David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

“I am impressed, Rafiq,” he said, loudly enough for all the men to hear. “My country’s money is well spent.”

“Now for the fireworks, Colonel,” Rafiq replied. He called to the Hezbollah man driving the Humvee, and Hashem watched as the man pushed a piece of wood through the open space on the steering wheel. The driver braced one end on the dash and snugged the other against the seat cushions before putting the vehicle in gear. He put a second brace against the gas pedal and accelerated down the track toward the IEDs. When he was 150 meters from the first bomb, he jumped from the vehicle and lay flat on the ground.

Rafiq handed a pair of night vision binoculars to Hashem and raised another pair to his eyes. Together, they watched as the Humvee coasted past the first IED.

Nothing happened.

Rafiq grunted as if he had been punched, and Hashem could hear his brother’s teeth grind together.

The Humvee continued along the track toward the second IED. Hashem squinted through the greenish night vision sight at the tiny bump next to the pile of stones.

A flash of light filled his field of view, followed by a shock wave that nearly knocked him down. Hashem’s ears rang, but he could dimly hear the Iraqis cheering behind him. Their celebration grew louder as his hearing returned.

“A great victory, brother,” he said to Rafiq.

“Not a great victory, Colonel. A failure.” His voice was tight with rage. He approached the group of Iraqis, who shrank back until the tall thin one was standing alone. Rafiq poked him in the chest. “You. Go fix your IED. We will run the test again.”

“Sir, that is not recommended,” the explosives engineer interrupted. “The IED will have been destabilized by the other blast. The PIR might be damaged…” The man’s voice trailed off as Rafiq turned on him.

Rafiq cocked his head as if he were speaking to a small child or a pet. When he spoke, his voice was silky. “Would you like to join him?” The Iranian engineer gulped and took a step back. He tried to catch Hashem’s eye, but Hashem ignored him.

The Iraqi’s hands shook as he clasped them in front of his chest. “Please, sir. I promise I will do better next time—”

“This is your next time, you stupid fuck. Move.”

The man staggered slightly as he left the group, but some amount of resolve seemed to have returned. Rafiq watched him through the binoculars until he was certain the man was going to complete the task. He motioned to one of his Hezbollah men. “If that idiot actually manages to disarm the bomb, kill him.” He turned to the explosives engineer. “He failed your course, Professor. Teach them better.”

He waved his arm for the group to head back to the vehicles. There was a stirring among the Iraqis, but a word from the Hezbollah man quieted them.

Just before they arrived at the Range Rover, they heard the explosion, muffled by distance and the twisting canyons.

Hashem settled against the soft leather cushions of the Range Rover. Rafiq climbed into the seat beside him, and sat very still.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, brother. I failed you.”

“Picking the right man is a tricky business, Rafiq. The Iraqi was a liability — you did the right thing. The rest of them will work that much harder.” He paused. “And you will get my full support to expand your operation in Iraq. Whatever you need, just ask.”

Rafiq bowed his head. “I will not let you down, Colonel.”

“There is one more thing, my brother,” Hashem said.

“Name it.”

Hashem slid a slim mobile phone from his pocket. He pressed the phone into Rafiq’s palm and covered it with his own hands.

“Keep this phone with you at all times, Rafiq. I may have a special assignment for you… a task that can only be entrusted to a member of the family.”

The briefing room was packed.

Brendan swore to himself. All the briefings were crowded now, ever since the surge troops had started arriving last month, but this was worse than normal. He picked up a briefing packet and stood near the back of the room between an Australian Army captain and a Royal Air Force major. Like the friggin’ United Nations around here. He gave a brusque nod as they brushed elbows.

The cover page told him the CIA briefing today was for the commander of CJSOTF-Arabian Peninsula. Brendan searched the front of the room for General TJ Haskins, an Army one-star who had been running the Combined Joint Special Ops Task Force for the last four months. The general’s icy blue eyes were fixed on the empty podium, his face set in a scowl.

Brendan checked his watch. One minute past the hour. His eyes flicked over to Haskins. If there was one thing the general hated it was tardiness, and he usually made his feelings known in colorful terms. Most of these briefings were painfully dull; this one might prove entertaining.

He checked the podium to see who was briefing today. The CIA guys tended to keep to themselves, but after four months in country and dozens of briefings, you got to know them by reputation. Brendan suppressed a smile; there must be an issue with the projector. Two backsides were facing the audience, one covered in BDUs and the other — wider and softer in appearance — in civilian clothes.

“Lieutenant Mason, we’re three minutes behind schedule. What seems to be the problem?” said General Haskins in a voice that could scratch glass. Chuckles went around the room. Haskins silenced them with a glare.

The uniformed ass became a red-faced head with a blond crewcut. “Sir, we’re still having connection issues with the microphone. I’ll look into another conference room and we can reschedule—”

“The hell you will! I’m not about to waste another second. Tell your CIA friend to use his big-boy voice and project to the back of the room. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the staffer replied. He bent over the still-kneeling form of the chubby CIA analyst and spoke to him urgently. There was a loud crack as the microphone was disconnected and both men stood up.

Brendan caught his breath. The CIA analyst was Don Riley.

His former plebe made a vain attempt to tuck his shirttail back into his pants. His belly bulged over his belt and strained against the buttons of his dress shirt. Don’s face was red despite the frigid air blasting through the room, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief that he pulled from his hip pocket.

“Good afternoon. My name is Donald Riley—”

“Louder,” someone called from the back of the room.

Don’s voice strained as he pushed up the volume. “My name is Donald Riley, and I’d like to brief you on a terrorist cell we’ve been tracking for a few months now.”

The room fell silent as Don put up the first slide, a bomb crater at least twenty meters across. Twisted metal, bits of trash, and body parts littered the churned-up earth.

“Amiril, earlier this month. One hundred and fifty-six dead.”

The slide shifted, showing another bomb scene.

“Earlier this week, truck bombing in Kirkuk. Eighty-six people killed.”

The room was silent except for the whirr of the air conditioning.

“What do these two events have in common?”

The next slide showed an Iranian ayatollah — Brendan couldn’t remember which one — and Don’s voice was drowned out by the coughing of the RAF officer next to him.

“We have solid intelligence that Iran, working with Lebanese Hezbollah, is providing materiel and funds to a select Shia militia. The bombings in the north at Kirkuk and Amiril were test cases of the militia, a way to try out their latest tactics using newer and more powerful bombs.”