Moral Imperative (9 page)

Stojan looked up at the army major who’d escorted him in. “I don’t understand. What happened?”

The major shook his head. “Your brother was arrested, and—”

“I know that! I asked what happened!”

The major didn’t lose his temper, a gesture that made Stojan even more frightened.

The officer said, “Your father was visiting some old comrades on base. Your brother followed him and shot him. Your father is dead, Stojan.”

Stojan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Kiril had never lifted a hand in anger, even against his father. After much pleading, the major reluctantly took him back to where they were holding his brother, in an interrogation room handcuffed to a thick wooden table covered in graffiti.

He walked in, unable to speak, taking in the look on his brother’s face. He looked at peace.

Kiril didn’t say a word as Stojan fumbled with the chair across from his brother. The major left them alone. The seconds ticked by.

They sat there for what seemed like hours, neither one talking. Finally, Stojan looked across at his brother and asked, “Why?”

Kiril smiled and said, “I told you. I had to keep you safe.”

After the authorities found out about the years of abuse, things settled down. While the military could press charges, the incident was downgraded from cold blooded murder to self-defense. After all, what soldier wouldn’t feel for the victim of such circumstances? The military did not want a scandal.

Kiril was given a relative slap on the wrist, sentenced to a year in civilian prison. He asked to be put in solitary confinement, and his request was granted. Kiril would have occasional contact with other inmates, but for the most part he would be alone. He forbade his brother to visit, something that wounded Stojan deeply.

A year later Kiril emerged a changed man. Sporting a scraggly beard, Stojan almost didn’t recognize his twin brother. Kiril said he’d found his answers, that his time in prison had been well-spent. In a rare moment of openness, Kiril explained that he’d befriended a group of men in jail who had showed him the path of Allah. As if he realized what he’d just said, Kiril didn’t say another word about his confinement.

Instead of finishing high school, he applied for a scholarship to study in Lebanon. They’d said their farewells at the airport, and Kiril boarded the plane with a small group of similarly dressed students. Stojan wouldn’t see his brother for another five years.

Meanwhile, Stojan barely finished high school, and then he enlisted in the army. Finally finding his home, he rose through the ranks quickly, besting his peers and garnering the notice of senior officers.

It wasn’t until he was applying for a position with his father’s old unit, the 68
th
Special Forces Brigade, that Stojan heard his brother’s name.

He was called into the adjutant’s office one day and questioned at length about his family. Sergeant Valko told the officer everything he knew, including when he’d last seen his brother. The captain had looked at him with disdain.

“Are you aware that your brother, Kiril, is now affiliated with Hezbollah in Lebanon and has suspected ties with other terrorist organizations in the Middle East?”

Valko was speechless. “I…I don’t understand. My brother is a scholar. He went to Lebanon on an academic scholarship.”

The captain laughed at him, an act that almost sent Valko flying over the desk to throttle the man.

“Tell me, Sergeant Valko, did you or did you not know that your brother is at this very moment visiting associates here in Bulgaria?”

“Of course not. I—”

“So he has not made any attempt to see you, and you have made no attempt to see him?”

“No, sir.”

The captain stared at him for an extended moment, and then nodded.

“Very well. If he should try to contact you, call me at this number. Remember where your loyalties lie.”

The officer tore off a piece of paper and handed it to Valko.

“You are dismissed.”

Later that night he’d visited a bar off base to try to clear his head. He couldn’t believe what the captain had told him. There was no way his brother was the enemy. The Kiril he knew was kind and thoughtful, a man he sometimes wished to be himself.

Just as he’d ordered another drink, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and moved back in shock. The man standing before him was clean-cut and well-dressed in a suit and tie. He almost didn’t recognize Kiril, who now looked down at him with the same smirk he’d had as a child.

“What are you doing here?” Stojan hissed.

Kiril’s smile slipped for a moment, but returned just as fast. “Am I not allowed to see my twin brother?” He went to embrace Stojan, but the soldier pushed him away.

“Get away from me.”

The smile disappeared. “I see that you’ve turned out just like our father,” said Kiril, his eyes burning in a way Stojan had never seen.

“And I see that you’ve turned into one of those jihadists!”

Kiril moved closer and whispered, “Who told you that?”

Stojan glared at his brother. “Does it matter? I can see by the look on your face that it is true.”

People were starting to stare and Kiril noticed, motioning for his brother to quiet down.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, brother. There is a war being waged that will soon—”

“I don’t want to hear about your Allah. Get out of here before I call the police.”

Kiril moved as if to say something, but nodded instead. He cast one more look at his brother, and left.

It was the last time Stojan Valko would ever talk to his brother.

Chapter 17

Camp Cavalier

Charlottesville, Virginia

7:53pm, August 13
th

No tears. Stojan Valko just sat there when he’d finished his tale, the soft spin of the fan overhead the only sound in the room.

Everyone waited, digesting what they’d just heard. Cal couldn’t imagine what was going through Valko’s head. He understood why the Bulgarian had ended up the way he was. You didn’t become one of the best by feeling sorry for yourself. There were two ways to go, wallow or fight. Valko was a fighter. Begrudgingly, Cal had to respect that.

But it didn’t change the fact that the man had lied. It put Cal in an uncomfortable position. These men were looking to him for the answer, to make the hard call. A year earlier he probably would have removed Valko from the team without digging deeper. Things had changed. He had changed.

Cal wasn’t ready to make a decision. There were questions to be asked.

“Tell me how you got a spot on this team. You said your government knows about your brother,” said Cal.

Valko nodded. “My brother’s choice has come up many times. I have had to work hard to prove that I am not my brother. This time, I ask my president for favor. I saved his life, so he lets me come, and says he will not tell your president about Kiril.”

To everyone’s surprise, it was the Japanese, Takumi Kokubu, who spoke up. “How do we know we can trust you?”

Cal had learned that of all the countries in the world, Japan possibly maintained the strictest control over the influx of Muslims and Arabs. Xenophobic to a certain degree, their approach to extremism was to stop it at the source. If you didn’t have a certain race or religion in your country, the chance of a surprise attack was considerably lessened. The Japanese were cautious. They’d learned their lesson after the Second World War, and didn’t plan on losing again.

Valko met the Japanese leader’s eyes. “I know what you think, that I am bad person. But think of what I do. My twin is my shadow. Always haunting. Less promotion because of him. Less trust because of him. Less honor because of him. I work hard. Be the best. My men know this. My government know this. But still the shadow. You want Valko to beg? No. Only one thing I can do.”

“And what is that?” asked Kokubu.

“Kill my brother.”

The comment hung in the air like a spinning blade, Valko’s intent clear. And yet, Cal saw the doubt in the men’s eyes. He didn’t blame them. But something told the Marine that maybe this is what they needed. A pit bull is deadly because it never lets go, not until it takes its last breath. That was Valko. He’d dedicated his life to finding and killing his twin. And he wouldn’t stop until he had.

While others might find it vile and inhumane, Cal understood, and he figured the others would in time. The problem was Valko’s attitude. Even though he’d spilled his guts, the man didn’t show more than a glimmer of remorse. He wasn’t sorry, truly. He’d done what he felt he had to do. Again, something Cal could respect. It pissed him off that Valko did it on Cal’s watch, but that was a moot point now.

Cal made up his mind. “Here’s the deal. Valko stays.” There were murmurs from the group, the Brits and Italians the most vocal. He even saw Kokubu scowl. Cal put a hand in the air to cut off the chatter. “Look, I’m as ticked off about what Valko did as you are, but we’re here for a reason. We need to stop ISIS. Whatever you think of Valko, can any one of you tell me that he, maybe more than the rest of us, has the most to lose if we fail?”

There were glares, but no one said a word.

Cal continued. “Here’s my only request. Valko, I can be a hard-headed prick from time to time, but, dude, you take that act to a whole other level. If you’re gonna stick around here, you need to fix the attitude and be part of the team.”

More murmurs, but this time of agreement.

Valko nodded, and then to Cal’s surprise, replied with a thin smile. “I can do this.”

“Good. Now let’s get our stuff together. The helos are coming to get us at sundown.”

Cal waited for everyone to file out of the room. He got dirty looks from Kreyling, and more of an exasperated roll of the eyes from Moretti as they left. Kokubu stayed.

Once everyone was gone, it was just Cal, Daniel and the Japanese in the room. Kokubu had his hands clasped behind his back like a pacing school teacher.

“Cal, I did not want to bring this up in front of the others, but I must strongly protest the Bulgarians being allowed to stay. Can you not see the security risk?” asked Kokubu.

Cal nodded. “I know. But there aren’t a lot of us. If nothing else, Valko can give us more insight into his brother’s tactics, maybe even his motives. I’m sure the Bulgarian government has a dossier on the guy. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”

Kokubu thought about it for a moment. “That is possible, but you must promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to keep him contained. I made an oath to my countrymen that I would see to their well-being. To me, having Valko with us goes against my word.”

“I understand your concern, and I appreciate you telling me. Here’s what I will promise you. I will use everything at my disposal to put pressure on the Bulgarian government to give us anything they have on Valko’s brother. Trust me, my president is about as happy about this as you are, and he’ll be more than pleased to make the phone call. Plus, I’ll keep an eye on Valko. I made the call, so he’s my problem now.”

Cal couldn’t tell whether he’d instilled confidence in Kokubu or not. The serious operator was a hard man to read.

“Very well,” said Kokubu. “I’ve heard that you are an honorable man, Stokes-san. Do not let Stojan Valko tarnish your character.” He nodded to Cal and Daniel, and left the room.

Cal looked at Daniel after the door closed. “Well, here we go again. Another clusterfuck and we haven’t even stepped off yet.”

Daniel chuckled. “Just like the Corps.”

Cal smiled. “Just like the Corps.”

Chapter 18

Mosul, Iraq

3:20am AST, August 14
th

The trucks rolled into the city as Mosul’s citizens slept. There were thirty in all, empty cargo holds, drivers alert, their orders clear. Entering from the east side of town, the vehicles drove through roundabouts and intersections escorted by captured armored personnel carriers and HUMVEEs. No force moved to stop them. The caliph had seen to that.

The Ninevah Ruins passed on their left as the destination neared. Minutes later they slowed as they approached the entrance to the University of Mosul campus. Two guards waved them through, friends of the cause. Grim smiles and a nod were all that was shared. Over 30,000 students were said to be enrolled at the university, but it was not yet the fall semester. Those already in attendance would be asleep, but not for long.

Roads clear, they made their way to the dormitories, still no opposition. They pulled up next to the eight buildings that looked like a linear apartment complex. Armed men poured out of the personnel carriers, brandishing a mixture of Kalishnikovs and captured M-16s. None masked. Half of them secured the perimeter, while the others moved toward the dorms.

There were clicking sounds as a P.A. system came to life from the bed of the lead personnel carrier. Its siren sounded, prompting a smattering of lights to come on from inside the dormitories. Faces peeked out cautiously.

“In the name of Allah and by order of his appointed caliph, you are to exit your rooms and move to our trucks.”

The command was repeated three more times, a stream of bleary eyed students making their way out onto the sidewalk and down to the street. They were confused. When they’d looked out their windows, most of the students had assumed that the formation was made up of the Iraqi troops who’d been sent to secure the school. They were sorely mistaken.

The trouble had begun months before, in the spring. Just when things seemed settled, ISIS exerted their power on the school. Two weeks earlier, the professors and deans of the university were summoned into a meeting with ISIS leaders and told that men and women were no longer allowed to mix, both in and out of classes. It was a blow for the second largest university in Iraq, which boasted over one hundred fields of study. All of a sudden they’d been forced to take a step back in time. Modern in many respects, the school had no option except to comply.

Women averted their eyes at the sight of the armed men, shuffling arm-in-arm with their friends. The male students looked shocked, as if they’d woken to a bad dream that would soon be over. It wouldn’t.

The first load of students departed twenty minutes later, a score of ISIS warriors staying behind to guard the remaining students, who were told to sit on the ground.

The trucks made their way west, where less than ten minutes later they came to the open gate of the marina belonging to the Al-Sadeer Tourist Complex on the banks of the Tigris. Students were ordered to get off the bus and follow the path toward the river, the path illuminated in the foggy morning by crooked lampposts, eerie sentinels under whose gaze they marched.

Armed militants guided them to a dock where the first five male students were ushered forward. At the end of the dock stood a man with a black mask holding a pistol. Another masked man stood behind him with a basket full of extra magazines.

The first student was pushed forward by his escort, stumbling as he neared the water’s edge. The man with the gun helped him up with one hand, almost friend-like, then put the pistol to the student’s head and fired, the body crumpling. As he fell, he was pushed into the flowing river by the escort who’d been expecting the shot. Their timing was perfect.

The gunman motioned for another and another. And so it went for the next hour. Round after round. Student after student. No one begged. Only silent tears were shed. They saw their fate and were only occasionally prodded forward by the escorts. Blood made the dock slick where the shots were made. Three times they had to call for a bucket and a mop. The gunman and escorts were caked in gore, but didn’t seem to mind.

Six hundred bodies now floated south on the Tigris as the ISIS troops loaded back into their vehicles and made the return trip to the university. They would make another three trips that morning, the river soon clogged with the dead.