by Dale Brown
A half hour later, Chelsea joined a procession of women trudging toward the city center from the slums in the northwest corner of Palmyra. Turk and Christian had come up north, joining Johnny as a close-in surveillance team. Johnny and Turk were about fifty yards behind her, walking with a small group of men; Christian was back with the truck, watching what was going on with the help of a Hum UAV.
Most of the walkers were day laborers, a mix of refugees who had wandered into the area and lost the energy to go elsewhere. They lived in a potpourri of shacks and lean-tos constructed around the ruins of residential buildings destroyed during the government’s first siege. They wore stoic expressions, masks of resignation against the day’s coming insults and depravity.
Work was scarce, and payment was in scrip worthless outside of town, and not particularly valuable inside. Most of the women would go home worse off than they had come, exhausted, worn down a little further. The men, though, were in even rougher shape: all were old or maimed or both, as anyone near fighting age was expected to join Daesh. Johnny’s arm was in a sling and his jaw bandaged—conveniently making it hard to talk—as if he had been battered in a recent battle. Turk’s hair and beard were dyed gray, his leg wrapped and braced; he walked with the aid of a cane. Yet even if their ailments had been real, they would have been the fittest of the group.
The path to town flanked what had once been a fancy soccer field. Sports were officially banned, but there were youths on the fake grass of the pitch, kicking balls back and forth. A few old cars, missing various parts scavenged for others in working order, were parked in a neat row where the grandstand had once stood. One or two men stood at the edge of the field, smoking cigarettes. Given the Caliphate’s prohibitions against smoking, this most likely meant that they were not Daesh, though it was never safe to guess.
A checkpoint manned by a solitary Daesh soldier in his early teens blocked the path at the far end. The youth leaned against a Toyota pickup, one hand on the AK-47 slung from his shoulder. He wore a black uniform two or three sizes too big; they looked like pajamas on him. The boy frowned at the women, but did nothing; they were too old and too worn for him to bother with.
Chelsea drifted into the half of the crowd turning toward the market area. Vans and small trucks were parked haphazardly on the sidewalk; a few were delivering goods; others were selling or setting up to do so. In most cases their wares were pathetically small—the best-stocked merchant could offer only a half box of vegetables. Prices were set by a local Daesh council, which, in theory, kept them within reach, but added to the scarcity by making it not worth the risk for many merchants to brave government forces west and south to bring goods in.
Chelsea walked around the market area. While she’d studied the overhead images and the view from the bugs, it was far different in person. After a few turns, she walked down the street to an open grove at the edge of the bazaar. She was not alone; in fact, the grove was crowded with women gossiping and watching children, waiting for a favorite store to open or a specific merchant to arrive, or just hoping to pass the time. Children played in the dirt between the trees. Others squatted in the shade, staring at the world with eyes made blank by the fear that what they had seen in the past would soon be done to them.
“You’re looking good,” said Christian over the radio. “Our girl just left the hotel.”
“Mmmm,” said Chelsea, clamping her teeth tight against the fear-induced bile rising in her throat.
“Just stay where you are,” added Christian. “I’ll let you know when she’s close.”
56
Northern Syria—around the same time
The bombing attack by the Russians worried Johansen not because the aircraft presented an immediate danger to his operation, but because it portended a change in strategy that might force him to pull the plug.
Over the past few months, the Russian air force had stopped attacking Daesh sites, concentrating on rebels closer to Damascus, where the puppet dictator was holed up. An attack here might just be a random “hey, we’re still here” thing. Or maybe it heralded a new push by the Syrian army, and its Iranian and Lebanese mercenaries.
The latest briefings noted some troop movements in the area, but he wasn’t concerned until he saw a set of IR images that showed a half-dozen Land Rovers had moved overnight into positions fifteen to twenty miles south of the city. Though not identified, Johansen knew from experience the trucks would belong to Hezbollah commandos, scouting for positions the Syrians could use for their heavy artillery.
The Syrians always used artillery at the start of an assault; they had been known to bombard a city for weeks on end before moving in. Their big guns were currently parked in depots only two hours from Palmyra.
Johansen dialed into the intel net to get the latest assessment of Russian bombing targets. The assessment was a CIA “product”; the Russians refused to share their target list ahead of time with the U.S. Palmyra did not appear on the list. But a note added that the Russians had flown new refueling and UAV assets into the southern quadrant—something they would do if they were planning a major assault.
Johansen could call the Russian staff liaison and ask if activity was planned in the sector. He might even get a truthful answer. But doing so would tell the Russians he was planning an operation.
Tell the Russians, and you told the Syrians. Tell the Syrians, and Daesh would know within the hour.
“The girl’s about a block from the market,” said Krista, sitting at the console on the other end of the command room. Johansen heard the wince in her voice: they’d taped her ankle and given her crutches but no painkillers; she needed a clear head to work the com gear. “Chelsea’s ready.”
57
Palmyra—a few minutes later
Chelsea ducked her head as she slipped out of the shade, eyes blinded by the sun. A hum rose from the street as she walked past the buildings: cars and trucks rode up and down the road, one of two major highways that ran through town. Women milled around the storefronts and tables, even those that were bare or closed.
Her language translator whispered in her ear as it picked up snippets of nearby conversation:
“. . . two houses destroyed, all dead . . .”
“. . . chickens at Ahmed’s but so expensive . . .”
“. . . he raped her, then left her for dead . . .”
“. . . my brother called. They are safe but . . .”
This must be what LSD is like, she thought. A babble of voices in your head, scattering your own thoughts and simply adding to your confusion if you try to focus on any one of them.
A man lurched in front of her.
“Ladayna alkhudar alkhus,” he said.
“We have greens,” whispered the translator.
“Yawm ghad,” she answered. “Tomorrow.”
She spoke the phrase perfectly, but the man gave her a confused look.
“We have lettuce greens you will want to buy,” he insisted. “Very rare. Gone tomorrow.”
Chelsea turned, looking in the direction the man was pointing. The storefront was empty.
“No,” she told him.
He raised his hand, moving it toward hers. Fearing he was going to pull her inside but not wanting to draw too much attention to herself, she took a step back and raised her hand.
“Leave me, brother,” she said sternly in Arabic. “God be with you.”
The man froze, then put up his hands, waving them and stepping back. She hurried on.
“What was that?” asked Christian, who’d heard the exchange.
“Nothing,” she said under her breath, not sure herself.
Johnny felt his heart begin to race. He picked up his pace, walking quickly in case the man went after her. But instead, the merchant ducked back into the doorway.
“I’m trying to sell greens,” said the man, speaking to no one and everyone. “I have a good deal. They are rare.”
Johnny crossed the street, closing to within a few yards of Chel
sea. Men were only allowed here during the morning if they had some business, but his fake wounds would make it appear as if he were a Daesh soldier, and it was therefore unlikely he’d be questioned by anyone other than an ISIS soldier.
Daesh troops came through the district at least every half hour during the day, ostensibly enforcing the laws of dress and conduct; more often they were simply shaking down the locals for whatever contraband they could take. Christian was watching for them on the UAV.
A man leaning against a doorway held up a cigarette to Johnny. Though cigarettes were theoretically outlawed, many men smoked them openly on the street, and even the Daesh enforcers didn’t go out of their way to reprimand people about them—unless they were confiscating them for their own use.
Johnny shook his head and pointed to the bandages, then gesturing with his hand as a thank-you.
He turned back to look for Chelsea. In the time it took to shake his head and look apologetic, she had disappeared.
Chelsea turned the corner and quickened her pace, trying to put some distance between herself and two women who seemed to be following her. She could hear the clip-clop of their shoes as they turned down the alley behind her.
Women enforcers?
Chelsea had a pistol strapped to her leg beneath her dress. Closer was the knife in her pocket. She pushed her hand between the folds of her robe and took hold of the hilt.
“Wawaqf,” said one of the women. “Stop.”
Chelsea kept walking.
“Sister, stop,” repeated one of the women.
A man appeared at the other end of the little street she’d turned onto. The passage was narrow, little more than an alley: a good place for a trap.
“Sister!” yelled one of the women.
Chelsea spun. “Madha?” she said harshly. “What do you want?”
“That man, was he bothering you?” asked the woman who had been calling out to her. She was nearly a foot taller than Chelsea and at least twice as wide.
“Was he trying to attack you?” asked the other woman, pulling her veil away from her mouth. Her voice was gentle.
“No,” she said. “He had vegetables.”
The taller woman frowned. Chelsea glanced over her shoulder toward the man who’d come up the alley. She pulled her veil closer, as if worried about her modesty.
“Don’t be ashamed, sister,” said the younger woman. “There are perverts and sinners everywhere.”
Act frightened, Chelsea told herself. Not hard to do.
The man passed them. Chelsea watched him and saw Johnny appear at the far end of the alley, walking swiftly in her direction.
“Thank you,” Chelsea told the women. She wanted to say she was OK, but couldn’t find the words and didn’t trust the suggestions the translator was giving her for conversation.
“Are you certain you are OK?” asked the taller woman.
“Fine, yes,” said Chelsea. “Thank you.”
Johnny kept his pace steady as he walked past the two women. When he came to the street, he crossed, then turned back on the sidewalk to make sure they hadn’t followed.
Chelsea was walking down the block.
“What did they want?” he whispered as he passed.
“They’re some sort of women’s patrol or something. They asked about the guy who bothered me.”
He kept walking. When he reached the corner, he turned and put his hand to his ear to use the radio. “They said something about your accent. They thought you were from Lebanon.”
“Good.”
“Target is just turning onto the block.”
“I’m going.”
Ghadab’s slave was a few inches taller than Chelsea and a good forty pounds heavier, though that was hard to judge from the bulky clothes and long veil. She walked with her head down, arms close to her body, modest or timid; it was hard to tell.
“You’re on her,” said Christian as she fell in behind the woman.
Chelsea took the bead in her fingers, getting ready.
The woman paused at a cart where they were selling oranges and lemons. Chelsea sidled up next to her, picked up a lemon, and as she did, dropped the bug from her hand. It rolled down the side of the woman’s dress, catching below her hip.
Done.
Chelsea was about to turn away when the woman abruptly moved back from the cart and blocked her way.
“Min ’ant?” asked Ghadab’s woman. “Who are you?”
Chelsea put up her hand. “No.”
The woman said something else but between the speed of her voice and its accent, the translator was baffled; it gave no translation. Chelsea started to leave, then noticed the two women who’d accosted her earlier staring a few feet away.
“I was a stolen one,” said Chelsea, using the phrasing she’d memorized. It meant that she was a slave, now assigned to someone; it was dangerous to associate with her. “You must not speak to me.”
Ghadab’s woman nodded. “My name is Shadaa.”
“Baidda,” said Chelsea. She saw sympathy in the other woman’s eyes—she was talking to a fellow slave, another woman who might be disposed of in a week or a day or an hour.
Until that moment, Chelsea had felt nothing for the woman. Now she felt a surge of pity.
“Goodbye,” she said gently. She moved to the next cart, pretending to look at the tomatoes. They were large and ripe, a rare find, but prohibitively expensive.
Chelsea looked over and saw the women talking to Shadaa. She shook her head and moved over to another stand.
“The bug’s not moving,” whispered Christian.
Shit, thought Chelsea. Realizing it must have fallen to the ground, she walked over to retrieve it. As she got closer, her way was blocked by a sudden gaggle of girls. By the time they passed, Shadaa was no longer in sight.
Chelsea scooped up the bug. Its spiky arms had been crushed by someone’s feet.
“Bug fell off,” whispered Chelsea. “Which way did she go?”
58
Northern Syria—around the same time
“We have a lot of traffic on the Russian commo lines,” Krista told Johansen. “The air force AWACS just sent an alert that they have a full squadron of fighter bombers heading for the runway at Latakia. Su-35s.”
The Su-35 was an updated attack version of the Su-27. As Russia’s most advanced aircraft in the conflict, it had a starring role in the intervention: the Russians used it for the biggest battles. If the planes were coming this way, a full-on ground assault against Palmyra would surely follow.
Sure enough, there was a dust cloud near the Syrian artillery camp. They were on the move.
59
Palmyra—around the same time
Chelsea made her way through the crowd as quickly as she could without running, aiming to cut Shadaa off as she walked home. Sweat rolled down her collar, soaking through the light underlayers. The heavy robe made her feel as if she was encased in a sauna.
“She’s a block away, coming toward you,” said Christian.
Chelsea stopped. She was alone on the street, save for a lone man at the other end.
Turk.
Johnny was nearby, too, a half block away, out of sight.
Guardian angels. But what good were angels in the bowels of hell?
Chelsea adjusted her scarf and then started walking again, back to Shadaa as she passed.
“Oh,” she said loudly. “You.”
The Arabic flowed from her mouth. Shadaa stopped and turned, confused.
“You,” said the woman, echoing her thoughts. “Do you live near here?”
It took a few seconds for Chelsea to process the translation and the suggested phrase, “next block: kutlat almuqbil.” That wasn’t a safe answer—what if she wanted to go with her there?—so Chelsea simply shrugged.
“You are a slave,” said Shadaa.
Chelsea couldn’t think of an appropriate answer quickly enough. But in this case confusion was just as appropriate.
“Come, we are si
sters,” said Shadaa, taking her arm.
“What the fuck’s going on?” asked Turk over the radio.
“She asked if she was a slave,” said Christian.
“I’m about fifty yards behind them,” said Johnny. “I’m going to get closer.”
Johnny leaned forward as he walked. He saw the women cross the street. Shadaa, taller than Chelsea, had clamped her arms around Chelsea’s and bulled ahead. She was talking: Johnny could hear her through Chelsea’s open mic, but he couldn’t understand the Arabic without turning his translator on.
“Johnny, ease up,” said Christian. “Ghadab’s girl is telling her they’re sisters and that she’s going to help her. But you’re spooking her. She thinks you’re going to molest them because they’re slaves. That’s why she clamped on to Chelsea. She just told her to run when she gives the signal.”
“Let’s just take her down,” said Johnny.
“Chill. Chelsea’s fine.”
“I’m two blocks away,” said Turk.
Johnny stopped and turned toward the street. There were no cars; he crossed.
“It might be a ruse,” Johnny told Turk. “I don’t trust this.”
“No, she’s talking about being a slave. Dump your jacket for a different look.”
“All right,” he said, still reluctant.
A Daesh pickup truck with a teenager hanging on to the machine gun mounted in the back roared past Chelsea and Shadaa as they turned onto the street with the hotel. The kid bounced up and down, swinging the gun and grinning like a three-year-old on a merry-go-round. Dust billowed behind the truck as it flew down the street and turned.
“What’s going on?” Chelsea asked.
It was an Arabic phrase she had practiced quite a bit, but Shadaa seemed confused.
“Where are you from?” Shadaa asked.
“Somalia.” Chelsea lowered her eyes, as if admitting this was an act of shame.
