The ISIS militant’s torso exploded, flinging viscera at the Iraqi army prisoners lined up against the wall. Milliseconds later, a loud thunderclap echoed in the valley. The prisoners flinched and waited, their eyes still closed. They thought the executions had begun.
The next shot hit the second jihadist’s center mass, pulping his insides. The carcass thumped to the ground.
The other militants spun around, looking for the source of the gunfire. Some of the prisoners opened their eyes, wondering why they were alive. Others waited, holding their breath. The lead jihadist started barking instructions, but his head exploded, followed by another thunderclap.
The militants ran for their Humvees, forgetting they had guns. Forgetting they could have gone ahead and shot all the prisoners, since it would have taken only a few seconds more. They were hardened fighters, but the explosion of their commander’s head had terrified them as nothing else had in the last two years.
The ISIS trucks kicked up stone as they accelerated away from the execution area and down the mountainside. The lead truck blew up first. A second later, the next two blew up, not from a single-source explosion, like a tank round, but simultaneous multiple explosions. The last two Humvees were shredded, their armor plating perforated like tin foil. The trail vehicle rolled off the ridge ledge on fire, tumbling end over end until it hit the valley floor and exploded.
“Hoo-AH!” Jase Campbell yelled, assessing the battle damage through his binoculars. “Good snipering, Black Jack. Way to move them down off that ridgeline into range of our heavy weapons.”
“Roger that,” Black Jack said flatly, as he heaved his fifty-cal sniper rifle off its bipod. He didn’t look toward the men he had killed. They were gone. On to the next job.
“Fucktards,” Campbell said, as he watched the prisoners scamper off, some looking to the sky in thanks. “They think Allah saved their sorry asses.”
“When it was the mighty hand of God,” Murphy said.
“Don’t I know it.”
Campbell watched the prisoners scatter. He had mixed feelings. He wasn’t sure they wouldn’t be trying to kill him and his fellow Americans six weeks, six months, six years from now. But at this moment, they were allies. Sort of.
“Let’s move out!” he bellowed. The three Vipers peeled off the landscape as if they were a part of it, their camouflage so effective, and made their way down the ridge to the kill site. As they approached, Campbell saw a militant injured and struggling.
“Halt,” he said. He stepped out and shot the man in the chest, then head. That’s what he liked about being private sector: sensible rules of engagement. That terrorist could have been wearing a suicide vest, to be detonated as a final act of religious nihilism. Campbell doubted it. Most of these militants were armed with old rusty Kalashnikovs. But you could never be too sure.
“All clear?” he asked the team, as he stared down at the dead man.
“All clear,” they confirmed, one after another.
He checked the sun. It was high. His watch read 1500.
A ring tone sounded in his earpiece. The timing of those office jockeys was always exquisite. It was like they were watching, Campbell thought, although he knew they weren’t. That was another reason he liked this job.
“Falcon Six, over.” Ten seconds later he nodded. “Wilco,” he replied and hung up.
“Command?” Murphy asked, striding through the carnage.
“Fun’s over,” Campbell said. “Duty calls.”
“Operation Urgent Vigilance,” Colonel Brooks said in his briefing voice. Forty officers and a handful of NCOs crammed into the briefing room in the Tampa, Florida, headquarters of the U.S. military’s Central Command (CENTCOM). Large monitors hung on the walls, streaming in more briefing rooms from U.S. embassies and bases around the Middle East, making the total audience closer to 120.
“This is a flash mission,” Brooks continued, “and a top NSC priority.”
Pressed against a back wall was Andrea Lewis. She was the only woman in the room, and the youngest person, at thirty, by far. Dressed in tailored navy blue pants and a lavender blouse, she looked like a business executive. No one would have guessed she was a West Pointer with two combat tours in Iraq with U.S. Army Intelligence. Now she was a contractor with Booz Allen Hamilton, doing intel work at CENTCOM. Her husband was Special Forces, and they decided both couldn’t be in the military with two small kids. They knew too many army couples who had to leave their children with grandparents for fifteen-month tours, again and again. It was no way to raise a family, she thought, and she resigned her commission. Jack, her husband, was currently in Afghanistan for six months.
“Defense Intelligence Agency,” Brooks continued, “has unconfirmed intel that a freighter left Pakistan a little over forty-eight hours ago. It may be carrying nuclear weapons. Destination is believed to be Yemen, possibly al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, or an affiliate.”
The officer next to Lewis let out a small gasp. This was a nightmare scenario they had war-gamed but hoped would never happen. Not all the planning exercises had happy endings.
“We’re looking for a group-three freighter, aft pilothouse, somewhere between Karachi and Yemen.”
Hell, Lewis thought. That’s like looking for one specific pickup truck in Texas. She hoped they had a license plate number.
“We don’t know the ship’s name or flag, and can assume the crew already changed them at sea since leaving their last port of call.”
Damn.
“Also, we can assume they switched off their AIS tracking device. In other words, they’ve gone dark.”
Double damn.
She eyeballed the map. Yemen had about 1,200 miles of coastline, almost as much as the United States eastern seaboard.
“CENTCOM is scrambling every available asset. Our job is to corroborate the intelligence so we don’t end up on a wild goose chase. We’re retasking satellites to cover the AOR. CIA operatives are on the ground in Pakistani ports, searching for details.”
Hoping to get lucky, more like it, Lewis thought. An operation like this was no doubt locked down. But not watertight. She wondered how it had sprung the leak that brought them all here. Somebody out there was in for a life-changing reward . . . if this whole story wasn’t bullshit. Which it probably was.
“Yemen is the problem,” the colonel continued. “It’s in a nasty civil war, so we have few assets there. We are reassigning all available HUMINT to this mission. If anyone is talking about this in the Middle East, I want to know. SIGINT, work up an emitter profile for this ship ASAP, and get it out to the fleet. Locate every ship that matches the profile, and we’ll whittle down from there.”
We’re looking for an ordinary ship in 1.5 million square miles of ocean, Lewis thought. We’re going to have to do a lot of whittling.
“Everyone else, I need you to search the databases for corroborating intel reporting. We have twenty-four hours, assuming a standard sailing speed. We’ll regroup in six.”
Not enough time, Lewis thought. Not even close. Better call the babysitter.
The Wahhabi stood on a small rise outside Sinjar, watching the convoy pass the ISIS blockade around the small city. He had watched for twenty minutes as they negotiated passage. He watched money being exchanged and fingers being pointed. He recognized the convoy’s leader, a human smuggler, and he knew Allah had provided him with an opportunity. It would be a failure of faith not to seize it.
He turned, and a fighter jet screeched overhead, coming up on him suddenly from behind. The jets were active, but they were more sound than substance, a sign of weakness and fear. He couldn’t see the bombs, but he could feel them exploding around the mountain. He could see the death clouds rising below its narrow spine.
There was talk among the mujahideen of Jordanian fighters bombing Muslims.
Haram! Forbidden! Most unclean! Jordan was the puppet of infidels, an Islamic nation joining the Americans and Israelis in killing fellow Muslims. Haram! The pilots should be burned alive for their sins.
He knelt, cupped his hands in supplication, and offered a prayer:
Allah is the greatest, who has guided me to this place. You created me and I am Your slave-servant. Let me be Your sword! Let me be Your Prophet! Continue to guide me to the man I seek. Bestow upon me the courage these unholy pilots lack. The courage to smite Your enemies face-to-face so that they may know Your judgment, and know themselves lacking. I seek refuge in You from my greatest evil deeds. So forgive me for what I am about to do.
The Wahhabi stood up and walked into Sinjar.