Mazool came over to report. “We are in luck. Those two jihadi,” he said, trying to hide his excitement, motioning casually at two filthy fighters. “They are the Scorpion’s men. The man on the left. His name is Ortsa, a Chechen. I spit on the ground with disgust.
“Hold off on that for the moment,” I advised him and waved at a fighter staring at us.
Mazool continued, “He says they went to Dabiq to bring back these men, more fighters to accompany the Mahdi to the great battlefield.”
“You’re starting to sound like one of them, Mazool,” I told him.
“It is necessary. I told them we have become separated from our fighters, and have gathered up other jihadi who have lost their units in the fighting. We are to join them, and bring the Mahdi to his army, which has gathered on the border north of Dabiq.”
“What’s a Mahdi for you?” I said.
“I am sorry? What’s the Mahdi?”
“No, no … Wassamaddaforyou, get it?”
He looked at me.
“Forget it,” I told him, waving it away. “If you were from New York, you’d be slapping me on the back.”
He still looked at me.
“Okay,” I said. ”Where were we?”
“The Mahdi is the one chosen by God to defeat the Crusader armies and bring about the End of Days. It is written in the Qur’an. They say the Scorpion is the Mahdi.”
I knew all that, but whatever. Moving on, I asked him. “You believe that rubbish?”
“No, but there are many, many thousands of fighters crossing into Syria from Turkey who do believe. The Scorpion must be killed. If we do not, the world will change.”
“I liked you from the start, Mazool.”
The Syrian went off to poach a cigarette and a light and maybe a little soldierly scuttlebutt from a couple of fighters. Bo told me over the comms, “Boss, had to let the drone go. Couldn’t risk recovering it with these pricks around.”
“Forget about it,” I murmured. “Uncle Sam will take it out of your pay when we get home. Mount up, everyone. We’re following these cocksuckers to the promised land.” I caught Alvin’s eye. He motioned a subtle acknowledgement and made his way to the Toyota with Jimmy and Igor. Minutes later we were all on the move, following the dust cloud ahead, which slowed and began to climb. I’ll admit to excitement. Or maybe fear. Sometimes they feel like the same thing. Whatever it was, my heart was thundering along and I was sweating, but also cold. No one spoke. I couldn't think of a single joke to lighten the moment, though I was thinking that Natasha could be mistaken for Mrs Vader, Darth’s boss.
Less than five minutes later, we stopped beyond the fingers of an ancient deep and steep wadi that had carved its way through solid rock. All around us, standing on overhanging ledges and rounded boulders, were more fighters cheering and raising AKs above their heads. A couple of idiots fired rounds skywards, as they do.
It was then that I saw him. The Scorpion. You couldn't miss the ratty, patchy beard or the hands that wouldn’t look out of place presented on a bed of ice in a seafood buffet. There was the opportunity of a clean shot as he walked among the fighters newly arrived at his hidey-hole. He was clearly revered. If he’d had a ring on his finger he’d have presented it to be kissed. Maybe if he had fingers, he’d have a ring. A couple of fighters did the next best thing and kneeled in the dirt and kissed the hem of his robe. Perhaps I should have killed him right there, but I didn’t. Actually, we should have punched his ticket way back at the warehouse. It could have been done. We’d identified him and he was a legitimate target. It’s something I’ve thought a lot about since.
Checking bona fides was not on the Scorpion’s agenda. His fighters weren’t concerned with background checks either. There was a rush to get moving, a war to start. No one knew we were Americans, and if they knew they probably would have cared less. The fighters had come from all over – Indonesia, New Zealand, Russia (Chechnya), Georgia, Canada, England, Scotland, the Netherlands, Germany and Italy. And, of course, there were a whole lot of Sunni Arabs from various countries. All of them had left their lives behind to take up jihad. What were a few Americans in amongst all that? It was the perfect Petri dish for a cancer of US servicemen to hide in, ready to turn malignant when the opportunity presented. The only question: would the opportunity present itself or would we have to create it?
Fighters poured from a dark hole in the rock. Think cockroaches swarming from a drainpipe. More group hugs and I-told-you-so-Allahu akbars.
Mazool, who did the circulating on our behalf, returned to say that we would all be leaving soon, just as Al-Aleaqarab turned and pointed at a couple of nearby fighters, as if to say, “You and you …” And then his claw moved on to Mazool, Alvin, Jimmy and me. “You, you, you and you …Come.”
“He wants us to follow him,” Mazool informed us.
“What about Natasha?” I said, thinking aloud.
He could see the problem. She was the only woman here. Leaving her alone among a large group of lawless assholes who considered women property could be asking for trouble. And not necessarily just for Natasha, who had proven to be a stone-cold killer. But then again, I had no idea why Al-Aleaqarab picked us.
“Bring her,” he suggested. And then to Natasha he added, “But you must walk behind.”
The black bag hid Natasha’s reaction, which was helpful, because underneath I was sure it was all one big raised middle finger.
I considered all this and decided it would probably be better if she stayed behind, out of sight. I moved to Bo and said, “Take Igor and provide Natasha some close protection. Keep a low profile.”
He nodded.
And so a group of around ten of us followed the Scorpion up the hill. My trigger finger was itchy as hell. He was right there, eminently killable – a bullet to the brain stem. Again, I should have, but didn’t. After a couple of minutes of climbing a scree slope that kept falling away beneath my feet, we found more solid ground and turned toward the rock faces. Coming around a deep cleft I was confronted with the biblical scene of three men crucified on a hill. All three were naked but for their underwear. It was like a scene from an Easter pageant, but without the bunny. When I got a little closer to the three crosses, which were ancient, gnarled desert trees stripped bare of foliage, I admit to being sickened by it. All three men had bled profusely from where the bolts were driven through wrists and feet, as well as from their noses and mouths. The skin and muscle around the wounds was festering and raw, weeping pus. They had also let go their bowels and bladders and were covered head to toe in filth and flies. Buzzards hopped around on nearby rock shelves, expectant. The area stank worse than a busload of jihadists, which was saying something. The agony all three men were suffering, or had suffered for every single moment of their torture, was evident. They hung limp from the bolts. Were they all dead? They looked dead. No, at least one of them was alive – the victim in the middle moved his head. His arms were tied to the boughs so that his bodyweight wouldn’t rip flesh and bone through the bolts securing his wrists and feet. I couldn't see his face, because his chin rested forward on his chest.
“Jesus,” I heard someone say softly in my earpiece. It was an exclamation of surprise and dismay, nothing ironic about it.
The Scorpion stopped, and considered the men up on their crosses for a moment. He then drew a knife and walked to the man on the right, a tall guy. He was young, mostly bone and sinew. Without any ceremony or delay, the Scorpion inserted the long blade he carried up through his abdomen, slowly, methodically, further and further, until the victim gave a final moan and slumped forward. Now he really was dead. Al-Aleaqarab walked to the second man, the one on the far left-hand side, and killed him the same way, slipping the knife in slow. No rush. No emotion. Just deliberate, orderly, unhurried, psychotic.
Withdrawing the knife blade, he wiped it clean in his hand, which had also gathered up some of his black clothing. One of the jihadists went to the men the Scorpion had just murdered, pulled a steth
oscope from over his shoulder, put the buds in his ears and held the business end to each. He gave a nod to the boss, confirming death, I guessed. It was a strange spectacle. I wondered why we were there until fighters fastened ropes around the boughs holding the remaining victim, who I figured had to be President Petrovich, while another jihadist with a tree saw made quick work of the trunk supporting the Russian president’s torment.
Minutes later, we were carrying the man, still nailed to his rudimentary cross, down the hill, where we loaded him into the back of a pickup. Wherever we were going, we were taking him with us.
Fifty-two
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
Attention Mr Scorpion, Jesus will not be walking with your dead. Everyone knows he’s on OUR SIDE.
Major Schelly had ripped off a hangnail. And now that finger was hurting like a bitch, as well as bleeding. The feeds playing out on numerous screens showed that Quickstep had been absorbed by a larger group of ISIS fighters, which had taken place without a gun battle. Schelly was at a loss to understand how the unit had managed to pull that off. Quickstep, along with this much larger group of ISIS fighters, had then driven a short distance to …
“Oh my god,” said Epstein as men spewed from the side of the rock. “Is that a cave? Have they found …” The thought trailed off as the feed she was viewing moved on, somewhat aimlessly.
Bunion was back on his cell, muttering, but with more urgency.
“The Predator’s pilot doesn't know who to follow,” Schelly surmised. There were a lot of fighters down there and no way to identify friend or foe. She picked up the phone to Creech and Colonel Simmons. Shortly after, individual idents were painted against every warm body. And in other news, she informed Epstein, those two Reapers were finally inbound. Meanwhile, the feeds continued to drift silently over the fighters at various altitudes, Schelly hoping to pick up something familiar so that she could have the Predator lock onto an individual.
“Which one is Cooper?” the SECDEF wondered.
“I don’t know, Madam Secretary,” she admitted. Everyone’s wearing a goddamn towel over their head, or a hat. No fluorescent strips. No comms. Fucking nightmare.
“What’s that?” said Chalmers, pointing up at a screen.
Schelly’s eyes shifted to that view. It was a group of men carrying someone between them, arms out wide, feet together. “Oh, lord. That’s, that’s Petrovich,” she said before she knew it was true, but only because it couldn’t be anything else. Shifting to a view at a lower altitude showed that the man was still affixed to a rudimentary cross. They’d cut him down and were carrying him somewhere.
“Jesus fucking wept,” murmured Epstein, her eyes flitting from one screen to another, trying to take it all in. “There!” she said, pointing. “Look. The hands. Isn’t that the Scorpion?”
“We got a Predator up there,” said Bunion. “Blast that son of a bitch. We may never get another opportunity.”
What! US servicemen were down there. Her men. The president’s chief advisor was telling her that they had done their job and were now surplus to requirements. “Sir, the Predator is unarmed,” she said quietly. “And President Petrovich has a heat signature. He’s still alive. Hit them with Hellfire missiles and we’ll be murdering him. Also, sir, you do know we’ve got people down there?”
“They’re soldiers. They knew the score when they signed up.”
The tips of Schelly’s ears burned, a white-hot anger rising through her.
“Mr Bunion,” Epstein said, keeping her tone neutral. “They are Americans. We don’t blow up our own people. We need to give them time.”
The advisor picked up his phone and dialed. “Time to do, what?” he said, waiting for the call to connect. “They’re heavily outnumbered. Four against – how many? Your team has located Petrovich and the Scorpion. They will be commended for that. But there’s a bigger picture - averting World War III.” He glared at Schelly. “This is the price of command, Major. If you can’t take the heat, there’s the door.” He indicated over his shoulder. “Anyway, as you pointed out, re the Predator, ending this now is not an option.”
The president’s chief advisor’s willingness to incinerate US servicemen troubled Schelly more than a little. Four Hellfire missiles would soon become available. What then?
“ISIS, they’re loading up,” said Chalmers. “Gonna be on the move at any time. Where are your people, Major? Cooper and the rest?”
They’re down there somewhere. And they’re our goddamn people. “I don't know,” she said honestly.
“What are those idents coming in from the southeast?” asked Epstein. The monitor directly behind them held the SECDEF’s attention.
What now? Schelly turned and saw another potential storm of bad news heading Quickstep’s way. She tasted copper. The bleeding hangnail was back in her mouth and she’d made it far worse.
***
According to Mazool, the Scorpion’s reinforcements, the ones we’d run into, had raced across sixty miles of desert in broad daylight without incident. Hard to believe, but there you go. For them to have survived the trip, I figured most if not all of Russia’s assets had to still be congregated in the area generally to the east of Latakia, where the president’s helicopter went down. The advent of NVGs, which turned night into a bright green-lit day, meant attempting the same run under the stars would advantage the Scorpion’s enemies - the rest of the world.
I could see the Scorpion’s quandary. Option one: head for Dabiq now and risk it. Option two: head for Dabiq after sunrise and risk it and lose ten hours.
A couple of the Scorpion’s long-serving fighters threw a cover over Petrovich and then climbed up onto the utility bed beside him, their AKs locked and loaded along with their battle faces. The jihadist with the stethoscope climbed up too as the Scorpion’s lieutenants began shouting at the rest of us to get our shit together. Apparently the Scorpion was going with option two.
I told my guys I would meet them back at the ambulance.
There were a lot of vehicles in this convoy. Thirteen all up. A nice juicy target for an A-10 or Hind gunship. The pickup with the familiar four-barrel ZPU made an appearance and motored slowly down the lineup, heading for the rear of the column. A fearsome weapon, that, but it would be first on the target list of any self-respecting Warthog pilot. I noticed the white Beemer was here too, the one we’d seen at the warehouse and, later, departing what was probably the area of the helicopter crash. That had to be the Scorpion’s car. Fancy that, the same car my ex-wife and our marriage counselor who is now her husband drive. Figured, right? Just seeing it sitting there unattended, minding its own business, made me want to key it. “Oh, man,” I said, the idea hard to shake. Remember what I said about the Air Force and getting your kicks?
I headed over to it, faking battle readiness. It was unlocked. Not surprising. I couldn't imagine the Scorpion parking, thumbing the alarm fob – chirp-chirp – and then running off to wage a little jihad, secure in the knowledge that his Bavarian sports limo wouldn't get itself boosted in the meantime. I took my ka-bar, glanced in the window and … hey, was that a briefcase attached to a chain and handcuff on the front seat? “Shee-eet,” I said, opening the door. Finders keepers, right?
A short while later, I made my way back to the ambulance, creeping along the wadi with a certain briefcase carrying the launch confirmation codes for the destruction of the entire Earth several times over tucked under my arm. Natasha was watching on, a big black bag, as two men loaded a wounded jihadist onto the gurney. Job done, the orderlies ran off.
“You saw president?” she asked behind me, her voice muffled by the khimar covering her head.
“Yeah,” I told her, stuffing the briefcase in the bottom of the trash bag containing soiled, blood caked bandages.
“He is alive?”
I nodded. “Unfortunately for him.”
“Where?”
“Up the line,” I nodded in the direction. “Three vehicles ahead of a white BMW.�
��
And that was pretty much the exact moment a rocket streaked down from out of nowhere and buried itself in an ear-splitting fireball that engulfed the lead vehicle in the convoy. Suddenly, everyone was running everywhere, taking cover where they could find it, including me. Another rocket hurtled down on the column from out of the night, missed the ZPU, and exploded under an old Landcruiser, flipping it onto its roof. Green tracer began to zip down from the heights like bars of laser light, accompanied by the sounds of multiple semi and full-auto cracks and rattles.
“Gotta be the Russians,” I said into the comms, the green tracer a sure tell. Major Schelly’s hunch had been right. They’d figured out the puzzle and here they were, same as us. Spetsnaz, most probably. But how many? And they’d have night vision for sure, which would put the ISIS fighters at a huge disadvantage. We had four sets of NVGs between us, but couldn’t use them. Walking around with those on our heads would instantly blow our cover.
The Scorpion’s men began to fan out, working in pairs and threes. Panic was non-existent. I had to hand it to them, they were well trained. They were also highly motivated as well as being hardened by years of combat. Finally, on the plus column, they cared less about dying, which made them fearless risk-takers. Nevertheless, in the minus column, they were outmaneuvered in both the areas that counted most: the opposition held the high ground and ISIS had no idea what they were facing. The amount of fire raining down made me think the folks we were tagging along with were in a lot of trouble. And the Russians would be calling in reinforcements.
For the Scorpion, the jig was almost definitely up.
“Who do we kill, boss?” Jimmy asked.
Good question. The Russians were trying to shoot us dead, which meant we were entitled to protect ourselves. Except that the Russians were supposedly our allies here and who knew where Americans knowingly killing Russians would lead … At the very least to a court martial and a long stay at Leavenworth. We could start shooting the ISIS fighters, but they were the only force standing in the way of the Russians trying to kill us. The rules of engagement I’d read didn’t cover this scenario.
Kingdom Come Page 37