Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  “But we’re smarter than that,” the president told her.

  Hey, a minute ago you were gonna nuke them, thought Schelly. I’m confused.

  “Religion – both Muslim and Christianity – is the bedrock on which he builds all of his communications,” the professor continued. “With a religious fanatic, who undoubtedly sees everything through the prism of his faith, it is not unexpected. And now, as you can see, there are three men crucified on the hill. This is no mistake. If you remember, there were three men crucified on the hill – two thieves joining Christ. Interesting also that the Scorpion references a crucified victim having to be stabbed after three days on the cross.”

  President Small appeared to be hanging on her every word. “Yes, very, very interesting.” He turned to Epstein. “Do we know where the Scorpion is? Can we get him? I want to get him. And I want cameras on hand when we get him.”

  “Obama had cameras when he took down bin Laden,” Bunion reminded him.

  “We gotta have cameras there,” President Small reiterated.

  “Mr President,” said Epstein. “The CIA believes, interesting though it is on a psychological level, that the iconography is a diversion. This video was hurriedly shot and edited for one reason and one reason only – so that it could be posted from a location far away from the Scorpion’s hideout – Raqqa in this instance. His last video was posted from a location close to his current hideout – we don't know how they made such a mistake, but mistake it was. It’s CIA’s view that this video was shot purely for our benefit – to make us believe he’s someplace other than where he is. Yes, three men are now crucified instead of one, but the video essentially contains no new information, no new demand. But the terrain is clearly visible. It’s not flat, non-descript desert. It has form and feature, geology and geography. There’s a chance this video will lead us right to him.”

  Except that the Scorpion might already be on the move, the thought struck Schelly. That would be a good reason not to be too concerned about giving away my location if I were the Scorpion.

  The president was nodding with some satisfaction. “Andy?”

  “I think we may be getting somewhere, Mr President. At last.”

  Professor Başak appeared troubled. “Madam Secretary, if I may?”

  “Of course,” Epstein replied.

  “The Bible says Christ was on the cross for less than a day – nine hours – before he was proclaimed deceased. Just prior to this, the Bible tells us, the Centurion Longinus, who used his spear, stabbed him in the side of his chest. It is clear that the Scorpion uses religious precedent when it suits him to do so. We believed he would keep President Petrovich alive on the cross for three days, and he is telling us this. But if Christ can be stabbed after just nine hours on the cross, perhaps he thinks the Russian Caesar can be, too.” The professor concluded, “That tells us two things. We believed the Scorpion would have to stay in the one place for at least three days, to give him time to lawfully, at least in the eyes of God, crucify the president. But if he feels that nine hours is enough, the president was probably stabbed shortly after this video was made and the Scorpion is now on the move. I fear, if the aim is to recover the Russian president alive, we may already be out of time.”

  Schelly found herself nodding in agreement to the professor’s conclusion. You read my mind, girlfriend.

  “Of course, we’re only speculating. Whichever way you look at it, time is of the essence,” said Epstein. “Recovering the president alive is an aim. But the priority now must surely be to prevent a rendezvous between the Scorpion and the many thousands of Muslims on the Turkish border who have pledged their support to his cause. And then, of course, there is the significant goal of recovering the Cheget. Major?” Epstein said with a gesture at Schelly.

  Schelly pulled the map from a tube, unfurled it on the table, and placed empty water glasses at the map’s four corners to stop it rolling up. “We believe the Scorpion is, or was, in this area.” The president got out of his chair and came over to stand beside her, flooding the immediate area with cologne. Using a red Sharpie as a pointer, she said, “This line here is the Turkish border. This is the Euphrates River. Here, as you can see, is Dabiq, and this is Raqqa.” She removed the Sharpie’s top and drew an oval shape on the map to the right of the Euphrates, the location roughly equidistant to Dabiq and Raqqa. “This circled area is around fifteen square miles. He’s somewhere here. Or at least, he was here this morning, local Syrian time. With luck, he still might be.” She drew a cross through the circle. The graphic resembled crosshairs in a gun sight.

  “And where are our forces?”

  “Here.” She drew a small circle. “Moving north.”

  “How many we got?”

  “A team of four.”

  “That’s it?”

  Epstein reminded him, “Mr President, the team that took out bin Laden wasn’t much bigger.”

  The president digested this. “Cameras?”

  “We’ll try, Mr President,” Schelly told him. “We should have drones – Reapers or Predators – on station.”

  “We have spoken with the Russians,” the president told them. “They believe this whole thing with Petrovich was our doing, right? So unfair.”

  “Delivering Valeriy to them alive might be the one chance we get to put the world back together,” Bunion said, staring straight at Schelly. “We’re counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with less conviction than was required. And I’m counting on a guy most believe is a liability and who I think the CIA is gonna try to whack.

  “Next point on the agenda, Mr President,” Bunion reminded him.

  “Yes, the disturbing reports in the news,” he said, changing gear. “Dead people coming back to life.”

  “We’re still trying to verify those reports, Mr President,” said Epstein. “There has to be an explanation.”

  “But these reports are coming from all over,” said the president, deeply concerned.

  Bunion added, “We’ve had discussions with several senators and congressmen who are more than a little alarmed. What do we do with criminals who have received the death penalty and had their sentences carried out? Do we kill them all over again? Will they stay dead a second time? What about all our war dead coming back? What about the pensions we pay their families? We’d have to ask them to repay that money. From how far back will these dead return? I mean, how old will they be? Are we gonna have Civil War dead walking the streets? Will they still be fighting their battles? Will the returned dead have memories of their lives before they died? What do these newly living dead eat? Do they have heartbeats? Are they technically alive? Will we have to redefine what dead actually means? I gotta tell ya, church leaders are going crazy. We worship Christ because he came back from the dead, but if this becomes a commonplace event, where does that leave Christianity? Where’s the miracle? These are just some of the questions being asked.”

  Schelly found herself bewildered.

  “There are reported sightings of the Antichrist,” the president reminded them. “The Antichrist – sounds like a title for a horror movie. They say he has red skin – like, seriously blood red skin, not like sunburned. The question is, where is Jesus? I mean, there are people claiming to be him, right? How do we know when the real Jesus arrives?”

  “Maybe he’ll perform a miracle, Mr President,” Bunion suggested.

  “There’ll have to be tests,” the president said. “I could ask him to walk across the pond – the one in front of the Washington Monument.”

  “Walking on water. Good idea, sir.”

  “I think so.”

  “Anyway,” Bunion continued, “the more we hear about these things in the media, the more the random attacks against civilians from radical Islamists increase. All these reports just embolden more acts of terror. Do we consider censoring the news?”

  Schelly had no answers, and was about to say so when the professor counseled, “Mr President. We have all heard the
se stories about the dead rising and fulfilling the Qur’anic apocalyptic prophesy, and certainly these are strange times with a man claiming to lead the world’s Muslims to a final battle against the West, a battle foretold over 1600 years ago. But we have not seen one of these so-called undead properly examined, in a medical sense. This phenomenon is new and far from thoroughly investigated. Let us hear what the experts have to say before we jump to conclusions.”

  The president seemed somewhat reassured. “Good, yes. Good advice, Professor. You are not just a very pretty face, are you?” He stood. “Andy?”

  “Agreed, Mr President.”

  “Well, please keep me informed. These more intimate meetings work well. What do you think?” he asked Bunion.

  “Yep,” he said, “works for me.”

  “You’re all doing a tremendous job. Tremendous,” the president continued. “But we need to win this. A win win win for America. We’re a winning country. The greatest. And let’s not forget – cameras.”

  President Small grinned, changed his look to a scowl. He then stood and walked out, Bunion in his wake.

  “I have to get going also,” said Epstein. She glanced at Schelly as she packed. “Anything happens with your team in the desert, I want to be the first to know. What about those Reapers? Can we really get eyes on?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but it won't be Spielberg. Nothing at ground level.”

  “We’ll take what we can get.” The SECDEF slid a small piece of paper the size of a Post-it across the table toward Schelly. “There’s a name and a number. You have need-to-know, but the security protocols are sketchy. I can't tell you whether you’re allowed to have this or not. Best I can do.”

  Schelly palmed the folded slip. “I didn’t get this from you, ma’am.”

  Epstein smiled briefly and picked up her briefcase. “Professor, Major …” She gave them both a nod and headed for the door.

  Once the SECDEF had cleared the room, Schelly said, “Despite what you just told the president, you’re worried, aren't you?” She rolled up the map and fed it into the tube.

  “The signs, remember? They all point to the same thing. And now with the stories of the dead rising.”

  “But you said –”

  “Forget what I said. I fear it is upon us.”

  “The End of Days?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re a professor. An academic. How can you believe in this stuff?”

  “With everything that is happening, how can you not believe? I will be judged.” The professor looked genuinely scared. “They will throw me from a rooftop and I will spend an eternity in hellfire.”

  Schelly placed a hand on the professor’s shoulder. “If that’s what happens, Kiraz, I’m gonna be right there burning beside you, holding your hand.”

  SECSTATE Bassingthwaite walked in. “Where’s the Secretary of Defense?” He was on edge, one hand on a hip, the other on his forehead. “I was told she was here.”

  “She just left, Mr Secretary,” Schelly replied. What’s happened?

  “The most technologically advanced country on Earth, but when the phone’s switched off …” He paced left and right as if considering his next move. “You see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  “Yes, sir.” Schelly stood.

  “Be among the first to know, Major. The entire 20th Brigade of the Turkish Army has just now deserted and gone over to the Scorpion’s army. Over a hundred tanks, plus armored vehicles, self-propelled guns, anti-tank weapons … A lot of those tanks are old, but a tank’s a tank.”

  “Shit,” Schelly blurted, stunned. And then, realizing that she had said it and not just thought it, she added, “Sorry, sir.”

  “No,” Braithwaite replied, “I think that about sums it up. One brigade goes over like that, others will follow. This will be the thin edge of the wedge for sure.”

  Forty-nine

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  Your days are numbered. You know who I mean. We will squash you with a boot made in America by real Americans.

  Almost nowhere to hide out here, Captain Nanaster thought. There were no valleys, forests or cities on the Hamad, a vast billiard-table flat plain of grit and rubble that covered most of Syria to the east and northern Iraq. Tunnels were an option, but tunnels required cooperation, organization and time. So, for the most part, there was not even a rock to crawl under. Makes my job easier. She swept the horizon with high-powered binocs and saw plenty of heat haze rising off the ground, but little else. “I got nothing,” she said and sucked water from the Camelbak.

  “Same, boss,” Li’l Wilson reported, checking all the feeds from the drone high overhead.

  “Let’s see what the Company’s got for us. Ronan?”

  The RTO staked out the portable antennae, the backend comms unit already connected. Once the uplink confirmed a solid connection, the download took only a few seconds.

  “Four breathers. Priority Alpha,” Ronan said, reviewing decidedly poor quality stills photographs of four US citizens. “Hard to make out who they are. You wanna look?”

  Nanaster took the images and flicked through them. Yeah, poor quality. So what? Ultimately, it would be the data downloaded to their software that would confirm their ID. She handed back the photos. Priority Alphas – what had they done to deserve that? Males, three white, one black. All early-to-mid thirties. What makes a man throw in his life to fight a war on a foreign shore for a cause as brutal as ISIS’s? Nanaster just couldn't figure reasons good enough. But there had to be something, because so many men had left families, friends, communities and their histories behind to fight for it. Maybe it was something in the religion or the ideology, a hook that jagged some part of the brain. But whatever that something was, Nanaster couldn't get a hold on it. It wasn’t as if the land they fought for was worth all the blood. The area ISIS had staked out was a harsh and unforgiving place, almost impossible to scratch a living from. All it had was a population who could be taxed and extorted for revenue, but little else. Ultimately, though, the questions mattered little. The mission was simple: to ensure these bastards, who had killed and raped their way across two sovereign nations for the last four years, never got to bring their poisonous knowledge home. Priority Alpha meant these guys were the worst.

  She glanced at the accompanying intelligence. It was scant, just names and aliases: Bo Baker, alias Mohammad bin Mohammad, from Tennessee; Jimmy McVeigh, alias Ali Al-Bakr, from Brunswick, Georgia; Vincent Smith, alias Kareem Al-Waleed, from Washington DC; and Alvin Leaphart, alias Raamiz Al-Jafar from El Paso, TX. The four men were in the company of three unidentified Syrian Army deserters who had taken up with ISIS, plus two other unidentified nationals from Chechnya, one of them a woman. That last fact was unusual: a woman fighting within an otherwise all-male ISIS unit? Nanaster hadn't seen that before. Was she someone’s wife? Someone’s slave? Poor quality photos, poor quality information. The intel might be in error. More than possible. Nanaster let it go – Uncle Sam’s beef was not with other foreign nationals. “Where are they?” she asked.

  “Close, boss. The last intel available had them in an area around forty clicks north.”

  Nanaster scanned the horizon again. Clear. “Okay. We’ll get to the general area. Start a grid search from the south when we get there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Pass the word.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  ***

  The voice in Al-Aleaqarab’s mind was a warning. It was a voice he listened to because it had kept him alive while so many friends and comrades had fallen. The voice told him that it was time to leave the cave. It has provided security, but we could also be trapped here. There is safety in mobility, provided we have numbers in support. Ortsa should return from Raqqa well before nightfall. How many fighters will he bring? Everyone must be ready before Asr. “You and you – Ramis, Ehab,” he said pointing at two men lying on the ground, trying to sleep. “Now is not the time to rest. Get up, gather the
men.” The two veterans leapt to their feet, excited and awed that the Mahdi knew them by name. “Pass the word that we must be ready to leave this place before afternoon prayer. Go now.”

  Ramis and Ehab circulated first among the fighters in the cave, which was soon buzzing with activity.

  The only question Al-Aleaqarab had concerned Petrovich and the other two. “What to do?” he said quietly. May Allah give me the wisdom to choose.

  At the very back of the cave, lit by flashlights, the doctor was leaning over the remaining wounded fighter. The Scorpion went to him. “Thalib, how is our wounded little scorpion?”

  “Lord,” the doctor replied with a deferential bow of his head, “he sleeps now, but he is much better. When he wakes, I will be getting him up.”

  “I am pleased to hear that Allah was not anxious for his arrival. His time will come. In the meantime, we will need every soldier for the battle to come.”

  “Yes, Amir,” Thalib replied.

  “Have you seen President Petrovich recently?”

  “No, Lord. I was about to visit him,” the doctor said. He grabbed his stethoscope from atop a footlocker of diminishing medical supplies.

  “I will join you,” said Al-Aleaqarab. The two men walked through the cave, which was now alive with activity. “Perhaps you have not been told. I have just now warned the men that we are leaving after Asr,” the Scorpion explained.

  “I am ready to go when you command it, Lord.”

  The Scorpion did not acknowledge him, already lost in his own thoughts and less than interested in small talk. The sun’s power was undeniable once they left the cool of the cave and the light caused both men to squint. A right turn, a climb up a steep incline of scree that caused them both to sink to all fours to prevent a backwards slide to the bottom, and then another right turn brought them to a small copse of stunted trees. The shapes of three men suspended off the ground were immediately visible, as was the gentle moaning of the two men most recently nailed up.