Kingdom Come Page 13

  He gave another grunt and went over behind a nearby bush.

  “Fuck ambulance,” he told me over his shoulder, watering the tree instead of our transport’s radiator.

  Right. I would be happy to drop both of these Russians off at the first opportunity. Their missing president was maybe a problem for the world, but not for good ol’ Keep-It-Simple Cooper.

  Check.

  Twenty

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  The fake news only reports on bad things. If it had something nice to say maybe more people would listen.

  Schelly arrived in DC somewhat shattered from the 15-hour flight from Al Udeid aboard a C-17. Those web seats are killers. But exhaustion had given way to excitement, awe and trepidation on arrival at Andrews Air Force Base, the Secret Service meeting her and Colonel Gladston and escorting them to the White House.

  The emotional roller-coaster ride continued when, seated in the vast underground Situation Room, she had watched the Scorpion’s latest sickening YouTube video.

  As it concluded on a still frame of the ISIS black flag, Schelly realized that she had been holding her breath. Jesus! Did I just see what I thought I saw? What chain reaction of shit will this unleash?

  Looking around the room, it was clear everyone was equally stunned by what they had just seen. This was not why she and Gladston had been rushed to DC as the video had been launched on the Internet while they were somewhere over Germany, but the video and its content had changed the situation drastically. Now things are gonna get seriously fucked up.

  Looking around the table, this meeting – these people – was a new experience for Schelly. She was a backroom person, a “mushroom”. A couple of the attendees she recognized, mostly from the news. There was SECDEF Margery Epstein and Edward Bassingthwaite, the Secretary of State. And the Director of the CIA, Reid Hamilton – his face was familiar, being a reasonably public figure. The President’s Senior Strategist, Andy Bunion, was also a controversial personality almost never out of the press. But the others were a mystery: their roles, their responsibilities. And no one wore nametags, except for the military types in uniform – herself, Colonel Gladston and Admiral Kirby Rentz, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, whose nickname, Angry Kermit, was supposedly based on an enlarged pair of eyeballs coupled to a legendary gruff manner. She had yet to witness the manner, but there was no mistaking those eyeballs.

  SECDEF Epstein was clearly agitated, like she was sitting on something sharp and unpleasant, and moved constantly in her chair. “Thank you all for coming here on such short notice,” she began in her signature hard, dry voice, “but now you’ve seen the video I’m sure you would agree it was necessary. Clearly, this is going to motivate every crazy on the planet to do something vile in support. And that’s just the fallout.” She paused for effect. “But before we jump in, some housekeeping. Your job here today is not necessarily to come up with answers, but to share what information you have so that we can expedite a fulsome brief to our Commander-in-Chief. To that end, we have a stenographer who’ll provide a written draft of this meeting.” She motioned to a middle-aged African-American woman sitting at a separate table who did not look up from her machine. “It’s also being video-recorded.” The secretary pointed at the pod in the ceiling above the main table, bristling with lenses and antennae. “I’m sure I don't need to remind everyone that whatever’s discussed in this room is classified Top Secret. So, Debbie,” she said, motioning at a petit Vietnamese woman, “before we get underway here, and for the benefit of those who don't know you, give us the executive summary on you. Please keep it brief.”

  “Doctor Debbie Ng, NSA, Director of Media Analysis, Middle East section,” she replied in a quiet, firm voice. “I speak Arabic and have lectured at NYU on the Qur’an and the hadiths and their place on the secular world. I’ve been heading up my section at NSA for five years.”

  Schelly assessed the woman: You’re Vietnamese-American … were your parents refugees? No discernable Asian accent so you were probably born here. Pleasant face, tiny lips and nose. Pale skin. Rimless glasses – far sighted. You look thirty, but are probably closer to forty. A ring – you’re married. You look and speak like the bookish quiet type. Stereotyping bookish quiet types says you’re probably an animal in bed, especially after you’ve had a couple of drinks – your limit. I’d guess you have one child, because two would split your focus and you seem a very focused person. Your husband – my guess, a university professor. You’re confident, used to giving opinions and having them listened to.

  Epstein said, “We can't keep a lid on this, can we, Doctor?”

  Ng shook her head, looking over the top of her glasses, which were low on her delicate nose. “We’re already half a step behind the networks, Madam Secretary. As you know, IS has over sixty media companies disseminating information. Conversely, as the organization loses men and territory, this number grows. According to SITE Organization that video was uploaded to YouTube a little over an hour ago, posted on jihadology.org, a clearing house for Islamic State ideology, along with multiplicity of other sites, and it appears that links were copied and emailed to all major news services in the Middle East and Europe, as well as to a range of sympathetic Facebook and Twitter bloggers. Unfortunately, we received it when the public did. We can shut down all of the sites, but, after years of practical experience, these people know what they’re doing and they would simply shift to new servers and addresses. So, in short, no, Madam Secretary, we can't stop it. This one simply has too many leaks for us to plug.”

  Epstein clearly knew it would be a pointless exercise, but had to ask.

  “Do we have a read on the reaction of the news services yet?” Admiral Rentz asked.

  Ng continued, “Sir, I’ll get a summary on that as soon as this meeting is concluded and pass it through the normal channels. Obviously, though, this is big news – the biggest. The media will dissect the video, extend their news programs, pull in various talking heads for discussion and opinion – anyone they can find. I imagine the reaction of the network and cable news services won’t be too dissimilar to our own, sir – horror, pure and simple.”

  “What about from our Islamic friends? They condemning it with the usual this-has-nothing-to-do-with-Islam gusto we’ve come to expect?” Bunion snorted, clearly derisive.

  “Yes, sir. Of course it is early days, but the moderate response is unequivocally one of condemnation,” she said. Then, moving along to safer, more PC ground, she added, “So far, the world seems to be holding its breath, waiting for the Russian reaction.”

  A knock on the main exit door. Bunion, the closest, got up and opened it. A young female airman walked in as rigid as an automaton, made a b-line for Bassingthwaite, passed him a note, turned and walked out. The SECSTATE read the note and said, “Speak of the devil. We won’t have to wait long.” He raised the note. “Russian ambassador’s private secretary. The ambassador’s on his way over. Apparently not a happy camper. Go figure.”

  “What about the Russian media?” the admiral asked, returning his attention to Ng.

  “Up to the time this meeting began,” the doctor replied, “nothing from Tass or the government-owned or funded sources like Rossiyskaya or Izvestiya. Even the Russia Today channel is silent on anything substantial – other than outrage.”

  “Not surprising. There’s no precedent for something like this,” Epstein commented. “Don't even think we’ve got simulations covering this contingency. Have we modeled anything even remotely similar to this, Andy?”

  “I believe the Pentagon has a situation based on the Russian president’s assassination,” Bunion replied, “but …” he shook his head, “nothing like this.”

  “Admiral?” asked Epstein.

  Rentz shook his head. “No, not in our wildest dreams.”

  DCIA Hamilton gave the woman beside him the faintest of gestures, indicating that it was her turn to speak. “Professor?”

  “I am Professor Kiraz Başak,” the woman
announced. “A civilian contractor, currently on secondment to CIA from the Defense Intelligence Agency. My area of expertise is terrorist profiling, assigned to the CIA Middle East bureau. I have doctorates in international relations and Middle Eastern history. Also, I am a Muslim.”

  She smiled and paused, perhaps waiting for any objection. There was none, Schelly observed, unless she counted Bunion noisily choosing that moment to shift in his chair. The professor had taken the seat opposite her. Schelly assessed her the way one woman notices another who she believes is more attractive: with a mixture of admiration and envy. Gorgeous black hair, shoulder length, fashionably cut. And you have that olive skin that never gets sunburned. I hate you. Are you forty? It’s hard to tell. Eyes – gray-green and just the right amount of mascara to make them pop. Eyebrows, professionally shaped – those things don't happen naturally. Your arms have muscle tone – you do light weights. Maybe you play tennis. You’re a C-cup. I bet they bounce when you run to the net.” Schelly was conscious of her own chest, which barely filled an eggcup. “Lucked out in the gene pool, bi-atch. White blouse – silk, probably. Dark navy skirt, tight at the waist, but flouncy. Heels, too. Successful, smart, sexual. Schelly wondered which part of her own body or appearance the professor didn’t like. She couldn't imagine what it would be, but every woman had something. As for the Muslim thing, that surprised her. Where’s your headscarf?

  “If I might say,” the professor continued, “if we were dealing with the assassination of the Russian president that would generate a markedly different reaction to the situation presented here where Petrovich has been captured, threatened, shamed.” She consulted a pad with notes, and put down her glasses. “There’ll be mass anger, a feeling of national humiliation, which will engender a desire for revenge and retribution. I would not be surprised if there was an attempt to shift the blame – that will be the Kremlin’s own need for self-preservation. I do not doubt that heads will roll.” She cleared her throat, somewhat embarrassed. ”Excuse me – no pun intended.”

  Schelly noted that the professor’s voice was serious and considered, but with the singsong lilt of somewhere exotic. And the faux pas about decapitation? Given what they’d just seen on the monitor, the misstep was somehow inexplicably charming. But the professor’s clear embarrassment at having been accidentally disrespectful suggested a measure of self-deprecation, which Schelly found likeable. I bet you drive the boys wild. When Professor Başak spoke, the major had an excuse to look at her more closely, without being accused of staring: full lips, clear lip-gloss. No foundation. Designer cat’s-eye glasses you’d rather hold and use to accentuate your points than wear. Long fingers, long nails – professionally manicured, clear lacquered. A man’s Omega watch. Diamond earrings, maybe one and a half carats apiece. Expensive, but unobtrusive. And that perfume … Coco, by Chanel, isn’t it?

  “It’s just more of the usual senseless fanatical butchery,” Bunion said to no one in particular.

  “Mr Bunion,” the professor addressed him, “if you would please excuse what I am about to say – yes, this is butchery and it is also fanatical, but it is in no way senseless.”

  “Yes, yes,” Bunion said with what appeared to be impatience at academia, or perhaps female academia, and waved away the debate. “I get it, the Russian president is a powerful symbol; ISIS is on the ropes. They have him and this will raise them from the ashes. Cutting off Petrovich’s head will carry all kinds of powerful symbolism.”

  “I agree with you on many points, especially the symbolism. Its potential for the rejuvenation of ISIS is undeniable, but you misunderstand me,” said the professor. “Are you familiar with the Islamic term, ‘fitrah’?” She directed the question politely to the table, rather than at Bunion specifically.

  The advisor responded gruffly, “Is it relevant to what will end up in the president’s briefing? You know he doesn’t stand for mumbo jumbo.”

  “Possibly, if you will allow me?” she said with a gentle smile that exerted its own pressure.

  “Go on, then,” Bunion insisted with another wave. “We live in a world of affirmation.”

  Where everyone has to be listened to and valued … Even you, jerk, thought Schelly.

  The professor ignored the disrespect and continued. “The term ‘senseless slaughter’ – we keep hearing it in relation to the acts of jihadists. But what this says is that we truly do not understand what we’re dealing with. ISIL, ISIS, IS, Daesh, whatever you choose to call it, indeed all Islamic fundamentalists, believe that we come onto this world instilled by Allah with fitrah. Fitrah is the natural ability to distinguish between good and evil. But the West, with our secularism, atheism, a religion that worships symbols and saints and a holy trinity, and what Islamic fundamentalists see as our idolatry of wealth and pleasure … They believe that all this has corrupted our fitrah, our ability to recognize Allah as the one true god. You must understand that, to an extremist, the single evil that rises above all others is the denial of Allah. It’s because the West has done exactly this – insult Allah with our unholy ways, and mock Him with denial – that we face eternal damnation to Hell. Apostasy, not politics or oil: this is the reason they hate us and want to kill us. They don’t envy our freedoms, as a former president once said. In fact, they want nothing to do with the freedoms we have. They see these freedoms as symptoms of apostasy and therefore an insult to the God who created all beauty. This is their ‘sense’, if you like, justifying the slaughter of those who we consider to be innocent bystanders. To them, they – we - are not in the least innocent. Murdering us is a true act of faith. So, we either believe in Allah, or we die. By killing non-believers, releasing us from our folly, the faithful are helping purify the perfect world that Allah made. And if you are one of the faithful and you are killed while enacting this sacred rite of purification, then because you were doing the work of God you will be welcomed into Allah’s presence a hero and a martyr and enjoy all the rewards of Paradise.”

  “Raping virgins,” said Bunion, shuffling paper, impatient. “Being a Muslim, is that also what you believe, Professor?” he asked.

  “If you mean that apostasy deserves a death sentence, no, Mr Bunion, of course I do not.”

  “Because?”

  “I am a Muslim, not a religious extremist. Like the vast majority of Muslims, I believe that the Qur’an is the word of God given to humankind as allegory and metaphor, not a literal path that cannot be strayed from.

  You go, girl, thought Schelly.

  Bunion grunted. “So, what you’re saying is that the random attacks on civilians have had little to do with our invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “Well, I do not doubt that those actions may have helped to radicalize more Muslims, but it is not the reason behind the fundamentalists' desire to see us all dead one at a time, or by the cinema or planeload full. The destruction of the World Trade Towers by jihadists occurred before our intervention in Afghanistan and Iraq. It is my opinion that the terror visited on us by these jihadists will not stop until there are no more terrorists because that is their divine duty: to kill us all, or be killed in the attempt and thus be rewarded for all eternity. Returning to my starting point, there is nothing at all senseless about their reason for wanting us all dead, as far as they are concerned. Perhaps we might be able to deal with the threat they pose if we were to accept this simple truth.”

  Schelly had heard similar views to the professor’s expressed in the past, but she had never heard them delivered quite as forcefully or convincingly.

  Epstein asked her, “Do you think it’s possible that these ISIS thugs will negotiate for President Petrovich’s release?”

  “No, Madam Secretary, I do not. No matter what these terrorists say, Petrovich is as good as dead unless he is liberated.”

  That gave everyone something to think about. Into the brief silence came a new voice. “If you don’t mind me asking, Professor, what flavor of Muslim are you? Shia or Sunni?”

  DCIA Hamilton int
erjected, “For those of you who haven't been introduced, this is my new Associate Deputy Director, Bradley Chalmers.”

  “If your real question is to ask whether I have any jihadist sympathies, Mr Chalmers, that is the question you should ask.”

  These two are off to a good start, thought Schelly.

  “Okay, do you?”

  “Sympathies, no. Understanding, perhaps. And I am Sunni, as the Scorpion and ISIS professes to be.”

  Various eyes darted around the room, including Schelly’s, looking for a safe place to be.

  “And you don’t believe in the Qur’an’s call for jihad?” asked Chalmers, pushing on into the abyss.

  Epstein assured him, “No one here questions the professor’s allegiances, Associate Deputy Director.”

  “I am just curious, Madam Secretary,” he replied. “And I mean no disrespect, Professor.”

  No, of course not. Schelly felt the discomfort in the room for the academic, but she was nonetheless mesmerized by the exchange. Wow, these Washington types really eat their own.

  “You are curious because there are so few Muslims addressing the issues of Islam, so you wonder what I am doing here?”

  The major looked from one to the other. They may have only just met, but it was plain that neither liked the other.

  “That is not a question for me to answer.” She turned to Epstein. “And as for offense, please, I do not take any. Conversation is what takes the place of conflict.” To the table more generally, she said, “Fortunately for the prospects of world peace, the vast majority of Muslims have no love of war. I am one such Muslim.”

  “There are the passages in the Qur’an that call for jihad. Do you just, what? Disregard them?”

  Schelly couldn’t help but glare at Chalmers. Boy, you don't let up, do you?

  “No, I do not disregard them,” the professor replied. “They are the words of God. The hadiths also call for jihad. But like many Muslims, my jihad is not fought with bullets and bombs. It is my own personal internal struggle, a struggle of reason versus faith. This is a battle I fight every day. And if one side should eventually win a victory over the other, I believe I would thereafter be less than I am.“