Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  I watched through a night scope as two men in those loose black ninja pajamas some of them favor stopped a white BMW. Why they stopped it I don't know. One guard sported a dirty blond beard and wore a taquiyah, a pill cap that was probably white once upon a time. The other was slight, his head shrouded in a light-colored turban. Foreign fighters. They ripped open the doors and pulled the occupants from their seats - a guy in a suit and a woman, presumably his wife, shrouded in a khimar, the black head-covering that left a slit for the eyes, and an abaya, the all-over black cloak. At a guess they were an upper middle-class Muslim couple. From the back seats, the fighters yanked out a stooped heavy-set woman, also covered head to foot in black; grandma, I figured. Along with her, they extracted a pair of young teens, both boys in jeans and T-shirts. I assumed these two Islamic State tough guys had drawn the short straw of guard duty and were gonna make someone pay for the fact they had to stand around in their jammies in the cold. The tall blonde-bearded guard dragged suitcases and boxes off the Beemer’s roof. The luggage burst open when it hit the ground, the contents scattering across the dull gray grit that passes for soil in these parts. The scrawny one then picked through the debris with the muzzle of his AK, presumably looking for valuables.

  The driver, the father, got down on his knees and appeared to be begging the fighters to stop, the column of refugees parting around the escalating danger the way a river flows around a boulder. I couldn’t hear the father’s pleas, but they appeared insistent. Gutsy stuff, given the reputation these ISIS killers have won for themselves. And just as I was thinking that, the scrawny jihadist lowered the weapon on his hip and fired a burst into the father that spun him around and ploughed him into the dirt. It happened fast. After a moment of disbelief, the boys attempted to run to their old man - who was face down on the ground as dead as dead gets - but they were held back by the mother and grandmother. The women gathered them up and held them close and tight. Blondie approached them, his weapon held one-handed and aimed casually at the wife. He pressed the muzzle against her head. She didn't move. The asshole then switched his attention to one of the kids. Grandmother’s turn to sink to her knees, hands held to the sky, begging either him or Allah for mercy. Fat chance on either count. These guys were into mercy like they were into pork.

  A large group of fighters strode from the building we’d been keeping an eye on, a decrepit warehouse adjacent to the oil-drum fires. One of the men was wearing what appeared to be a superseded surplus US Army combat uniform shirt, paired with the more conventional ISIS black pants. He gestured wildly at Blondie, who backed off a few paces, lowered his weapon and opened his arms like he was saying, “What? Who, me …?”. The guy in the combat camos had to be the leader, throwing his weight around, issuing orders. His squad reacted, two of them dragging the body of the dead husband off the road and dumping him under the lee of the warehouse. The boss then slapped the blonde fighter around the face while he made some point or other with a lot of gesturing at the newly minted widow huddling with her kids and the granny. The commander slid the turban off his head and wiped his face and beard with it, looking exasperated. It was a patchy, mostly red beard. What did we have here? The United Nations of Assholes?

  A voice said in my ear, “Boss, we know this germ. Look at his hands.”

  Now that he mentioned it, we did indeed. He was high on the CIA kill list, a Predator drone with a Hellfire on standby just for him. According to his rap sheet, he had two noms de guerre: Abu Bakr al Aljurji, meaning Abu Bakr the Georgian - not the Peach State Georgia, the other one in central Asia positioned directly beneath Russia’s asshole, Chechnya; and Al-Aleaqarab, the Scorpion, because he had eight legs and arms and scuttled around in the dirt. Okay, not true, but apparently he did have mutant claws instead of hands, or something like that. He was also, evidently, a murderous son of a bitch. “What is it with me and scorpions?” I muttered, keeping the scope trained on him.

  “Boss?” One of my team asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Stream of consciousness…” Scorpions were features of a recurring nightmare I’d been having for some time, since my first tour in Afghanistan in fact, which I had no intention of sharing with my guys. I’d also been stung in the face by a motherfucker of a scorpion the size of a house cat back in Africa. I didn’t like them and they sure as shit weren’t fond of me. This Al-Aleaqarab asshole wouldn’t be any different.

  I’d barely finished these unpleasant thoughts when the Scorpion produced a pistol from somewhere and emptied it into the mother, grandmother and the two boys. Just like that. No hesitation at all. Like it meant nothing.

  The pistol jumped in his hand maybe a dozen times, the sound of it discharging inaudible at this distance. The river of humanity ran, scattering to get away from the violence. the Scorpion then walked casually back to the warehouse, job done, flinging further gestures at his men who then ran to the deceased and dragged them off the road, reuniting the family under the lee of the warehouse.

  Fuck.

  “Allahu akbar,” said the voice in my earpiece. God is great. The sarcasm came courtesy of US Army Special Forces Sergeant First Class Bo Baker, a black guy from Tennessee, seated in the dirt beside me behind a spotter’s night scope. “Just love to help those assholes marry their dark-eyed virgins,” he added.

  Me too. Unfortunately the whole area was crawling with retreating jihadists. There were at least a good fifty in number bivouacking in that warehouse down yonder. There was that, and also the fact that assassinating former ISIS leaders was not on our to-do list.

  “Back door, five tangoes,” said another voice in my earpiece, the tone low so as not to carry in the thick night air. That was Sergeant Jimmy McVeigh, US Army Special Forces. A white kid from Brunswick, south Georgia.

  And now don't get all squirrely on me because I’ve brought color into the descriptions of Baker and McVeigh. I only mention it like I’d mention any distinguishing feature - a weird haircut or a neck tattoo, for instance. But since both are sergeants without neck tats, have their hair shaved to the skull, and are uniformly tall, athletic, good-looking roosters who speak with southern accents so thick you’d swear sometimes they weren’t speaking English at all, frankly they could be twins. Except that one is white and the other black.

  “Copy,” I replied, getting my head back in the game. There wasn’t much time for sympathy. McVeigh’s warning wasn’t a complete surprise. We’d seen a group of fighters leaving the warehouse ten minutes ago, packing AKs, RPGs, a light machine gun and plenty of belts. We figured they might be coming our way. “They ready to rumble?” I asked.

  “Negative. Two are smoking, the others are laughing, out for a stroll.”

  Okay, so before things get real interesting, now’s as good a time as any for a little backstory. The hill we occupied on the outskirts of Latakia afforded unobstructed views all around. My job was to recon and identify potential targets for our F-15Es. But the Russians have thrown a spanner in those works with their bombing campaign, which has left us free to execute the secondary part of our mission - to plant a TTS3030 TACAN on a high point. The TACAN is a man-portable navigation aid reminiscent of the Jupiter 2 on stilts. Why anyone needs a TACAN has me puzzled, given that satellites provide all the navigation grunt for our aircraft these days, but they do and their desire for it is paying my salary. Maybe someone up the chain was concerned about redundancy and a TACAN provided a little added insurance that no one would overshoot and drop their load on Tel Aviv. As for the three guys with me, all are experienced sergeants from the US Army 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne) and their job is to protect my ass. So far, at least their part of the mission was going to plan because, so far, ass intact. The beacon was also planted and functioning. But yesterday those retreating ISIS jihadists turned up, chased out of the city by the Russian bombing campaign. And since then we’d been stuck here. That was a problem because these ISIS fighters were seasoned, which meant sooner or later they would look up at our temporary home on the h
ill, realize it was the tactically astute place to be, and maybe pop over to borrow a cup of sugar.

  “Got eyeballs on ‘em?” I asked McVeigh.

  “Yessir.”

  Though the sergeant was armed with a silenced M4, he would take some or all of them out with a ka-bar. Reason being he believed a blade paid more respect to the dead. I like a kid with values, though why he might have respect for these jihad shitheads was a mystery.

  Nine of us on the hill. Four, once Jimmy dispatched our uninvited guests to their overdue rendezvous with the aforementioned dark-eyed virgins who, apparently, are waiting in Paradise for the arrival of fresh martyrs.

  “Alvin?” I enquired over the comms link?

  “Clear.”

  Sergeant Alvin Leaphart from Savannah, Georgia, the third member of the team, was down the hill a ways, guarding the front door - a sheer rock escarpment and an unlikely entry point to our temporary home. Alvin was a nugget, the human equivalent of a snub-nosed 38. Tough, brutal to look at and potentially lethal if you pulled his trigger. And rumor had it he was pretty handy with his fists, a rumor I would not personally like to verify. Seemingly at odds with his reputation, Alvin carried a picture of his mom and the Virgin Mary in the pocket over his heart. You might ask where the Army finds guys like these? It doesn’t. Kids like Jimmy, Alvin and Bo find the Army.

  So that leaves me, Vin Cooper: as you know, formerly Office of Special Investigations but currently US Air Force Special Ops, rank of major. Six-two, 230 pounds, thirty-four years of age, murky green eyes, a few identifying scars. And some of them on my skin. Interests: single malt and poor choices with the opposite sex. Or maybe it’s me who’s the poor choice. Been married once, divorced once, almost engaged a second time. That would have been to Anna, Marnie’s sister. But my plans in that department never eventuated because, as I described earlier, she died in a perfect example of why I’m probably not the right man for anyone.

  “Scratch tangos,” Jimmy McVeigh announced calmly, having laid them all to rest without a single interruption to the crickets’ chirpings.

  Dropped behind enemy lines, we were supposed to keep a low profile. And, as I said earlier, engaging these jihadists directly was not in our job description. But icing the ISIS patrol just now, which had become an unfortunate necessity, meant the clock was ticking. No doubt someone in that warehouse, probably Mr Scorpion, would be expecting a signal sooner or later from his pals that all was copacetic on top of the newly occupied hill. When the signal wasn’t forthcoming, another patrol would be tasked, and it would come with attitude. ISIS might have been fanatical in a religious sense, but it was not generally tactically or operationally inept in a combat one. That presented a problem, namely that there were already too few ways off this hill already that didn’t involve body bags. We already knew an extraction option was not available to us until after dawn – hours away. The timetable had been made clear by Slingshot, our overlords back at Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar, before they set us down in these parts a little shy of thirty-six hours ago.

  “Alvin, Jimmy. On me,” I said quietly. I didn’t need to state the obvious: that it was time to move. There wasn’t a lot to pack – we’d already collected and bagged our shit, as well as all MRE wrappers and papers and other items of identification. There was the TACAN of course, which I would have to pack away and reposition elsewhere. So, even though we were pretty much good to go, the area had to be swept, like looking under the hotel bed before checking out.

  “Major,” said Alvin, his familiar voice in my ear, “more tangos on the way.”

  “Stand by,” I replied, hoisting the M24 sniper’s rifle to my shoulder. The night scope focused on the warehouse showed the Scorpion loitering with a bunch of his cronies who were pointing up at our hill. Half-a-dozen jihadists had already detached themselves and were pushing through the refugees on the road. I took in a deep breath and let it out with an expletive. “Jimmy, change of plan. Six tangos inbound. Hold position, we’re coming to you.”

  “You hear that, sir?” said Jimmy.

  Now that he mentioned it, there were new sounds competing with the distant low rumble of the wounded city. Rotary wing aircraft sounds. They were low, maybe 500 feet AGL and they were coming our way.

  ***

  The noise was penetrating, even above the wailing of women and children and the shouts of men. Helicopters. Mazool Al Shamoun coughed to clear the dust from his lungs and the ringing in his ears. He could identify almost all aircraft by the sound they made, especially the ones that rained death. He stood back, wiped his bloody hands down the front of his pants, and let others more adept at healing attend to the screaming young man who had lost a leg and at least one testicle. Mazool’s talents lay elsewhere. He turned around, right and then left, and then right again, trying to catch the sound. More than one helicopter. But where are they coming from? The thumping made by their rotors, which turned to a shriek with a shift of the breeze, suggested there were, yes – two of them. They were near, and drawing nearer.

  “Bring rockets!” he shouted to his young fighters, beckoning them frantically, waving his arms. Two young men, both struggling to grow beards, flicked their cigarettes at the ground producing balls of orange sparks, and appeared from the darkened entrance of what remained of an apartment building. They hoisted the weapons, slung the spare rocket packs over their shoulders and raced toward Mazool as fast as the smashed masonry littering the road allowed. One of them stumbled, throwing his body beneath the RPG to protect it. “Hurry!” Mazool shouted, exasperation in his voice. The young fighter picked himself up and limped on.

  One of the aircraft suddenly appeared overhead, presenting its vulnerable tail rotor. And just as quickly it was gone, obscured by a partially collapsed wall. Other fighters came out onto the street with whatever weapons they could find and began firing their rifles and pistols at the silhouette too late as it flew by low overhead.

  “Taymullah! Farib! This way. Quick.” Mazool pressed the button on his iPhone and held it up briefly so that Farib and Taymullah could see where he was. He turned and darted down a narrow alley and clambering over a pile of broken cinderblocks and shattered wood beams clogging the narrow space. Nearby fires illuminated a young woman’s body smoking beneath live electrical wires. The smell of it, sweet and vile, filled his nostrils. Once it would have caused him to gag, but no longer.

  Another glimpse of a helicopter maneuvering between shattered walls rewarded Mazool’s agility, and he again broke into a sprint.

  The Russians. Their bombs had murdered his brothers, his sister and mother. Assad’s killers had come in the night and taken his father as well as his two uncles. Mazool was sure they were now lying silent in a pit, the cold earth having filled their mouths and lungs, keeping company with others who had spoken badly of the Assads or their followers, or who had merely been accused of this crime because of jealousy or some long forgotten family feud. The two young men who followed Mazool’s orders were his only family now.

  The Russians were outsiders who had come late to the fight and bombed Assad’s enemies, who they claimed were terrorists. Terrorists? Was my mother a terrorist? A woman whose passion was baking? The Americans and their friends were unbelievers – that was true - but they fought on the side of God against the Baath Party and the Alawites, the true terrorists. From the back of his throat, Mazool dug up some mucous gritty with concrete dust and spat it. The Russians know of the killing and the torturing and the blood spilled by Assad, and yet they stand shoulder to shoulder with the Baathists. One day, I will cut a Russian heart from its chest and squeeze it in front of his face and I will capture it on my phone and share it with the world. Allah bear witness, I will do this to avenge my own family and my country.

  Mazool ran into the square, an open space. It was dark, but the helicopters were in plain sight. Where were the rockets? “Here!” he called out, beckoning them furiously. “Both of you run like fat men up a hill. Hurry!” The RPG was not a guided weapon, but Far
ib and Taymullah had proven their aim true on many occasions with tanks and cars. Was a helicopter any different?

  His two fighters stumbled into the square, fumbling their RPGs. But the helicopters continued on their path, once again hidden by the remains of buildings.

  Mazool pulled the nine-millimeter from his belt and fired at the shadow in frustration as it slipped from view. The magazine was soon spent and he was left standing, the impotence like a fire on his skin, his lungs heaving, struggling with the taste of concrete dust and gas and blood and seared flesh in his nostrils.

  ”We need higher ground,” Taymullah panted.

  Mazool hunted the shadows and settled on a hotel, leveled except for the elevator shaft that was still standing, and three flights of fire stairs that clung to a partially collapsed wall. “There!” he said, and then ran across the square, sprinting around a large bomb crater. Arriving at the remains of the hotel, he ripped aside a door swinging on a single hinge and raced up the stairs, taking them four at a time, using his phone to illuminate the way. The staircase ended abruptly in smashed concrete and twisted steel reinforcing rods. But the view from the three-story vantage point yielded the helicopters outlined by fires.

  Taymullah was next to arrive, gasping for air.

  “You smoke too much. You are late again. See?” Mazool pointed at the disappearing aircraft, which was starting to climb toward the hills on the outskirts of the city.

  “I can still hit one of them. I have a rocket loaded,” replied Taymullah.

  Farib panted up the darkness of the stairwell.

  “They have gone,” said Mazool, bitterly disappointed, shaking his head.

  Farib pointed into the night. “Wait… Look! Do you see?” He punched the air and slapped Taymullah on the back. “Do you want proof that Allah watches over us? There, lighting up the sky!”