Standing Before Hell's Gate

by William Alan Webb

  “Just try, okay? If she refuses, we’re not worse off than we are now. She’s in the bedroom. Cindy’s in there with her.”

  Morgan made tea while she and Ootoi waited for Nikki to return, which she did in less than ten minutes.

  “What did she say?” Morgan said.

  “She said, and I’m quoting, “‘Tell Morgan I am fine and for her to stop polishing the same tableware.’ I have no idea what that means.”

  “It means to quit beating a dead horse,” Ootoi interjected as both women turned to him in surprise.

  “Is that right?” Nikki asked.

  “Yes, it is. How did you know that, Toy?”

  “My mom came from Savannah, Georgia. She used to say it all the time.”

  Nikki leaned in close to her sister and dropped her voice. “Have you told her about… you know?”

  “No, not while she’s sick.”

  “If you wait too long, you won’t need to tell her.”

  #

  Chapter 35

  Pay no attention to what he do, pay attention to what he say,

  He’s your voice to almighty god, obey him come what may.

  Children’s rhyme of the Caliphate of the Seven Prayers of the New Prophet

  Western New Mexico

  1357 hours, April 27

  Mohammad Qadim’s heart pounded when Captain al-Naadi reined in atop a ridge and used his binoculars to scout the path ahead. It happened every time they stopped, as his fear of being discovered led to panic and became ever harder to keep off his face. So far his companions had written it off to his youth, but he lived in constant fear. Mere unbelievers were tortured in horrible ways, and he could only imagine how they would treat a spy.

  Less than a mile north of the hilltop ran the roadbed of the old Interstate 40, while fifteen miles east was Gallup, where the captain hoped to spend the night. The other nine riders used the break to drink water and mop sweat from their faces.

  “The horses need rest, Captain,” one of the men behind Qadim said.

  The captain looked at him, as if he’d said it. “The horses can rest when we get to Gallup!”

  His men shared dubious looks. Care of their mounts had never been the captain’s top priority, but without horses they were dead. The desert didn’t forgive mistakes such as that.

  He spoke loud enough for them all to hear. “The prayers of the New Prophet have led us to this spot and he will not abandon us now, if we but remain his good and faithful servants. The horses will be fine. There is what we’ve been searching for.” He pointed at the cracked and weed-choked pavement. “That road connects the western ocean with the eastern lands. With the army of the Emir moving toward the city once called Albuquerque, our mission was to scout on their western side all the way to that road, which the Americans named Interstate 40. We have accomplished that directive and now we turn to the east. We next are required to investigate a town called Gallup. From now on, we are tasked with searching for any clues as to the location of the enemy stronghold known as Shangri-La. The mission of the Emir’s army is to seize Albuquerque and destroy Shangri-La, so that we may avenge the loss of so many brothers last year. It’s been a hard road and you’ve done well. Let us now finish our task and—”

  “Dust!” one of the men screamed, pointing to the west.

  Qadim’s heart leaped at the fear it was the rest of the Sevens; the more people to watch him, the greater the chance of him being discovered. Somehow, he had to get away and warn Shangri-La of what was heading their way, but if surrounded by an army, that would be impossible.

  Al-Naadi took out his binoculars and focused on the large dust cloud moving straight for his location. The westering sun poured into the lenses, so he couldn’t distinguish details. Twice he turned his head because of the sunlight. “Can anyone see?” he said. “The sun has blinded me.”

  Qadim squinted. Spots danced in his eyes. All he knew for sure was that many vehicles were racing across the desert and down the interstate.

  #

  “Pull over!” Snowtiger screamed at the Humvee driver. “Now, now! Hurry!”

  “Lara, what’s—”

  “Pull over!”

  The driver swerved onto the shoulder and skidded to a stop beside a twisted section of guard rail. The rest of the company kept rolling by, but Snowtiger stood through the gap in the roof and scanned to the east with her regulation binoculars. She’d lost the 25X100MM Astronomical ones during the battle the previous year, and despite several days searching, she hadn’t found them. Now she concentrated on what she knew she’d seen — the flash of sunlight off glass.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Lara?” Piccaldi said. “Loot Hack’s gonna have our ass.”

  “Can I please drive on, Gunny?” the driver said to Piccaldi.

  “No, you cannot!” Snowtiger answered. “Zo, hand me my rifle.”

  “Your rifle? If you aren’t hunting venison for dinner, we’re fucked. We’re supposed to be on his six.”

  “Give me the damned rifle!” she said.

  Piccaldi recoiled and, in shock, did what she asked. He’d never heard her curse before. The high cheekbones that lent her usually stoic expression an ethereal beauty also made her frown appear more severe.

  Snowtiger and Piccaldi had the only two M40A7 rifles in the entire brigade. The biggest difference with the older versions of the same bolt-action sniper rifle was the folding stock and ability to attach more accessories. Both had been offered the prizes after their defense of Last Stand Hill. They’d also been given two of the M110 semi-automatic rifles, but after using them in combat, neither sniper liked it much.

  She locked the stock in place but didn’t chamber a round. Instead, sighting through the scope, finger off the trigger, she searched for the source of the mysterious light. The hilltop she scanned had old homes and boulders and a few trees, so it was painstaking work, but work she’d been trained to do.

  “Lara, we’re gonna be dead-assed last if you don’t hurry up.”

  She ignored Piccaldi and kept looking. Could it have been something natural? Some desert phenomena? Had she dozed off and imagined it, or… there! Between two large boulders… what was that? Men on horseback!

  “Trenchard!” she said to the PFC riding shotgun. “Get Loot Hack on the radio, now!”

  “What is it?” Piccaldi.

  “Sevens.”

  #

  “Enemies,” Captain al-Naadi said.

  Even without binoculars, Mohammad Qadim could see they were trapped. Vehicles extended a mile on either side of the highway, so if they tried riding back the way they’d come the enemy would see them. Nor could they use the road ahead because the enemy was already on it. All they could do was hunker down in a ravine and hope the enemy passed by without seeing them, men or horses.

  #

  “Snowtiger spotted Sevens on top of that ridge on our right, Captain,” Lieutenant Hakala said into his mike. As he spoke, he swept the high ground with his binoculars, although bouncing along the broken asphalt made it nearly impossible to focus. “We’re going to pass it on our right flank and I think we have to take the potential threat seriously.”

  “If Snowtiger says she saw it, we have to assume that she did,” came Captain Sully’s reply. “Deploy accordingly. See if there’s a road leading up from the interstate and assume the enemy has RPGs and heavy weapons. I’m ordering the elements of Echo on that flank to envelope the ridgeline from the south.”

  “Roger that.”

  Hakala’s LAV stopped half a mile from the ridge and his platoon did the same behind him.

  “First Platoon, listen up. Reliable observation puts Sevens on that hill on our right. First squad, stay on the highway and flank the hill on its left, then see if there’s a road leading to the crest. Take it slow and assume there’s IEDs. Second Squad, support them in echelon. Third Squad, approach the hill from the desert and look for ways up while providing on-call fire support. Snowtiger, you and Piccaldi deploy at your discreti
on to cover the operation. Questions?”

  “Loot,” one of the LAV commanders said, “I see what looks like houses up there. What are the ROEs?”

  “Try to identify your targets before firing, but do not, I repeat, do not hesitate if it puts you in danger. We assume all targets are valid unless otherwise identified. Any other questions? Move out.”

  #

  Overtime Prime

  1413 hours

  Having something at stake was so much worse than being hopeless, Steeple thought. Before McComb’s unexpected visit, he’d been dreaming about scenarios in which he might get out of his cell, things he’d say and arguments he’d make at his court-martial, fantasies that would never come true but were nevertheless highly gratifying. Then, out of nowhere, he had been given that most corrosive of emotions… hope. With a chance to not only get out but to gain the power he’d been denied, Steeple found the moments dragging by, so that when McComb again opened his door, he almost tackled the man.

  “Well, is there any progress? What has been done? What is taking so long?”

  “We have to be careful, General.”

  “Four days have passed. Angriff will be back if we do not act soon.”

  “Everything’s fine! I just spoke to Colonel Mwangi for the second time and it’s all set. Tomorrow night at 0200 hours, a Gulfstream G-650 will set down at the Prescott airport—”

  “Has the runway been checked?”

  “Yes, General, it has been totally repaired and restored. Now, it has to be done in the middle of the night to draw as little attention as possible. I’ll be there with my two most trusted associates. We’ll light oil fires to mark the runway…”

  “Who’s coming?”

  McComb held up a hand. “I’m taking a truck from the construction motor pool. Once they’re on the ground, they’ll park the aircraft in a hangar there… it doesn’t have a roof, but it doesn’t need one for our purposes. I’ll load the men on the plane into the truck. I’m told there will be close to two dozen.”

  “Are they mercs?”

  “No… Chinese.”

  “Wait… Chinese? You’re bringing Chinese troops into Overtime?”

  “We don’t have a choice, General. There’s a lot of moving parts in this and they’re all we can get on such short notice. They’re led by an American spec ops guy named Adder.”

  Despite his legendary self-control, Steeple blanched. He’d been an NSA advisor during the Venezuela debacle. “Adder? From… from Task Force Zombie? That Adder?”

  “Unless there’s two. Now excuse me sir, but let me finish. We don’t have much time…”

  #

  Chapter 36

  It is better to trip with the feet than with the tongue.

  Zeno of Citium

  Eastern Arizona

  1616 hours, April 27

  Snowtiger and Piccaldi set up on a small rise close to the interstate. Both were going through their preparatory routines, beginning with inspecting their weapons and ammo, when Piccaldi spoke up. “If it turns out there really are Sevens up there, I’m never gonna hear the end of it, am I?”

  She pulled back the rifle bolt and looked down the barrel from the chamber. Her natural expression was blank and a little sad, as if she kept terrible secrets she could never reveal. Piccaldi’s breath quickened every time she looked at him that way. Despite her deadly prowess, he felt a compulsion to shield her and protect her. This time, when she looked at him, a small, sad smile joined that expression.

  “No,” she said. “You’re not.”

  #

  The crevice held four of them and their horses. The others were further back from the interstate in a bigger ravine. Qadim could see nothing beyond the sky above and the walls of the earthen gash where they’d hidden. Each rider spoke to his horse to calm it and to keep it from nickering.

  “Courage, men,” whispered Captain al-Naadi. “We have a good chance they will pass by and not see us. Have faith in your prophet.”

  Qadim was closest to the road, which ran from the old interstate over the hilltop and down the other side. A gentle slope led out of their crevasse to the backyard of a ruined house, which blocked their view of the road, but also blocked them from being spotted by someone on the road. The captain had been right; there was a good chance they’d never be seen.

  Qadim desperately wondered who they were. To the rest of the riders, they could only be enemies, but Qadim was already among his enemies, so there was a good chance these were friends. They’d all seen the white stars painted on the vehicles. Qadim hadn’t been with them the year before, but he’d heard all about the devils who’d slaughtered the faithful and their damned machines decorated with the white star.

  Unbidden, a plan came to mind, one that might not get him killed. He’d been looking for an opportunity to break away from Captain al-Naadi’s little band of scouts and this might be his last chance. But when he thought about his chances for survival, it was the word might that worried him. He could see at least three ways he could die in the next few minutes, including breaking his neck by falling off his horse. His mind had almost convinced him not to take the risk when he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks.

  #

  Lieutenant Hakala’s LAV was fourth in line ascending the hill when the lead vehicle, Dog One-One-One, squawked on the tactical radio. Dog One-One-One meant Dog Company, First Platoon, First Squad, First Vehicle.

  “Lone horseman heading my way, no apparent weapons, hands in the air. Distance fifty yards. What are my orders?”

  “Take no chances. Tell them to stop. If they approach within twenty yards, open fire. If you see a weapon or they reach for anything, open fire. Do not take any risks!”

  “Rider is down. I repeat, rider is down.”

  “Did you shoot, Dog One-Eleven?”

  “Negative. The rider fell off his horse.”

  #

  Qadim rolled across the dirt, sending up clouds of dust. He couldn’t feel his right shoulder, but pain shot down his neck into the small of his back. His right hip ached.

  He’d fallen sixty or seventy feet short of the road. A huge vehicle with four giant wheels on each side stopped and its turret gun pointed straight at him. Four men wearing helmets and carrying rifles ran toward him from somewhere down the hill. They rolled him over and he screamed as feeling returned to his shoulder in the form of searing pain. Somebody used a device that made a zipping noise to bind his hands behind his back.

  Face down, with his mouth full of dirt, he tried to speak. A rough hand rolled him over and he saw himself reflected in the visor of the man’s helmet. “Friend,” he said, spitting dirt and hoping these people weren’t allies of the Sevens. “Friend… Shangri-La.”

  #

  Three of the four MARSOCs knelt with rifles aimed in different directions, including both sides of the caved-in house from behind which the rider and his horse had appeared. The LAVs had turrets sweeping for targets.

  Lieutenant Hakala approached the prisoner with M-16 held in the crook of his arm. “What have we got, Sergeant?”

  The man wore loose pastel clothing, like all the Sevens did. He’d been helped into a sitting position and given water. As Hakala watched, he rolled his right shoulder as though it hurt.

  “Says he’s a friend, Loot, and something about Shangri-La. We found this in his saddlebag.” The man held out a flare gun with an inscription etched into the underside of the barrel: To Idaho Jack, a true friend of Shangri-La! From Mohammad Qadim.

  “What is this?” Hakala asked the prisoner. “A war souvenir?”

  The man shook his head. He appeared sleepy and grimaced every few seconds. “I gave that to Idaho Jack and couldn’t let the Sevens find it.”

  “If you gave it to this Idaho Jack person, then why do you have it?”

  “I’m Mohammad Qadim.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s a long story… a very long story. If you’re going to kill me, then do it. But if you
’re not, I need to warn Shangri-La before it’s too late.”

  “Warn them about what?”

  “The army that’s heading their way.”

  #

  From behind the house, horses nickered and Qadim heard hoofbeats. He reached up and grabbed the arm of the man kneeling over him. The man — the name on his shirt read HAKALA — raised a balled fist while the man standing beside him stuck a rifle barrel in Qadim’s face, but the frantic look in his eyes made them pause.

  “Sevens are coming!” he said, knowing that if the Sevens got hold of him he was a dead man.

  The man Hakala blinked and stared into his eyes for two seconds. “Sevens!” he screamed. “Incoming! Let ’em have it!”

  Five riders galloped into view from behind the wrecked house. They rode single file and each sprayed fire from a small sub-machine gun, while the kneeling Marines returned fire with their M-16s.

  The firefight was over in less than five seconds. Two LAV-25s had been in position to shoot and the 25mm chain guns ripped horses and men into bloody chunks, but not before two sub-machine gun rounds hit the man standing over Qadim. A second Marine, one of those kneeling, rolled in the dirt with a shoulder wound. At the head of the column, more gunfire erupted, but ceased within seconds.

  Corpsmen were treating the wounded within twenty seconds while the other Marines checked the Sevens they’d shot up. As usually happened when a chain gun got into the fight, they were all dead. One horse had to be put out of its misery.

  Hakala helped Qadim to sit up. “Thanks,” he said. Qadim nodded. “Maybe you are legit.”

  “We have to warn Shangri-La,” Qadim said.

  “I said maybe.”

  “You’ve got to believe me! We’re running out of time.”

  “Does Shangri-La have a radio?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to radio for orders, then we’ll see what happens.”

  “But you’ve got to—”

  “You heard me! Sergeant, remove the prisoner to a safe location. If he gives you any promises or just won’t shut up, gag him. Then get me Captain Sully on the horn.”