Chalmers gave the half-hearted smile of the outmaneuvered and covered his retreat with an apparently important note he had to make on the pad in front of him.
Pussy, thought Schelly.
“What’s this – what did you call it? The hadiths?” Chalmers asked lamely, trying to prove that he had at least been paying attention.
“The Qur’an is the word of God. A hadith, of which there are many, cover the words and deeds of the Prophet Mohammed and were written many years, perhaps hundreds of years, later.”
Chalmers nodded, ticked something unseen on his notebook. “So, unreliable.”
“I believe much of the Bible was authored hundreds of years after the events it describes.”
Chalmers ticked his pad again, a little more aggressively.
The professor confessed to the table, “I am married to a Jew, who follows his religion as I follow mine. And it’s funny, you know, we argue about almost everything except the nature of God.”
This small intimacy caused a ripple of laughter, even from Chalmers, though it seemed to Schelly that his response was somewhat pained. Certain women, conventional types, would probably find you handsome, Mr Associate Deputy Director. But I’m not conventional. Do you not like women? Or Muslims? Or is it women with brains you don't like? Or all of the above? You’re early forties, so given you’re the ADD of the CIA, you’re a high achiever. You’re well groomed and you carry a slight paunch. You live a mainly sedentary lifestyle, punctuated with bursts of fitness and dieting when vanity dictates. I bet you’re a wine snob. She further observed that he was blessed with the kind of thick, salt and pepper hair that people voted for, or at least used to before the current occupant of the Oval Office made bizarre comb-overs fashionable.
“If we could return to the problem at hand,” said Secretary Epstein, “what are the current figures available on the numbers of Islamic extremists?”
Professor Başak waited for someone else to speak.
“I would say, considerably less of them after Syria,” said Bunion with a grin, which he exchanged with Chalmers whom he no doubt saw as something of a kindred spirit. “Thanks to Petrovich and his support of Assad.”
Epstein ignored the thoughtless quip. “Anyone? Professor?”
Professor Başak leaned forward to answer. “We all know the estimates on the numbers who follow Islam – roughly a quarter of the world’s population, around 1.6 billion and change. But there are still no reliable, consistent findings on the subset who are extremists, even less on those who might be given to extremism if pushed.”
“It’s true,” said Doctor Ng. “We just don't know.”
“I’ve seen research that estimates the numbers of jihadists as high as twenty-six percent of the global Muslim population, and potentially as low as one percent,” said Hamilton. “One poll asked British Muslims if they thought the Charlie Hebdo cartoonist should be imprisoned and sixty-eight percent said yes. What percentage of Muslims would have said yes in Saudi Arabia, or Egypt? And what about the figure that said seven percent of the world’s Muslims thought the 9/11 attacks were justified? That’s 112 million Muslims who thought it was fine to burn and crush thousands of innocent people.”
“I wonder if that sort of reasoning is not helpful,” Epstein cautioned.
“But that’s the point, isn't it?” Hamilton responded, “We just don't know where this will go. How many Muslims could be induced to take up arms, given the right stimulus? If we take that twenty-six percent figure as the mark, we’d be looking at a potential army of around …” he doodled on a pad, “Four hundred and sixteen million people. Okay, that sounds absurd. But so does even just one percent – 16 million potential jihadists making their way to Dabiq.”
“You seriously think the Scorpion can carry off this ‘End of Days’ baloney?” Bassingthwaite snorted. “Surely not.”
“He will if he gathers an army of 16 million,” said Hamilton. “Just to remind everyone, ISIS has successfully crowd sourced terrorism, recruiting over 27,000 foreigners to fight in Syria and Iraq, mostly by posting videos on YouTube of jihadists separating non-believers, mainly westerners, from their heads. What’s gonna be the reaction to images of the leader of a major world power meeting a similar fate, linked to a prophecy in the Qur’an?”
Twenty-one
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
Everyone wants to be an American, but it’s just not possible. But America can be everyone’s friend, if they play ball.
Zuti had not returned, but Hakim, his father, was not overly concerned. This happens, he told himself as the sun dipped and the stars rose. Perhaps one or more goats had become lost, or had fallen between rocks and Zuti had needed time to rescue the animals. When Zuti had not returned at Fajir, the dawn sunrise, Hakim was still not in his bed. He had spent most of the night awake, reassuring himself that Zuti would come back.
Fear for his eldest son bloomed in his chest when he rolled up his mat and heard the sound of familiar bells, several of his goats having found their way home unaccompanied. The goats were the family’s only wealth. Zuti would give his own life before leaving them unattended. What had happened to him? Surely an accident had befallen him.
Hakim secured the goats in their pen and woke Labib, his second eldest, and Nur, his youngest son. He sent Nur to an uncle who lived nearby, while he and Labib searched for Zuti.
All day and into the early evening they searched, calling Zuti’s name, but he could not be found. Zuti had not told him where he would be taking the herd and there were many places he could be. And so Hakim had gone to the village. Zuti was well liked, a clever boy who knew the Qur’an almost as well as any imam. Many people offered to join the search, but the desert was vast and the boy had disappeared without a trace.
Twenty-two
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
When things get very bad, you want America in your corner. But you’d better open your checkbook because there are no free rides. Period.
The secretary of state breathed in audibly and let it out between her teeth, as if she herself had only just grasped the scale of the situation now facing the world. “Okay, what have we got to go forward on?”
Colonel Gladston suddenly found his voice. “I am Colonel Desmond Gladston, Senior Watch Director, Central Command Combined Air Operations Center,” he began.
“Colonel,” acknowledged Epstein.
“Among other things, our organization manages forward combat control for air assets in the Latakia region of northern Syria,” he continued. “We show the assets where to lay it down. We are here because roughly this time yesterday, we received a spot intelligence report from one of our special ops teams on the outskirts of the city. At this point I’ll hand you over to my Deputy Chief for Intelligence, Major Jillian Schelly.”
Lord, don’t let me fuck up, Schelly told herself, feeling all eyes on her. She opened the folder stamped SECRET/NOFORM - SECRET being the Quickstep program’s classification and NOFORN, an acronym for No Foreign Dissemination, its handling instruction – drew out a sheaf of satellite maps of northern Latakia and handed them around. Superimposed on the map were four glowing blue triangle idents. “This is the northeastern edge of the city of Latakia. The idents are Quickstep 3,” she began.
“You want to enlighten us about Quickstep, Major?” Bunion asked.
“Quickstep 3 is a Joint Tactical Air Control Party, sir. Three Army Special Forces personnel supporting one Air Force special tactics officer. Specifically, they were inserted several days ago to recon potential targets, and also set up a temporary ground-based navigation aid.”
“And?”
“This was the unit’s position when they called in the downing of one Russian Hind by a MANPAD, with another severely damaged in flight. Included in their report was the positive identification of Temurazi Kvinitadze Sumbatashvili, alias Abu Bakr Al Aljurji, alias Abu Bakr Al-Aleaqarab, otherwise known as the Scorpion – someone the whole world is now familiar with. It was his men who
downed at least one of the Hinds. What ultimately happened to the damaged aircraft was unclear to the unit. The Scorpion is one of the few surviving quality veteran commanders ISIS has left in the field.” She passed around various photos of the younger red-bearded solider in the uniform of a Georgian sergeant and more recent shots of him as an Islamic State fighter. There was no question that this was the terrorist in the video.
“So, let me get this straight,” SECSTATE Bassingthwaite summarized. “One of your units actually witnessed the Russian aircraft being shot down, and saw this Scorpion guy, too?”
“We’re getting somewhere – finally,” Bunion added.
Bassingthwaite continued, projecting boundless hope, “Are the assets still in contact with this Scorpion? Are they equipped to take him out, and his men? Can they effect a rescue of the president?”
Whoa, you’re getting way ahead of the curve there, cowboy. “Sir, unfortunately I’d have to say no – they are no longer in contact with the Scorpion.”
“Why not?”
“Did your assets eyeball Petrovich?” Chalmers interrupted.
Can you let me finish? “No, sir. Quickstep 3’s SPIREP did not include any mention of survivors or fatalities. They observed one helicopter severely disabled by an explosion, and a second Hind destroyed after being struck by a shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missile. The disabled aircraft flew off. They were sure it was a probable kill, but didn’t observe this helicopter actually crashing. From the SPIREP, it seems unlikely there would’ve been survivors from the aircraft struck by the missile.”
“So it’s speculation on our part that Petrovich was in that second chopper,” Chalmers said.
Why are you splitting this particular hair? Is this about impressing your boss? And we don’t call them “choppers” anymore – that’s a motorcycle. In today’s AF we call ‘em birds, okay? “I would say it’s a reasonable assumption, sir. The Russians haven’t lost any other assets in Syria that we know of and, as we can see from the video, it is this Al-Aleaqarab – the Scorpion – who has Petrovich hostage. Duh. It’s a reasonable conclusion that Quickstep 3 did in fact witness the final moments of the Russian president’s aircraft. That means what we do have is a rough approximation of the president’s position – at least, his whereabouts approximately twenty-four hours ago. The terrorists can only move so far in so many hours in a country like Syria, though it will still be a large search area.”
Chalmers conceded with a shrug.
“Major,” said Admiral Rentz, ”can we assume that President Petrovich, General Yegorov and this bodyguard, whose identity is still unknown, were the sole surviving passengers of the Hind? That aircraft carries eight passengers, plus crew, doesn't it? Is it possible that there are additional unaccounted for PAX? Were they killed? Captured? Do we know who usually travels with Petrovich?”
“Those are important details we’ll be looking at after this meeting, Admiral.”
Hamilton had been examining Schelly across the table and appeared to like what he saw. “Bradley, you can be our point man on this. Anything the major needs, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” said Chalmers, pasting Schelly with a sloppy grin.
Great. Then I need someone different to your ADD. “Thank you, sir.” Major Schelly then addressed the room more generally. “Quickstep 3 has had some technical problems with their comms. We’re out of contact with them, but the unit is due to exfil shortly and we’ll know more then.”
“So, assets that could have expedited a resolution to this situation before it had time to get up a head of steam have broken off contact with the terrorists?” said Chalmers, a tsk-tsk in his voice.
Really? “Sir, on their initial sighting of those two Hinds coming to grief, Quickstep 3 was not aware that the President of Russia was onboard. But even if they did have this information, they have no latitude to do anything about it. They are on the ground in a limited and covert capacity, with no resources for much else.”
“Bradley,” Colonel Gladston said, weighing into the discussion, “I sense you think Quickstep 3 might have dropped the ball here. The officer in charge of the unit, Major Cooper, is very experienced as are the Army Special Forces soldiers who –”
“Wait, wait a second …” Chalmers leaned back in his seat, hands on his head like he was witnessing a horrific accident he could do absolutely nothing to prevent. “I’m sorry, did you say Major Cooper?”
“Er …” Colonel Gladston appeared suddenly hesitant.
“Major Vincent Cooper?”
The colonel deferred the question to Schelly with a glance.
“Yes, sir. That’s correct.” Schelly consulted the material in her folder, shuffling through it. “Major Vincent Cooper, special tactics officer, Silver Star won in Afghanistan for gallantry, two purple hearts, a couple of citations and other commendations, former OSI special agent. He’s had an interesting career if all the redaction is any indication.” She flicked through the papers. “Seems he recently separated from active duty. Luckily for us he transferred to the Reserve as an IMA.”
“You did say luckily, didn't you?” Chalmers asked, as chalky and white as a dusted marshmallow.
She pulled a slab of paperwork and slid it across the table toward the ADD, extracts from Cooper’s service record with a photo of the man paperclipped to it. In the photo, he was wearing light tan chinos and a navy polo shirt, the non-uniform of the OSI. Cooper had an intriguing face, Schelly thought. Vaguely handsome in some non-specific way. A trustworthy face, but with some lines that suggested either cruelty or pain. She couldn't decide. Maybe both. Unusual for a service photo, you’re not smiling, either, like you know this photo is never going to stand in a frame on a desk or a mantelpiece and be admired by a loved one. You’re a loner. I think I’ll like you, if we ever get to meet.
Schelly glanced up at Chalmers. He didn’t look so good, which quietly pleased her. What is it about this Cooper guy that makes you look like you just found a turd in a sub you’ve already taken a bite out of?
“So we can’t contact this unit,” said Epstein, “but can we at least get some eyes on them? Colonel? We don’t want anything of ours shot down by the Russians.”
“Madam Secretary,” Gladston informed her, “we’re on top of that. A Reaper has a pretty low radar cross-section and Russian fire control radars wouldn’t trouble it none. I’ve spoken to a …” he checked his notes, “… a Lieutenant Colonel Josh Simmons commanding the 42nd Attack Squadron at Creech. They’re operating Reapers out of Incirlik so we should have additional intel on Quickstep 3’s condition presently.”
Gladston shared a look with Schelly and the major took notes.
“I’ve heard of Simmons. A good man,” said Admiral Rentz.
The door opened following a gentle knock. The head of a young office type popped in and caught SECSTATE Bassingthwaite’s attention. “Right, gotta go. Russian ambassador’s sitting on my doorstep. Margery, you coordinating?”
“Looks like,” she replied.
“I’ll let you know how it goes with Rodchenko.”
“See you when you’re done.”
“Got it.”
Twenty-three
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
America and Russia share many interests in common. Mostly, that is other countries. We need to share and share alike.
“Come in, come in, Mr Ambassador, please.” Bassingthwaite held the door open for Mikhail Ivanovich Rodchenko, the 68-year-old former GRU colonel, Russia’s most senior diplomat in the United States. “This is a most terrible situation,” Bassingthwaite continued. “President Small is outraged, as are the American people.”
Rodchenko held up his hand for the SECSTATE to stop.
He looked angry, Bassingthwaite thought, but he wasn’t sure. The man’s face had been badly broken years ago in an auto accident, which had left it permanently set part way between a sneer and a scowl. He walked into the office, rolling his shoulders, reminding Bassingthwaite of a boxer who had hit the can
vas too many times, the smell of vodka trailing him like steam from an old locomotive. The SECSTATE’s next move was reflexive. It was early, but never too early for a true Russian to drink, the former military intelligence chief had once advised him at some frozen dawn service in remembrance of the battle of Stalingrad, as he passed around a hipflask stamped with the GRU’s odd Batman emblem. “Please take a seat, Colonel,” said Bassingthwaite, opening one of the panels in the wall to reveal a compact wet bar with a selection of exclusive spirits, wines and variously sized glasses.
“Yes, a drink. Good idea,” the ambassador growled, lowering his body onto the sofa with an extended grunt. “I myself have had several good ideas already this morning. It is that kind of a day. You will drink with me, of course.”
“Can't have you drinking alone, can we?” Bassingthwaite opened the compact freezer and removed the bottle of Iordanov, a most expensive vodka, made with water collected from an obscure northern European spring and kept on hand especially for the ambassador’s visits. Pouring two fingers into a couple of heavy crystal tumblers, Bassingthwaite added rocks and passed a glass to the Russian. “How are the knees? Did the operation go well? You’re walking better, I see.” No more than a month ago, Rodchenko had had complete knee replacements performed at John Hopkins, quietly convinced the American hospital would deliver more certain success than the orthopedics at Moscow’s Burdenko General. “They are still a little tender, though I continue with the exercises. You should see the physiotherapist. She is Russian. I am sure she is one of your spies – she is too willing not to be.” He smirked privately. “I am hoping for a hip operation next so that her treatments may continue.”
Kingdom Come Page 14
