Free Moral Imperative by C. G. Cooper Page A

fat man walked over and hugged Ali. “Of course, my friend. Come. Let me get someone to unload your goods and I will get your payment.”
    Less than an hour later, Ali waved goodbye to the guards. They waved back enthusiastically, now accompanied by four others. The camp was expecting company. Ali whistled a tune as he walked beside his most stubborn mule, coaxing it with a soft lullaby. It was all he could do to not look back.
     
    +++
     
    The supply chief stuffed another piece of soft white baladi cheese in his mouth. It had been too long since he’d savored such a delicacy. Because the army was constantly on the move, rationing was essential. Meals were simple and rarely fresh. That meant that even the man who controlled the food had to cut back. He was sure he’d lost at least ten pounds since leaving Syria. The thought made him rub his ample belly as he swallowed the cheese. It reminded him of his wife.
    His master would be happy. He would save the cheese for last and tell them that it hadn’t cost a thing. His gift to the caliph.
    He was distracted from his thoughts of home when one of his men dropped a serving platter. It sent the fat man into a tirade of curses. They had less than two hours before the caliph and his commanders arrived. Everything would have to be ready or it was his head. The caliph did not like his food to be served late.
     
    To the fat man’s delight, every course was met with a chorus of happy grunts and murmurs. Even the caliph had inquired about the source of the meal. Someone had pointed at the supply chief, who stood in the corner of the tent, stoically overseeing the service. He returned the caliph’s nod proudly.
    Finally, it came time for his surprise. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the caliph’s face. Maybe he would be invited to work at the palace once the new Islamic state was formed. One could hope.
    He’d told his underlings not to touch the delicacies, wanting to parcel out the food with his own hand. The first one he grabbed was a large block of feta, probably two feet by two feet in size. He would serve it with the dates and figs he’d gotten from another vendor, and a collection of barreled olives he’d commandeered from a small town the day before.
    The block was too big for a normal knife and he opted for a three foot carving knife they used to slaughter meat. It looked more like a sword than something you’d find in a kitchen.
    He eased the blade into the center of the cheese, using two hands to shimmy it in. The blade stopped two inches down. The fat man’s brow furrowed. He removed the blade and stuck his finger into the crevice he’d made. There was something hard in the middle of the cheese. He could feel it. That Ali better not have given me rotting cheese.
    It was the last thought the fat man would ever have.
     
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    The Master was in the second vehicle of the four truck convoy. They were late. There had been trouble with a group of prisoners who’d somehow escaped from a holding cell. His men had spent the afternoon running them down with their trucks, he among them.
    He was tired and didn’t feel like another meeting with the council. They always lasted late into the night and nothing ever seemed to get accomplished. The others wanted to be heard while the caliph sat listening, always patient.
    Then, once the others departed, the caliph would speak to him alone. His verbal orders for The Master only. It was for the caliph that he came, not the others who always complained about his own increasing role in the regime.
    He could see the lights of the temporary camp up ahead. The Master shook his head at the stupidity. It was a perfect target for aircraft if the Americans and their friends ever found the courage to act. Luckily, they hadn’t, and the army of ISIS still moved with relative impunity.
    They were two hundred yards from the entrance, their vehicles slowing, when The Master felt the rumble, followed by a massive explosion inside the