Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  “Cut their bonds,” the Scorpion told Ortsa, motioning over his shoulder, adding, “Where can they run?”

  “Yes, Amir,” the Chechen replied. He got out of the car, pulled the Russian president from his seat and sliced through the tape binding his hands and his ankles.

  Petrovich massaged his wrists and stumbled immediately to a tree where he wrestled with his fly and stood there for an age, swaying, groaning occasionally, one hand holding a low bough for support.

  “You and you,” the Scorpion said, pointing at two of his men standing near Thalib, a doctor from New Zealand. “Remove the general to the cave. Be careful with him. And help Thalib see to our wounded.” The rest of the men prepared the vehicles, draping engines and exhausts with space blankets to hide the heat signatures from thermal scopes. Mines were also set to provide a perimeter defense as weapons and other essentials were transferred to the cave.

  The Scorpion called to the goatherd, who was entranced by the ZPU, staring up at it in awe, sensing the power of the anti-aircraft guns. The boy, the Scorpion noted, was on the edge of a gangly adolescence. A large open sore on one of his cheeks was festering, weeping. The Scorpion had seen this before, the disease that ate the flesh. “Do you have any more of these, boy?” The Scorpion asked him, motioning at the ugly abscess. “No, Amir. My younger brother has one on his leg. It is hard for him to walk.”

  “What is your name, boy?” The Scorpion asked, brushing flies away from his face, warning others away with a wave of his hand.

  “Zuti.”

  “Are you devout, Zuti?”

  “I pray five times a day, Amir.”

  “Who was Abu Bakr?”

  “He was Mohammad’s best friend and the first caliph.”

  The Scorpion put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and sensed the recoil, the boy’s eyes fixed on the wreckage of his fingers. “Do not be afraid. You have been well schooled, Zuti. Do you know the Ayah al-Kursi?”

  “I know it,” he said, his voice cracking into a higher register.

  “Tell me then, if you know it.”

  “Allah! There is no God but He, the Living, the Self-subsisting, the Eternal. No slumber can seize Him, nor sleep. All things in heaven and Earth are His. Who could intercede in His presence without His permission? He knows what appears in front of and behind His creatures. Nor can they encompass any knowledge of Him except … except …”

  “Except what he wills,” said the Scorpion, prompting him. “Go on.”

  Zuti continued, “His throne extends over the heavens and the Earth. And He feels no fatigue in guarding and preserving them, for He is the Highest and Most Exalted.

  Alah, the Most High, speaks the truth.”“Very good. It is beautiful,” said the Scorpion. “Words from the mind of God, given to Mohammad.” He gazed up and willed there to be a crescent moon, but there was none, though the stars were becoming visible in the fading light. Soon the night would glow with the brilliance of a billion stars sprayed across the darkness. “Tell me of your ambition here on God’s earth.”

  “To prepare myself for eternity, Amir.”

  The Scorpion found himself admiring the boy’s piety. For him, the world was as simple and as pure as it ought to be. “Thank you for sharing the knowledge of this cave with us, Zuti. How many people know of it?”

  “I have come here with my uncle,” he said, brushing the flies gathering around his sore and at the corners of his mouth. “I have two brothers. They know of it. And perhaps my father, too.”

  “But no one knows that you are here now?”

  “Only my goats,” he said, grinning.

  “Again, I thank you for showing us this place. We fight for the glory of Allah. But you should go home now. Your father will be worried. Assalamu Alaikum warahmatu Allahi wa barakatuhu,” said the Scorpion. Peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessings.

  Zuti replied, “Assalamu Alaikum warahmatu Allahi wa barakatuhu.”

  The boy turned and picked his way back down the road. His head occasionally bobbing from sight behind rock outcrops.

  “Ortsa …” The Scorpion beckoned and the Chechen offloaded the goat he was carrying to another fighter and joined the Amir. The Scorpion pointed at the AK slung over the fighter’s shoulder and Ortsa passed it to him. Burying the stock in his shoulder, checking that the safety was off, and resting the magazine on his knee, the Scorpion took aim.

  “It fires low and to the left,” the Chechen advised.

  The crack of a single shot rolled through the hills and Zuti’s bobbing head disappeared in a red mist. The Scorpion handed the carbine to Ortsa and said, “The boy is with the Highest and Most Exalted and he shall praise me for his introduction to Paradise.” He waved away the flies. “See that his earthly body is properly bathed and shrouded before burial.”

  “Amir,” said Ortsa and chose two men to accompany him.

  ***

  The animal’s incessant bleating was stopped only when its mouth was held closed. “Bizmillah,” the butcher said, In the name of God, and cut its throat. Barely a twitch animated its muscles as the knife severed arteries, veins and windpipe. The spinal cord required some concerted sawing, but the head soon came free and the carcass was drained of blood and gutted, the jihadists eagerly awaiting the day’s main meal. The smell of roasting meat soon filled the cavern, firelight dancing on the walls and smoke rolling against the high ceiling.

  The Scorpion sensed the mood of his men. Their morale was excellent. Food was coming, they had won a brief but intense skirmish and the spoils of this small victory were two of the most powerful enemies of the caliphate. Every now and again, the jihadists turned furtive eyes on the president, set apart in a natural alcove. How was it possible? How could the Russian tsar and his top general have fallen into their hands? Only one conclusion made sense – that Allah must have personally bestowed on them this great and special bounty. This certainty awed them, and they felt privileged to have been singled out amongst all of the faithful. And surely this was proof, if further proof were needed, that they were destined to be favored in heaven. The Scorpion could see in their faces and hear in their voices – we are Allah’s chosen ones.

  Nineteen

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Bad guys - we have many aircraft carriers and generals and they all do whatever I tell them. Your DAYS ARE NUMBERED.

  “First chance we get I say we let these Americans and Russians dig their own grave,” said Farib, leaning far into the engine bay of the Toyota utility. “When the night is darkest, we should look for the opportunity then.”

  Mazool pulled him back, off the fender. “What are you talking about?”

  “I do not want to die here with these people,” Farib hissed. “And for what, eh? They are dangerous – all of them. I think the American officer, the one called Cooper, is the most dangerous of all, although the big Russian scares me.”

  “I don’t trust the Russians, but only because they are Russian. I do not know them as people. I have not made my mind up about the American.”

  “Good, then it is settled. First chance we get.”

  “No.”

  “Why do you say no, Mazool? Perhaps they’ll push us ahead of the vehicles to clear mines, or use us as human shields.”

  “The Americans are not soldiers of the caliphate.”

  Farib snorted. “Do you know this for sure? I have no wish to find out. We have families back in Latakia to think about. They will be worried about us. Surely we have done enough.”

  “Forget about your mother, Farib. I told the Americans that we would guide them to Turkey.”

  Farib’s voice rose in pitch. He ran both hands through his short hair. “Why did you make this offer? And on behalf of Taymullah and me? It does not take three of us to guide them over the hills. And my fear has nothing to do with my mother.”

  “So you would be happy to leave us behind? Is this the Farib that Taymullah and I have fought beside these last months? It takes three of us because
we each know different paths over the border and this might prove useful.”

  “Admit it. The truth is that we are the Americans’ prisoners, no different to that one.” He gestured at Abdullah Abdullah sitting against an olive tree, his wrists and ankles cuff-locked.

  “We are not bound like he is, or have you not noticed?”

  “So we are not bound, but they would still shoot us if we tried to leave. Are we allies or not? If we are allies, we should be able to walk out.”

  Taymullah wriggled out from under the radiator and stood, well pleased with himself. “Yes, it is the same hose – the same engine. I can exchange them easily.”

  “You should ask the American leader first,” Mazool told him. “There was talk the ambulance would be left behind.”

  “Ask this one?” Taymullah motioned at the American lying on his back in the shade. Was he asleep? It was impossible to tell with sunglasses hiding his eyes. The black soldier was also resting, both Americans having come off guard duty while the other soldiers took their place, patrolling somewhere out of sight. The Russians, too, were resting in the shade.

  Farib dropped his voice to a whisper. “We don't have to wait till night. We could go now. No one is watching.”

  “Where are we going?” Taymullah wiped his grease-covered hands on the ground.

  “Where have you been, Farib?” Mazool shook his head. “After all this time fighting in the streets of Latakia, how are you still alive? Did you not see what happened this morning when the caliphate tried to overrun us? The Americans were nowhere and then they were everywhere. Four against twelve – that was my count. And yet within moments,” Mazool clicked his fingers twice, “the jihadists were no more. I think it will be safer to stay with these people than take our chances on the road. Also, you have not considered weapons. We have none.”

  Farib stood his ground. “These Americans and Russians will attract trouble, like they attracted the caliphate. There are many more jihadists out there. The whole world is looking for these Russians.”

  “Do you not have eyes and ears, Farib? The President of Russia could well be in the hands of the caliphate. Do you not see what will happen? We believed the war against these foreign barbarians was nearly at an end, but there are many crazy people who will look on the capture of President Petrovich as a sign from Allah. How many will flock to the black flag? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? The war we had will be nothing compared to the war we will have.”

  “The Americans are going home,” Farib countered. “They do not care about all of this.”

  “And we should be trying to change their minds about it, not running away.”

  “I am not running away.”

  “Then what do you call it?”

  “Retreating, that’s what I am doing. What do you think, Taymullah?” After a moment’s consideration, Farib shook his head and added, “No, forget it. I know whose side you are on.”

  Taymullah peeled the grease from beneath one fingernail with another. “We have fought Assad and Daesh and all the other madmen with Mazool for six months, Farib. We have fought hard and we have seen things no one should see. Do you remember Hazim?”

  Farib glanced away, reluctant to acknowledge the memories that haunted all three of them.

  “Hazim the carpenter,” Taymullah continued. “We found him in his shop, remember?”

  “Stop,” Farib demanded. “I do not want to remember.”

  Taymullah took Farib’s face between his hands. “They sawed off his legs and arms and used them as the legs on a table. They put the rest of his body on the tabletop. We found him, the three of us.”

  “Please …” Farib pleaded.

  “The caliphate used his own tools to dismember him. Hazim made furniture for your family and for mine and for Christians and others, and so the caliphate made furniture out of him.”

  “Taymullah!” Farib swept aside his friend’s hands, tears moistening his eyes.

  “And the children they burned,” said Mazool, “pouring gasoline on them and setting them alight, threatening the parents of other children with a similar fate if they would not point out the Yazidis, Christians and Shiites amongst us. Our neighbors. Our friends. So many atrocities. Like you, I also do not want to remember what I have seen. And now, when there is just a little light, with the caliphate on the run, disaster threatens to turn this around. Perhaps we can make a bigger difference here with the Americans than we ever made with bullets and rockets.”

  “Hey!”

  Mazool glanced over his shoulder. It was the American officer calling him – Cooper. He was coming toward them, rifle attached to his chest, one hand in his pocket. But for the rifle, Mazool thought, he could be crossing the road, greeting a friend.

  “Everything okay?” the American asked them. “You want someone to settle the argument?”

  “Don't touch my face with your hands again. They stink of piss,” Farib said to Taymullah and walked away, heading for the ambulance.

  “What’s the problem?” Cooper asked.

  Mazool told him, “Farib believes you will kill us.”

  Cooper looked around the open field – at the bloody vehicles full of bullet holes, and the dead piled under a tree. “Mazool, we don't know you and you don't know us. So I guess a little mutual mistrust is expected, and maybe helpful – keeps us all on our toes. But I meant what I said. Do right by us and we’ll return the favor and send you home with a balloon animal and candy.”

  “I am sorry?”

  “We’re good – you and us. Let’s both work to keep it that way. You help get us to within sight of the border, as agreed, and we’ll take it from there – that’s the deal and that’s all we ask.” Cooper removed the shooter’s glove from his hand and held it toward him.

  A bargain was a bargain. They shook. The American’s hand was large, dry and hard, like shaking hands with the bough of a tree warmed by the sun.

  Cooper motioned in Farib’s direction. “Your boy cool?”

  “Yes, he is cool.”

  The American nodded. “I was thinking we would leave the ambulance behind. The duct tape didn’t work and none of us has enough pee-pee to keep her going. Gonna take these two pickups here. Noticed your mechanic has been digging around underneath them. There a problem?”

  Mazool translated for Taymullah and a brief exchange flew between them. “Taymullah says we should take the ambulance. He can fix it.”

  “Why’s he so keen on the ambulance?”

  “Because most fighters, no matter who they fight for, hesitate before shooting at it. Perhaps they think they may need it for themselves one day.”

  Cooper thought about it. “Sounds reasonable … Okay, do what needs to be done. Prep the ambulance and those two,” he said, motioning at the pickups, “and leave the others. Maybe pack away the black flags for a while until we get the lay of the land.”

  “And you will not go looking for President Petrovich?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “One, because it’s not our mission. Two, because where do we start? And I have a three, four and a five, but they can wait.”

  “I would look where Sunni tribes have sympathy for the caliphate; where they can get food, water and gasoline. There is an area between the village of Al Bukamal on the Euphrates River and the village of Baa’j, which is north. There are villages in between.”

  “How do you spell that?” said Cooper squinting in the late afternoon sun. “I know an Al Bookerman. He owns a deli in Queens. Makes a hell of a Reuben sandwich. These villages. They far apart?”

  “Two hundred kilometers.”

  “Right. That’s like giving your home address as Maryland. With a bit of luck, we might stumble across Petrovich given fifty years of searching.”

  “There are not many people in this area. The villagers know if there are strangers around.”

  “Like armed Americans and Russians searching for their pals?”

  “Yes,”
said Mazool, delighted that Cooper understood the plan instantly. “Daesh cannot resist a challenge, especially one from foreign infidels.”

  “You mean we should advertise our presence and let a force of unknown size, backed by unknown numbers of sympathizers, find us at a time when we have limited ammunition, no communications, no intelligence and no backup?”

  Mazool knew he probably had the look of a man whose feet had just slipped out from under him.

  Cooper continued, “Alternatively I hear Istanbul is a great place for a steam bath at this time of year. We leave once it’s dark.”

  “For Istanbul?” Mazool asked, confused.

  “I wish.”

  ***

  I left the Syrians to get the vehicles in order. I still wasn’t sure about them, but I was equally sure I wasn’t going to waste them without probable cause. Igor was next on my rounds. He’d stirred and was drinking from one of the bottles we’d filled at the stream. I fully expected him to spit and say, “Water, that stuff’ll kill ya!” but not everyone’s a comedian, right? I stepped under his tree and said, “I wanted to thank you for helping out earlier.”

  “Is okay.”

  “We’re leaving soon. Heading for Turkey.”

  “No. Must find president.”

  “It’s a big haystack out there, fella,” I told him. “And there are others with more resources searching for that needle. Like half the Russian Air Force.”

  “Sleeping when helicopter crash. Failed duty to president.”

  Sleeping it off was more accurate, but, as I mentioned earlier, glass houses, stones, and so forth.

  Rising to his feet, he continued, “I not protect president.”

  Okay, here we had yet another Russian assassinating the article – my duty, the president – but Igor was clearly linguistically challenged, more so than Natasha. He was also twice my size and three times hers. I looked up at him, blocking the rays of the sun, and decided to cut him a break.

  “If we run into your countrymen, you can join them in the search.” He grunted in response to this, either not understanding what I said or rejecting it. “Natasha also wants us to go looking for him.”