Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  “Yes, that’s why no Reapers is the bad news.”

  “I’ll just tell the enemy to back off for a while. At least until we’re ready to blow them up again.”

  Clearly uncomfortable about our bacon swinging in the breeze, the major changed subjects.

  “We see that your identification strips are covered by scarves and other non-military clothing. The Russian woman is a blonde. Easy to spot by eyes in the sky. Maybe you could ask her to leave her hair uncovered.”

  “Not advisable, Major,” I said. “You know how they feel about exposed hair round here. Don’t want my men driven to the heights of passion. You were saying something about good news?”

  “We’ve been able to narrow the search area considerably. You’re no longer covering northern Syria and half of Iraq.”

  “Don't make it too easy for us, Jillian.”

  The voice on the line – an attractive voice, and I pictured an attractive face to go with it – then proceeded to give me the background: a rundown on sand flies, a flesh-eating disease and a few other pleasant details besides, along with map references for a grid pattern search covering a much smaller area of wadis two to three hours drive, terrain permitting, a little northeast of our current position. “Anything else,” I asked her at the appropriate time.

  “Bradley Chalmers,” she said.

  “One hell of a guy,” I replied.

  “Really?”

  “If you like complete tools, he is the full set of wrenches,” I told her. That got me a laugh. I was liking Major Schelly more and more.

  “I have to tell you he, or rather the CIA, is operating hit squads in Syria, taking out US nationals.”

  “I heard the rumor.”

  “Well, I can make it official for you. It’s no rumor. Operation Phoenix.”

  There was a pause in the line, and it told me a lot. “And you think Chalmers wastes enough time thinking about me that he might try and have me whacked?”

  “It’s possible,” she said.

  No, it’s probable, I thought but kept that to myself. “Chalmers is insecure, narcissistic and vindictive.”

  “He bears a grudge against you.”

  “That’s the vindictive part, and the feeling is mutual. Why should he have it all to himself, right?”

  “Only the difference is that you’re not the one in charge of black ops death squads operating with impunity who can do your dirty work for you with absolute deniability.”

  “Now you’re just sugar coating it.”

  “Look, I’ve asked the Secretary of Defense to get me the names and communications details of every unit leader, so that I can call them up and advise them of your area of operations.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I’m confident.”

  “And if you do manage to reach them – which I doubt – you’ll also be telling them exactly where the barrel is that the fish they’re looking for are swimming around in.”

  “Of course I’ve thought about that, but we’re trying to avoid a blue on blue here. The only defense Chalmers’s hit squad would have, if you were to be, well, whacked, is ignorance of your presence in a given area. I’ll be taking away that defense, and letting them know Air Force Special Operations is watching.”

  I could see the reasoning, but it didn’t stop that fishy feeling. “What about President Petrovich?”

  “A video was posted earlier today. They have crucified him. Literally.”

  “I’ve seen it,” I told her.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. On someone’s iPhone. Two signal bars.”

  “Wow,” she said, clearly as impressed as I was by the phone service hereabouts.

  “I know, right?”

  “Well, there’s a strong possibility that Petrovich may already be dead, though there is expert opinion that the Scorpion will keep him alive for three days. If that’s the case, then he doesn't have much time left.” She then said, “By the way, the Russians are reasonably convinced it was a US missile that shot Petrovich down, so they’re not happy with us.”

  “Do they have the same map coordinates you’ve just given me?”

  “I don't know – we haven't supplied them. But arriving there is a matter of deduction. If we cracked it, we have to assume they will too.”

  “Great.”

  “The commander-in-chief is counting on you. He asked me to deliver that message personally.”

  “Please tell him I’d like a pay rise.”

  “Vin, around 100,000 men on the Turkish border are waiting for the Scorpion to lead them to a final victory over the West, or the armies of Rome, as they call them. He has, almost overnight, become something of a messianic figure to millions of Muslims, who fully expect he will usher in the End of Days when the dead will rise and walk the Earth. He is being called the Mahdi – an heroic character straight out of the Qur’an … Sorry, that’s all a bit much to take in, and probably irrelevant, the point is, the Scorpion … He absolutely can not be allowed to join this horde and be seen to be fulfilling the Qur’an’s apocalyptic prophesies. His army will then almost certainly advance into Syria to reassert the caliphate and a coalition response will have to follow. And that could galvanize previously moderate Muslims the world over to take up arms. And if you want to ice this cake, the Scorpion has also had the Russian nuclear launch confirmation codes uploaded on the dark web.”

  I was thinking, “Just another day at the office, Major,” which was trite so I said nothing.

  “I’m giving you the overall strategic end game, as we see it,” Schelly said, filling in the silence. “Now it’s pretty much over to you.”

  To which I replied, “Just another day at the office, Major.” Okay, so I said that because, frankly, I just couldn't think of anything else to say other than, “don't worry”, or, “it’ll all work out fine”, both of which were even further along the trite scale. Also, I wasn’t feeling super confident that it would work out or that she shouldn't worry, because I, for one, was worrying like hell.

  The call ended. I pocketed the sat phone and took a deep breath. At least now we had a focus – somewhere to start the search. Natasha had returned to the ambulance and was sitting in the front seat. The moment with her was lost. She saw me walking toward the ambulance and turned away, confirming it. But we had time. Natasha would keep. My sense was that whatever lay at the heart of her reluctance to share was pivotal to the cascade of shit my team and I were being asked to clean up. I found my pack in the back of the ambulance, removed the trenching tool and passed it to her through the passenger door window opening. “If you can kill ‘em, you can bury ‘em.” By way of further explanation for burying the body, I added, “Rats.”

  Her eyes flashed some more of that Russian fury my way, but she still got out of her seat with the spade. Surly compliance was better than getting the bird flipped in my face, which I’d fully expected. She went to work with the trenching tool on a shallow grave, the earth mostly sand and stones, as the horizon began to lighten with the coming of a new day.

  “Bo,” I called out as I walked over. “What have we got?”

  “Same as before, Major. Just the pitter-patter of little rodent feet.”

  The coast being clear, I called a briefing with my guys and gave them the picture. A messiah to track down, a massive army ready to march, a probably deceased president on a cross, every overweight pimply hacker in every basement in the world having a crack at launching Russia’s nukes, the possibility of a CIA hit squad targeting us, Russians closing in, and something about dead people coming back to life, which was handy if you were in the Russian president’s most likely present state.

  Forty-four

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  He calls himself the Scorpion. Why would you name yourself after an insect? So dumb!

  “Caesar grows weaker by the minute,” the Scorpion said to the camera lens, behind him Petrovich’s bare rib cage was rising and falling with effort, the man’s slight paunch slick
with blood, sweat and desert dust. “He lives still, but for how much longer is the will of Allah the Merciful.”

  The jihadist operating the camera came out of the medium close-up, pulling back and widening the shot to show that there were now two more men crucified either side of Petrovich, their wrists and feet nailed to ancient, gnarled trees, the limbs of which seemed twisted and contorted, a silent agony in sympathy with the men.

  The Scorpion continued, “Caesar now shares his pain with two others. They too have proven to be enemies of Islam. Confirm to the world that the armies of Rome will meet the faithful on the plains of Dabiq, this being the will of Allah as written, and your president will be freed into your care. Allahu akbar.” The Scorpion gazed serenely into the camera lens for some seconds and then snapped at the camera operator, “Enough. Do what you must to the edit, but do not waste time.”

  “Yes, Lord,” said the cameraman and hurried away.

  “Ortsa,” Al-Aleaqarab beckoned and the young Chechen came to him.

  “What do you wish of me, Amir?” he said.

  “Tell me, what do the men say of these two?” He motioned at the men now accompanying the President of Russia on his most unpleasant journey.

  Ortsa gestured at the man on the left. “That one – Imad. He was well regarded. The other one, Jalil, not so much. They are now both despised for what they have done.”

  “Take two fighters with you to Raqqa and upload the video to YouTube from there. It is most important that you go nowhere else to do this. We must confuse the Americans and the Russians.”

  “What of our encampment here, Lord? Do we stay or leave?”

  “It is a consideration. These two fools have put us all at risk by not journeying to Al Hasakah to use the internet there. We cannot tolerate laziness and stupidity.” Ortsa’s question required some serious contemplation. Were soldiers from the West already journeying to this area, led there by the DNS address of the computer used to upload the previous video? Al-Aleaqarab had not survived so many years of war through incaution. And yet there were laws that had to be adhered to. It was stated that a man must be crucified for three days and then stabbed if he still breathed. Three days in the one place at a time of war when you are no longer certain of your location’s security was a long time. And yet the West was often ponderous and slow to react. Here in this cave was refuge, and yet … “Go quickly to Raqqa. Find also men who have pledged baya’a to the caliphate. Bring them here. We will move from this place soon and then we will call to our flag the faithful gathered at the borders. When we move, it must be with strength. Go.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  ***

  Sam Nanaster watched her men. Breakfast time. They seemed relaxed, eating MREs. No one bathed or washed. Survival meant smelling like the desert and the fighters who populated it. Scents carried on the wind, Hunting 101. Proctor and Gamble could get you killed. No one smoked, either. Not so unusual in a highly motivated, committed unit like this. And anyway, if you smoked it would have to be the local tobacco – dokha – a pungent nicotine-rich blend that could give you cancer from 100 paces.

  Li’l Wilson was doing sit-ups, counting down from 300. Soon he would move on to pushups – fifty on each arm – a morning ritual.

  Nanaster turned around slowly. The farmhouse they had inspected before dawn was a bump on the hard, flat tan line that marked the curved circle of the world. All around, for as far as she could see, was blissful emptiness. Sneaking up on someone here took some talent and experience. And the right time: mostly between the hours of twilight and first light.

  A drone was up, providing early warning of any movement – there was none – which made this a moment of relaxation before the day’s business was attended to: making sure the wrong people never made it home, not even in a bag. Home. She snorted. Where is that anyway?

  She dug the fork into breakfast, put it in her mouth and chewed. Spaghetti with Beef & Sauce. Her least favorite. The meat tasted like minced cork and the sauce defied description. Splashing sriracha sauce on it helped. She didn’t hold back on the sauce. This food needed a lot of help.

  “Sam,” said Ronan, his voice in her earpiece. She glanced over at the DPV. The sergeant was sitting on the back of the desert racer the CIA gave them as a command vehicle, the words “Boot Hill Express” written in large white lettering against the olive paintwork. He gestured at her with a brief wave. “Morning.”

  “Morning, Ronan. Sleep okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Like a baby.”

  “So you were up every two hours with a soiled diaper?”

  “No, ma’am. The, er, proverbial baby. The one that sleeps through.”

  They come in that version?

  “And you?”

  “Like a log, thanks.” Liar. You haven't had a decent night’s sleep in a long time. Not since … well, you know when.

  “Like the one headed for the sawmill?”

  “Touché,” she smiled. The pleasantries out of the way, the RTO informed her, “Just had our early morning wakeup call from command. Big news.”

  “Do tell.”

  “The President of Russia has been captured by ISIS.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. His bird came down somewhere east of Latakia.”

  “Shit.” Latakia is not in our field of operations. That’s a relief. Gonna get real ugly in that part of the world. The Russian CSAR will be tearing the place apart searching for him. “Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Any instructions for us on that front, other than a heads up?”

  “Nope. Just an FYI. Gonna be another ground hog day for us. Map references for some place up north. Four nationals. Priority Alpha. Extreme prejudice.”

  Four breathers? That’s a high concentration. “They with a bigger unit?”

  “No information on that, ma’am.”

  “Guess we’d better roll.”

  “I’ll pass the word.”

  Nanaster returned to her breakfast and a few moments of further contemplation. The patrol had been outside the wire for nearly three weeks chasing breathers who’d turned their backs on Uncle Sam. Three weeks was a long time. The team was fatigued. Mistakes loved fatigue.

  ***

  I decided to change things up, give Natasha and me a break from each other, and sat in the Toyota’s bed with Jimmy, Alvin, Igor and Mazool, headscarves pulled across our faces to keep out the rooster tail of dust thrown up by the vehicle. The going was slow on account of all the wadis running west to east across our path, bumping down one side and up the other. The ambulance got itself bogged to the axles in fine sand and dirt a couple of times, and had to be towed out before we’d motored more than a couple of miles into the desert. The sun was already high, the light dazzling and the heat creeping toward the intense end of the scale. Summer was on the way.

  The men bouncing around beside me in the Toyota looked like jihadists: headscarves, waistcoats, combat pants and AKs. I wore the same fancy dress. When in Rome, right? Especially in broad daylight. The fact that we were a racial potpourri mattered little in a country that had been a Mecca for assholes from the four corners of the planet for much of the civil war. And if we were stopped by remnants of Islamic State, we had plenty of their black flags we could unfurl to put their mind at ease. Simplistic, but we didn’t have a lot more to work with. If things got too complicated, our only answer would be to flick our selectors to full auto.

  Bo’s drone was up, orbiting 500 feet above the vehicles. It was impossible to see with the naked eye, even when you knew where to look. Every now and then I asked if he’d picked up anything, but, so far, negative on that. I knew he’d inform me the moment there was something so the question was a waste of breath. Maybe the drone hadn’t picked up anything because it was a dud. Okay, so I’ll admit to being a little nervous. The picture Schelly painted presented odds that were – let’s call ‘em asymmetrical. “We nearly there yet?” I asked Bo over the comms.

  “Averaging around twenty miles an hour, boss.
Got a ways to go yet.”

  In other words, quit bugging me. I looked for a distraction. There was one sitting right next to me: Igor. His shoulders kept bumping me as the Toyota rolled slowly across the uneven landscape. He had a lot of shoulder and they took up plenty of room. “Hey Igor, what is it with you and Natasha? You don't see eye to eye. How come?”

  No response. I gathered that he was looking at me, at least his head was turned in my general direction, but actual visual contact was not easy to verify given his eyes were behind sunglasses shrouded in shadow thrown by his headscarf. And, of course, there was the language problem. “Natasha. You no like. Why?” I said butchering the English for him.

  He nodded his big head, which I took to mean that he agreed with the statement, though it could have been the up and down movement of the Toyota’s suspension doing all the agreeing.

  “What is it between the both of you?” I persisted. Igor’s noggin moved like a bobble head. “The way you guys are with each other, something’s gone on, right?” Still nothing. Maybe he was deaf, or had sand in his ears. There was plenty of it about. I tried another tack. “Tell me about Petrovich? You traveled with him. What’s he like?”

  “He good man, and not good man,” he said finally.

  Okay, so we’d established it wasn’t sand, but I was right about the language barrier. “Good and bad?”

  “Da.”

  Progress. “Why was he good?”

  “Strong leader. Make decision. Good for military.”

  “And with cute, furry creatures? How was he with them?” I asked.

  Igor looked at me. I think.

  “He liked to ride stallions bareback, move battle tanks around the board and annex small, defenseless former Soviet satellites. That much I know. Was there, y’know, a softer side?”

  “Serzhánt Novikova tell this.”