Moral Imperative (5 page)

Chapter 9

Mosul, Iraq

4:15pm AST, August 12
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The preceding night and following morning had not gone as he would’ve liked. Not only were the Kurds being more resistant than they’d planned, the push to corral a band of nearly five hundred displaced Yazidis heading north ended in complete failure. He was exhausted, but there was still work to do before he could sleep.

Sipping from a ceramic mug of water, The Master waved his captain in. His underling looked nervous, his eyes downcast.

“Do you have the priests?” asked The Master, already knowing the answer.

“No, Commander. We were able to retrieve the body of one of the infidels.”

“Where is it?”

“In the courtyard being prepared for your broadcast.”

“Show me.”

The Master rose and followed the captain out of the spacious home into the inner courtyard where the body of the Christian priest lay on the blood-soaked earth. The rest of his troops stood expectantly, their conversations stopped.

“I am disappointed,” said the Master, walking over to the corpse. He couldn’t make out the man’s features so riddled was the body with bullets. But he knew the man’s identity by his wardrobe. This was the man he’d longed to talk to, to make an example of to the world. Maybe that was still possible.

The captain fell to his knees. “My apologies, Master.”

“Tell me how you misunderstood my instructions.” The Master looked around the courtyard at the thirty odd troops standing with open deference. They too avoided his gaze.

“We found the cemetery and were closing in, but this priest,” the captain pointed at Father Paulos’s body, “he fired on our forces. There was nothing we could do but return fire.”

The Master shook his head sadly. “The capture and execution of the heathen priests was to be a pillar in our conquest. Was I not clear on this point?”

The captain fell to the ground, prostrate. “You were very clear, My Master.”

Again the shake of The Master’s head.

“Have I not treated you all as my family? Never have I promoted a warrior who had not proved himself in battle. And this is how you repay my kindness. What shall we do? What shall we do?”

No one in the crowd said a word. They’d seen The Master’s silent rage before and didn’t want to provoke it.

The captain finally spoke. “Give me one more chance. I will find them, Master.”

The Master walked over and helped the man up, even dusting off the front of his clothes as a mother might do with her child. The gesture made the captain relax, a hint of hope in his eyes.

“Come. Let us see what can be done to salvage the situation. The cameras are ready?” asked The Master.

The captain nodded, motioning for his troops to get the equipment in place. They moved to their task, arranging the lighting and video gear in the appointed places.

“Tie the body up there.” The Master pointed to where he wanted it done. Men scrambled to do his bidding. “Do we have the calf’s blood prepared?”

The captain’s face went pale. “There was not time, Master. I can have one of the men—”

The Master patted the man on the arm. “That will not be necessary.”

In the blink of an eye, The Master extracted a gold-plated long barreled revolver and shot the captain in the forehead, the back of his skull exploding, brain matter hitting the wall behind him.

“Quickly, drain the captain’s blood and put it in two buckets,” said The Master, re-holstering the pistol, his face calm. He left the courtyard and slipped out of the baking sun to make his own preparations.

The job was done rapidly, the body of the unfortunate captain drained as the priest was strung up, arms and legs splayed.

Within an hour the set was ready. The Master exited the house and strolled into the courtyard. Now bathed and wearing a new set of combat gear, he had his golden revolver prominently displayed in a shoulder holster and a massive curved blade on his hip.

He had no need of a mask. The Master believed that those who concealed themselves for such tasks were cowards. Besides, he had the blessing of Allah. His faith was strong. No mask was needed.

He strode up to the priest’s body. It looked like it was caught in some invisible spider’s web. The Master pointed to the man behind the camera and nodded. The red light on the video camera came on and The Master began.

“My people. Today we celebrate the glorious death of one of our enemies, an infidel whose very presence in the city of Mosul was a curse on Allah’s blessed name. For years his place of pagan worship was a stain on this holy land. It was only after this Christian demon murdered one of my own men that we were able to cut him down.” The Master picked up one of the two white buckets laid on the ground and poured the blood over the priest’s body.

“The blood of our dead will seal this devil’s fate.”

He set the bucket down and picked up the second one, holding it high.

“Let the blood of our lost brother bless me as I do what Allah has commanded.”

There were murmurs from the crowd as The Master poured the second bucket of already congealing blood over his own head, the liquid drenching him like a horrid slime. After throwing the bucket to the side, he continued. Blood ran over his eyes, but he never flinched. He looked straight into the camera, eyes blazing.

“We have warned you. This will be the last time I repeat these words. Allah has commanded that you repent and come to the true Word. Any who join us will be forgiven. All who do not…”

The Master pulled the curved blade from its scabbard and turned to the body hanging in wait. Its edge razor sharp, the sword easily sliced through the cadaver’s left leg with The Master’s diagonal overhead cut. Then the right leg was severed cleanly, making the body sway back and forth, now only secured by the ropes tied to its arms.

With the ease of a master swordsman, he dismantled the rest of the body piece by piece, the body falling to the ground after the second arm was gone just below the shoulder. He left the head for last. It only took one swing for him to sever it right through the red soaked beard. He grabbed the priest by the hair and lifted the decapitated head, turning to the camera.

He was slightly out of breath, but more than steady in his speech.

The Master looked directly at the camera, the deformed face of the head dangling from his hand and in a voice just loud enough to hear, he said, “Allahu, Akbar.”

Chapter 10

Charlottesville, Virginia

7:57pm EST, August 12
th

The night air was heavy, the late summer humidity clinging to Diane’s skin. She was the last one to leave Maury Hall, the rest of her staff having left hours earlier. The new midshipman would be arriving in a couple days and she wanted her people rested.

She’d rushed to get changed, having lost track of the time despite her excitement. Diane hadn’t expected a call from Cal for at least a few days when they’d said goodbye at her apartment the morning before he’d mentioning being out of town for almost a week. Cal called to invite her to dinner.

Having had the time to think about their last conversation, Diane wondered what she could expect from the handsome Marine. There was something about him that she still hadn’t figured out, something he was hiding. Maybe he was just reserved, not accustomed to sharing his feelings. He was a guy after all. She shook away the over-analyzation and looked at the time on her phone. They were supposed to be meeting at eight and she was still five minutes away. Diane picked up the pace.

+++

There were only a handful of patrons in the St. Maarten Cafe. St. Maarten’s was more bar than cafe. Music played lazily overhead, concealing the muffled conversations of customers. That would change in a couple weeks when students returned, the buffalo wings and drink specials a popular draw. Pretty soon it would be standing room only.

Cal glanced at his watch.
8pm
. It was late for dinner, but he’d assumed correctly that Diane hadn’t had time for a proper meal. He’d only eaten a quick breakfast and the lunch at The Lodge. He was famished.

The waiter was filling an order of wings. Cal’s mouth watered as he smelled it coming out of the kitchen. He was about to grab the first piece of chicken when Diane walked in.

God she looks beautiful
. She was wearing a flowing ivory tank top, and a pair of gray shorts, her legs accentuated by the cut of the shorts and the white wedge sandals. Diane had amazing calves.

She waved to him with a smile and walked over. He got up from the table and got a hug for the effort. They kissed chastely, Cal still not sure what was appropriate.

“I am so glad you ordered,” said Diane, grabbing a wing as she sat down, biting into it hungrily.

Cal followed suit. They were halfway through their first order before either one spoke again.

“You look tired,” said Diane.

He felt tired.

“It’s been a long couple days. How about you? Everything ready for the boots?”

Diane nodded, grabbing another wing. “Did you meet our AMOI, Gunny Harrington?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s been drilling the hell out of us. I can’t wait to see what he does with the new mids.”

Cal chuckled. “I remember sweating my ass off on the parade deck at Parris Island. Hours and hours practicing an about-face. I don’t miss that part of being in the Marine Corps.”

“When did you enlist?”

“2001. Right after 9/11.”

He’d been a student at U.Va at the time, less than a year from graduation. On 9/11 Travis had called and told him about his parents. They were killed in the airplane that crashed into the Pentagon. He’d later found the voicemail his dad left right before the collision. He still kept a copy in a safety deposit box in Nashville.

Not knowing where to turn, Cal first ran to the Naval ROTC building and begged to be sent to officer candidate school. The Marine Officer Instructor (MOI) informed him that he couldn’t. He had to graduate before getting commissioned and that was only after he was accepted by the Marine Corps’ highly selective officer program.

That left Cal with one option, enlist. He’d left for Parris Island less than a week later and never looked back.

Although he’d come to accept his decision, the loss of his parents still stung. He didn’t want to talk about it.

“What about you? Why the Navy?” asked Cal.

“I wanted intel and they gave it to me.”

“And you loved it so much you wanted to do another stint as a butter bar?”

Diane stuck her tongue out at him. “Very funny, smart ass. I know how enlisted guys feel about officers, remember? No, I knew my contribution in the ranks was limited where I was. There’s more that I want to do and being an officer can get me there.”

“You’re not trying to be G.I. Jane, are you?”

Diane laughed. “Are you kidding? I can probably give you a run for your money on the PT field, but I’m still a lady. I like to dress up. You boys can have your fun in the mud. It’s not for me.”

That’s a relief
, thought Cal. The last thing he wanted to discuss were the merits of women in combat. While he didn’t necessarily deny there were a small percentage of females who could cut it, he still felt like it was an uphill battle. The Israelis had figured it out with their conventional forces, but they were in a different spot, surrounded by enemies. Besides, even the Israelis had only a few high level female operators.

The movies loved to glorify the hot chick assassin, tearing through terrorist ranks, a top model one second and a deadly killer the next. Cal hadn’t met one and he was at the top of the covert game. He wouldn’t tell Diane, but he was glad she wasn’t out to be the next Wonder Woman.

They finished the first dozen wings and ordered another.

“What have you been up to?” Diane asked, taking a sip of his beer like they’d been together for ages. For some reason her familiarity made him smile.

“Oh, you know, work, work and more work.”

“Anything you can tell me about?”

Cal shrugged. “It’s pretty boring. Mostly going over reports and writing new ones. You’re probably having more fun than I am.”

By the look in her eyes, he could tell she knew he was stretching the truth. She didn’t look pissed. He was glad. His work was one of the reasons he hadn’t looked for a relationship after Jess died. There were too many questions, too many things he couldn’t talk about. How do you tell your wife or girlfriend that you just killed a murderer who was about to annihilate millions? Sounds great in a novel, but it didn’t work in the real world. Normal people, let alone significant others, couldn’t understand.

Luckily, she changed the subject and they enjoyed the rest of their meal without the pressure of trying to impress each other.

What the hell am I getting myself into?

+++

Cal walked Diane back to her apartment and said goodnight. They kissed briefly. She’d asked him to stay, but he told her he still had work to do. Diane didn’t pout. Another thing Cal liked about her. She took him in stride, not trying to sway him.

But she had done it without trying. He could feel it, the irresistible tug pulling him toward her. It was effortless, even though he wanted to resist. There were so many reasons he should break it off before it got too far, but he couldn’t. He’d even prepared a farewell speech, practicing as he’d walked to the restaurant earlier.

That had all changed as soon as she’d strolled in. For a man who could charge into the maw of the enemy without flinching, the fact that he couldn’t say no to this woman was, well, confusing. He wasn’t going to ask Diane to marry him, but at least he felt like he’d finally found someone away from work he could connect with. Cal hadn’t had a friend outside of the Marine Corps or his current station, other than Jessica, since college. That was a long time ago.

It was hard to relate to people in the real world after you’d gone through the things Cal and his men had endured. Tragedy and triumph. Death and glory.

How do you tell your neighbor what you do?
Yeah, man. Last week I flew to D.C., met with the president, flew to New York and killed a billionaire
. Yeah, right.

As Cal made his way toward Rugby Road, his thoughts shifted back to earlier in the day. The rest of the training went well. While Owen Fox and his snipers were very good, it was still Daniel who won the day. The Marine sniper had so impressed the others that Fox offered to buy Daniel dinner, wanting to know all his secrets.

The Bulgarians were still keeping to themselves. Valko just didn’t seem to care about being part of the team. He’d rebuffed Cal and the others at every turn. Cal was starting to think maybe Valko’s team should pack up and go.

But that wouldn’t work. Like it or not, the Bulgarians were part of the lineup. Cal just had to figure out a way to get them in line, possibly by force if need be.

As he turned right onto Rugby Road, he found a familiar figure leaning against a lamp post.

“I thought I had a tail,” said Cal.

“Just doing my job,” answered Daniel, falling in step with his friend. “How was dinner?”

“Do you even need to ask? I’ll bet you know exactly how dinner was, down to what we ate and what beer we ordered.” Cal was amused. Daniel had taken it as his life’s mission to ensure Cal’s safety. Cal could take care of himself, but having his lucky rabbit’s foot nearby never hurt.

“Don’t worry. I waited outside.”

Cal shook his head. “How was dinner with the Aussies?”

“Good.”

“Did you give them all of your sniper secrets?”

Daniel chuckled. “Just the good ones.”

Cal had met a lot of marksmen over the years. Much like professional athletes, there were varying levels of skill even among snipers. Some were technically proficient. Others had natural skill, often bred from generations of family outdoorsmen.

Daniel was in his own league. He was the complete package, plus he had that intangible gift of the world’s best athletes like Jordan, Woods and Ali. He’d heard others try to figure it out, dissecting Daniel’s stance, his trigger pull, even his breathing. Cal knew it was much more than all those little things. Daniel Briggs was as much in tune with the world around them as the most cunning animal predator. He had a gift. He could sense a faraway change in wind direction, anticipate a target’s random movement, and even the subtle shift in an enemy’s tactics. Cal sometimes thought Daniel could see the future, so heightened were his senses.

There was no other man on Earth Cal would rather have by his side.

They talked as they made their way back home, going over the plans for the next day’s training. Forty-eight hours left. There wasn’t much time.