Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

“We’re late.” Hafiz shrugged, “But there are plenty of trains.”

  The CB crackled again. “Okay, Chuck, well, I have to assume you got some kinda issue. The GPS says you goin’ the wrong way. If you can’t answer, just click the mike twice if you’re in trouble, three times if you’re not and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Stupid kafir,” said Hafiz. He reached forward, took the mike from its cradle and thumbed the “talk” button twice.

  “Right then. Click twice for mechanical problems, three for something else.”

  Hafiz clicked twice.

  “I’m guessin’ your phone’s out of battery, otherwise you’d call. Let us know what the problem is when you get the chance and we’ll send out a rescue team.”

  Hafiz clicked the button and said, “Your friend Charlie has gone to hell. You can thank Islamic State and the caliphate. Allahu akbar!”

  “What? Who are you? Answer me. Put Charlie on!”

  “What did you do that for?” Mohammed demanded.

  Hafiz wrapped the microphone cord around his hand, wrenched it from the transceiver and threw it out the window. He then grabbed another gear and planted his foot on the pedal. “A little fun. There’s nothing they can do. I want the glory of God known to all.”

  Mohammad kept his eyes on the road ahead, expecting to see flashing blue and red lights of law enforcement vehicles swooping on them. “It was unnecessary. That’s all I want to say.”

  “Relax. Paradise awaits and we are almost there.” Lining the highway now were a few homes and small businesses, the occasional gas station, a fast food outlet, a car yard or two. “We are making good time.”

  “When we meet Allah, who will do the talking?” Mohammad asked.

  “You can, if you like. Or me. Or we can both talk. It won’t matter.”

  “What will Allah look like?”

  “I asked the imam. He said the Lord of the Throne cannot be described, and that His perfection is beyond mere words.”

  “‘He … Allah is a man?”

  “What are you suggesting? What else would He be? I am not an imam. Don't ask me. All I know is that we will be with Him soon. Look.” Hafiz gestured ahead.

  The boom arms of a railway crossing lowered, blocking the roadway in both directions, pulling to a stop two smaller vehicles directly in their path.

  “There it is,” Hafiz shouted, motioning ahead, “right on time.” The speedo read just over sixty miles per hour with his foot hard against the firewall. The truck could go no faster even though it was running downhill. Ahead, the commuter train approached the crossing fast as it was between two stations.

  “I am excited!” Mohammad shouted over the roar of the engine and the drumming of the tires on the roadway.

  “Me too. I shall see you in heaven!” The two young men reached out for each other and held hands as the concrete truck careered into the parked cars waiting for the train to pass, and all three vehicles slammed into the leading train coach speeding through the crossing.

  Thirty-two

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Turkey is a great nation, and its people are great people. I mean that sincerely.

  Two parachutes drifted downwards, a canister swinging beneath each. Supply drop, I figured. That made sense of the MQ-9s’ arrival. “Bo, Alvin – special delivery,” I said. “Gonna see if they need a signature.”

  The payloads hit the dirt not far from one other, thirty yards or so from the ambulance. Someone somewhere cared enough about our situation to dispatch those Reapers, which, I figured meant someone somewhere wanted something. If we couldn't be airlifted out, CENTCOM would have expected us to find our own way out. That was SOP. So what was the deal here?

  Bo and I went to one canister, Alvin headed for the other. “What do we have here?” I asked the universe. Unfastening the clips cracked open the tube and revealed a treasure trove of warfighter essentials: four M26 shotguns, enough twelve-gauge double-ought shells to finish anything we started, boxes of 5.56 millimeter rounds, additional magazines, a brace of M67 AP grenades, claymores, MREs, plus a mysterious separate black case with the figures RQ-11 stenciled in dull yellow on one end.

  “All right! A fuckin’ Raven,” Bo exclaimed when he saw the case. “That is some sexy ass shit right here.” He rubbed his hands together, lifted the case out, placed it on the ground and worked the latches like a kid opening a present on Christmas morning. Flipping the lid revealed several parts to a small aircraft painted air force low-viz gray. “Oh, man!” he exclaimed. “Ain’t no one gonna sneak up on our ass with this motherfuck covering our six.”

  “Sir!” Alvin called out, holding something above his head.

  Was that a phone?

  “You got a call.”

  Yeah. Who was calling? And what did they want? I guessed I was gonna find out. I jogged over and took the sat phone. “Cooper,” I said.

  “Major Cooper. Colonel Wayne here.”

  Arlen! Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, right? What was my favorite fobbit doing on the line? But Major Cooper? Colonel Wayne? A phone call delivered by Reaper? Had to be official business. “Sir,” I said, playing along. “Who do I thank for the resupply? You?”

  “Me? Hell, no. Send the commander-in-chief a thank you note.”

  ***

  Arlen was aware that everyone’s expectation was turned toward him. Vin, don't say anything that’s gonna embarrass me, or you for that matter. Getting in quick, he said, “Major, I’m in the White House Situation Room with a number of heavy hitters – Secretary of Defense Epstein, Secretary of State Bassingthwaite, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Admiral Rentz, CIA Director Hamilton, Associate Deputy Director Chalmers and others and we are –”

  “Sounds like a fun crowd,” crackled the voice on the line.

  Jesus, Vin. “We’re on speaker.”

  “Right… Wait. Hey, did I hear it right? Did you say Chalmers? Not the former Head Buffoon of CIA Station, Tokyo?”

  “Vin, we’re on speaker,” Wayne reiterated.

  Chalmers’s face had screwed itself into a complicated expression that was part embarrassment, part hate and the rest revenge. Wayne swore at himself for pure stupidity. Chalmers. Waving that name at Cooper was always going to be a mistake.

  “Good. Mustn’t let a good insult go to waste,” said Cooper.

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about,” Chalmers announced, red faced.

  “Major Cooper, Andrew Bunion here, Chief Advisor to the President. If we could stick to the business at hand? Intel photos reveal you and your unit traveling with Russians.”

  “It’s the other way around, sir. The Russians have come along for the ride, but I think we’re about to part company.”

  “Who are they? What’s their unit?”

  “They were with the Russian president when their helicopter came down. One is Spetsnaz and holds the rank of starshina, the other a sergeant. Doing some promotional work for the motherland’s troops here, so they told me.”

  “Major Schelly forwarded us the image files of all persons in the company of Quickstep 3,” said Hamilton. “We’ll have positive IDs on both before the day is out.”

  Heads around the room were nodding, all except Chalmers who glared at a small stack of papers almost hard enough to move them.

  “Major, Secretary of Defense Epstein here. You say you’re parting company with the Russians. Why is that?”

  “Our mission is complete, exfil aside, ma’am. Theirs is just beginning. We’re headed in different directions you might say.”

  Bunion cut to the chase. “So do you know where President Petrovich is being held captive or not?”

  “No, sir. Our mission was confined to recon and planting a navigation beacon.”

  Bunion shook his head at General Rentz who seemed equally disappointed, hope fading that Cooper and his unit might be able to perform some kind of useful service.

  “Major Cooper, this is Major Jillian Schelly. I run Quickstep out of Al Udeid.”

&nbs
p; “Jill,” Cooper replied.

  “What more can you tell us about the Russians in your party?”

  “Not much other than what I’ve already said. We stumbled across them. They were expelled from a Russian Hind as it crash-landed in the vicinity of our first alternate. They’re lucky to be alive. As for the Russian president, I have no knowledge about him at all – where he is, whether he’s alive or dead or somewhere in between.”

  “I can tell you that, at least as at this time yesterday, President Petrovich was alive,” Schelly informed him, “held captive by the ISIS commander your unit correctly identified in an earlier SPIREP as Al-Aleaqarab – the Scorpion. The jihadist holds several other hostages, including one of Petrovich’s top generals. And he has in his possession the Cheget. Do you know what that is, Major?”

  A gentle whistle was heard. “Yeah, I know what it is. You mind if I ask how you know all that?”

  “The Scorpion has posted videos on YouTube since the crash – graphic videos.”

  There was a pause on the line, Cooper digesting this news. “What’s the ransom?” Vin eventually asked, breaking the silence. “What does the shitbag want?”

  “Basically, what all these crazies want – an eternity in Paradise. But this lunatic has put a twist on it. He wants to die in the mother of all battles against the armies of Rome, as he calls them – presumably NATO or the Turks.” Schelly outlined the terrorist’s request in more detail.

  Cooper asked, “And you think he’ll give Petrovich back if we oblige?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Agreed … So I guess the world has gone into the toilet.”

  “As of this moment, Major, I think you could say it's on the edge of that figurative seat. Homegrown ISIS sympathizers are using Petrovich’s capture as a pretext to grab whatever weapons come to hand and use them on innocent bystanders, and we don’t know how many thousands of potential combatants are already on the move to Dabiq, supposedly in preparation for this so-called End of Days Battle.” Schelly took a breath. “Look, I don't know enough about what you may have seen, or any intelligence that you may have come across to ask the right questions, but can you tell us anything that might help us locate Al-Aleaqarab? Anything at all? As far as we know, you and your unit are the only assets – American, Russian or otherwise – that has had any contact with Al-Aleaqarab, no matter how remote, in the last forty-eight hours.”

  The line went quiet.

  “Do you understand the importance of this, Cooper?” Angry Kermit growled.

  “I’m sorry … Who’s this?”

  “Admiral Rentz.”

  “Admiral, I have nothing solid,” said Cooper, “but I can give you an educated guess.”

  Loud enough to be heard, Chalmers said, “Educated? Really?”

  “Do you need a drum roll, Cooper?” asked Rentz impatiently.

  ***

  What is it with squids? Maybe too much salt hardens the brain. I took a walk away from the speedballs as Natasha and Mazool were coming over to inspect them. I told the CJCS, “Admiral, at the point where Al-Aleaqarab’s fighters shot down one Russian Hind and crippled another, the Scorpion was seen to get into a white 5 Series BMW in company with a late-model blue Toyota technical, armed with a quad ZPU. Those are unique vehicles, especially traveling in a pair. Both departed the area as part of a larger convoy. We were reasonably certain at the time that the Scorpion was giving chase to the wounded Hind, which, as I said, must have come down close to our mission alternate. Later, when departing the alternate, we observed a white BMW and a blue Toyota technical with a ZPU option in the bed traveling together, moving away from the area at speed. It makes more sense than less that these were the same two vehicles we observed earlier. And the way they were shedding other vehicles in the convoy, it must be they decided that fewer vehicles drew less attention than a column of them. They did that for a reason.”

  “We could get Wide Area Aerial Surveillance operating in the target area,” Schelly suggested, addressing the SECDEF. “Major Cooper’s right. Those two vehicles traveling in tandem would be pretty unique. If they’re still moving around out there, we’ve got a good chance of picking them up.”

  “Do it,” Epstein replied. “Whatever it takes.”

  “CIA Director Reid Hamilton, Major Cooper. At that point you had no idea President Petrovich may have been in the downed Hind?”

  “Affirmative, sir. Not at the time.”

  “But now you think the Scorpion and other captives were in those two vehicles?” said Rentz, pushing in.

  “Does make sense of what we saw. But, like I said, we can’t be sure.”

  From his body language, the admiral seemed rather less convinced than more, and he confirmed as much saying, “Sounds like goddamn sketchy rumint to me.”

  Rumint, the combination of rumor and intelligence. Schelly wondered if this secret squirrel op would do her career more harm than good. But Epstein gave her the glimmer of a reassuring smile, which Schelly interpreted as, “You done good.” The SECDEF then leaned forward as if to make herself better heard. “Secretary of Defense Epstein here, Major Cooper. We don't have much time left on this satellite … What was your intention before resupply?”

  “Head for Turkey, ma’am.”

  “Change of plans, Major. We want you to locate and liberate President Petrovich. And, of course, secure the Cheget.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  “Major?”

  “Ma’am, with respect, there are more Russians here right now than Arabs. They’re climbing over each other to find Petrovich and his launch codes. Even assuming we knew where to start the search, we’re more than likely to get in the way and start some kind of incident.”

  “We believe Al-Aleaqarab shot the videos he posted roughly 220 miles to the east-northeast of your present position, in the region known as the Al-Hajarah. There are Sunni tribes in the area sympathetic to ISIS.”

  “Where Al Bookerman lives.”

  “Who? I’m sorry?” Epstein shrugged at Schelly and mouthed, What?

  Al Bookerman. That’s familiar … Schelly grabbed a map of the Al-Hajarah and pored over it. “Here. It’s here. Al Bukemal. Madam Secretary, one of the villages in the target area potentially sympathetic to Al-Aleaqarab.”

  Epstein glowed. “Impressive, Cooper. So you’re already on the case.”

  “Oh for god’s sake,” muttered Chalmers.

  “We’ve sent you what intel we have along with the resupply,” Schelly said, “and we can see that you’re mobile. Also, we can tell you that there aren’t many Russians, if any, searching in the area we propose.”

  “Maybe they’re not searching because they know Petrovich isn’t there?” Cooper asked.

  “Different intel can lead to different conclusions, Major,” Schelly observed.

  Cooper conceded the point. “You said the Scorpion has uploaded videos. How many?”

  “Two.”

  “When did the first video hit the interweb?”

  “At 1004 this morning, Syrian time.”

  “So roughly seven hours after the president’s bird did a face plant. Let’s say it took the Scorpion another hour and a half to secure his prisoners. That would give him a maximum of five and a half hours of traveling time. I guess it’s possible to drive two hundred miles, but not likely. Not here.”

  “You might be right, but it’s something,” Schelly said. “Vin, can I call you Vin? Look, I sense your difficulty with this.”

  “Vin is fine. I’m guessing you think Al-Aleaqarab may be in that area because there were indications in the videos posted?”

  “We have positively identified three areas. You’ll find an intelligence briefing in one of the canisters.”

  “Wherever you think he was, the Scorpion would be long gone by now.”

  Schelly glanced at SECSTATE Epstein. She believed much the same.

  “Have you thought about Istanbul, Jill? Everyone’s going there this time of year.”
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  “Istanbul?”

  Chalmers sent a plea to the room: “What did I tell you?”

  “Istanbul is not in the picture, Vin,” Schelly replied. I hope Chalmers is wrong about this guy. “But we know the Scorpion’s going to be on the move. The Sunni tribal areas of the Al-Hajarah are our best bet, unless we get some fresh intel which, we’re hoping, you’ll provide.”

  “Right,” said the voice over the speakers. The way he said it conveyed a gulf of uncertainty.

  “Major,” Schelly said, reverting to more formal tones, “if there’s a chance we can prevent a global meltdown, we’re taking it. And given that you’ve already located passengers who were in Petrovich’s party, that puts you way ahead of anyone else on the scoreboard. The Scorpion has styled himself a messianic figure. He’s going to attract attention. We believe he demands attention. With luck, he generated some of that in the desert among people he knows are supporters, if not outright followers.”

  Silence.

  “Luck has got nothing to do with it,” said Rentz, losing patience. And then to Cooper, “Orders are orders, Major.”

  Silence.

  “The satellite,” Schelly said, assessing the telemetry on screen. “We lost it.” And then she caught a glimpse of a screen monitoring a number of Twitter feeds and the words, “Oh my god” escaped from her mouth before she could prevent them.

  A click on the link caught the reporter at the scene mid-sentence. “… hijacked the school bus, the local community devastated. This neighborhood, the most populous municipality in Jefferson County, is all about families, schools, restaurants, shopping …”

  A pull-through at the bottom of screen announced, “Hijacked school bus rams oil tanker. More than twenty children dead. A terrorist attack suspected.”

  The reporter’s voice was heard over pictures that showed various angles of a smoking, steaming pile of metal, with other fires dotted around. The area was a sea of emergency vehicle lights, fire trucks, law enforcement vehicles and ambulances. A montage of devastated parents followed.

  “At the time of the hijacking, the bus was packed with school children under seven years old – an appalling target that authorities believe was no accident. Specific numbers in the bus have not been confirmed.