Authors: R.D. Power
She phoned Kim to find out if he’d called, but he hadn’t. She still had no way to convey her love, no way to inform him she had left Dominic, and no way to stem the infection she feared was irreversibly poisoning his love for her.
She buried herself in schoolwork to preclude tormenting herself and wasting her time brooding over Robert, and to occupy her tremendous mind. She would end up completing her Bachelor of Medical Science in just two years, including summers, graduating with high honors. Many young men at the university were disappointed that she decided to swear off men. She would wait for Robert come what may.
•
Whether or not to call Kim was a perplexing issue for Robert. He felt guilty not phoning, but what good would come of it? Why get to know and love his son, especially with the possibility that he could die in some horrid battle somewhere? Better for father and son to remain strangers. Time went by, and he didn’t call. The longer he went without calling her, the more awkward it became to do it. He went through the entire training regimen without contacting Kim—or anyone else.
After basic training, Private Owens spent a year in the regular Army without seeing any action. Most of his time was spent tracking terrorists’ use of the Internet, and hacking into al Qaeda websites to post false information or shut them down. In Delta Force selection, he excelled at all tests and exercises to such an extent that the Army decided he had what it took to be an operator. He was put through the training course at Fort Bragg to prepare for all kinds of nasty business. How to kill efficiently was a highlight. He also had to learn Arabic, on the off chance his unit might be sent into Iraq in the future.
That future was nigh. As his training wound down, American and British armed forces invaded Iraq to topple its dictator and keep its oil safe.
As UN weapons inspection teams had reported, and as the invading armies confirmed, there were never any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. The pretext for invasion was either mistaken, or more likely, invented. Regardless, the outcome was the same: anarchy.
No one was sorry the deposed regime was history, but its iron control had prevented terrorists from gaining a meaningful foothold in the country. But anarchic environments are fertile breeding grounds for terrorism, and Al Qaeda moved into the power void. How ironic that an invasion with the stated purpose of precluding terrorism should be its primary cause in Iraq. It wasn’t long before the terrorists began operations that cost many innocent Iraqis and many young American and British soldiers their lives. Deadly bombs were the typical means of carrying out their agenda.
But there was one plot that was anything but typical. Planning had begun months earlier when terrorist leaders learned of a store of hemorrhagic smallpox in Russia. This virulent strain, which had been bioengineered during the Cold War, differed from standard smallpox in three important ways: currently available vaccines were ineffective against it; the mortality rate, established via testing on Siberian prisoners, was nearly 100%; the incubation period was shorter, but the period of infectiousness longer.
With that country’s economy still reeling from decades of corrupt, incompetent communist control, money talked. Excellent scientists with no money to feed their families were often approached and asked to sell deadly secrets or weapons. Fortunately, most had consciences. But not all. The father of the smallpox bug had no conscience to cumber him. He sold several vials to the terrorists two months after the invasion of Iraq. The terrorists made plans to deploy it first among foreign troops occupying Iraq. The next target was to be major cities of countries that the terrorists despised.
The terrorists enlisted the help of a significant number of Revolutionary Guard soldiers stinging from the recent loss of their power and pay. Not that many of those soldiers knew the nature of the beast they were about to unloose, for if they did, they might not have volunteered to put themselves in harm’s way. They merely wanted to feel once more the old rush of joy from the terror they inspired in everyday Iraqis.
The initial release of the virus was planned for three days hence, when a large contingent of American soldiers was scheduled to return home. They were to be infected before they left by two volunteer martyrs who would circulate among the soldiers who were departing, then among those replacing them; perfect timing to double the death toll and transport the virus to the American mainland.
But there was a snag: A courageous Iraqi scientist learned of the store and informed a UN weapons inspector of its existence, plans for deployment, and its current location.
A small UN inspection team was in a military compound in Baghdad to double-check for dangerous weapons in the wake of the defeat of the regime. The preliminary stage of the planned attack had commenced, the Iraqi scientist disclosed to the German inspector, Herr Shtern, but there was still time to stop it.
The Iraqi malefactors discovered the leak and plugged him. Mr. Shtern had managed to get the message to his colleagues, then attempted to call his contact with the news, but was interrupted with a bullet. That was a mistake, because the terrorists couldn’t determine whether he had told anyone else, most specifically the other weapons inspectors. They detained the remaining inspectors for close questioning with the intention of killing them as soon as they determined if any inspectors knew their secret and had passed the information along. They worked to expedite deployment plans and made plans to move the unused vials to another location. Republican Guard troops on site were instructed to booby trap the building.
Heir Shtern’s call to the contact transmitted only enough information to let the allies know where the inspectors were. The contact could tell he was nervous and heard the shot that ended Mr. Shtern’s life. The allies’ decision to move was taken immediately. It was hoped a quick strike would catch the renegade troops off-guard, and liberate the inspectors. Three teams of a hundred elite troops each were dispatched by helicopter to different areas near the center of Baghdad with orders to make their way to the compound where the inspectors were located. Thousands more allied soldiers were put on high alert.
The terrorists, though, had taken precautions in case the German inspector got out more information than they believed he had. Orders came down to move the inspectors to another facility in the northwest part the city.
The Americans had a satellite aimed at the compound, and spotted a truck leave and make its way to another facility near the Tigris River, a sanatorium that had fallen into desuetude. They didn’t know who or what was in it, but believed it was unlikely the terrorists had moved the inspectors from a secure location to what appeared to be an unguarded one. In any event, it had to be checked out. The officer in charge decided to give this assignment to twelve Delta Force assaulters who were part of the hundred soldiers deposited closest to the sanatorium. Among them was Owens.
After the twelve Americans had made their way a mile or so toward their destination, they heard a battle break out in the direction from which they had come. The master sergeant, disenchanted about being sent on what he considered a bootless mission, decided to return to help and ordered his troops to turn around, but Owens, afraid of entering the fray, argued for keeping to the original plan.
“If the hostages really are there, it’s incredibly important we get to them,” he opined.
“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, Owens,” the master sergeant screamed to Owens the Craven. The twelve turned and ran back. Owens struggled to compose himself as the unit surreptitiously approached the scene of the skirmish. It was night, but the moon, wanting one more day of waxing to attain its full shine, shed enough light to make out the environs. The master sergeant cautiously stuck his head out from behind a building to see what he could see. Nothing. He stepped out. Nothing.
As the calm betokens a coming tempest, an eerie hush shrouded the scene, as if portending an imminent disaster. Owens looked at the others to see if their faces betrayed the same foreboding gripping him. All he could see was quiet determination. The master sergeant signaled to the others to follow. Owens, who was third in line, stood still as a paralyzing fear engulfed him. He wanted to run, run as fast as he could away from this madness, but he couldn’t move his legs. Two other soldiers passed him and started up the street.
The master sergeant looked back and said, “Move it, Owens. Do your job.”
He wanted to do his job and go with the others, but he couldn’t move his legs. He had all the skills of a Delta operator, better than any of his fellows in his training course, but he didn’t have a soldier’s mentality. He never wanted to be a soldier, and didn’t think like one. Never could he get a thrill out of defying death or killing the enemy. Never could he ignore his natural fear of dying. So he just stood there, shaking, as tears of fear and shame ran down his cheeks.
Suddenly, four, including the master sergeant, disappeared in an explosion. The force of the blast knocked Owens down, covering him in blood, guts, and debris. For a moment, he was disoriented, his head spinning, his eyes clouded with dust, his ears ringing loudly. Another comrade helped him to his feet. He shook his head to try to recover his senses. The fifth soldier who had turned the corner was down on the ground, writhing and screaming in pain.
Still dizzy and seeing that the soldier was missing a good portion of the left side of his head, Owens bent over to expel the awful curry and rice he’d had for dinner. An intrepid but foolish colleague ran out to rescue the wounded soldier and got killed by a sniper for his trouble. The other man’s screaming and writhing stopped. Among the six commandos killed were the five who’d had previous combat experience, and the three with satellite phones. That left six untested troopers incommunicado.
“We should check on him,” another one said.
“No!” roared Owens. This was one of those rare defining moments in a man’s life where he proves his mettle or proves a poltroon. Thus far, his actions were nothing to be proud of. He took a conscious decision to change that. Ironically, he did this not out of bravery, but out of fear: fear of being seen as a coward by others and, much more forceful, fear of perceiving himself as a coward. His rage over the loss of his friends was the means he used to take control and banish his cowardice.
“Half his head is gone; he’s dead,” Owens said. “There’s a sniper ready to shoot anyone who steps out there. No more of us will die on this godforsaken corner! We were sent out on a mission that just might be vital. Let’s go do it!” The others concurred. They dashed back up the street toward the sanatorium, each grieving over the shocking loss of their friends.
While this was transpiring, CNN went live on air with the news. “CNN has learned American troops are engaged in fierce skirmishes with Iraqi Republican Guard forces in Baghdad. This comes just days after the administration had declared victory in Iraq. That claim now seems premature, since there are at least three separate battles going on in the capital. CNN’s correspondent in Baghdad …”
Talking heads came on the networks to fill the airwaves with conjecture based on nothing, and the American public turned the channel to find the latest nonsensical reality show. But news stations stood ready, as before, to act as an uncritical mouthpiece for the Pentagon, as long as they were fed neat pictures of stuff blowing up and got to ride in tanks.
Among the sparse audience was one Kristen Julia Taylor, who would have had her baby right there had she been pregnant. When she heard speculation that Delta Force assaulters were fighting in Baghdad, her mouth opened, her hand went up to cover it, her eyes watered, she felt for the couch without taking her eyes from the TV, and she sat and started to quake. She knew, somehow, he was there, in the fracas.
While the main portion of American soldiers were getting cut to pieces, the critical action was unfolding across town. The terrorists had underestimated the possibility that anyone would know where the team was being held. They sent most available troops to the sites of possible ambush, and left the sanatorium with but a handful of sentinels.
As the small group of American operators approached the sanatorium, they spotted two guards by the front gate. Owens suggested that it would be handy to procure those enemy uniforms to gain admittance without a fight that might attract the attention of half the Republican Guard. Sergeant Haziz, who was fluent in Arabic, and he, who could understand and speak it tolerably well, could use the uniforms to get into the sanatorium and search for the inspectors.
Taking out the guards was a simple task for these crack soldiers. Two took simultaneous shots using silencers. The other four ran out to drag the bodies to nearby bushes. Owens and Haziz changed. They walked in unmolested, neutralizing two more guards who let their guard down, so to speak, when Haziz asked them for a cigarette. This was the first time Owens had killed a man. Killing the enemy was necessary, he knew, and perhaps served a high moral purpose, but morality seemed a remote concept as he stared into his victim’s dead eyes, his head lying in a pool of blood. No time for reflection, though. Time only to kill some more.
Owens went to let the others in while Haziz continued the search for the inspectors. Two of the Americans donned the uniforms of the freshly dead to stand guard at the front gates. The two others joined the search. Haziz ran into the officer in charge of the facility and became a major in the Republican Guard. With this, he was able to gain access to various rooms and, with the help of his fellow recruits, was able to quietly subdue another half-dozen guards.
Just before the Americans arrived, the Zambian inspector had suffered a thrashing, during which he had confessed all he knew about the smallpox strain. When the gentleman was thrown back among the hostages and conceded that he’d spilt the beans, they all knew their death warrant was signed, which was catastrophic not just for them but for the millions that might die because they couldn’t get their news out. The terrorists ordered the hostages killed and sent more renegade troops to the sanatorium to carry it out. The hostages were to be put in a truck that would be blown up, their deaths blamed on American bombs.