Page 120 of Whisper
The vice president’s gaze narrowed. “How many do you believe are with Saqqaf?”
“About ten thousand active fighters, pulled from around the world. Iraq, the near east, north Africa, Saudi and the Gulf states, Afghanistan, Chechnya, even as far as Tajikistan. About half of those are designated for martyrdom operations, suicide bomber training. He preys on feelings of guilt and shame, promising recruits who martyr themselves they’ll be forgiven for everything. That martyrdom will also avenge the shame of the entire Muslim community from the occupation. For people, youth especially, who are attracted to the promise of a better world, but feel they’ve broken the strict moral code of the jihadis, the promise of a cleansing martyrdom and a rich afterlife is a potent recruitment tactic.”
“They’re just kids?”
“Many of them are. Teenagers and young adults. College age. After arriving in Iraq, they’re sent to suicide bomber schools and kept purposely isolated from everyone and everything. The first time they see an Iraqi or an American soldier is right before they blow themselves up.”
The president’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head, lips thinning. “We’ve got to stop this.”
Shouldn’t have created the problem to begin with.Kris kept his thoughts to himself, though. “Saqqaf’s silent support, the Iraqis who have welcomed him and his men, are the people we need to reach. They’re stuck, forced to pick a side in this ongoing civil war, and we haven’t given the people of Iraq enough to want to pick our side.”
“We Goddamn got rid of Saddam for them,” the vice president growled. “We gave them their country back. What the hell else do they want?”
“To not be tortured,” Kris snapped. So much for keeping quiet. “They wanted us to bring electricity back, but they didn’t want us to shoot it up their asses. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for. They want to live in a secure country. To not have to face a sectarian civil war, an occupation, and a rising jihadi army all at the same time. Safety. Security. Jobs.” He started listing off the country’s woes until he ran out of fingers. “Should I keep going?”
Behind them, Kris heard George’s heavy sigh. Edwards looked down at his notes, shuffling papers.
“What does Saqqaf want? The end of America? To get us out of Iraq? He want to be the next Iraqi prime minister?” The president looked tired.
“No, Mr. President. Saqqaf isn’t even Iraqi. He’s Jordanian. He doesn’t care about Iraq, not like you think. He wants to destroy Iraq, because after the country is destroyed, he can take over and institute a new way of life. He wants to fulfill the prophecy. Bring about the end times and usher in the Islamic Caliphate.”
“Don’t the Iraqis have a problem with that? They want their country back. Not some medieval Islamic empire.”
David nodded. “Yes, they do. There’s some evidence of resistance. An awakening, of sorts, against the brutalities of Saqqaf. No one wants suicide bombers in Iraq. No one. But, there just isn’t enough safety on the ground for people to turn against Saqqaf and his people. He’s controlling the areas he and his fighters hold through brutal repression, a firebrand fundamentalism that is holding the Iraqis hostage.”
“Mr. President,” Kris said, “We’re looking at post-al-Qaeda terrorism now, led by Saqqaf. It’s not just targeting us. It’s targeting everyone. Once Iraq, as a country, as an idea, collapses, Saqqaf will attempt to create an Islamic Caliphate from the ashes. He believes that by pushing Iraq to fail through civil war and through terrorism, he can control and shape the chaos that will follow. And it’s working.”
“They’ve started referring to the cities and the desert they control as the Islamic State,” David said.
The president sighed. “So, what are we going to do about him?”
Farther down the table, a general stood. “Mr. President, General Terry Carter, sir. I’ve been assigned to join with the CIA in hunting, capturing, or neutralizing the Saqqaf threat. Please allow me to present our strategy.”
Carter, a picture-perfect military officer, spit-shined and polished, starched and stacked, delivered a slide-by-slide presentation on his new counterterrorism strategy. “We developed this strategy after reading the intelligence supplied by the CIA, by Mr. Caldera.” Carter’s words were bullets, his movements as precise as a drill sergeant’s. Kris felt like saluting. He sat up straighter. Carter was a man to whom details mattered, he could tell. His underwear was probably all the same brand, folded and organized in his drawer, his socks rolled neatly beside his squares of white briefs.
“Saqqaf, up to this point, has been in control of the tempo of battle. He sends out attackers. We respond. He strikes civilian targets. We attempt to harden them. We cannot be reactionary any longer.” Carter spoke directly to the president, as if the room were empty. “We have to be faster, stronger than his people.
“I propose the formation of a joint operations unit, led by Mr. Caldera and myself, where we strike Saqqaf’s peopleevery single night. Relentless pressure and constant attacks that will keep Saqqaf and his fighters off their game. We press them, continuously, until they’re consumed with just trying to stay alive. Until that’s all they can do; be on the run, trying to escape. But we’ll keep coming. We will exhaust them. And then we will destroy them.”
The president and Edwards’s heads swiveled to Kris. “What do you say, Mr. Caldera?” The president asked. “Think this will work?”
Kris shared a quick look with David. “Yes, Mr. President. We think it will work.”
“Then you and General Carter are in charge of the hunt. Form this joint strike force. Take out this son of a bitch.” The president stood, and everyone followed, waiting while the president buttoned his jacket and strode toward the door. The vice president followed, but not after giving Kris a long, hard glare.
The rest of the room scattered, officers and aides slipping out or pulling out their cell phones to make a dozen calls each. Edwards and Carter stood apart, discussing shared resources and budgets for the joint strike force. George leaned forward, poking his head between them.
“This is huge, Kris. Bigger than me, even. If you take this guy out, you’ll probably end up taking my job.”
“I don’t want your job. I want this all to end.”
And, he wanted David, and a home of their own. A place to go to that wasn’t a tiny room in a fracturing country. He wanted to not have to conceal their relationship all the time in public. He wanted the CIA to recognize them. He wanted to be heard, listened to the first time. Not have to pick up the pieces of a broken country, not have to sing‘I told you so’at the top of his lungs. He wanted a lot of things, but none of them were George’s job.
George appraised him, peering at him the way a parent might look at their grown child, surprised to see an adult for the first time. “You’ve always been made for more than what the CIA could give you. You take this guy out, and you’ll save Iraq. Maybe the whole region.”
“It’sthatkind of thinking that got us in this mess in the first place. One person isn’t the key to anything. Ever. Everything’s connected, George. Saqqaf has set off a movement, and even after we kill him, we’ll be dealing with his children, his devotees, in ten years. It’s all just a circle, a never-ending circle.”
Chapter 19
