Season of the Witch

by David L. Golemon

  Sokol closed his eyes and geared himself for confronting the Grey who was showing more and more independence, when he heard the bridge door open. He opened his eyes again as the footfalls entered the bridge. At the same moment all the lights went dark as they were in the hold where Asmodius had been sitting and not speaking for the thirteen hours it was down there. Sokol knew the Grey was mentally speaking with someone and just the thought of who it may have been gave the Russian pause. Sokol could feel Asmodius behind him. It’s breathing deep and menacing. Sokol put on a brave face and turned to face the Grey with every intention of setting the alien straight on just who was in charge.

  “Why are we here? I have an aircraft waiting in Mobile to fly us to the Ukraine where we can continue our work against the Committee and where I have access to the financing we need to eliminate the fools in Siberia. Instead you insist on coming here. You said you needed to think. What in the world can you have to think about other than how to attract more attention to our plans? Even here in the backwaters of New Orleans people will be looking for us!”

  Asmodius ignored the question and stepped up to the bridge windows, pausing only a moment until the flaming orb of the sun ducked behind some early nighttime clouds in the west. The bridge was now completely dark and silent with the exception of the Grey’s heavy breathing.

  Asmodius walked to the navigation console and then reached out with a four-fingered right hand. The Grey used a small ball imbedded there to scroll the local map away from their current location inside of Barataria Bay. The Grey leaned over the map and with the tip of his clear claw he clicked it on the glass. Sokol leaned over and looked at where the Grey was pointing.

  “No…Ukraine…yet. We pause here…until…we…talk.”

  Sokol looked up from the map and into the yellow eyes of the Grey.

  “Look, as a strategic ally in my operations against the Committee, I need to know what you’re thinking. You attacked Vexilla right in front of the very people we now wish to avoid. We are no longer trying to expose this Group for the Committee. And what possessed that fool Briggs to try and assassinate a guarded witness? I know it was you Asmodius, and that was why you were forced to project yourself into her hospital room. Now, the longer we stay the more probable a confrontation. Instead of blame landing on the Committee, it’s us that Colonel Collins and Niles Compton will examine.”

  Suddenly Sokol felt a jolt of electrical power course through his body. His muscles froze in the most painful way. It was if very one of them cramped at the same moment. Then the pain moved to his head. It flamed brightest in the frontal lobe of his brain. His arms went straight to his side. The Grey reached out and lightly ran a clear-tipped claw gently across Sokol’s forehead and then his right temple. The Russian could follow its movements by his eyes only. Then he heard the words coming deep from his brain as if his memory was replaying a voice from his past.

  ‘You…fear…this enemy…in…the desert?’

  Sokol tried to speak but his vocal cords were as frozen as much as his body.

  ‘You…should…human.’ Asmodius moved behind Sokol as it placed a little more pressure on his temple area. ‘This…Group…they…will…eventually…interfere…with…Asmodius…Modai. They…have…a great…and…ancient enemy of my…kind. They will…soon…have…another, stronger…ally.’ Asmodius moved its claw from Sokol’s temple. ‘It is time…we make an adjustment to…our relationship…,” it smiled, exposing its clear teeth.’

  “What are you talking about? I make adjustments, you follow orders. That’s how this partnership works, Grey,” Sokol said menacing Asmodius with a harsh look.

  ‘Your men are below…decks?’

  “You asked me to place them out of sight until we reach the Gulf waters.” Sokol took a menacing step toward the Grey who irritatingly enough continued to be amused by Sokol’s anger.

  Sokol turned when he heard a small motor launch come along side the large yacht. Asmodius turned and smiled.

  ‘Our company has arrived…we…will…depart.’

  “What are you talking about? I’m not leaving anywhere without my men.”

  ‘Your men?’ This time Asmodius’ smile was so wide it stretched its facial muscles were seemingly stretched to the breaking point.

  Sokol had had enough. He reached for the mic on the navigation console and clicked the small button. “Colonel, come topside and remove this creature from my ship!”

  Asmodius laughed as it held both arms in the air and then held them out straight as it closed its yellow eyes.

  Sokol heard the doors on every deck of the large yacht slam closed. He heard his soldiers below banging on them and smashing their bodies against the steel and wooden hatches.

  Sokol turned to scream at Asmodius but the Grey magically lifted his body into the air and threw him out of the bridge and onto the deck where the Portuguese captain and his three men helped him to his feet. Then they unceremoniously lowered him to a small skiff. Asmodius instead of stepping onto the ladder simply floated down from the main deck to the small boat. Without orders the captain set the skiff off toward the island of Barataria.

  Sokol struggled as Asmodius settled at the front of the skiff. Its yellow eyes concentrated on the yacht. Then to Sokol’s amazement, a waterspout started to spin crazily over the ship. The tunnel acted as a giant tornado as it engulfed the yacht. Sokol could only imagine his men fighting with the magic that kept them entrapped in the ship’s lower spaces. The waterspout dipped the bow of the yacht and then he watched as the fantail rode high into the air and then the large private yacht slid down into the murky waters of Barataria Bay. Only tale-tale bubbles marked the watery grave of over one hundred Russian commandos.

  Asmodius turned and looked at Sokol as if daring the human to say something. The smile was still on its face.

  The filthy captain turned the small boat away toward the island. As for Sokol, he knew then that he had released hell on earth.

  * * *

  An hour later the small party stood on the sands of Barataria Island. The old ruins were still visible from the beach. Sokol had heard of the island. The dwellings, as haunted as they looked, had seen a lot of American history. This was the former home of one of the more colorful men in the American past—the Privateer, Jean Lafitte.

  The pirate, at the height of his power had used Barataria as a base for his squadron of raiders and it wasn’t until his men and weapons were needed in the fight against the British in the War of 1812 that Lafitte had seen a chance at redemption with his adopted country—the United States.

  The adobe buildings were for the most part a shamble of their former selves. As the sun sank in the west Asmodius watched the glassless windows as if he were waiting for something. Sokol for his part felt eyes on them. As the cypress trees blew in a freshening wind, Sokol watched the Spanish Moss sway back and forth. Then he saw them. One light at a time. Out of the forty remaining skeletal frames of dwellings every empty window was now illuminated. Sokol felt his legs go weak as he was tempted to turn and run into the surf. Asmodius was still smiling.

  The chant started deep in the old buildings. The voices in their harmonious chanting would come and then go with the breeze. Asmodius held its arms out wide as if accepting grace from a million followers.

  “What is this?” Sokol said looking from the back of the Grey to the smiling Portuguese captain and his men.

  Asmodius finally graced Sokol with a look as he faced the Russian. “This…is my…army,” it hissed as it turned back just as the beach started to fill with men, women, and even children. They came from the old dwellings as if they had been waiting since the time of Andrew Jackson. They surrounded Asmodius reverently as if he were a god finally come to set their kind free. Sokol could see they were from every race on the globe. Every nation, every country.

  As Sokol watched, he felt his bladder grow weak as an old man stepped forward from the group of over two hundred worshipers in black robes. Now Sokol knew why the Grey had
been alone in the deep recesses of the yacht. It had been calling its followers forth. Followers who had waited thousands of years through generation after generation for their master’s promised return. The old man stepped forward and fell to his knees in the sand and Asmodius touched the grey hair of the man and gently caressed it. Then he bade the old man to rise. He was holding a black garment and held it for Asmodius. He accepted the robe and placed it on as his followers all collapsed at the same time and bowed their heads as the chant started.

  ‘Asmodius Modai…Asmodius Modai…Asmodius Modai.’

  Then the crowd charged Asmodius and he accepted their worshiping embraces. Even the captain and his men acted as though Asmodius was the second coming of Jesus. But as Sokol watched, he knew immediately that his analogy and description was miles off.

  The Russian was watching the second coming alright. But it was the second coming of the biblical Fallen One.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grady’s Tavern,

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Will Mendenhall sat across the booth from Ryan and Van Tram. Will shook his head as he scratched at the stitches under the bandage. Ryan reached out and pulled his hand away.

  “If you don’t stop that, you’re going to pop those stitches,” Ryan turned and smiled at Tram, “and we really don’t want to hear you crying again when they re-stitch you.”

  “It’s just this damn waiting crap that’s driving me nuts.” Mendenhall looked at his wristwatch. “Where in the hell is he?”

  “You know Will, for as long as we’ve been dealing with Colonel Froggy, I don’t think he cares much about keeping us waiting.”

  As the Irish patrons eyed the three men suspiciously, Will, Jason and Tram were beginning to wonder if Henri had gone bonkers making them wait in one of the filthiest dives in all of Boston. Characters the likes of which none of the three wished to tangle with seemed to be taking a rather blatant interest in the trio. Ryan was positive that he must have been wearing a Yankees ball cap with the way the men and women in the tavern looked at him.

  “Is there anywhere in the world the Frenchman doesn’t have contacts?” Will asked, tempted to scratch his wound once again.

  “You know, for American soil I sure do feel out of place,” Ryan said as he lifted his club soda just as a waitress in wrinkled pants and stained white blouse flopped a large drink down in front of Tram. Ryan was shocked to see the small Vietnamese had ordered a boilermaker. A beer and a shot.

  “Whoa buddy, when I said try to blend in, I didn’t mean become a drunk like the rest of us.”

  Tram looked from the large mug of beer. And the overflowing shot of Irish whiskey to Jason. “Not order.”

  “Compliments of those boys at the bar,” the blonde waitress said with a smirk and then popped her gum as she turned away.

  Will, Jason and Tram turned to look at the bar where several men with grey hair and thick beards that were basically the size of any NFL lineman were smiling at the trio in the booth. Then Ryan saw what most were wearing. Some had Levi vests that had numerous patches on them that declared the men were part of a group of locals that had survived the war in Vietnam. One had a t-shirt that said that he would most assuredly go to heaven because he spent his time in hell—Vietnam.

  “Oh, boy,” Ryan said, as Will placed his face in his hands. Ryan looked at his friend. “maybe if you tell them you’re an officer, it might make a difference?”

  Will looked up and then placed his face back into his hands.

  Van Tram stood and half-bowed at the waste. He reached over and gestured at the boilermaker and nodded his head in silent thanks. Several of the large men lost their smiles and pulled away from the bar and started walking toward the darkened booth area. Tram remained standing. The leader of this adventurous group looked down at the three smaller men. The hat he wore was filthy and on it was scrawled the logo, Vietnam Veteran. On his vest was the local union patch for the pipefitters local 18.

  “You know, a lot of folks around here can’t tell a chinaman from a jap. But one thing most here know is Charlie Cong. Why you here, Charlie Cong?”

  Tram eyed the man who was obviously referring to him as “Charlie,’ or Viet Cong. Tram nodded his head as he took the shot of whiskey and quickly downed it. He then followed it up by taking a swallow of beer.

  “Thank you for the drink,” was all Tram said as he sat back down.

  “Gentlemen, we didn’t come here looking for trouble,” Mendenhall said, trying his best diplomatic approach.

  A smaller, but not by much, man leaned over the table. “The problem is my friend you chose to come at all.”

  “This man is our guest. He’s on temporary assignment to our country. I would expect a little more respect from a veteran,” Ryan said.

  Will tried to lightly shake his head in an attempt to get Ryan to curb his growing temper.

  “And just who in the hell are you shorty?” the largest man asked.

  “I’m a United States Naval Commander. This is a Major in the U.S. Army and this gentleman is a Lieutenant in the Peoples Army of North Vietnam.” Ryan stood up as his smile faded. “You know, the same army that gave you boys all you could handler a few years back?”

  “Oh, shit,” Will mumbled as the largest man grabbed Ryan by the shirt collar. “I’m going to kill Henri!”

  “Well, excuse us all to hell,” the largest said smiling. “A swab jockey and an officer,” he said as he drew his giant’s hand back and began to explain to Ryan just why he had little respect for his branch of service.

  All talk ceased when a small hand shot up and out and took the large man’s wrist and twisted. Tram was standing and leaning across the table. He twisted the large man’s hand until it was in danger of snapping. He finally let go and the brute stumbled backward into his friends. Ryan and Mendenhall knew they had to prepare to defend Tram. The Vietnamese sniper calmly picked up the glass of beer and drank half.

  “Please, gentlemen, sit,” Tram said as he looked from Ryan to Mendenhall.

  That was as far as Van Tram got as the five men pounced.

  * * *

  Colonel Henri Farbeaux was driving up to Grady’s Tavern when he saw the four Boston police cruisers in the street fronting the tavern. After picking up his contact at Logan International airport Henri had hoped Ryan, Mendenhall and Tram could hide out inconspicuously in the dank and dark dive his contact had told him about. Henri pulled into the alley across the street. He reached for his cell phone, but his hand was staid by the man who had assisted him in Britain, Shamus O’Brien.

  “The local constabulary is leaving,” O’Brien said as he nodded toward the tavern. “As I see it, they don’t appear to have any lads in their custody.

  “I should have never had you do the recommendations for a rendezvous,” Farbeaux said as he opened his car door. “I tend to forget you didn’t hang out with the most reputable of characters when visiting the States.”

  Shamus O’Brien, tired from his hurried flight from London, just looked at the Frenchman and shook his head. “Present company included?”

  Henri smiled and winked and then started across the street with the former Irish Republican army soldier. Farbeaux was grateful for the nine-millimeter in his coat pocket as they smelled the interior of the tavern long before the door was opened. As he stood looking into the dank bar, he saw the wreck of the hatcheck station and also the smashed and broken bars of the cashier’s box. Farbeaux exchanged worried looks with O’Brien.

  “This is worse than the establishment you own,” Henri said as Shamus wrinkled his nose.

  “Cousin Shaune was never one to be overly fancy in his place of business. But back in the day he was an excellent source of funding and weapons that transited from America to Ireland.”

  “Well, I would say those days are over for cousin Shaune O’Grady.”

  Henri stepped over smashed beer advertisements and even had to duck under a Bowie knife that was stuck in the fake wood paneling. Again, he e
xchanged looks with the Irishman who had flown here at his request.

  Shamus knew Boston as if he had been born and raised on the mean streets. Having been the liaison with Irish American sympathizers to the troubles back in his home country, Shamus knew every underground organization in the state and just what factions were still aligned with the organization who still fought for the unification of Ireland.

  “I hope I didn’t lead my associates here to have them buried in one of your landfills,” Henri said, not seeing Ryan, Mendenhall or the small Vietnamese Lieutenant, Tram.

  “Oh, you tiny ballerina of a man, how long has it been!”

  Farbeaux stepped back and nearly pulled his weapon when a giant of a man with a beard down to his Adams-Apple, picked Shamus up from behind and bounced him several times in a bear hug. He finally placed the even larger Shamus down and then eyed his cousin from across the pond.

  “Shaunny boy, glad to see the yanks haven’t starved you to death yet!” Shamus screamed as he took O’Grady in.

  “Ah, the locals know better than to get in between me and my porridge!” O’Grady turned to Farbeaux. “And what is this with you. Smells like a copper to me.”

  “Well, now boyo, he’s what brings me here.” Shamus took his burly cousin by the arm and leaned into him. “Shaune, we were supposed to meet three associates here. Tell me you and the boyos didn’t kill them?”

  Shaune O’Grady made a face and then slapped his cousin on the shoulder. “One of the boys you looking for have a small man’s attitude toward the larger human species? The other a man of color and yet another, the kind which has communist leanings?”

  O’Brien looked from Shaune to Henri who knew they were too late, that more than likely Will, Jason and Tram were already floating face down in Boston Harbor. Farbeaux sadly shook his head.

  “Yeah, they be here cousin. Follow me.”

  Shamus and Farbeaux followed the giant Irishman into the bleakness of the tavern. Henri became alarmed when he heard men chanting somewhere in the dark reaches of the bar. Then he saw a circle of men around a booth and that was when he noticed Van Tram being picked up and hugged by a man that resembled the Creature from the Black Lagoon. The large man shook Tram and then placed him back down into the booth and patted him on the back as more beer and shots were delivered.