Moral Imperative

by C. G. Cooper

  “I cannot tell you that,” answered Reisner, seeing no need to give away all his secrets. Haden didn’t press the point.

  “What are you planning to do?” asked Zimmer.

  “That all depends on you, Mr. President.”

  I’m not going to show my cards before I see yours, Mr. President.

  President Zimmer looked at Gen. McMillan and nodded.

  “Mr. Reisner, what I’m about to tell you is only known to a handful of people, and none other than the three men sitting in front of you know the full story.” Now we are getting somewhere. “We are approximately forty-eight hours from inserting an American-led multi-national team into Iraq. It was our hope that your government could assist us in our efforts.”

  “When you say team, how large?”

  “Nineteen men.”

  Reisner caught himself before coughing out a laugh. Nineteen men? What did the Americans think they could do with that? Didn’t they know what they were dealing with? Tens of thousands of extremists willing to die for the glory of Allah. He’d told the prime minister that he was sure the Americans wanted to discuss direct action, but nineteen men?

  “I am sorry, I do not mean to be rude, but I assumed you would do more than send nineteen men into the desert.”

  Instead of getting mad, McMillan smiled. “What I forgot to mention was that these nineteen men will have direct access to any weapons systems we have, including land based bombers, drones and our carrier group in the Persian Gulf.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Fine. Maybe he should open the door a bit more.

  Reisner looked to Zimmer. “Mr. President, I think we have something that could help.”

  +++

  Reisner was on the phone as soon as he reached the Israeli embassy.

  “How did it go?” asked his prime minister, a man who’d risen to his current post on a wave of bi-partisan support. There was not much he couldn’t do.

  “I will say I am cautiously optimistic,” answered Reisner.

  “Coming from you, that is an extreme vote of confidence, Omer. What did you promise them?”

  “Nothing more than you and I discussed.”

  “Good. And their contribution?”

  Reisner told him.

  “Do you think that will be enough to stop ISIS?”

  Reisner honestly didn’t know. “General McMillan seemed to think so.”

  “And this Haden? What did he have to say?”

  “He and the president are playing from the same sheet of music.”

  “And this is a good thing?” asked the prime minister.

  “I believe so.”

  “Very well. Let me know how things progress.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  Chapter 13

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  1:11pm, August 13th

  Gene Kreyling adjusted his eyepatch and wiped away a bead of sweat. His boys were taking the lead. It was Stokes’s call. Despite what normal soldiers complained about, Kreyling knew from painful experience that constant training, especially in urban environments, was a must.

  Kreyling saw what Stokes was doing. After the initial evaluation, which the Brit hadn’t been thrilled about but now understood, Stokes had moved on to mutually supporting maneuvers. Every team had to be familiar with the new gear they’d received and with the other groups. Luckily, the Americans were good teachers, and Stokes had a group of tech heads from SSI who were helping the operators work out the kinks. The last thing they needed was to go into Iraq with a shoddy kit.

  “Rango, you ready?” he asked his number two, a jumpy git from South London. He looked like a squirrely bastard, but Kreyling knew no one better suited for the heat of battle. It had been Rango who dragged him out of a bullet-ridden building where Kreyling had lost his eye to an IED blast. He’d woken up in a hospital to Rango’s grinning face.

  “Right,” answered Rango, bouncing from foot to foot like a soccer player getting ready for kickoff.

  Kreyling looked behind him to the other teams just forming up. The Aussies were on some distant hill, ready to ping whatever targets the range master decided to pop.

  “Pounder, this is Wahoo Six. We’re ready,” came Stokes’s voice over his headset.

  He’d had to ask the American what the hell a ‘wahoo’ was. It sounded like something a kid said when he got excited. Stokes had laughed and explained that it was the unofficial mascot of the University of Virginia students, apparently a fish that could drink twice its own weight. The hard drinking Brit, call sign Pounder for the way he bulled his way into situations, had almost laughed at the explanation. Almost. He wasn’t that cozy with anyone but his own men.

  “Roger, Wahoo. We’re ready.”

  There was a pause. Kreyling tapped Rango on the shoulder.

  The hushed order came a second later. “Go, go, go.”

  Rango turned into the concrete building, Kreyling and the rest of the teams right behind.

  +++

  “First, I owe Fox a beer. The target operator told me about that shot you guys made. Impressive,” said Cal, addressing the men who were standing in the shade, drinking water after the latest practice session. “Now for the bad news. Looks like we’re still working out the kinks on comms. Do we need to run through it at half speed?”

  Cal knew there was nothing wrong with the radios. They were Neil Patel’s design. Highly durable and with extended range, even inside reinforced structures. The problem was the Bulgarians. They just didn’t want to play by the rules. The latest incident involved Valko failing to let the team to his left know where he was, almost resulting in the Italians getting shot. Moretti was not happy and kept throwing looks at Valko. The Bulgarian ignored him.

  “Okay, let’s do it again,” said Cal, grabbing his weapon and heading back into the sun. If the Bulgarians wanted to be stubborn, fine. But if they so much as flagged another team, Valko was going to get an earful.

  Kreyling caught up to him. “Why don’t you put Valko up front.”

  That surprised Cal. He’d assumed the Brit wanted the lead. “You sure?”

  “It’ll give my boys a break.” Kreyling went to join his men and Cal kept walking. Cal appreciated Kreyling’s suggestion. The Brit was trying to help.

  Other than sheer brute force, Cal didn’t know what the Bulgarians brought to the table. Sure, they were elite troops, but the fact that they didn’t want to be part of the team made them a liability. Let’s see what happens when they’re up front, Cal thought.

  When everyone had made their way back to the raid complex, Cal announced, “Let’s change things up on this one. Valko, I want your team up front. Everyone else switch with the team behind you. Kreyling, you bring up the rear.”

  There were no complaints. Cal knew everyone but the Bulgarians were thinking the same thing as him: What do we do with Valko?

  +++

  “At least they didn’t kill anyone,” said Trent, as he, Cal, Daniel and Gaucho sat in the air conditioned luxury suite SSI had loaned them at The Lodge. Cal had given the rest of the teams the afternoon off. They’d reconvene just after dark to do a night insertion.

  “They didn’t do bad, but jeez. They don’t listen worth a damn,” said Gaucho, taking a long drink from a Gatorade.

  “I’ve commanded my share of knuckleheads, but this guy takes the cake,” said Cal, now worried that he would have to drop the Bulgarians. What would that do to U.S.-Bulgaria relations? It would definitely piss off Brandon.

  “Maybe you should talk to him,” suggested Daniel.

  “I already tried that.”

  “Try again?” said Daniel with that Zen master smile that had pushed Cal to do any number of uncomfortable things, like when he’d convinced Cal to talk to Dr. Higgins. Daniel was right, of course. It was his job as leader.

  “Fine. No better time than now.” Cal grunted as he rose on sore legs. “But you jokers owe me a bottle of Famous Grouse if it doesn’t work.”

  The other Bulg
arian operators told Cal that Valko was at the pistol range. Apparently he’d decided that a rest wasn’t needed. Cal had never talked to Valko’s men because their leader was always present. He could see they were relaxed, something they hadn’t exhibited around Valko. Maybe that was something.

  Cal found Valko in the far left stall of the outdoor pistol range. By the number of casings on the ground, Cal estimated the Bulgarian was well into his fourth box of fifty rounds.

  He waited until Valko finished shooting, extracted his magazine, inspected the open chamber, and set the pistol down on the wooden shelf. He didn’t look up when he addressed Cal, but started reloading his magazines.

  “What do you want?” asked Valko.

  “What’s your problem, Valko?”

  The Bulgarian whirled around, eyes aflame. “What?”

  “I said, what’s your fucking problem?”

  Valko took a step closer. Cal didn’t flinch. They stood there for a few moments, the tension palpable. To Cal’s surprise, Valko turned back to the range and continued loading his magazines. The Marine was sure they were about to come to blows. Part of him wanted to. Some bullies just need a good ass-kicking before they came around.

  “We need to talk about this.”

  Valko ignored him.

  Cal shook his head. He hated to do it, but maybe he should just call McMillan and tell him that the Bulgarians were out. Whatever.

  He headed back toward The Lodge without another word. He was halfway there when a thought came.

  Two minutes later he was knocking on the door of the room the Bulgarians were sharing. One of Valko’s men, a dour-faced guy by the name of Georgi Levski answered.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” asked Cal.

  Levski nodded. The last Bulgarian, a skinny kid named Nikola Popov was sprawled out on a queen bed, reading an American porno mag. He glanced up when Cal entered but went right back to his perusal.

  “Do you guys have a minute to talk?” asked Cal.

  Levski shrugged and Popov put his magazine down, sliding to the edge of the bed to listen.

  “Look, I know you guys are loyal to Valko, but we need to get some things figured out before we leave. Would you tell me what the hell the deal is with Valko?”

  The Bulgarians looked at each other, Popov shaking his head as if to say, “We shouldn’t say anything.” Levski ignored him and answered Cal.

  “There is something you must know about Stojan.”

  Chapter 14

  Bartella, Iraq (approximately 22-miles outside Mosul)

  8:32pm AST, August 13th

  Business was good for Ali Kassab. The middle-aged vendor had more coin in his pocket than he’d had since the invasion in 2003. While many Iraqis cowered under the gaze of the advancing ISIS forces, his meat wagons supplied the army day and night. Ever since entering the country, Ali had nurtured the ISIS relationship, sometimes giving the jihadists whole shipments for free, knowing they would be grateful. And they were. Ali was one of the most popular visitors in the ever moving camps, one of the few outsiders who knew their locations.

  While many thought the invading force engaged in indiscriminate killing, Ali knew better. He’d seen ISIS leaders killed by their chain of command for engaging in unsanctioned attacks. The West was trying to paint them as thugs, and many of them were, but fundamentally, they’d grown into something much more dangerous. Calculating. Trained. More sophisticated by the day.

  It was better to make friends with such men, or at least offer them something of value. What did an army need as much if not more than weapons and ammunition? Food and water.

  ISIS lived off the land, obtaining supplies as they went. Unlike a conventional army, they had no supply train. But they were not pillaging. Their leaders knew that if they were to build the caliphate, they must have a land to rule. They were careful with what they took and only destroyed infrastructure in rare cases, usually to instill fear in a noncompliant populace.

  The bells of his goats tinkled as he approached the well-lit guard post, crudely erected with large trucks serving as barriers. A high-powered light clicked on and shone right in his face. He’d been expecting it, and covered his eyes.

  “Who is that?” asked a guard, his weapon undoubtedly pointed directly at the blinded supplier.

  “It’s Ali, you fool. Put that light down,” said one of the guards.

  The light was extinguished and Ali led his mule-drawn cart to the entrance.

  “Good evening, Ammar. How is your duty this night?” asked Ali. One of the things that had amazed the Islamists was Ali’s ability to remember names. He never had to be told twice, even remembering family members mentioned in passing.

  “You come at a good time. We have more men coming every day. What did you bring us?” The guard moved around Ali to get a better look, knowing he would have first pick of the choicest supply. It was one of the few perks of standing watch.

  “The usual. Lamb, beef, chicken and a barrel of fresh fish.”

  “Anything else?” asked the guard. Ali could imagine the man’s mouth salivating.

  “My cooler is filled with cheeses. Wheels and blocks. The kind I have not found in many months. Would you like a sample?”

  The guard nodded and Ali moved to the large cooler, surplus he’d purchased from an American supply sergeant four years before. It took up most of the cart, but kept his wares cold even under the relentless desert sun. He opened one of the side hatches and found the best of the bunch. Ali cut off two oversized hunks, each the size of a man’s fist and handed one to each of the guards. They both bit into them hungrily. Ali smiled.

  “And I have something else. Chocolate stolen from a Dutch freighter.” He pulled out two aluminum-wrapped bars and handed them out. The men’s eyes went wide. Too consumed with their meal, they waved Ali through, pointing to where the supply tent was.

  He knew the way. Even though he hadn’t been at this particular location, they always arranged things the same way. It wasn’t five minutes before he’d found the kitchen tent nestled next to a much larger tent. Along the way he passed out treats from his seemingly never-ending supply, the men grateful when he thanked the ones he’d met by name. The new names he stored away.

  “Ali! I was wondering if you would get here in time,” said the fat supply chief who also doubled as one of the cooks. He was standing just outside the flap of the kitchen tent, hands on his hips, wearing a blood stained white apron.

  “My apologies. It was slow going today. My mules were not happy with their cargo. Too much to pull.”

  The supply chief smiled. “Quickly. Tell me what you have. We have more guests coming tonight.”

  Ali’s ears perked up at the comment. The whispers had been true.

  Ali gave the man a rundown of what he’d brought, saving the cheeses for last. He knew the overweight Syrian had a special love for good baladi.

  Although his eyes betrayed his desire, the man knew how to negotiate. “I don’t know if I have the money to pay for the extra items, Ali. Perhaps you could make me a deal?”

  Ali smiled, having already prepared for the conversation. “Since you have been such a loyal customer, and friend, I wanted to give you the cheeses as a gift. A small thanks.”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “That is very generous, I—”

  Ali waved off the coming reply. “It is nothing. I got a good deal on the best meats, and I can only hope that when the glorious caliphate is born, I will continue to be one of your loyal servants.”

  The fat man walked over and hugged Ali. “Of course, my friend. Come. Let me get someone to unload your goods and I will get your payment.”

  Less than an hour later, Ali waved goodbye to the guards. They waved back enthusiastically, now accompanied by four others. The camp was expecting company. Ali whistled a tune as he walked beside his most stubborn mule, coaxing it with a soft lullaby. It was all he could do to not look back.

  +++

  The supply chief stuffed another piece o
f soft white baladi cheese in his mouth. It had been too long since he’d savored such a delicacy. Because the army was constantly on the move, rationing was essential. Meals were simple and rarely fresh. That meant that even the man who controlled the food had to cut back. He was sure he’d lost at least ten pounds since leaving Syria. The thought made him rub his ample belly as he swallowed the cheese. It reminded him of his wife.

  His master would be happy. He would save the cheese for last and tell them that it hadn’t cost a thing. His gift to the caliph.

  He was distracted from his thoughts of home when one of his men dropped a serving platter. It sent the fat man into a tirade of curses. They had less than two hours before the caliph and his commanders arrived. Everything would have to be ready or it was his head. The caliph did not like his food to be served late.

  To the fat man’s delight, every course was met with a chorus of happy grunts and murmurs. Even the caliph had inquired about the source of the meal. Someone had pointed at the supply chief, who stood in the corner of the tent, stoically overseeing the service. He returned the caliph’s nod proudly.

  Finally, it came time for his surprise. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the caliph’s face. Maybe he would be invited to work at the palace once the new Islamic state was formed. One could hope.

  He’d told his underlings not to touch the delicacies, wanting to parcel out the food with his own hand. The first one he grabbed was a large block of feta, probably two feet by two feet in size. He would serve it with the dates and figs he’d gotten from another vendor, and a collection of barreled olives he’d commandeered from a small town the day before.

  The block was too big for a normal knife and he opted for a three foot carving knife they used to slaughter meat. It looked more like a sword than something you’d find in a kitchen.

  He eased the blade into the center of the cheese, using two hands to shimmy it in. The blade stopped two inches down. The fat man’s brow furrowed. He removed the blade and stuck his finger into the crevice he’d made. There was something hard in the middle of the cheese. He could feel it. That Ali better not have given me rotting cheese.