Moral Imperative

by C. G. Cooper

  +++

  The ambush worked to perfection. Once the lead vehicle was stopped by a well-placed round from Daniel’s Barrett, the convoy was a target ripe for the taking.

  It didn’t take long for Cal’s concealed forces to dispatch the drivers and secure the vehicles. There were no guards, just untrained drivers.

  MSgt Trent signaled the all clear. Front and rear guards posted without a word. The huge Marine grabbed the high handle on the back of the first truck and stepped up to bed level. He clicked on the red light on his vest, illuminating the cargo.

  He estimated close to fifty boys of varying ages packed in. Scared. Trembling.

  Trent hadn’t wanted to believe what Hasan had told them before stepping off. The Iraqi had somehow caught wind of the shipment from friends inside ISIS, men who were risking their lives to gain valuable intelligence for the resistance. Hasan was one of few middle men privy to the information. Trent gathered that the man from Mosul had a wide web of informants. He would have loved to know how that came to be.

  “You’re safe,” said Trent. Some of the boys must have understood English because the whimpering started, then an exhale of relief flooded the compartment.

  Chapter 33

  Tal Afar, Iraq

  7:07pm AST, August 17th

  For two days the assault leveled heavy casualties on his forces. In broad daylight and under the cover of darkness. The attacks never relented.

  What first started as a trickle soon became a full blown leak of ISIS recruits fleeing the battle zone. Even when they ran, the Americans and their allies pounded them with bombs, riddled them with bullets and cut their throats with fine blades.

  Weeks before, ISIS was the ravaging army, slicing its way across the Middle East. Now it was the international coalition, led by the Americans, who’d become the lurking shadows, death around every corner.

  The Master digested it all. The whispered stories amongst even his most faithful followers spread like the plague. To make matters worse, the destruction was not contained to the battlefield. The hundreds of millions of dollars the leaders of ISIS had deposited with banks around the world either disappeared or were seized by the host country. It was an unprecedented move by the international community. Even his fellow Arabs were joining the hunt. He’d become the prey.

  More detrimental was the nearly closed recruiting pipeline they’d so carefully fostered. Social media and a strong internet presence had allowed them to touch fundamentalists around the world, to rally them to the caliphate. Since the American president’s declaration, those sites were now in the hands of the Americans. Multiple times throughout each day new videos were posted. Not videos he’d crafted, but ones taken and produced by the Americans. Footage of his holy warriors killed in every way possible: sniper fire, machine guns, bombs, missiles and even blades.

  The message to potential recruits was clear: Join ISIS and we will kill you.

  His normally serene facade showed signs of breaking. Face caked in dust, robes torn and splattered with dried blood, The Master looked more like a vagrant than the leader of an anointed army.

  Earlier in the day he’d ordered a score of captured deserters to die by firing squad. It was the only way to maintain control and discipline. His ears still rang from the event that was held in an abandoned gas station instead of outdoors. He couldn’t take the chance of being seen by drones and satellites.

  Movement was impossible. Darkness didn’t help. The infidels’ technology negated any benefit night might bring. The Master did not like limited options. He liked remaining static even less.

  They had him on his heels, struggling to maintain control of his forces. Luckily, ISIS commanders had enjoyed a decentralized command structure since their invasion of Iraq. They had The Master’s orders, and were trusted to carry them out as they saw fit. Failure would not be tolerated. And yet, failure seemed an inevitable conclusion.

  The Master said a prayer, raising his hands in humble tribute, seeking the answers he so desperately needed.

  +++

  Erbil, Iraq

  7:20pm

  They hadn’t stopped since the attack on the American embassy days before. The team snagged rest when they could, but even the most battle-hardened were starting to feel the strain. For that reason, Stokes had ordered a respite in the Kurdish city of Erbil. They’d flown in on American Chinooks, the trails of smoke plumes rising from the ground behind them.

  For Stojan Valko, the endless raids had come as a welcome distraction. To the Bulgarian, idle time was not time well spent. Ever since his childhood, he’d had a hard time sitting still, staying in one place.

  But now he allowed himself to relax if even for the briefest moment, standing on the roof of the boutique hotel where they’d commandeered the top two floors. He gazed out over the city, amazed that its citizens went about their day despite the war being waged just outside their walls. He knew it would be much different in Bulgaria, as it would be in most other civilized countries.

  But this was not his homeland. It was land that had seen bloodletting for centuries. Its people numb to violence, even when it lived next door. The warrior in him knew that unless Iraq’s leaders rallied together for a common cause, they would always be vulnerable to threats like ISIS.

  While it disturbed the proud man to see a people so easily cowed by terrorists, he relished the idea of being on the other side, of having the ability to kick jihadists back into their filthy holes. To kill them with his bare hands. Valko knew it was a fight he was willing to wage until his last breath, until his heart no longer beat its steady rhythm.

  “You gonna get some sleep?” asked a voice behind him. It was Cal Stokes.

  Valko did not shift his gaze.

  “Soon,” he answered.

  Part of him did not want to speak with the American. He felt too vulnerable, too close to his raw emotions. It was one thing to plan an attack with the young leader. That was business. It was quite another to be alone with the man, the one who’d given him the second chance.

  Valko was not stupid. He knew what the others had thought, and he didn’t blame them. Had it been another member who’d revealed his relation to a terrorist, Valko would have been the first to ask for his dismissal.

  Thanks to the American, that hadn’t happened. Yes, Stokes had kept him close, but he had not hovered, hadn’t micromanaged Valko’s actions. It didn’t take long for the Bulgarian to realize that Stokes was a good man, an honest man, a born leader. Not only had he led by example, always from the front, but he’d harnessed the strengths of each individual, somehow weaving together a powerful group of alpha males who were not used to taking orders. And all without the bravado of the leaders Valko had always looked up to. He had a gift.

  It was a hard lesson to learn, but the actions of his new comrades could not be ignored. They’d completed their missions with precision, without harming innocent bystanders. Ruthless in the attack, the men also ushered the kidnapped Iraqis with care, always offering a smile or lending a helping hand.

  Valko hadn’t known such duality was possible. His career was built on the warrior’s code, putting mission above all else. He’d never cared about the innocents really, always focused on the demise of his enemy. Let the doctors and nurses care for the others. That was how he’d always thought.

  And now he found himself questioning, trying to figure out why he was that way. The only answer he could come up with was his brother, Kiril.

  Somehow he knew his brother was still alive. It was the bond of twins, forever linked by some invisible thread. He’d never questioned it as a child, always assuming that other brothers felt the same. But they didn’t.

  Over the years he’d felt his brother even though thousands of miles separated them. Sometimes he would feel a sudden stab of fear, for no reason at all. Other times it was a gush of pride warming his body even though he was doing something mundane like watching television. He knew what it was. It was Kiril. Kiril off becoming a stranger, bec
oming his enemy. He often wondered if his brother felt the same sensations. He probably did.

  Valko never told anyone about their connection, especially after the revelation concerning his brother’s conversion. The Bulgarian wondered what it would feel like when Kiril died, when the last shred of air left his body.

  “How’s Levski feeling?” asked Stokes. Valko had almost forgotten he was still there.

  “Better. Kokubu stitched and gave medicine.” Georgi had taken a nasty fall in the last raid when he slipped over a concertina topped fence. The bloody gash on his arm would leave an impressive scar.

  “Good,” said Stokes.

  The two men stood watching the city’s nighttime routine, Valko not knowing what to say, and Stokes once again respecting Valko’s privacy.

  “Okay. I’m gonna get a couple hours of rest. Enjoy the view,” said Cal, turning to go.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Valko turned and said, “Thank you.”

  Stokes stopped and looked back at him. Valko was a man of few words, not one to show emotion or gratitude. He wanted to thank the American for what he’d done, for trusting him when the others wouldn’t. He wanted to ask how he’d come to be the way he was, deadly as a viper and yet as caring as a treasured friend.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to say anything. The Bulgarian could see by the look in the American’s eyes that he understood, that he knew that Valko’s simple thanks was more powerful than a heartfelt declaration from most other men.

  Stokes smiled, nodded, and went on his way.

  Valko turned back to the city, wondering where his altered life would now lead.

  Chapter 34

  London Heathrow Airport

  London, England

  2:33pm, August 24th

  James Cornet rushed to find a restroom. Weeks of eating foreign food had taken its toll. An hour didn’t go by that he didn’t break out in a cold sweat, bowels rumbling. The flight from Amsterdam was torture. Multiple trips to relieve himself and still no relief.

  The first men’s bathroom he came to was closed for cleaning. Trickles of sweat were already pooling on his lower back like hanging lemmings. Luckily, he’d worn a black t-shirt. Cornet had learned that lesson on his way into the Middle East. More times than not your body betrayed your intentions. Wear a black t-shirt.

  The next restroom was open, and he rushed to get the nearest stall. He barely got his pants down before the deluge commenced. Gripping the handicap handrail on the side of the stall, Cornet barely registered the door to the next stall opening and closing.

  He heard the sound of gas being passed, and the audible sigh of relief from his new neighbor. Putting the other man out of his mind, he prayed for perhaps the hundredth time that day that Allah do something to settle his stomach. His father was expecting him, a small gathering of family sure to be there too. The returning hero with a case of the runs. Now that was a story for the ages.

  Feeling somewhat normal for the moment, Cornet pulled out his cell phone and checked for messages. None. He exhaled in relief.

  His departure from Syria had been abrupt, but less so than the day he’d left Iraq. Loud bombs and silent death from the shadows contrasted to induce outright panic. Cornet was glad he’d made it out in time. So many of his fellow holy warriors had not. Luckily, as a British national, he was able to board a flight first to Istanbul, then Amsterdam and finally home to London.

  A knocking on the side of the stall shook him from his thoughts. It must be the man sitting next to him.

  “Yes?” Cornet asked.

  “You wouldn’t mind handing me a bit of paper, would you? Seems the roll is out on my side,” said the man in heavily accented Welsh.

  It was good to hear the familiar dialect. Cornet had struggled to pick up Arabic. The writing was even worse. English was, after all, his first language, despite his Islamic faith.

  “No problem,” he said, pulling out a length of toilet paper and rolling it around his hand until he had what he thought would be enough for the man to use. “Here you go.”

  Cornet reached under the wall to give the stranger the toilet paper. As soon as his wrist passed under the metal barrier, he felt an iron grip clamp down on his hand. He tried to pull away, tugging with all his strength.

  It didn’t help. With a terrible yank, his head slammed into the stall, stunning him. Seconds later, he realized he was lying on his back, staring up at a man with a gray eye patch.

  “Welcome homes, James,” said the man, who Cornet now realized was holding a silenced pistol in his other hand.

  “What do you—”

  “Say hello to Allah, you bloody traitor.”

  Time slowed. Cornet looked into the calmly furious eye of his attacker, and then into the extended barrel of the gun. He barely had time to hear the muted report of the weapon before two rounds pierced his forehead and cut off his response.

  +++

  Gene Kreyling wiped his boot on the dead man’s shirt and opened the stall door. Rango poked his head around the corner.

  “All good?” he asked.

  “Right.”

  Rango’s head disappeared and Kreyling walked to the sink to wash his hands. Four men dressed as janitors streamed in behind him, wordlessly setting to the task of cleaning up the bloody stall.

  Kreyling dried his hands and nodded to the men who were placing the terrorist’s body in a wheeled hamper, piling trash bags on top.

  Another burly janitor stood casually next to Rango as Kreyling exited.

  “Let’s go. Stokes will want to know that we got our third.”

  Rango nodded and followed his boss toward Baggage Claim. Three for three. Not bad for their first day back.

  +++

  Zenica, Bosnia & Herzegovina

  4:29pm

  The small Islamic council listened to Daris Gudelj’s tale. He’d left months before with five more hand-picked young men who’d proved themselves to the secret fanatical sect of Islam. It was important to send their future leaders off to war, to test their mettle and strengthen their faith. Each of the six elders had spent their youth on treks to Lebanon, Palestine and Indonesia. It was part of their ritual, the path of a man.

  And now, out of the six hopefuls they’d sent to fight in Iraq alongside ISIS, only one had returned. The once handsome Bosnian now looked shattered, shell shocked, a portion of the man he’d once been. Fear now replaced the hope and longing he’d left with.

  They didn’t say it, but each of the six elders feared what it meant for their community. If word spread, their followers might falter. They’d been careful. Always outwardly friendly to their Christian neighbors. For nearly five decades they grew. Now numbering close to five hundred members, the close-knit community was tight-lipped and autonomous to all but Allah.

  That was one of the reasons young Daris sat before them now. He had not been allowed to see his parents. This was his first stop. A decision must be made. While none of the men considered Daris a coward, the implications of his homecoming were obvious. He was tainted. They’d miscalculated. Something would have to be done.

  “Daris, tell us again about your return trip. You are certain you were not followed?” asked one of the elders.

  Daris nodded respectfully, his hands trembling. “Just as you told me. I spent close to a day in the Balkans just to make sure.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Silence once more as the men deliberated.

  A buzzer sounded and one of the council members stood. It was his establishment. A single story shop where he sold pastries. “I apologize, brothers. I was not expecting a delivery.”

  The others nodded absently, too focused on the matter at hand.

  A couple minutes later, a tall dark haired man dressed in the light blue uniform of a local delivery company walked into the back room carrying a cardboard box.

  “Who are you?” asked the head of the council, annoyed that the shop owner had let the man in.

  “Pardone. Delivery. The signore tol
d me to bring it back to you. A small snack for your gathering, maybe?” the man said in what the council leader thought sounded like an Italian accent. There was a growing Italian population on the other side of town. He’d heard they were refugees from the ongoing mafia wars in southern Italy.

  “Fine. Put it on the table,” said the head of the council.

  The delivery man smiled and set the large box on the table. He left without saying another word.

  +++

  Stefano Moretti left the stolen delivery van where he’d parked it across the street from the bakery. He whistled a tune as he walked, his steps light, his eyes focused ahead.

  When he was one hundred yards away, Moretti turned around and sat on a low stone wall facing the building he’d left moments before. He extracted his cell phone and tapped the screen. To any passerby the tall Italian looked like one more person fiddling with their phone. A split second later the pastry shop shot skyward in a thunderous boom. The powerful explosives he’d packed under the authentic Italian pastries (his grandmother’s secret recipe) worked to perfection.

  Moretti knew from experience there would be no survivors. There would be no witnesses except him. A moment later a car pulled up to the curb and he got in as he put his phone to his ear.

  “Yes, my friend. The pastries were a big hit.”

  The small sedan tore down the narrow street as sirens wailed in the distance.

  +++

  Parque Natural Sierra de Maria-Los Velez

  Almeria Province, Spain

  9:10am, August 17th

  Eduardo Ladicia sped along the park’s dirt road. It was lined with forest pine trees that welcomed him home, tall sentinels standing in reverence. The smell of the pine and the fresh Spanish air coursed through his body, cleansing his soul.

  His best friend Hugo rode beside him, equally entranced by the ride. They were home after months away. Gone were the boys they’d been before leaving. Now they were men. Battle tested. Stomachs of stone. The courage of lions.