Moral Imperative (3 page)

Chapter 5

Mosul, Iraq

6:38pm, August 11
th

Hasan al-Mawsil crept into the chapel through a secret passage built by priests nearly a century before. It was used in times of war for shuttling parishioners in and out. He’d made the same journey many times over the years. His older brother Mikhail had shown him the hand hewn tunnel when they were only children, often using it in elaborate neighborhood games of hide and seek. He didn’t want to think about the other times he’d used it. This was a new game. Life vs. death. 

He’d been on the run for weeks. High on ISIS’s target list, Hasan had barely escaped capture no fewer than a dozen times. Each occasion he’d escaped unscathed. There’d been help. The citizens of Iraq had learned how to survive under the veil of darkness, always aware. Mostly he attributed his continued luck to The Almighty, who’d seen his family through so much tragedy.

Today he moved tentatively, having heard rumors from friends. Dark words about darker deeds. The barbarians had taken his only brother and his two nephews as they’d walked to the market. More than a score of witnesses confirmed the tale.

Heart thrumming as he neared the small wooden door, Hasan reached out and pulled the simple iron handle. The smell hit him like a crashing wave, his stomach dropping. He now knew without a doubt what he would find.

After slipping in the hidden portal and closing it quietly behind him, Hasan stood and listened. He’d gotten used to waiting. Ambushes were common. His heart told him to move, but his heightened senses commanded him to stay. There were no sounds except for the incessant buzzing of flies. The last rays of daylight seeped in through cracked windows, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the musty church air. The place was a mess. Pews overturned. Someone had even taken a crap right next to where he stood statuesque.

Hasan closed his eyes and said a prayer before turning to the altar.
Father, give me the strength to do what I must
.

Slowly, with silent tears filling his eyes, Hasan walked toward the front of the sanctuary, ignoring the buzzing insects that were doing their best to dissuade his chosen path. Escorts of doom.

Ten feet from the steps leading up to the stone altar, the Iraqi fell to his knees, choking back the sobs that could give away his position. He had to be quiet, somehow contain his sorrow.

His family. His brother and two nephews. Mikhail and his beloved sons Yazen and Dalir. Once so full of life, so full of love. It had been his brother who’d taught him about Christianity and its all-inclusive reach. So unlike the religion of their ancestors and the anger of the new breed. The once lost Hasan had found the way. It was his brother’s hand reaching out, but God who’d embraced him. A God of love.

Something in him knew his family’s souls now resided in a better place, a place where death and pain could no longer touch them. Hasan took in the sight of his brother laying splayed on the stone crafted altar, his two sons stacked on top of him, similarly lain, an enormous scimitar skewering the three together like some macabre kabob.

Not without effort, the last remaining al-Mawsil stood and walked to the unholy display. Repeating a prayer over and over for strength, he reached up and pulled the bloodied sword from the bodies of his loved ones, Dalir shifting precariously as the blade unsettled his body.

Hasan dropped the scimitar and caught Dalir’s tiny body just before it slipped to the floor, his clouded dead eyes looking up at his uncle as he fell. Something gave Hasan the strength to endure. He knew there was much to do, but first he had to lay his family to rest.

It took him over two exhausting hours to drag the three bodies out of the concealed tunnel and into the waiting hands of his friends, fellow Christians.

They would be buried that night, sent to paradise aloft wings of love.

Tomorrow, Hasan would get to work.

+++

Not a mile away, the enemy force prepped for the night, guards surrounding the two square blocks of homes they’d captured days before. Fire blazed to augment the intermittent street lights. Anyone moving through the captured portion of the city without a member of the Islamic state stood a good chance of being shot on sight.

“We’ve dispatched seventy-two of ninety-one agitators on the list, Commander.”

The ISIS commander grunted, not looking up from his laptop. His long fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. He was in the middle of posting another magnificent beheading on their social media accounts. Oh, what they would have been able to do in the 1990s if they’d had the same technology. The world’s media did his job for him, spreading the updates like wildfire.

How fitting that the very invention developed by the western devils now allowed his people to spread the Islamic caliphate’s blessed word. Their deeds struck fear into the spoiled heathens and inflamed the passion of true believers.

They called him The Master and home was wherever the road took him. No one knew his real name. Truth be told, he hardly remembered it himself.

He’d trained in Syria and Gaza. He’d killed his first man in Iran on a raid in the late nineties, just a young man at the time. Since then he’d risen in the eyes of his men, justly earning command of a large portion of ISIS’s growing army. That was one of their strengths. Command was born not of nepotism, but of skill and experience. The best man for the job.

Not merely a brute who used force indiscriminately, The Master was cunning, first studying his targets. Where his peers were happy to travel in caravans killing at will, The Master saw the weakness in such tactics. They had to curry the favor of the people through a careful combination of fear and acceptance if their new empire was to be ruled.

It was inevitable that certain elements would have to be eliminated, but The Master understood that unlike the old days, ISIS could not simply rape and pillage. They did not have a logistics train that could supply them on the move. It was necessary to live off the land, taking what they needed as they traveled. A well destroyed was no longer a well.

The Master had killed every man in one of his particularly overzealous units. Instead of following his orders, the band had terrorized a key community of government leaders known for its ability to flip sides as the tides turned. The Master saw the officials as a vital part of controlling the town, but they’d been paraded through the streets before being shot and thrown into an open air pit.

The lesson relayed, the guilty party’s heads now sat atop spikes mounted to his vehicle. No other incidents had occurred without The Master’s specific direction. His word was final.

“Have you found the priests yet?” asked The Master.

“Only one, commander,” said the underling, his head bowed in deference.

“Find the others and bring them to me.”

The captain knew he was being dismissed and left the compound without another word. There was much to do.

The Master stood and walked to a map tacked to the wall, portions colored in as they’d moved through their new kingdom. He reached out with a finger and slowly traced a line around the city of Mosul.

Chapter 6

Charlottesville, Virginia

10:20pm, August 11
th

The fire crackled in the stone fire pit, every once in a while letting off a soft hiss from a piece of still wet wood. Bass thumped in the distance, the nearest fraternities mere blocks away. The parties were just getting started, the murmur of students passing by on their way to the beer taps.

Cal heard none of it. He’d been nursing the same drink for over an hour. He had a lot to think about. Everyone else was either in bed or almost there.

The president and Gen. McMillan had really thrown him a curve ball. His four months of prodding had worked. He couldn’t believe it. He’d asked for it.

Thinking back to the meeting in the Commandant’s home earlier that day, he wondered how it would all pan out.

After introducing him to the room, Gen. McMillan explained what was going to happen.

“First, thank you all for coming. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t come on the personal invitation of President Zimmer through your countries’ leaders. Now, let’s talk about the situation. The Islamists of ISIS, ISIL, IS, whatever we’re calling them these days, they’re swallowing up vast portions of Iraq and any material they can find. You’ve seen the videos. Some of you have even been on the ground. Coerced religious conversion. Plunder. Mass murder.

“The bad news is that most world leaders are reluctant to return conventional troops to the region. Hell,
we
were the ones spearheading the draw-down.” The disgusted look on McMillan’s face showed the room what he really felt about the blanket withdrawal from the Middle East.

“The good news is that some of us believe it’s time to put away the white gloves and come out swinging. ISIS thinks we won’t answer. That leaves us with the men in this room. Except for yours truly, the rest of you are private citizens, civilian security contractors, military veterans. You received this invitation because it’s time to join efforts, to combine our talents.”

Cal had looked around the room. There were nods from most. Stern men. Serious operators. The first thing he’d thought when walking into the room was that he was being inducted into some secret warrior society.

McMillan continued. “You’ve answered the call, and for that you have my thanks. As you may have noticed, you each brought three representatives from your respective countries. President Zimmer and I have been working for months on forming this unofficial coalition. Publicly, none of this exists. If captured, you’re on your own. Unofficially, we’ll do everything we can to provide you with support, and get you out if the need arises. You’ll be supplied with a list of supporting arms and close air assets, much of it coming from our carrier group in the Persian Gulf. That being said, let me introduce the respective leaders in the room.”

In total, there were five groups, each comprised of three men. Five countries had come to the president’s call.

The first two groups Cal expected.

The British contingent was led by Gene Kreyling, a former SAS operator with his left eye patched. He only nodded when introduced.

The Aussie team leader’s name was Owen Fox, a tall freckle-faced man with a mischievous smile. He looked more surfer than operator, but was apparently a former Australian commando. Cal liked him immediately.

To Cal’s surprise there was a Japanese contingent led by a wiry guy by the name of Takumi Kokubu. His English was perfect, if a bit clipped, and his mannerisms were proper, like many of the Japanese Cal had met over the years.

Another revelation, the Bulgarians, were introduced next, the gruffest of the bunch. Their chief, Stojan Valko, stood at ramrod attention as he was introduced, leveling a wary glare at Cal.

The Italians were led by a man with a cocky grin who bowed to the crowd as if wooing a pretty woman. He looked like he might’ve been more at home giving roses to passing female tourists on the Spanish Steps in Rome. His name was Stefano Moretti, and he reminded Cal of one of those fancy Italian actors who was always sweeping foreign women off their feet in movies. “A pleasure to meet you all,” he’d said eloquently.

“There will be time for you to get to know each other soon,” said McMillan. “Are there any questions for me?”

Cal had been the one to ask the obvious question. “General, I’m sure everyone’s wondering, who’s leading our merry band off to war?”

McMillian answered with a look of amusement. “I’m surprised you hadn’t put it together, Cal, seeing as how you’ve been the one bugging the president about…how did you put it?
Getting his hippie ass up and doing something
?”

There were chuckles from the Aussies and Italians. Cal shrugged. “He asked my opinion, General.” It was the truth. Cal had heard enough of the hemming and hawing. Something had to be done about ISIS.

McMillan looked to the others. “In case you hadn’t figured it out, gentlemen, Cal Stokes will once and always be a United States Marine. Hard to get us knuckle draggers to keep our mouths shut, isn’t it, Cal?”

Cal had grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“Let me make it official. Cal will lead the American contingent and will be the de facto leader of this merry band of warriors, as Cal so eloquently put it. Anything you need goes through him.”

Cal could tell by the looks on their faces that the others weren’t happy with the decision. These men were leaders, their countenance said as much. The only people they were used to taking orders from were their own governments.

“Are there any other questions, gentlemen?” MacMillan asked.

There were none. Everyone was digesting the news, most leery of the new alliance. It was natural. Cal knew how he would’ve felt had he been in their shoes, but he wasn’t. None of the others could deny that the United States had the best chance of turning the tide. It might take time, but Cal knew he’d prove to them the decision was based on merit, something any good warrior understood. The best man for the job.

Cal swallowed his last sip of scotch as he walked into the house. He needed sleep.
My ass is dragging
. He had no idea when he’d get another chance to get a full night’s rest.