by Michael Bray
The man Hamada had sent away returned with a map which Hamada spread out on the table. Branning stood and moved around the table to take a closer look. On the map, just outside of Baghdad, was a red dot.
"The camp is here. It looks to be the central hub for these invaders to run their operations in the area. My people have taken great risk to get close enough to acquire reconnaissance. Thanks to them, we have lots of information."
"Go on," Branning said.
Hamada took another sheet of paper from underneath the map. On it was a crude drawing of the base.
"Based on what my men have seen, this is the layout of the facility. The prisoners are being held here, in this building in the centre."
"What are these dots?" Branning asked, suspecting he knew the answer.
"Patrols," Hamada confirmed. "Always two men, always armed. Every day, trucks full of prisoners are delivered to the facility. It is well defended, apart from the south side here, which faces into open land."
"No," Branning said, shaking his head for emphasis. "That's deliberate. It’s a classic three wall defence scheme. The fourth wall, in this case, this southern facing land, will be filled with landmines. Because it's so open, anyone approaching would be easy to spot during the day. At night it might be possible to navigate if we knew what kind of mines are being used. If they are standard issue anti-personnel mines, we would need to tread very carefully. Those things are hard to detect and don’t take much to set off. Worst case scenario is if they have a combination if different devices. If so then you don’t want to be trying to pick your way through there."
Hamada nodded. "We suspected as much. We have grenades. Our plan was to trigger the mines by exploding them from a distance."
"Then you lose the element of surprise and I don’t think we want to be rolling in there with these people aware of who we are, how many we have and in which direction we're coming. In addition, there is no cover out there."
Branning pointed to the southern wall of the camp. “Look here. The patrols go across this upper wall. There are machine gun emplacements here and here. We would be sitting ducks.”
"Perhaps not," Hamada said, turning towards Branning.
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps that is what we should do. With such a distraction, a small team could penetrate the camp elsewhere and liberate the prisoners."
"No, that wouldn’t work."
"Why not?"
"Suicide mission. Not so much for the small team going in from the north side, but for the guys around the back. No cover, desert exposure, unexploded landmines, and heavy fire from within the camp. It would be a bloodbath."
"There will be death regardless," Hamada grunted. "If this is the only way, then my men are prepared to make such a sacrifice."
"There's been enough blood spilled without adding to it. I won’t send these people into a suicide mission. It’s not how I work."
"You think with the American mentality, Branning."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you deal in risk, percentages, and the cost of human life, never the end result."
"I don’t see that as a bad thing," Branning snapped.
"The point is, the outlook of my men is different. There is no greater honour than for a soldier to die in battle. Tributes are paid by the people who knew him after his death. It is an honourable way to exit this world. There are shrines, memorials, families proud at the sacrifice their loved ones made. Death holds no fear for my men."
"Death is an absolute certainty if they approach from the south. There is no way they would survive. None at all."
"Do you see another way?" Hamada said.
"No," Branning replied.
"Then we have little choice."
"Alright, let’s just assume for a second I agree to this, we don’t have the resources or the firepower."
Hamada considered the point for a second and then stood. "Come, Branning. Walk with me for a moment. Let us get some air."
Hamada led Branning out of the room and down a grubby corridor furnished with a tired red carpet. He pushed through another door and then they were outside in a courtyard bathed in blazing sunshine. The sudden explosion of heat took Branning’s breath away. It was akin to opening the door of a hot oven. He took a moment to take in his surroundings. Homes were scattered in a rough square around the centre of the village where Branning and Hamada now stood. Branning was aware of the cold gaze of the residents burning into him. There were no friendly greetings or welcomes, just flat, hateful expressions. Hamada ignored it, and started towards the opposite side of the square, his sandals kicking up little puffs of dust as he walked. Branning kept pace, keeping a cautious eye on the villagers who were still staring at him.
"As I said earlier, this is the centre of our operations. So far, these invaders have not yet located us due to the remote location of the village. We are deemed too small to be a concern, which is beneficial to us."
Hamada opened the door to another building opposite the one they had just left. Inside was a prayer room. Guards with rifles stood just inside the entrance, and like the people outside, they gave Branning a cold, vacant stare. Hamada strode on, leading Branning down a short corridor and then through another door. Once again they were outside. Chain-link fences lined either side of the short alleyway, behind which on either side were six skinny, snarling Alsatians, which upon seeing the two men jumped up at the steel, snarling and biting, slamming into the wire.
"I didn’t think your people liked dogs," Branning said as Hamada strode towards the connecting building.
"We don’t, however they are good for both protection from intruders and to raise the alarm. Otherwise, they are filthy beasts."
They approached a chipped blue door and Hamada turned to face Branning, his eyes bright and alive under the burning gaze of the sun. "This is our weapons storage area. This is everything we have for the coming fight."
Branning nodded, unsure if Hamada was waiting for a verbal response. Just as he was trying to think of something to say, Hamada turned back to the door, unlocked it and pushed it open.
It was gloomy inside, the windowless room illuminated mostly by the light which spilled in through the open door. Dust swam and undulated in the golden wedge of sun which spilled across the threshold. Branning walked inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He had expected to see a few dozen rifles, perhaps a few grenades. Instead, he was greeted with a veritable arsenal. The walls were lined with weapons, clipped into handmade racks. Submachine guns, rifles and shotguns on the longest wall to Branning's left, pistols and hand grenades on the wall opposite the door, and even a dozen or so rocket launchers still in their green military issue cases were stacked in a corner. In the centre of the room were wooden barrels each printed with the name of one of the weapon types and filled with its matching ammunition.
"I see now why you didn’t want me to know how to find this place," Branning said, feeling a chill dance up his back despite the intense heat within the room. "Where did you get this stuff?"
"You're surprised, I can tell," Hamada said, giving Branning a wide grin. "You expected a few cheap rifles and a box or two of grenades, did you not?"
Branning nodded.
"To answer your question, many of the pieces you see in here are sourced from our supporters in Egypt, Syria, and Turkey. Others come from Europe."
"Those rocket launchers are American issued," Branning said, pointing to the green cases in the corner.
"Yes, although much of our weaponry is sourced from private sellers, some is stolen from your American forces."
"How do you get it?" Branning asked, staring at Hamada, whose eyes were now just twin pinpricks of light in the gloom.
"How do you think?"
"You killed for it?"
"Not specifically. These were taken after unsuccessful attacks by your British and American colleagues. When the fighting is done, our men take whatever they can which will aid our cause. Those roc
ket launchers you speak of were acquired following a roadside ambush around five miles from here. We suffered heavy losses but were victorious. Those weapons were in the rearmost vehicle in the convoy. A great find."
"And what about the people? The soldiers?"
"Casualties of war, Mr. Branning. Your people would have done the same to us if the opportunity arose."
"These weapons are covered in blood. You can’t just ignore it and expect me to be okay with it," Branning spat.
"Don’t be so narrow-minded, Branning. We both know the risks involved in taking up fighting for our country. As my father said, if you don’t want to fight, then learn how to be a farmer."
"That doesn’t change the fact that good people have died for you to get these weapons."
"And good people were killed trying to acquire them. There is no difference."
"That doesn’t make it right."
"Does it matter?" Hamada asked around another grin. "We can argue about the past all day and night, but it will not help us. All that should make a difference is that the weapons are here now and available for us to use. Where they came from or how they were acquired should make little difference."
"To you, maybe. It makes a hell of a difference to me. That said, you're right. Under the circumstances, we have no other choice."
Hamada said nothing. He stood in the gloom, watching Branning and letting him come to his own conclusions.
“Okay,” Branning said. "Based on the weaponry you have in here, I think we may have a chance of getting into that compound, although I want to spend a little time going over the map and see if there is another way in. How many men do we have access to?"
"Thirty-seven here in the village. There are a further fifteen held in the compound and whatever American troops are also captive."
"And the men you have here, they're weapons trained?"
"Of course. Many since they were old enough to stand. They are every bit as good as your American soldiers."
"What about explosives? Do you have any other than grenades?"
Hamada crossed the room to a spot behind the barrels. Branning followed. On the floor was a wooden crate. Hamada pried off the lid and showed Branning the contents. Inside were a half dozen rusted artillery shells with wires snaking out of the rear. "Explosives as requested. I believe you Americans call them IED's"
"Jesus, are they safe to handle?"
"I wouldn’t recommend touching them unless you have to."
Heeding Hamada’s advice, Branning crouched and leaned closer, his nostrils filled with the smell of dry wood and rust. "Are these Russian shells?"
"Yes."
"Where the hell did you get them?"
"You sound surprised, Branning."
"I am."
"As I said, we have many supporters in other countries, although these didn’t come directly from Russia to us but via a supporter of our cause."
"Those wires," Branning said as he continued to stare at the shells. "I take it these can be remotely detonated?"
"Yes, although they are far more primitive than the wireless devices your country uses. These need to be triggered by somebody at the other end of the cable. I’m told they are highly unstable and unreliable, but incredibly effective."
"Alright," Branning said as he stood. "What about C4?"
"No, we have nothing like that. This is everything."
"Okay," Branning said, turning towards Hamada. "I think I have an idea about how we can do this."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joshua & Genaro
The White House
Washington DC, USA
The destruction of civilisation had so far been easy, and Joshua was growing bored. Instead of the intense battle he had expected, the world had died with a whimper and bent to his will without a fight. He walked the bullet-strewn rooms of the White House, its walls gouged, its floors littered with the dead. Nothing within the structure held his interest, the paintings that adorned the walls to him were listless, works painted by creatures of inferior intellect to him. He was beyond that now, above it. His expectations had been to have experienced euphoria, some sense of achievement instead of the emptiness inside him. It wasn’t enough. He craved something more. A challenge, a fight. Surely the governments of the world would try some form of retaliation, at least once they had recovered from the shock at the way he had attacked and been successful. He was starting to wonder if the ease of his victory was due to his own superiority or the arrogance of those he opposed for not believing somebody would reach out and take that which they had fought so hard to keep. He didn’t like that. Doubt wasn’t something he expected to be feeling. He had shown the world he was serious, and yet had been met with silence. No activity. It made him uneasy.
He stared at the portraits of the presidents who had inhabited the White House over the years, and couldn’t help but smile at how inferior they were. At how pathetic their lives were. Compared to the power which lived within him and those like him, they were less than nothing. Beyond insignificant. A vision came to him then, one so vivid and powerful he was certain he was seeing the future.
In it, he stood alone on a smoky plateau of rubble. The sky was deep red and heavy with ash and smoke. As far as he could see in all directions were corpses, bodies piled as high as skyscrapers, limbs twisted and intertwined, rivers of blood running between them. It was a cityscape of the dead, an endless urban city of the extinct, lesser species of humanity. That, he realised was what he wanted. To be able to stand in a world that was his. He would have to crush many more cockroaches yet, that was true, but he was finding that they were scurrying out of sight, and until there were more of his forces created he was unable to make the headway he demanded. He thought about the destructive nature of his predecessors, the humanity of old. How they had abused the resources of the planet, how they had, like parasites selfishly ploughed forward in greed and without any thought to consequences. That at least had been resolved. There were consequences now. He was showing the ignorant lesser species just how it felt to be eradicated with disregard.
"Joshua."
Snapped from his vision, he turned to the door. Genaro stood there, hands clasped in front of him.
“What is it?"
"I did some experimentation on the dead to see if my theories about why they were coming back were right."
"And?"
"It was due to the virus as I thought. It has an incredible will to live which takes it far beyond the normal capabilities of the fragile human shell."
"We know this," Joshua said, a hint of irritability in his voice.
"There's more."
"Go on," Joshua replied, showing a real interest for the first time.
"The dead will go on forever until they find a new host, that much we know. What is interesting is what happens if the body breaks down to the point that the virus can no longer drive it on in search of something to transport its seed into."
"Go on."
"With no physical means of movement, the virus instead puts the body into a coma like state and begins to produce massive amounts of stomach gasses. Eventually, the skin ruptures, or, more accurately, explodes."
"And releases the virus into the air," Joshua said with a half-smile.
"Exactly. Think of it in the same way some plants release pollen. This is the same principle."
"How? You were sure the virus wasn’t airborne."
"It wasn’t."
"But it is now?"
"So it seems."
"Again, I ask, how?"
"I don’t know," Genaro said with an exasperated sigh. "My best guess is some form of rapid mutation, although to change traits so quickly is almost unheard of. It’s changing all the time. I have never seen such an aggressive sample. It’s evolving, just like we are."
Joshua let the words sink in, then walked towards the older man.
"Find out. I want to know if the airborne spores are more infectious than bites and scratches."
“Of cour
se, although I imagine they are. This is a last gasp attempt by the virus to bond with something, to continue its existence.”
“Check and let me know. I may have an idea.”
“Absolutely, I will come to you as soon as I know more.”
“Good. Keep up the good work. You have proved to be a valuable asset. You will reap the rewards for your loyalty.”
The doctor lowered his head. “I serve you without question, Joshua. Just as we all do. Whatever you ask of me will be done.”
“Then get to it. This could be the answer I’m looking for.”
Genaro hesitated. He looked at the floor, then clasped his hands in front of him.
“Was there something else?” Joshua asked.
“Yes, actually there was.”
Joshua smiled. “Then speak my old friend, as this world waits for no man.”
Genaro cleared his throat. “Our intelligence has informed us of a possible threat to our operation.”
“What kind of threat?”
“A man. One who has the knowledge to do us harm.”
A shadow of uncertainty, something Genero had never seen before, passed over Joshua’s face. “Who is he?”
“A man called Draven. Ri-”
“Richard Draven.” Joshua interrupted. “British-born scientist, specialising in behavioural and genetic replication of the animal kingdom. Studied in Cambridge. Father Deceased, married with two children I believe.”
“Yes. You know of him?”
“I make it my business to know such things. What of him?”
“He knows of our project. About our kind”
Joshua snorted. “He knows nothing. His research into our gift was both naive and in its infancy. You worry too much, doctor Genaro. There was a reason you were chosen to lead the programme and not him.”
“Actually, he was. It was only when he declined to be involved that I was put in charge of the project.”
Joshua frowned and paced the room. “How much does he know?”
Genaro shrugged. “Although he only ever published one paper, it was known in the scientific community that his research continued behind closed doors for years. It’s conceivable, however unlikely, that he could possess information which could harm us.”