Moral Imperative (4 page)

Chapter 7

Mosul, Iraq

1:28am, August 12
th

He crept along swiftly, his movement marked only by the slightest sound. A muted shuffle or gravely crunch the only things left in his wake. Imperceptible to all but the keenest of ears.

There was gunfire in the distance, the repeated staccato of automatic weapons. The invaders. Extremist devils.

Hasan put the thought out of his mind. There would be time to think later. This was a night of mourning. No, not mourning. A celebration of life.

The outskirts of the city were the most dangerous. Less cover. More patrols. He had to be careful. A prayer escaped his lips as he moved.
Lord, guide me
…

It was a small unmarked cemetery. No tombstones. Only the close knit community knew about the sacred spot. It was ringed by boulders in sort of a half moon. Holy ground. The others were waiting, respectfully silent.

“Welcome, my son,” said the priest, a short man who looked to be in his sixties, his beard pearl white in the soft glow of the moon. Hasan had known Father Paulos since his conversion to Christianity. It was the kind priest who’d baptized Hasan under the proud gaze of his brother.

“Thank you, Father,” said Hasan, gladly accepting the loving embrace from the church leader.

“Come. All is prepared.”

Hasan followed the priest, nodding to the others, four priests and a handful of fellow Christians. There was the youthful Father Yousef, who liked to play soccer in his flowing robes, often besting the neighborhood children with the glee of a toddler. Then there was old Hasem, the one-legged proprietor of a spice shop in the market. He’d lost his family long ago, another purge. He knew loss and looked upon Hasan with knowing eyes.

They’d already dug the holes and placed the wrapped bodies of his brother and nephews on a bed of lush green grass. Hasan could smell the fresh scent of the newly cut bedding. It reminded him of the days spent swimming and sunbathing with his family on the banks of the Tigris. Good days. Blessed days.

The others moved closer, hands settling on Hasan’s shoulders and arms. A young boy’s hand wrapped in his, an old woman’s in the other. His people. Sharing in his grief.

Father Paulos began. “I remember the first time I met Mikhail. He told me a Christian priest shouldn’t walk the streets…”

Fifteen minutes later the service was over. Hasan cast the first handful of dirt onto each of the three graves. The others did the rest, expertly filling the holes with practiced skill. There had been too many deaths over the years, too many graves.

Hasan watched as they worked. His tears were gone. His family in his heart. They were close by. He could feel their presence. Mikhail’s gnarled hands on his shoulder, Yazen smiling, holding a soccer ball under his arm. Sweet Dalir tugging his pants leg, trying to get his attention.

Hasan closed his eyes and smiled, savoring the feeling, thanking God for the vision. The images floated away into the darkness and he opened his eyes.

“What was that noise?” he whispered to Father Paulos.

Everyone froze. In his past life, Hasan al-Mawsil was a thief, a gifted street urchin surviving off of his skills as a pickpocket and small time enforcer. His senses, honed from years of skirting the law, aided him now. The others knew to listen.

“Quick, get the others and go, Father,” he said.

Father Paulos looked at him and then nodded to his fellow priests. Each produced an American-made assault rifle from under their robes, hanging from tactical slings. Hasan had never seen them armed before. It seemed so out of place.

“You take the others, Hasan. I will maintain the vigil,” said Father Paulos, handling his weapon as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“But, Father, they are dead and buried. Come with us. You are priests, not warriors. Let me stay,” pleaded Hasan, not wanting his friend to sacrifice himself for the sake of the gravesite. The others were moving, gently urged by the other priests.

The fatherly head of the church smiled and placed his hand over Hasan’s heart. “There is much love in you, my son. Remember to look to God when you doubt, when all looks lost. He will guide your hand. Listen to Him.”

“Father—”

“Go. My brothers will be with you. There has been word from the Americans.”

“The Americans?” Hasan asked, glancing over the priest’s shoulder. There was light in the distance. Muted shouts. The enemy was closing in.

“Yes. Now go, Hasan.”

There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes, only the supreme confidence of a man who’d accepted his fate. Father Paulos turned, weapon in hand, and walked to meet the coming demons. Hasan said a prayer for the man who’d guided him to God. When others had said Hasan should be thrown out of the church, it was Father Paulos who’d defended him, taking him under his tutelage and showing him God’s word. Always patient. Always loving.

Hasan took one last look at the priest’s fading form, then turned and followed the others.

+++

Father Paulos was an Iraqi by birth, but he’d seen much of the world in his youth. Raised in a wealthy family, he’d lived as a playboy might. He’d rebelled and taken his riches for granted. It wasn’t until his mother and father had been killed by a suicide bomber that he’d hit rock bottom. He sat for days in his London hotel room, drinking from an endless supply of room service liquor, his father’s pistol cradled in his lap. Suicide seemed like the only answer.

On the third day of his binge there was a knock on the door. He’d answered it, surprised to find a young priest standing there with a piece of paper.

“I’m sorry, is this the Granger suite?” asked the priest in English.

“No,” he’d moved to close the door, but the priest stopped it with an outstretched hand.

“I’m supposed to be performing the last rights for a gentlemen on this floor. You wouldn’t know where I might find him, would you?”

“The Grangers live at the end of the hall,” Paulos had slurred, again trying to shut the door. Still the priest held it.

“Are you well, son?” asked the priest, pushing into the room.

Paulos had stood there, wobbling, a pistol hanging in one hand. The priest wasn’t shocked. He only nodded.

“Give me the gun.”

For some reason he’d done as the priest had asked, handing the weapon over. The priest had set the pistol on a side table.

“Come. Help me usher Mr. Granger to the afterlife and then we will talk.”

Again he listened, even allowing the priest to help him get cleaned up. They’d walked into the Granger suite and Paulos had watched as the priest blessed the dying man, a strange look of serenity lighting the old man’s eyes.

Father Paulos remembered that look as he marched toward the approaching horde. He didn’t hate them. He pitied them. But that would not keep him from protecting his flock.

Someone fired three warning shots not five feet from where he stepped. He kept walking.

“Stay where you are, priest,” came the call, the word
priest
said like a vile curse.

Father Paulos felt the light fill him, his body tingled. He began to sing, lifting his weapon and firing a three round burst at his attackers. Then another. There were shouts and they returned fire.

A bullet hit him in the thigh, making the priest stumble. He willed the pain away, singing to God all the louder, joy blazing in his eyes. Something told him the others had gotten away safely. He could rest easy.

Suddenly the flare of a high powered light illuminated the lone priest, almost as if God was opening the gates of heaven. Father Paulos knew what was coming but didn’t flinch. He continued his song as the rounds ripped through his body, his life blood pouring from the fatal wounds. As he fell to the ground, the blackness swallowing him, he said a silent prayer for Hasan, that he finally listen to his heart and become a leader for his people.

Chapter 8

Camp Cavalier

Charlottesville, Virginia

9:28am, August 13
th

Cal watched as the Bulgarians moved through SSI’s elaborate live fire range. They were good. A bit brutish for his taste, but still good. He doubted any of the three, and especially Stojan Valko, felt any pain. He’d probably give the giant MSgt Trent a run for his money.

Someone blew an air horn, marking the end of the allotted time. The range officer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

Cal made his way over to where the others were prepping. They’d started just after 7am, taking turns as teams of three. He’d gone through two times with Daniel and Gaucho, then once with Daniel and Trent. There’d been some grumbling about Cal’s four man team, but Cal had ignored it. It was his operation and he knew there would be bitching regardless. A leader’s job was to facilitate his commander’s intent; in this case it was the president’s intent.

Besides, both of his groupings were as fast if not faster than all but the Japanese. The unassuming Takumi Kokubu was a master of swift movement and pinpoint accuracy. Like a ninja. He’d risen more than a few steps in Cal’s estimation. He wondered how the de-weaponized Post World War II Japanese had been able to train such elite warriors.

As he watched the Bulgarians exit the range, Cal noticed blood on Valko’s face. It must’ve been from when the ballsy bastard ran headfirst through a locked plywood door.

“You okay?” Cal asked, motioning to his cheek.

Valko reached up and wiped his face with his hand. He licked some of the blood off of his fingers and walked past Cal without saying a word. Cal chuckled. There was always one hardhead in the bunch. As luck would have it, Cal had more than his share in the testosterone mix of alpha males.

The Brit, Gene Kreyling, had started it off. Despite the fact that Cal had deferred to the others on how they approached the range time, even letting opposing teams reset the configuration at will, the Brit couldn’t help but complain about the arrangement.

“Not the way we do it back home,” he’d grumbled.

Some of his bluster was lost when he watched Cal’s first run through the path Kreyling had designed. Flawless.

As for the others, Cal was still undecided. They were all special ops trained and each team had their own style. The Aussies were like kids, reminding him of a bunch of caffeine bursting teens going through a paintball course. All smiles despite their deadly aim.

After an early lunch, they’d head over to the long range, each man getting the option to shoot from either 300, 500 or 1,000 yards. It would give Cal a better idea of how he could utilize the men. They had three days before hopping a flight first to Bahrain and then parts unknown. It wasn’t much time.

He’d done a lot of reading since meeting the teams. Most people might look at what they were doing as suicide. A tiny force trying to defeat thousands.

Luckily he had access to a lot of classified after-action reports courtesy of Gen. McMillan. He and Daniel pored over the special ops accounts, marveling at how effective the small forces had been. He’d loved how the CIA’s Special Activities Division (SAD) Paramilitary teams along with Army Special Forces had aided the Kurdish Peshmerga prior to the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Hell, they’d secured most of Northern Iraq!

Slowly, a picture developed in Cal’s mind. Large ground forces had their uses, but it was the special operations forces who’d wreaked havoc on the enemy. Swift. Deadly. Invisible.

That’s what they needed to be. Cal wanted ISIS to be looking over their shoulders, scared of shadows, hiding in rat holes. The approach had worked for centuries. Guerrilla tactics. Hit the enemy in unexpected ways. Always the threat of death raining down.

Yeah
, thought Cal.
That’s what we’ll be. Shadows
.

+++

They ate lunch at The Lodge II, a replica of the log cabin VIP quarters first built at SSI’s headquarters, Camp Spartan, just outside Nashville, TN. Each team sat alone, still not mingling with the others.

“What do you guys think of the Bulgarians?” Cal asked his fellow Americans.

“That Valko is one crazy dude,” said Trent. “Reminds me of those Greco-Roman wrestlers who lift people over their heads.”

“You think you could take him, Top?” asked Gaucho.

Trent rolled his eyes and took a bite of his BLT.

“You think we’re gonna have problems with him?” asked Cal.

“I think you’ll have to be careful,” said Daniel. “They’re good, but not as good as they think. What we’re talking about doing takes finesse. You’ll need to make sure they get that.”

“Yeah. What about the others? Anything you’ve noticed?” Cal had his own opinions, but wanted his friends’ take.

“I’m not sure about the Italians. Moretti’s a nice guy, but they were the slowest on the range,” said Trent.

“I talked to him. Seems they might have some other talents we can use,” said Gaucho. “Moretti and his guys are bomb techs. I guess they did some work in Afghanistan for a while. He lost a cousin over there.”

“That could come in handy. I should’ve thought about that. Maybe we’ll head over to the explosives range if we have time. You know what, I’ve got an idea.” Cal stood up. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. Stupid. Rule number one of leadership. Get to know your men. “Gentlemen, if I can get all your number ones over at the bar. Bring your lunch if you’re still eating.”

Cal ignored the annoyed looks and walked to the bar with the rest of his lunch. Instead of sitting at the bar, he went around the other side and stood at the bartender’s station.

The five other leaders took seats on the bar stools.

“I wanted get a better idea of what we each bring to the table. Let’s start with you, Moretti. I hear you guys are EOD.”

Stefano Moretti smiled. “That is not entirely accurate.”

“What do you mean?”

Again the smile, as if he was embarrassed to say. “You know the mafia, yes?”

Cal nodded.

“Well, my men and I are, what you might call, second-chancers. We were given the choice to go to jail or join the army.”

That wasn’t what Cal had expected. “You guys were bombers for the mob?”

Moretti shrugged. “I will admit we were young and stupid, but it is part of my country. Many of us do not have a choice. I had a certain gift for explosives and was recruited when I was thirteen. My hobby became my job.”

Cal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. McMillan had given him a bunch of mafia thugs? What the hell? “Tell me the story gets better.”

“At the time we never targeted anyone except the soldiers of rival families. It was not until we were told to take down a mafia chief’s house that everything changed. They told us the man was alone, but he wasn’t. His wife, son and five grandchildren were there. They all died.”

“And you got caught?”

Morretti shook his head, the first hint of sadness in his eyes. “I was twenty. I have always had a deep faith.” The Italian pulled a gold crucifix out from under his shirt, making the sign of the cross. “After much prayer, I told my friends we had to go to the police. For some reason they agreed. They followed me to the Carabinieri station and we surrendered. We were at first beaten. I had my jaw broken. That night as we lay in our own blood, a priest visited. He was the priest who had baptized me. I had not seen him since I was a child, but he heard from friends that I was the one who had killed the mafia chief’s family. He told me that God was not yet done with my soul. He said a prayer for us, and then left. The next day we were given the chance to go into the army. We went and I have been serving my penance ever since.”

Cal didn’t know what to say. Daniel would love that story. So Moretti had sinned, gotten a second chance, and then gone off to fight the extremists in Afghanistan. Interesting.

“So you know something about explosives then?” asked Cal, smiling this time.

Moretti returned the smile. “A little.”

“What about you, Fox?”

Owen Fox grinned. “Snipers, mate. We like to shoot. The longer the better. Wish you hadn’t asked, though. Me and the boys were planning on taking some of your money this afternoon.”

“Kokubu-san?”

Takumi Kokubu nodded. “Medics. I was a doctor before joining the army.”

Cal whistled. “And you ran through the range the way you did? I wish we had docs like you in America. Good to have you.”

Kokubu nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Kreyling? What about you?”

“Urban assault. My team first worked together in Basra. Once Iraq settled down, we hit Afghanistan a few times.”

“Valko, what about you guys?”

Valko looked back at him with contempt. “I am here to kill the Islamists before they can come to my country. I am not here to report to you, boy.”

“I’d say that’s out of line,” said Kreyling, surprising Cal by speaking up. “Stokes is just trying to get a better idea of how we can all contribute.”

“I tell you how I contribute. I kill. You tell me who, and I do it. Are we finished?”

Cal nodded and Valko stalked off.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Owen Fox, a smile still on his face. “He’ll come around.”

Cal wasn’t sure. There was something he didn’t like about the Bulgarian. “Let’s finish up lunch and head out. Hey, Fox, you wanna make a little bet before we get to the range? My best against yours?”

“I’m game.”

“Good. If we win you have to show me how to put a shrimp on the barbie.”

Fox laughed. “First of all, in Australia we call them prawns. Second, if we win, you get to buy each of my boys a case of Tennessee whiskey.”

“You’re on.”

As he walked away from the bar, he felt like small part of the tension had lifted. He’d put the focus back on them. Let them look like rock stars. It’s what every great leader did. Don’t toot your own horn. Lead by example and give the credit to your men. If he could get four out of the five foreigners on the same page, he figured they had a good chance of coming home alive.