President Trump hurried into the situation room as quickly as he could, adjusting his suit as he crossed the door frame into the large conference room. Several white house aides were ready at the door, opening it for the president and closing it as soon as he entered. This meeting was as classified as classified got.
His seat was ready. His cabinet was already seated around the table, with the most important government figures located right next to the president. Vice-President Pence was at his immediate right, Defense Secretary Patrick Shanahan at his left. His son-in-law Jared Kushner sat next to Mic Mulvaney, his chief-of-staff. A small army of high ranking generals, defense experts, and White House Staff filled every other available seat. Trump stared at the screen on the wall opposite of him at the end of the table, watching the live view of a jungle that was being played on the massive monitors in front of him.
“What’s the situation?” Trump barked. It was late and he spent much of the day actively observing the operation. Now that it was actively underway, he felt almost powerless to do anything. All he could do was watch, and hope for the best.
“The team is nearing the target,” Shanahan explained, his arms crossed and frow burrowed. It was clear to the President that he was a little bit nervous. He was right to be.
Just a few weeks prior, it was discovered that the self-proclaimed caliph of ISIS, Al-Baghdadi, was hiding deep in the jungles of Venezuela, being taken care of by a mixture of terrorists and rogue Venezuelan military, all of whom were being handsomely paid for the caliph. It was a brilliant place to hide, as it was the last place anyone would expect and the country was actively hostile to United States interests. From his hidden location, the terrorist could launch attacks with impunity, attacking target after target with hidden cells located all over the world. That had to be stopped before it could happen.
Trump gave the order just over two weeks to go ahead with the operation, code-name Operation Jungle Cat, but it took a while to decide how to go about it. Russia undoubtedly had secret assets all over the country, so a strike like the one that took out Bin-Laden would be incredibly risky and dangerous. It had to be assumed that the Russians or Chinese would alert Venezuelan authorities about any movement of military equipment. They would have to be especially covert. Not even troops on the ground could be trusted: there were spies everywhere. Faced with no other acceptable options, Trump called Scott Mitchell.
The Ghosts would be sent in.
Based out of Fort Bragg, the Ghosts did not technically exist. A common urban legend, yes, but there existence was so classified and shrouded in secrecy that only a select few people knew of their existence. When Trump visited the White House for the first time after his election victory, one of the first things he was briefed on was secret military options that he had the power to activate: the Ghosts were mentioned time and time again as they were behind some of the most secretive government operations imaginable. When the government needed something done without anyone knowing, the Ghosts were called. Not even Congress knew of their existence. They made Seal Team Six look like celebrities. Armed with the most advanced technology that the government had to offer, they specialized in striking silently, hence their name. The last thing their enemies saw was a bullet tearing through their skull.
Over the last couple of days, a team of four Ghosts had smuggled themselves into Venezuela through the Brazilian border. Jair Bolsanaro was more than willing to help with logistics, and various CIA cells within Venezuela were activated. Weapons and gear were shipped to various covert camps, and when the team crossed the border, they found these hidden caches and got ready to execute the strike. Tonight was the day that the Caliph would die.
There, on the screen, was the helmet footage from the team leader, Elizabeth “Nomad” Chandler.
Aiding her were Dominic “Holt” Moretta, Rubio “Midas” Delgado, and Coray “Weaver” Ward. All were chosen because they spoke fluent Spanish, and more or less blended in with local populations.
“Nomad,” Scott Mitchell said. “How copy?”
On the ground, Elizabeth slowly trudged through the dark and damp jungle. It was so dark, that if not for her advanced thermal vision, she would probably not be able to see anything. Every inch of her skin was covered in clothes that hid her heat signatures, preventing anyone who happened to have thermal scopes from seeing her. She was truly invisible.
“We are nearing the target Griffin,” she whispered. “That bastard won’t escape us.”
“The president is watching so be on your best behavior,” Scott relied, smirking a little bit as he did so. Even in times like this, the Ghosts were experts in remaining calm. Humor had a way of relaxing people.
“Tell him to cut my taxes some more,” Holt began in his thick Louisiana accent. He was the jokester of the team, and always found a way to make light of a situation. Everyone in the Situation Room laughed silently.
“Go get him Nomad,” Scott affirmed, shutting the radio line.
“How confident are you that this will work?” Trump inquired as he watched the operation unfold.
“One-hundred percent,” Scott nodded. “Not a doubt in my mind Mr. President. Major Chandler and her squad are the best we have.”
Elizabeth continued to sneak through the jungle, occasionally hitting the dirt whenever an airplane or helicopter flew overhead. At least its not raining, she thought. The already miserable and humid jungle would have been made a thousand times worst if she had to slog through it all damp and such.
“Did you guys hear the story about the three marines at the bar?” Holt joked. “Th…”
“Shut the fuck up Holt,” Elizabeth snapped. “Now is not the time.”
“Permission to shut his radio?” Midas asked, clearly not in the mood for jest.
“I would love to,” Elizabeth replied, “but he’s our drone specialist. We sort of need him.”
“Thanks mother,” Holt laughed. “You sound just like my ex-wife, Midas.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” Elizabeth grumbled on the behalf of her friend.
“Both,” Holt wheezed.
As the four continued through the dense jungle, they closed in on the location: a small set of hovels and houses located next to a small river. They slowly maneuvered themselves onto a small hill that observed the camp that had been marked long ago by forward recon.
The camp was an unassuming location, anchored by a two story concrete structure with a tin roof surrounded by tents and makeshift structures. On the roof of the largest building was a hastily built yet powerful antenna, likely for the Caliph to be able to communicate with his followers, or perhaps to watch the latest movies. Maybe he liked YouTube. Whatever.
“I count fifteen terrorists,” Holt announced, carefully piloting a stealth drone above the house. “There are two on the second floor, and nobody on the first floor. The Caliph appears to be inside and laying on bed. Is he…oh God that is fucking disgusting.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked, immediately regretting doing so.
“I’m just messing around. I don’t see him.”
“Nomad,” Scott said out of the blue, his voice blaring into Elizabeth’s earpiece. “What do you see?”
“We see fifteen or so terrorists on the ground. We do not have confirmation of the target.”
“Confirm visual, and take him out as soon as you can.”
“Rodger that, Griffin,” Elizabeth responded.
“Where could he be?” Midas inquired, surveying the area through his sniper. The team had examined a large variety of potential ways that he could look, from a longer beard to no beard. He was nowhere to be found.
“Keep looking,” Elizabeth ordered. She kept watching, surveying every terrorist soldier multiple times. “He has to be inside the building,” she relented. “Men, get ready to storm the structure.”
“No need,” Weaver piped up, speaking for the first time in the entire day. “He’s on the first floor,” he said, watching the building through his sniper rifle. “He’s making supper.”
“I’ll take the shot,” Elizabeth commanded. “Holt and Weaver, take out the men on the second floor. Midas, watch out for any terrorist activity.”
The three men under her command grunted in affirmation. Elizabeth carefully lined up her shot: it was relatively easy, from maybe three hundred yards back or so, but she had to make this one count. The Caliph was cooking, and was dancing around, definitely enjoying whatever music he listened to. She took a deep breath, staring him down. I am an angel of death, she thought in her mind slowly and painstakingly. She always thought these words before she killed someone. I am a harbinger of justice, and today, you will burn in the lake of fire. May God have mercy on my soul. Slowly, she pulled the trigger of her rifle.
The discharge was as silent as her prototype silencer could make it. The bullet sailed swiftly through the air, through a glass window, and right into the Caliph’s skull. The force of the impact knocked him forward into a wall. Weaver and Holt quickly made their shots, swiftly neutralizing the two terrorists on the first floor.
“Ceasefire,” Elizabeth whispered harshly. “Have we been made?”
“Negative,” Midas answered. “No movement on the ground.”
“Griffin,” Elizabeth began over the radio. “The target has been neutralized.”
The situation room erupted into cheers. Mike Pence nodded with happiness, shaking Donald Trumps hand, and Jared Kushner began to pump his fist. Everyone was pleased and relived that the operation had been a complete success. Everyone around the table high-fived each other, with several of the generals giving fist-bumps to one another.
“Great work Nomad. Enter the house and confirm the kill. Get as much intel as you possibly can.”
“Copied,” Elizabeth affirmed. “Men, take point, I’m going to sneak into the house and grab what I can. Cover me.”
Elizabeth left her rifle on the ground and carefully tiptoed her way down the hill and into the camp. Every single step that she made was calculated and silent. She was thankful that tall grass and trees covered her approach almost right up to the structure. When she reached the concrete wall of the house, she pulled out a handgun holstered to her right leg. There was a wooden door right next to her, and she silently opened it and entered the house.
There, on the opposite end of the room, as the dead Caliph. She slowly made her way to the body.
“Griffin,” she whispered silently. “Is this the target?”
Scott Mitchell studied the body for a short while through the monitor. “That is definitely him. Great work. Everyone here is incredibly pleased with your performance today.”
Aside from a kitchen and a table, the first floor was incredibly bare. There was a lab top on the table, which she hastily placed into her backpack. She began to walk towards the stairs when a terrorist began to open the door facing the rest of the camp. Elizabeth quickly aimed her pistol at the door. He barely made it inside and shut the door when she fired three rapid shots, two in the chest at one in the head. He was dead in moments and hit the floor.
Midas entered the room next. “I’ll take the bodies,” he whispered. Elizabeth nodded and slowly walked up the wooden stairs. The second floor was far more valuable, with a number of computers, laptops, and papers strewn around. She tore into the desktop towers and ripped the hard-drives out as quickly as she could. Everything else was quickly jammed into her massive backpack. The second floor was messy and unkept, but that made it easy to carry everything that needed to be carried out. The target was not expecting to stay here for very long. Once everything was packed in her bag, Elizabeth left the way she came.
She made her way back up the hill and grabbed her rifle. “We are done here,” she said with glee. “Let’s get to the LZ.”
“Must I be the one to carry his body?” Holt complained.
“Yes.”
Once they were a sufficient distance away from the camp, the alarm was sounded by a group of patrolling terrorists. By that point, they could do nothing. The Caliph was nowhere to be seen.
Not far from them was a covered van that had been placed there hours ago by CIA contacts in the area. Holt groaned with disgust as he placed the body in the back. “It’s only a body,” Midas laughed, “it won’t hurt that much.”
“How about you carry a dead terrorist for a few miles,” Holt said, shaking his hands, pretending to clean them. “Is there some hand sanitizer in this car?”
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth laughed as she took off her helmet and baklava, freeing her face and short brown hair. She gasped with relief as the jungle air hit her head. “If there was, I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to you.”
“Is there a brothel around here?” Holt said sarcastically as he got into the back of the van. “They say that war really makes you…thirsty.”
“You missing your wife already?” Midas quipped as he got into the driver’s seat.
“Naw,” Holt retorted. “I’d rather fuck the devil than her.”
“What are you looking forward to, Midas?” Elizabeth asked. Midas turned the car on and began to drive down the dirt roads of the Jungle. Elizabeth was tall for a woman, at six foot tall. The car was clearly built for smaller people, as she could barely stretch her legs out. She fidgeted around in annoyance.
“Some nice post-church lunch with my family and yours. Want to go to that diner again?”
Elizabeth nodded. The two went to the same church near Fort Bragg. “That sounds lovely. Hopefully my husband remembers to call in a reservation beforehand this time. My son gets antsy with the wait.”
“Look at you two, so happily married,” Holt sarcastically mocked. “What’s that like again?”
Elizabeth did not answer. She looked out the window into the darkness and imagined herself back at home with her husband Andrew, her son William, and her daughters Sarah and Emily. Home life something that she enjoyed, but it was getting harder as she got older. When she was twenty and in the Sandbox of Iraq, life was easy, and she could stay deployed for months on end. Now, at thirty five with growing children, deploying was harder and harder. Her nine year old son was getting angrier at her for her long deployments away from home. She had missed several of his concerts and performances due to missions that she had to attend to.
The worst part of it all was the fact that she was sworn to secrecy. She could not tell her family a thing about what she did. Her husband believed that she basically a regular officer in the army. Little did he know that she was a part of the most secretive military outfit in the entire world, perhaps the entire galaxy. Midas, her neighbor and fellow church attender, softened the blow because she saw him so often, but she struggled constantly at having to live a double life. She sighed with longing as the continued on the road.
“Is something wrong, Elizabeth?” Midas asked, sensing that something was wrong. Holt and Weaver had longed fallen asleep in the back.
“I’m just getting tired of all of this,” Elizabeth confessed. “It’s what I’m good at, but my family is suffering because of it.”
“Mine as well,” Midas lamented. “But I’m here for you Elizabeth, always.”
“Everyone at my church wonders why I’m so yoked,” she replied, her tone full of both sarcasm and regret. “They question my husband’s masculinity all the time. It’s pretty embarrassing.”
Midas turned to her. She was well built, that was for sure.
“Don’t think about all of that,” Midas comforted her. “In just a few hours, we will be on a plane back to Fort Bragg. Andrew is a wonderful man, and you will be back with the love of your life. Just forget about your problems. If you can survive the Sandbox, what’s a little bit of tween angst and jealous housewife drama going to do to you? You will always have me. Screw the rest of them.”
“You know Rubio,” Elizabeth smiled and patted her friend on the shoulder. “You have a way with words, you know that?”
“Andrea always says that you know,” he stated, referring to his wife.
“What passage do we have to study for Sunday?” She stated, changing the subject.
“Revelation One,” Midas replied almost immediately. “We are starting that book in our study.”
“I’m sure that Ernie will go crazy with that one,” she joked, referring to the crazy man in their church who was obsessed with the end times.
“He sure will,” Midas laughed powerfully. “You sound tired Elizabeth,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”
“I need to check your driving,” Elizabeth countered playfully. “You have a spotty record.”
“I do not!” He protested.
“You totaled your wife’s car a few years ago…”
“That was the other driver’s fault!”
“Yep…yep,” Elizabeth interrupted, playfully yapping with her hands.
After a few more hours of driving, they made their way across the border and into a secret airstrip. There, a small Cessna was waiting for them, curtesy of the CIA. From there, they flew to Manaus, and from there, boarded a CIA plane that flew the team back to Fort Bragg. When they arrived, they were greeted with a few fist bumps and high-fives. Typical.
That night, Trump announced to the nation that the Caliph was dead. People danced and cheered in the streets, waving American flags and chanting patriot slogans. He stated that Seal Team Six had landed via helicopter not far from the location, stormed the camp, and killed everyone in it. He praised their bravery and skill in executing the operation, comparing it time and time again to Operation Neptune Spear, the mission that killed Bin Laden.
Elizabeth watched the speech on the plane: of course, the fucking Seals always got the credit for something that they did not do. They even had a movie made about the raid that killed Bin Laden. She couldn’t help but wonder who would be cast as her in a movie about what really happened, considering she was at the raid that took that bastard out. They captured him alive. God he was a treasure trove of information. The taxpayers would be furious if they found out he was holed up in a penthouse in Boca Raton, all on their dime. As long as he continued to provide valuable intelligence, he was an asset. He had snitched on the Caliph, after all.
But you know, being a literal ghost had its benefits. She doze off, ready to head back home.
His seat was ready. His cabinet was already seated around the table, with the most important government figures located right next to the president. Vice-President Pence was at his immediate right, Defense Secretary Patrick Shanahan at his left. His son-in-law Jared Kushner sat next to Mic Mulvaney, his chief-of-staff. A small army of high ranking generals, defense experts, and White House Staff filled every other available seat. Trump stared at the screen on the wall opposite of him at the end of the table, watching the live view of a jungle that was being played on the massive monitors in front of him.
“What’s the situation?” Trump barked. It was late and he spent much of the day actively observing the operation. Now that it was actively underway, he felt almost powerless to do anything. All he could do was watch, and hope for the best.
“The team is nearing the target,” Shanahan explained, his arms crossed and frow burrowed. It was clear to the President that he was a little bit nervous. He was right to be.
Just a few weeks prior, it was discovered that the self-proclaimed caliph of ISIS, Al-Baghdadi, was hiding deep in the jungles of Venezuela, being taken care of by a mixture of terrorists and rogue Venezuelan military, all of whom were being handsomely paid for the caliph. It was a brilliant place to hide, as it was the last place anyone would expect and the country was actively hostile to United States interests. From his hidden location, the terrorist could launch attacks with impunity, attacking target after target with hidden cells located all over the world. That had to be stopped before it could happen.
Trump gave the order just over two weeks to go ahead with the operation, code-name Operation Jungle Cat, but it took a while to decide how to go about it. Russia undoubtedly had secret assets all over the country, so a strike like the one that took out Bin-Laden would be incredibly risky and dangerous. It had to be assumed that the Russians or Chinese would alert Venezuelan authorities about any movement of military equipment. They would have to be especially covert. Not even troops on the ground could be trusted: there were spies everywhere. Faced with no other acceptable options, Trump called Scott Mitchell.
The Ghosts would be sent in.
Based out of Fort Bragg, the Ghosts did not technically exist. A common urban legend, yes, but there existence was so classified and shrouded in secrecy that only a select few people knew of their existence. When Trump visited the White House for the first time after his election victory, one of the first things he was briefed on was secret military options that he had the power to activate: the Ghosts were mentioned time and time again as they were behind some of the most secretive government operations imaginable. When the government needed something done without anyone knowing, the Ghosts were called. Not even Congress knew of their existence. They made Seal Team Six look like celebrities. Armed with the most advanced technology that the government had to offer, they specialized in striking silently, hence their name. The last thing their enemies saw was a bullet tearing through their skull.
Over the last couple of days, a team of four Ghosts had smuggled themselves into Venezuela through the Brazilian border. Jair Bolsanaro was more than willing to help with logistics, and various CIA cells within Venezuela were activated. Weapons and gear were shipped to various covert camps, and when the team crossed the border, they found these hidden caches and got ready to execute the strike. Tonight was the day that the Caliph would die.
There, on the screen, was the helmet footage from the team leader, Elizabeth “Nomad” Chandler.
Aiding her were Dominic “Holt” Moretta, Rubio “Midas” Delgado, and Coray “Weaver” Ward. All were chosen because they spoke fluent Spanish, and more or less blended in with local populations.
“Nomad,” Scott Mitchell said. “How copy?”
On the ground, Elizabeth slowly trudged through the dark and damp jungle. It was so dark, that if not for her advanced thermal vision, she would probably not be able to see anything. Every inch of her skin was covered in clothes that hid her heat signatures, preventing anyone who happened to have thermal scopes from seeing her. She was truly invisible.
“We are nearing the target Griffin,” she whispered. “That bastard won’t escape us.”
“The president is watching so be on your best behavior,” Scott relied, smirking a little bit as he did so. Even in times like this, the Ghosts were experts in remaining calm. Humor had a way of relaxing people.
“Tell him to cut my taxes some more,” Holt began in his thick Louisiana accent. He was the jokester of the team, and always found a way to make light of a situation. Everyone in the Situation Room laughed silently.
“Go get him Nomad,” Scott affirmed, shutting the radio line.
“How confident are you that this will work?” Trump inquired as he watched the operation unfold.
“One-hundred percent,” Scott nodded. “Not a doubt in my mind Mr. President. Major Chandler and her squad are the best we have.”
Elizabeth continued to sneak through the jungle, occasionally hitting the dirt whenever an airplane or helicopter flew overhead. At least its not raining, she thought. The already miserable and humid jungle would have been made a thousand times worst if she had to slog through it all damp and such.
“Did you guys hear the story about the three marines at the bar?” Holt joked. “Th…”
“Shut the fuck up Holt,” Elizabeth snapped. “Now is not the time.”
“Permission to shut his radio?” Midas asked, clearly not in the mood for jest.
“I would love to,” Elizabeth replied, “but he’s our drone specialist. We sort of need him.”
“Thanks mother,” Holt laughed. “You sound just like my ex-wife, Midas.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” Elizabeth grumbled on the behalf of her friend.
“Both,” Holt wheezed.
As the four continued through the dense jungle, they closed in on the location: a small set of hovels and houses located next to a small river. They slowly maneuvered themselves onto a small hill that observed the camp that had been marked long ago by forward recon.
The camp was an unassuming location, anchored by a two story concrete structure with a tin roof surrounded by tents and makeshift structures. On the roof of the largest building was a hastily built yet powerful antenna, likely for the Caliph to be able to communicate with his followers, or perhaps to watch the latest movies. Maybe he liked YouTube. Whatever.
“I count fifteen terrorists,” Holt announced, carefully piloting a stealth drone above the house. “There are two on the second floor, and nobody on the first floor. The Caliph appears to be inside and laying on bed. Is he…oh God that is fucking disgusting.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked, immediately regretting doing so.
“I’m just messing around. I don’t see him.”
“Nomad,” Scott said out of the blue, his voice blaring into Elizabeth’s earpiece. “What do you see?”
“We see fifteen or so terrorists on the ground. We do not have confirmation of the target.”
“Confirm visual, and take him out as soon as you can.”
“Rodger that, Griffin,” Elizabeth responded.
“Where could he be?” Midas inquired, surveying the area through his sniper. The team had examined a large variety of potential ways that he could look, from a longer beard to no beard. He was nowhere to be found.
“Keep looking,” Elizabeth ordered. She kept watching, surveying every terrorist soldier multiple times. “He has to be inside the building,” she relented. “Men, get ready to storm the structure.”
“No need,” Weaver piped up, speaking for the first time in the entire day. “He’s on the first floor,” he said, watching the building through his sniper rifle. “He’s making supper.”
“I’ll take the shot,” Elizabeth commanded. “Holt and Weaver, take out the men on the second floor. Midas, watch out for any terrorist activity.”
The three men under her command grunted in affirmation. Elizabeth carefully lined up her shot: it was relatively easy, from maybe three hundred yards back or so, but she had to make this one count. The Caliph was cooking, and was dancing around, definitely enjoying whatever music he listened to. She took a deep breath, staring him down. I am an angel of death, she thought in her mind slowly and painstakingly. She always thought these words before she killed someone. I am a harbinger of justice, and today, you will burn in the lake of fire. May God have mercy on my soul. Slowly, she pulled the trigger of her rifle.
The discharge was as silent as her prototype silencer could make it. The bullet sailed swiftly through the air, through a glass window, and right into the Caliph’s skull. The force of the impact knocked him forward into a wall. Weaver and Holt quickly made their shots, swiftly neutralizing the two terrorists on the first floor.
“Ceasefire,” Elizabeth whispered harshly. “Have we been made?”
“Negative,” Midas answered. “No movement on the ground.”
“Griffin,” Elizabeth began over the radio. “The target has been neutralized.”
The situation room erupted into cheers. Mike Pence nodded with happiness, shaking Donald Trumps hand, and Jared Kushner began to pump his fist. Everyone was pleased and relived that the operation had been a complete success. Everyone around the table high-fived each other, with several of the generals giving fist-bumps to one another.
“Great work Nomad. Enter the house and confirm the kill. Get as much intel as you possibly can.”
“Copied,” Elizabeth affirmed. “Men, take point, I’m going to sneak into the house and grab what I can. Cover me.”
Elizabeth left her rifle on the ground and carefully tiptoed her way down the hill and into the camp. Every single step that she made was calculated and silent. She was thankful that tall grass and trees covered her approach almost right up to the structure. When she reached the concrete wall of the house, she pulled out a handgun holstered to her right leg. There was a wooden door right next to her, and she silently opened it and entered the house.
There, on the opposite end of the room, as the dead Caliph. She slowly made her way to the body.
“Griffin,” she whispered silently. “Is this the target?”
Scott Mitchell studied the body for a short while through the monitor. “That is definitely him. Great work. Everyone here is incredibly pleased with your performance today.”
Aside from a kitchen and a table, the first floor was incredibly bare. There was a lab top on the table, which she hastily placed into her backpack. She began to walk towards the stairs when a terrorist began to open the door facing the rest of the camp. Elizabeth quickly aimed her pistol at the door. He barely made it inside and shut the door when she fired three rapid shots, two in the chest at one in the head. He was dead in moments and hit the floor.
Midas entered the room next. “I’ll take the bodies,” he whispered. Elizabeth nodded and slowly walked up the wooden stairs. The second floor was far more valuable, with a number of computers, laptops, and papers strewn around. She tore into the desktop towers and ripped the hard-drives out as quickly as she could. Everything else was quickly jammed into her massive backpack. The second floor was messy and unkept, but that made it easy to carry everything that needed to be carried out. The target was not expecting to stay here for very long. Once everything was packed in her bag, Elizabeth left the way she came.
She made her way back up the hill and grabbed her rifle. “We are done here,” she said with glee. “Let’s get to the LZ.”
“Must I be the one to carry his body?” Holt complained.
“Yes.”
Once they were a sufficient distance away from the camp, the alarm was sounded by a group of patrolling terrorists. By that point, they could do nothing. The Caliph was nowhere to be seen.
Not far from them was a covered van that had been placed there hours ago by CIA contacts in the area. Holt groaned with disgust as he placed the body in the back. “It’s only a body,” Midas laughed, “it won’t hurt that much.”
“How about you carry a dead terrorist for a few miles,” Holt said, shaking his hands, pretending to clean them. “Is there some hand sanitizer in this car?”
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth laughed as she took off her helmet and baklava, freeing her face and short brown hair. She gasped with relief as the jungle air hit her head. “If there was, I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to you.”
“Is there a brothel around here?” Holt said sarcastically as he got into the back of the van. “They say that war really makes you…thirsty.”
“You missing your wife already?” Midas quipped as he got into the driver’s seat.
“Naw,” Holt retorted. “I’d rather fuck the devil than her.”
“What are you looking forward to, Midas?” Elizabeth asked. Midas turned the car on and began to drive down the dirt roads of the Jungle. Elizabeth was tall for a woman, at six foot tall. The car was clearly built for smaller people, as she could barely stretch her legs out. She fidgeted around in annoyance.
“Some nice post-church lunch with my family and yours. Want to go to that diner again?”
Elizabeth nodded. The two went to the same church near Fort Bragg. “That sounds lovely. Hopefully my husband remembers to call in a reservation beforehand this time. My son gets antsy with the wait.”
“Look at you two, so happily married,” Holt sarcastically mocked. “What’s that like again?”
Elizabeth did not answer. She looked out the window into the darkness and imagined herself back at home with her husband Andrew, her son William, and her daughters Sarah and Emily. Home life something that she enjoyed, but it was getting harder as she got older. When she was twenty and in the Sandbox of Iraq, life was easy, and she could stay deployed for months on end. Now, at thirty five with growing children, deploying was harder and harder. Her nine year old son was getting angrier at her for her long deployments away from home. She had missed several of his concerts and performances due to missions that she had to attend to.
The worst part of it all was the fact that she was sworn to secrecy. She could not tell her family a thing about what she did. Her husband believed that she basically a regular officer in the army. Little did he know that she was a part of the most secretive military outfit in the entire world, perhaps the entire galaxy. Midas, her neighbor and fellow church attender, softened the blow because she saw him so often, but she struggled constantly at having to live a double life. She sighed with longing as the continued on the road.
“Is something wrong, Elizabeth?” Midas asked, sensing that something was wrong. Holt and Weaver had longed fallen asleep in the back.
“I’m just getting tired of all of this,” Elizabeth confessed. “It’s what I’m good at, but my family is suffering because of it.”
“Mine as well,” Midas lamented. “But I’m here for you Elizabeth, always.”
“Everyone at my church wonders why I’m so yoked,” she replied, her tone full of both sarcasm and regret. “They question my husband’s masculinity all the time. It’s pretty embarrassing.”
Midas turned to her. She was well built, that was for sure.
“Don’t think about all of that,” Midas comforted her. “In just a few hours, we will be on a plane back to Fort Bragg. Andrew is a wonderful man, and you will be back with the love of your life. Just forget about your problems. If you can survive the Sandbox, what’s a little bit of tween angst and jealous housewife drama going to do to you? You will always have me. Screw the rest of them.”
“You know Rubio,” Elizabeth smiled and patted her friend on the shoulder. “You have a way with words, you know that?”
“Andrea always says that you know,” he stated, referring to his wife.
“What passage do we have to study for Sunday?” She stated, changing the subject.
“Revelation One,” Midas replied almost immediately. “We are starting that book in our study.”
“I’m sure that Ernie will go crazy with that one,” she joked, referring to the crazy man in their church who was obsessed with the end times.
“He sure will,” Midas laughed powerfully. “You sound tired Elizabeth,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”
“I need to check your driving,” Elizabeth countered playfully. “You have a spotty record.”
“I do not!” He protested.
“You totaled your wife’s car a few years ago…”
“That was the other driver’s fault!”
“Yep…yep,” Elizabeth interrupted, playfully yapping with her hands.
After a few more hours of driving, they made their way across the border and into a secret airstrip. There, a small Cessna was waiting for them, curtesy of the CIA. From there, they flew to Manaus, and from there, boarded a CIA plane that flew the team back to Fort Bragg. When they arrived, they were greeted with a few fist bumps and high-fives. Typical.
That night, Trump announced to the nation that the Caliph was dead. People danced and cheered in the streets, waving American flags and chanting patriot slogans. He stated that Seal Team Six had landed via helicopter not far from the location, stormed the camp, and killed everyone in it. He praised their bravery and skill in executing the operation, comparing it time and time again to Operation Neptune Spear, the mission that killed Bin Laden.
Elizabeth watched the speech on the plane: of course, the fucking Seals always got the credit for something that they did not do. They even had a movie made about the raid that killed Bin Laden. She couldn’t help but wonder who would be cast as her in a movie about what really happened, considering she was at the raid that took that bastard out. They captured him alive. God he was a treasure trove of information. The taxpayers would be furious if they found out he was holed up in a penthouse in Boca Raton, all on their dime. As long as he continued to provide valuable intelligence, he was an asset. He had snitched on the Caliph, after all.
But you know, being a literal ghost had its benefits. She doze off, ready to head back home.
