Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  Nanaster gave the signal to stop. She checked the tablet, the drone high overhead verifying Walford’s presence. Thermal imaging showed sentries posted out as far as 400 yards from the main camp. They’re nervous. They should be.

  Eldrich took the lead. Going into the crouching run, NVGs down, he brought them around so that they would make the approach directly into the breeze. No crosswind. Thank you. Nanaster appreciated his thoughtfulness. Around 800 yards to target. Not overly difficult, but that’s a large party of assholes down there. Gonna be no time for a ranging shot. Have to be clean.

  Eldrich got down on the ground and began to military crawl on elbow and kneepads, the carbine carried in the crook of his elbows. Nanaster followed. Several minutes of crawling brought them to the crest of a gentle slope, a wide wadi below. A little less than a klick away, the flickering light of small cooking fires illuminated a number of pickups and other vehicles parked in a rough circle.

  Nanaster brought herself up beside Eldrich who was already removing the spotter’s high-powered night scope from its container and setting it on its tripod. The tablet containing facial recognition information was on the ground, ready to be plugged into his scope.

  She set the M4 down then slipped the Mk 14’s strap off her shoulder, swinging the rifle off her back and bringing it into her hands. The weight of it felt good, like holding your child. She got down on the ground, rolled onto her back, removed the scope lens caps, confirmed a round in the chamber, and checked safety. On. She rolled back onto her stomach, rested her chin on the stock and her eye aligned with the scope. Nanaster might not have been a sniper in places like Fallujah or Helmand province, but she’d done all the courses, had been taught by the best and had the hands of a micro surgeon – rock steady.

  A number of men were visible. She moved the reticle from one head to the next, searching. There was no laughing around this campfire. The faces were serious, vacant or brooding. Two shadows within the shadows moved. Nanaster adjusted the focus a click. Women. In full niqabs. There were, in fact, four of them. One was grabbed by the arm and hoisted onto her feet. Nanaster moved the reticle. It was a man. And this man was special. There was a laser, invisible to the naked eye, projected by the targeting drone, dancing on the side of his head.

  “Come to mama,” said Nanaster.

  Eldrich’s voice in her earpiece: “I got ninety percent facial recognition confirmation on breather Omar Al-Haq. Take the shot, Sam.”

  “Confirmed,” she said.

  ***

  Anjen Al Masri squatted by the fire. His thoughts were confused. Perhaps it is like that with everyone, he thought. There is so much to say that no one knows where to begin.

  “We should make our way to Dabiq,” said Haddi, an Arab from the holy city of Mecca. “Everyone is talking. The Mahdi is coming and the End of Days is upon us.”

  If I could truly speak my mind, I would say, no, I am going home, hopeful that Allah has spared my home and I have one to go to. I am tired of desert sand, the jump of the gun in my hand, the smell of blood and the lack of sleep. Perhaps if I could sleep, lie down for a week, when I woke I would feel differently. But I am too tired. I am certainly too tired to tell you my secret fears. “Yes, we should do that,” he said without conviction.

  No one responded. The men ate what little food they had and enjoyed a few moments without battle.

  “Tell them, Naashi,” Haddi urged.

  Naashi, sitting with legs crossed in front of the fire, eating a jar of olives taken from a refugee, ignored him.

  “What about you, Omah?” Haddi asked him. “What are you going to do?”

  “What every devout Muslim should do,” he said, squatting, drawing circles in the earth with the tip of his blade. “Die a martyr’s death and spend an eternity in Paradise. That is what we should all do. But in the meantime, I will do as Allah dictates, kill the unbelievers and enjoy the company of slaves.” He stood and walked to where the women had been seated. They were refugee women. These were the handsome ones, their apostate husbands, fathers and brothers sent to hell. “You,” he said, grabbing one of the dark shadows by the arm and pulling her to her feet. Her wrist was small. She was young, but old enough. “Tonight you will lie with a warrior who fights for Allah’s glory. Be grateful –”

  The woman screamed and dropped to the ground, Omah’s body falling also to the ground. Only now his head was halved – an eye, a cheek and most of the mouth was all that remained. What was no longer on his face had soiled her niqab.

  ***

  A muffled phut accompanied by a small puff of dust rose from the ground around the barrel of Nanaster’s rifle.

  A moment later Eldrich, not taking his eye from the scope, said, “Nice shot, boss. A breather no more.”

  Thirty-four

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  ISIS. Trying to use our Christian symbols against us. SAD!

  “Make sure you are in close with the camera,” said Al-Aleaqarab. “More than just feel his pain, I want the armies of Rome to smell it.”

  The operator brought the camera to within half a meter of the president’s filthy hand, slicked with blood in various stages of coagulation. The hand shook as if shivering with cold, but it was not cold.

  “Get his feet too. I want everyone to see his feet. I want them to know this is no trick. And do not forget his face. If he cannot be recognized this will be for nothing. When you make the video, you can put it all in. Show me when you think you are finished.”

  The two film crews assured the Scorpion that of course they would do all of this. Nevertheless, Ortsa berated them. “Do you not know how to operate a simple camera?” He clipped a sound recorder across his head. “This is a great honor, to be here at the beginning of the end. What is wrong with you? When the Mahdi speaks, listen and do as he says.”

  “Ortsa, enough. I am not the Mahdi,” the Scorpion admonished him.

  “Amir, all of us have read the passages over and over. Al-Baghdadi lied. You are the Mahdi. It has to be you! Who else but the Mahdi purifies the world with a great battle? This is the word of Allah, may his name be praised.”

  Al-Aleaqarab had heard the men whispering this among themselves. Truly, this was not an honor he sought. Mohammad, who had received the words from God, proclaimed the Mahdi’s coming, the prophesized redeemer who would usher in the End of Days and rule until Judgment Day. And yet he, Temurazi Kvinitadze Sumbatashvili, was just a man. He was not even of the Qurasysh tribe favored by Allah to rule all Muslims, as al-Baghdadi was, the deceased leader of Ad-Dawlah al-Islamiyah gone to Paradise. He could not be the Mahdi … And yet it was also true that his actions were following the sacred texts given to Mohammad by God, not exactly as they were rendered, but close. Was it possible that God so favored him? Was he the Mahdi? Did he not have the codes; the ones that could rain missiles down on the Earth and burn away all apostasy?

  A whimper that was also part scream took Al-Aleaqarab from these thoughts. Dark urine ran down the president’s leg, down his bloody foot and off the end of his big toe. It made a puddle in the dirt below his feet.

  Ortsa waved at the BMW. “Bring it around! Turn on the lights.”

  The BMW crawled forward, and fixed its high beams on the Scorpion and President Petrovich. The Toyota with the ZPU was also brought up, its powerful spotlights beating back the night. Whorls of dust and motes drifted through the powerful beams.

  Al-Aleaqarab read his notes a final time, his lips moving as he scanned the Arabic hurriedly written with a woman’s eyeliner pencil on a page torn from the BMW’s service manual. He stuffed the paper up a sleeve and faced the camera. “I am ready,” he announced.

  One of the men made the signal with his hand showing four fingers then three, then two, and then he pointed at the Mahdi.

  ***

  The Toyota bounced and then shuddered violently on the ruts carved into the hard, baked earth of the wadi, etched there by the wind. The headlights carved a cone of light into the darkness.
The occasional low shrub stood like bones in the brittle white light cast by the utility’s LEDs.

  “He is the Mahdi,” said Jalil. “Everyone is certain of it.”

  “I am sure as well,” Imad agreed.

  They exchanged a look, proud but scared.

  “What will the Antichrist look like? What have you heard?” Imad asked.

  Jalil scoffed at him. “I don’t listen to rumors or stories told by women to scare children. I have read the Qur’an and hadiths so I know that he has red skin. And this red, it is the color of blood.”

  They drove in silence for a while, lost in their imaginings of the end of the world foretold. Eventually, Jalil said, “Crucifixion is not a good death. There is nothing noble in such a death. Give me a sword thrust or a bullet.”

  “This punishment was chosen by Allah himself for the enemies of Islam. You wouldn’t honor your enemies with a glorious death.”

  “Have you seen the Crusader’s hands? The nails pulled through, between his fingers, so they nailed him again through the wrists. He hangs there, no more strength in his legs. He labors for breath as if there is a huge weight on his chest.”

  “The weight of the unbeliever.”

  “I wonder if he will die before the appointed time? He seemed strong, but this is a punishment that saps the strength.”

  A shepherd and three goats suddenly rose from the blackness, causing Imad to swerve violently and wrestle with the steering wheel, bouncing at a steep angle down the side of a wadi. Finally, the Toyota came to a stop. Imad’s heart was racing.

  “Astaghfirulaaaah! You drive like a blind man,” Jalil screamed at him

  “We, we nearly rolled over.”

  “Yes, I know. And it is fortunate that we didn’t.” Jalil looked back over his shoulder, hoping to see the shepherd so that he could beat the man but, beyond the red of their stoplights, there was only darkness. “We are the Mahdi’s messengers,” he continued. “I don't think Paradise would be happy to see us if we died, our holy task left unfulfilled. Drive more carefully.”

  Imad put the pickup back into gear, massaged the accelerator pedal and eased the vehicle up the bank of the wadi and onto the flat. “There is no road, that is the problem.”

  “You are a bad driver – that is the problem. How much further?” Jalil enquired. “We don't have all night.”

  Imad checked the trip meter. “Sixty kilometers. Maybe a little more.”

  “Just drive. Keep your eyes open!”

  “You can drive,” said Imad. “I have no love for it.”

  Jalil glared at him and sank lower in his chair, looking for comfort. They drove in silence a while longer, Imad more cautious now behind the wheel, realizing that the empty desert was not so empty.

  A home made from mud bricks with small yards fenced with wood came and went, light shining from a window.

  “Stop!” cried Jalil, taking a few seconds to process what he had just seen.

  Imad took his foot off the pedal and the Toyota slowed quickly in a field of sand, rocks and bush. “Why? Before you were in a hurry. Now you are not?”

  “The house back there. I saw a dish. There was also electric light. Perhaps they have a computer, and also the Internet. We could upload from there.”

  “We should keep going to Al Hasakah, as the Mahdi ordered,” Imad cautioned him. “He was specific about it. We must go to Al Hasakah.”

  “He wants the video on YouTube – that is the point. If he knew there were closer options, would he still have us drive all the way to a city? Cities can be dangerous. The Kurds rule Al Hasakah. We could be shot or wounded. There could be bandits. What if we lost the thumb drive?”

  “He said Al Hasakah.”

  “Because he believed it to be the closest opportunity to access the Internet.”

  “I don’t know …” said Imad, wavering.

  “Imad, to become a leader, you must lead. Al-Aleaqarab will not know. What does it matter to him? Here or Al Hasakah?”

  Jalil’s reasoning was sound. “Okay.” Imad relented and turned the Toyota around until the house lay ahead, a distant light burning clean and bright behind a curtain. Shortly after, he brought the vehicle to a stop outside. Both men grabbed their AKs and got out. Jalil noted the hum of generator.

  “Assalam alaikum,” said a voice from the shadows. A man stepped into the dim starlight.

  “Wa alaikum assalam,” Jalil replied, mirroring the familiar greeting.

  “I heard you stop and turn around. Travelers are always welcome in the home I share with my brother and mother.”

  “And ten goats,” Imad said, counting them as they milled about the small dusty enclosure.

  “You are men from the caliphate,” he said.

  “Yes,” Jalil replied.

  “Good. You work in the service of Allah the merciful. Come in, be my guests and share in our food. There will be enough for you. I am Nasim Al Badur,” he said, leading them to the front door.

  Once inside, the air smelt of bread and spices. A dusty old table occupied one corner, a single chair behind it. A computer was open on the desk, the picture of a waterfall and another of a polar bear drifting across the screen. A squat older woman adjusted the full niqab she had clearly rushed to put on, and otherwise ignored the men. On the floor, a man sat cross-legged among cushions, a tray in front of him with bowls of flat bread, a little meat and cheese. Behind him, against the wall, leaned a couple of AKs.

  This is my younger brother, Emran,” said Nasim. He addressed the younger man. “Emran, these are men from the caliphate. They are guests.”

  “We are most grateful for your hospitality,” Jalil told him. “Do you have Internet here?”

  “Yes, my younger brother brought it to the house.

  “Assalam alaikum.” Emran lifted a hand in a vague gesture of welcome. “You talk about me as if I were not here, brother. I brought the television, too. And the generator that powers it.” He aimed the remote at the large television screen that took up almost one entire wall of the house and turned off the sound.

  “Wa alaikum assalam,” Jalil and Imad replied. Jalil continued, “We are going to Al Hasakah to get news of the world. We saw your dish.”

  “My computer is there on the desk, if you would care to use it.” He motioned at it. “Please …”

  “I thank you,” said Jalil and he went to the desk.

  “I can tell you a great army of the faithful assembles in Turkey and other lands. They say the signs point to the coming of the Mahdi.”

  “He is here already,” Imad told them.

  Emran, who was a little overweight, struggled to his feet with some noisy effort.

  “This I did not know!”

  “Is there a passcode?” Jalil asked at the computer.

  “Emran99. No space.”

  Jalil tapped the code into the field and the screen showed the browser. “Nice computer,” he said.

  “You can do anything on it,” Emran bragged. “It is quite powerful.”

  Jalil turned and opened fire on Emran, his older brother Nasim, their mother and the television, until the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. The three died quickly, making a bloody mess of the wall behind them.

  “Stop! Why did you do this!” Imad shouted at him as gun smoke curled from the muzzle of Jalil’s AK. “We were their guests. We were under their protection. You broke the sacred bond. We will both be cursed.”

  “Don't be a fool, Imad. The Crusader police will hurry straight to the upload source. In Al Hasakah we could come and go and conduct our business unnoticed. Here, we will be remembered. This way, our identities remain unknown.” Jalil dug the USB stick from a breast pocket and pushed it into the slot.

  “Now we can stay awhile, eat, relax, and no one will be any the wiser.”

  ***

  “Boss,” came Jimmy’s familiar voice in my earpiece, “we got an intersection coming up.”

  Alvin turned the map over and indicated our position with the tip of his
ka-bar. It was decision time or, rather, confirmation time of an earlier decision: back to Latakia, north to Idlib, Aleppo and Dabiq, or harder right to Raqqa? “Raqqa it is, but when the time comes we want to find a way around it. Got no desire to tour the main street.”

  Jimmy concurred. “Roger that, sir.”

  The road ahead was framed by the opening where the ambulance’s windshield used to be. There were no streetlights, the irregular surface was pocked by holes and debris, and the night was heavy with the smell of burning shit, rubber and diesel; the usual perfumes of war. We were approaching a road sign full of bullet holes and other larger projectile holes, indicating the intersection was not far ahead. So here’s the thing that surprised me since we’d hit the main road. Where was everyone? Not the refugees, they were everywhere. I meant the combatants. We’d seen two BTRs motoring in the opposite direction, which we avoided by driving slow, Mazool and Taymullah waving at them, but not a single jihadist asshole. So how come, right? No pickups with recoilless rifles in the back, chaperoned with assholes. No racing convoys of AK-waving assholes. No assholes by the roadside. Just the usual ceaseless flood of despairing humanity taking itself to a place where it believed it wouldn’t be shot, burned or tortured by whichever assholes felt like it at the time, or bombed by the rest of the world trying to protect them from said assholes.

  As an OSI special agent, essentially a criminal investigator, your job is to deduce the identity of the party or parties involved in a crime, based on the evidence you find, and then you bring him, her or them to a court where a judge, judges and/or jury make the decision about guilt or innocence. Complex, but not something that assaults your sense of humanity. But here, looking at the sullen waves of people shuffling forward, there was only complication mixed with privation and death and assholes. And always the feeling that I should be doing something to help. I guessed that I was doing something – helping to bring this catastrophe to an end sooner rather than later.