by Brad Taylor
“What do you mean?”
“Remember the initiation of the crusader air strikes after we threatened Irbil? When they bombed individual tanks and empty buildings all night in a great show of force?”
“Yes.”
“Remember the Western press hysteria about the ‘Khorasan group’? How they were an al Qaida offshoot and were on the verge of a spectacular attack, so they bombed them as well?”
“Yes, yes. What’s the point?”
“Those stories were true. The Khorasan group has been perfecting nonmetallic methods of explosives to be used in bringing down a multitude of aircraft in an attack that would span the globe. Methods which can defeat almost all detection capabilities, but the air strikes wiped out most of the participants. But not the expertise. The explosives research was completed, and the attack was being planned. As always, the devil was in the delivery, not the device. The crusaders drove al-Nusra to us. I reached out, and they agreed to pass the explosives. We will use them for our attack, courtesy of the Algerian.”
“So the man who’s been teaching them all of those strange things knows the weapon system? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Is he Jabhat al-Nusra as well?”
“Yes.”
Omar stood, tossing the phone on a pillow and saying, “If you think the Algerian will help me—help us—you’re wrong. He’s using this as a means to attack. As a way to get inside.”
“Omar, I was Jabhat al-Nusra before I joined the Islamic State. Even that arrogant British fighter you’ve chosen for the Jordanian mission was al-Nusra before. I still have contacts there, and so does he.” He smiled. “Contacts that don’t want to kill me. If I am the intermediary, they’ll do as they say. They want to harm the crusaders much, much more than they do us.”
“Maybe you. I doubt the fire has left their belly for me.”
Adnan picked up the phone and handed it back. “It’s already done. They’re delivering the explosives to Albania. A man in that country—who has no knowledge of you—is the contact. He thinks he’s dealing with me. You answer that phone and don’t tell him otherwise.”
Omar took the phone, shaking his head. “You just said Rashid would call.”
“Rashid delivered the explosives to the contact. The contact is calling you.”
Omar sat in silence for a moment, then said, “I’m sending my men to Jordan tomorrow. They will succeed. The Lost Boys are going to Istanbul. I have the tour schedule for the Americans, and can interdict them. I can control all of that, but without your explosives, I can do nothing. I control nothing for that mission. And yet you tell me to succeed.”
“You will succeed. We will succeed. Who stands in our way? The Syrians? The Americans? The Iranians? They all fight each other, handing us the caliphate.”
“The Iranians are no problem. Their fighting in Iraq helps us forge the true Islamic world. The undecided despise them, and fear the Shia militias enough to succumb to us. The Americans are a different story. They know nothing of Islam and blunder around like a drunken dog, but they should not be underestimated.”
Adnan waved his hand. “What have they done but help us? They struck some tanks and killed the Khorasan group, giving us the means to attack.”
Omar opened the door, saying, “Maybe. But remember, I didn’t succeed in Mosul because I underestimated the enemy.”
Adnan laughed and said, “Don’t build yourself up into something you’re not. The Islamic State won in Mosul. Our message won. Not you.”
Omar felt his face grow red. He came close to a rebuttal, but nodded and slammed the door, walking swiftly away. It wasn’t until he was across the compound, about to reenter the training wing and inform the Lost Boys of their trip, before a buzz penetrated through his anger.
The same faint noise he had heard multiple times.
Drone.
He stopped and scanned the sky, hoping to see the aircraft break the light of the stars. He saw nothing. He strained his ears to locate the noise, still staring hard. He caught a flash, then a sputtering of light streaking toward the emir’s residence.
Hellfire missile.
He dove to the ground, and the missile sliced through a window, looking deceptively small, like a bottle rocket spouting sparks. The earth split open, lighting up the night sky, the building torn from the inside out, masonry falling like devil’s rain.
Men began spilling from the teaching residence, shouting and pointing. He stood up, screaming at them for silence, trying to determine if the floating death still circled.
He could not.
He felt a lump in his pocket and realized he still held the phone. He ripped it out of his pocket and hurled it across the compound, then began running.
18
Sitting behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office, President Warren said, “So we hit something big? More than just a facilitator for the oil fields?”
Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, said, “It appears so. The number the Taskforce found led us to an abandoned industrial facility. Flying just inside the Iraqi border, Rivet Joint picked up the phone signature—a lucky break for us—and a Reaper UAV delivered the surgical strike. We hit exactly what we aimed for, then the chatter lit up across the board.”
Because the lead came from the Taskforce, the meeting was restricted to what was colloquially called the “principles committee” of the Oversight Council. Five of the thirteen members had an overwhelming presence because of their past experiences and power, and President Warren had taken to bringing them together for discussions before engaging the entire Council. Sitting in the office were the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the national security adviser, the director of the CIA, and the president himself. Off to the left, in earshot, but not part of the official debate, sat Kurt Hale.
President Warren said, “What else was there?”
“A lot of personnel on the ground, but we couldn’t determine their status. This area hasn’t been on our intelligence picture before.”
President Warren said, “Why didn’t we just line it up into the queue for a package of air strikes? Smoke that place to the ground?”
Kerry looked at the secretary of defense, then back to the president. “Sir, it might be a training camp, but it might also be a place where refugees have fled. We just don’t know. The only thing we had was the SIGINT of the Thuraya phone.”
The SECDEF spoke up. “Sir, I agree with the surgical strike. You don’t want a bunch of women and kids on the news tomorrow. We just don’t have eyes on the ground to determine what’s real.”
Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “Because of that bastard Hussein. Could BOBCAT have told us?”
Kerry bristled and said, “You want to get into the blame game, I’ll start with State’s ignoring Iraq five years ago.”
President Warren cut him off. “Enough. There’s no reason to rehash what-ifs. Only what-nows. So, what now?”
“We’ve got Rivet Joint trying to suck every bit of communications from the site, and have it blanketed with UAVs, but they’re not getting a whole lot. There’s no GSM cell coverage in that area, only satellite, and we’re not getting any radio traffic. The UAVs are seeing movement, but no black flags or technical vehicles. Just people.”
“But wouldn’t they do that if we hit them? Hide, I mean? Haven’t they done that everywhere else?”
“Yes, they have, but that’s not enough to blow it all up. An absence of evidence of ISIL isn’t evidence of ISIL. We did strike a convoy north of the compound that made the mistake of trying to shoot down our drone. We had positive ID of a hostile force in that case. In the compound, all we had was a cellular signal and a bunch of movement.”
“So, I ask again, what now?”
Kerry said, “Well, the SIGINT from across the entire area of operations—outside of the target—has pretty much confirmed that we killed the emir of northern Syria, Adnan al-Tayyib. We thought he was just facilitating the oil field workers, but it turns out, he w
as much, much bigger. The Islamic State leadership is segmented into four operational areas, and we just killed one. It’s a pretty good day for the red, white, and blue.”
President Warren’s face turned sour at the bravado. He said, “How do we capitalize on that? Can the Taskforce do anything?”
Kerry turned to Kurt Hale and he said, “I’ve got Pike’s team finishing up cover duties in Nigeria. Doing the basic covering of their tracks. The Omega package and support team redeployed without any issues, and are on standby. I’ve also got Johnny’s team prepping for deployment to Turkey, just in case. He’s not ready to go yet, but I can flex Pike in a day or two. The problem is we don’t have anything to go on. There’s no thread, and we still can’t penetrate into Syria. The Islamic State itself is a granite wall. They need to come to a different playing field.”
President Warren tapped the desk with a finger, then said, “Isn’t that what these Lost Boys are planning? Leaving Syria and coming to the West? Jesus, we’re just sitting here waiting to get punched.”
Kerry saw his frustration and said, “Sometimes you just wait it out. Let them make a mistake and give us the break. Forcing the issue leads to missed opportunities.”
President Warren took that in, then, in a slow, measured tone, said, “I don’t want the ‘break’ to be a bunch of dead bodies from some assholes holding American passports. Tracking them down after the fact plays well in the press, but preventing the attack is what matters.”
The room became quiet. After the silence grew uncomfortable, Kerry said, “Sir, I understand. I don’t think I was clear. Usually, we’ll get something from the chatter. Someone will break operational security and ask for guidance or permission for something, now that the chain of command is in disarray. The Lost Boys are a threat, but they won’t solve the problem of the Islamic State. We killed a very big fish, and now we’re looking for a specific name.”
“Who?”
“A Chechen. Omar al-Khatami. Adnan obviously lived in the shadows, since we didn’t know his importance. He had the ear of the senior leadership, but Omar is the reason they’ve succeeded as much as they have. He’s an absolute killer, and a strategic genius who learned his talent fighting the Russians. Killing Adnan might cause spiritual and leadership issues, but he had no skill in the fight. Omar is the sword he wielded, and we’ve been trying to find him for a long time.”
“So this targeting might lead us to him?”
“Yes. With any luck.”
“And that would be a good thing?”
“Yes. He’s the military commander who took all the terrain in Iraq. The man who swept through Mosul on his way to Irbil before we initiated air strikes. Adnan may have been the emir, but Omar is the real target. We get him, and we knock them back on their heels.”
“So you think he’s more important than the reporting of these American ‘Lost Boys’?”
“Oh yeah. Much more. The Lost Boys are just stray voltage at this point. We don’t even know if they’re real.”
Kerry closed his briefing book. “The only way I’d lose sleep over them is if I heard Omar al-Khatami was in charge of their targets.”
19
Feeling completely out of place, Ali Jaafar Hussein waited for his father in the lobby of the five-star Grand Hyatt hotel. He felt the stares of the hotel staff and knew they weren’t misguided. He didn’t belong here. He only hoped his father wouldn’t throw him out. If that happened, if he had to report failure, he was sure he’d be beheaded by Omar. Even here in Jordan.
The trip out of Syria had been surreal, starting with the bombing of the VIP residence at the camp. The regular fighters had fled their tents in a convoy of Toyota pickup trucks, driving off into the darkness and leaving the men in the two-story building behind. Omar wouldn’t allow his team to do the same. He’d forced everyone out of the building, marching them on foot into the desert, where they’d curled up into balls to ward off the nighttime chill. They saw air strikes in the distance, to the north, and Omar had said, “Idiots. They made themselves a target.”
When dawn broke, and no further missiles had come down, he’d allowed them to return to the camp. Barking in sharp, clipped sentences, he’d instructed them to pack their belongings and load up the remaining Toyota HiLuxes.
Hussein brought his meager possessions downstairs, but didn’t know which vehicle to board, Ringo’s team or the Lost Boys’. He was slated for Jordan with Ringo, but Ringo was driving to al Qa’im, a town on the Iraqi border, and then south, through the desert, to slip across Jordan’s border to Ma’an. Hussein was supposed to use his American passport to fly from Istanbul.
He looked for Omar and saw him across the compound, digging in the dirt for something. Omar bent over, picked up an object, then came walking back. Hussein saw a phone in his hand.
Omar said, “What are you waiting for?”
“Which truck should I use? The one going to Jordan, or yours?”
“Mine.” He turned and shouted into the building. “Come on. Time to go.”
The men gathered around and he said, “We’re leaving sooner than I wished, but the Americans have clearly found this place. They won’t shoot individual trucks without positive proof of the Islamic State, so don’t give them any.”
Ringo said, “How did they locate us? How did they know where the emir was staying?”
Omar held out his hand, showing the Thuraya phone Adnan had given him. “Through one of these.”
Ringo shuffled his feet, wanting to say something else, and Omar said, “Load up. The Jordan team in the last two trucks. The Lost Boys in the lead truck.”
Everyone began moving except Jacob. Omar said, “Load the truck.”
Jacob said, “Why did you retrieve the phone if the Americans are tracking it? We’ll get killed on the move. You say don’t give them a reason to attack, and yet you’re holding the reason.”
Hussein saw Omar start to boil over, but Jacob stood his ground, unperturbed at any potential outcome, his eyes devoid of life, pale blue like the meat stamp on a haunch of rump steak. Amazingly, Hussein watched Omar back down.
He said, “The attack last night was from a drone. It was surgical, directed to that one building. They could have used a flight of aircraft and obliterated this place. They did not. If they were going after this phone, it would have been struck last night, and I’m glad it wasn’t. It is our contact for the explosives for your mission. A necessary risk.”
Hussein waited, feeling the greasy sweat of fear begin to sprout, praying that Jacob wouldn’t push it any further. He was sure Omar’s patience was at an end.
After a moment, Jacob climbed into the back, settling next to him.
Omar nodded, then moved to Ringo’s vehicle. “We didn’t get the chance to adequately prepare, but you know your mission. Find the contact in Ma’an. He is ready for his phase. When you do, call me on this.”
He held out the phone and read off a number, Ringo copying it down.
He said, “You only call me, understand?”
“Yes. Who else would I call?”
Omar slitted his eyes and said, “The al-Nusra front. Do you still have contacts there?”
Ringo nodded, then contradicted the action with his words. “I did, but I don’t talk to them anymore. Only on Twitter and that sort of thing. We share stories.”
Omar snatched Ringo’s chin with his right hand and said, “Do you feel allegiance to them?”
“No, sir, no. I’m the Islamic State now.”
Omar let him go and said, “No more. I hear you’re talking to them, and I’ll cut your heart out.”
Ringo bobbed his head up and down, over and over, like a child.
Omar continued. “Hussein will be arriving in Jordan in two days. He’ll provide access. You do the killing. I want at least a hundred. If you can make it to the convention center, you should get three times that. Videotape everything. If you can behead some, all the better. Once the news hits, the contact will turn the city of Ma’an i
nto a river of blood for the Hashemite kingdom. He’ll start the second front. But it rests on you.”
Hussein saw Ringo’s eyes slide to him, and he looked away. Ringo said, “I don’t like our mission relying on a Lost Boy. He’s a weakling.”
Ringo said it loud enough for Hussein to hear, and he felt shame. Before Omar could respond, Jacob stood up, his hollow eyes on Ringo. He jumped over the side of the truck and walked to the man in a measured pace. Ringo was a few inches taller than Jacob, but the size difference mattered little. Jacob leaned into his face. No anger. No fear. Nothing but potential violence, like an axe hanging in a shed.
Jacob said, “Ringo, you complain that I haven’t learned the ways of Islam, but I have. I and my brother against my cousin. I and my cousin against the world.”
Omar stepped in between them, his face inches from Jacob’s. “Do not test me, Lost Boy. Get. In. The. Truck.”
His face expressionless, Jacob backed up, then turned to the HiLux, saying, “Ringo, my tribe, my war. Remember that.”
Hussein could feel the tension in the air like static before a storm. The only one who was immune was Jacob. He’d sat down in the bed across from Hussein, and had smiled. A wicked, twisted thing. Hussein had grinned weakly in return, and they’d set out, a single truck making the long trek to the Turkish border, losing sight of the dust cloud made by Ringo’s caravan headed east.
After hours of bouncing in the back, they passed through Raqqa without stopping. Jacob said, “Looks like there’s no going back now.”
Carlos and Devon grinned and fist-bumped. Hussein said nothing, studying Jacob. Seeing the change that had occurred in his friend, like a virus that had invaded his soul and taken whatever humanity he had left.
20
Jacob had always been crazy, even on the inside of the boys’ school, but he’d had a limit. You could push him only so far before he’d react, but even then, he’d cause just enough damage to solve the problem. Now those limits were gone. Destroyed in the cauldron of the Islamic State. What remained was anybody’s guess.
