The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 8: Rogues Gallery

The meeting took place in a nondescript brick and mud house just inside the Syria-Iraq border. There was a single large table made of local wood, old beyond knowing, with rough edges and a top worn smooth from innumerable hands, clay bowls, and the like.

The owner of the house, a large structure for the area, furnished tea for gathering and otherwise tried to play host. It was an important opportunity for his future and his family, but it had its risks as well.

There were three groups of players gathered in his dining room, chosen because of the large size and the large window overlooking the outside terrace. Light was more important than security. This far north into Iraq and this close to the Syrian border meant there were virtually no security risks.

One of the groups present, a knot of four men, strangely they were literate, even well educated, but arrogant and brutal, represented ISIS. The ISIS killers wore their loose fitting clothing with proud rusty brown stains, bragging of how many non-conforming Muslim heads they piled on the side of the road or played soccer with. They appeared to have purposefully left civilization behind; they were grimy, unwashed, their teeth were yellow and their fingernails had suspicious detritus packed beneath them.

Brutal beyond understanding, vicious to the point where they had even the hardline Al Qaeda operatives nervous, they were the new burgeoning power in Iraq and Syria, but their goals were much larger.

Even the Al Qaeda terrorists, the pathfinders in the macabre art of internet friendly beheading had some semblance of awareness when their blood lust cost them more than it gained. The ISIS boys, as they whispered, fearful that they too would end up on the lists, were nothing more than blood drunk murderers.

The third group present were the most nervous of the lot; they were the Iranian Shia, and it was their people who bore the brunt of the Muslim-on-Muslim slaughter. They had a right to be nervous. As incoherent as their policies and actions were there was at least a façade of legitimacy. At least when the Iranian Shia hung their homosexuals by cranes during lunch there was a maniacally driven, terrifyingly self-righteous and completely irrational Fatwa behind it.

“I am Colonel Nikahd,” announced the only man, an Iranian, in a military uniform. Unlike the others, his demeanor was neither maniacal nor nervous. He was calm and in charge. “Welcome brothers. I send greetings from Ayatollah Hayayi and President Aliaabaadi of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

He introduced a young man from the Iranian party, explaining, “Although he is in our company this young jihadi is not of Iran but of Turkey.”

“Turkey!” the ISIS and Al Qaeda terrorists objected. “Turkey is NATO; they work with the West! They are traitors!”

“Calm yourselves brothers,” Nikahd said smoothly but forcefully. “Have you never heard of Taqiyya? What worth is it to have an ally so deep in the enemy’s camp?”

“Can they be trusted?”

“I put it to you; this man is the personal emissary of the Turkish president, his very own nephew. Now do you doubt his sincerity? If that is not enough think of your recruits from the West itself. How do they get here? They come through Turkey, of course, and they come freely without fear of being interfered with.”

The terrorists calmed and allowed Nikahd to continue.

“Finally, the Grand Mufti Aziz of Saudi Arabia also sends his regards,” he raised his finger as if lecturing. “He reminds us all that whatever our differences we must unite behind Allah the Merciful and combat the decadent West. Separately we can hurt the West, but together we have the ability to bring the infidels to their knees!”

“Smooth talk brother, so you say,” remarked Fahd, one of the ISIS terrorists. “Yet I have seen what you Shia do to my brother Sunnis. Ever since Saddam was overthrown by the Americans we have suffered. We are gaining our revenge; are you dictating to me and mine that our revenge is unjustified?”

Colonel Nikahd lit a cigarette and waived aside the concern, refusing to take the bait of this angry young man with an AK-47 slung across his back and a bag of gold teeth at his belt. “What you do to the vermin that cooperated with the Westerners I do not care. They have already insulted the Prophet.

“Had they sought to simply deceive the Americans and so come to power — fine — I would have no trouble with them. Yet they sought to implement the American ideals. Justly so their lives, wives and fortunes are forfeit.” Nikahd then leaned forward, a hungry look in his eyes. “Besides, we need the eyes of the West fixed on Iraq. The operation Brother Khallida will brief you on is very sensitive — very sensitive. It will required the cooperation of the Sunni and the Shia states, but when it is successful it will cripple the Zionists. We will thereafter push the Zionists into the sea!”

Their murderous vocation protected, their lustful needs approved and their theft condoned, the ISIS terrorist nodded and said, “We are willing to listen.”

Nikahd motioned to his Al Qaeda operative, introducing him, “This is Gamel Khallida a very experienced man as you can see by his holy wounds. He has been involved in every major operation against the West since before Nine-Eleven. He is here to brief you on the part of the operation that pertains to Syria and Iraq.”

Khallida thanked Nikahd and was about to speak when the ISIS man interrupted him. “We want to ensure that this, none of this will prevent us from establishing our Sharia state, our caliphate in Syria and northern Iraq,” he said bluntly, as a young punk will who is trying to pick a fight.

Nikahd held up both hands, soothing the ISIS phantom concerns, by saying, “Far from it brother. In fact, we want you to establish your Caliphate. The Grand Mufti and Ayatollah Hayayi have already laid the groundwork for a Caliphate to extend from Iran, through the Arabian Peninsula and into Egypt. We hope to establish it as far north as Turkey — we are in negotiations with the Turks at this very moment — so you see, what you are doing is in keeping with our overall goal.”

“We are not going to take directives from the Grand Mufti in Saudi Arabia!” the ISIS representative said loudly.

Nikahd leaned back in his chair and replied, “The Grand Mufti is already in contact with your Imams; it will be up to you as to whether you follow their guidance or strike out on your own.”

The ISIS party looked perturbed, but at the mention of their imams they restrained themselves from further outbursts. Nikahd reminded them that despite their personal animosity, the ISIS imams supported working with their allies.

Khallida built upon this, reminding the ISIS fighters, “It is up to you whether you want to continue to have us fight amongst ourselves and so do the West’s job for it,” he said, and he spread his hands wide with resignation. “Their blood will remain unspent, their gold will remain in their coffers while we battle amongst ourselves. They will wait until we have bled ourselves white and then bomb us back into oblivion.”

“They have no such will,” Fahd said. “Their president is a coward or he is secretly with us. They will not interfere.”

“Certainly not while we are slaughtering each other,” Nikahd said sedately. “Now that doesn’t mean we wish you to stop, no, not at all. You are attacking American trained forces; the only forces the West can count on besides their own troops. We have to kill those men to get at the real targets: the Westerners.”

“Go on,” Fahd said evenly.

“Picture this my brothers, our Caliphate stretching from Africa to Asia to Europe, giving the West no foothold in the Middle East,” he said fervently. “We control their oil, their dependence even as we expand our Caliphate — a Caliphate not just established by arms and negotiation but by holy decree — one is coming to unite us, unite us all. We must be ready. Then, when he comes, then we will take our arguments to their proper places.”

Nikahd stared at the ISIS men. He stood, looming over them, and asked them, “Do you think your operations in Syria and Iraq are glorious, stamping out the little Christian communities and beheading Sadaam’s troops — no!

“When we take what is rightfully ours we will send you, you men sitting her at the table, we will send you to Paris, to London to Berlin! You may plunder the vast wealth of the churches of Europe. You may have your harem of pale skinned European girls, ready to service you at your leisure. Once you are done with them they can be brought here to market and you, as the fighters will always be provided with fresh young women for your every need. Europe will fall; Africa is already falling under the onslaught of Boko Haram and the Somalians. Our day is coming. Be a part of it!”

The ISIS terrorists nodded for Khallida to brief them. When he was finished they agreed to sign on to the plan as it allowed them to do everything they were already doing. Nikahd brought out his iPad and showed them the document. He signed it with his electronic pen, telling them, “It is gratifying to use the West’s own tools against them!”

After he signed and Khallida signed he handed the iPad to the ISIS terrorists, saying, “Your Imam’s signature is already on the document — right there,” he pointed to an illegible scrawl. “We have signed for the Republic of Iran and Al Qaeda. It but remains for your signature to guarantee your gains in this jihad!”

One by one the ISIS terrorists signed the iPad. When the last had done so he handed the tablet back to Nikahd.

The colonel smiled, and told them, “Congratulations, you are now part of a larger, greater Caliphate — boom!”

Before Nikahd could finish a loud concussion sounded in the room. The plate glass window shattered. The leader of the ISIS terrorists rocked back in his chair, a small hole in his forehead. One of the terrorist’s behind him took the spent bullet in the throat; it nearly decapitated him. Chunks of grey matter and vaporized blood sprayed the, blinding the terrorists, freezing them with terror.

Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Screams and shouts filled the room as men ducked or ran for cover. There was a pause, and Nikahd shouted, “Sniper! He’s reloading!”

The terrorists ran for the door.

Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!

Bodies crumpled to the floor in plain view of the large dining room window. Khallida and Nikahd escaped — that was all. For a moment all was silent but for the groans of the dead and dying.

From the tangle of bodies one terrorist raised himself painfully on his elbows, whining for aid. The owner of the house appeared at the doorway — shocked, pleading to the heavens — he reached for the stricken man. Boom! One last shot split the air. The terrorist’s head exploded, drenching the owner in blood. He fled from the room.

The next morning the bodies of the slain had been removed and buried. The window was boarded up. The only other indication that something had gone wrong was the presence of the owner’s head nailed over his front door.