The driver of the truck apparently accepted that he wasn’t going to catch up to the Bronco over the fields; cutting the Americans off wasn’t going to work. So he opted to get back on the road and chase the aircraft from behind. It was a good plan. Even if the truck couldn’t catch the Bronco the road would give the terrorists a much more stable platform to shoot the Americans down.
Unfortunately, the terrorists hadn’t counted on the Bronco’s rear door still being open, giving the Deltas a perfect field of fire. The truck bounced onto the roadway but before the terrorists could get off a single shot they took the combined firepower of a very angry Delta Force right in the chops.
Slade heard the Deltas let go en masse. That was followed shortly thereafter by a large explosion. As he pulled back on the stick and labored into the air, Slade glanced back to see the ugly smear of black smoke amidst the bright flashes of flame.
“Now that’s a beautiful sight!” Killer laughed.
Pulling away from the killing fields and heading south toward friendly territory, the Delta added, “Okay boys, buckle up! I hope you enjoyed our free tour of the cultural hot spots of today’s new Caliphate. Feel free to enjoy our complimentary pork rinds and bacon bit chips!”
Slade shook his head and flew the airplane, ignoring the banter of the younger men. Their job was over. He still had to get everyone home safe and sound; he took that seriously and it showed.
Three hours later they landed in Kuwait City. Slade took the headset off his Aussie slouch hat and opened the canopy. The extreme heat of the cockpit gave way to the extreme heat of Kuwait. Soaking with sweat, he unstrapped, now feeling every hour of the mission. Exhausted, Slade started to lift himself out of the steel seat, Killer stopped him.
“Hold on Slade, we’re going to get a picture,” he said. Kincaid waved his troops to the side of the aircraft, calling down to one man. “Tommy! Tommy hand the Light Fifty up to Slade will you?”
Tommy, whose last name Slade didn’t know, smiled and lifted the heavy Barret up to him. “Nice shooting sir, but I bet you miss your flintlock!”
Another chimed in, “He’s gone from horses to airplanes. Just think of the changes you’ve seen since the Civil War!”
“No it was the Revolutionary War wasn’t it Slade?”
“He fought with the legions under Caesar, Shakespeare said so!”
Thus it went. Slade took it in stride. For the Deltas to joke with you was their way of accepting you. If they didn’t Slade couldn’t have gotten a colder shoulder from an iceberg. As it was, Slade was part of the photo; he was part of the team.
Slade took part in the debrief and the traditional after mission drink, but as the young guns recounted the adventure, all he could think about was how tired he was and how good it would be to be home for a while.
CHAPTER 10: The President is now the Man
President Patra Oetari, the first non-white President of the United States, whose father was a nationalist from Indonesia, had just gotten off the phone with the President of Turkey, Mustafa Ataturk. The president, an ardent Islamist and notoriously uncooperative NATO partner, was outraged at the assassination of his nephew. Oetari, who sympathized with the Islamists and was hardly any friendlier with his NATO allies was horrified; especially when it became clear that young Turgut was assassinated in an American Cobra operation.
“Who the Hell authorized this?” Oetari demanded of CIA Director Gann and General Mertzl.
“You did sir,” Gann told him calmly. “We had no idea Turgut Ataturk associated with terrorists. Certainly we had no idea why he was at that particular meeting.”
“Your sniper didn’t recognize him?”
Gann and Mertzl looked at each other. Gann’s expression made it clear that it was Mertzl’s turn to placate the president. The bulldog of a man, Archie Bunker in a crew cut and horned rim glasses, said forcefully, “Our sniper identified the two Tangos he was not supposed to eliminate and did his job sir. I doubt very seriously if he could have identified the young man if asked; certainly I couldn’t.”
“I have met Turgut several times,” the president complained, sitting heavily behind his desk. “He was a vibrant young man; full of life.”
“Associating with the absolute scum of the Earth has its dangers,” Mertzl commented bluntly.
Oetari seethed, but his political savvy saved him from betraying any more of his political philosophy than he had to. As much as he hated the military, Oetari still had to take care not to completely alienate his generals. He needed them.
Instead, he got up and paced the room. In reality, President Ataturk and Oetari were kindred spirits. They did not so much deplore ISIS as its brutal tactics. They both thought an Islamic Caliphate was the right of all Muslims, who they considered a marginalized people courtesy of capitalism and the West. They also thought a nuclear Iran was a much needed counterbalance to the Zionist state of Israel. Iran could, if the mullahs were properly mollified, check Israel and bring stability to the region.
That was Oetari’s conclusion based on a career that until his inauguration included absolutely no foreign policy experience whatsoever. The problem was, after over five years of on the job experience Oetari still held the same views. He’d learned nothing at all about the world.
So, the president forged ahead with his ideologically based policy. Oetari’s trick was getting that policy implemented by using or not using American power. It was a policy that had no chance getting support in the military or from the American people. To be realistic, it wasn’t a policy he could talk about openly with his party; it was too radical even for Democrats to consider it viable. It wasn’t that the world Oetari envisioned was necessarily bad, it was simply that his utopian view of things was not supported by the behavior of the people who had to live in that world.
So Oetari pushed it behind the scenes, and he played a very careful game with his military brass. He allowed them to think of him as a pacifist — even to the point of being phobic — while he hid his true intentions. Oetari dreamed of worldwide equality, forced if necessary, and he needed the military’s help to get it done.
That made his tightrope act very touchy indeed. The rough and tumble Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was not one of the president’s favorite men. He and the directors of the FBI and the CIA were ardently serious about their duties and independent thinkers — dinosaurs of the Cold War, Vietnam and Desert Storm. President Oetari had not yet the opportunity to replace them with internationalists instead of outdated patriots.
He took a deep breath and put on the thoughtful mask of an ardent pacifist, which he was.
“This tragic event is why I am dead set against using American military might — period. You can’t make apologies to a dead man.”
“No, but you can make a celebratory call to the President of France,” Gann told him. When the president looked up in surprise, Gann informed him. “Our military forces rescued a French hostage, coincidence, but our team was there to take advantage of it.”
“I don’t remember that being part of the operation.”
“Our teams deal with locals and the locals are in the know. The team took advantage of the opportunity. Unfortunately, they also uncovered more atrocities by ISIS: mass killings, organized rape parties — and this,” he handed the president his iPad. The president’s brows furrowed as he read the translation of the poster.
Gann explained, “These signs have been posted at every street corner of ISIS occupied cities. The local populations have been directed to bring their daughters ages twelve and above to ISIS Islamic Centers so that they may,” he swallowed hard but his expression stayed calm, if cold, “So that the girls may service the Holy Warriors of jihad.”