“Those files are redacted, Major, so you can quit with the fishing. They locked up the guilty party – my boss. I was just doing what I was told to do.”
“Following orders. That defense didn’t work at Nuremburg for the Nazis.”
“You are seriously gonna go there?”
Schelly glanced at her wristwatch. “Look, this is highly entertaining, but I’ve got work to do.”
“All business. Okay, fine. I sent a few items of interest to you. As I was about to inform the president, we may be able to narrow the search.”
Schelly stopped. “How?”
“Sand flies.”
“So all that back there was actually leading somewhere?”
“The flies feed on rotting meat. They’re a problem in Syria. Dead bodies get left lying around after the fighting. No flies in the first two videos, but all those flies in the most recent video place the Scorpion near a population center. As we all suspected – he moved. Fighting broke out several days ago in Mamit, a town close to the Turkish border, ninety miles west and a little north of the point designated Position Alpha. It’s all in the stuff I sent you.”
“When did you send the files?”
“Just now.”
“Sand flies.” Schelly was still processing. “And this came from …?”
“A contact at Medicins Sans Frontiers. The flies carry leishmaniasis, a flesh-eating disease. Targets children, mostly. There have been outbreaks in those towns I mentioned.”
Flies? “It’s a long shot,” Schelly said.
“The Scorpion is going to be moving toward Dabiq, not away from it. Those towns are between Position Alpha and Dabiq.”
Still a hell of a long shot, Schelly thought.
“Major?”
“I was thinking … putting it together.”
“Makes sense, right?”
She exhaled. “Professor Başak believes Petrovich will be kept alive for three days, after which they’ll kill him.”
“Where’d she get that from?”
“The Qur’an.”
“Mumbo-jumbo.”
“Not according to a quarter of the world’s population.”
“Tick-tock then. What else you got to go on?” he asked.
Not a lot. “We’re working on some angles …”
“Okay, well, share and share alike.” Chalmers stopped short of the exit doors.
Something gnawed at Schelly. “How long have you had this information?”
“The fly thing? A couple of hours. Maybe less.”
“You texted me before the crucifixion video aired. So whatever you wanted to talk to me about, it wasn't about flies.”
Chalmers glanced up and down the crowded corridor, but no one appeared to be paying them any attention. He moved to the side, out of the human freeway of people in a hurry. Schelly, intrigued, followed. Under his breath he said, “Your unit is not the only asset we got incountry.”
“What?”
“You’ve heard about Phoenix?”
“Rumors,” she said.
“We don’t want US nationals coming home from Syria with certain skills. So we’re cleaning things up before the whole Syria thing ends in tears. We’re not the only country doing it.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Cooper gets into trouble, as he no doubt will, there may be backup. Just let us know where he is.”
“I’ll consider it.” And now that I’ve considered it, no fucking way. “A question for you, Associate Deputy Director – you and Cooper. What was it about - back at the beginning?”
“Oh, that?” He snorted. “His girlfriend. Well, we … You know …,” he smirked. “She might’ve been his fiancée at the time. Or about to be.”
You are every kind of gross. “Anna Masters.”
“You have been doing your homework. Listen, there’s all kinds of stuff you know nothing about – and you’ll never know because it’s above your pay grade.”
Asshole.
Chalmers’s smile broadened into a leer. “As for Masters, she was only human.”
I just want to take my fingers and poke them in your smug beady eyes.
“Major, in regards to Phoenix, I’m telling you because I want to help.”
“Really. Are you sure you’re not telling me because you want Cooper to get caught in the crossfire?”
“Shit happens in the desert, Major.”
Chalmers turned to go.
“Wait – you know something’s going to happen out there and you’re taking credit in advance.”
“Now what kind of a person do you think I am, Major?” he said, leaving Schelly alone at the building’s exit.
Thirty-nine
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
Tonight, dinner was KFC. America has the best fast food in the world. No wonder everyone wants to live here.
Al-Aleaqarab stood at the mouth of the cave, darkness all around, first light still many hours away. The air at his back was cool and smelt of wood smoke and unwashed men. The air off the desert in front was clean and still warm, but it would chill during the night. The stars above burned bright, joined now on the horizon by a crescent moon, the sliver of curved yellow light against the velvet blackness as sharp as a blade. The sight of it warmed the Scorpion and he whispered the verse, “Of this fierce glow which love and you, within my breast inspire. The Sun is but a spark that flew and set the heavens afire.” He wondered how Allah might greet him in Paradise. Will I be seated at his right hand, known by all as the Mahdi? What will my new bride look like? Will I meet Mohammad? He sighed. There was much that he would have to do to earn his place among the most renowned martyrs. Is Allah watching? Al-Aleaqarab shook his head. How easy it is to make the mistake that God has any of the weaknesses of Man. Allah is all knowing, he reminded himself. He knows everything that has passed, and everything that will be. That is what it is to be God. Allah knows the outcome of his endeavors. And what the outcome will lead to, and what the outcome of the outcome will bring and so forth, forever and ever and on and on. Al-Aleaqarab breathed. It made him a little giddy just to ponder what omnipotence might be like.
One of his men brushed past him, murmured something respectful, and his brief presence brought Al-Aleaqarab down from the stars. The man made his way to a collection of scrubby bushes at the base of a rock ledge, and urinated. And the stress of the not knowing came back to Al-Aleaqarab. What was happening in the wider world? Are the reports true of an army growing along the Turkish border? Much could happen in a day. Will the West meet the armies of Islam on the plain of Dabiq? When will the Antichrist reveal himself? When will Jesus come? Have I been foretold? Is it possible that I am actually the Mahdi? What will the final battle look like? He pictured the plain around Dabiq, hundreds of thousands of men and machines clawing and tearing at each other like ferocious ants fighting to the death. And once more, he felt overwhelmed.
The Scorpion left the cave mouth and walked up the hill, picking his way through loose scree to where another finger of rock provided enough protection for some low trees and shrubs to survive the elements. Arriving slightly breathless, he saw two men standing guard here. Al-Aleaqarab ignored them as he walked past, their greeting respectful. His attention was focused on what was around the next bend in the rocks. He came around the corner and saw the man nailed up in the tree. The doctor was there, too, he noticed.
“Thalib,” the Scorpion said, his voice low.
“Amir, I did not hear you coming,” the doctor replied, removing the stethoscope from his ears.
“Which is why you are a doctor and not a guard. How is the Crusader president? Does he live?”
“He lives, Amir. He has weakened, though.”
“Will he survive the full three days?”
“Three days is a long time, Amir. I do not know. Much will depend on his will. If it is strong, yes. If not?” He shrugged.
“What will kill him? Loss of blood?”
“He will suffocate, Amir. It is hard fo
r him to breath and, as he loses strength, it will become harder still. He must drink.”
“See that he does.”
“Yes, Amir.”
“What of General Yegorov?”
“The general is much recovered. He is taking food now and his fever has dropped.”
“Bring him here, to the feet of his lord and master.”
“Amir, I do not recommend it. He is still weak.”
The Scorpion said nothing in reply.
“Yes, I will bring him immediately.”
***
Phoenix Zero-Four arrived downwind from the south – six on dirt bikes, two in the support Desert Patrol Vehicle. They parked their transport, left one of their number to guard it, and jogged the remaining 500 or so yards across the flat gritty, rock-strewn ground to the coordinates.
“This is the place,” said Gunny Eldrich’s voice through his comms.
“Breach and secure,” Sam Nanaster said into the mike. The bright green flare in her NVGs told her there was an electric light source inside the home. Out here, that was unusual. She flipped up the goggles. “Go easy, Gunny. We want breathers.”
“No Johnny Rambo shit,” was the Company’s message – not exactly SOP. She gave a mental shrug – orders were orders.
“Roger that,” said Eldrich, his voice in her ear.
Something there, in shadows near the house. She flipped down the NVGs. Small four-legged creatures. “Movement, southeast corner. Goats.”
The team went about its work silently.
And then. “The door was open, boss. We’re clear. No breathers.”
A minute later, Nanaster was inside with two of her men. Three bodies on the ground, dead from gunshot wounds. A large flat screen TV – smashed - shared the floor with them.
“Deceased a couple of hours, no more.” Gunny leaned over the bodies. “My guess - wrong place, wrong time.”
Hard to disagree with that, Nanaster thought. She glanced around. Television, internet, an Apple laptop – unusual. The computer was also on the floor, open, stomped on and kicked, the screen hanging from one hinge, the keyboard depressed into the frame. “Waste of a good MacBook Pro,” she said. Someone did that for a reason. “Bag it.” Breathers lie, computers don’t. “So, what do we think happened here? Any ideas?”
“You’re the ex-cop, ma’am,” said Gunny.
There was food scattered around among spent AK brass casings. Two AKs were undisturbed, propped against a wall. “You wouldn't get many guests out here. Hard to sneak up on this place. My guess, the occupants were taken by surprise by people they invited for dinner. Maybe they knew ‘em, maybe not.” They practice a form of Pashtun melmastia and nanawatai here – being a good host and giving asylum to strangers. This one looks straightforward, but the Company sent us to this place and wanted prisoners, so maybe not straightforward at all. “Look for vehicle tracks,” she said.
“Got ‘em,” said Li’l Wilson’s voice through the comms. “A small truck, one bald tire. Probably a pickup. ISIS vehicle of choice. Two occupants wearing treaded boots – worn tread. Followed the vehicle tracks a hundred yards to the east. Nothing left to follow after that. Two sets. One incoming, one outgoing. Whoever they were, they came, did what they needed to do, then split.”
“Maybe they wanted to catch a movie and didn't like the ending,” she said looking at the remains of the television. And then, “Okay, let’s pack it up.”
“What’s next, boss?” asked Gunny.
“Catch some zees and then, Raqqa.”
“The usual.”
“Got an asshole from Nebraska needs whacking.”
“Boss,” said another voice in Sam’s ear – Ronan, the unit’s RTO back at the DPV. “Transmission from Ops Command. We’re to hold until further notice.”
Nanaster asked, “What about Raqqa?”
“That’s the message we got, ma’am. That’s it.”
***
The moon and the stars provided enough illumination for the two men making their way with some difficulty up the hill. General Yegorov was limping heavily, using the doctor for support. He heard the Scorpion call out, “General, I see you have recovered from your wound. Come join me. Let us talk about the future.”
The Scorpion came down the hill several paces to meet them. “Here, allow me,” he said, offering his shoulder to lean on in place of the doctor’s. To the doctor he said, “Wait nearby. When I am done, you will take him back inside.”
“Yes, Lord.” The doctor gave a slight bow as Al-Aleaqarab took the weight of the general.
“Only a little further, General,” Al-Aleaqarab informed him. “The doctor has looked after you well. Your wound is healing. You cannot not say the men of Ad-Dawlah al-Islamiyah do not give succor to their guests.”
The general didn’t reply immediately, concentrating instead on every step, each of which was accompanied by a grunt he couldn't stop himself from making. Catching his breath he said between gritted teeth, “What do you want?”
“To brief you, General. Much has happened in a very short while. Here,” he said, guiding Yegorov onto flatter ground. “Not much further.”
The general kept his eyes on the rock-strewn dirt in front, carefully assessing the ground, his foot pulsing with intense discomfort. A fall would induce searing pain.
“Here, now. We have arrived,” the Scorpion informed him.
General Yegorov stopped and secured his balance. He lifted his head and seemed to wonder for several seconds whether he was experiencing a dream. In front of him was a naked man on a cross, his body and head hanging in a familiar fashion.
Al-Aleaqarab read the confusion in the general’s face. “Yes, this is real,” he said.
Yegorov gaped speechless at the scene that confronted him.
“He is alive,” the Scorpion continued. “This is the punishment for enemies of Islam, and the criminal must be alive to be punished. Death will come, and then punishment will continue with an eternity in hellfire.”
“Why?” was the only word the general could manage, his throat constricted with revulsion.
“Why the president? Why crucify him and not you? Your president is a symbol. A powerful symbol. But you have something more valuable to us now – practical knowledge, an intimate understanding of your country’s war fighting assets and technologies; how they are deployed, the command structure, the strengths and the weaknesses. I am sure you would also have a considerable knowledge of the capabilities of potential opponents: Europe and, of course, the United States. As the world prepares for the final battle, this knowledge makes you far more prized than a mere symbol.” He motioned at the president.
“You are … insane,” said Yegorov with not enough strength in his body to shrug off the Scorpion’s hand resting on his shoulder.
“My life belongs to God, as does yours. But you deny this simple truth. You allow yourself to be blinded by trinkets and values and ambitions, all of which are as worthless as dust. In my eyes, it is you who have lost your mind. And you have also lost your soul.”
“I will give you nothing, tell you nothing.”
“If you do not cooperate, your president’s suffering will be increased. His own eyes will beg you to cooperate, even if he is in too much pain to speak.”
“You are a monster,” Yegorov whispered.
“I am not the one who has created the instruments of mass destruction used to ransom the world for my own benefit. I am just a simple warrior who serves Allah’s will.”
The general stared up at Petrovich. Would it be better to cooperate and reduce his suffering than to be responsible for the deaths of countless thousands of his own countrymen? Was this just a nightmare? “You have brought this on yourself,” Yegorov said under his breath at Petrovich, a man he had long despised.
“You have something to say?” the Scorpion asked.
The general ground his teeth, a surge of hate and anger for the man on the cross. He said no more, choosing instead to recall their last momen
ts in the helicopter.
The Hind flew low over the remains of Latakia on your orders, low enough to fill the helicopter with the smells of death and devastation. That’s what you wanted. With pleasure on your face, you looked down on our air force’s handiwork, at the sea of broken tiles, wood and cinderblocks.
It pleased you that the few buildings teetering among the rubble would require complete demolition; the homes, shops, hospitals and schools all blown to dust. You delighted in the fires burning here and there, yellow flames snatched and torn by the wind. “We need the body count for the people back home,” you said into the headset mike.
“Yes, Mr President,” I replied.
“Have the numbers broken down.”
“There will be collateral casualties, President Petrovich. Women and children.”
“General, need I remind you that boys grow into men who avenge their fathers, and these women are the factories of terrorism, their wombs turning out new fighters to replace the ones gone to hell. Have we learned the lessons of Chechnya, or haven’t we?”
“We have learned, President Petrovich.”
“Good.”
Rapid pounding vibrations, like beats in a drum solo, came up through airframe. Something caught my attention, a freshly made hole in the aircraft’s skin, just above your head. Another burst of small arms ground fire peppered the Hind’s armored underbelly, which you acknowledged with a stamp of your boot, “She is not called the Flying Tank for nothing, eh?”
Your helmet was stowed under your feet. How stupid! And yet I gave you what you wanted: a grin that said you were a man of unrivalled courage.
“Tell the pilots to recirculate the air. The smell of burnt terrorist is like perfume to me, but I have had enough of the sweetness for one evening.”
I relayed the order to the flight deck.
“The air force has done good work here,” you told me. “I am looking forward to congratulating our pilots personally. You have made arrangements for this?”
“Yes, President Petrovich.” I knew what you meant by “arrangements” – to ensure cameras were on hand to record the occasion.
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