Moral Imperative

by C. G. Cooper

  +++

  At first Diane reminded Cal of his now-deceased fiancée Jessica. But as they talked, the old memories faded a bit more. Whether it was the flow of alcohol or the company around him, Cal felt himself relax. It was the first time in a while.

  Diane fit right in with Cal’s friends. She wasn’t afraid. Eventually he found out that she was the youngest of four children, the only girl. Her brothers had all served in the military, and surprisingly, so had she. That explained the age.

  She’d spent five years in the Navy, but she was vague on what she’d done other than mounds of paperwork. Despite his initial reservations, Cal felt himself being drawn to her. There had been other girls since Jessica, but none that intrigued him the way Diane Mayer did. He liked to keep it casual. Too much work to do, and there was always the lingering pain of Jess’s death.

  Diane’s intelligence was evident, and her self-confidence sealed the deal. Even though he tried not to, he kept stealing glances at her, often catching her doing the same. Part of him felt ashamed, like he was cheating on Jess. His friends didn’t seem to care, and even the quiet Marine Sniper, Daniel Briggs, joined in on the conversation.

  Before he knew it, Daniel announced that it was midnight and said he was heading out. Trent and Gaucho said their goodbyes too, Trent giving Diane a massive bear hug, lifting her off the ground, and then leaving with others.

  They were sitting on barstools, their thighs touching, suddenly unable to talk. “I guess I better get going soon too. PT in the morning,” said Diane, swirling her beer mug in circles on the wet bar.

  “Yeah, I’ve gotta go out of town for a couple days.”

  Her hand found his and she looked into his eyes.

  “I’m really glad I came out tonight, Cal.”

  “Me too.”

  +++

  Cal’s internal alarm clock told him it was 5:30am. He moved his hand slowly off of Diane’s hand and crept to the bathroom. By the time he came back, he was surprised, and more than a little disappointed, that she was up and getting dressed.

  She smiled at him as she slipped on her shorts. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.”

  He felt like a kid again. He didn’t know what to say. Diane didn’t seem to have that problem. She didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.

  “I’ve gotta head out, but I’ll be done around eight. Do you have time to grab breakfast?” she asked, slipping on a pair of running shoes.

  He admired her muscular legs and finally looked away, trying to remember where his shirt was.

  “I’ll be leaving town before that. Rain check?”

  She looked disappointed, but then flashed him that beautiful smile. “You’ve got my number.”

  Pulling her hair back in a ponytail, she walked over and stood in front of him. Cal put his arms around her, kissing her softly at first, and then more urgently. It felt like she was melting against him.

  She pulled back. “I really have to go. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek and ran out the door.

  +++

  No one said a word when he strolled back into their new home on the corner of Rugby Road and Preston Avenue. Months earlier, after leaving Stokes Security International (SSI), the company his father had founded, Cal was tasked by the president to form a new entity that would continue the covert missions he’d conducted at SSI. It was just too much of a risk under the SSI name.

  So Cal had chosen Charlottesville, Virginia, both for nostalgic reasons (Cal went to U.Va and SSI’s second headquarters, Camp Cavalier was minutes away) and because of its close proximity to the nation’s capital and the president. With the money and face of Jonas Layton, the tech billionaire the world knew as ‘The Fortuneteller’ for his prognosticative powers, Cal formed The Jefferson Group.

  He’d brought along some of his SSI colleagues, including Marine Master Sergeant Willy Trent, former Delta operator Gaucho and Marine sniper Daniel “Snake Eyes” Briggs. Not only had Gaucho’s 11-man team volunteered to come along, so had tech genius Neil Patel and former CIA interrogator Dr. Alvin Higgins.

  Their cover was simple. Jonas was in high demand by companies around the world and owned multiple businesses to help him fulfill his clients’ needs. The Jefferson Group would be a sort of hybrid consultancy on the surface, providing services to the federal government, corporations and friendly foreign powers. It gave The Jefferson Group’s employees a cover to travel wherever they needed.

  Away from the public eye they had a different mission altogether. The president had tasked Cal with rooting out threats before they became a problem. Simply put, Cal and the rest of The Jefferson Group team were the president’s silent eyes and ears, accountable only to him. Highly secret and extremely deadly, the team had already notched several high profile takedowns, cementing their position in the president’s back pocket.

  “Have a good night?” asked MSgt Trent, who was in the process of pouring himself a cup of coffee from the commercial grade machine mounted to the tiled backsplash. Gaucho was sitting at the table with Daniel, each reading newspapers.

  “Yeah,” said Cal, going for his own cup of caffeine.

  When it was obvious that Cal wasn’t going to say anything else, Trent said, “For what it’s worth, Cal, Diane seems like a great gal.”

  Cal nodded, not really knowing what to say. Part of him still felt guilty, almost like he was forsaking the memory of his dead fiancée. He changed the subject.

  “What time are we leaving?”

  “Whenever you’re ready, boss,” answered Gaucho, not taking his eyes from his paper.

  “Good. I’ll take a shower and we can get breakfast on the way.”

  Cal was looking forward to talking to the president. They had a lot to discuss.

  Chapter 4

  En route to Washington, D.C.

  8:27am, August 11th

  Cal stared out the window as Daniel drove. Gaucho and Trent were in the back laughing about something. They always were. He was supposed to be thinking about their meeting with the president, but he couldn’t stop replaying his night with Diane.

  He knew what the other guys thought, that he’d slept with her. Not that they would’ve thought less of him, but that’s probably what they assumed. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to, but something held him back. Instead of making the beast with two backs, they’d spent all night talking, except for the time it took for a quick hour nap. Okay, and maybe fooling around a little.

  It was the first time he’d totally relaxed around a woman since Jess. Despite the periodic sessions with Dr. Higgins, Cal had found it very hard to loosen up. Sometimes he felt like he was wound up so tight he might snap from the strain. Not only had he lost his fiancée a couple years before, he’d also lost his parents on 9/11, he’d lost half of his team in Wyoming, he’d lost…so much.

  Aside from his high operational tempo, loss was the only thing Cal knew. Luckily he had guys like Daniel and Trent around who’d kept him grounded and called him out when he was being too much of a hard ass. Life was tough enough. It was even harder when you were a bitter prick. He’d been guilty of it on more than one occasion.

  He wondered if things could really change, if he could change. He sighed. Only time would tell.

  +++

  The White House

  The president was waiting in the Oval Office when they arrived. Travis Haden, Cal’s cousin, was with him, as was Gen. McMillan, the Marine chairman of the joint chiefs. Outside of the president, McMillan was one of a handful of people who knew what Cal and his team did for a living.

  Everyone said their hellos and took a seat. First, Cal gave the president an overview of the latest from Charlottesville and their ongoing operations. They’d been busy, but not too busy. Mostly they’d spent time getting established, following up on leads, and doing the odd guest appearance at the university.

  “Good to hear you guys are settling in down there. From what Travis has told me, yo
u’ve built a pretty nice bachelor pad. When do I get an invite?” asked the president.

  Cal shrugged. “We’ve gotta take care of the boys, Mr. President.” And they had. Between him and Jonas, they’d given the men the chance to take classes and finally enjoy some time to themselves. Most of them had been with SSI for years and had the battle scars to prove it. Even the hardest warriors needed a break sometimes.

  Once the president was satisfied that things were going well with his newest covert project, he got down to business.

  “I don’t have much time, but I wanted to bring you all up to speed on how we’re handling ISIS in Iraq. General, why don’t you give them a quick rundown,” said the president.

  McMillan nodded. “As you’ve seen in the news, and I’m sure the president gave you a heads-up before, we’re in the process of getting humanitarian aid to the Iraqis who’ve been displaced by ISIS. We’ve also conducted limited air strikes in support of Iraqi troops and Kurdish Peshmerga forces.”

  “What about boots on the ground, General?” asked Cal, glad that the U.S. was finally doing something, but realistic enough to know that it was far from what was needed. He’d been pestering the president since April, trying to get the authorization to do something to help, but Zimmer kept putting him off. He’d been reluctant to go back on his predecessor’s promise of a full troop withdrawal, and he wanted to give the Iraqi government time to work out its own problems.

  But the bickering in Baghdad hadn’t stopped, and the violence escalated, now bolstered by a steady stream of ISIS recruits from across the region. ISIS wasn’t going away and the Iraqis couldn’t fend them off alone.

  McMillan continued. “We’ve increased our troop strength at the embassy and we’re going over proposals to send in advisors.”

  “How many people are you thinking?”

  The president answered. “That’s one of the things we wanted to talk to you about, Cal.”

  “Oh?”

  “General McMillan has some friends he’d like you to meet.”

  “Can’t you just tell me—”

  “Trust me. Take a ride with the general and all your questions will be answered.”

  Cal didn’t like suspense, even from the president, but he willed his temper away, hoping this might finally be the first step to taking down ISIS.

  +++

  Cal was surprised they weren’t driving toward the Pentagon, assuming they’d go to McMillan’s office. Soon they pulled up to a familiar gate. They were at the Marine Barracks at 8th and I, the home of the Marine Commandant and the Marine Corps Silent Drill Team. Cal suddenly remembered a random bit of knowledge from boot camp as the driver pulled up to the curb. The Corps’ oldest post was founded by President Thomas Jefferson and the second Marine commandant, Lt. Col. Burrows.

  How fitting that a group of former Marines now calling themselves The Jefferson Group was getting a chance to come home.

  Gen. McMillan winked at Cal. “No safer place, right?”

  Cal nodded. He hadn’t spent much time at 8th and I. It wasn’t really the place of a lowly staff sergeant to hang out at one of the most sacred places in all of the Marine Corps. He’d been to an Evening Parade with his dad, but hadn’t stepped foot inside since.

  They were ushered in quickly, snappy salutes all around, and a full bird colonel escorted them down the path to the perfectly manicured lawn where the Silent Drill Team put on their world-renowned performances. Some of the silent drill guys were practicing in a far corner, wearing PT gear and white gloves, rifles twirling in the air with ease. Cal had tried it once and almost cracked his head open with a spinning Garand.

  “Are we going to meet the Commandant, General?” MSgt Trent asked, his eyes wide with wonder as he looked around. No Marine could step inside 8th and I without a little sense of awe. History oozed from the bricks and pavestones.

  “The outgoing commandant has already moved his things out. General Winfield, his replacement, will be moving in soon. They’re just letting us use the place for the day.”

  “Then who are we meeting?” asked Cal.

  “You’ll see.”

  They entered the home of the commandant and made their way to the dining room, nothing in disarray despite the change in leadership. There was a motley collection of characters mingling around the large polished wood table. They all turned as Gen. McMillan walked into the room. Interestingly enough, no one called, “Attention on deck.”

  McMillan motioned Cal forward and said, “Everyone, I’d like for you to meet the man who is not only a personal friend of mine, but also a close friend of the president. Gentlemen, this is Cal Stokes.”

  Chapter 5

  Mosul, Iraq

  6:38pm, August 11th

  Hasan al-Mawsil crept into the chapel through a secret passage built by priests nearly a century before. It was used in times of war for shuttling parishioners in and out. He’d made the same journey many times over the years. His older brother Mikhail had shown him the hand hewn tunnel when they were only children, often using it in elaborate neighborhood games of hide and seek. He didn’t want to think about the other times he’d used it. This was a new game. Life vs. death.

  He’d been on the run for weeks. High on ISIS’s target list, Hasan had barely escaped capture no fewer than a dozen times. Each occasion he’d escaped unscathed. There’d been help. The citizens of Iraq had learned how to survive under the veil of darkness, always aware. Mostly he attributed his continued luck to The Almighty, who’d seen his family through so much tragedy.

  Today he moved tentatively, having heard rumors from friends. Dark words about darker deeds. The barbarians had taken his only brother and his two nephews as they’d walked to the market. More than a score of witnesses confirmed the tale.

  Heart thrumming as he neared the small wooden door, Hasan reached out and pulled the simple iron handle. The smell hit him like a crashing wave, his stomach dropping. He now knew without a doubt what he would find.

  After slipping in the hidden portal and closing it quietly behind him, Hasan stood and listened. He’d gotten used to waiting. Ambushes were common. His heart told him to move, but his heightened senses commanded him to stay. There were no sounds except for the incessant buzzing of flies. The last rays of daylight seeped in through cracked windows, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the musty church air. The place was a mess. Pews overturned. Someone had even taken a crap right next to where he stood statuesque.

  Hasan closed his eyes and said a prayer before turning to the altar. Father, give me the strength to do what I must.

  Slowly, with silent tears filling his eyes, Hasan walked toward the front of the sanctuary, ignoring the buzzing insects that were doing their best to dissuade his chosen path. Escorts of doom.

  Ten feet from the steps leading up to the stone altar, the Iraqi fell to his knees, choking back the sobs that could give away his position. He had to be quiet, somehow contain his sorrow.

  His family. His brother and two nephews. Mikhail and his beloved sons Yazen and Dalir. Once so full of life, so full of love. It had been his brother who’d taught him about Christianity and its all-inclusive reach. So unlike the religion of their ancestors and the anger of the new breed. The once lost Hasan had found the way. It was his brother’s hand reaching out, but God who’d embraced him. A God of love.

  Something in him knew his family’s souls now resided in a better place, a place where death and pain could no longer touch them. Hasan took in the sight of his brother laying splayed on the stone crafted altar, his two sons stacked on top of him, similarly lain, an enormous scimitar skewering the three together like some macabre kabob.

  Not without effort, the last remaining al-Mawsil stood and walked to the unholy display. Repeating a prayer over and over for strength, he reached up and pulled the bloodied sword from the bodies of his loved ones, Dalir shifting precariously as the blade unsettled his body.

  Hasan dropped the scimitar and caught Dalir’s tiny body just
before it slipped to the floor, his clouded dead eyes looking up at his uncle as he fell. Something gave Hasan the strength to endure. He knew there was much to do, but first he had to lay his family to rest.

  It took him over two exhausting hours to drag the three bodies out of the concealed tunnel and into the waiting hands of his friends, fellow Christians.

  They would be buried that night, sent to paradise aloft wings of love.

  Tomorrow, Hasan would get to work.

  +++

  Not a mile away, the enemy force prepped for the night, guards surrounding the two square blocks of homes they’d captured days before. Fire blazed to augment the intermittent street lights. Anyone moving through the captured portion of the city without a member of the Islamic state stood a good chance of being shot on sight.

  “We’ve dispatched seventy-two of ninety-one agitators on the list, Commander.”

  The ISIS commander grunted, not looking up from his laptop. His long fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. He was in the middle of posting another magnificent beheading on their social media accounts. Oh, what they would have been able to do in the 1990s if they’d had the same technology. The world’s media did his job for him, spreading the updates like wildfire.

  How fitting that the very invention developed by the western devils now allowed his people to spread the Islamic caliphate’s blessed word. Their deeds struck fear into the spoiled heathens and inflamed the passion of true believers.

  They called him The Master and home was wherever the road took him. No one knew his real name. Truth be told, he hardly remembered it himself.

  He’d trained in Syria and Gaza. He’d killed his first man in Iran on a raid in the late nineties, just a young man at the time. Since then he’d risen in the eyes of his men, justly earning command of a large portion of ISIS’s growing army. That was one of their strengths. Command was born not of nepotism, but of skill and experience. The best man for the job.