Authors: J.R. Rain
“You didn’t ask, my friend.”
I scowled.
“Sam, he’s heading straight for us,” said the professor, his voice rising with alarm. “What do we do?”
“Start by being quiet. And sit tight,” I said.
The soldier removed his gloves, and continued toward us. I waited quietly, holding my breath. The crunch of boots grew louder. The soldier was humming a Kurdish folk song.
I extended my fingers, waiting. A boot appeared from around the boulder—
I reached up and grabbed the coat lapels of the startled soldier, yanked him to the ground, and punched him in the face, splitting my knuckle on his cheekbone. The blow dazed him, but still he managed to shout for help. The second punch knocked him out cold. His head lolled to the side, tongue hanging out like a happy dog.
“Hell of a punch,” said Caesar. “Someday you’ll have to show me how to do that.”
I put my finger to my lips,
shushing
him. But the guard’s shout of alarm had already alerted the others. From camp I heard the sudden running of feet and the shout of orders.
I peered around the boulder. The soldiers had scattered for cover, keeping to the tents and even the chopper. All leveled their weapons at us.
“Okay, Sam,” said Caesar, peering around his side of the boulder. “I think it’s time for a really good idea.”
I removed a grenade from the belt of the soldier. I hefted it like a baseball. It just
felt
destructive. I wondered how far I could throw it.
The first shot
zinged
off the top of the boulder. Followed by another, and another.
Caesar looked at me, amusement in his eyes. The man was infallible. “I think they’re onto us, Sam.”
“Uh huh.”
He motioned to the grenade. “You going to use that thing or just admire it?”
More bullets smacked the boulder, whistled overhead like mosquitoes on speed. Each report deafening, echoing off the distant granite cliffs. In a less stable part of the mountain, the reports would have attracted the attention of an avalanche. As it was, Omar had selected a good site for the launcher, with little chance of catastrophe.
To keep them on their toes, I swung my rifle around the boulder and pulled the trigger. The AK-47 bucked wildly, akin to holding a mongoose by the scruff of the neck. Sudden shouts of alarm. I had surprised the hell out of them, temporarily stopping the deluge of bullets.
I said to the professor, “You follow my lead.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Just watch,” I said.
The bullets picked up again, almost tentatively so, smacking against the rock, zipping by overhead. I took a deep breath and pulled the spring from the grenade, arming it.
Chapter Fifty-five
My mental timer ticked off the seconds:
Five one hundred .
I heard the muted hiss of the grenade’s fuse as I gripped it the same way I threw my fastball back in college.
Four one hundred.
I stood. Muzzles flashed from around tents and equipment—where the soldiers had sought refuge.
Three one hundred.
Bullets whipped by overhead, a little too close for comfort. I briefly took aim—
Two one hundred.
And threw the grenade as far as I could. It arced slightly in the air, like a throw from right field to home plate. The soldiers stopped firing and turned to observe the small oblong object that had just landed among them. As recognition set in, a shout of alarm erupted in unison. Soldiers scattered in all directions.
The grenade rolled to a stop near one of the two helicopters, and I ducked behind the boulder, waiting. Almost in succession, two distinct explosions ripped through the cool air. The first was from the grenade itself, and the second was the fuel tank from the closest chopper. The ground jolted as a fountain of fire gushed into the sky, a geyser from hell. Burning pieces of metal and wreckage flipped through the air.
Such a fragment hit the snow in front of us just a few feet away, a burning section of the helicopter’s cockpit, hissing in the snow. The plastic and glass had melted and fused together.
“Mother of God,” whispered Caesar. “That’s a hell of a distraction.”
Men were screaming, howling. Some seriously injured. It was unfortunate that they were between me and Faye. I grabbed Caesar by the sleeve. “C’mon. Let’s get out of this stink hole.”
* * *
We kept low to the ground. To our right, the helicopter was a smoldering fire of unrecognizable wreckage. Meltwater flowed from under the burning mass, as the chopper sank into the melting glacier.
Most of the action, however, was centered around Omar’s tent. And then I saw why. A section of the Arab’s tent had burned away, leaving a gaping hole.
Had Faye been hurt?
Something inside me wanted to die
. Christ, what if she got hurt?
There was no time to think about it because a soldier, tending to an injured comrade, spotted us and swung his weapon around, firing a volley that went high overhead. He adjusted his sites and a trail of mini explosions followed at our heals. Running, I returned his fire. Turns out my aim was pretty good. The fabric of his coat shredded as I nearly cut him in half.
There were no other challengers. And soon we came upon the launcher. It sat like a black insect against the darkening sky. A disconcerting hum emanated it. I knew the sound well.
It was armed.
* * *
Jabbar led the way to a series of wooden shacks off to the side, explaining that this is where the computerized launch direction console was located. For the time being we had gone unnoticed.
He pushed his way through a heavy door and we stepped out of the wind. He flicked on a track of halogen lighting.
The shack was a pyromaniac’s dirty dream. Coils of black powder wires. Detonator caps. Many things marked:
Dangerous, Highly Flammable And/Or Explosive!
Skulls and crossbones abounded.
Jabbar went immediately over to the launch box in one corner of the room and punched a sequence of numbers on a rubber pad. The black box clicked open. Tangled wires spilled out. The wires looked more like a spaghetti dinner gone amok. Jabbar lifted the plastic coils and frowned. He scratched his head and mumbled something about the wires in Turkish. He mumbled that they looked like a spaghetti dinner gone amok. I glanced inside the box and saw an electronic counter. There was ten minutes left before launching.
“Get to work,” I told Jabbar.
There were three entrances into the workroom/shack. I moved back and forth between the west and south entrance, while Caesar covered the north entrance. The hallways were empty. I could hear muted shouts from outside, mixed with machine gun fire. I wondered just who the hell they were shooting at.
Caesar’s gray eyes were distorted behind his broken glasses. He took them off and rubbed them. I asked how things were going on his end, and he said fine. I saw that his clothing was torn. His hair disheveled. Cut and battered, he looked little like the distinguished professor I knew him to be.
I glanced inside the control box.
Six minutes
.
“Hurry, Jabbar!”
He waved me off with a flick of his wrist. He was punching in sequence after sequence of numbers. Also, he appeared to be re-routing the cables. Finally, Jabbar stepped back and held his arms out dramatically like a Broadway singer. “It is done,” he proclaimed.
“Then why is the counter still counting?” I asked.
Jabbar frowned. “Hmm.” He tapped a fingernail on his small front teeth. He reached inside the black box and poked around a bit more.
More shouts from outside. The machine gun fire had trailed off to a few scattered pops, perhaps as the soldiers realized we were not out there. I moved from doorway to doorway. I could feel the sweat on my brow. We were rapidly running out of time. Caesar continued to peer down the hallway, squinting through his damaged glasses.
“Hurry, Jabbar!” I said.
“Believe me, my friend, you don’t want to rush me. I am the last person in the world you want to rush. And, quite frankly, you’re making me nervous.”
“Point taken. Now hurry!”
Three minutes….
We waited another minute, Jabbar mumbling incoherently, fingers working frantically. He emerged from the box again, perspiration dotting his brow. “I think she’s ready.”
“
Then why is it still counting?”
“This is getting to be bothersome,” he said. “I am most embarrassed, my friend,” said Jabbar. He scratched his head and seemed to turn a shade red.
We were down to the last minute. Jabbar hummed to himself, impervious to the fate of thousands. I stuck the gun behind his ear. “That missile goes off, then your head goes off with it.”
Thirty seconds…
“Ah, yes, this should be it!” His fingers danced crazily. “There!”
The clock, inevitably, was still counting down.
“Why does it keep
doing that
?” he moaned, frustrated.
Ten seconds.
I pressed the gun against the back of his head. My hand shook. Sweat stung my eyes.
Five seconds
. He squealed with delight, like a pig at the sight of a trough of muck. He seized two wires, one red, one black. He held each in a hand.
And pulled them apart.
The counter stopped at 2 seconds
.
I lowered the gun and exhaled. Jabbar turned and grinned, and then his eyes widened in horror.
* * *
Caesar gasped and I heard his weapon clatter to the wooden floor. I swung my AK-47 around just as Caesar was raising his hands high into the air, the barrel of a Luger pressed into his swollen nose, forcing his broken glasses up over his forehead. The man grinning behind the gun was Kazeem. His dark gaze flicked my way. “Put your weapon down, Mr. Ward.”
I did as I was told.
Caesar glanced in my direction. “I’m sorry, Sam. He came from the left. Hell, I thought there was a wall to the left. I think I need a new pair of glasses.”
“Shut up, fool.” Kazeem’s eyes were wide and wild, completely unstable. He pushed Caesar away and pointed the weapon at Jabbar. “Step away from the black box.” He spoke in English, perhaps for the benefit of us all.
And when Jabbar stepped away, Kazeem promptly shot him in the neck, a small red flower instantly appearing above his collar, blossoming rapidly. The concussion echoed loudly in the small room. Jabbar fell forward to his knees, and then flat on his stomach. He was dead before he hit the ground. Kazeem’s eyes glowed with pleasure, my candidate for Sociopath of the Year.
I had deliberately set the stock of my rifle on the toe of my boot. The idea was to kick the rifle up, catch it and shoot our way out of this mess. At least, that was the
idea
.
But before I could attempt the impossible, a massive shadow materialized behind Kazeem. Farid stepped into the light. He pressed a curved scimitar, or
jambiya
, between the shoulder blades of the Arab prince. “Put down your weapon, emir, and kick it away.”
Kazeem stood motionless, perhaps in disbelief, until prompted by the point of Farid’s
jambiya
. He set the weapon down, kicked it away. “You’re making a deadly mistake, nomad,” said the prince to Farid.
Farid ignored him and cast his glance my way. “The emir is boarding the helicopter as we speak, my friend, and he has the girl. I suggest you hurry.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’m here for some unfinished business.”
Chapter Fifty-six
Once, long ago, Farid had been in love. Bhutan had worked in the palace in Riyadh. She had been a concubine, flesh for the insatiable young princes. She had risked much to meet with Farid in stolen moonlit rendezvous. Until they were caught by Emir Kazeem Ali. She had been seized, and Farid had been briefly imprisoned. He would learn later that Bhutan had been publicly beheaded. A lesson for those who fall in love in the Kingdom.
Now, in that small wooden room, with the Americans gone, Farid ordered Kazeem to turn and face him.
Both men filled the small room almost to capacity. Sweat stood on Kazeem’s brow, chest rising and falling rapidly. Farid, in contrast, breathed easily, a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes. He said, “Now, emir, we end this once and for all.”
“Surely you will not strike an unarmed man.”
“No, emir. I do not play by your rules. Withdraw your
jambiya
and prepare for battle.”
Kazeem laughed and stepped back. In a practiced motion, his own jewel-encrusted
jambiya
appeared in his hand as if by magic. The
jambiya’s
hilt was decorated with emeralds, as was the handguard; it looked more like a museum piece than an efficient weapon. But Farid knew better. The young prince was well-trained in the use of the scimitar, as were most of the Arab royalty. The bodyguard’s own
jambiya
, in contrast, was fashioned from simple hand-worked steel.
The two warriors circled each other, swords raised in the on guard position. The scene could have been extracted from the
Arabian Nights
. Outside, beyond the walls of the cramped workroom, came shouts and machine gun fire. The sounds went unnoticed within the room, neither taking their eyes off the other. Farid’s heart beat calmly in his cavernous chest. He took long, even breaths. His widely-set nostrils flared. He was unaware that he was grinning, although he knew that he was taking considerable pleasure from this moment. Perhaps too much pleasure.
Maybe I’m no better than the prince, who takes such enjoyment in the destruction of things
, thought Farid. But Farid knew that he had never enjoyed killing. Until now.
Kazeem’s thin lips curled into a wolfish grin. He projected confidence, but Farid detected an undercurrent of concern in the way the emir’s eyes shifted unsteadily, in the way his chest rose quickly with each shallow breath.
Yes
, thought Farid,
you should be concerned
.
Kazeem lunged forward, thrusting the point of his gilded blade at the bodyguard’s chest. With the flick of the wrist, Farid parried. Sparks exploded. The clang of steel reverberated loudly in the small room. Kazeem stepped back, panting through his open mouth.