Moral Imperative

by C. G. Cooper

  That left Cal with one option, enlist. He’d left for Parris Island less than a week later and never looked back.

  Although he’d come to accept his decision, the loss of his parents still stung. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  “What about you? Why the Navy?” asked Cal.

  “I wanted intel and they gave it to me.”

  “And you loved it so much you wanted to do another stint as a butter bar?”

  Diane stuck her tongue out at him. “Very funny, smart ass. I know how enlisted guys feel about officers, remember? No, I knew my contribution in the ranks was limited where I was. There’s more that I want to do and being an officer can get me there.”

  “You’re not trying to be G.I. Jane, are you?”

  Diane laughed. “Are you kidding? I can probably give you a run for your money on the PT field, but I’m still a lady. I like to dress up. You boys can have your fun in the mud. It’s not for me.”

  That’s a relief, thought Cal. The last thing he wanted to discuss were the merits of women in combat. While he didn’t necessarily deny there were a small percentage of females who could cut it, he still felt like it was an uphill battle. The Israelis had figured it out with their conventional forces, but they were in a different spot, surrounded by enemies. Besides, even the Israelis had only a few high level female operators.

  The movies loved to glorify the hot chick assassin, tearing through terrorist ranks, a top model one second and a deadly killer the next. Cal hadn’t met one and he was at the top of the covert game. He wouldn’t tell Diane, but he was glad she wasn’t out to be the next Wonder Woman.

  They finished the first dozen wings and ordered another.

  “What have you been up to?” Diane asked, taking a sip of his beer like they’d been together for ages. For some reason her familiarity made him smile.

  “Oh, you know, work, work and more work.”

  “Anything you can tell me about?”

  Cal shrugged. “It’s pretty boring. Mostly going over reports and writing new ones. You’re probably having more fun than I am.”

  By the look in her eyes, he could tell she knew he was stretching the truth. She didn’t look pissed. He was glad. His work was one of the reasons he hadn’t looked for a relationship after Jess died. There were too many questions, too many things he couldn’t talk about. How do you tell your wife or girlfriend that you just killed a murderer who was about to annihilate millions? Sounds great in a novel, but it didn’t work in the real world. Normal people, let alone significant others, couldn’t understand.

  Luckily, she changed the subject and they enjoyed the rest of their meal without the pressure of trying to impress each other.

  What the hell am I getting myself into?

  +++

  Cal walked Diane back to her apartment and said goodnight. They kissed briefly. She’d asked him to stay, but he told her he still had work to do. Diane didn’t pout. Another thing Cal liked about her. She took him in stride, not trying to sway him.

  But she had done it without trying. He could feel it, the irresistible tug pulling him toward her. It was effortless, even though he wanted to resist. There were so many reasons he should break it off before it got too far, but he couldn’t. He’d even prepared a farewell speech, practicing as he’d walked to the restaurant earlier.

  That had all changed as soon as she’d strolled in. For a man who could charge into the maw of the enemy without flinching, the fact that he couldn’t say no to this woman was, well, confusing. He wasn’t going to ask Diane to marry him, but at least he felt like he’d finally found someone away from work he could connect with. Cal hadn’t had a friend outside of the Marine Corps or his current station, other than Jessica, since college. That was a long time ago.

  It was hard to relate to people in the real world after you’d gone through the things Cal and his men had endured. Tragedy and triumph. Death and glory.

  How do you tell your neighbor what you do? Yeah, man. Last week I flew to D.C., met with the president, flew to New York and killed a billionaire. Yeah, right.

  As Cal made his way toward Rugby Road, his thoughts shifted back to earlier in the day. The rest of the training went well. While Owen Fox and his snipers were very good, it was still Daniel who won the day. The Marine sniper had so impressed the others that Fox offered to buy Daniel dinner, wanting to know all his secrets.

  The Bulgarians were still keeping to themselves. Valko just didn’t seem to care about being part of the team. He’d rebuffed Cal and the others at every turn. Cal was starting to think maybe Valko’s team should pack up and go.

  But that wouldn’t work. Like it or not, the Bulgarians were part of the lineup. Cal just had to figure out a way to get them in line, possibly by force if need be.

  As he turned right onto Rugby Road, he found a familiar figure leaning against a lamp post.

  “I thought I had a tail,” said Cal.

  “Just doing my job,” answered Daniel, falling in step with his friend. “How was dinner?”

  “Do you even need to ask? I’ll bet you know exactly how dinner was, down to what we ate and what beer we ordered.” Cal was amused. Daniel had taken it as his life’s mission to ensure Cal’s safety. Cal could take care of himself, but having his lucky rabbit’s foot nearby never hurt.

  “Don’t worry. I waited outside.”

  Cal shook his head. “How was dinner with the Aussies?”

  “Good.”

  “Did you give them all of your sniper secrets?”

  Daniel chuckled. “Just the good ones.”

  Cal had met a lot of marksmen over the years. Much like professional athletes, there were varying levels of skill even among snipers. Some were technically proficient. Others had natural skill, often bred from generations of family outdoorsmen.

  Daniel was in his own league. He was the complete package, plus he had that intangible gift of the world’s best athletes like Jordan, Woods and Ali. He’d heard others try to figure it out, dissecting Daniel’s stance, his trigger pull, even his breathing. Cal knew it was much more than all those little things. Daniel Briggs was as much in tune with the world around them as the most cunning animal predator. He had a gift. He could sense a faraway change in wind direction, anticipate a target’s random movement, and even the subtle shift in an enemy’s tactics. Cal sometimes thought Daniel could see the future, so heightened were his senses.

  There was no other man on Earth Cal would rather have by his side.

  They talked as they made their way back home, going over the plans for the next day’s training. Forty-eight hours left. There wasn’t much time.

  Chapter 11

  Mosul, Iraq

  3:48am AST, August 13th

  Hasan waited with the four priests. They’d told him to be patient, that their guests would arrive in time. Their approach would be cautious. He’d sat in the same spot for almost two hours. The priests tried to engage him in conversation, but he didn’t want to talk. There was too much to think about.

  He’d seen the video. Poor Father Paulos, strung up like a doll, doused with the Islamist’s impure blood. While it enraged him, he knew without a doubt that the vile act wouldn’t have any effect on the priest’s soul, no matter what that monster said. The elder was in Heaven, of that fact Hasan had no doubt. He’d said a prayer in thanks for sparing Father Paulos any torture at the hands of the terrorists. Animals.

  “They are here,” said one of the priests. The four still had their weapons at the ready and Hasan was glad for that. He had yet to secure his own, something he would have to remedy soon.

  Two men walked into the darkened room, faces obscured by cowls. They looked like common beggars or one of the many refugees who’d made their way through Mosul over the preceding months.

  Neither removed their hoods until seated on the bare floor across from Hasan. Both men had roughly Arabic features, dark complexions, scraggly beards.

  “You are Hasan al-Mawsil?” asked the first man,
his Arabic flawless. He sounded like he was from the south.

  Hasan nodded.

  “I am Timothy and this is my associate Fazul.”

  “You are the Americans?”

  “No. We are here on their behalf,” said Timothy.

  “Then who are you?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you we were friends?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe these days.”

  Timothy looked to the priests. One of them nodded.

  “They tell me you can be trusted, Hasan. Is this true?” asked Timothy.

  “It is.”

  “Then I will tell you where we are from, although that knowledge, should it be given to the enemy, would surely seal our fate, and possibly your own.”

  Hasan didn’t know what the man was talking about. He looked like one of a thousand Arabs he’d met in his lifetime. What was the man getting at?

  “You can trust me,” said Hasan.

  Timothy looked to his partner, who nodded just perceptibly.

  “We call the lands beyond the Sea of Galilee our home.”

  Hasan’s eyes went wide. “You’re Israeli?” He couldn’t believe it. Timothy was right. If the Islamic barbarians knew Jews were in Iraq, they’d drop everything to have them found, tortured and then killed.

  “We are.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you know you can trust us, Hasan. We live in a world where loyalty swings in the wind, especially here.”

  “What is it that you know about the Americans? Are they coming?”

  Timothy hesitated. “I don’t mean to get your hopes up. This is merely a—”

  “I risked my life coming here,” hissed Hasan. “Now tell me what you want of me or be gone.”

  Timothy smiled. “The Americans need someone from Mosul. One who knows the area.”

  “Why? They know Mosul. Why do they want me?”

  “You came highly recommended.”

  “From who?” Hasan couldn’t believe one of his friends would divulge his name and where to find him. That sort of information was never shared with outsiders.

  “It was Father Paulos.”

  The words hit Hasan like a sledgehammer. Why had the priest given the Jews his name? Of what use could he be?

  “I don’t understand. Why would he do that?” Hasan looked to the four priests questioningly. “Tell me why.”

  Father Yousef, the youngest of the four, answered. “Father Paulos believed God has a plan for you. It was in a dream that he saw you standing with the Americans.”

  What was going on? Jews? Visions? It was too much for Hasan to comprehend.

  “I am a simple man. I have no skills,” said Hasan.

  “Not according to Father Paulos,” said Timothy.

  “What was it that he told you?”

  Father Yousef spoke up again, his smile proud. “Who other than Hasan al-Mawsil knows the streets of Mosul better than the streets themselves?”

  “But—”

  “How many friends does Hasan have along the road to Duhok, Soran and even into the mountains along the northern border?”

  “I—”

  “Who better than Hasan knows the pain of loss and has the will to see God’s people saved?” asked Father Yousef, his eyes gleaming.

  Hasan didn’t know how to respond. That wasn’t how he saw himself. Yes, he knew Mosul and could probably walk it blindfolded. Yes, he’d spent years traveling the northern reaches of Iraq, making deliveries and the occasional side deal. But to say that he was God’s instrument and that he was somehow worthy of such trust? It was beyond his ability to grasp.

  “It sounds like your friends believe in you more than you believe in yourself, Hasan. Maybe you should listen to them,” said Timothy.

  His brother had often told him he had a higher calling, but Hasan had always assumed his brother was speaking of being a good Christian. The thought grew into a question.

  “Did you know my brother?”

  Timothy nodded. There was a hint of sadness in his tone. “I’ve known your brother for some time. We believe ISIS somehow found out about his involvement with our operations.”

  Hasan wanted to scream at them, to blame them for his brother death, for the deaths of Yazen and Dalir. But he knew that wasn’t true. His brother was braver than any man Hasan had ever met. Where others ran from service, Mikhail embraced it, tried his best to better the country despite his younger brother’s warnings. Instead of begging for money to support his family, Mikhail took odd jobs, never too proud to do honest labor. And his faith. Mikhail wore his religion with pride, never hiding it from strangers despite the risk of reprisal.

  He imagined his brother looking on, smiling down at him, nodding his head, pushing him forward. What did he know that I didn’t?

  Hasan took a deep breath and looked at Timothy. “What do you need me to do?”

  Chapter 12

  The White House

  11:50am, August 13th

  The head of Mossad didn’t like coming to America. Maybe it was because of the cold reception he’d gotten from the last president. To make an ally wait over an hour while he finished his round of golf…

  He had yet to meet President Zimmer, and had only come as a favor to the Israeli Prime Minister. Like it or not, Omer Reisner had a boss, and his boss wanted him in America.

  He did not have to wait long. Five minutes before the prescribed time, President Brandon Zimmer walked into the Situation Room, two men in tow. Like anyone who knew anything about the United States, Reisner instantly recognized Gen. McMillan. The imposing Marine was hard to miss, as was his impressive array of ribbons.

  The second man was much less familiar, and part of Reisner’s assignment. Travis Haden was a relative unknown to Mossad. They known he’d served as a SEAL and was the former CEO of Stokes Security International, but his relationship to the president was still a big question mark. How had he risen from obscurity to the right hand of the throne?

  Reisner hoped to get more clarity during his visit.

  “Mr. Reisner, thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” said Zimmer, coming around the table to shake hands with the Israeli.

  “It is my pleasure, Mr. President,” said Reisner, who was maybe four inches shorter than the handsome American. Reisner turned to McMillan. “It is an honor to meet you as well, General. I’ve heard that you are a man to be trusted, a man of honor.”

  “Thank you. I’ve always been impressed by Israeli hospitality,” said McMillan, wrapping Reisner’s hand in an iron grip. Why did Marines all feel like a handshake was some kind of a strength contest?

  “I’m Travis Haden, Mr. Reisner,” said the dirty blond chief of staff. Reisner could tell the muscular advisor was sizing him up, a sly grin accompanying his greeting. This man was confident in his abilities, but was definitely no politician. He had the look of a warrior, not a bureaucrat.

  “Thank you Mr. Haden. And may I say, congratulations on the new position.”

  After coffee was served by a Filipino steward, the four men were left alone. Reisner figured it was better to let the Americans start, and busied himself with the cheese danish he’d picked from the mound in the center of the table. Sometimes the best assets an intelligence agent had were his two ears, and Reisner meant to use them.

  Zimmer took a sip of his coffee and began. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve included General McMillan and Mr. Haden in our discussion. They are my two closest advisors and I value their opinions above all others.”

  That was good. “I will say, Mr. President, that it has not escaped my government’s notice that you have decided to align yourself with a Unites States Marine and a Navy SEAL.”

  “And I take it that you welcome the change?”

  Reisner shrugged. “You know how we Israelis treasure our military.”

  Zimmer nodded. “Then we’re starting off on the right foot. Good. I promise this won’t be a waste of your time. First, I wanted to mak
e this known to your leadership before I announce it publicly. I’m not in the habit of letting our staunchest allies find out my opinions second hand. To get right to it, I fully support your actions in Gaza and am prepared to give you whatever support is needed in the Middle East.”

  Reisner hadn’t been expecting that. The Prime Minister would be thrilled to hear about the change. His country’s relationship with Zimmer’s predecessor was contentious at best, sometimes outright hostile. Reisner had understood the man’s liberal agenda, but in a matter of years the president had squandered many opportunities and weakened American alliances with its oldest allies. The Israeli hoped Zimmer wasn’t just blowing smoke, as the Americans liked to say.

  “That is very good to hear, Mr. President. We would like nothing more than to be a most trusted ally.”

  “That brings me to my next dilemma, Iraq and the Islamic caliphate. I was hoping you could give us some indication of your intentions.”

  This was a slippery slope for the Israeli. He’d been directed to give the Americans just enough information. Sort of a test. They’d been stung before, losing long term assets who’d disappeared overnight. Reisner had the proof that the loose-lipped lackeys of the last president were the cause. He would not let that happen again. The veteran Mossad leader had to be careful, something he always strived to be, until it was time to pull out the battle axe.

  “Like you, we believe the marauding ISIS forces pose a direct threat to security in the region, even abroad. The chance of severe destabilization in the Arab world seems inevitable should they be allowed to continue on their current path.”

  “Do you have assets on the ground?” asked Travis Haden.

  Reisner knew the question was coming, but was surprised that it came from the SEAL and not the president. This man must hold significant sway with Zimmer. Reisner decided to throw them a bone.

  “We do.”

  “Surveillance or action teams?” asked Haden after casting a glance at the president.