The Omega Seed

by J E Moore

  Chapter Eight

  Let's play hardball

  The United Nations Building, New York City

  Super adrenalin rush! Raw power surged through Yamoto's veins as he terminated his phone call to the President of the United States requesting a nuclear strike on the submerged alien starship. Ito was bursting with pride and self-importance. "This is my destiny! Supreme leadership and eternal honor shall be bestowed upon me. Yes, yes, the entire world's governance will be demanded of me! - especially after I eradicate the mutant subhuman Omega and enact my perfect plan for Earth's global defense system. Hai! Only three short days until the implementation of Phase Two: The purification of our species. I shall send a clear message to those intergalactic meddlers that this planet will not tolerate their genetic experimentation. Phase One, the fifty year project of capturing and incommunicado incarceration of the despicable Omega went reasonably well. I credit my predecessors for their past efforts. After all, a great leader must acknowledge and reward good performance by his underlings occasionally. It cultivates loyalty. Regretfully, the down-side of having power is being saddled by morons like Guevara. That fat, incompetent slob deserves less than nothing, and he will receive his due. Thankfully, his weak mind and failures are behind me and now finally, the stage is set for my quick, decisive action - efficient and unyielding."

  A momentary thin-lipped, self-satisfied smirk crossed his face. "I must pray again tonight, thanking my honorable ancestors for guiding me in driving the despicable Latin pig back to his sweltering Argentinian sty. Ha, the pompous General is seeking his country's presidency. What a farce! And he thought I was unaware of his desires. Stupid fool! How dare he patronize me? I'll teach him to look down his bulbous nose at a superior person. By the first of the year, he'll be driven in disgrace from that den of decadent opulence he calls home. I shall command it!"

  The hour had become late. This was of no importance to Yamoto who had taken up residence within the complex. He had no time clock, working in the saddle, twenty-four/seven. His old office had been converted into sleeping quarters. A woven floor mat with a neck cushion lie centered in an austere room with barren walls. Every extraneous article had been removed except for a small wooden desk with a reading light, to jot down notes of inspired messages received while partaking of his required rest allotment.

  The day had been marked with great fruition: the destruction of the schooner -why bother to transport and detain prisoners when Phase Two has become so near to activation? Clearly, a waste of time and resources. Also, his executive directive for all new Omega apprehended to be liquidated ASAP by their own NSC equivalency (after a short intense interrogation, of course) had been implemented satisfactorily. He reviewed a twice-daily update report: Seven terminations worldwide in the last forty-eight hours. "Excellent!" The last item contained an entry concerning a man being held in Langley, Virginia - Ted - no last name ascertained as yet. This is an interesting commentary: The U.S. NSC suspects this individual may know the identity of a mole who has been vexing them and the FBI for years. The Japanese major pressed the intercom and became connected to one of a pool of secretaries who now covered his office functions around the clock.

  "Sir?"

  "Get me the American Secretary of State, Washington." Ito had ceased wearing his uniform in order to hide his low rank and had directed his staff to stop addressing him as Major. They had been instructed to use Mister instead and respond likewise for all outside communications.

  "Yes, Mister Yamoto, I'll ring you when I have him on the line, sir."

  Ito felt disdainful of the Americans, with their bleeding hearts... their civil liberties activists would never allow the extraction of information expeditiously. Criminals had more rights than the citizens! I will order the U.S. Secretary to direct his operatives to commence immediate chemical injections. There is no need to be concerned about mind-altering permanent brain damage. People such as that enemy agent Ted become a person-presumed-deceased as soon as they are apprehended.

  'Buzz'. "Hai?"

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir. Admiral Wysocki and Coordinator Taylor are on their way here. They expect to arrive within the hour."

  He barked a short, crisp, "Why?" while thinking, "Both of them?" His hand grew tight around the receiver. "They should be at their desks discharging their duties not running about. Disciplinary measures may be in order!"

  She continued, "Taylor said Hubble Four has made a startling discovery. They want to present it to you first-hand."

  "A discovery? Of what nature?"

  "Something called a worm hole."

  He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, "Inform me when the American Secretary is on the line," and slammed the phone down.

  Yamoto ripped a fresh fax out of an interoffice courier's hand; snapped his head sharply in dismissal and rubbed the paper edges so roughly it burned the flesh of his thumbs. His anger flared, anew. To him, the top two administrators at the Telescope Center had abandoned their post to come and tickle his ears regarding a worthless worm hole! He steamed within, "Do they mock me? Do they think that I - no, all Japanese people are ignorant? If this were a declared war they'd be shot!" Smacking his palm on the desk top, he fed on his agitation. "Am I the only person involved who realizes this is War! And, since it is my responsibility alone to lead the defense of this planet, I must have complete allegiance and strict adherence to my orders. Nothing else is acceptable. After Phase Two, I shall have the Admiral demoted and retired. My list of incompetents to purge grows daily."

  He calmed himself by reciting a traditional Japanese haikku before reading the messenger's bulletin. He reread it a second time, his tiny coal-black eyes crinkled in delight. Yamoto uncharacteristically laughed aloud, "Hai!" It stated that Japanese undercover informants living in the rural Chinese countryside reported the Red Army had rounded up everyone said to be over eighty years of age in all their outlying provinces and placed them in processing camps. Since there wasn't sufficient Omega blood testing serum available, the authorities were systematically executing thousands with a gunshot to the back of the head. "The loathsome Chinese, their solutions are always the same. Good riddance to them. We should have conquered and subjected those contemptible swine a thousand years ago. Barbarians!"

  Flagship Aurora-17 taxied toward Gateway AC-Ess (Alpha Centauri - Earth solar system), eighty thousand kilometers (5200 mi) out in space and closing. The advance unmanned recon probe had performed its task successfully. After reporting its findings, it had been retrieved and reloaded in its launching tube. The probe's function was to check transport continuity, receive and verify all clear signals from the robot sweepers at the far end and then return to the original entry point. There were two sweepers located at every magnetic tunnel portal to keep the landing zones clear of flotsam which sporadically drifts across the flight paths. Spacecraft exit so fast their scanners are blind until the ship's speed is reduced below sub-light, 186,000 mps, the ultimate for navigational flash-back imaging. The greatest danger known in deep space travel was striking an object of heavier atomic weight than your own hull composition before being able to activate your ion defectors. Super dense substances/bodies, regardless of their small size, would punch a hole through a vessel before it could detect and initiate evasive action or neutralize the threat with an auto-fired, molecular disrupter.

  "Magnesync, 217 negarads." The starcruiser's mass had matched the negative magnetic polarization strength of the gateway.

  "Proceed."

  The fleet's flagship, although five times larger than the standard cruiser class vessel, was dwarfed as it eased into the 5,046 mile wide entranceway. Each tunnel, unique unto itself, varied in circumference, length, magnetic charge and configuration. They were atomically similar to magnets with accessible hole/points at each end of its opposite polarity. Some resembled long, curly hairs, others - stubby whiskers. The shortest stretched longer than a trillion Earth miles. The ship halted dead center of the negative entrance way and ran a series of
self-checks to verify all systems were Go.

  "Centroidal ionized, the posicore is maxicharged and stable. All redundant emergency regenerator and capacirator cells are full."

  "Leakage regulator control?"

  "Primed and on-line."

  The Captain of the Vessel sensed unity and readiness from his fellow eight crew members on the Bridge. A silent telepathic message from the Fleet Advisor stationed to his rear encouraged his actions. He ordered, "Engage."

  The ship inched forward, using impulse power to penetrate the conical threshold of the portal. Now, situated on the tunnel drop-side, the flagship shut off auxiliary propulsion and began momentum as the magnicharge regulator controlled a slow leak of negative ions into the craft's outer force field, creating repulsion away from the negative pole of the black hole. The bridge lighting dimmed to near-total darkness, accentuating the soft multicolored glow of control panel indicators as the ship's transparent outside wall became opaque to protect the crew's eyes from the oncoming laser beams. Their irises adjusted quickly, similar to most nocturnal creatures. The Navigation Officer read the polarization readings from his pale green, radiating display screen. "Two hundred negarads," he announced as the vessel increased its thrust away from the entranceway. The steady induction of negative ions instantly forced them through the first third of the magnetic straw at an incalculable speed.

  "One hundred negarads." No sensation of motion was felt as they approached the center's zero charge of the colossal hair-shaped transport tunnel where the crew now had started tapering the ion input. From this point on, the positive pole would be sucking or drawing the negative charged hull toward it, the closure responded in proportion to the diminishing gap. "Zero negarads, reducing flow." Thus, in only a matter of minutes the spacecraft had been expelled through the opposite end of the portal, covering a distance which would normally take a hundred lifetimes, even their own, travelling at light-speed.

  "Tunnel warp complete, activating inverter thrusters," reported Engineering. "Thrusters on line. Reversing charge. Sublight velocity achieved."

  "Activate all scanners," directed the Captain.

  "SRS (short range scanners) indicated a clear field." A moment later, "LRS (long) detect no obstructions."

  "Screen down," and the entire wall became transparent while the defensive force field remained intact. "Contact the fleet and obtain a status."

  Pluto flashed by as the mammoth sphere streaked across the planetary orbits of this tiny solar system. "Aurora Five reports all starcruisers are deployed and on alert beneath Earth's oceans."

  After a hushed conference with the Feet Advisor, the crew manning their stations heard the Captain's order, "Arm all weapons systems."

  "Wysocki, Taylor!" Yamoto grated into the phone, "I have been informed you were en route here yesterday and in addition to your inexcusable tardiness I have yet to receive a report from your group in over twelve hours." Cutting off any response from the far end, "And henceforth address me as Mister, not Major." After more ranting, he finally listened and put his anger in check as he gave attention to the explanation for their delay. Paul presented an abbreviated version of the prior searches for the tenth planet and the newly discovered Worm hole beyond Pluto, which was generating a supercharged positive magnetic field. Ito's initial reaction was, "So what?" but he held his tongue. As they continued, the pieces fell in place: the Hubbles, Orion Nebula, a possible gateway to a space warp, the computer analysis of a speck which appeared to have passed through or travelled adjacent to the hole... And finally, another spaceship detected, much larger than the one the Russians previously observed!

  This news prompted an excited outburst, "Where?"

  "The new UFO is circling our moon in an exposed elliptical pattern. I suspect it is watching us or waiting for something, perhaps a go-ahead signal from an Earth-based sister ship," speculated Taylor.

  Acting in uncharacteristic behavior, Yamoto dropped the phone and scurried to a window, as if he might actually see the spacecraft from his Earth-side position, but alas the moon was not visible. Disappointed, he returned and asked, "Where is the moon in relation to us now?"

  "Beyond the eastern horizon," Wysocki informed.

  Ito dismissed his own foolishness as his mind raced in high gear, "Thank you, gentlemen. Advise me personally the instant it changes position, and I mean the very instant." And then added, "However, the both of you have been negligent by withholding vital information during the last twelve hours. This is totally unacceptable! Consider this your first and last warning."

  Vorkuta, Russia

  National Defense Missile Base

  Silo No. 6 blasted open like a portal from Hell being instantaneously revealed. An eerie orange glow bathed the countryside as a dull grey metal cone materialized within the billowing tower of smoke and burnt solid rocket fuel residue. A giant ICBM rose, ever so slow, fighting the gravitational pull of the beloved Rodina (Homeland), to keep it from leaving. The radar dishes surrounding Russia's most secure, hardened missile site buried at the foot the Ural Mountains tilted backward as they tracked a Viktur/8 monster of destruction. Yellow flames spit four hundred meters behind, illuminating a barren wasteland and exposing two other silos with their blast doors yawning wide. The other intercontinental ballistic missiles within them were also armed and ready to fly, fueled and waiting only for the touch of another button.

  From the launch control command bunker an anxious crew, on combat alert for the last twenty hours, monitored their instruments and watched the dwindling fiery dot melting into the cold, black sky. The vibrations and roar subsided. All faces were etched with deep concern and burning questions. "Were we tricked into launching a first strike attack by some crazed, war-mongering despot in Moscow? Were the Americans really informed of our launch in advance? Or will they in innocence misinterpret our fully armed nuclear MIRV (multiple independently targeted reentry vehicle) equipped with eight (8), ninety-megaton warheads, as an overt act of war?"

  Only the Kremlin and the Russian Premier knew that the three ICBM's had been remotely reprogramed and secretly retrofitted with auxiliary boosters, making them capable of travelling into space to discharge their payloads in an eight-hundred kilometer (520 mi) cluster pattern before detonation.

  The ground crew watched, unaware of the new flight plan which could send all three missiles three hundred miles straight up instead of across the European continent, and of their warheads being programed to explode in unison to create a nightmarish wreath of fire and radiation betwixt Earth and the bright innocent moon hanging almost directly overhead.

  Aboard the International Space Station (ISS)

  "Missile launch!" shouted Konstantin into the station's intercom amid flashing red lights and audible interrupted bursts of ringing. His comrades, Yuri and Grigori diverted their attention from the moon they had been photographing with a long-range telescopic camera for the last twelve hours. Neither the ISS or Russian, nor any of the American space stations orbiting on the other side of Earth were equipped with military weapons. All were outfitted with radar dishes and infrared heat detectors to locate enemy actions such as large troop movements or unannounced missile launches.

  "Stay with the moon UFO," ordered the Colonel. "I'll check with Konstantin."

  "Yes, sir. Please hurry back if it's a false alarm," Grigori requested. "Do you remember how fast the other three were? I have a gut feeling this moon bogey is about to do something soon." The man's assessment was dead-right; just as soon as Yuri had left him the flagship starcruiser broke its orbit around the moon and looped into a flight path flying directly toward Earth at 88.5 thousand kps. If it didn't deviate from its assumed route, it would pass within four hundred miles of their platform which would afford an excellent opportunity for the ISS to gather more data and up-close detailed photos before another possible repeat disappearance upon making contact with the planet's stratosphere as the first three had seemed to experience.

  "Right... it's probably a false alarm,
" Yuri whispered to himself as he headed for the level of Konstantin's station. He arrived and glanced out a porthole. The Eurasian continent was visible and their instruments verified it wasn't a sneak attack from the United States. "Had it really been an unannounced launch?"

  "Yes, sir. I checked the schedule."

  "From where?"

  "You're not going to believe this. Vorkuta."

  "What? One of our own sites and National Defense didn't update our detector data base? Someone's going to be in hot water for this. I'll contact Mission Control." Judging it to be another routine test shot, he perfunctorily questioned, "What's the missile's trajectory?" while typing in an encoded message requesting an explanation. "We must clear this up quickly. I need to return to the forward cameras; Grigori believes the moon UFO is about to move. If so, it could be upon us within ten minutes.

  "The missile's deviant direction is zero degrees from launch," informed Konstantin.

  "Pardon? Repeat, please."

  "Zero degrees. It's coming straight up at us."

  The commander frowned, "I swear, a relief ship is being deployed and we weren't even notified. What's going on down there? Our communication with Control is becoming worse and worse... I wonder if the Americans suffer similar confusions?"

  "I don't believe it's a relief ship, sir. The computer's vdt (video display terminal) drew an image of a Viktur ICBM."

  "A Viktur? Let me see that. Wait a minute, you're right... it couldn't be a relief ship. Vorkuta doesn't have above ground launch facilities; it's a hardened first-strike site. What is going on down there?" He established contact with Roskosmos, listened attentively, contributed a few short, dis-hearted acknowledgments and signed off.

  Ashen and downcast, "You were correct, it's a Viktur eight and there wasn't a data input error. They didn't have enough time to update our data base so it wouldn't set off an alarm." Pausing, "I wish they had." He pressed the intercom, "Grigori, join us please."

  His subordinate answered, "Sir? The moon UFO has moved. It is almost upon us."

  "Now, Grigori. The UFO's not our concern any longer."

  Confused and irritated the OSE joined the pair. "Commander, I must protest. This is a unique opportunity. Why did...?"

  Yuri held up a restraining hand and proceeded to relay Mission Control's message to his comrades.

  Grigori listened, stunned and mute as Konstantin soon wailed, "I don't want to be a State hero and receive another worthless medal, especially posthumously! This is a research and observation station, not a military installation. What can we do? We have no weapons... not even for defense!"

  "Precisely..." mumbled Grigori. "If we had rockets or lasers... maybe we could..."

  "I can't believe it," whispered Konstantin.

  Yuri explained, "The bottom line is we are soldiers, my friends, soldiers in the wrong place at the wrong time. Patriots trapped in Harm's Way through no fault of our own." Adding morosely, "The Kremlin says our families will be well taken care of." As a small consolation and not believing a word of it, "Isn't that what it's all about?"

  Excuse me, sirs," spat the Telemetry Technician, "I'm going to my quarters. I have some vodka there."

  Bring back three cups," called Yuri.

  "Nyet!" growled Konstantin. "There's not enough time. I'm going to down the whole bottle in one swallow. I will feel nothing, just as Moscow feels nothing for me. You two officers can remain here and fantasize about the glorious State funeral to be held in our honor. I say, Bah, to hell with those peasant cowards!" As he departed and out of earshot, he castigated the choices he had made in the past and current situation, "My former comrades, my friends, warned me not to volunteer for a mission where I'm the only enlisted man. Stupid me!"

  The two remaining cosmonauts stood, dejected, facing the earth-side observation window. "So, we will be declared casualties of war," surmised Grigori. "I didn't even know we were at war."

  "Nor I," agreed Yuri.

  A half-hearted, pleading look at the Colonel, "Do you think we have a chance? Could their calculations be in error?" questioned the Captain.

  "I'm afraid not. Our orbit will carry us well within the blast zone... Eight hydrogen bombs will explode simultaneously within a hundred kilometers (62 mi.) of us. Survival is out of the question, my friend. Sorry..." Their ingrained Russian fatalistic attitude had risen within to passively accept your fate when faced with eminent death.

  "So, it's our space station in exchange for an alien UFO? Our government agreed to this?"

  "Da, that's exactly what Roskosmos Mission Control said. I quote: "The Premier has consented to the World Security Council's request."

  Grigori sighed, "Well, I guess this is the end of the mission." He embraced his superior officer, "I'm going to my quarters. How long do we have... comrade?"

  "Any minute now." His fellow crew member departed, Yuri - with typical Russian fatalism, arms folded, faced the Rodina and waited...

  Two minutes, forty-five seconds later:

  The Russian Viktur/8 ICBM flew at a snail's pace of 900 km/hr toward the advancing giant alien vessel speeding at a hundred times greater velocity. A series of 'Poofs', soundless in space's vacuum, appeared as the guided missile deployed its atomic warheads in a circular pattern. Yuri, a hundred miles to the left, observed the operation on his radar screen, looked up and blew a kiss to his wife and two sons in Saint Petersburg.

  A blinding flash! Eight intermingled horrendous explosions formed a dazzling ring of white-hot fire for an instant before blending together and expanding outward. A perfect shot/ perfect placement! It was too late for the starcruiser to take evasive action. The flagship Aurora passed into a nova of nuclear destruction and disappeared. There was no failed to detonate this time - the invaders were to experience firsthand Earth's defensive strength!

  The cosmonaut reflexively jerked his head back from the mind-numbing detonation, slapped his hands across his face, palms pressing hard against his blinded eyes. Searing pain: burnt optic nerves, "Yaaa..!" The Russian noncombatant/research space station was ripped sheds by the thermonuclear shock wave; its remains - melted slag and flaming embers were blasted into deep space before Yuri's lungs fully expelled his primal death scream.

  These signs and portents in the sky did not go unobserved. They were received by some as joyous tidings and by others as evidence of the Judgment Day. In California, the Sci-Fi lunatic fringe groups were dancing on the roof-tops... in Australia the Bushmen were hunkered-down in caves. Individual sects, religious groups - indeed entire cultures - were moving as mindless automatons, impelled by their instincts and age-old teachings: reacting to the manifestations of great changes drawing nigh.

  The Bakhtaran to Bagdad highway

  It was hot. But then it was always hot traveling on the treeless open roads of the Middle East. Nary a cloud in sight, unrelenting, burning sun: the norm especially for this particular stretch of arid, near-desert wasteland.

  Mehrdad Iravani rode in the flatbed of his uncle's twenty-two year old Ford pickup truck - actual mileage unknown, its odometer had long since expired at 178,000 miles. Four hours ago, together with his mother, father and all the rest of his clan, they crossed the dreaded Iran/Iraq border. The only so-called highway (a paved road) to their destination had become much rougher than expected. An uneven patchwork of make-shift repairs to cover the bomb and mortar craters created from so many years of fighting had taken their toll - blowing multi-scores of balding tires which resulted in even more slow-downs. Pushing the disabled vehicles to the side or off the road to perhaps await repairs and aid the flow of traffic had never entered the minds of these single-focused pilgrims.

  Iravani's group consisted of three motorized conveyances, all towing overloaded provisions carts with three or four family members perched precariously atop each. Now at walk speed, the lead elements of the caravan passed two remaining flabbergasted Iraqi border guards who offered no resistance to the approaching entourage. Per the established custom, Iravani's clan had p
aid in advance the required bribe for their passage and flashed the secret signal as they approached. Even so, imagine the sentries' surprise when they scanned the terrain toward Iran and beheld a line of migrants as far as the eye could see. In fact, it extended further, much further - over three hundred miles, stretching clear back to Tehran - an onslaught of 400,000 faithful Muslims were snaking forward on their final pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia... and there were millions more still making preparations to evacuate the Iranian capital and its surrounding areas. The four other border guards stationed there had already fled in a half-track to Bagdad after radioing in the situation. The last two had remained out of fascination and awe and assumed they would be safe since showing they would not be demanding further illegal payoffs. Even so, the Iraqi hiding in their mud-caked hut knew for certain this mass of frenzied pilgrims would be most happy to overrun and tear them to shreds if provoked.

  Mehrdad's family had been fortunate being positioned only one mile back from the front of the line, primarily because his relatives had quickly believed his Russian Embassy incident and gathered their essentials as fast as they could. In spite of the laden carts, everyone had traveled light. It hadn't been necessary to pack everything they owned or even as much as the usual provisions carried on previous religious treks. No one anticipated needing more than what the initial trip required because they weren't planning on returning or even staying on Earth much longer. Yes, indeed! Salvation was at hand! Mohammed would descend in a cloud of glory as he foretold, to lead the Faithful to their new kingdom in Paradise. They were further assured by his uncle, Sai'd, the leader of their procession, who had confirmed the information by going to his community mosque and questioning the resident iman who knew the great Ayatollah's brother. He said, "It is true!" When the ring of fire, Mohammed's chariot, appeared in the sky (the Viktur/8 ICBM), it was the sign they had been waiting for. The local religious leader himself had been rushing to prepare his own family's journey to Mecca. The news spread like wildfire; the only significant question presented was whether or not all the Faithfull could arrive in time to observe the beloved Prophet make his descent. Of course if some were late they would be forgiven of their sins also. Mohammed had promised he would remain on earth until he had gathered all the Faithful and witnessed the jihad - the wholesale slaughter of the heathen, unrepentant infidels by God's angels. The iman implored his uncle to hurry by saying, "There is no time for delay. Paradise awaits. Allah be praised!"

  Glad hearts softened the minor discomforts. In a few more hours they would be arriving in Bagdad, where hundreds of thousands more brothers were expected to bestow gifts, give sustenance and follow them in this final pilgrimage.

  Suddenly, the caravan ground to a dead stop. The muttering of many voices drifting from the front roused Mehrdad from his semi-awake slumber. Sleepy, he rose to his feet and joined his older brother who stared westward from the cab bed. The lead driver, his uncle, called back to them, "Why are we stopped? I can't see around the trucks in front of me."

  The three brothers strained to identify a line of approaching dots on the highway a mile away. "We can't tell; there's something moving toward us and blocking the road far ahead." Mehrdad remembered his uncle handling a pair of binoculars during packing. Did he bring them?

  The answer, "Yes, they're in a duffel bag on the pull cart." The nephews shooed away the children camped on top and retrieved the old army field glasses Sai'd had used fifteen years ago during their never-ending war with Iraq. They jogged back to the truck and assumed their former positions with their uncle standing by his open cab door, hands on hips. "Tell me what you see; my eyes aren't so good anymore."

  The left lens had been cracked and the focus adjustment wheel was frozen but the instrument still functioned for the right eye. The oldest used it first, grunted, then stared in alarm at Mehrdad whose turn was next as he passed it to him and the procedure was repeated to the youngest brother. No one dared answer the uncle's persistent inquires which finally evoked an irate and commanding, "Well, what is going on! Someone tell me now!"

  "You answer him, Mehrdad. You speak well. You work in the embassy," insisted the other two.

  He shied, reluctant to meet the gaze of the impatient older man who shifted his weight from one leg to other. An old war wound had left him with shrapnel lodged in his lower back, a painful memento of a misinformed commando raid which had resulted in his unit's accidental destruction of a hospital wing and the sequential placement of his name on the Iraqi's Everlasting Death list. Unknowing of the incident, Mehrdad simply responded, "Tanks... many Iraqi tanks, dear uncle."

  The sun-browned man's face hidden beneath a black scraggly beard paled, "They will capture me! My name is on The List. The list is forever!" Sai'd dropped to his knees on the burning asphalt, flung his arms skyward, "Why, Allah? Why have you delivered me to mine enemy?" He covered his face and doubled over.

  His three wives rushed to him, giving comfort, "Don't despair, my husband!" they intoned. "The Prophet is coming. He will reclaim your soul if the Iraqi kill you."

  Glaring at them in disbelief, he jumped up, then went to each one of them and backhanded them across the mouth, shattering their lips beneath their veils and knocking two of the women into the rocky, roadside shoulder. "Stupid cows! I don't want to hang in Bagdad even if the Prophet is coming. Get out of my sight you worthless swine bitches! Get away from my procession; you are no longer members of my family. Allah will soon reward me with a thousand beautiful virgins and I'll finally be free of you old hags."

  One of the cousins helped the injured and wailing, rejected mothers, leading them to the rear of their family troupe. The nephews offered no assistance - it would be an affront to their uncle's authority. Their own parents agreed: "Say nothing. Sai'd will change his mind and take them back later... especially when he becomes hungry. He's done this many times before." They did not add what they were secretly thinking, "That is, he will take them back if he's not arrested, chained to the back of a tank and forced to walk or be dragged to their capital for public execution."

  Mehrdad no longer needed binoculars to observe the armored corp of more than twenty Russian-made T-62 tanks break their column and establish a defensive perimeter two hundred yards in front of the pilgrim caravan's lead units. Three sand-colored, camouflaged behemoths blocked the paved surface and the rest fanned out to form a 300-hundred yard wide V-shaped spearhead, passable only by a four-wheel drive, all-terrain vehicle. Ominous, long gun turrets swung around and down from their travelling positions.

  Peering from behind the car in front of him, the terrified uncle cringed, expecting the thunder of exploding tank shells at any moment. For him and thousands of other veterans in the makeshift convoy, the fighting never ends, regardless of time passed.

  Beep! Beep! Beep! A covered jeep passed in a cloud of dust, driving toward the Iraqi blockade. "He must be crazy!" yelled Sai'd as he squatted on the ground, knees pulled to his chest to make himself as small as possible.

  Several soldiers on foot moved to the front of the tank deployment. Mehrdad trained the binoculars on an army officer as the jeep jumped back onto the roadway and halted just ten yards short of a score of automatic weapons, cocked and aimed.

  "Fascinating," mumbled the embassy servant. "Who could be in the jeep? So brave, or so foolhardy?" To his brothers, "We're fifty miles inside their border, their government hates us and these tanks could blow us to bits just like that," as he snapped his fingers.

  Several minutes passed. The elite Iraqi, New Republican Guard tank commanding officer casually lit a cigarette and visually verified three T-62 fifty caliber heavy machine guns were trained on the dusty tan jeep. These soldiers were also long-time veterans, the embittered losers of the Gulf War and the subsequent control by an infidel, foreign war-mongering military regime weighed heavy on their pride. They would relish the opportunity to dish out some punishment for a change, especially upon their centuries-old adversaries, the Iranians. He and his lean, bat
tle-hardened troops were still angry at having been thrashed by the technologically superior NATO forces who struck like cowards, always in the middle of the night, with cruise missiles and stealth bombers rather than fighting out in the open, man to man. Two MIG-28 jets screamed overhead on a low-level pass, displaying strength and intimidation as they flew to the northeast checking the highway for enemy military vehicles hiding within the rag-tag convoy. The tank commander had seen a civilian exodus before but nothing of this magnitude and had no intention of permitting this horde to inundate Bagdad; if he did so, he would be whipped and hung in the city square tomorrow morning. He decided if they didn't turn around soon he would fire a warning volley. "These vermin are invading my country. The United Nations cannot save their worthless hides this time..." He nodded, "Yes, one warning salvo then I'll annihilate these filthy Iranian scum!"

  Both jeep side doors swung open and his foot soldiers reacted by dropping to one knee into a shooting position. They called and mocked the trespassers their commander was about to repel, "Come out, you Iranian dogs. Show yourselves so we can kill you more easily," they taunted.

  A white-suited driver and front passenger exited the jeep and quickly attended to the three rear-seat occupants wearing flowing black robes and turbans, who in turn, left the two servants behind and advanced toward the waiting Army officer.

  "Tell me what is happening, Mehrdad," ordered Sai'd.

  "Yes, uncle." Iravani began describing the scene. "Three men from the jeep are talking to the tank commander; they are saying many words and keep pointing to the sky. The Iraqi are listening quietly. The three have now finished speaking and are waiting... the tank commander is very agitated - he is waving his arms up and down, pacing about, perhaps asking questions... there is more talking by all four. Now the commander is saluting the three men in black robes. His men have lowered their weapons."

  "What!" Sai'd jumped into the back of the crowded flatbed truck next to Mehrdad. "More! Tell me more!"

  "The middle robed man is holding the commander's shoulder, as a father would console his beloved son. Wait... I think the officer is crying! All the foot soldiers have dropped their weapons. The others are standing on their tanks and watching."

  Mehrdad gasped, "The Iraqi are falling to the ground... they are praying toward Mecca! The men in black are gesturing for the tank commander to rise... he does... he kisses their hands. Now the commander is shouting and waving frantically to his men... All the tanks are backing up and raising their gun turrets... The three blocking the road are pulling off to the side."

  "What else? What else?" Sai's jumped up and down unable to contain his jubilation.

  "Wait... wait! The soldiers are climbing out of their tanks again and all are gathering in front of the three." Iravani broke into an excited laugh, "They are cheering and throwing their rifles and pistols into the sand."

  Amid a roar of happiness from the Iraqi, heard a mile down the caravan, the three figures turned heel to return to their jeep. Mehrdad pressed the lens so hard to his head it hurt his eye socket. He had to see who these people were! Swallowing to push down the rising lump in his throat, he croaked, "Uncle, the endless war is over! I recognize the man. It's his Eminence, the Ayatollah Korramini. He's leading us and our Muslim Iraqi brothers to Paradise - together!"