Free Moral Imperative by C. G. Cooper Page B

camp, a plume rising from its midst. The truck skidded to a stop, the shockwave hitting them a split second later. It wasn’t enough to do them any harm, but he could tell it was enough to destroy half of the camp.
    “Tell the other vehicles to go and see what happened. We’re going back,” said The Master.
    “But, Master, the caliph?” asked one of his deputies.
    “If I am right, the caliph is dead. Now move.”
    His deputy nodded and got on the radio as the driver turned around and headed back toward Mosul. The Master knew what his men would find. If he was right, he was the new caliph.
     
    +++
     
    The man who would soon no longer be Ali Kassab watched the inferno. There was no doubt that the ISIS leadership had been consumed. He said a silent prayer and pulled out the satellite phone he kept hidden under the cracked slats of his cart. There was only one phone number. He’d memorized it after reading it off the scribbled scrap of paper he’d found under his pillow days before.
    He dialed the number, waiting anxiously for the man to pick up.
    “Yes?”
    “It is done.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. I will see you soon.”
    The call ended and Ibrahim Roubini threw the phone into the small fire he’d made in the crumbling stone hut. He waited until he was sure the phone was destroyed, and then went to prepare his cart. Now that the first salvo was fired, it was time to go home.
     

Chapter 15
    Camp Cavalier
    Charlottesville, Virginia
    6:29pm, August 13 th
     
    Cal didn’t know whether to punch a wall or beat Valko to a pulp. Of all the things he should’ve known… He’d almost picked up the phone and given Gen. McMillan an earful, but something in Cal still drew the line at being disrespectful to a Marine general.
    He’d returned to the pistol range after talking to Valko’s guys only to find the pile of spent rounds the Bulgarian had left. Asshole hadn’t even had the courtesy to clean them up. It only added to Cal’s anger.
    He could’ve had someone find the guy, but Cal knew he needed time to think, to digest what he’d heard. The others would be looking to him, to see how he’d handle the situation. He had to be careful, deal with the Bulgarian one-on-one.
    His mind swerved back to rage. How the hell could McMillan let a guy onto their team with a background like Valko’s?
    Cal stomped into The Lodge, not really paying attention to where he was going. He needed a drink but couldn’t have one. It would set a bad example. Besides, they had more to do, including the infiltration later that night.
    The other teams, especially the drinkers, had taken to spending their off time in the bar. Without looking, Cal figured correctly that everyone except for the Bulgarians were in the large room. There were plenty of comfortable leather chairs, well worn and big enough for the largest operators. Some of them were napping as he entered. He nodded to Fox and Kreyling, who were hunched over a table with a stack of bar glasses, maneuvering them like soldiers on a battlefield.
    Stefano Moretti was sitting at the bar, chatting with Gaucho. The Hispanic was trying to pick up a few words of Italian, and was laughing at the way Moretti was teaching him. Gaucho looked up as Cal entered and held his greeting when he saw Cal’s face.
    Cal found a chair in the corner, away from the others. Daniel watched him from across the room, always there. Cal ignored him.
    As soon as Cal took a seat by himself, who else but Stojan “The Bloody Bulgarian” Valko walked into the lounge. Cal leaped out of his chair and approached Valko.
    “You!” barked Cal, pointing his finger like a dagger at the Bulgarian.
    Valko looked up, annoyance stamped on his features, but not really alarmed. “What?”
    “You and me are gonna have a little talk…outside.”
    By that time Cal was standing right in front of his target, not a foot between them. Valko went to step back but Cal caught him by the front of the shirt. On