A few nods, some reluctant.
“And some of you are here because you want to know if, in fact, the army of the caliphate has done this great thing.” He nodded, his smile never fading. “Now you are here and you watch an old man eat chicken and show you pretty pictures on a computer. You hear an old fool make claims and you wonder — Is this a trap? Is this a joke? Is this worth the risks you took when coming here?”
“Of course we wonder those things,” said the warlord. “We are not starry-eyed children. We are men who are fighting a war, and as such we do not have time to waste on fantasies and false claims.”
That caused a sudden buzz of argument, but the Mullah raised his hand to call for peace. It fell, slowly and awkwardly.
“There is a saying that one picture is worth a thousand words,” said the Mullah. “So, let me show you something beautiful.”
He tapped a few keys on the laptop and the image of Houston vanished to be replaced by a military base. The image wobbled but it was clear.
“This is Fort Rucker army base in Dale County, Alabama. That is in the southern part of the United States. It is home to the First Aviation Brigade under the command of Brigadier General Michael Lundy. Between military personnel, civilian employees, and families, there are five thousand people on the base. The United States Army Aviation Center of Excellence is located there. Many of the their military policies and procedures that are used against our people are developed there. This is a crucial place. A key target, but one that is unapproachable. This image is from a pigeon drone, but before you ask, the drone is not armed with explosives. It is there to give us a bird’s-eye view, if you will pardon the small joke.”
No one smiled.
As the bird flew, its camera’s eyes showed men and women training, vehicles moving, a Chinook helicopter airlifting a large air-conditioner unit to the top of a building that was under construction.
“The people on this base feel safe,” said the Mullah. “They have numbers, they have gates and guards, they have their training, and we have to accept that their training is second to none. They have advanced technology and they have so many weapons and resources. We are like peasants throwing stones.” He shook his head. “But what if we could reach out and, as if with the hand of God, switch off their lights, still their engines, drop their planes from the sky, silence their communications, darken their nights? What if the great thing that happened in Houston was no fluke? What if it was us? What if this is something we could do at any time? What if we held that power?”
The warlord was the only person who seemed able to speak. “Are you saying that you could do that to a military base in their own country?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it,” challenged the warlord. “I will go back to my people and we will watch the news and we will see if you are a lying old fool or—”
And on the screen all of the power at Fort Rucker went out. The big Chinook suddenly jerked as the rotors died. The machine fell like a dead bird. All across the base the lights went out, the vehicles rolled to slow stops, the people turned, and looked around, and yelled. Some of them screamed. The sound of the crashing Chinook rolled like thunder across the base.
The gathered men cried out in surprise. Some of them leapt to their feet.
The Mullah sat there, smiling.
“And now we give them back a shred of hope,” said the Mullah. On the screen the lights came back on. The engines started up. Sirens began to wail, and only they were loud enough to drown out the screams. “And with hope comes doubt. It is the survivors of a catastrophe who are the victims, for they have seen the face of death and they know it can take them at any time. They will never be free of the memory and the fear for the rest of their lives.”
The warlord wiped spit from his mouth with a trembling hand. “This is how we will win this war. This is the sword of God.”
But the Mullah shook his head. “No, my brother, this is the gun.”
He reached over and tapped keys to change the image. Instead of a view of burning carnage it showed a pair of men dressed in white hazmat suits. They stood in a small, poorly equipped laboratory. As the gathered fighters watched, one of them used an oversized syringe to draw biological transport medium from a heavy vial and inject it into a small device. He repeated the process over and over again until he had emptied all of the metal vials and filled the receptacles on several dozen small but identical devices. Then he and the second man went down the line and closed the lids, forcing them down hard against the springs. As each lid closed a small magnetic lock clicked into place and a green safety light flicked on.
The metal vials were each stamped with the international biohazard symbol.
“And this, my friends,” said the Mullah softly, “is the bullet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
We sat in horrified silence, watching it all unfold on the screen.
Church and Violin, Harry Bolt and me. The death toll at Rucker was small when compared to Houston, but incalculable when measured against the destroyed lives of each of those servicemen and women.
“We interrupt our full team coverage of the tragedy at Fort Rucker,” said the reporter for the NBC affiliate. “I am told that we have received a statement from the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. We are going to play it live. Please be cautioned that we have not had an opportunity to preview this statement.”
The anchor’s grim face was replaced by a good-quality video of a man in a black turban with dark eyes surrounded by wrinkled flesh. His nose and mouth were covered by a black scarf and the flag of ISIL was hung on the wall behind him.
Church hit the Record button.
“I speak to you now as the voice of jihad,” he said, speaking in perfect English. “I speak to you as a mujahedeen, a soldier of God. I speak to you as the voice of the new and eternal caliphate. I speak to you now to tell you that we will no longer accept interference with our culture, our people, our nations, and our faith. You may not have our oil. You may not rape our lands. You may not, with impunity, invade our countries and slaughter our people. That time has ended. God has reached out his mighty hand and drawn the curtain to cast you into darkness. You have seen this. You have cried out in that darkness and wondered why? How? Who?” He held up a finger and wagged it back and forth, the way a teacher might scold a naughty schoolboy. “A great darkness is coming. Ten of your cities will fall into hell. There is nothing you will be able to do to stop this because it is impossible to oppose the will of God. All that you can do is fall onto your knees and pray for forgiveness. You have declared war on the lands and the people and the one true faith. You and your children will pay for your sins. Darkness will fall. Darkness will fall.”
The camera lingered on his eyes for several silent seconds, and it struck me that the man looked dazed, or stoned. Or something. As he’d spoken there was no flicker in those eyes. We could see his mouth move even beneath the scarf, but the eyes were like those of a mannequin. No expression, no flaring as he made his threats. No life.