American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (15 page)

“No way,” exclaimed Boom Boom as he placed cardboard boxes of powdered milk to hide three small containers of expensive, life-saving epileptic and cancer treatment medicine. “It we put together a convoy, even if they’re beaters, someone will take notice. One lousy truck, disguised in plain sight, with a minimum of protection, is the best chance of reaching our destinations without being robbed, caught or ambushed.”

Half an hour later, the three vehicles dispersed. One, headed to a refugee camp in Northern Iraq two hundred miles away, carried the doctor and medical supplies. Another was off to a village halfway between Irbil and Mosul where local relief workers, including a local nurse, would administer the cargo. In addition to Boom Boom and Rayna, the third truck carried a dozen military grade micro-drones, twenty AR-15 rifles and ten thousand rounds of ammo hidden underneath powdered milk and blankets. As much as Boom Boom would like to have had the whole pallet of a hundred thousand rounds shipped, there was no way it would have fit into the jet. Grudgingly, he admitted that numerous smaller trips would be safer for the ammo as well.

***

A fifteen-minute drive later, Rayna was dumfounded, surprised and happy. Knowing the perilous financial situation of many mission groups and NGOs, she fully expected to be stationed in an old brick building without air conditioning, having to schlep the stuff up a few flights of stairs. She had her supply of anti-cholera medication handy, certain the recent epidemic would have tainted the water supply of whatever rat hole they had the misfortune to be housed in.

And the twenty-year-old rust bucket of a panel truck she was crammed into didn’t help convince her there might be an alternative, either. It stank of body odor, cigarettes, cheap booze and death. The springs were coming out of the seats and the knob on the air conditioner was broken.
 

With a huge sigh of relief, Rayna looked out the window. She was in paradise, or at least a facsimile of it... Instead of a war-ravaged town, she found herself in Ainkawa, home to a large population of ex-pats. There were modern buildings, elite homes, trendy cafes and Christian churches, including the Babylonian-inspired ziggurat-like Saint Joseph Church that seemed to proudly announce their religious stance in a center of Islamic fundamentalism.

Then, suddenly, reality bit hard; she was still in a war zone where desperation was only a hidden IED away. Instead of the civilized suburb of clean clothes and pampered bodies, Rayna saw stunned and helpless citizens wandering aimlessly through terror-punished streets. The homeless found shelter in abandoned building sites. One old woman slept in a flowerbed where a single daffodil-like flower bravely defied suicide bombers, terrorist attacks and kids plucking its floral brethren, hoping to make a fraction of a dinar. But there was a glimmer of light in the midst of human catastrophe. FME, and others like them, unselfishly put themselves on the line, working for a better tomorrow for the Kurds.

Ainkawa was chosen to be the location of FME’s Middle Eastern base of operations because of its Christian heritage. Home to perhaps the largest Christian sectors in the Middle East, FME associates felt free to worship in its churches and, more important, to get adequate intel on how it might better serve the regional faith communities. Militarily, Ainkawa was an excellent location because of its proximity to Irbil, Kurdistan’s capital city.

Upon arrival, Rayna discovered FME headquarters was surprisingly attractive. Because of increasing terrorist activity in the town, the planned-for tourist boom never materialized, leaving buildings unfinished or vacant. Rents or purchases could be had for a song. FME had taken over the top floor of a two-story building and half of the two dozen rooms in a modern hotel. There were rarely any other guests, so FME had virtual free run of the facility. At its own cost, FME installed its own internet and security systems. The rooms housed all the overseas workers—and some local ones as well—and was home base for the soldiers.
 

Strategic meetings were held with the local Peshmerga in a large conference room, and regular training sessions occurred in the hotel lobby. FME support staff were the only users of the business center, and the group also had a small but well-equipped medical clinic run by a nurse/doctor husband-and-wife team on the main floor. In addition to injuries sustained on the battlefield by soldiers, there were more than a hundred refugee patients a day.

Rayna and Boom Boom walked into the conference room. There were seventeen people squished into a room designed to hold ten. Six big white guys were obviously ex-Canadian forces. Copper-skinned men with dark hair and beards, wearing white or black flowing robes, were obviously clergy. With Iraq’s Christian communities dating back to the times of Jesus, some were Chaldean Catholics; others were Syriac Christians. They had all been looking at the beheading video and satellite images for hours, comparing notes and debating possibilities.

“You are a woman,” opened one elderly bishop, his jaw dropping.

Rayna bowed and spoke with utmost reverence and diplomacy—almost apologetic. “Yes, I am. We do not mean any disrespect with my presence. It was thought that, because many of the witnesses and victims are women, it would be more appropriate for me to discuss their situation.”
 

“But you are not one of us,” countered another.

In perfect Arabic, Rayna responded, “Screw you. I have lived in this region on and off for seven years. I have personally killed over a dozen of the people that have raped your children and taken the lives of your countrymen. In conjunction with our partner teams, I have another one hundred fifty enemy deaths to my credit. I am not one of you but I certainly know who you are and who the enemy is.” Rayna turned to the soldiers. “Captain Rayna Chang. JTF2. I trust you know what that means.”

The respect level for Rayna skyrocketed. Most of the soldiers had at one point tried to enter Joint Task Force 2, the elite Special Operations unit of the Canadian military, and failed to meet its standards. They nodded approval and gave Rayna the thumbs up.

The oldest cleric spoke up. “Please forgive us. We are old men and it takes a long time for us to change.”

Rayna assumed the head chair. “So tell me what you’ve got.”
How do you like them apples, you old farts? You got a woman heading the mission!

Under the table, Boom Boom kicked her. She turned and twinkled her eyes at him.

Sam Johnston offered, “Captain Chang...”

Rayna cut him off. “No titles. We’re equals. Call me Rayna... When our group looked at the video before I came, we thought the village in the beheading video was likely from northern Syria.”

“Yes, sir... Uh, ma’am... Yes, no and maybe.”

“Don’t the crosses make that a dead giveaway? Aren’t they Syrian crosses? And don’t the majority of Christians live in the north?” asked Rayna.

“That’s part of what we’ve been arguing about. Some of us think that because it may be close to the Iraq-Syria border, there is a chance that it’s in Iraq. If it is, it’s probably less than fifty miles from the border,” Johnston said.

Rayna turned to Boom Boom. “What do you think?”

“Nothing specific, only generalities,” said Boom Boom, shaking his head. “One desert looks pretty much like another desert and there are pockets of Christianity throughout the whole country. I mean, sure, your idea of northern Syria works but, if you ask me, I wouldn’t put all my eggs into that basket.”

A man identified himself as Father Bishara and added in Arabic, “And I would not say the crosses are Syrian crosses only. While many crucifixes look similar, there are differences, big and small.”

Johnston jumped back in. “What Father Bishara is saying is that the cross is a universal symbol of Christianity.”

The cross
symbolizes
Jesus’s death. It is nothing on its own.
Rayna recalled the words from one of her father’s sermons. “Okay, I can buy that.”

“But there is one thing that possibly hints to northern Syria,” Father Bishara said. “I think I hear a touch of Aramaic in the accents of the victims but, because almost every village and area has its own way of speaking, it’s hard to say for sure.”

Another cleric spoke up. “And I do not hear what my Christian brother hears. Aramaic requires some knowledge and these are all illiterate villagers.”

“Do you have anything concrete for us?” queried Rayna patiently.

Johnston breathed relief and forwarded the video to the actual beheading scene. “The next thing is that we’re certain it is at least a hundred miles away from any major town. There don’t seem to be any power lines visible and, if you look at the surroundings of where the man was beheaded, you’ll see a well in the background. Pretty primitive by today’s standards, without running water or electricity.” Johnston paused the video and pointed to a blurred image that could definitely be a well.

“Good eye. Nice observation,” Rayna said. “What can you tell me about the accents? We’re pretty sure the white holding the victim’s head down...” Rayna pointed to the exposed pale skin of the hooded man, “... is Caucasian and quite probably American. The other is likely Filipino but we can’t pinpoint where the native Arabic speakers are from.”
 

“Nothing about the accents, but the sword the executioner used is revealing,” said Father Golani after he introduced himself. “Can you focus on the sword please?”

Johnston zoomed in so the sword took up the whole screen.

“I’m guessing, but I think the origin of the sword is Iraq. While there are no definite swords from each country, this reminds me of the sword that many Iraqi boys use to cut themselves to celebrate Ashura, which commemorates the death of Imam Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed who was killed in battle.” Father Golani paused. “What do you think, Falma?”

The man identified as Falma nodded his head. “Quite possibly.”

“I’ll take that as a definite maybe,” said Boom Boom.
 

Rayna steepled her fingers as she pondered this latest intel. “Go back to the beginning and fast forward it, but slow enough so I can see what’s happening,” she ordered.

Johnston complied and Rayna, in rapt attention, focused on every passing frame.

Finally, she uttered, “These guys are chicken shit bullies. They chose really vulnerable people with little means of protection to inflict their pain upon. They knew their victims had little contact with civilization and couldn’t easily get the message out that they were in trouble. They also knew the village was desperately poor and couldn’t afford to properly defend itself. Our mission is to eradicate a group called the American Muslim Militia. Even if they have no North American presence, local terrorism cannot be tolerated. Agreed?”

Vigorous nodding of heads, a thumbs-up sign, and shouts of, “Yes!” confirmed universal agreement.

“Good. Then our first step is to track down the victims. While this may be the first publicly displayed video, or at least the first we have seen, this undoubtedly was not their first act of inhumanity. Recognizing their cowardice, it’s likely they chose similar victims in different small villages.” Rayna glanced around the table, noticing she had everyone’s full attention. “Because of the diversity of the group, I’m almost positive we are looking at a case of coordinated international terrorism. It’s probably at the initial stages, but we need to cut it off before it grows. The other thing is, bullies don’t care about religion. It is quite possible the victims just happened to be convenient and were not necessarily targeted.”

“If we follow through with that, you just made our job a whole lot harder,” complained Boom Boom. “But dammit, you’re right.”

“Wow! I just heard a male hardass give me some respect,” grinned Rayna for the benefit of the male clerics in the room. To Boom Boom, she said, “How far have you gotten in figuring out possible towns?”

“Not far,” he admitted. “The satellites haven’t worked well this past day... or maybe we need to upgrade something or another. We did a preliminary list of twenty, though. Came up with nothing.”

“But that’s because you were just trying to match the town with the video. Right?”

“Yes.”

Rayna exhaled a big sigh. “Damn. No electricity means no internet so, if we want to find out more, we’ve got to go in person... When you did have satellite imagery, did you go up and down every street you looked at or just take a general overview?”

“General overview.”

“Get me the list of places you’ve checked out and any that you think might be possibilities. We’re going to sic the geeks on them.”

Rayna made a call.

“Hey, you,” said the familiar voice.

“Julio, I’m going to send you a list of villages. Check their coordinates and go through each place with a fine tooth comb. There might not be anything available, but I need to find out if there have been any terrorist attacks that have been documented in those places and, if the information is available, who the assholes are.”

“Gotcha.”

“We are going to leave here in six hours at 0200,” said Rayna. “I’m hoping you’ll have a short list of places for me to check. When we get close to a village, we’ll stop before the outskirts and send the micro-drones in for recon. If any of them pan out, we’ll go in personally.”

Rayna hung up and looked around the table. All signs of condescension, derision and skepticism were replaced with respect for this smart, tough and decisive woman.

There was so little info available that it took Julio less than half an hour to get back to them. Terrorist attacks were so common that nothing exceptional stood out as being different. As per specific intel and documentation, no one cared enough about these places to file anything more than cookie-cutter reports that revealed nothing actionable.
 

In other words, they were on their own, and any list they made was not due to reasoning but to gut feeling or arbitrary decision.

“Hey, this is better than nothing,” shrugged Boom Boom. “If this were the military, we’d be discussing this for another month before someone somewhere made a decision.”