The tragedy of the scene was writ large on the face of the reporter whose head and shoulders filled the screen. “Witnesses say that the bus came down this street and veered across the road into the path of an oncoming oil tanker. The ensuing explosion smashed windows for two blocks and caused a number of other vehicles to catch fire. We’ll bring you an update when more information comes to hand. As for the motive, local law enforcement isn't saying, but in an unconfirmed report, the hijacker was said to yell, ‘Allahu akbar’ as he stormed the bus, which means ‘God is great’ in Arabic.”
“Police are yet to confirm the identity of the suspect. We’ll bring you updates on this tragedy throughout the day. Tracey?”
“Jesus H Christ,” Bunion exhaled.
Schelly switched to CNN to see if more information was available.
“The concrete truck ploughed into vehicles waiting at the crossing,” the reporter said, facing the camera. Behind him a zigzag of train coaches lying on their side, strewn around as if thrown there by an angry giant. The reporter continued, “…which in turn cannonballed into the 9:47 Tucson to San Diego, causing a derailment.”
“What the hell?” said Bunion. “When was this?”
“Police have been quick to call this an act of terror, and have already identified two suspects.”
Photos of two young men in their early twenties, smiling at the camera, were presented to the president’s chief advisor. “These guys? Fuck. Why the fuck haven't we sent fuckers like this back to where they came from? This is what keeping America safe is all about.”
The journalist continued, “Both men were born in the United States and attended the Tucson Art College. They are believed to have been only recently radicalized –”
“Jesus,” muttered Bunion.
Schelly felt dizzy. Sick. Hot tears ran through her nose and over her top lip. “My god,” she mumbled, her brain incapable of putting any other coherent words together.
***
I looked at the handset. Had I maybe switched it off accidentally? Nope. I put it to my ear. I’d get more from a seashell. I pocketed it and returned to Bo who, in the meantime, had assembled the drone and was trying to get it to speak to the control center, a screen about the size of an iPad mini set into a khaki-colored plastic case with two small control sticks either side of the screen.
“What gives, boss?” he asked me, preoccupied.
“They want us to wander the dessert, looking for a messiah. For around forty days and forty nights I think they said.”
“Sir?”
“Just kidding,” I told him. “Actually, they want us to locate and rescue President Petrovich, stop the world blowing up, and prevent a few hundred thousand people from killing each other. And if we could do it before lunch, that would be handy.”
“Damn Steve Jobs,” he cursed, not hearing me, his attention focused on the drone. “Damn piece of shit don't wanna do its thing.” But then what I’d just said to him must have sunken in because he glanced up and said, “How they expect us to do that?”
“Not sure,” I replied. “But they’ve given us a model airplane that doesn’t work.”
I kneeled beside the canister, listening to Bo curse the UAV while I ditched the AK mags from my webbing and replaced them with rattle for the M4, fitted the M26 shotgun to the barrel and grabbed a bunch of MREs. “Forget it,” I said to Bo, who was still cursing the drone. “You can have the shits with it on the road. Let’s go.”
The iPad suddenly came to life, as did a red LED on the top of the aircraft’s fuselage, which then turned green.
“Have I told you that green is my favorite color with electrics?” I said.
“Okay, now I get it.” Bo gave a minor fist pump. And, continuing to talk to himself, “The passcode goes in the other slot.”
“They do it that way to confuse the enemy should it fall into the wrong hands,” I said, absently, taking in the general ambience of our bivouac. Alvin and Jimmy were stuffing their rucks and webbing with various items from their canister while Igor wiped a finger around the inside of the cooking pot, savoring the last morsel, which was the most unlikely thing I’d seen in a long time. Natasha was not far from him, re-doing her ponytail so it was nice and high, an important detail not to be overlooked. Mazool was coming toward me, something on his mind.
“I went to make a piss. Found the terrorist behind a tree,” he said conspirator-like when he was close enough that the conversation wouldn't be overheard by anyone other than Bo. “He was dead.”
“I hope so,” I replied, kinda hushed. “People have a nasty habit of coming back to life in this part of the world, right?” Not the slightest flicker of a smile animated Mazool’s lips. Nothing. Maybe he didn’t get it. Maybe he’d heard that one before. Maybe there was a language problem. Maybe they just take religion far too seriously in this part of the world for their own good, or anyone else’s for that matter. Maybe I just hit on a self-evident truth. “He was murdered,” I said. “Did you murder him?”
“Me?” Mazool was shocked by the accusation. “No!”
“One of your boys maybe?” I motioned at Taymullah and Farib.
“No! They are still childrens, not murderer,” he said, doing a little butchering of his own. “Igor? Was it him?” he asked, pointing the finger elsewhere.
“Maybe,” I replied.
“I am sure he was deserving of it.”
I knew he meant Abdullah was deserving of being murdered, not Igor was deserving of doing the deed. “Perhaps,” I agreed. It was close to dark, with only the faintest memory of the sun visible in the sky above the hills, the temperature also cooling noticeably. “If you need to get organized, now is the time. We’re outta here.”
“We are ready.”
Mazool moved off toward the ambulance and I headed over to my ruck, dumped an armful of necessities on it, and then made my way to Igor and Natasha.
“Spaghetti. Is good,” Igor exclaimed looking up at me, sauce dribbling from either side of his mouth so that he seemed to be frowning and grinning at the same time.
“It’s the Jell-O that makes all the difference,” I told him. And to Natasha, I said, “You murdered the prisoner. Wanna tell me why?”
Natasha smoothed the hair on each side of her head, feeding errant strands into her other hand to wrangle inside the elastic. “How do you know was me? Why not them?” She motioned at the Syrians with the point of an elbow, her hands behind her head. “They have many reasons to kill this man.”
“You broke his neck,” I said.
“Is this how he was killed? Broken neck?” She smiled pleasantly. “It takes strength to do this.” Using that same elbow, she motioned at Igor whose back was to her.
“Strength leaves bruising, but there wasn’t any,” I said. “Good technique doesn't leave marks. Why’d you do it?”
She looked at me, still with that smile. It was the kind of smile that could live happily with a statement like, “Sure, I’d love a vodka martini. I thought I was gonna have to buy my own drinks tonight.” Or similar. But instead she said, “You are Sherlock detective or something?”
“Nope, just a guy who likes to know who he’s traveling with.”
“Well … this man was terrorist. What was plan? Carry him to Turkey? It was parting gift from me to you.”
How thoughtful. There were other things I’d have preferred. Cuff links, a nice tie … In truth, I didn't care for Abdullah. The asshole got what he deserved. The Brits had several hit squads operating in Syria taking out their citizens before they could return from the caliphate and bring home a little jihad with their duty free cigarettes. Same with Australia, New Zealand, France and a host of other countries. Abdullah was a marked man – his sudden death was only a matter of time. Nevertheless, I like to know who and what I’m traveling with.
“I hear you are leaving,” Natasha said, motioning at the activity around the bivouac. Abdullah’s murder was of far less concern to her than a particularly recalcitrant strand of
hair that refused to be controlled.
Igor stood.
Given that our mission had changed, I was rethinking the benefits or otherwise of us parting company with the Russians, and that made resolving who killed Abdullah important. None of my guys spoke any Arabic worthy of mention and neither did I, so that gave the Syrians a place in our squad, aside from their local knowledge of trails and roads. And if we came up against any Russians with a particular dislike for Americans, which seemed to be their national disposition, particularly at this moment, I was thinking that having Natasha and the Incredible Hulkovich in our corner vouching for us would be helpful. But, at the same time, I was leery of having a cold-blooded killer looking over my shoulder. There were other considerations on my mind also. Traveling with such a large party, for example, had its drawbacks. Like, forget stealth, right? In our current configuration, we couldn’t sneak up on road kill. Mentally, I put everything in the scales – and, just so you know, Natasha’s spectacular rack wasn’t one of the items, even though it was on display at every opportunity. In the end, I gave them a choice. “My president wants your president found, and he seems to think we’re in a good position to do that. You killed the one opportunity we had to maybe find out where the Scorpion has taken your guy.”
Natasha was less than convinced. “He would not have talked,” she said with a flick of a hand.
“Maybe,” I replied, “but you’d be surprised what people give up when you ask them nice.”
She shrugged a load of obstinacy at me.
“Look, our mission has changed, but whether that alters your plans is up to you. Come with us or not, that’s your choice. But if you’re with us, no more killing unless I green-light it.” Granted, as counter offers go this wasn’t much of one, but I didn't want these two Ruskies thinking they had us by the pubics.
Natasha examined me as if trying to discern what I was really thinking, given that this was a complete about-face on my part on the question of going after Petrovich. They’d done this to me and now I was doing it back at them. A Canadian two-step without Canadians. I watched her eyes scanning my lines and features, hunting for nuances, subtexts, unspoken plots and so forth. After a moment, she seemed to decide I wasn’t smart enough for such subtleties and put a full stop on the probing with a shrug. “Okay, is deal,” she said. “We go with you.” She checked this with Igor.
Igor belched, which I read that if we had more Inedible w/Unspeakable & Unbelievable he was all in. “Find yourselves an AK each that’s not too bent out of shape, and some magazines,” I told him and Natasha. “We’re gonna need all hands. We leave in two minutes.”
“I have nothing to pack,” Natasha replied, and then added, “except for an unfeasibly spectacular body tucked into this here flight suit.”
Okay, she didn't say that, but the way she was standing, one hand on a hip swaying slightly, daring me to try something, the zip of the flight suit just so, I knew what she was thinking. In fact, what she more accurately said was, “We look for president … where?”
Good question. I waved a hand in the general direction of the northeast. “There,” I said expansively and went off to my ruck to pack away those MREs.
When it was time to go, I put Mazool behind the wheel of the ambulance, Natasha riding shotgun, and I rode with Alvin in back. Ahead, riding in the Toyota’s tray, Bo, Igor and Taymullah were dressed up like ISIS fighters, their heads shrouded, waving AKs just for show, Farib and Jimmy up front at the controls. We’d stowed the ISIS flags for now. Under the right circumstances, they could be a free pass, but more than likely they could get us wasted by zealous Russians or the special forces of half-a-dozen countries including American, Australia, France, New Zealander, the Netherlands – in fact, the elite soldiery of pretty much the rest of the world.
Alvin handed me the intelligence pack, a typewritten set of original documents that included notes and maps. I’d scanned it earlier and considered it to be roughly half a pound of hooey. The material and its conclusions and assumptions were thin, clearly put together on the fly by people under pressure. It was about as convincing as a carnival toupee. The three areas – Alpha, Bravo and Charley - in which the Scorpion had been “pinpointed”, were around 220, 250 and 280 miles respectively from our current position. These areas weren’t exactly adjacent to each other and each was roughly twenty square miles. That made it a job way beyond my little search party’s capabilities, no matter how awesomely cool the drone was. Another consideration: the roads. The highway east wasn’t exactly Route 1 on a Sunday morning. In this part of the world the roads – even the lesser ones – were either clogged by refugees or bands of militias, and often both, the latter more than especially trigger happy with their leadership gone and all their allegiances either breaking down or broken. “Fact is, despite what this says, the Scorpion couldn’t have covered 280 miles, shoot a video and upload it all by mid-morning coffee break.” I said to Alvin, considering the maps and notes spread out on the gurney.
The sergeant was likewise unconvinced. “ISIS fighters lately are in the habit of slipping away when the going gets tough. No way is this guy going to be hanging around out in the open, waiting to get pinned down.”
“He’s going to make sure he’s got a back door.”
“The border.” He pointed his ka-bar at the triangle. “The only option for this guy’s hideout has to be this one designated Position Alpha.”
The target triangle was 230-plus miles from the Hind’s crash site. That was a long way to drive in a handful of hours. Being in convoy with a mobile ZPU would help – it would give Al-Aleaqarab a reasonably free passage, unless he came up against organized elements of more heavily armed infantry, or an airborne threat. Perhaps that was where the Al-Hajarah and its Sunni-centric support came into the picture. Or maybe not.
“What about these Sunni villages? Are they really gonna help the Scorpion?” Alvin wondered, thinking along the same lines.
“I was thinking … What would someone like Petrovich be worth as a hostage?”
“Depends on who’s buying,” said Alvin.
“He’d have to be worth, what … maybe a hundred million? Five hundred million?”
“Really? That’s a lot of coin.”
“He’s the President of Russia … So you’re the Scorpion and you roll into town with this famous guy wearing a big fat price tag around his neck, and I’m living in a mud house with a dirt floor and no air-conditioning…”
“Five hundred million is gonna buy a lot of floor boards and air-conditioning.”
“If you had hostages worth that much, and the world knew you had them, who would you trust in northern Syria? Where would you go?”
“Somewhere quiet. He’s not going to be anywhere near a village. He’ll be hiding under a rock.”
“Right,” I said, “like a scorpion.”
Thirty-three
Ronald V. Small @realSmall
If you are an American and you fight on the side of terrorists who hate Americans, we will hate you right back.
Night had fallen, the day well and truly done. And that meant time to go to work. Sam Nanaster rode in the Desert Patrol Vehicle, an open-wheel desert racer powered by a dual, turbo-charged V6, a healthy shot of NOx available in the event of a tight squeeze. Nanaster removed the NVGs strapped to her head to better review the picture relayed to the tablet on her lap. “We’re close enough. Pull over up there,” she said with a gesture ahead.
The DPV growled to a stop on a flinty bluff overlooking a wadi cutting through the desert, the V6 burbling at idle. “Kill it,” she said to Ronan, her RTO – radio, telephone operator - and driver of choice. The motor died, imposing a momentary silence until the rising and falling of multiple four-stroke engines revving hard became audible.
“On me,” she said into the comms mike.
The pitch of the motorcycle engines changed noticeably and soon six riders rode up to the DPV, stopping in a ball of grit. Engines died and desert silence closed in.
“One breather,” she said. “From Portland, Oregon, this one. One Omar Al-Haq, alias Gregory James Walford, age thirty-six. Radicalized in 2013, came to Syria with his family via Turkey in 2014.” She showed her team the tablet, which displayed a photo of a smiling boy holding up a bearded severed head by its hair. “Walford’s kid, aged seven and a half. A highlight from Walford’s Facebook page.”
No one commented.
“We’ve got ten points of positive facial recognition. Ninety-two percent.”
She called up the confirmation on the tablet, two photos occupying the screen. One, in color, showed a clean-shaven Greg Walford with a football in hand. The other showed him bearded, cradling an RPG in his arms, shot with an infrared camera. Ten fine green lines joined various parts of one facial image with another. The words “92% Positive” underpinned the set.
“Where is he?” asked Luke Eldrich, a.k.a. Gunny, a lean sniper with a supersized mouth and a nose to match, three weeks of dark growth covering his cheeks.
“Two klicks upwind,” she replied. “One of seventeen men, all armed, identities and nationalities unknown, except for our breather. Five vehicles.”
“What about his kid – Walford’s?”
“Says here mother and both sons – also had a ten-year-old – all killed in Aleppo six months ago.”
“Gotta be my turn,” said Li’l Wilson looking around, a huge African–American from New Orleans, ex Navy SEAL.
Nanaster grinned. “Put your feet up. I got it.” Who doesn't love this job?
“I’ll spot,” Eldrich said.
Five minutes later Nanaster and Eldrich were jogging at a medium pace, all necessary loose metal-against-metal items taped to eliminate the sound. The soles of their boots were soft for the same reason, the high ground a mix of flinty grit and loose stones that reflected sound.
Kingdom Come Page 22
