“What’s that accent? Sounds English.”
No answer.
“You’re not the famous Jihadi John, are you? You’re not the guy I’ve seen beheading folks on YouTube?”
“Fuck off,” he replied with some discomfort.
“Nah, Jihadi John was a runt. But you, you’re a fat bastard. You been living on donuts?”
“His name is Abdullah Abdullah,” said Mazool before the jihadist could swear at me again. “He is Daesh.”
The vehicles confirmed it, hung with so many black flags they looked like bat colonies.
“Abdullah Abdullah … Are you one of the London Abdullah Abdullahs? Is Abdullah Abdullah hyphenated, by the way?”
The man glared at me.
“You weren’t born with that name. Who’d do that to their kid? Abdullah Abdullah, just in case you didn't hear it right the first time. Your real name has gotta be Simon, or Nigel, or maybe Ian. Abdullah’s just your asshole name, right?”
The man fired off a barrage of Arabic.
“What’d he say?” I asked Mazool.
“He speaks with difficulty. I heard dog and pig and something about your mother.”
“Lucky for him I don't have any of those,” I explained. “Took off when I was in diapers – the mother, that is.” I addressed the captured jihadist directly. “So, Abdullah – mind if I abbreviate? Saying it twice sounds like I’m stuttering. How’d you find us?”
Silence.
“As I said, nice shiner. Is it sore? Looks like a bit of pressure building up there. Would it help if I lanced it? Here.” I pulled my ka-bar and brought the point in close.
He blurted, “We just asked the cattle on the road, didn’ we? Not fuckin’ rocket science. Found out we was looking for an ambulance.” He lifted his chin at our vehicle. “That fucker there sticks out like Niagara Falls.”
“What?”
“Niagara Falls.”
This guy had a thing about repetition, obviously. “Who?”
“Orchestra stalls.”
“Huh?” What the hell was this guy saying?
“Orchestra stalls, Niagara Falls – fuckin’ balls, innit!” the Brit said, exasperated. “Are you stupid? The ambulance. It sticks out like fuckin’ balls.”
Right. Note to self: ditch the ambulance.
Igor and Natasha came over to get a look at our prisoner. Their presence caused a flicker in Abdullah’s face, the way a card player reacts after he has drawn, sees the card, and realizes he should’ve folded. “Yeah, look at that – Russians,” I said. “You found yourself some Americans and Russians. Almost a mixed dozen of us. Imagine. I’m sure Al-Aleaqarab would love to get his hands on this little haul, am I right?”
Abdullah said nothing.
“Major,” Alvin called out, squatting by a dead jihadist, holding up a set of night-vision goggles. “They’re Russian. Found one pair only. No phones.”
I was relieved to hear that about the NVGs. A single set among ten fighters suggested they’d most likely been lifted off a dead Syrian government soldier. Spreading tech like that around ISIS would take away one of our biggest advantages. As for the lack of phones, that wasn’t surprising. Each one was a potential bullseye for a Reaper Hellfire. Even playing a round of Words with Friends between killing infidels could get you blown to atoms around here. Back to Tubby. “So, your boss, tell me about him. Al-Aleaqarab, Al Aljurji, Old Lobster Claws. You know who I’m talking about.” I showed him my hands and made sinister pincer movements with them.
“You’re a cunt.”
“Sticks and stones,” I countered.
“You fink you’re bad ass,” he scoffed, “but the Scorpion would eat you lot for fuckin’ breakfast.”
“There you go. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Wot are you? Some kind of suicide squad?”
“We got missiles for that, dumb-ass. No, we’re just looking around for a good place to build a casino, a southern barbecue joint, a Hooters and a nice southern Baptist church. Once we evict you guys, of course.”
“Allah damns all filthy kafirs. May the blood freeze in your veins.”
“In this place?” Heat induced sweat was already running down my spine and into my shorts. “Unlikely. So, focus, Nigel. We were talking about Al-Aleaqarab,” I reminded him.
“The Scorpion is halfway to Raqqa by now. So, you lose, motherfucker.”
“What road did he take?” I asked.
“Fuck off.”
It was clear we weren’t going to get far with Abdullah, at least not right off the bat. It was also clear that the Scorpion wasn’t going anywhere near Raqqa.
“Why you do not kill him,” Natasha said as I stood.
“I agree it’s tempting.” Crows were already circling overhead, beckoned by the piles of bloody rags dotting the dirt. “But a swift trip to the hereafter is probably what he wants. Why oblige him?”
“He is scared. This is not someone unafraid of death.”
I told her, “He’s scared only because it’s a sorry ass who turns up to face Allah without dead infidels to his credit. Life on this earth is just preparation for the main event – eternity. They really do believe that shit.” I glanced at Igor whose forehead was swollen and raw, one eye half shut. I remembered the caterpillar. “He okay?” I asked Natasha.
“It was bug,” Igor said.
That took me by surprise. “Am I understanding Russian or are you speaking English?”
He reassured me, “Little English speak.”
Good thing I hadn’t insulted him earlier. Wait, there was that whole Boris thing …
“You Americans.” He wagged a finger at me. “No like.”
“What about Elvis Presley?”
“He okay,” Boris replied.
“See? We’re not all bad, right? What about terrorists?”
“Hate terrorist.”
Having at least established that the super bad guys were further down the negative end of the friendship continuum than the entire US of A as far as King Kong here was concerned, I returned to the business at hand. Bo was re-equipping himself, tucking a small pistol into the holster in the small of his back. “You good?” I asked him.
“A great day to be alive. Always is when you’re reminded there ain’t no promises,” he said, tucking away the knuckledusters. “FYI, when the chips were down, the Syrians claimed they were Daesh. Abdullah there didn’t believe ‘em.”
“Well that’s good enough for me – at least for now. You?”
He shrugged. “I guess it kinda confirms their shit.”
“Strip some of the dead. Put the Syrians to work on it. We might need to move around cunningly disguised. Also, check those vehicles over.” I motioned at the ISIS utilities. “We’ll be here till nightfall. We need to post some eyes on the turnoff and get us some perimeter defense.”
“On it, boss,” he replied.
To Abdullah I said, “You’re coming with us, Fatso. Just remember the great words of Jesus the Prophet – ‘Duct tape can’t fix stupid, but it can muffle the sound.’”
“First chance I get, gonna kill ya,” he said.
“Don’t like Fatso? How about Ian?”
“What of president?” Natasha demanded for the world to hear. “Maybe jihadist can lead us to Scorpion and Petrovich.”
“Well, it’s pretty clear to me Abdullah here couldn't lead kindergarten kids to candy.”
“You is so fucking dead,” he piped up.
“Right.” Was I mistaken or was the zip on Natasha’s flight suit a half-a-dozen inches lower than it had been a few moments ago? Maybe I was right about the game I thought I was in for – not that I was complaining, mind.
“’Ang on a second,” said Abdullah, realization dawning, “Petrovich was on that ‘elicopter wif you? You sayin’ we shot down the Russian fuckin’ president?”
Natasha’s face gave away the answer, which delighted Abdullah no end.
“Un-be-fuckin’-lievable. Well, don’ you worry, lovey. I
f Abu Bakr Al-Aleaqarab has your fearless fuckin’ leader, he’ll be well taken care of.”
“I thought you fundamentalists didn’t go in for swearing,” I said.
“Only swear in English.”
“Because Allah doesn't speak it?”
“Fuck off.”
I left them to it and went on a scavenger hunt. I had two full mags plus the one in the M4 with maybe three rounds. On my webbing I had one AP frag grenade, and one smoke. I also had a ka-bar and a sharpened HB pencil for when a quick drawing might suffice to get us out of trouble. “Ammo check,” I said over the comms. It was soon clear that we were all sucking fumes ammunition-wise. I picked up an IS AK from the dirt and gave it a shake. A stamped receiver, rather than a forged one. Russian-made. Next to useless if accuracy was required. It fired 7.62 x 39 mm rounds incompatible with the M4, which consumed smaller, lighter ammo. An AK could pack a hefty punch and kill as well as any other rifle, but you had to get close. “Inferior goods going cheap in aisle nine,” I told the unit. “Get ’em while they’re hot.”
Alvin sauntered over. He motioned at Abdullah with a tilt of his head. “What are we gonna do with him, boss?”
Yeah, the Brit’s survival was kinda inconvenient. Carting the guy across country would not be easy. There was also the chance that he may take the opportunity to give us away if a suitable moment presented itself. But there was the troubling reality of the Unified Code of Military Justice, which frowned on killing in cold blood, even the enemy. “He might be useful to the intel types across the border,” I said, reaching.
“He’s a grunt, boss. Not gonna be much he can give anyone, except maybe the shits.”
True. He seemed good at that. “Lemme sleep on it.”
Sixteen
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
I never said I liked Germany less than England. And I never said Scotland was part of England. Fake news!
The two young Arab fighters stood by, Jalil and another fighter whose name he did not know. Their beards were long and unkempt, their skin deeply tanned and filthy with fire soot. They could be brothers. Both were of slight build but Jalil was tall, well over six feet. They said he was a high jumper at Cairo University before answering the call of jihad.
“What is your name?” the Scorpion asked the short fighter.
“I am Imad bin Askr, Lord,” he replied.
“Where are you from?”
“From Saudi, Lord.”
“Imad and Jalil. I need you to do something.”
“Yes, Amir,” said Jalil, eagerness in his eyes. “What are we to do?”
“When we are finished editing the video later in the day, after Durhu prayers, you will take the USB stick to Raqqa. You will not draw attention to yourselves. You will find an Internet café and you will upload videos to YouTube. Go only to Raqqa and return. This is a sacred task that I entrust to you.”
“Allah, may his name be praised, will watch over us.”
“He will.” Al-Aleaqarab could see that they were in awe of him. It was pleasing, if only because it guaranteed effort and commitment. “Now, stand over there,” he motioned to them. “You are in the shot.” The Scorpion turned and readied himself for the task ahead.
***
They were on their knees, heads covered with black hoods, hands taped behind backs, ankles also taped. The Scorpion stood behind them dressed in a black loose-fitting top and baggy black cargo pants, flanked by a pair of black standards hanging limp in the still, mid-morning air. His head was wrapped in a black scarf so that only his eyes were visible, hands hidden in black gloves.
The setting chosen for this most important video was a barren, flat and featureless desert. A metaphor, in the Scorpion’s mind, for the end of hope. It would also be impossible for the West to place the location. It could be anywhere in Syria or Iraq.
Men adept with technology fussed over the DSLRs on tripods, three cameras covering the scene from different angles, muttering to each other like uncles discussing family scandal.
“I am waiting.” The Scorpion snapped, his impatience flaring.
“Amir, apologies. But now we are ready,” said a camera operator.
“Then begin.”
The operator raised a finger and counted down, “Thlatht, athnan, wahid…” and then pointed at him.
With the tape running, the Scorpion’s first action was to remove the scarf from his face and the gloves from his hands, much to the consternation of his men. They would uncover my identity soon enough. But I will embrace the light of the desert and not cower in the shadows. “My name is Abu Bakr Al-Aleaqarab. I stand before you with no concealment so that you may know the face of deliverance.” He raised a mutilated hand holding a long curved blade, pointing it at the camera and the millions who would hear his voice.
Seventeen
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
The world is a terrible place and that is why we have America.
Schelly reached for the ringing handset beside the bed and resisted the temptation to snap, “What!”. Instead she mumbled into the plastic, “Hello,” her brain groggy with sleep as she glanced at the bedside radio, the numbers rolling over to 0932.
“You were asleep?” Colonel Gladston asked. “Lucky you, Jilly,” he said before she could reply. “Wake up, Major, you’ve got things to do.”
“Yes, sir. I’m up, sir.” Four hours sleep. Thanks a bunch, boss.
“Hamilton has called an urgent briefing in DC. You’ve been invited.”
Hamilton, Hamilton… The name was familiar, but not enough to penetrate the remnants of sleep. And then, suddenly. Oh, shit! “You mean CIA Director Hamilton, sir?”
“Do Hamiltons come in mixed dozens, Major?” Gladston asked dryly.
“Um…” No wonder your wife left you. Schelly sat up, put her feet on the carpet and rubbed the sleep from the corner of an eye.
“Forget it. Pack for a four-day turnaround. I’ll see you at base ops in sixty-five minutes in Class As. The SECDEF will be in the meeting along with some other brass. You wanna make a good impression.”
“Yes, sir.” Schelly was already on the way to the shower, naked, grabbing a towel from the back of her bedroom door. The SECDEF? I’ve been specifically invited? What the hell’s this about?
“Have someone pull together all available material on Quickstep 3.”
Okay, there’s a clue. Kinda …
He continued, “Get it forwarded to our liaison in the Pentagon. We’ll need ten copies, appropriately stamped with classification and handling instructions. Old school. No electronic devices where we’re going. Old school. Also, get whatever you can on Temurazi Kvinitadze Sumbatashvili.”
“Sir?”
“The Scorpion. C’mon, Jill, wake up. Make that shower a cold one.”
“Yessir,” she replied as the line went dead. Asshole.
Eighteen
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
ISIS, we have SEALs, so many SEALs. Remember that …
The distant ridge soaring high off the desert plain. Here and there it glowed in the late afternoon as might rivers of molten gold. Night was only hours away, but every jihadist knew the darkness was more perilous than daylight. Helicopters, drones and bombers could see clearly where the unaided eye could not. The Scorpion’s jihadists had only one set of night-vision scopes amongst them, but the fighter this was entrusted to was not among them, left behind at the warehouse – a regrettable oversight. It was said that there were caves in these hills, some carved by Allah and others by man, and none of the West’s technology could look inside them.
The roads here were heavy with ruts and potholes that made the going slow, but there was no traffic, only the occasional goatherd and, insha Allah, one had been abducted to provide guidance to the lesser known caves. The Scorpion took in the fading light through his window and was relieved to see that the skies above were clear of contrails.
In the rear seat the general dozed fitfully, struggling to remain conscious. He ha
d lost much blood and his skin had the familiar gray pallor of intense pain, infection already beginning to gather in his wounded foot. They had driven most of the day, which hadn’t helped the general’s condition, but at least there was room in the Beemer. The headlights swept the dust ahead, the ZPU technical appearing occasionally, bouncing on the roads, the two badly wounded fighters laid out in the bed on either side of the guns, and a goat stolen from an untended flock tied to the guns’ pillar.
Valeriy Petrovich, President of the Russian Federation, seated beside General Yegorov, had said almost nothing since their capture, choosing instead to fix an unblinking stare on the Scorpion, pure in its hatred and condescension. “My hands are numb,” he announced suddenly. “The circulation is cut off.”
“Mr President, you will be fortunate if that is all we cut off,” replied the Scorpion.
“I need to take a piss,” Petrovich said.
Al-Aleaqarab passed him an empty water bottle.
“How do you expect me to use that with my hands bound behind my back?” replied Petrovich.
“Then relieve yourself into your pants. Or wait. Our day’s journey will soon be over.”
“Where are you taking us?”
“To the end of the world as you know it.”
“Spetsnaz will find you and kill you.”
“I am a devout Muslim engaged in jihad, so death for me is a welcome blessing. It holds no fear.” The Scorpion turned his back on Petrovich. There will be plenty of time for talk.
The goatherd pointed the way from the front seat of the technical, and brought the vehicles hopping and struggling along various trails deep within two twisted fingers of rock at the base of a high plateau. The small convoy eventually stopped beneath a copse of gnarled and dusty sun-scorched trees as the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon and the first stars appeared in the evening sky. Ortsa parked the BMW beside the Toyota, beneath the thin canopy provided by the trees, as the third vehicle in their convoy, another black Toyota utility, pulled up behind with a squeal of dry brakes.
Kingdom Come Page 11
