Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  “That why you bawlin’ like a baby, asshole?” Bo demanded.

  The man turned to look at him with hateful bloodshot eyes..

  “What’s your name, the one your mother gave you?” I asked him again. No response to that, either. “Check his pockets.”

  Bo slung his weapon and searched him. After a thorough pat down, he said, “Nothin’, boss. All his pockets got holes in ‘em. Nothin’ in his shoes. Mouth empty. Don't think he’s carrying anything in any other cavities either, ‘cept maybe a whole lotta stink.”

  “Gonna call you Bob,” I told the jihadist. “Good American name, Bob. Back home the media would call you Jihadi Bob. Suits you.”

  “My name’s Dawar,” he sniffed. “My homeland is Ad-Dawlah al-Islamiyah, and you can go fuck yourself.”

  “Okay Dawar from Ad-Dawlah al-Islamiyah, where is The Scorpion?”

  Bob stared straight ahead, the tears having dried up at least. He wiped the snot off his nose with a grubby forearm then blew an air hanky into the dirt.

  Natasha was hovering nearby. “He won’t talk. That is why I kill the last one,” she said. “Let me kill him.” She pulled her Yarygin and cocked it. “He will talk. He believes there is no Paradise if woman kills him.”

  Natasha took a step toward Dawar and he recoiled in fear.

  “Put the gun away, Natasha. We kill him if and when I say we kill him. That’s the rule, remember?”

  “You are soft, do you know that?” she said.

  “Call me Cream Puff,” I replied.

  She bent down and holstered her piece in the top of her boot, and I was glad I didn't have to add a threat to the command. But maybe Natasha had pointed out some leverage we could use. I watched Igor climb up onto a nearby charred vehicle to add his eyeballs to the watch. The big Russian was nervous, and that made at least two of us. There could be other jihadists around and the explosions and fireballs would draw them here. “Jimmy, Alvin. Anything?” I asked into the comms.

  “Negative.”

  “Negative.”

  “On me,” I told them. “Mount up,” I said to everyone else. Bob could ride in the utility bed with Jimmy, Alvin and Igor. Right about then is when I noticed Farib and Taymullah looking at Taymullah’s cupped hands, the light from the screen of a cell phone illuminating their faces. Shock pretty much summed up their expressions. Maybe because they were getting phone reception.

  Mazool exchanged a bunch of words with the teens in Arabic. Whatever was said had Mazool worried. Taymullah handed the phone to me. “Please. You watch.”

  I took the phone. Yep, two bars of reception – 4G no less. How about that? On screen was the familiar YouTube logo. Intrigued, I pulled my shooter’s glove and thumbed the triangle. Following a couple of seconds of silence and a shaky black screen, a heavily accented voice said, “It is written in the Qur’an and hadiths that the armies of Rome shall be defeated by the faithful at the gates of Dabiq. This will come to pass as surely as the sun rises.”

  The shaky screen suddenly lit up with the hard white beams of vehicle LEDs. In the center stood the Scorpion. He reminded me of a deer caught in the headlights, maybe one that had already been run over a couple of times due to his face being mottled by heavy red scarring and his patchy uneven beard. Even from this distance I could tell the guy needed to take a shower.

  The zealotry continued. “On the plains of Dabiq, the blood of Allah’s enemies shall drown them and the End of Days will be upon the world and the dead shall rise.”

  “Who writes this stuff?” I asked Mazool who didn’t have an answer and wasn’t in the least amused.

  “I have captured one of the Emperors of Rome,” the Scorpion continued. “I have made a prisoner of his general. I have slaughtered his servants. I have the keys to his weapons of mass destruction. Do not doubt that a humble servant of Allah can bring the Crusader to his knees. I will do this as surely as I have punished Caesar for his crimes against the faithful in Chechnya, Georgia, the Crimea, Dagestan, Syria and others.”

  The camera operator walked toward the Scorpion, the picture jerking up and down, left and right, but remaining centered on him. Bugs zipped through the light around him like slow moving tracer. When the camera stopped moving, he pointed off to the wings, stage left, the acting about as wooden as any fifth grader’s Christmas pageant. The camera lens panned in the direction of the Scorpion’s extended claw. I was anticipating maybe some cheesy thunder and lightning effects. There weren’t any, but what I did see made the words, “Holy shit,” fall out of my mouth. It was Petrovich. At least I was pretty sure it was Petrovich. I’d never seen the president stripped down to his shorts, though I had seen him shirtless in that bear wrestling video that did the rounds. He won that contest. But in this latest film, Russia’s Number One Citizen was up against a tree, as in nailed to it, and the tree was winning. Petrovich’s hands were outstretched, spikes hammed through his wrists to keep them fixed to the boughs. His feet, too, were nailed to the trunk. Flies buzzed around them, excited. The guy was being crucified and not figuratively; crucified just like that other guy had been – I think you know the one I’m referring to.

  Petrovich’s wrists were coated in a mixture of flies and blood. The critters were swimming in small rivers of it flowing down the tree trunk below his feet. His body shook with agony.

  “The faithful are pouring into Syria and the lands that bound Syria,” the Scorpion’s voice continued off screen. “Muslims from all over the world come to fulfill the prophecy promised by God. If your government prevents you – burn, maim and kill the kafirs and yours shall be the glory of Paradise and you will sit closest to Allah with your new bride.”

  The camera panned away from the Russian president, the wreckage of the man a metaphor of the horror that awaited the world, and returned to the Scorpion, a head and shoulders shot. “Journey to Dabiq and join the army of Islam,“ he continued, ignoring two large flies that landed on his face until they became too brazen and he was forced to dislodge them with a wave. “It is the Mahdi who shall lead you as, through the darkness, the Crusader’s own fire rains down on the unbeliever, bringing sunlight. The time has come for all men who love God to pledge allegiance to Ad-Dawlah al-Islamiyah and give of their life for Allah’s glory. The End of Days is upon us. Allahu akbar.” The image of a gently fluttering black Islamic State flag ended the video.

  I struggled to articulate what I had just seen. It was on YouTube, which meant it was probably breaking the Internet. I could see links to other posted Scorpion vids, two others in fact, both less than a couple of days old, the ones the Quickstep major had mentioned – Major Schelly. I played them through, one after the other. After watching them, any doubt I may have had about the contribution I could provide, evaporated. I had a job to do here, the one I was trained for and had practiced enough on a daily basis to be reasonably adept at: to track the Scorpion down and do it fast, just as if he was Air Force personnel gone AWOL. And here’s where the job spec departed from my day to day. I also had to kill him. I handed the phone back to Taymullah and saw that Natasha had been watching the video over my shoulder, her hand covering her mouth in shock.

  “Bo, you confident with that UAV?” I asked him.

  “Yessir. Charged and ready to go.”

  “Then let’s get it up and see if we can’t avoid any more surprises.”

  ***

  Schelly dropped her phone on the bed, got up and gathered her clothes. Shower. She headed for the bathroom.

  “Are you okay?” the professor asked.

  Schelly laid her clothes on the vanity, opened the shower door, but then her mouth filled with saliva, catching her by surprise. Oh my god. She turned and her hands found the toilet seat as vomit welled into her mouth and gushed into the bowl. Her stomach convulsed again and Schelly leaned there, exhausted. “Jesus.”

  “Can I get you something?” the professor asked quietly.

  “No. I’m, I’m fine.”

  The professor helped Schelly into t
he glass shower cubicle. “I’m okay. I’ll take it from here … Don't know where that came from.” Schelly pulled the lever all the way on the faucet splitter and the cold water that flowed from the showerhead shocked her, but she needed it. It helped the numbness. The images of a person being crucified were not something she ever thought she’d see. Crucifixion may have been a fact 2000 years ago, and growing up a Catholic with a devout mother she had seen enough depictions of Christ on a cross to last a lifetime, but they were symbolic; not real. The true barbarity of crucifixion, what something like that would actually feel like, what it would look like … the reality was something she had never truly considered. It was confronting. Horrific. No one deserves to die like that.

  The professor leaned on the bathroom door and turned on the fan to exhaust the steam. “You feel connected to this personally because you are involved. I understand. I too feel responsible, also as a Muslim.”

  Schelly adjusted the water temperature. “I just don’t understand why. I mean, why that? Why crucify him?”

  “This is the punishment dictated by Allah for those who wage war against the faithful.”

  Schelly mentally embraced the growing warmth and the cleansing of the water as it coursed down her skin.

  The professor continued, “The subject is placed on the cross for three days before being killed, so Sharia law dictates, by being stabbed in the heart.”

  “Death would be a mercy.”

  “Killing him would cost the Scorpion leverage, and he is not ready. Providing the president’s heart is strong, he will survive, but his time is limited. ISIS follows a literal interpretation of the Qur’an and certain approved hadiths. Based on these, Petrovich has three days, no more. And then he will be stabbed.”

  “I just don't get it. The Scorpion is already achieving what he wants.” Yeah, but you knew he would post more videos. He has to keep pushing buttons. And each one was always going to be more confronting and compelling than the last.

  “This is a warrior zealot, brutalized by a lifetime of war, who offers more proof that he is a man of God. I am sure the symbolism of crucifying a man who leads a Christian nation, this would have been a factor in his decision to choose this punishment. It is somehow worse than decapitation. At least that is quick.”

  “Is it about recruitment?” Schelly asked, reaching for something tangible.

  “It is always about recruitment,” the professor confirmed. “As were the beheadings in the early days. This is how ISIS gathered momentum. Now it is time for a new phase in the conflict. The Scorpion has declared war on the Crusaders, the Christian West. He confirms to Muslims everywhere that this is a war fought in the name of Allah. For the Scorpion, there is only one true god, his god, and only one true interpretation, his interpretation.”

  Schelly stood in the column of the water, her head bent, her hands outstretched against the tiles, welcoming the stability. “It’s just so barbaric.”

  “In the West these practices have ended. But the Saudis practice crucifixion and it is still part of Iran’s criminal code. Hamas has also reinstated it in Palestine.”

  “What does that tell you?” asked Schelly.

  “That my religion has been hijacked and used by men for their own purposes.”

  “Then tell me … what do female martyrs get when the reach Paradise. It’s not virgins, right? Can't be.”

  The professor took a breath. “It is said they get to marry their favorite husband.”

  “Really? And what does that tell you about your religion?” Schelly turned the water off with a jolt that made the pipes clang. “I feel I need to call someone. I just don't know who. Maybe my mother.”

  “What about Cooper? He has a phone.”

  And say what? Hurry up and do your job? And by the way, we don’t have your back? Schelly opened the glass door and accepted a towel as she stepped out. “The Scorpion mentioned the Mahdi as if this was someone other than himself. You said you think people believe he’s the Mahdi. Why doesn’t he just embrace it?”

  “To admit to such a thing may cause others to say that he is merely a madman, delusional. There are crazy people in straitjackets who claim to be Mohammad reborn, just as there are many Christs. The Scorpion is not stupid. Something else he said – the pledge. It is written that once a caliphate has been proclaimed, then Muslims must by law pledge baya’a – allegiance – to the caliph, who is recognized as a descendant of Mohammad. To do otherwise would be to turn your back on God and die ignorant. And this would exclude you from Paradise.”

  “Allah is not exactly a forgiving god, is he?” said Schelly as she slipped on her underwear.

  “Not as he is worshipped by ISIS, no.” The professor moved in close to Schelly, held her face between her hands and kissed her, the warm soft kiss of a lover. “You must trust me, Islam is about so much more,” she said once their lips parted. “And that is why there are so many Muslims.” She then squeezed past Schelly and opened the shower door. “While I remember, the call I received – it was from Epstein. We have a meeting at the White House.”

  “Who with?” Schelly asked, examining her face in the mirror. “Can I borrow your lipstick? I love this color.”

  “Yes, of course. The meeting is with the president.”

  Thirty-seven

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Andrew Bunion is a great American, living proof you don't have to be six feet two to stand ten feet tall.

  Bunion held the door open and President Small strode into the Situation Room, not happy if the pursed lips were any indication. Epstein, Rentz, Bassingthwaite, Hamilton, Chalmers, the professor and Schelly all stood. “Admiral, I believe that’s my chair,” was President Small’s opening remark as he handed his putter to Bunion. “That’s the one I always sit in.” He pointed to the chair at the head of the table. “Someone always wants to be the boss when I’m not around.”

  “My apologies, sir,” said Rentz, moving, sliding his folders along the desk.

  The president sat, the signal for everyone else to follow suit.

  Schelly assessed the commander-in-chief, her first ever meeting with the man who had a reputation for being, well, challenging. So far, no surprises. His dark navy suit was expensive and tailor-made, but that didn’t disguise the fact that here was an old man used to high living and clearly overweight, no matter what the press secretary had insisted to the media about his BMI. Bags under his chin seemed to be tucked into his white shirt and held there by his red silk tie, and the folds under his eyes were more like hammocks. Clearly, also, he was wearing makeup. You might have come straight from a television interview, except the putter says maybe not. But I wear makeup occasionally, so why not the president?

  “What are the Russians saying?” the president asked Bassingthwaite.

  The Secretary of State began to fumble his notes as if he’d just been asked to make a presentation on a topic he hadn’t prepared for. Eventually he found the relevant email. “Ah, here it is. Yes, Mr. President, sir. They want us to …um … to provide proof that we had nothing to do with shooting down their helicopters. Though god knows how you prove the negative case.”

  “Well, it’s unreasonable that they’re blaming us, but if we can show them something?

  “Mr President,” Admiral Rentz interrupted. “We absolutely had nothing to do with this, but I wouldn’t give them anything, and most certainly not any intelligence.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because anything we give them will indicate something of our intel gathering capabilities – what we can and can’t do. And I guarantee you that is at the heart of their demand.”

  “I would agree, Mr President,” CIA Director Hamilton said. “We can't give them anything.”

  “Are the Russians still at whatever DEFCON, priming their nukes?”

  “Danger of War, sir, they call it,” said Bassingthwaite, checking another email. Same as our DEFCON Two.”

  “What are we at?”

  “DEFCON Four, Mr.
President,” said Rentz.

  “Then we should match the Russians and go to two, DEFCON Two. What does that say?”

  “Mr President, DEFCON Two says nuclear war is imminent,’ Rentz advised him. “I would strongly counsel leaving things where they are. That is the best course. We don’t want to pour gasoline on the situation.”

  “I feel we’re in a corner being pummeled by everyone,” the president said in an aside to Bunion, using his hands in an open-armed palm-up gesture that said, “We got nothin’.” Bunion agreed, mirroring the president’s gesture. “Well, I don’t wanna be caught napping,” the president continued. “We go to DEFCON Two.” Small glared at Bassingthwaite. “And get me a meeting with Rodchenko.” He addressed the room. “Next.”

  Rentz fumed at the papers between his hands as he shuffled them.

  “One more fact you may not be aware of, Mr President,” said the SECSTATE.

  “What is it?”

  “The terrorists have uploaded the Russian launch codes onto the dark web. There’s a reference to this in the video.” The SECSTATE referred to notes: “‘through the darkness, the Crusader’s own fire rains down on the unbeliever, bringing sunlight …’”

  The body language around the room reflected instant dismay.

  Oh, fuck, thought Schelly.

  “So?” enquired the president blankly.

  “This will give every digital criminal a crack at infiltrating the launch algorithms.”

  “The codes say plenty about the Russian system and its protocols,” said Rentz. “Their launch system is even more antiquated than our own.”

  “Do we need to get to the shelters?” Small asked.

  “Mr President, CIA believes that while this raises the stakes to some degree, there is no imminent threat,” said Hamilton. “We don't recommend releasing this news to the public, though. We don't want to cause panic.”

  Bassingthwaite mopped. “That’s almost funny. You mean more panic because there’s already plenty of it around. And I disagree in regards to this new information. I think we should release it.”