by Clay Martin
After 45 minutes, I order a stand down to half strength. The guys were still smoked from riding out the haboob in the towers, and we still had plenty to do to get our camp back in order. I convened all the Americans and Bazan at my position to work out a rest plan. We decided to leave all the towers manned, as well as the front and back gate trucks. Two of mine would stay up front, if for no other reason to prevent the Kurds from getting trigger happy when Paul returned. If he returned. That was a pretty ominous last message he sent. Frank and I headed to the chow hall, where I fired up the grill. Might as well get a hot meal in us before things went pear shaped.
I had just turned the burgers over when Bazan burst in, dragging one of his troops with him, who was clutching a cell phone like it was the Holy Grail. Not that a Kurd would necessarily even care about the Holy Grail, that is beside the point. They were jabbering back and forth at great volume, plenty of finger pointing from Bazan. He stopped in front of us and started in before I could even ask if he was taking junior to the woodshed.
“Boss, you have to see something. Now.” Well, that was direct. The trooper was looking a little sheepish, I hoped this wasn’t a goat humping video. I thought a lot more of the Peshmerga than that.
“Yeah, okay, take it easy. Show away.” I retorted. I liked Bazan, I hoped I wasn’t going to have to show him who ran this show.
Potential Goat Humper hit play on the screen and handed the phone over. I held it so Frank could get a good view too. If I needed to bleach my eyeballs after this, I wanted him to be willing to help.
The video started, with some bearded twit on a stone balcony, dressed in the usual robes and cool hat. He was preaching fire and brimstone in Arabic, of which I didn’t understand a word anymore. Once upon a time, but that was years ago. Fortunately for me, there were English subtitles. Side benefit of being the Great Satan, the jihadis translate the propaganda for you, prerelease. All the Minor Satan infidel countries have to wait on a translation, but not us.
Bearded twit was going on and on about how he was from the correct line to be Caliph, the Armies of Rome had appeared, and how the battle with ISIS had fulfilled the prophecy. One third had fled, one third had been killed, and one third was still standing at Dabiq.
“I saw this one already Bazan. It’s a rerun.” I was getting annoyed. The jihadis must’ve had half of YouTube’s fired employees on staff. This trash came out bi-weekly it seemed. I handed the phone back, but Bazan pushed it toward me again.
“Just watch. No rerun.” Bazan looked spooked. My bravado was holding up, but a chill was gaining ground up my spine.
Now the video cut to the skyline of a bunch of cities in sequence, framed so you had time to recognize them. I caught New York, LA, London, Moscow, Mumbai, Paris, and Seoul on the first pass, along with plenty I had no idea about. There was jibber jabber music in this part, but the chorus kept coming back to “Allah has given us a mighty sword.” Terminology like that, in intelligence circles, is generally regarded as not good. But the jihadist tendency to exaggerate cannot be underestimated. They did now have my attention at least.
The next part made the hair on my neck stand up. Well-lit room, two guys in Tyvek suits. We had now passed not good and gone into “pooping your pants is both authorized and encouraged.” The goons had aerosol tanks, like the kind you use in your garden. A timer started in the bottom corner, and the video went into fast forward mode. Chained up on walls, the video showed first a pair of white dudes, sprayed with a puff of the tanks. Then down the line, a pair each of Koreans, Greeks, white dudes again, Hispanics, Africans, Slavic white dudes, and finally Arabs. Tyvek goons left, and the timer started going faster. What unfolded was horrifying. In close up view, rotating between victims, the same pattern was happening. It started with rivers of sweat. Then vomiting uncontrollably. Bleeding from the eyes and nose. Vomiting blood, and finally death. One of the Africans only went to the first vomiting phase, and appeared to recover. At hour mark 14, only he and the Arabs were still alive. The timer started again at zero, close up of just the Arabs. I noticed now that we didn’t see them in the montage of gruesomeness before. The timer counted up, and nothing happened to them. Nothing. No sweats, no apparent discomfort aside from the shackles. Tyvek goons came back into view, wide shot. They shot the African and unchained the Arabs. One held up a copy of the New York Times. Outside scene, same two Arabs, drinking tea flanked by two goons. Faces are covered, black pants, green jackets. One holds up a New York Times from 5 days later. His partner machine guns the tea drinkers. That is a sure fire way of ensuring OPSEC. Cut scene, beard twit is back. ISIS was the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. But today it is gone. In its place has risen the Islamic Caliphate. And all infidels, all over the world, will be put to the sword.
I stared in disbelief. The jihadis had upped the production game in propaganda recently, but that was way too real for them to do with special effects. I’m not sure Hollywood could have faked what I just saw. “Where did you get this?” were all the words that would come out of my mouth. Bazan did some more yelling, his troop sheepishly spoke back, then he told me.
“He has a Wi-Fi hot spot, on an Iranian network. His cousin sent it to him, he showed me as soon as he could.”
“When was it sent?” I didn’t want to really know, but my brain was already making a scenario form.
“First night of the haboob. He didn’t see it until just now.”
For the first time in a very long while, I was speechless.
Frank and I looked at each other for a long moment. Bazan look to us for guidance. Not Goat Humper video man stared at the floor. I needed to analyze this in greater detail, my mind was refusing to accept the possibility it was legit. I remember when the puzzle pieces fell in line for me on 9/11, though that was many years ago. I was a young trooper at the time, getting a haircut at one of the many base barbershops. Right across the hall was the electronics store, TV’s on display in the front window. The first plane hit while I was waiting on my turn, sketchy reporting, it looked like an accident. The camera went to a live feed, and I didn’t really think any more about it as the clippers went to work on my high and tight. I happened to be glancing at the rising smoke when the second plane smacked the towers. It was like time stopped. I had no frame of reference for what I had just seen, nor do I think anyone my age did. Clarity hit me like glass shattering. This was on purpose. The rules, in that very second, changed. There is the before time, and the after. For those of us charged with defending the nation, in that microsecond of true realization, a switch flipped.
The switch was having a little more trouble this time. The implication of scale was too big. My limited imagination could not fathom that this was both true, and possibly tied to our current problems. But my analyst brain was in overdrive, not only accepting that it was real, but mapping scenarios.
“Frank, can you go handle the front gate by yourself, and send Ranger back here? He doesn’t have a radio, and all our guys need to see this.” I at least had the presence of mind to put an American on the gate. I didn’t want Paul to roll up in a fury only to be gunned down by friendlies.
“Roger, on it.” And Frank was already moving. He was dazed, I could tell. I hit the radio as calmly as I could, telling Willie and Scott to meet at my position. I really wanted one of them to spot the fake blood or bad CGI, give me a ration of shit for being gullible, and never let me live it down. That would be awesome right now.
Willie and Scott walked in the door while I was getting a second viewing, Ranger a few steps behind. Closer inspection was doing nothing to dissuade fears. I do have a weakness as an analyst. I tend to over credit enemy abilities, and thus, my worst case scenario assessments tend to err on the negative side. But for once, even my nightmare conclusions might be under billing it.
“No questions, I need you guys to watch this, beginning to end. Serious as a heart attack.” I restarted the video and handed the phone to Scott
, while motioning him to sit down. I got up to pace the floor, I tend to think better when I am moving. On the first viewing, I watched their faces go from bored, to shocked, to dumbfounded. I also noticed both Willie and Scott throwing furtive glances at Ranger. Oh snap, that was something I hadn’t considered yet! You often learn a lot by watching others, and they were probing territory that I wouldn’t have thought about. Scott immediately restarted the video, and they got a second look too.
Finished, Scott broke the moment of silence that followed. “What’s the source?”
I explained the same way Bazan had to me. There were some looks to Bazan for confirmation, and some hard stares at the phones owner. I needed to get a lid on this, quick.
“That is all we know at the moment. And Bazan, thank you for bringing this to me. Big questions are on the table, but let’s not go off halfcocked. First, can we transfer that video over to one of our computers? No sense in watching this on a 4 inch screen if we don’t have to. And we will undoubtedly be watching it again. Second, we need outside confirmation. Anything you can think of. Call your Aunt Mary back on the farm if you have too, somebody make comms outside this fucking compound. Third, Bazan, you and Phone Boy stay close. He is on house arrest for the moment, and I would rather you enforce that than me. For that matter, who else has seen this?” This had the potential of creating a general panic. I hoped we had it locked down, at least until we figured out if it was real.
Bazan conferred with his associate, then told us “Only his roommate had seen it, then immediately he came to me. And yes, he understood my reasoning.” So much for having this locked down. Soldiers in all Armies are gossip queens, half the time that is what passes for entertainment. If one of the Pesh outside this room had seen it, they would all know the details inside an hour.
“I can pull the video off his phone, I have something for that.” Ranger piped up. Of course he did, he worked for the spooks. At least that was helpful.
“Okay, let’s go to the Ops Cen. Scott and Willie, please find me an outside line while we put this nightmare on the big screen.” I said, already moving towards the door.
The Ops Center became a whirlwind of activity. Ranger pulled what looked like an iPod out of his kit, along with some cables, and went to work on the phone. Somehow a roll up keyboard was attached to the mess, but I was too concerned about other problems to let my curiosity drag me in. I grabbed my computer, unlocked it, and slid it over to Ranger. Scott and Willie went to work on the different radios, rolling frequencies every few seconds, just looking for a voice. I checked my useless cell phone for a signal for the thousandth time, then handed it off to Scott. Maybe Paul send another VT text. I heard wheels on gravel, and went out front to see the black Suburban skid to a stop. Paul, Jim, and Frank spilled out, headed straight in at a rapid pace.
“Paul, we have problems, but I need to hear yours first. What’s up?” The room went quiet, he had our full attention.
“The whole place is empty. Everyone is gone. Like they just disappeared.” He looked dumbfounded. Like he passed herd of unicorns on the way in or something.
“From the top please, from the time you left here.” I said, taking a seat. Tensions were high, we needed to simmer this down a notch. I forced myself to relax, like I was debriefing teams back in the old days.
Paul matched my posture, settling into a rhythm that was routine for all of us. We wouldn’t interrupt his story until he was finished, then the questions could fly.
“We left here, and headed straight back to the safe house. A mile away, I could tell something wasn’t right. Our cover is that our facility is a USDA research center here to study Iraq’s farming methods, improve grain production, that kind of thing. It even has a big USDA logo out front, Iraqi flag flying, tractors in the fields. Funny thing about those tractors, our militia guys drive them. Security out the wazoo, but only if you are looking for it. We have three times the force of Kurds you do, and all of ours get trained over in Jordan. Paid a small fortune by the standards of host nation forces.”
That perked up Bazan’s ears, and told me something as well. Paul hadn’t asked me to clear the room first of jundies. He was really rattled, or this was really bad.
“And it is a big operation. Twenty of us work out of there, motor pool of local cars, SIGINT center, the works. Driving up, we see no one outside, not a soul. When we get close, we realize the gate is open, and I see open doors to buildings. Unheard of. We drive around back, and go in the bolt hole entrance, the one most people don’t know about, it’s never used. Sneaky Pete, we walk in, and start clearing the compound. At this point I am thinking it was over run, we are looking for survivors. Maybe they are holed up in the safe room. Looking carefully, I notice there is no brass, anywhere. If there was a firefight, it was sterilized to the max. And no way this place would go down without a firefight, a big one. The inside smells like smoke, but that is from the hard drives and code books. Apparently, they got the word to abandon ship, and did it in a hurry. Big ticket items left behind, critical stuff burned, but obviously hastily. Papers are spread all over, desk drawers open, but not like it had been looted. Safe room door is wide open, floor is covered with more smashed drives, sledge hammers still beside them. But the strangest part was the arms room. Ransacked, but only the big stuff was gone. Our cage, in fact, wasn’t even opened. The station chief has a spare key, that would have been simple to solve. It was like they just didn’t bother. Like they grabbed the machine guns and carbines, and hauled ass into the night. We spent some time looking for clues, checked the phones and radios, nothing. All it was missing from a Mary Celeste event was dinner on the table. We scooped up what looked useful, sent you a text from the HF antennas, and headed back.”
An agency facility disappearing in the dead of night wasn’t without precedent, but in light of the other events I didn’t like the picture it painted.
“We had some less than stellar news dropped in our laps too. One of our boys got this in his email, night the storm started. Showed it to us as soon as it downloaded. Iranian cell network, all of ours are still down.”
Paul looked hopeful for a minute. “His hotspot works? Did you try the news?”
“Yes, we did. Seems to have gone FUBAR like the rest, minutes after his email downloaded. It’s over there, in case it comes back up.” Scott had the device, monitoring it for signal strength. I pointed to Ranger, who plugged an HDMI cable from my computer to one of the plasma screens. Neat, now we got to see the horror show in 46 inch high definition. I was sure my REM sleep was going to be fantastic.
Paul was the first to speak after it ended. “Sweet mother of God, do you think they did it?”
“I don’t know. It looks real, and it’s not beyond the scope of what we have been told to fear for years. Jihadists with either a chemical or biological weapon, that keeps intel nerds up at night. Because it could happen. It would also explain some of what we have seen today.” I looked for other input, we had devolved into a formal discussion. And they say people like us are untrainable. Jim raised his hand, and I nodded.
“But what about the comms? That still makes no sense. And why did our guys abandon ship? If anything, they should be squeezing everyone they know for information.”
He hadn’t made the same cognitive leap I had. Good old Worst Case Derek. My mind cut through “what ifs” like a sword on the Gordian Knot. But only if the real solution was unthinkable. Blessing and a Curse.
“Let’s say, for a moment, that those cities all shown actually got hit. Simultaneous chemical weapon, or close enough to simultaneous. And let’s say a thousand dead in each, just to be fair. Mass casualty event, global scale, followed by a propaganda video claiming responsibility. Anyone, what is US policy in regards to biological or chemical attack?”
Frank’s eyes went wide. “Nuclear counterstrike. Reagan policy.”
“Correct. Nuclear counterstrike. And for once, every nat
ion on Earth big enough to matter has a reason to want us to do it.” Slack jaws filled the room. Some had made the connection and already knew what I was going to follow with. Others stopped at the gravity of nuke strike. I continued to the logical follow through. “What do you do, provided time is on your side, if you need to devastate ground your own troops are on? Evacuate them, obviously. They are expensive to replace, as are fighter jets. So my bet is every American in the country is hauling ass. And the comms are down across the board because all the SATCOM networks are tied up. The leaders of the nuclear nations are deciding who uses what. And as soon as they do, the likely location of whoever is responsible is going to glow in the dark. If this new Islamic Caliphate is centered in Iraq, we could be sitting at ground zero.”
CHAPTER SIX
That was a scary analysis, but no one had a better alternative theory. If it was true, time was definitely not on our side. But we could get just as dead from bullets if we fled in a panic. The best plan we could think of was to go gather some information the hard way, by seeing it with our own eyes. The nearest US military unit was the ODA to our West, 50 miles. If they were still around, we would link up with them. If not, we would be sure a general evacuation had been called, and we would book it to the nearest airfield. And hope we caught the first thing smoking out of Iraq.
Jim brought up that one of the pairs of white dudes from the video were actually Persians. That is to say, Iranians. It made sense, the Sunni flavor jihadis hate them almost as much as they hate us. Sometimes more. If Iran had been attacked as well, it was entirely possible they would be making preparations as well. A detour of only 15 miles would take us to an Iranian border crossing station, that might shed some light on things.
Jim, Paul, Scott, and I loaded up our trucks, along with six of our Kurds. We would make the reconnaissance trip, leaving everyone else to defend the COP. If we couldn’t link up with the ODA, or make it to an airfield, at least the COP had food, water, and bullets. We weren’t near anything strategic, we might just have to ride it out if no other option existed. I would rather take my chances driving to Turkey after a nuke attack, at least it would clear out the bad guys along the way. I left the driving on our current adventure to Paul, he knew the way to the checkpoint.
