Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  “So, give me some options,” Small said. “You gotta give me options. What needs to be done to put an end to this?”

  “President Petrovich would need to be rescued,” said Hamilton. “Nothing else would prove to potential ISIS recruits that his capture was not Allah’s doing, something foretold.”

  “The Russian no fly zone over the area means we can't get in there in a meaningful way without risking an incident, and tensions are already way too high to risk it,” said Bassingthwaite, who added the news about the Russians ratcheting up their preparedness to “Danger of War”.

  “And what could we possibly do to help locate President Petrovich that the Russians aren’t already doing anyway?” Epstein pointed out.

  “We got that SEAL team on the ground, right?” the president reminded them. “SEALs can do incredible things. They’re the best. The best of the best.”

  “There are no SEALs, Mr President,” Admiral Rentz corrected him.

  “No SEALs? Who told me there were fucking SEALs?” Small’s temper flared. “How can you expect me to make good decisions if you give me bad information?” He thumped the table again. “It’s the big league here, people. Are you telling me I have to sit on my hands? That is not what the American people expect from their Commander-in-Chief. Not impressed.”

  “Sir, we do have a small joint Air Force and army special ops unit close to where the terrorists shot down Petrovich’s helicopter,” Epstein told him, feeling desperate for a smoke and wishing to god she hadn't kicked the habit. “But my understanding is this unit is under-equipped and under-manned. They can’t be expected to make any meaningful contribution to the situation. They happened to be in the area, putting up a navigation beacon.”

  “What are you saying, Margery?” asked President Small.

  “That I don't see what we could reasonably expect them to achieve.”

  Admiral Rentz agreed.

  “Fact. One of ours is worth four or five of theirs,” the president asserted. ‘So you tell our team on the ground I said their Commander-in-Chief wants the Russian president found and liberated at all costs, and they’re the boys I’m counting on to do it. Petrovich is a man I respect. He’s also a friend. We have, from the first, had a mutual understanding. And if we have to kick some Russian butt along the way to get the job done, then we gotta do what we gotta do.”

  Admiral Rentz reminded him, “Mr President, we’re talking about a four-man unit in a part of Syria swarming with jihadists, radicals, Assad loyalists, and now with pissed Russians who apparently believe we shot down their president.”

  “I think the Commander-in-Chief has given his orders,” said Small in an imperious end-of-discussion tone. He considered for a moment. “We got any aircraft carriers in the area?”

  “The USS Dwight D Eisenhower carrier strike group, sir.”

  “What else we got?”

  “There’s the Sixth Fleet, Mr President. That’s in Italy.”

  “Well, let’s get ‘em on standby.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Andrew, you make sure that unit on the ground knows I am taking a personal interest.”

  “Yes, Mr President,” said Bunion, his nose redder than usual. “I’ll see to it.”

  “How’s the little shit gonna do that?” Bassingthwaite muttered sotto voce to Epstein.

  “Carrier pigeons,” the SECDEF replied.

  Twenty-five

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Everyone knows there is only one heaven and one hell. It's the one ruled over by God, the God who blesses America.

  Schelly felt exhausted, but though the suite at Henderson Hall, Fort Myer, was clean, spacious and the bed was large and firm and just how she liked it, she just couldn't sleep. So instead Schelly sat glued to the TV, sipping V8 juice. You don't need the NSA’s Director of Media Analysis to provide an overview. Just turn on the television and the parade is non-stop.

  On screen was an Islamic cleric, a self-styled moderate. He was a heavily beaded man in his early fifties with droopy eyes that made him look vaguely sad. He assured the reporter, “The demands of these terrorists have nothing to do with our religion.”

  “But aren’t there passages in the Qur’an as well as certain hadiths that call on Muslims to kill the unbeliever?” An English reporter from the BBC said.

  “As there are similar passages in the Christian Bible,” the cleric countered, adjusting his charcoal-gray waistcoat over flowing white robes. He seemed less certain of himself. “I could quote them …”

  “But unlike the Bible, the Qur’an was dictated to Mohammad by the angel Gabriel, am I right? So this book is the actual, unaltered word of God commanding believers to kill non-believers.”

  “Yes, but –”

  “And the hadiths are the accounts of what Mohammad said or did.”

  “That is true, however –”

  “Muslims aren’t going to argue with God, are they? You know, re-interpret His words? And Mohammed, they’re not going to go against his views?”

  The moderate swept away this uncomfortable line of questioning with a wave of his hand. “I can assure you, no one will travel to Dabiq. You do not understand Islam. It is a religion of love. All this is nonsense.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Major Schelly to the television monitor and changed the channel. The Internet was already exploding with many voices calling on the faithful to take up arms, pledge allegiance to the caliphate and make Dabiq their pilgrimage instead of Mecca.

  An hour of channel-surfing told her that broadcast network commentators and experts – religious and secular – were mostly being careful not to be inflammatory. The questions on the capture of the Russian president also generally followed a similar pattern: would the terrorists ever be inclined to hand over Petrovich? Could he be ransomed? What would a president of Russia be worth? Who would pay such a ransom? Russia? The UN? Wouldn’t paying ransom money only encourage terrorism, which was the reason why governments claimed they never paid ransoms? Would Petrovich’s capture alter this position? Was the West prepared to accept, as this Scorpion terrorist preached, that it was at war against Islam? Did the Qur’an actually foretell of a battle between Islam and the West? Did the prophecy predict a winner? Could anyone win? Could a prophecy be altered? Was fate etched in stone?

  Schelly’s head swam.

  Many of these networks, she noted, had done their homework and were taking it upon themselves to educate the public with questions put to numerous experts such as: was it true the Qur’an also foretold that Islam would be on its knees as a result of this great confrontation? Why would Islamists want to bring about this calamity upon themselves and their religion? Did the Qur’an really foretell that, after the battle, Jesus would again walk the earth with the dead? Was this the same Jesus from the Bible? The same loving, peaceful Jesus of Nazareth? The shepherd of men? One network following this angle, with a panel including a priest and an imam, broadcast graphic footage, borrowed from various movies, of corpses digging their way out of graves on Judgment Day to join Jesus. Preppers everywhere were storming Walmarts for extra ammo and tins of tuna fish. Doomsday cultists were ecstatic.

  The more practically minded commentators asked whether the Pentagon had modeled any estimates of casualties and wounded should the Scorpion’s End of Days battle be fought. Were estimates of a million or more Muslims turning up to fight the so-called Army of Rome in any way accurate? And so forth.

  Some experts aligned with the sad-eyed cleric and believed the confrontation would never happen. Others opined that the reference to Dabiq as the End of Days battlefield was not a literal one, and that if just a small percentage of Muslims decided to wage war against the West, the front lines of such a battle would be suburban schools, shopping malls and amusement parks, and, if that were the case, security forces everywhere would quickly be overwhelmed.

  The one-line summary: the airwaves were in meltdown. Schelly changed the channel and saw that one enterprising news service had managed
to land a reporter on the plain outside Dabiq. Drone footage showed that it was a very large plain stretching beyond the horizon, and the reporter, kitted out in a combination of battle armor and Armani, reasoned that it would certainly hold a couple of million soldiers. As Schelly watched, the report segued into Google Earth style overhead shots of the plain with detailed Game of Thrones-like title sequence animations showing the clockwork movement of tanks, aircraft, and men around the plain. War porn. And, the icing on the cake, archival footage of President Small saying he would consider using nuclear weapons against a pressing adversary, as if this presaged their use: “That’s why we have the things, right?” the commander-in-chief, dressed in bomber jacket and ball cap, had pronounced to cheering, newly graduating officers at the Naval Academy, Annapolis.

  Another channel change. A masked demonstrator in New York threw a Molotov cocktail, its wick scribing a delicate parabola in the darkness before exploding against riot shields. It was a similar story in capitals around the world: Muslims demonstrating against Muslims; Shiites opposing Sunnis; rednecks versus liberals; Muslims marching in support of ISIS; moderate Muslims and non-Muslims marching in opposition to the jihadists. At a demonstration in New York, right-wingers waved placards pronouncing, “I told you so!”

  Even the non-violent demonstrations held the promise of physical confrontation. Police were nervous. Containment was already an issue. One anti-terror law enforcement officer voiced everyone’s fear: “How long before we get a truck driven into a crowd here, or a suicide bomber there?”

  Schelly changed channels again and finished her tomato juice as Chris Matthews shuffled paper and chatted informally about the effect all this was having on the New York stock exchange. Stocks for Priceline and the Flight Centre Travel Group were through the roof, due to anticipated windfall revenues. Made sense, he said. All these combatants making their way to northern Syria would have had to book their flights somewhere, right?

  Vaguely in disgust – why, she couldn’t articulate to herself – Schelly was about to turn the monitor off when Matthews interrupted some other inane observation mid-sentence and touched his earpiece. Experience told anyone who consumed these shows that breaking news was coming. Matthews didn't disappoint. He cleared his throat. “Okay, well, news has just come to hand … Seems there’s another video from the terrorist who calls himself the Scorpion. It has been uploaded onto numerous websites. I have to warn you on behalf of the network that viewer discretion is required. I’m told this video is disturbing. If you’re at all squeamish, folks, now might be a good time to go tuck the kids into bed.”

  The screen went to black with a title that read, “Viewer discretion advised”. A bar dissolved into place at the base of the black frame with the words, “Latest ISIS video”. A picture materialized in the black frame – the Scorpion dressed in black. Only his head and shoulders were framed. Behind him, the same endless sky, the same flat, baked-biscuit expanse of desert Schelly remembered from the first video, though the light was different this time. Harsher, more overhead.

  A breeze tugged at the terrorist’s beard. “Sons and daughters of Allah the Merciful, whose wisdom and perfection is sublime,” he began. “As you know, Allah has delivered unto the faithful the President of All Russia. And many other bountiful gifts have been delivered into our hands along with him. I showed you his general, a great prize. And now I would show more of Allah’s promise to us that he smiles on jihad and is warmed by its fires.”

  Schelly turned up the volume. Why do these criminals always use language that makes them sound like they’re delivering a sermon written by a corny B-grade screenwriter? Why can’t he simply say, “I’ve got your president. I showed you that yesterday. And now I’ve got something else I’m going to shove up your ass.”

  The Scorpion produced a compact but slightly scorched leather briefcase that looked incongruous in his mangled hands. A chrome chain dangled from the briefcase’s handle.

  What the …

  “This is no ordinary briefcase,” the Scorpion pronounced. “It is the Cheget. As your military will confirm, the Cheget possesses the codes for the launch of Russia’s nuclear arsenal.”

  Oh shit!

  “Tremble in fear if you have no belief in Paradise, for this is truly a weapon for the End of Days. And do not listen to your leaders who might say we do not speak the truth. The Cheget always travels with the president, wherever he goes.”

  The Scorpion retrieved the chain and pulled into view an amputated forearm, faintly green in color, manacled at the wrist to the chain’s other end.

  Schelly unconsciously sucked in a sharp breath as her hand flew to her mouth, aghast. She was aware that the arm’s fingers were black, but couldn’t immediately figure why.

  The Scorpion took a step toward the camera and, cradling the black fingers in his own scarred digits, pressed the dead finger pads against a pane of glass in front of the camera lens. The Scorpion rolled the fingers from side to side in such a manner that clear prints were left on the glass, which the lens of the camera did its best to focus on. The Scorpion then retreated to his previous position a distance from the camera, still holding the briefcase and arm, his image blurred by the black prints on the glass. He turned to face another camera. “I say again, I have no doubt that your own corrupt governments will attempt to lie to you about the truth of the weapon Allah has delivered to us. Do not allow yourselves to be deceived. The prints of the Cheget’s carrier are proof and can be easily confirmed. I have spoken to you of the End of Days. And now you know that it can be delivered. An eternity in Paradise will be the reward for all who accept Allah’s perfection. But for those who deny him, an eternity burning in hellfire awaits.”

  The video flickered and ended.

  “Jesus Christ,” Schelly murmured. The screen cut back to Matthews who was visibly shaken. Words were failing him. He looked off camera a couple of times at unseen people, like he wanted some help or perhaps some reassurance.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I … That’s …That’s probably, you know … probably one of the most shocking things I have ever seen.”

  A tone sounded, a tweet come through on Schelly’s Twitter feed. The screen said it was from President Small. She swiped it open. “Barbarians. Very, very horrible. We will wipe you from the face of the Earth.” And then another one. “If anything happens to Petrovich, we will send incredible devastation your way like you have never seen before.” Good threat. Love to know how we make good on it, she wondered, still dazed by the images that had played out on the television.

  Schelly’s cell rang and vibrated – a call this time. Half in a trance, she answered, “Yes … um, Major Schelly.”

  “Major, Secretary Epstein,” returned the dry, oddly masculine voice on the line. “Where are you at this moment?”

  Schelly snapped out of it. It wasn’t every day a major received a call from the SECDEF. “Fort Myer, Madam Secretary.”

  “Can I presume you caught the video released just now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll see you in my office at the Pentagon in thirty minutes. Have you received your credentials yet? You’ll need them.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “They should have reached you by now. I had them sent over personally.”

  There was a solid knock on the door. “Oh, wait,” said Schelly. “Maybe they’ve just arrived.”

  “I’ll see you shortly, Major,” Epstein said, ending the call.

  Doesn't anyone ever sleep in this town? Schelly opened the door on a US Navy Yeoman First Class. His nametag said Goldman. Big soft man, big soft brown eyes…

  A few moments later, she said thank you to the yeoman and closed the door. The envelope he left with her contained various badges for access to all required areas in the Pentagon, and an encrypted government phone plus passwords and a charger. She did as the yeoman instructed – memorized the passwords and then burned the card.

  “What’s your take?” Epstein a
sked Schelly with no preamble other than a gesture for her to take a seat on a sofa parked behind a coffee table. “On the video.”

  The question surprised Schelly, the broader strategic questions being beyond her pay grade. Maybe it’s just a conversation starter. “Ma’am, I think it couldn't get much worse.”

  The SECDEF scoffed and got up from her desk to join Schelly in the breakout area of the spacious office. “You haven’t been around long enough, Major. It can always get worse.” She sat in an armchair, leaned forward and lifted a cut crystal jug to a glass. “Water?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  Epstein poured some for herself, picked up the tumbler and rolled it back and forth between the palms of her small, bird-like hands. “The more responsible media will soon come around to reporting that ISIS won't be able to use the codes to launch missiles.”

  “Can I speak freely, Madam Secretary?”

  “Of course.”

  “The people who’ll be most influenced by the Scorpion won’t see the distinction. The Scorpion has the Russian president and his nukes. He has won a massive public relations victory.”

  “I agree. Which is why we need to do what we can to stop this before it goes any further. And that brings me to the substance of why I asked you here this evening. Your special ops unit in northern Syria. The commander-in-chief wants your assets to locate and rescue President Petrovich. Colonel Gladston has been briefed and you run that unit.”

  Whaaat? “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then get it done. Whatever resources you need. Your orders are being cut as we speak. We’ve allocated you an office here with the Joint Chiefs.”

  Schelly’s mind was already crammed with issues and problems, primary among them the plain fact that Quickstep 3 was spectacularly underprepared for the task it was being ordered to execute.

  “Something the matter?” Epstein asked.

  Where do I begin…? “No, ma’am,” Schelly replied.