legs, the smell and sight of devastation no longer unfurled his stomach. But his mind was not numb. He recognized the unholy and this was it.
Aden wondered what his mother and father would think if they knew he was driving a truck full of young boys to pleasure the perverted whims of supposedly holy ISIS warriors, only to be butchered when they were through. He pictured his younger brother, Rashad, who was only twelve years of age. Just like the boys in the back of the truck. The thought made him nauseous.
As he refocused on the dark road ahead, his headlights doing little to cut into the drooping blackness, Aden felt a jolt as the truck’s engine suddenly gave out. He slowly applied the brakes as steam and smoke rushed out of the hood of the vehicle, hanging lazily in the still air.
He checked his side mirrors and saw to his relief that the others had slowed as well. He’d seen more than one driver rear-end another by following too closely. None of those illiterate peasants knew how to drive.
Aden climbed out of the cab and waved to the man driving the next truck in line.
“Engine!” he yelled.
The man nodded and put his vehicle in park. Aden could hear the old gears creaking as the convoy settled in to wait. Hopefully the others wouldn’t just sit there.
The young Egyptian didn’t know much about vehicles other than the quick classes the gruff ISIS logistics man had taught them. How to add fluids. How to change tires. But Aden knew nothing about fixing an engine. They were supposed to be in good working condition.
With some effort, he popped the hood open, smoke billowing in his face. He immediately worried that the vehicle would explode, but then remembered his father saying that such things only happened in movies. His father knew about automobiles.
Trying to sweep the smoke away with his hand, Aden never felt the .50-caliber round that tore his body in half.