Dead Six-ARC

by Larry Correia

  “Are you wearing contacts or something?”

  “No, I’m not.” I gently pushed her back a little bit, out of my personal space. “I was born like that. It’s called heterochromia.”

  “That’s so weird,” she said absentmindedly. “I’m sorry.” Then she grinned. “I’ll get out of your face now. I’ll see you later, Valentine.” Sarah touched me on the shoulder as she stood up and left the seat. I shook my head slightly and smiled.

  LORENZO

  February 5

  Terrorist mastermind Ali bin Ahmed Al Falah sat across from me in the smoke-filled room. His guards watched me suspiciously. “Goat-fucker,” he spat as my rook took his knight.

  “Indeed,” I replied as I pretended to study the board. For somebody who was supposed to be so damn nefarious, Falah sucked at chess. It was more challenging to put up a good match and then let him win than it was to actually play somebody good. And I didn’t even like chess. “Your turn.”

  “Your mother was a whore, Khalid.” Falah twirled the end of his bushy white beard. He looked vaguely like a Wahhabi Santa Claus as he contemplated his next move. I had left myself dangerously exposed and he could have checkmate in two, but apparently Falah was only strategic when it came to financing suicide bombings.

  I had gotten to know Falah rather well over the last few months. As the new landlord of his social club, it had of course been necessary for me to meet my most prestigious customer. It had turned out that Khalid and Falah had a whole bunch in common and had become friends. Falah had taken a liking to my character and had taken Khalid under his jihadi wing.

  Falah, wanted by both the Americans and the Mossad, was staying in Zubara, effectively out of their reach. Neither nation was willing to take official action in the tiny country right now, as perceived foreign involvement would only weaken the besieged pro-Western emir in the eyes of the populace. The old man talked a big game about sacrificing for the cause but had no desire to become a martyr himself.

  There was a loud noise from downstairs in the social club, and one of the guards, an angry young man by the name of Yousef, went to check it. Falah always traveled with an entourage. Terrorists are kind of like rappers that way. Hell, his personal vehicle was a ridiculous yellow Hummer H2. It sounds ostentatious, but it wasn’t really that odd in a country where this much oil money was flowing.

  “Have you thought about what I suggested yesterday?” I asked.

  He looked up, playing coy. “About the missiles?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Remember, I am new to this, but I want to do anything in my power to help the cause. I do not mean to pry, but I believe our warriors could use the weapons.”

  “Ah, my young friend, I appreciate such enthusiasm,” Falah laughed. “Of course, surface-to-air missiles would be incredibly valuable in the jihad against the American barbarians murdering our brothers.”

  I smiled. It was incredibly difficult to not ram my thumbs through the old man’s eye sockets and wrench his miserable skull from his shoulders. It was even more difficult to pretend to be his buddy. The man I was playing a friendly game with was responsible for blowing up churches, businesses, and schools. I had no problem with killing, but I tried to keep my killing limited to scum like Al Falah. “Yes, of course.”

  Falah made his move. We had been playing chess together several times a week for months now. Occasionally he got one right. He leaned back and gestured proudly at what he had done. I barely noticed. “Ha. Get out of that.”

  “Hmm . . .” I made a big show of puzzling over his latest strategy. Inside I was praying that he was going to go for my offer of a meeting with the fictional arms dealers. The entire thing was totally fabricated. If he was stupid and greedy enough that he went for the deal, then it enabled me to end his pathetic life early and utilize his resources for Phase Two. I moved a pawn to enable him to beat me more easily. “Your turn.”

  “They will return soon, correct? I’ve thought about what you’ve told me about these businessmen you met, Khalid,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Tell them that I am willing to meet to discuss their offer. If it is as reasonable as you say, I will arrange the purchase.”

  “Most excellent, sir,” I replied. You’ll be dead in a couple weeks, asshole. “I will contact them immediately.”

  Falah gave me a devilish grin as he moved his queen. “Checkmate!”

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter 3:

  The Zoob

  VALENTINE

  Fort Saradia National Historical Site

  Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara

  February 5

  I didn’t know what time it was locally when we arrived at our destination. I knew it was the middle of a moonless night. Our plane had landed at Zubara’s only international airport but had taxied away from where the commercial airliners would offload passengers. Instead, our plane stopped at the far end of the airport, where the private and charter jets landed.

  From there we were herded into a large, unmarked white bus. The bus’s windows were so darkly tinted that you couldn’t see out. The cargo from the plane was off-loaded onto the bus and a pair of trucks. The entire caravan was leaving the airport through a back gate within a half hour of the plane touching down. Compared to the seemingly endless flight from the United States, everything happened remarkably fast once we hit the ground.

  I wasn’t able to see anything of the city as we passed through it. The brief glimpse I got between the stairs of the jet and the door of the bus had told me little. It was cooler out than I thought it’d be, probably in the sixties. The air smelled of dust, burning natural gas, car exhaust, and an inadequate sewer system. It reminded me of Mexico.

  The drive from the airport was long, but as near as I could tell, it was because we were winding our way around a cluttered city. I assumed the driver, who was one more of Colonel Hunter’s security men, was taking a roundabout route to wherever it was we were going. It was the better part of an hour before the bus came to a stop. We all stood up in the aisle, clutching our backpacks, waiting for the line to begin moving, as Hunter’s security guys tried to hustle us along. Tailor and I were two of the last ones off.

  Stepping out into the cool night air, I took in my surroundings. We were in some kind of large compound surrounded by twenty-foot walls. The walls were made of stone, and looked old. Inside the walls were five large buildings, all of which looked new, plus a few old buildings off to one side.

  “This some kind of fort?” Tailor asked.

  “Looks like it,” I replied. “Those buildings are new, though. So are those lights,” I said, noting the new amber streetlights in the compound. “Looks like it’s been improved over the years.”

  “This is Fort Saradia,” Sarah said from behind me. I turned around quickly when she spoke, a little bit startled. Tailor looked at me funny and cracked a smile but didn’t say anything.

  “You know about this place, don’t you?” Tailor asked.

  “We got briefed before you guys. This place was a fort for the British in the nineteenth century. It was expanded over the years. The Zubarans used it as a small army depot for a long time. That’s why half the wall looks new. They closed it down about twenty years ago. I guess they were going to turn it into a university or something, but that didn’t pan out, either. Now it’s a protected site.”

  “And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Tailor asked. “Because no one will come poking around, and those walls mean people can’t see in.”

  “Pretty much,” Sarah said.

  “We can’t spend all of our time here,” I mused. “If we keep going in and out of the same place all the time we’ll get spotted eventually.”

  “Nah, I bet this is just a staging area,” Tailor suggested. “We probably won’t spend much time here.”

  “You guys won’t, but I will,” Sarah said, grabbing her duffel bag as one of the security men tossed it onto the pavement. “All of my equipment is set up here.”

  “See? L
ike I said, it’s a staging area,” Tailor repeated. “A command center.”

  “There’s my bag,” I said. My large GI duffel bag had been dropped onto the pavement. I stepped forward and slung it. “So . . . where do we go now?” I asked. Tailor and Sarah just shrugged. Looking around, I could see that everyone else was just as puzzled as we were. A couple of the buildings looked like dormitories or barracks, but none of us knew what to do now.

  The small cluster of security types standing around was no help. They’d hardly acknowledge us, much less tell us anything. Four of them were carrying carbines, too, so none of us got too pushy. All they would tell us was that Colonel Hunter would be along to brief us again. I wondered why they felt it necessary to have the briefing outside in the parking lot instead of in a building or something. I was tired, and so was everyone else. After a few minutes, I set my duffel bag down and sat next to it. Others did the same. A few minutes after that, the bus backed out of the large gate it had come in and departed, leaving us to sit on the ground.

  Probably twenty minutes later, a white Toyota Land Cruiser came rolling up from the interior of the compound. It stopped a short distance from where we were all sitting. The doors opened. From the passenger’s side, Colonel Hunter climbed out and strode toward us, flanked by yet another security guy. Most of us stood up as he approached.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to the Zoob,” he said, raising his voice so all of us could hear. If you don’t know already, we’re currently at Fort Saradia, a few miles outside of the city. This will be our base of operations for the time being. Over there,” he said, pointing to our right, “is the dormitory. Each of you has been assigned a room there. Your name is on the door of your room. The doors aren’t locked. Grab your gear, find your room, and get some rack time. We’ll be getting you up for more briefings in a few hours. Any questions?”

  One guy spoke up. “Sir, what—”

  Hunter cut him off. “Tough, I’m not answering any now. Move out!” Without so much as another word, Colonel Hunter and his entourage of security men piled into Land Cruisers and drove off, leaving us to carry our bags all the way to the dormitory. Tailor and I looked at each other, shrugged, and picked up our bags.

  The dormitory had three levels. The stairs were on the outside of the building, with a set on either end. They led to an enclosed walkway that was flanked by rooms on either side. Tailor and I made our way down the first level, checking the doors on each side for our names. Each person’s name was written on the door in magic marker.

  I found my room eventually. It was on the north end of the third floor. “Valentine” had been written on the door. Someone had also drawn a rough picture of a heart with an arrow through it. Grumbling something unpleasant, I opened the door and stepped into the dark room.

  A dusty smell filled my nose, and it took me a moment to find the light switch. As the old fluorescent light above my head flickered to life, it revealed a Spartan little room. It couldn’t have been more than twelve foot by twelve. It looked like a college dorm room that had been abandoned years before. The walls were bare white cinder block, with no decorations. A simple bed with a thin mattress was shoved into one corner. A military-surplus wool blanket and a small pillow had been tossed onto it. Against one wall was a set of metal shelving. A small closet was situated on the other wall.

  I set my bag down and began to explore my new room. On the far wall was a window and a door. The window was darkly tinted, and didn’t open. The door opened outward to reveal a small balcony. From my balcony, in the cool, dry night air, I could see over the wall of the compound. The amber glow of Zubara City could be seen to the east. The wind was gusty and cold, so I went back into my room.

  The other door in the room led to the bathroom. I crossed my room and pulled that door open. “Hey!” someone yelled, startling me enough that I stumbled back into my room. It had been a woman’s voice. A second later, Sarah McAllister appeared in the doorway.

  “Hey!” I said as she stepped around me, walking into my room like she owned the place. “What the hell?”

  “Are you stalking me or something?” she asked.

  I felt my face flush. “You’re in my room!”

  “I guess we share a bathroom,” she said.

  “I guess,” I said. “Weird that they didn’t separate males and females.”

  “This isn’t summer camp,” Sarah said, grinning.

  “Do we have a shower, then?” I asked, poking my head back into the bathroom.

  “Sort of,” Sarah replied. To my right, at the very end of the room, was a square section that looked like the base of a shower. At about knee high, there was a spigot and two knobs. The spigot led to a hose, which in turn led to a shower head, clipped to the wall just above the spigot.

  “Huh? So . . . what are you supposed to do, sit down in this thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “You could use the spray-hose to wash yourself, I guess. There’s nowhere on the wall above to clamp it, so we can’t use it like a regular shower. Also, there’s no curtain.”

  “And what the hell is that?” I asked, indicating another spray-hose. This one came out of the wall next to the toilet.

  “It’s for washing your feet,” Sarah explained. “Most toilets over here have them. Local custom is you wash your feet after using the bathroom.”

  “What about your hands?” I asked.

  “That’s optional,” she said, smiling.

  “So this is it, huh? A shower, um, thing with no curtain, a toilet with a spray-hose on it, and a bare tile floor with a drain. Zubaran bathroom technology is a bit wanting.”

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Sarah said. “Or I’m going to try. So get out of here. The door doesn’t lock, so don’t open it until I’m gone. Stalker.”

  “I’m not stalking you!” I protested as Sarah shoved me out of the bathroom and slammed the door in my face. “Psycho,” I muttered to myself as she turned the water on.

  Exhausted, I kicked my boots off and climbed into bed. Pulling the rough wool blanket over me, I rolled over and was asleep in minutes.

  I was abruptly woken a short while later. I sat up in bed, startled, not entirely sure where I was at first. Sarah stood over me, wearing nothing but a short pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. Her hair was wet. She smelled nice; she looked good.

  “Hey, Valentine,” she said. “Do you have any toilet paper?”

  “Huh? What’re you doing in my room again?” I mumbled.

  “Toilet paper. There isn’t any. Did you bring some?”

  “Actually, I did.” I sat up. “I always bring toilet paper.” I reached over and dug into my duffel bag. I handed her a roll that was wrapped in a plastic bag. “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s everything,” she said, stepping back into the bathroom. “Nice try, though.” She flashed me a smile before closing the door again.

  “You’re welcome!” I yelled at the door before laying back down. I had a smile on my face as I rolled over to go back to sleep.

  VALENTINE

  February 28

  For the rest of the month of February, we remained cooped up in Fort Saradia. We had classes every day on topics ranging from fieldcraft to local history. Gordon Willis made several appearances to tell us what a great job we were doing and remind us of the importance of operational security. He seemed pretty useless, actually.

  There was a lot of physical fitness training, too. It had been less than a year since I’d left Vanguard, but I’d gotten pretty out of shape. The first morning they had us running laps around the inside of the compound I thought my heart was going to explode. Tailor was even worse off than I was, since he was a smoker.

  What we weren’t getting was any firearms training, which bothered me, but I understood why. Fort Saradia didn’t have a range of any kind, and was only a few miles outside of the city. There was no way to do a lot of shooting without drawing attention.

  At least we did have weapons. I’d been inside the main
building a few times and had caught a glimpse of the arms room. It was stocked with some of the most modern equipment I’d ever seen, and it was all brand new. Our armorer was a jovial guy named Frank Mann. He sported curly black hair and a bushy black mustache, and was eminently proud of his arms room. He’d been around the block a few times himself, so he, Tailor, and I became friends. In any case it’s always a good idea to make friends with the armorer.

  Tailor and I didn’t tell him about the handguns we’d smuggled. Even though they’d prohibited cellular phones and some other items, they’d never bothered to search our belongings. I suspected Frank wouldn’t care. He was as big a gun nut as Tailor and I, and I’d seen him packing what I assumed was a personally owned Glock .45 several times.

  Toward the end of the month, things began to pick up. Every day it seemed that there were fewer and fewer of us. The word was that we were being divided up into small groups and sent off to safe houses to begin conducting operations. Sarah hinted that they’d been watching us to see whom we got along with, and who we’d work well with. Frank told me that he’d been issuing weapons to the people that were leaving. It seemed like things were finally going to begin. I was excited; sitting around in the compound had grown tiresome.

  On the very last day of the month, I was told to report to the small briefing room in the admin building. It was mid-afternoon as I made my way across Fort Saradia. The sun was high in the sky; it was warm but not hot. A strong wind blew from the north. Every time it would gust, it’d kick up another huge cloud of dust. Other than the howling wind, the compound was quiet.

  I was apparently the last one to arrive in the small briefing room. Colonel Hunter and Sarah were standing at the front of the room, talking quietly. A laptop was set up on a table, hooked up to a projector. A portable screen stood at the head of the darkened room.

  “About time,” Tailor said, sitting at one of the desks with a notebook.