by Dale Brown
44
Palmyra—around the same time
Johnny and Turk had just reached the wall of the abandoned compound when Johansen hailed them on the radio with a string of expletives.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Planting the last bugs,” said Turk.
“It’s too risky. Send the bot and forget the bunker.”
“We’ll be in and out in ten minutes,” said Johnny. “Relax.”
They scrambled over the wall and dropped into an alley between the compound buildings. Viewed from the koalas’ cameras, the alley had looked as wide as a highway. But Johnny scraped his shoulders as he followed Turk to the central courtyard. They stopped, checking with Christian to make sure it was clear, then sprinted across to the west wall. Johnny vaulted over like a gymnast. He ran up the street, waiting for Turk in the shadows near the corner.
Turk was huffing when he caught up. “Got the rope?” he managed.
“Yeah. Give me sixty seconds, then come.”
Johnny crossed the street, bolting to the side of a two-story building. He leaped, arms up, and grabbed the metal edge of the roof. But the edging was too thin—he couldn’t get a grip.
His legs took the shock easily but the stumps above them reverberated with the impact, sending it through his body. He took a breath, stepped back, and sprang upward again. This time he willed himself higher and managed to get his right elbow on the roof. Then he levered himself over the edge.
Johnny pulled the rope out of his ruck and tossed it down, anchoring Turk as he climbed up. Turk was halfway up when Christian warned that the patrol was approaching their street.
“Next building,” said Johnny when he got up. They jumped over and ran to the lip, a low wall just high enough to keep them from being seen from the ground. Once the patrol passed, they could plant the bugs on the corners and leave.
“Damn,” muttered Christian over the radio.
That’s not good, thought Johnny.
In the command bunker nearly one hundred miles away, Chelsea watched the Daesh patrol stop near the building where Johnny and Turk were hiding.
What had they seen?
She zoomed on Johnny, flat on the roof. There was no way the patrol could have seen him, and yet, there they were, all three men getting out of the truck.
Oh, God, she thought. Don’t let them spot him.
Johnny heard voices over the rumble of the truck engine below. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the video bug, slid the tiny switch to activate it, then slowly edged to the corner.
“What are you doing?” whispered Turk.
“Planting the bug.”
“Wait—”
“If we have to take them down—”
“No, listen. They don’t know we’re here,” added Turk.
Johnny held his breath. The men were talking. He hadn’t turned his translator on, but he could tell Turk was right—the voices were relaxed.
“They’re saying how much they hate their commander,” explained Turk. “They’re peeing on the steps where he’ll have to walk tomorrow.”
There was laughter below. A few minutes later, the men were gone.
45
Boston—around the same time
“This is the best gaming laptop, period,” declared the salesman.
Massina couldn’t hold back a smile as the kid, barely into his twenties, waxed poetic about the laptop. “Better than Alienware?”
“Another awesome machine. But this is better.”
“It’s the one you own?”
“My laptop is a couple of years old,” confessed the clerk. “And, uh, I couldn’t afford either of these.”
“You get a commission on sales?”
“Yes, well—”
“I’ll take it. And that coupon for Battlefield.”
The salesman’s face lit up. “Your grandson will be very pleased.”
“Grandson? It’s for me.”
An hour and a half later, Massina had three new laptops, each from a different store. He went to a Starbucks, bought a coffee, and set about creating a series of phony identities. He spread them liberally over the web, opening social media accounts and visiting chat rooms, establishing a different background for each. Then he accessed one of the chat rooms Borya had discovered.
He’d told Johansen that Smart Metal would no longer probe Daesh. But he’d said nothing about doing it himself.
“God, what a lot of rubbish,” he muttered, scrolling through one of the conversations. He was looking for a user named GigaMan who accessed the site through a Kosovo provider who, among other things, supplied email addresses to Daesh gunrunners ID’d by Chiang.
GigaMan wasn’t active. Massina posted a few comments, cursing the others as dupes and idiots. This got him a handful of negative responses, but for the most part, he was simply ignored. He tried calling out GigaMan, mentioning him in one of the posts. But he got no response. After about a half hour, he signed out under the name he’d used, then went back in, using an anonymous server service and a different identity.
Nothing.
By then it was past midnight, and the store was about to close. Massina was the last one left.
“Tomorrow,” he said, closing down his computer. “We’ll find you tomorrow.”
46
Palmyra—around the same time
Bugs planted, Johnny and Turk headed to the Daesh commander’s compound. In less than five minutes, Johnny had shimmied up the telephone pole at the side of the compound, pointed the bugs at the nearest window, and climbed down. Ten minutes later, they were heading north toward the bunker.
“Truck on the road ahead,” warned Chelsea. “There’s a turnoff on your right about a quarter mile. Take that and you can go north without being seen.”
Johnny checked the route. It was longer and rougher, if safer.
“They’re getting paranoid,” Christian said. “Worrying too much. And we’re only just starting.”
They followed directions anyway, treading along shallow ruts to a wavy line at the base of a ridge. There was no moon, and in the dim starlight the terrain looked unearthly; Johnny felt as if he were on another planet, far out in the solar system.
He fought against a wave of fatigue. They still had work to do; he couldn’t afford to relax. He shook himself, stretched, tried to find his concentration as he surveyed the landscape ahead.
The hills seemed to separate as they got closer, and Christian was able to find a pass east without consulting the satellite image. A thick layer of dirt slowed them as they got through, but beyond that they had firm ground and the outlines of a road. Christian drove with a lead foot; Johnny couldn’t see the speedometer but he guessed they were hitting close to a hundred miles an hour.
“We need to stop a mile ahead,” he told Christian, checking their position on the GPS grid. “We’ll be a half mile east of the target.”
“Done deal. Tell me when we’re close.”
47
North of Palmyra—around the same time
Ghadab managed to complete the itineraries before his concentration finally gave way. He locked down his computer and left the bunker, nodding to the lone guard as he walked out to wait for his car.
The vehicle was a concession to the African, who was right about the distance to the city—it was too far to walk on any but the most leisurely days. But he insisted it stay back in Palmyra: it would be easily spotted from above, drawing attention to the bunker.
The night was warm but not unpleasant; Ghadab examined the landscape, admiring how far it stretched, knowing that the vastness could only have been created by the one true God, whose word had been revealed by the Prophet, blessed be his name.
Shadaa snuck into his thoughts. She would be waiting for him at the door. She would help him undress, and then he would have her undress herself.
She was beautiful, and she was his, his entirely. His body ached for the gentleness of a woman’s hand.
The soun
d of an engine rose over the desert. The car coming for him traveled without lights, and it took a moment to pick out its shadow against the terrain.
Soon I will rest, he thought, waiting for it to arrive.
48
Northern Syria—around the same time
Chelsea watched the screen as the vehicle left.
“There’s still at least one person inside the bunker,” she told Johnny.
“Understood.”
“Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
A foolish thing to say, she realized: the entire mission was a risk, and there was no way to know where the dividing line was between necessary and unnecessary.
Krista, sitting next to her, waved Johansen over. She was monitoring communication as well as liaising with the Air Force pilots supplying the Global Hawk feeds.
“Russian planes flying toward Palmyra,” she said. “Su-27s. Air Force AWACS tracking them.”
“Where’s the Destiny drone?” Johansen asked. Even though they were outfitted for ground strikes, the Russian planes were potent air combat fighters and would have no trouble destroying a UAV.
“Grid Two.”
“Bring it farther north, away from them.”
“Nightbird?” asked Johansen.
“Two klicks north of the bunker.”
“Take it low so the Russians miss it,” Johansen told Chelsea.
“Right.”
Chelsea put the aircraft into a sharp descent, finally leveling into a figure eight at ninety feet above ground level.
“Are those Su-27s still coming?” she asked Krista.
“No change. Ten miles.”
Chelsea brought the UAV down to fifty feet.
“Russians are turning,” said Krista. “Stand by.”
The aircraft headed in the direction of an arms depot southwest of the city: a depot U.S. intelligence said had been emptied two days before.
Not that they were going to tell the Russians now.
“Clear,” said Krista.
Chelsea waited two more minutes, making sure that the planes were gone, then pushed the UAV into a rapid climb.
“Johnny, can we get a sitrep?” she asked.
“Bug is placed. We’re leaving.”
Thank God!
“Good, copy,” she said, suppressing her relief. “See you at home.”
49
Palmyra—later
Shadaa was waiting for Ghadab when he returned. It was exactly as he had foreseen. She eased his shirt off and undid his pants. She stepped back and at his gesture removed her own clothes. She looked at the floor, ashamed of her own beauty.
“Here,” he told her. And he took her to bed.
Ghadab slept as he had never slept before, through the rest of the night, well into the next day. He missed his prayers. When he woke, he found Shadaa by the door, standing where she always stood, watching him.
God’s Wrath sat up slowly, unsure what to say.
There was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” he snapped.
“Brother, we must talk,” said the African. “Downstairs.”
Ghadab started to get out of bed, then realized he was naked. He looked over at Shadaa, who was watching him expectantly.
“Turn,” he said, signaling with his finger.
She turned toward the wall. He got out of bed and pulled on his clothes.
“Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Wait for me. I will be up presently.”
The restaurant was empty, save for the African and a waiter. Two cups of sweet Turkish coffee waited at the table.
“Take your coffee,” the African said, rising. “We will be more comfortable outside.”
Ghadab followed, understanding that the African’s real purpose was to avoid the waiter’s ears.
“You carried out an exercise,” said the African, leaning against the wall. Songbirds with a nest nearby warbled at each other, marking their territory in song.
“My crew needed a reminder of why they were fighting,” said Ghadab.
“Our situation here is complicated. That makes your situation complicated as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are a hero to some and a threat to others.” The African sipped his coffee. “Everything you do is watched.”
Neither spoke for a few moments.
“Thank you for your warning,” Ghadab said finally. He started to rise.
“The Caliph wishes to see you in Raqqa, the day after tomorrow,” said the African. “You have no option. You must go.”
“Of course I would go.”
“By yourself.”
“I would not think otherwise.”
“Enjoy the day.”
“As God has given it to us,” said Ghadab.
50
Northern Syria—that evening
“This bunker was abandoned before the war,” said Johansen, his laser pointer circling it on the map. “Now there are computers there. Men come in and out, taken up from Palmyra by drivers.”
The slide advanced to a diagram. “We’re getting a U2 with side-penetrating radar to do an overflight. This is a schematic from a bunker with a similar profile. It’s not huge, but it would be perfect for a planning cell, if that’s where Ghadab is holed up.”
“When do we go in?” asked Turk.
“When we know he’s there.” He looked over at Chelsea.
“If he goes in,” she said, “the video will catch him. It has a good view.”
“In the meantime, we have some possible sightings in the city,” continued Johansen. “This may or may not be Ghadab.”
He clicked through a sequence of shots taken by the sensors and the UAVs. There were only two partial images of a face. The recognition system believed it was him—but with only a 40 percent level of surety, not enough to order an attack.
“He’s gone in and out of this building,” said Johansen, showing an overhead of a restaurant surrounded by a park. “The Arab name is ‘the inn in the park.’ Which as you can see, pretty much describes what it is.”
Johansen’s orders did not specifically direct him to kill Ghadab. In fact, even in conversation, no one had actually told him to assassinate the man. It was just understood.
But the more he studied the situation, the more he fantasized about taking Ghadab alive: bring the prick back and make him stand trial. Make a real example out of him. Show the world what the face of terror really looked like.
Revenge was simpler, but this wasn’t about revenge. This was about war, and a difficult one at that.
War required moments of moral clarity and public demonstration of those morals. Killing Ghadab in secrecy—as the U.S. had done with a number of other terrorists—would do neither. The nihilist cancer had to be exposed, and not just to Americans. Too many people saw the conflict as just a reaction by medievalists against modernity, or a civil war in Islam. But ISIS aimed at the complete annihilation of mankind. The Daesh leadership aimed to establish a “caliphate” not because they wanted to dominate the Middle East, but because they saw it as the necessary step to the end days.
That had to be exposed. Because sooner or later, the cancer would spread far enough to infect someone with access to nuclear weapons.
The cancer had to be attacked very violently, and the world needed to understand why. It needed to see what it was up against.
People didn’t want to know, Johansen realized. They didn’t want to face it. But if he brought Ghadab back, put him on trial, got him to spit out his vile wishes: at that point, there would be no avoiding the truth.
Taking Ghadab alive was a long shot. Johansen hadn’t decided he would even try. But maybe he would. Maybe.
When the briefing ended, Chelsea went outside to get some air. Johnny surprised her, calling to her from below just as she reached the top of the steps. “Where you going?”
“Just walking.”
“Want company?”
“Su
re.”
The temperature had dropped more than twenty degrees from the middle of the day, and while that still left it well over seventy, Chelsea felt a little cold. She folded her arms across her chest, stretching as she walked.
The darkness around the bunker was complete; rubble and bomb craters notwithstanding, there was no way of knowing there was a war on.
“Think that’s him?” asked Johnny. “The guy at that inn.”
“Absolutely. Forty percent is very conservative.”
“He didn’t go to the bunker.”
“Not yet. Or maybe that’s not where it is.”
“The inn?”
“No computers.”
“How are you holding up?” Johnny asked.
Surprised by the question, Chelsea examined Johnny’s face. Did he think she was falling apart?
I’m not scared.
I don’t even think about what happened to me in Boston now.
“I’m good. My job’s easy,” she said. “How about you? How are your legs?”
“Bionic.”
Chelsea sensed that Johnny wanted to talk, but she wasn’t sure how to prompt him. Maybe he was having trouble with the mission.
Just because they’re men, doesn’t mean they have no emotions. Johnny lost his legs—talk about a traumatic event. How is he dealing with it?
Can he deal with it?
“I saw you jump up on that roof the other day,” she said.
“Yeah. I’m pretty good at jumping.”
The back of her hand brushed his.
I know you’ve been through a lot . . .
Do you dream of having your legs?
Is this all too much some days?
