Clouds crashed by Commander Washington in his headlong freefall towards the Earth. He held his arms tucked tightly to his sides, his legs outstretched and toes pointed to heaven as he dove like a dolphin at terminal velocity.
The sky was hot. The soldier had never felt a sensation such as that produced by the blistering winds that blasted by him at this moment. Typically the chill at far lesser altitudes would paint the tops of mountains with snowcaps, even in arid regions such as the one into which he was plunging. If this were the natural world, he would be freezing.
Experience made it clear to each of these men that the conditions they beheld this night were far from natural, however. No textbook spoke of an inferno consuming the air at sixty-thousand feet; save those penned by sooth-sayers and prophets of a pending apocalypse. Still, the Commander paid no mind as he made his maddened descent. His subordinate was in trouble below; his friend facing an onslaught on the ground that would surely deliver him into the cold grasp of Death. Like any good leader, Washington would not allow him to meet his maker alone. He was obliged to fight and, if necessary, to fall by his side.
Big Bird, Shank, Dallas, Dice and Gator were as committed to the cause as their Commander - but curiosity and an ounce of apprehension filled their hearts as they fell. Though he had been last out of the plane, Washington shot by them in the sky as if they were standing still. They flared their bodies, as they had been instructed, to control the speed of their race towards the objective. Washington, on the other hand, held his streamlined form, drawing ever closer to the mysterious fire in his path. He would lead them into this battle; in flames, if that was the will of God.
"Commander," the voice of Dice called through their closed-circuit comm. system. "What is it?"
"It's nothing!" He struggled to respond as the changing pressure played games with his lungs. "Hold fast - the plan has not changed!"
"What happened to The Stork?" Shank asked, lifting his head and scanning the sky above.
"Never mind The Stork! Focus on the task at hand!" Washington ordered. "We may not have sniper support - look alive, this might get hairy."
With that there were no further questions. Washington's men trusted him implicitly. If he said the pillar of fire burning brightly by their side was nothing - then it was nothing.
The human missile broke from his posture to check the altimeter strapped to his wrist. Based on its reading he estimated breaking through the ceiling of cloud cover in less than sixty seconds. Once clear of the fog he would be able to assess the battlefield.
The picture painted by Creeper's last garbled transmission was grim; some sort of fire from within compound, the sighting of an RPG and then the description of something hovering which seemed to take Matea's breath away. If he had indeed engaged the enemy as it seemed, the painstakingly choreographed plan for the assault was worthless. Washington would have to adjust on the fly - literally.
As fate would have it, breaking the plane of the cloud cover would also mark the moment at which he would need to move into the space occupied by the burning ribbon if he intended to touch down within the working perimeter of the compound. Creeper had suggested that, somehow, the phenomena was not visible from the ground; but that may well have changed in the time since they last spoke. By this point, everyone and everything below may have been reduced to piles of ash.
Answers were only seconds away when Washington flared in preparation for the automatic deployment of his chute. It fired just as scripted, bringing his freefall to a an abrupt and violent halt. He slowed just as his feet penetrated the vapor.
He swung helplessly now from the canopy as his body was enveloped by the pillowy dampness. Time seemed to have slowed along with his descent as he lingered in the cloud for what seemed like hours. His eyes were drawn to the fire into which he was drifting. It danced almost gracefully within itself, turning the cool mist to steam in its fury.
"Please, God." He prayed in silence. "Please grant me the strength to lead these men into death with my eyes open."
Serenity filled his soul as he spoke to The Lord. The warmth of the blaze beside him became comforting, then sensation taking him on a journey through his mind that led him back to his childhood.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word." The voice of his grandmother sang softly as he fluttered in and out of consciousness.
His weary eyes opened upon her aged face, frown lines tugging at her milk chocolate complexion. Her concern was evident as she dabbed his forehead with a cool wet cloth, but the power of her faith spoke above the fear. This projection of her inner peace reassured him.
"It's okay, baby." She comforted. "The Lord is at your side. He's gonna break this fever, you bet your soul on that."
"Nana?" He whined through the pain and disorientation. "Nana, I'm so scared!"
"Shhhhhhhhh," She ordered, still battling the fire that consumed him with her cloth. "Save your energy for the fight, baby. Leave the rest to God."
"Nana?" He asked. "Where's momma?"
"Your momma's gone away, Little Rob." She explained. "But you're safe here with me, now."
"Where did she go, nana?"
"I don't know, baby. I don't know."
"When is she gonna come back for me?"
"She's not coming back, sweetheart."
"But why?"
"Don't you worry about that, now. Don't you think about it for one more second, you hear? You just fight. Just fight for what's yours and the rest will work itself out."
"Nana?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Am I gonna go to Heaven now? Am I gonna go be with my daddy and the angels?"
"No, sugar... not now." She promised. "It ain't your time to go home yet. Now you hush up and rest, you hear? No more questions, okay?"
He nodded and closed his eyes, slipping away as her voice trailed off.
"Hush little baby, don't you cry -- Cause God loves you and so do I."
"Mamba? Mamba, is that you?" A call yanked the Commander from his solace. "Commander, what the hell are you doing way over there?"
Washington shook off the daze he found himself in and surveyed the real world. He had cleared the cloud and was surrounded now by suffocating darkness. There was no sign of the inferno that should have consumed him. Equally as baffling, there was no sign of anything on the ground below.
"Mamba!" Creeper snapped in his ear. "Come in, Mamba! You're WAY off course! You've overshot the objective!"
Frantically kicking his feet and pulling at his steer lines to bring himself about, Washington realized it was true. The searchlights of the installation burnt brightly in the distance behind him - scanning the sky for any signs of life.
"Creeper?" He called back, puzzled. "What the hell is going on down there?"
"What the hell is going on UP THERE?" He answered. "I expected you ten minutes ago! I thought you had scrubbed and forgotten about me down here. Where is the rest of the team?"
Washington searched the heavens for the others but saw nothing more than a wall of cloud. The Earth was closing fast, the compound still far off on the horizon.
"Commander? Should I take out the search lights now?"
Another scan revealed several scattered pairs of boots dropping through the ceiling. They were near him - far off course.
"Affirmative!" He ordered, assessing quickly in utter confusion.
One of the two intense points of light in the distance died quickly, the delayed report of Creeper's rifle following thereafter. The second faded in short order, another pop riding the air after it. Their snuffing would make it difficult for the enemy to spot the approaching raiders, but it would similarly complicate the precision landing necessary to avoid the perimeter of mines.
"Come around hard, boys." The Commander ordered his men as they emerged from the cloud cover . "We misjudged the drop zone. Pull hard and pray - get as close to that wall as you can."
Sirens wailed bel
ow, no doubt waking every insurgent on the ground. Each of the men wrestled with their chutes to alter their flight path as they glided in, fixing their eyes on the camp.
"I've got movement in the compound." Creeper reported.
The camp loomed close, now. Twenty seconds more would put Washington in the sand. "Clear that gate!" He shouted through clenched teeth, working his lines like a master puppeteer to build forward momentum.
"Aye sir!" Creeper answered before two more blasts sounded out. "Two shots, two kills. I've got eyes on three more moving to the guard house."
"Hit 'em! We need those gates to stay open." He growled now, giving his lines one last mighty tug as the ground drew near.
"Consider them dead."
Three pops told of three more enemies sent to Hell. The rounds were quickly answered with a rat-tat-tat-tat
"Whoa." Creeper exclaimed. "Those were close. I think they've spotted me."
Fingers tightly crossed, the Commander touched down with a thump. The shock of the impact buckled his knees, but anything short of a boom meant success. Casting off his pack, Washington drew his weapon and struck deadly pose. His men were still a minute out - and far from guaranteed a landing within the perimeter. More shots rang out from the compound.
"I'm under sustained fire!" Creeper reported, his inflection triggering an undeniable bout of déjà vu. The feeling was amplified exponentially by a roar that overpowered the cries of the raid sirens. "Is that The Stork?"
Washington didn't have to look to know that it was, of course. No other explanation would be as ludicrous. He didn't know what to think when he saw it approaching, passing low over the camp with its bay open as though the team had just leapt out.
"Shit!" Creeper shouted. "I've got eyes on an enemy RPG! At that range they'll blow her out of the sky!"
Matea's prophecy would be fulfilled as Washington watched a ball of fire lead a trail of thick smoke over the wall and towards the aircraft. Just before it made contact something fell from the tail of the transport -- six somethings, in fact. The bird lit up like a Christmas tree when the grenade struck, splitting into pieces as though it were constructed of popsicle sticks. Every shred of debris burnt unnaturally into nothing, leaving no trace of the plane once the fireball had cleared.
"Are those the pilots?" Creeper asked. Even as he spoke he knew his assumption couldn't be correct as there should've been just two men left inside.
"No," Washington responded. He studied the figures, five falling spread-eagle as the sixth moved like a bullet towards the Earth. "That's US!" He looked over his shoulder at what should've been the real team -- that is, at least, the team this incarnation of himself had left The Stork with. They were very close to touchdown, but something was terribly wrong.
"Commander!" Dallas called in terror through the comm.-link. He was so close that Washington heard his voice first, then the echo in his headset "What's happening?"
"I don't understand..." Creeper interrupted. "Are you seeing this, Mamba?"
"Copy." Washington answered, not quite sure what else to say.
"They -- they're just hovering there!"" The sniper observed, quite accurately. The five airborne members of the assault squad were, indeed, frozen in place; dangling from their fluttering chutes at a fixed altitude as though time had simply stopped and locked them there. "My God, Robert, I think --- I don't know if --- Jesus Christ, they've been spotted!"
Bullets whizzed over the Commander's head en route to the sitting ducks beyond. Dallas was the closest, no more than twenty feet above and near enough for Washington to hit him with a well fired ball of spittle. He was, therefore, the easiest target to pick off. His body was riddled almost instantly with slugs, blood erupting from his back like liquid fireworks as the rounds passed through and through. Washington dove away from the man, towards the encampment wall against which he tucked and flattened out. Once the salvo ended Dallas moved again, crashing lifelessly to the ground just feet away.
Big Bird was the next in line. He hung roughly forty feet high, several hundred yards from his Commander. He flailed wildly as another round of fire sounded off, seemingly missing him by only inches.
"I don't think so!" He barked as he felt the air broken around him. "I refuse to give you the pleasure!" The man reached around his back and snapped himself free of his canopy. Washington admired his resolve, watching with a twisted pride as Bird dropped. An incredible concussive blast shook the ground as the soldier crashed into the minefield, sending a plume of sand up on the cloud of smoke and flame.
"Christ!" Creeper bellowed as he squeezed off shots of his own at the insurgents.
"Do US!" Gator demanded. "Don't let them just pick us off, Creeper!"
"Negative!" Matea returned.
"Do it!" Dice added. "Do it now!"
"No!"
"Goddamn it, Creeper!" Shank joined in. "Any one of us would do it for you!"
"They're right, Tony!" Washington yelled, the image of his men dangling there helplessly turning his stomach. "Put them out... That's an order."
Creeper still refused, though he knew he didn't have a shot at any the remaining gunmen inside the camp. He couldn't stop the attack... he was as unable to help as his friends were to move. On a hunch he turned his scope. There were three other chutes in the sky above now; those belonging to whoever - or whatever - had leapt from the phantom Stork before it was destroyed.
He cranked his zoom and zeroed in on one of the forms as it glided along. The focus was soft, but he recognized a shred of the man he knew as Shank immediately. This wasn't Shank, though... nor was it human. its face was elongated and pale, its jagged teeth showing in some vicious scowl. He panned to see the others, each of them resembling men he knew well but looking more demon than American.
"What are they?" He wondered aloud before drawing a deep breath and holding steady. He fired and scored a direct hit, the beast vaporizing in his sights.
The moment it vanished Shank --the human-- was Earthbound again. With a last minute adjustment he cleared the landmines and tumbled in the dirt before planting himself beside Washington.
"Welcome." The Commander offered.
"Thanks -- a pleasure to be here."
The hideous doppelgangers of Dice and Gator remained and drew closer. Creeper made quick work of them, bringing his real life comrades in for a landing.
Gator was the last of them to touch down and fell in with the others against the wall. The gunfire and wailing of the sirens stopped, leaving the battlefield silent and motionless for a moment. The band of brothers looked upon the body of Dallas and charred remains of Big Bird in this silence, paying reverence in their own individual ways. Once it felt as though an adequate period had elapsed, Washington whispered the revised plan of attack to the survivors.
"Okay, things have changed a bit. The objective remains, we must ice Ali Sabra. Dice, I need you through the gate first - you'll cover the left side. Gator, you're in next covering the right. We're gonna have skip clearing the satellite buildings and press straight towards the barracks at the heart of the camp. Shank and I will lead the charge - the two of you flanking us all the way in. Once there, Shank will breach the door. The second it's open I want that building filled with concussion grenades. We have to be fast, I don't want to give these assholes a second to breathe, understood?"
The team responded in the affirmative.
"Creeper?" He called to Matea. "Any sign of Ali Sabra in there?"
"Negative. No sign of anyone, actually -- I don't know where they all went, but they're not out in the open."
"They're probably dug in by now; just waiting for us to make our move." The Commander explained. "Strike hard, and strike fast. Safeties off -- let's kick this pig!"
Gator took the point as the team rolled, creeping along the south wall. Matea confirmed the gate was still clear before they rounded the corner and made their final appr
oach. They paused for a moment before exposing themselves at the threshold, looking each other over one last time. A final thumbs-up between them signaled the beginning.
Gator raised his weapon and rolled around the wall. Ready to do battle, he took the first steps into the compound, pivoting counter-clockwise once inside. Dice did the same but peeled off to the right as planned. There was no sign of resistance as Shank and Mamba barged in side by side and moved forward, the others galloping alongside them. Shank spun around and pressed his back against Washington, the four of them forming a deadly circle capable of killing anything that moved in either direction.
Dice caught a reflection in a window as they passed by a small storage building. He immediately hit the space with a spray of fire, a satisfying thump confirming his first kill of the night. Gator picked up the next as a man rose from a prone position on a rooftop. This one put on a show, sliding head first down the slope before plummeting to the ground in a form befitting an Olympic high-diver.
The glorious smell of gunfire seemed to draw more of them out. They popped up clumsily from behind various sorts of cover and were quickly cut down by whichever member of the team they happened to appear in front of. Their fortitude couldn't be questioned as each of them cried Allah with fervor before being dispatched, but their combat skill left much to be desired. Nearly a dozen fell without incident within the team's first minute on the inside.
In stark contrast, Washington's team operated as a well-oiled militia even in the absence of two men. Their gait was steady and uninterrupted, subtle hand signals between them communicating every pertinent detail as they moved.
Midway into the installation they encountered trouble. Washington felt a light tug on his boot as stepped forward - he knew immediately that he had snagged a trip wire.
"Trap!" He shouted, diving into the dirt. Thunderous explosions erupted on either side of him, the result of charges detonating within concealed and antiquated cannons.
Dice and Shank reacted quickly enough to avoid the projectiles but Gator wasn't so fortunate. One heavy ball caught him squarely in the back, shattering his spine. The second took his head.
"Shit!" Creeper exclaimed, watching their movement in his scope. He scanned doors and windows hurriedly, expecting a barrage of enemies to attack while the team was face down in the gravel. The fact that there was no such rally spooked him; it meant there were likely more booby traps along the path.
"Everybody okay?" Washington asked those that had survived.
"Ten."
"Ten."
"Good -- we clear Creep?"
"Clear."
"Let's go."
The men stood and assumed a triangle formation now, pressing on. Gator's sacrifice did not go unrecognized, but time to mourn was obviously not a luxury the team had in abundance. Prayers would be spoken and perhaps even tears shed (privately, of course) for the fallen at a later time; for the moment, they could only close the gap and continue.
"Watch your step." Washington suggested. "Stay sharp." His advice, while sound, couldn't protect Dice from the next rig. It was positioned roughly sixty feet from the barracks and concealed with an expertise unique to cowardly killers accustomed to surprising their targets.
All three of them nearly took the plunge when the ground folded under Dice's feet. Shank and Mamba struggled to maintain their balance as he disappeared into the Earth. There was a splash, then an agonizing scream. Once they had regained their own base the men leaned over the chasm to investigate.
The man trap had been designed to take out an entire team -- and it nearly had. It was several meters wide and a minimum of twelve feet deep. A chamber, fashioned of poured concrete, had been covered by a heavy canvas tarp anchored to the ground around its perimeter. It had looked completely natural, covered in sand and stone just like the rest of the surface. Just as the designers had intended, the barrier gave way under Dice's weight and left him swimming in a pool of caustic acid.
Mamba and Shank could only watch as the man melted. His mask dissolved first, giving them the opportunity to see the anguish in his face as the fluid bubbled around him like a hellish Jacuzzi. His howl stood the hairs on the back of Washington's neck, momentarily dulling his instinct to put his friend out of his misery. The delay was slight, however, before Mamba closed the curtain on Dice for good.
"Christ." Shank gasped after the shot.
"No," Mamba returned. "The Devil."
The two moved slower now, understandably, sliding their feet cautiously as they closed on the steel door of the barracks. Washington assumed a position to the left of the entrance, Shank to the right. They consulted each other one last time with their eyes, preparing for whatever they might find inside. So long as Ibrahim Ali Sabra died within the walls of that building - any horrors they beheld once they breached the door were moot.
With a nod Shank set the wheels in motion. He placed a small focused charge on the steel and activated it. Washington pulled the pin from a concussion grenade, both soldiers squatting and cupping their ears as the breach charge exploded. The door fell in just as it should have, Washington lobbing his grenade in immediately. Once it had detonated as well Shank spun in and arbitrarily sprayed rounds from left to right. Washington fell in behind him and did the same.
Once their clips were exhausted they paused to survey the scene. Locking new mags in place instinctively they absorbed what was before them... empty space.
There was nothing.
No weapons... no militants... no Ali Sabra...
"What the fuck?" Shank hollered.
"Shut up!"
"Where the hell are they?!"
"Shut the fuck -- " Washington started before it happened without warning...
Boom...
Ringing...
Blindness...
Disorientation...
The symptoms were those both men had experienced in boot camp when exposed to a flash-bang in a confined space. It was different in training, though, because the soldiers knew that no one sought to kill them when the world turned white. What was to become of them now was anyone's guess.
As ghostly trails of images appeared to Washington he realized that they had, indeed, been ambushed. He felt hands upon his back as he was thrust to the floor, his mask being ripped from his head as he fell. Then a boot pressed against the side of his head, pinning it to the concrete.
The daze cleared enough for him to see Shank being similarly restrained by a man dressed in Arab garb. They were face to face, arm's length apart. A third man appeared and peeled Shank's gas mask off of him before raising a machete high above his head. For the first time in the ten years Washington had known the man, he saw genuine terror in his eyes. It wasn't there for long, though; it left the moment the blade passed through his neck.
Nausea swept over Mamba, his own eyes rolling back as he heard his grandmother's voice again.
"And if that diamond ring turns brass, Grandma's gonna buy you a looking glass."
The site of her angelic face was tainted by the shadows of the executioner scooping Shank's head from his body and stepping through pool of blood.
"Nana?" He whimpered aloud as perceived the man moving toward him in slow motion. "Is it time for me to go home, now?"
"No, baby..." Her voice echoed. "It still ain't your time yet."
"But I'm so afraid, nana." He slurred as the man paused, pulling at the lids of his eyes and staring deeply into them.
"You leave it to God, baby. God gonna make sure it all works out."
"I love you, Nana." The machete rose again.
"The Lord will light the way... trust in The Lord, Little Rob."
"Goodbye, Nana..."
Suddenly the executioner turned his head to the door, time still moving at a crawl, as a silhouette appeared in the darkness. The man with his foot on the back of Shank's corpse slowly swiveled as though preparing to run. A drawn out pop
- pop called in unison with muzzle flashes that seemed to last several seconds each. Blood rained down on Washington as the foot upon his face was lifted and executioner folded. Another slightly up-tempo pop - pop rang out, dropping the man who had restrained the Commander.
His head free, Washington looked to the doorway and saw a soldier standing there, flame dancing from the barrel of his rifle as another set of flashes reflected off of his mask. The third member of the ambush team fell now as he ran, time picking up speed slowly.
Washington's savior stepped through the gun smoke confidently and lowered his barrel.
"Creeper?" Washington asked, wondering how the sniper could've possibly descended from the high ledge in the mountains on which he had been perched just minutes ago.
When the soldier grasped the filter of his mask pulled it away it became obvious that this was not Captain Tony Matea. The first flash of his face revealed a thick brown beard. A waterfall of similarly colored hair rained down from beneath his helmet as it fell to the floor, the veil lifting further to reveal intense brown eyes and a strikingly powerful brow.
Washington knew this man... he knew him well... they had been introduced three decades ago, yet the hero hadn't aged a day. As he stepped closer Mamba could see the painting hanging on his nana’s wall; the one in which this man stood at a shining wooden door atop a great flight of stairs that rose above the clouds.
"Father?" He asked.
The man extended his hand to Washington, holding within it a small bundle of wire with bulbous plastic ends.
"He must not fire." The man said softly yet insistently.
Washington took the ear bud from and listened.
"Mamba!" Creeper called. "Where the hell are you? I have the target in my sites, can I take the shot?"
While Washington faced down his death, Matea had watched Ibrahim Ali Sabra emerge from a hidden door just outside the compound's gate. He seemed dazed; lost and confused. He stood there staring at the reddened sky above, smiling as he spoke.
"Yes!" He had said. "Yes, I understand!"
"God dam it, Mamba! I'm taking the shot!"
"Tony," Washington uttered in his awe. "Tony, hold your fire."
"What?" He answered in confusion. "What the fuck is going on, Robert? I've got a clean shot!"
"No!" The Commander ordered. "Stand down!"
There was a pause...
"Aye, Commander." Creeper finally confirmed.
The mysterious man smiled at Washington, an aura of peace overwhelming his racing heart. He then turned his back and moved away slowly, his combat fatigues morphing somehow into a flowing white robe.
"Father!" Washington called to him as he stepped out of the building, seemingly ignoring him now. "Father, wait!"
"Hush little baby, don't say a word." Nana’s song filled his mind again. "Grandma's gonna buy you a mocking bird."
Chapter 8
Unholy Advent: Deception Of The Christ Page 7