Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  Screens showed maps of countries and borders drawn in fine lines of green and blue, while numerous on-screen digital counters reeled away the milliseconds and seconds. Others showed the swooping orbital tracks of relevant satellites across a flattened Earth.

  SECSTATE Bassingthwaite wiped his nose with his ubiquitous handkerchief and threw his news into the bleak discussion. “Ankara reports large movements of people to its southern border with Syria. There have been riots, mostly because there is no food or shelter. Towns are being looted. There have been skirmishes. Potential combatants are arming themselves with weapons from deserting police and smaller army units. Our own agencies in Lebanon are reporting similar issues, as are the Saudis. What border protection there is around Syria is being overwhelmed with movements in and out of the country. Populations in northern Syria are being displaced. There’s a new refugee crisis building by the hour. We’ve got a different kind of Haj here. In short, this is now very real, people. An army is already forming.”

  Schelly registered these concerns, but only abstractly. She had her own more immediate issues, noting the time. Not a lot of wriggle room. Twenty-two minutes …

  Folders with summaries on Cooper and his team, mission reports, FITREPS, and some of the explosive images captured by the Reaper revealing the presence of Russian personnel lay scattered across the table.

  “The contrail is a break, but we can’t bring it in any closer?” Rentz wondered.

  Reid Hamilton shook his head. “Not at this point, Admiral. But you can rest assured every resource we can call on is working on it around the clock.”

  “We have been looking into the Scorpion’s motivations – the tools he will use in the coming days and possibly weeks and months,” said Professor Başak. “In the first video, he says the age of the Mahdi is coming. There are some scholars who believe the Scorpion may believe that he is the Mahdi. Or that his followers will proclaim him the Mahdi.”

  “What the hell is the Mahdi?” Bunion wanted to know.

  “He is the messianic caliph foretold in the Qur’an who will lead Muslims to victory. Whether the Scorpion believes he is this Mahdi or not, it plays well to potential fighters who join believing they will personally be involved in an historic struggle far bigger than their own lives. I stress – this is a large part of the appeal. I have a written brief on the apocalyptic eschatology of the Qur’an.” She pulled a stack of folders from a briefcase and slid them across the table. “It may help us understand what drives this man and the people who will follow him.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is power, Professor,” said Bunion, accepting a folder passed to him. “That’s what drives him.” He opened the folder and skimmed the notes. “Really … The Antichrist, whose name is Iblis, has red skin and lives chained on an island in the Red Sea. He has one good eye. The other droops and is covered by a wrecked eyelid.” He glanced up. “Oh, c’mon. People actually believe this crap?”

  “Which part upsets you, Mr Bunion?” the professor enquired.

  “It’s a collection of B-movie clichés. Does this antichrist carry a pitchfork? And what about this island in the Red Sea he supposedly lives on, and has been living on for, what, the last 1500 years give or take?” He removed his glasses and looked up from the notes. “If you want to be literal about it – as they seem to be – someone would have spotted him by now, don't you think?”

  “He is not yet visible to humans, not until the last thirty-seven days of his life.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “This is religion, Mr Bunion – faith,” the professor reminded him. “Does a virgin birth make any less sense?”

  Bunion grunted.

  “The dream of the struggle for the establishment of a caliphate is an apocalyptic drama,” said Professor Başak, continuing her briefing. “ISIS fighters see themselves as players in this drama. The belief in a higher meaning is perhaps one reason why bored, well-educated young men and women, born in western countries, are radicalized and take up jihad – they sense a pointlessness, an emptiness in their current existence. Taking up the fight for a grand purpose, fighting for no lesser being than God, gives an aimless existence significance.”

  Bunion gave another grunt.

  Schelly watched the clock.

  Chalmers looked around the table, nothing to add.

  SECDEF Epstein sipped a glass of water and placed it on the coaster displaying the seal of the President of the United States of America. She tapped it with a fingernail. “Okay, crazy thought. We give the Scorpion what he wants – the grand battle. Send a United Nations coalition of ground forces to Dabiq to take on ISIS. We throw everything at it, and, of course, so will they.”

  Admiral Rentz’s perpetual glower brightened. “I like it. In one engagement we could roll up the whole shebang. Annihilate ISIS in its boots. They’d never recover.” Rentz brushed his hands together a couple of times to emphasize the point.

  Başak countered, “Perhaps. But this would also fulfill important aspects of the prophecy and perhaps convince many more Muslims that the age of the Mahdi is upon us.”

  Bassingthwaite agreed. “Also, it would be a bloody admission that the West really is engaged in a crusade against Islam, and desires an excuse to crush it. I would think another galvanizing influence on otherwise peaceful Muslims all over the world to take up jihad. Ultimately, we’d end up facing the biggest army the world has ever seen. And you’re also suggesting slaughter on an unprecedented scale.”

  “And what’s this Mahdi army going to fight with?” Bunion asked. “Spears?”

  “The most technologically advanced military force in history unleashed on human waves armed with a few chapters from an old book,” quipped Hamilton.

  Secretary of State Ed Bassingthwaite breathed deeply, the picture sobering. “Let’s be honest, our policy directions in the Middle East have lurched from disaster to catastrophe for two decades or more. Personally, I don’t think we want to go there. A head on military confrontation?” He shook his head. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  Admiral Rentz glared at the SECSTATE, his eyes doing their signature bulge, and Schelly pictured a spoilt child who’d had all his toys suddenly confiscated.

  The door opened, a welcome distraction. An Air Force officer excused himself as he walked in. He was in his early forties, silver oak leaves on his shoulders and with lines across his forehead suggesting a conservative nature prone to worry. Not bad looking, though, thought Schelly. His eyes met hers, after flicking to the nametag on her chest, and there was acknowledgement in them. “Good evening, sir,” Schelly said, and then addressed the room: “This is Lieutenant Colonel Arlen Wayne. I thought it might be useful to have the colonel share his impressions of Major Cooper, given that he has been Cooper’s supervising officer for the last few years.”

  “Good idea,” said Epstein, who was somewhat grateful for the change of pace. She gave the Air Force officer a courteous nod. “Colonel Wayne.”

  “Madam Secretary,” Wayne replied.

  “There seems to be a lot riding on your man, Colonel,” Hamilton informed Wayne.

  “Sir,” the colonel replied, in the time honored way a subordinate responded to a statement from a superior for which there was no suitable reply. “Happy to help.” He then gave the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs a deferential gesture. “Admiral.”

  Angry Kermit eyeballed the man over his bifocals, giving his military bearing the once-over. “Colonel Wayne.”

  “Please take a seat,” Epstein beckoned the colonel.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Wayne settled in the chair tangentially opposite Chalmers, beside Professor Başak.

  Schelly completed the introductions and then pushed a folder across the table toward him. “These are briefing notes on Cooper and his team already shared with those present, Colonel. I believe you’ve authored some of them.”

  Wayne opened the folder and removed a photo of Cooper in combat uniform, leaning against a Black Hawk.
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  “And I’ve done my own digging into Cooper’s military career,” Rentz interrupted. “My two-word assessment – rabble rouser.”

  “Mine’s loose cannon,” Chalmers replied, interrupting, his moment arrived. “Expanding on that, I’d add wise guy, along with unpredictable and uncontrollable.” Chalmers continued, “The world’s in a bucket of trouble if you think this guy’s going to save it.”

  “If I may,” said Wayne.

  “Please, Colonel,” Epstein replied. “It’s why you're here.”

  “I’ve known Major Cooper a long time –”

  “You two are pretty thick,” Chalmers interrupted. “I don't think you’re capable of impartiality where this man is concerned.”

  “Let’s hear what the colonel has to say, shall we?” said Epstein in a voice about as smooth as eighty-grade sandpaper.

  “I have been Cooper’s supervisor,” Wayne continued, “and we worked alongside each other as special agents in the OSI.”

  “He’s an iron major, Colonel, his rank rusted on,” Rentz said. “You are contemporaries, but there’s a reason you progressed up the ladder and he didn’t.”

  “Admiral, I’ll grant you Cooper is unpredictable and at times uncontrollable, and that hasn’t helped him in some quarters, but it’s those same qualities that made him one of the most valuable assets in the OSI. As someone who has been his commanding officer, yes, I’m the first to admit there are times he has metaphorically shot himself in the foot. But Cooper always gets the job done. Iron major he might be, but he is also a highly decorated one, and for good reason.”

  “If I could paraphrase, Colonel Wayne, you’re saying he’s a risk.” Admiral Rentz ran his eyes over a FITREP and then flicked it onto the pile in front of him.

  “A big risk,” Chalmers added.

  Rentz turned to Epstein. “Look, if we were going to vote on it, mine would be no. I say we stay out of it. Minimal intervention. Let the Russians take care of it. It’s their president, not ours.”

  “I’d agree, Madam Secretary,” Chalmers said.

  “Sirs,” continued Wayne, “Cooper is an unconscious master of asymmetrical warfare. He’s resourceful, he thinks on his feet, and the decisions he makes under pressure are usually the right ones. If you don't know what you’re up against, Cooper’s your man.”

  “Usually? You’re saying his decision-making is erratic,” Chalmers paraphrased.

  No he’s not! Chalmers’s point of view was getting under Schelly’s skin. Clearly you only hear what you want to hear, oaf.

  “No, sir,” said Wayne, covering his exasperation well. “What I mean is, he gets it right more often than not.”

  “It’s the ‘not’ that concerns me.”

  “You know he assaulted a bird colonel,” Rentz said to the room. “How he got away with that says a lot about problems in today’s Air Force. Should’ve been dishonorably discharged.” He earned nods from Chalmers and Bunion. Hamilton frowned, arms folded, sitting on the fence.

  “There were mitigating circumstances, sir,” Wayne added.

  “For beating on a superior officer? This I gotta hear.”

  “Sir, the colonel in question was having an affair with Cooper’s wife. I believe he caught them together in the shower, if you know what I mean. At the time of the beating, the colonel was not in uniform. It’s also worthwhile noting that the colonel in question was acting as Major and Mrs Cooper’s relationship counselor at the time.”

  This last point clearly caught Rentz off guard. An embarrassed, “Well …” was all he could muster.

  “If I may enquire,” asked Wayne, “why is Major Cooper’s fitness under scrutiny?”

  Schelly glanced at the screen. Five minutes to abort. Keep your cool – don’t come across desperate. “I believe Cooper and his team have already made contact with at least two of the party accompanying President Petrovich when his helicopter was shot down.”

  Wayne gave a snort. “Well, if trouble’s looking it’ll find Vin Cooper.”

  Schelly continued. “We have the opportunity to give the major and his team the green light to try and rescue the president, whoever remains alive in his party, and also secure the Cheget. There’s some resistance to that.”

  “I would remind everyone,” said Epstein, “that the commander-in-chief has himself demanded Cooper and his team rescue President Petrovich. There’s no democracy here. The decision has been made.”

  “Madam Secretary, I think letting Cooper loose is a bad idea,” said Chalmers. “Surely we can insert assets that are far more competent into the picture. What about SEAL Team 6?”

  “What is it with the SEALs?” said Epstein with some exasperation. “As we know, the Russians have locked everything down, so what is on the ground at this time is pretty much the only option available. On top of which, we don't know if Petrovich is alive. But if Cooper is already in touch with members of the president’s party. That, at least, is something.”

  “One other point,” Bassingthwaite said. “The Russians are on the verge of claiming publicly that the United States was complicit. They believe we helped ISIS capture Petrovich.”

  “That was ridiculous the first time I heard it. And it still is.” Admiral Kermit glared over his glasses at the messenger.

  Bassingthwaite shrugged. “Unfair and unreasonable, but there you have it. So whatever we do, it had better be done with discretion.”

  “A discrete Cooper is an oxymoron,” warned Chalmers.

  Hamilton counseled his deputy, “I think you’re made your point, Bradley.”

  Schelly examined Chalmers in an effort to penetrate his reluctance. What is it between you and Cooper? She faced Epstein. “Madam Secretary, we have less than sixty seconds to abort.”

  “Admiral?” Epstein enquired.

  Rentz sighed, somewhat annoyed. “What choice do we have?”

  Chalmers sucked in his lower lip and shook his head.

  Bassingthwaite raised a hand. “Let’s do it.”

  Epstein summarized, “As I said, this is not a democracy.”

  Epstein motioned at Schelly. “Do what you have to do, Major.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Schelly turned to a keyboard, tapped in the confirmation code and pressed enter. The countdown on screen said fifteen seconds. We’ve cut it pretty fine. Hope the servers aren’t overloaded …

  Twenty-nine

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Today I shot an amazing 74. Thinking my handicap should be 2. It’s time!

  I woke in the late afternoon, the sun soon to disappear behind the hills. The Syrians were stretched out in the shade of the ambulance. Our ISIS captive, Abdullah, lay some yards from them, on his side and cuff-locked to a smaller tree. Jimmy and Igor were crouched over a portable stove. I could hear Jimmy running Igor through what was in the pot he was stirring. I didn't like the sound of the ingredients, at least the combination of them, but we were a long way from Spagos and food is food.

  Into the comms, I said, “Alvin, what you got?”

  “All quiet, boss. Traffic’s light. No BTRs for some time.”

  “Take a break. Dinner’s on the table.”

  “Roger that.”

  I yawned, walked over to Bo racked out on the ground, and tapped the sole of his boot with the muzzle of the AK. “Rise and shine,” I told him.

  The sergeant’s muscles spasmed. His eyes flashed open and flicked left then right. I knew that reflex, the senses coming online to check everything was as you left it.

  “What’s up, boss?” he asked, sitting up.

  “It’s serious. We’re out of coffee.”

  Bo blinked a couple of times and wiped a grimy eye with the back of a dirty gloved hand. “Shee-it! You drop your guard for just a moment …”

  “But luckily there’s still plenty of carbohydrate-fortified beverage powder.”

  “Goodie,” he said without enthusiasm. That stuff was poison.

  Coffee was only a short drive to the north, just over the Turkish b
order, a good incentive to move out, aside from the one that being on Syrian soil was seriously dangerous to the health. “Go grab some chow,” I told Bo.

  He grunted as he stood, which made me feel good – nice to hear young muscles also creaked and groaned. “Smells like tuna, refried beans, peanut butter, strawberry Jell-O, hot sauce and sweet sauce.”

  “You got it,” I said, “plus whatever MREs you can throw into the mix.”

  “Two packs of Spaghetti with Beef & Sauce.”

  “Been saving the best till last?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Offer it to our Russian friends instead.”

  “Good idea, boss. That’s why you d’officer.”

  Spaghetti w/Beef & Sauce was, in fact, more accurately described as Inedible w/Unspeakable & Unbelievable, and mostly the first meal to go in the trash before departure, should you be unfortunate enough to score it in your rations allocation. On the positive side of the ledger, it also came with a large portion of dried fruits, which, as the name suggested, were fruits, dried, nothing added or subtracted other than air and moisture. You gotta take the rough with the smooth.

  “Load out?” I asked him.

  “Going with this piece of shit.” Meaning a well used ISIS AK-47 resting against his ruck. He readjusted his webbing. “Got six mags and half-a-dozen F1s. No choice. Gone black on ammo for the M4 – only one mag left. Gonna save it. You in the same boat, I see.”

  “Uh-huh,” I confirmed, checking his straps. Everything was tight and secure.

  He did the same for me. “You good, boss,” he said, slapping my webbing with the check completed.

  My M4 was strapped to my ruck, which was leaning against a tree, so pretty much useless. I was black on ammo, too – almost out. As for the F1, that was the museum piece Soviet anti-personnel frag grenade first issued in World War II. It still did the job, though the weapon’s timing could be a little off and had been known to be equally lethal to the person pulling the pin. The fuse delay topped out anywhere from zero to thirteen seconds. I had a few of them too, tucked into webbing pockets, but hoped I wouldn’t have to call on them. “I’ll join you in a minute,” I told him as, out of the corner of an eye, I saw Natasha stand up, stretch, and brush down her clothes. “Pass the word along. We’re leaving when it gets dark.” That was in around forty minutes or less. I went over to the Russian.