Moral Imperative

by C. G. Cooper

  As for the others, Cal was still undecided. They were all special ops trained and each team had their own style. The Aussies were like kids, reminding him of a bunch of caffeine bursting teens going through a paintball course. All smiles despite their deadly aim.

  After an early lunch, they’d head over to the long range, each man getting the option to shoot from either 300, 500 or 1,000 yards. It would give Cal a better idea of how he could utilize the men. They had three days before hopping a flight first to Bahrain and then parts unknown. It wasn’t much time.

  He’d done a lot of reading since meeting the teams. Most people might look at what they were doing as suicide. A tiny force trying to defeat thousands.

  Luckily he had access to a lot of classified after-action reports courtesy of Gen. McMillan. He and Daniel pored over the special ops accounts, marveling at how effective the small forces had been. He’d loved how the CIA’s Special Activities Division (SAD) Paramilitary teams along with Army Special Forces had aided the Kurdish Peshmerga prior to the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Hell, they’d secured most of Northern Iraq!

  Slowly, a picture developed in Cal’s mind. Large ground forces had their uses, but it was the special operations forces who’d wreaked havoc on the enemy. Swift. Deadly. Invisible.

  That’s what they needed to be. Cal wanted ISIS to be looking over their shoulders, scared of shadows, hiding in rat holes. The approach had worked for centuries. Guerrilla tactics. Hit the enemy in unexpected ways. Always the threat of death raining down.

  Yeah, thought Cal. That’s what we’ll be. Shadows.

  +++

  They ate lunch at The Lodge II, a replica of the log cabin VIP quarters first built at SSI’s headquarters, Camp Spartan, just outside Nashville, TN. Each team sat alone, still not mingling with the others.

  “What do you guys think of the Bulgarians?” Cal asked his fellow Americans.

  “That Valko is one crazy dude,” said Trent. “Reminds me of those Greco-Roman wrestlers who lift people over their heads.”

  “You think you could take him, Top?” asked Gaucho.

  Trent rolled his eyes and took a bite of his BLT.

  “You think we’re gonna have problems with him?” asked Cal.

  “I think you’ll have to be careful,” said Daniel. “They’re good, but not as good as they think. What we’re talking about doing takes finesse. You’ll need to make sure they get that.”

  “Yeah. What about the others? Anything you’ve noticed?” Cal had his own opinions, but wanted his friends’ take.

  “I’m not sure about the Italians. Moretti’s a nice guy, but they were the slowest on the range,” said Trent.

  “I talked to him. Seems they might have some other talents we can use,” said Gaucho. “Moretti and his guys are bomb techs. I guess they did some work in Afghanistan for a while. He lost a cousin over there.”

  “That could come in handy. I should’ve thought about that. Maybe we’ll head over to the explosives range if we have time. You know what, I’ve got an idea.” Cal stood up. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. Stupid. Rule number one of leadership. Get to know your men. “Gentlemen, if I can get all your number ones over at the bar. Bring your lunch if you’re still eating.”

  Cal ignored the annoyed looks and walked to the bar with the rest of his lunch. Instead of sitting at the bar, he went around the other side and stood at the bartender’s station.

  The five other leaders took seats on the bar stools.

  “I wanted get a better idea of what we each bring to the table. Let’s start with you, Moretti. I hear you guys are EOD.”

  Stefano Moretti smiled. “That is not entirely accurate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Again the smile, as if he was embarrassed to say. “You know the mafia, yes?”

  Cal nodded.

  “Well, my men and I are, what you might call, second-chancers. We were given the choice to go to jail or join the army.”

  That wasn’t what Cal had expected. “You guys were bombers for the mob?”

  Moretti shrugged. “I will admit we were young and stupid, but it is part of my country. Many of us do not have a choice. I had a certain gift for explosives and was recruited when I was thirteen. My hobby became my job.”

  Cal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. McMillan had given him a bunch of mafia thugs? What the hell? “Tell me the story gets better.”

  “At the time we never targeted anyone except the soldiers of rival families. It was not until we were told to take down a mafia chief’s house that everything changed. They told us the man was alone, but he wasn’t. His wife, son and five grandchildren were there. They all died.”

  “And you got caught?”

  Morretti shook his head, the first hint of sadness in his eyes. “I was twenty. I have always had a deep faith.” The Italian pulled a gold crucifix out from under his shirt, making the sign of the cross. “After much prayer, I told my friends we had to go to the police. For some reason they agreed. They followed me to the Carabinieri station and we surrendered. We were at first beaten. I had my jaw broken. That night as we lay in our own blood, a priest visited. He was the priest who had baptized me. I had not seen him since I was a child, but he heard from friends that I was the one who had killed the mafia chief’s family. He told me that God was not yet done with my soul. He said a prayer for us, and then left. The next day we were given the chance to go into the army. We went and I have been serving my penance ever since.”

  Cal didn’t know what to say. Daniel would love that story. So Moretti had sinned, gotten a second chance, and then gone off to fight the extremists in Afghanistan. Interesting.

  “So you know something about explosives then?” asked Cal, smiling this time.

  Moretti returned the smile. “A little.”

  “What about you, Fox?”

  Owen Fox grinned. “Snipers, mate. We like to shoot. The longer the better. Wish you hadn’t asked, though. Me and the boys were planning on taking some of your money this afternoon.”

  “Kokubu-san?”

  Takumi Kokubu nodded. “Medics. I was a doctor before joining the army.”

  Cal whistled. “And you ran through the range the way you did? I wish we had docs like you in America. Good to have you.”

  Kokubu nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Kreyling? What about you?”

  “Urban assault. My team first worked together in Basra. Once Iraq settled down, we hit Afghanistan a few times.”

  “Valko, what about you guys?”

  Valko looked back at him with contempt. “I am here to kill the Islamists before they can come to my country. I am not here to report to you, boy.”

  “I’d say that’s out of line,” said Kreyling, surprising Cal by speaking up. “Stokes is just trying to get a better idea of how we can all contribute.”

  “I tell you how I contribute. I kill. You tell me who, and I do it. Are we finished?”

  Cal nodded and Valko stalked off.

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Owen Fox, a smile still on his face. “He’ll come around.”

  Cal wasn’t sure. There was something he didn’t like about the Bulgarian. “Let’s finish up lunch and head out. Hey, Fox, you wanna make a little bet before we get to the range? My best against yours?”

  “I’m game.”

  “Good. If we win you have to show me how to put a shrimp on the barbie.”

  Fox laughed. “First of all, in Australia we call them prawns. Second, if we win, you get to buy each of my boys a case of Tennessee whiskey.”

  “You’re on.”

  As he walked away from the bar, he felt like small part of the tension had lifted. He’d put the focus back on them. Let them look like rock stars. It’s what every great leader did. Don’t toot your own horn. Lead by example and give the credit to your men. If he could get four out of the five foreigners on the same page, he figured they had a good chance of coming
home alive.

  Chapter 9

  Mosul, Iraq

  4:15pm AST, August 12th

  The preceding night and following morning had not gone as he would’ve liked. Not only were the Kurds being more resistant than they’d planned, the push to corral a band of nearly five hundred displaced Yazidis heading north ended in complete failure. He was exhausted, but there was still work to do before he could sleep.

  Sipping from a ceramic mug of water, The Master waved his captain in. His underling looked nervous, his eyes downcast.

  “Do you have the priests?” asked The Master, already knowing the answer.

  “No, Commander. We were able to retrieve the body of one of the infidels.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the courtyard being prepared for your broadcast.”

  “Show me.”

  The Master rose and followed the captain out of the spacious home into the inner courtyard where the body of the Christian priest lay on the blood-soaked earth. The rest of his troops stood expectantly, their conversations stopped.

  “I am disappointed,” said the Master, walking over to the corpse. He couldn’t make out the man’s features so riddled was the body with bullets. But he knew the man’s identity by his wardrobe. This was the man he’d longed to talk to, to make an example of to the world. Maybe that was still possible.

  The captain fell to his knees. “My apologies, Master.”

  “Tell me how you misunderstood my instructions.” The Master looked around the courtyard at the thirty odd troops standing with open deference. They too avoided his gaze.

  “We found the cemetery and were closing in, but this priest,” the captain pointed at Father Paulos’s body, “he fired on our forces. There was nothing we could do but return fire.”

  The Master shook his head sadly. “The capture and execution of the heathen priests was to be a pillar in our conquest. Was I not clear on this point?”

  The captain fell to the ground, prostrate. “You were very clear, My Master.”

  Again the shake of The Master’s head.

  “Have I not treated you all as my family? Never have I promoted a warrior who had not proved himself in battle. And this is how you repay my kindness. What shall we do? What shall we do?”

  No one in the crowd said a word. They’d seen The Master’s silent rage before and didn’t want to provoke it.

  The captain finally spoke. “Give me one more chance. I will find them, Master.”

  The Master walked over and helped the man up, even dusting off the front of his clothes as a mother might do with her child. The gesture made the captain relax, a hint of hope in his eyes.

  “Come. Let us see what can be done to salvage the situation. The cameras are ready?” asked The Master.

  The captain nodded, motioning for his troops to get the equipment in place. They moved to their task, arranging the lighting and video gear in the appointed places.

  “Tie the body up there.” The Master pointed to where he wanted it done. Men scrambled to do his bidding. “Do we have the calf’s blood prepared?”

  The captain’s face went pale. “There was not time, Master. I can have one of the men—”

  The Master patted the man on the arm. “That will not be necessary.”

  In the blink of an eye, The Master extracted a gold-plated long barreled revolver and shot the captain in the forehead, the back of his skull exploding, brain matter hitting the wall behind him.

  “Quickly, drain the captain’s blood and put it in two buckets,” said The Master, re-holstering the pistol, his face calm. He left the courtyard and slipped out of the baking sun to make his own preparations.

  The job was done rapidly, the body of the unfortunate captain drained as the priest was strung up, arms and legs splayed.

  Within an hour the set was ready. The Master exited the house and strolled into the courtyard. Now bathed and wearing a new set of combat gear, he had his golden revolver prominently displayed in a shoulder holster and a massive curved blade on his hip.

  He had no need of a mask. The Master believed that those who concealed themselves for such tasks were cowards. Besides, he had the blessing of Allah. His faith was strong. No mask was needed.

  He strode up to the priest’s body. It looked like it was caught in some invisible spider’s web. The Master pointed to the man behind the camera and nodded. The red light on the video camera came on and The Master began.

  “My people. Today we celebrate the glorious death of one of our enemies, an infidel whose very presence in the city of Mosul was a curse on Allah’s blessed name. For years his place of pagan worship was a stain on this holy land. It was only after this Christian demon murdered one of my own men that we were able to cut him down.” The Master picked up one of the two white buckets laid on the ground and poured the blood over the priest’s body.

  “The blood of our dead will seal this devil’s fate.”

  He set the bucket down and picked up the second one, holding it high.

  “Let the blood of our lost brother bless me as I do what Allah has commanded.”

  There were murmurs from the crowd as The Master poured the second bucket of already congealing blood over his own head, the liquid drenching him like a horrid slime. After throwing the bucket to the side, he continued. Blood ran over his eyes, but he never flinched. He looked straight into the camera, eyes blazing.

  “We have warned you. This will be the last time I repeat these words. Allah has commanded that you repent and come to the true Word. Any who join us will be forgiven. All who do not…”

  The Master pulled the curved blade from its scabbard and turned to the body hanging in wait. Its edge razor sharp, the sword easily sliced through the cadaver’s left leg with The Master’s diagonal overhead cut. Then the right leg was severed cleanly, making the body sway back and forth, now only secured by the ropes tied to its arms.

  With the ease of a master swordsman, he dismantled the rest of the body piece by piece, the body falling to the ground after the second arm was gone just below the shoulder. He left the head for last. It only took one swing for him to sever it right through the red soaked beard. He grabbed the priest by the hair and lifted the decapitated head, turning to the camera.

  He was slightly out of breath, but more than steady in his speech.

  The Master looked directly at the camera, the deformed face of the head dangling from his hand and in a voice just loud enough to hear, he said, “Allahu, Akbar.”

  Chapter 10

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  7:57pm EST, August 12th

  The night air was heavy, the late summer humidity clinging to Diane’s skin. She was the last one to leave Maury Hall, the rest of her staff having left hours earlier. The new midshipman would be arriving in a couple days and she wanted her people rested.

  She’d rushed to get changed, having lost track of the time despite her excitement. Diane hadn’t expected a call from Cal for at least a few days when they’d said goodbye at her apartment the morning before he’d mentioning being out of town for almost a week. Cal called to invite her to dinner.

  Having had the time to think about their last conversation, Diane wondered what she could expect from the handsome Marine. There was something about him that she still hadn’t figured out, something he was hiding. Maybe he was just reserved, not accustomed to sharing his feelings. He was a guy after all. She shook away the over-analyzation and looked at the time on her phone. They were supposed to be meeting at eight and she was still five minutes away. Diane picked up the pace.

  +++

  There were only a handful of patrons in the St. Maarten Cafe. St. Maarten’s was more bar than cafe. Music played lazily overhead, concealing the muffled conversations of customers. That would change in a couple weeks when students returned, the buffalo wings and drink specials a popular draw. Pretty soon it would be standing room only.

  Cal glanced at his watch. 8pm. It was late for dinner, but he’d assumed cor
rectly that Diane hadn’t had time for a proper meal. He’d only eaten a quick breakfast and the lunch at The Lodge. He was famished.

  The waiter was filling an order of wings. Cal’s mouth watered as he smelled it coming out of the kitchen. He was about to grab the first piece of chicken when Diane walked in.

  God she looks beautiful. She was wearing a flowing ivory tank top, and a pair of gray shorts, her legs accentuated by the cut of the shorts and the white wedge sandals. Diane had amazing calves.

  She waved to him with a smile and walked over. He got up from the table and got a hug for the effort. They kissed chastely, Cal still not sure what was appropriate.

  “I am so glad you ordered,” said Diane, grabbing a wing as she sat down, biting into it hungrily.

  Cal followed suit. They were halfway through their first order before either one spoke again.

  “You look tired,” said Diane.

  He felt tired.

  “It’s been a long couple days. How about you? Everything ready for the boots?”

  Diane nodded, grabbing another wing. “Did you meet our AMOI, Gunny Harrington?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s been drilling the hell out of us. I can’t wait to see what he does with the new mids.”

  Cal chuckled. “I remember sweating my ass off on the parade deck at Parris Island. Hours and hours practicing an about-face. I don’t miss that part of being in the Marine Corps.”

  “When did you enlist?”

  “2001. Right after 9/11.”

  He’d been a student at U.Va at the time, less than a year from graduation. On 9/11 Travis had called and told him about his parents. They were killed in the airplane that crashed into the Pentagon. He’d later found the voicemail his dad left right before the collision. He still kept a copy in a safety deposit box in Nashville.

  Not knowing where to turn, Cal first ran to the Naval ROTC building and begged to be sent to officer candidate school. The Marine Officer Instructor (MOI) informed him that he couldn’t. He had to graduate before getting commissioned and that was only after he was accepted by the Marine Corps’ highly selective officer program.