Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  Before I could open my mouth, she informed me, “I told you what happened in helicopter. I have nothing to say. You are right, we have best hope of finding president with Russian military so we are leaving.”

  “Right. I was gonna say go get something to eat. Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “What is change of heart?”

  “You’ve changed your mind.”

  “Then why not say this?”

  I shrugged. I had nothing, except maybe a few expletives to throw at her.

  “Will you help find president?”

  “No,” I told her.

  “So there is reason why we go. So …” She gave me one of those annoying shrugs that says, “so fuck you”, and walked away, drawn, apparently, by the delicious aromas of countless dietitian-approved long-life artificial colorings and flavorings bubbling in Jimmy’s kitchen.

  I watched her go. Women: can't live with ‘em … can’t live with ‘em. Or however that goes.

  Alvin appeared, jogging back up the access road. He gave a wave that said both “hello” and “don’t panic, I’m not running coz there’s a problem”. He slowed to a walk when he came adjacent to the ambulance and stopped beside Abdullah. I watched him say something to the terrorist lying on his side on the ground. Then he crouched next to the Brit and poked the guy with his M4. A heavy sleeper, I figured.

  “Boss …” Alvin said over the comms, “the Brit’s dead.” Okay – that was unexpected. I walked over. Abdullah seemed asleep except for his lips, which were forced apart by a swollen black tongue, a sure giveaway something else was accounting for his reluctance to wake. I crouched, removed a glove and put my fingers next to his trachea, feeling for a pulse in his carotid. A tongue the color of boot leather and a fly standing on it rubbing its front legs in a fashion that said “Oh, goodie!” told me not to bother, as did the cold, clammy skin. But there are protocols for this kind of thing. There was no blood and no injury was immediately visible. But when I moved Abdullah’s head from side to side I felt vertebrae move, grind and jag against each other. “Neck’s broken,” I said, standing.

  “Solves a problem,” the sergeant volunteered.

  It did, if he meant that now we didn’t have to kill Abdullah or lug him around with us. Except that in our midst was apparently someone prepared to kill in cold blood, which I wasn’t especially pleased about, however much I disliked the terrorist and his world view.

  “But who, right?” he asked.

  Yeah, who? And why?

  “You’re ex OSI, aren't you? Something like this would be, you know, like, memory lane.”

  I eyeballed the Syrians ending their siesta in the lee of the ambulance and coming to their feet. None appeared to display any concern that Alvin and I may have come across a stiff in our midst, suggesting that they were either cool customers, or oblivious. My money was riding oblivious. The killer wasn’t Alvin, who had been on watch for the duration. And I’m in the clear, right? But what about Jimmy or Bo? No, too much discipline. They killed folks who shot at them and neither had shown any particular malice toward Abdullah. Killing in cold blood wasn’t their style no matter how bad the person stank, and Abdullah was seriously ripe.

  “Takes a lot of strength to break a man’s neck.” Alvin looked straight at Igor.

  “Maybe you should transfer to OSI,” I suggested.

  He shrugged. “That’d be a pretty cool gig, sir. No doubt.”

  I crouched and took a closer look at the Brit’s neck. Whiskers and grime was the sum total of what I could see. Nothing outwardly suggested violence or a struggle. Whoever had done the deed had positioned the body in such a way that it wouldn't attract attention. For all intents and purposes, Abdullah seemed to be having a rest, unless you were up close. His skin temperature and general pallor indicated death had tapped him on the shoulder several hours ago, which was right about the time I’d come off watch and hit the hay. “Gonna move him into the shade, out of the sun,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Alvin agreed. “The guy’s got some serious animal musk going on.”

  I cut the cuff locks with a Leatherman. “Get his feet.” I grabbed a couple of handfuls of clothing around Abdullah’s shoulders, grunting as I hoisted him up. I wondered what his weight might be in donuts. And then I wondered where do you even get donuts around here, all of which reminded me of a joke. “So, where does an Englishman hide his money?” I asked.

  “No matter what they say, your jokes really lighten the load, sir.”

  “Under a bar of soap.”

  “Right.”

  “I got that one from an Aussie. And just to balance the scales, here’s one about the Aussies I got from a Brit …”

  “Not necessary, sir.”

  “Don't want anyone saying I’m biased. Anyway, an Englishman wants to become an Irishman, so he visits a doctor to find out how to go about it. ‘Well,’ says the doctor, ‘that’s a tricky operation and there’s a lot that can go wrong. I’ll have to remove half your brain.’ ‘That's okay,’ says the Englishman, ‘I've always wanted to be Irish and I'm prepared to take the risk,’ so the operation goes ahead. But when he awakes, the Englishman’s eyes open to a look of horror on the doctor’s face. ‘I'm so terribly sorry!’ the doc says. ‘I told you it was risky. Instead of removing half your brain, I accidentally took it all out.’ To which the patient replies, ‘No worries, mate. Any beer in the fridge?’”

  “We gonna carry him all the way to Turkey, sir?” Alvin asked, looking around.

  “Put him over there.” I motioned at a nearby tree. “Australians say ‘mate’ a lot, and they like beer. Get it?” I explained as we put him down.

  “Great joke, sir.”

  “I’ve got others.”

  “Smells like they’re serving Spaghetti with Beef and Sauce, sir. Don't want to miss out on that, no, sir. I’ll save you some.” Alvin jogged away to join the general assembly milling around Jimmy and Igor.

  I was considering saying something indignant to his departing back, but was prevented from doing so by the growing wail of approaching jet engines. The others around the pot had also noticed it, and were checking the sky. The noise was not the rotary wing thump-thump of paddles slapping the air, nor was it the unmistakable shriek of a fighter jet, which sounds like the very fabric of the atmosphere tearing. There was plenty of iron flying around the skies, but this sound was somehow different. I cocked the AK, just in case. And then, in my peripheral vision, a couple of sets of navigation lights winked on in the fading light. Two aircraft – small – coming in low and hot. I took aim as they skimmed over the trees on the edge of the field and banked hard overhead, one hundred yards or so behind the other. MQ-9s. Reapers, a pair of them, pushed along by turboprops, which accounted for the unusual sound. Jimmy, or maybe it was Bo, let out a whoop. Uncle Sam hadn’t forgotten us after all, at least that was my take.

  The MQ-9 was primarily a stealth weapon. It had a radar cross-section about equal to a dime, whereas a Black Hawk showed up like Dumbo in pink sequins on primary radar screens. With half the Russian Air Force flying CAPs in the area, maybe Reapers were one of the few options our Air Force could sneak in. All this filtered through my mind as the drones flew another half circuit with their flaps down, wings waggling, the aircraft equivalent of a friendly wave. I resisted the temptation to wave back, and then they were gone as quickly as they arrived, banking hard and climbing. I walked back towards Jimmy’s kitchen, a little disappointed. But what was I expecting, right?

  “What the hell was all that about?” wondered Alvin, beating me to the question.

  “Boss,” said Bo, pointing back over my shoulder, “look …”

  Thirty

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Americans don't become terrorists. Remember that when we send you back to wherever your parents or grandparents came from.

  Yousef Ali turned the radio on and searched for the news. There was a lot of news around at the moment so it was easy to find, and much of it thri
lled him. A man had just killed two random tourists walking along Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, according to the newsreader. The man had pulled up beside them in his car, calmly got out and smashed them in the back of the head with a tomahawk. An off-duty Los Angeles City police officer shot him dead before he could attack other passersby. Police had not confirmed that this was a terrorist attack, but what else could it be? Yousef smiled to himself. Of course the man with the tomahawk was a jihadist. The love he must have had for God … Right now he would be enjoying the first fruits of Paradise, the reward for having sent two apostates to an eternity of fiery hell.

  Elation turned to excitement, and then it became fear. Yousef, too, would soon be with God, celebrated for his bravery and devotion, provided, of course, he had the nerve to go through with the plan he’d been considering for some time. Yousef had been thinking about it for months, and then working through the practical details for weeks. He had even come here on several prior occasions, always by himself, sometimes taking a bus, other times just walking, checking timetables and other factors like weather and traffic density, wondering if he would ever have the guts … He never shared the plan, never told a living soul, trusting no one but Allah, may his name be praised. And then the President of Russia fell into the hands of devout jihadists in the holy lands. It was a sign, and Yousef knew that he must follow through.

  Yousef’s love for God was beyond question. But it was also true that he was afraid. It was difficult to know the emotion, to recognize it, but fear was always there, a hand around his heart and his throat, squeezing. Was it fear for himself? Or for his family? If he did what he planned to do, what would they do to his mother, to his younger brother and sister – “they” being everyone from the government to their neighbors? Would his family be imprisoned, hounded, made scapegoats for his choices? Or did his fear come from another place? Was he afraid of failure? When the time came, would he have the courage?

  His watch said eight-thirty, the appointed time nearly arrived. Yousef reached into his jacket and felt the butt of the pistol. There was no going back and so he concentrated hard on banishing all doubt. When he stood in front of Allah, his devotion must be pure. The realization that he would soon be in the presence of God suddenly filled him with … joy. Yes, that was the only word for it – joy.

  Across the road several school children gathered with their mothers. Yousef checked up the street. The traffic was minimal. 8.31. The school bus was late, but it had been late before. He was aware that his forehead and back were damp with sweat, though the morning wasn’t hot. No one looked at him, but why would they? Yousef, or Frank as his mom called him, was just another skinny fair-headed guy with an unkempt beard.

  He glanced up the street again, impatient. And there it was, coming slowly around the bend, the streetlights green. On the other side of the road, mothers kissed their children goodbye. Perhaps only a minute later, the yellow bus arrived at its stop opposite as a gap conveniently appeared in the traffic. Yousef jogged over casually as the last child climbed aboard. And just as the door began to close behind a small girl wearing a fluffy Minion backpack, he muscled his way in, squeezing through the gap. Pulling the pistol from his pocket, he shouted, “Allahu akbar! Drive!” and buried the muzzle of the barrel hard into the side of the infidel’s cheek so there would be no argument.

  There was a moment of hesitation as the woman behind the wheel processed the nightmare that had just forced its way onto the bus.

  “I said drive!” Yousef yelled and raised the weapon as if to strike her with it backhand.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. She glanced at the door mirror and then pulled away from the curb as the situation dawned on the mothers gathered at the stop. They began to scream and cry out the names of their children and beat at the side of the bus as they ran beside it until the old relic picked up speed and outpaced them.

  In the bus, the kids, who were all less than seven years of age, began to cry and wail.

  “Keep goin’ till I tell ya otherwise,” demanded Yousef.

  The driver said, “Don’t hurt us none, mister. They just kids.”

  “They belong to God,” Yousef told her. “C’mon, faster.” He tried to stay immune to the mounting distress in the seats behind him. He glanced back to see what was going on. Some of the children stared wide-eyed at him, and then at the pistol, unable to process the situation. Others were pounding at the windows, shouting at the world outside, and some were simply bawling, their faces screwed up as tears of fear and uncertainty streamed down their cheeks.

  Checking the street, Yousef was pleased to see the traffic still moving with no sign of panic, the air free of police sirens. And look, not far ahead, in the same lane as the bus, a sheriff’s vehicle even turned slowly into a side street, oblivious. Yousef was pleased that his action had not yet reached the dispatch desk, but he knew that ignorance would not last. Soon there’d be law enforcement all over the bus, including anti-terror and tactical response units. How long did he have, he wondered? Thirty seconds? A minute? Maybe two? Yousef knew that death was assured, whether by police bullet or by the means he had planned, and his scrotum tightened with the thrill of it. Soon his life would end, and a new blissful existence would begin where he would be important, valued, special.

  An intersection approached, a turn to the left was the bus’s usual route. And then he heard it – a siren wailing. No, two of them. “Turn right here,” Yousef demanded, indicating the street, gesturing with the pistol.

  The driver wound the big old worn steering wheel hand over hand, the bus lumbering around the corner. Yousef felt relief – they were nearly arrived at the intended destination. The sirens were closer now. But how close? They had responded quicker than he’d anticipated. He bent down to look in the side mirror. There, maybe 200 meters behind, a police car – lights flashing – on the wrong side of the road, closing fast. And Yousef knew he would never make it. The gas station. It was too far. More sirens. They were closing in from all directions. A brace of red and blue flashing lights bounced out of a street some distance ahead. Yousef’s own anxiety flared. And that’s when he saw it coming toward the bus on the opposite side of the street. Perhaps Allah, may his name be praised, had intervened here, providing Yousef with an even better end game. Perhaps this was already written.

  The woman looked at him. “You ain’t gonna make it, no.”

  Yousef smiled at her and then discharged the weapon into the base of her skull. His noise in the confined space deafened him. The window beside her was shattered, blood everywhere. She slumped away from the wheel, which Yousef grabbed with his spare hand, and he pushed it a quarter turn away from him. The bus veered across the road, into the path of the B-double hauling heating oil. “Allahu ak –”

  Thirty-one

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  As far as I am aware, not a single Republican is a terrorist. I can’t speak for the Democrats.

  The cell phone in the truck finally ceased its muffled ringing.

  “Do you think God will care that we were late with Shorook?” Mohammad asked, coming up on his knees.

  Hafiz stood and bushed the desert dust off his knees. “Allah, may his name be praised, has special forgiveness for his soldiers.”

  The CB radio in the cabin crackled into life. “Chuck. Where you, bud? Not ans’rin’ yer phone. You got a mechanical or somethin’?”

  “Better get moving. Help me get him out.” Hafiz balanced with one foot on the footplate, reached in and grabbed Charlie by the belt. He pulled as hard as he was able, but Charlie wouldn't budge. “He is a fat pig,” said Hafiz reconsidering the situation. “Leave him. It doesn’t matter. There’s enough room for us. We can push him down into the floorboards on your side.”

  Mohammad shrugged. Dead is dead and Charlie was in no state to complain about it with three bullets in his head, or what was left of it. Mohammed jogged around the front of the cement truck to the passenger side and vaulted into the cabin.

&nbs
p; Charlie, the driver, an old guy in his mid-fifties with a red face and a beer barrel for a gut, lay in a pool of his own blood and brains across the width of the old dusty cracked seat. A photo of two young children, maybe seven and eight years of age, a boy and girl, both redheads, was taped to the chipped dash. Mohammed assumed they were grandchildren. Charlie had to be too old to be their parent. He looked at the dead man covered in blood and thought with a measure of amusement, “See? You’re a redhead now too.” Mohammed took a hold of the grab rail over the door, brought his feet up, placed one on the body’s neck and the other on his shoulder, and pushed. Finally the man moved, sliding onto the floor.

  “Good job,” Hafiz told him. The engine was still idling, surging in a regular pulsing rhythm. He grabbed the shift lever, stepped on the clutch pedal, found a gear and the truck moved forward, the cabin bucking, the engine’s torque wrestling with the weight of the concrete mixing in the bowl behind.

  “Do you really think we will succeed?” Mohammed asked.

  Hafiz had no doubts. “Yes, of course. Don't be stupid. Why wouldn't we? How much time do we have?”

  Mohammed glanced at his watch and tapped the glass to make sure. “We have ten minutes.”