First Sentence

"Prologue February, in the near future IT WAS ONLY NATURAL that crazed fanatics would come to power. Where tyranny and oppression arrest free will, the seeds of resentment take root, blooming into resistance, causing despair and broken lives, and unwinding generations of progress. Throughout history this scenario has been played out with such regularity that once begun it is often best to simply remove oneself from harm’s way and allow it to run its deadly course. Yet, there are times when the consequences are simply too dire, and intervention is necessary. The events leading up to today’s mission didn’t arise in a vacuum. Thirty years ago the Soviets invaded Afghanistan only to suffer a disgraceful loss, transforming this country into a land festering with unrest. Smoldering embers of hatred threatened to explode into a firestorm that would quickly spread across the world’s stage, but it wasn’t yet time for this to occur. The Council of Judges had made their ruling, and a team was dispatched to quell the agitator. Iman Qurbani, the subject of today’s mission, had been the Chief Information Minister under Taliban rule before they and their terrorist allies were bombed into oblivion. Arrested in Kandahar, he was eventually brought to trial. The International War Crimes Tribunal found no direct link between Qurbani and Al Qaeda, nor did any evidence suggest that he, personally, had committed crimes against humanity. He was, after all, just a journalist. Acquitted and set free, he returned to his homeland, with an agenda. Qurbani traveled throughout Muslim nations, preaching solidarity. Occasionally, he would blast the godless, the impure, and the sinful; yet he was careful to avoid statements that would reveal him as a terrorist. That was the fateful mistake of his forbears. People flocked to hear his fiery sermons, and over time he attained an almost deific power. To some he was a prophet, a messenger of Allah. To others he was simply a feisty orator exercising his freedom of speech, a liberty granted by the Brussels Accord. Like many of his devoted followers, Glaukos, had traveled a great distance to see Qurbani. Pa-tiently, he anticipated the moment. Atop his perch thirty feet above ground, he surfaced binoculars over a blistered windowsill and saw the winter sun cresting the White Mountains, casting radiant streams onto the frozen clay streets of Kabul, making useless the infrared lenses he had been using during the night watch for hostiles. With the press of a button, the phosphorous green hue dissolved, and he could see colorful turbans gathering in front of the mosque, where Qurbani would soon ad-dress the faithful. Positioned across the square and six hundred meters from the mosque, Glaukos hid inside a dilapidated three-story building that had housed Taliban troops before a Tomahawk missile destroyed most of it. Only the front of the building was intact, and no local dared to enter. Five hundred and twelve evil spirits were thought to haunt the remains. The bipod was perched atop a charred filing cabinet and the sniper, recruited specifically for this mission, inspected his M40A5 rifle one last time, training the cross hairs on the podium, checking the range. The picture was blurred, at first, but after a few minor adjustments, became perfect. Qurbani was expected to appear within the hour. After three days of waiting, Glaukos was anxious to make the kill. This was his first assignment since leaving Special Forces and going to work for a civilian employer, whose existence and enormous wealth were veiled in secrecy. Glaukos was part of a group of specialized warriors, intelligence agents, and tacticians, who were sent across the globe to carry out the military objectives deemed necessary to further his employer’s prime directive: Novus Ordo Seclorum – E Pluribis Unum, or “New Order of the Ages – Out of Many, One.” Two months earlier, his associates had uncovered evidence that Qurbani was plotting against those he thought were polluting Islam with modernity. The Council of Judges sifted through intercepted communiqués, read reports written by deep-cover spies, and heard testimony from a recent defector. The implications were ominous. Qurbani had been observed fraternizing with Pakistani, Chechen, and Iraqi military leaders. Eavesdropping satellites had picked up clandestine meetings, during which the men discussed a “New Jihad.” Qurbani had agreed to use his influence to unite disparate factions throughout the Islamic world, and the generals would supply weapons of mass destruction and advanced delivery systems. Terrorism, in this scenario, would rise to a whole new level. When the court adjourned, Qurbani had been marked for elimination. Public assassinations were never easy. Strict coordination was paramount. Glaukos would do the killing, and five other men were involved in subterfuge and escape. Besides the sniper, there were Team Leader, Kreon, and three mission specialists. All had their own areas of expertise and were critical elements in a well-rehearsed plan. Kreon, a psychiatrist by training, was a mind control expert. His task was to create confusion within the crowd, buying time needed to escape. Kreon had spent the last two days planting subliminal commands into the brain of a foul-smelling man with matted silver hair, tufts of which protruded from underneath a dank turban. Handcuffed, his legs cinched taut with rope, he sat on a splintered bench, rocking, droning unintelligibly. Drool dripped across his hairy chin and became a wet fishing line that stretched to his lap. The patient was in a deep trance, ready to perform like the circus dog he now was. Kreon activated his satellite communicator and paced the floor. “Team leader, this is Kreon.” Click “Go ahead.” Click “The package is ready to deliver. Standing by.” Click “Roger, Kreon. Hold delivery until my mark.” Click “Affirmative, delivery on your mark.” Click During their time together, the doctor had learned that his patient was named Bishr. He was sixty-one years old, tall, and had a six-inch scar on his right cheek, half of which was covered by a bushy gray beard. Years ago, he was a Taliban sympathizer, who had barely escaped death by surrendering to the Northern Alliance. Bishr traveled with the entourage that followed Qurbani as he went from city to city enlisting the support of his countrymen. He was a believer. The crowd had grown to several hundred and now packed the square. Team Leader gazed through his binoculars, scanning the crowd, streets, and adjacent structures, looking for anything unusual. Fifteen armed guards formed a perimeter near the stage. Thermal sensors indicated that all was clear from above, with no snipers. A sudden roar arose from the faithful. Team Leader switched back to daytime mode and zoomed in on the stage. Limping toward the podium, bracketed by two guards, was a lanky man in a forest green turban, the Islamic symbol of high honor. The man to his right held the rank of commander; the other held a machine gun. Team Leader confirmed the target and began coordinating his men. “Kreon, this is Team Leader. Deliver the package.” “Roger, Team Leader.” The doctor checked to make sure that the tiny, almost invisible receiver was neatly tucked into his patient’s ear. He gave a simple voice command. Bishr nodded. He freed the crusty old man and told him to watch the prophet speak. Bishr, his eyes glazed over, obediently left the building and entered the crowd. “The package is en route,” Kreon called back. “Roger that.” Team Leader switched to another secured frequency. “Glaukos, what’s your status?” “I have eyes on the target. The path is clear.” “Roger, go 2-3-5 Gamma.” It was time for Glaukos to join the others. Until now he had been isolated, just in case any of the rest of the team was discovered. This was a routine precaution taken to prevent hostiles from locating the sniper if support elements were compromised. In such an event, Glaukos was ordered to carry out the kill without cover. Qurbani must be eliminated, even if they all died in the process. Those were the orders. “Switching, 2-3-5 Gamma,” he replied. Team Leader punched in the channel and made sure everyone was ready. “All team elements report.” All elements reported that they were in position and standing by. Qurbani whipped his followers into frenzy. The crowd raised clenched fists in the air when he declared that America was a cesspool of godless sinners, leading the Islamic world down a path of damnation. Kreon lifted his binoculars and watched his patient burrow through the crowd, stopping in front of the stage precisely as ordered. The old man, now in position, raised his arms and rejoiced. “Team Leader, the package is on the doorstep.” “Roger, Kreon. Give the word on my mark.” Team Leader scanned the square, noting the position of the guards relative to the escape route. After six weeks of preparation at a mock setting reconstructed deep in the Nevada desert, and three days of lying in wait on enemy soil, the moment was now very near. They would get only one shot; hopefully the new sniper had a smooth trigger. The chanting, praying, shouting, and flailing grew louder, cursing the Western invaders who had come promising betterment but instead had brought eternal suffering. Team Leader raised his communicator and said a quick Hail Mary. The time to crash the party was upon them. “Glaukos, report.” “I have eyes on target. Waiting for your mark.” “First team elements you are weapons free. Repeat, you are weapons free,” Team Leader commanded. The doctor said “Praise Allah” into the transmitter that only Bishr could hear, and time froze to a snapshot. The sniper steadily applied four point two pounds of pressure just as Bishr leveled a 9 mm at the podium. A thunderous crack erupted across the square. Qurbani’s head exploded, sending his turban cartwheeling, as a fine red mist drifted about the stage. The crowd fell into a shocked hush, then became enraged as they witnessed the gruesome sight of their spiritual leader, fallen to his knees, blood gushing madly down his torso. Bishr, the man with the gun, the killer, pulled the trigger seven times before he was tackled by a swarm of hysterical followers. Alpha Team’s first rendezvous was four blocks north of the square. From there, they would secure their vehicles and drive sixteen kilometers through barren hills to the extraction site. Kreon tucked his weapon under his dress, pulled his burqa around his face, and went out into the streets, dressed as a woman. With his slight build, he wore this disguise convincingly. Glaukos and the rest of the team wore dark face paint, long beards, and turbans. They quickly evacuated their posts and disappeared into the pandemonium. Machine-gun-wielding Afghani guards moved toward the frenzied mob brutalizing Bishr. The commander knelt down to Qurbani as he thrashed violently, shaking the last vestiges of life from his headless body. A thick crimson pool shellacked the stage. The commander screamed, “Allah, receive Qurbani well!” in the native tongue, and ordered the guards to let the crowd inflict justice upon the traitor. The guards cheered as Bishr met a grisly, savage death. Having reached the rendezvous first, the mission specialists awaited the others. All around them, irate commoners ran through the streets, hissing and spitting revenge. The situation was rapidly becoming perilous. Every effort would be made to evacuate without an armed confrontation. Political fallout would be severe if Glaukos and his associates were discovered. The CIA would certainly be blamed, and tensions in the Middle East would escalate. It had taken four years to bring relative calm back to this volatile region. Firing weapons, even in defense of their own lives, was strictly a last resort. Team Leader scurried toward them, followed closely by Glaukos. Kreon was nowhere in sight. Team Leader gauged the volatility and decided the fewer people standing around the better. He ordered the specialists to go forth, secure the vehicles, and proceed to rendezvous beta. He and Glaukos would wait for Kreon. Three bearded soldiers said, “Yes, sir,” and bailed down an alley, like they had just witnessed the murder of a spiritual leader. A long moment passed before Glaukos nudged Team Leader and quietly told him that Kreon was closing in from the west, a hundred meters away, and potentially compromised. Team Leader carefully glanced westward, spotting Kreon being hotly pursued by two armed guards. Kreon knew they were onto him, and he could not risk the team. He pulled his weapon from underneath his dress and fired, killing them both as people in the street scattered. Instinctively, Glaukos reached for his gun. Team Leader gripped his forearm and ordered him to stand down and proceed to rendezvous beta. Unnerved by helplessness, Glaukos flashed a tense look and took off down the alley as ordered. Team Leader angled across the chalky orange street, while Kreon, burqa removed, gun in hand, was sixty meters away and running hard. Suddenly, a group of machine-gun-wielding guards rounded the corner and trained their weapons on the fleeing white man. Bystanders scrambled, trying to get out of harm’s way, as whizzing bullets rained down on Kreon, like a swarm of bloodthirsty insects on ephedrine, boring through his body with spinning lead teeth. Kreon, either through enormous will or the unconscious twitch of death, managed to fire two rounds in their direction, toppling one of his assailants. Toughened by prior no-win situations, Team Leader did an about-face and wisely blended with the cowering civilians. As he tucked into the alley, he heard two full belts being capped off into Kreon’s corpse. Rendezvous beta was an abandoned train depot on the edge of a light industrial area that had suffered heavy bombing and had been deserted for years. Team Leader arrived with a grim face and jumped into an empty seat, ordering the driver to proceed to the extraction point. Glaukos stared at him strangely and, after a short pause, accelerated, climbing the hills, unchallenged. When they rounded the last turn, the whirling slap of the blades sucked grit into the air and pelted their sticky faces. The V-22 Osprey touched down right on schedule. Alpha Team piled into the craft and, when safely aloft, remotely detonated the Humvees. Deeply saddened by the loss, Team Leader remained silent during the flight. He fought back tears as he replayed the tragic scene in the debriefing room. Kreon, like the sniper Glaukos had replaced, was a dear friend, who had served for many years with distinction. A recommendation for a medal for uncommon valor in the line of duty was included with the mission report. Kreon would be remembered as a brave and honorable soldier. His employer would take good care of his wife and two children. Though fatherless, they were set for life."