Allah's Fire

by Chuck Holton

  At first Mary had been sure it was some kind of trap. But the sheer improbability of the scenario told her it had to be true.

  She looked down at the sergeant manning the radio. She had stood behind him listening while he spoke with the girl. To his credit, he had handled the exchange very well, considering there was no protocol for such a thing. Now the young soldier was still calmly trying to raise the girl again, but she had either shut off her radio or was simply ignoring them.

  Mary replaced her headset, reached over to the console, and flipped the dial to the UAV pilot’s channel. The T-15 was being controlled by a flight-suited captain, who was seated next to the sergeant at the radio.

  “Take us to Zebdine, sir,” she said into her microphone.

  “Zebdine is only about three miles from where we were when we picked up the girl’s signal.” The man nudged the joystick that controlled the UAV’s flight. “We’re pretty much in range now.”

  “Then they should be hearing us, shouldn’t they?”

  “Roger that.”

  Mary frowned. “You think they have their radios turned off?”

  The captain shook his head, keeping his eyes on the TV screen in front of him where the grainy video transmitted from the UAV flickered. “You’ve got me.”

  “If theirs are off, then why was hers on? Who would she talk to?”

  The pilot shrugged. “So what do you want to do? You want me to head this thing to the beach and a possible exfil location, or should we do circles over Zebdine?”

  “How much time do we have?”

  The pilot punched some numbers into his console. “The plane could keep flying for another eight or nine hours. The only problem is that dawn comes in about three. The T-15 flies low enough that it’ll be easy to spot once it’s light, and even easier to shoot down. It’ll take us another forty minutes to get from here to the beach, and an hour twenty to get out of Lebanon from there. That means if we go now, we’ll have just about an hour to try and make contact with the team and arrange pickup at the beach. That’s not much time.”

  Mary gripped the back of the pilot’s seat and watched the grainy black-and-white infrared video. The few roads showed as black stripes on the ridges; the fields around them showed white. She marveled that the pilot could keep the tiny plane from crashing with so little to work with visually.

  Think, Mary! What would the major do?

  The major would probably be praying.

  Well, I hope you’re praying now, Williams. I need all the help I can get!

  The UAV pilot broke in on her thoughts. “We just passed Zebdine. We’ll be out of range shortly.”

  The man on the radio spoke up again. “Ma’am, I’ve got something!”

  The Fortress

  IT’S JUST LIKE the climbing wall at home, Liz told herself. Only it’s the middle of the night in Lebanon instead of a well-lit gym in Pennsylvania. And there are people on the other side who will happily kill you.

  She never had been very good at giving herself pep talks.

  Julie. Think of Julie.

  That did it. She grabbed her back skirt hem and once again pulled it through and up, tucking it into her waist to get the material out of her way.

  The frail moonlight was just strong enough for her to see the next handhold above her. In the flat colorlessness of night, depth perception was almost nonexistent. Crevices were just black, bottomless holes, who knew how deep, and she shuddered to think what might live in them.

  Oh, God, nothing with teeth, please, she prayed as she slipped her hand into the next hold. She jammed her shoe into a crack. For the first time since she had run from the terrorists with Valor, she was glad she didn’t have heavy hiking shoes on. Her flats weren’t as pliant as her climbing shoes, and they had no stickiness to help hold her in place, but she could feel through them, and she could jam them into small openings.

  The first thirty feet were the hardest, scaling the natural cliff face the fortress was built into. After that came centuries-old stonework that was much easier to climb. Slowly she stretched, held, jammed a foot, stood, stretched, held, jammed the other foot, stood.

  A sudden fluttering, a blood-curdling screech, and a huge bird exploded out of one crevice just as she reached her hand in. She yelped and drew back instinctively. She felt that sickening pull as gravity began to exert its will on her.

  Lord, help!

  She grabbed desperately at the ledge the bird had just vacated. Her fingers flailed for a hold, found a knob of stone, and gripped. She pulled her body in and flattened herself against the rock.

  She hung there and waited for her breathing to even out, her heart to slow, and her legs to stop trembling. When she was certain she had control of herself, she resumed her climb.

  But no more birds, please, Lord!

  Then she was finally at the top. Her fingers were bleeding, her nails broken, and her thighs and calves burned from the exertion. As she lay on the top of the wall, broad enough for two men to walk side by side, she whispered a fervent prayer of thanks. For a moment she just rested, watching the activity in the courtyard below. It was enough to make her wish she could turn around and climb back down.

  Not that she could or would, of course. She had to find Julie. She had to! Still, the sight was terrifying.

  Armed men scurried back and forth from a set of stairs leading underground to the back of a well-used black Mercedes. She counted at least twelve men. They were loading cases of something into the back of the car. She noticed that they treated these cases with the utmost respect, certainly not like the airport guys who threw your luggage onto the loading belt.

  Two men emerged from somewhere beyond her view and walked over to inspect the cargo. The one on the left was older. He had a long white beard that hung down and blended with a flowing robe of the same color. He walked as if he owned the place, and he carried himself with an air of authority. He must be a cleric. She had no doubt that he was in charge.

  One of the men took a bottle from one of the cases and handed it to the older man. He turned the bottle over in his hands. From her distant perch, Liz thought it looked like a bottle of Evian water.

  The cleric turned to the younger, taller man at his side and handed him the bottle. The younger man called for the attention of the others. He held the bottle above his head like a trophy. Even from this distance, Liz could hear him shout out, “Naru Allah!”

  The fire of God? In a water bottle?

  All the men cheered. “Allah ak’bar!”

  The tall man turned abruptly and threw the bottle in a long arc toward an empty corner of the courtyard.

  The bottle erupted into an incredible fireball, like something out of a Bruce Willis movie. The concussion wave hit, nearly blasting her off the wall. She dug her fingers into the crevices between the stones and held tight.

  She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a surprised yelp, but she wasn’t worried about being heard. Any noise she made was drowned out by the roar of the writhing fire echoing off the ancient rock walls.

  She stared, open-mouthed. What was it? Napalm in that little bottle?

  She looked at the boxes visible in the open trunk of the car. How many boxes were there? And how many bottles in each box? The amount of damage all those bottles could do was terrifying.

  With the fire’s flash, Liz knew what had happened to the Hotel Rowena. How many bottles had it taken to produce that burned-out shell of a building? She now knew what John and his team were doing running around Lebanon.

  The men in the courtyard cheered as they watched the conflagration, and a few fired their weapons in the air. The bearded man looked at the fire with great satisfaction before he turned and began barking out orders.

  Liz reached for her radio. Whoever was flying around looking for John and his men needed to know what she had just seen. She fought with the clumsy harem pants and the uncooperative pocket until she finally pulled out Rip’s radio.

  As always, it reminded her of a kid’s walkie
-talkie with its short antenna and its push buttons. She turned it on, put it to her lips, and pressed the button. Whispering, she said, “Hello? This is Liz Fairchild again. Are you still there?”

  She released the button and waited, praying they still could hear her.

  The reply came back sooner but louder than she expected. “We read you, Elizabeth. Are you okay?” Liz fumbled to turn the volume down.

  She didn’t have time for pleasantries. “Listen, I’m at an old fortress on the hill south of Zebdine. There are some men loading a car with lots of bottles of something. It looks like water, but they just blew up one of the bottles. I think it must be what your team on the ground is looking for.”

  “Roger that. We just saw something light up the sky in the south. We’ll let Valor know as soon as they establish contact. In the meantime, you get out of there as fast as you can.”

  She shook her head, remembered they couldn’t see her, and pressed the button. “I wish I could, believe me, but I can’t.”

  A woman’s voice came over the radio. “That is not a suggestion, Miss Fairchild.”

  Liz hesitated a moment as tears started to well in her eyes. “When you do hear from Valor, please tell John that I’m sorry. Tell him Liz said she’s sorry for messing things up. Tell him I know I’m being stupid, but I have to try. No one else is. And tell him I said good-bye.”

  “Listen, Elizabeth, we—”

  Liz shut the radio off and put it back in her pocket. She didn’t need it anymore.

  That’s when she heard another noise, the bleating of a hundred goats.

  Zebdine

  John was donning his vest and other gear as quietly as possible in the bedroom when Sweeney burst in the door. “John, you gotta come quick. Something just blew up near here!”

  The other men sat up quickly, turning from sleeper to soldier in a matter of seconds.

  John followed Sweeney into the living room, the others on his heels.

  Sweeney pointed out the window. “There was this flash out there. At first I thought it was lightning. I went to the window to look and saw this fluctuating light, like a fire might make. Then I heard this muffled thump.”

  John shrugged. “So what makes you think it wasn’t lightning and thunder?”

  Sweeney looked positively hurt. “Come on, Coop. I know the difference between thunder and C-4!”

  The man had a point. The shop at Bragg was so close to some of the live fire ranges that they had all learned to distinguish between the sound of a mortar round and an artillery shell, much less thunder.

  Something in John’s gut told him that whatever it was, wherever it was, Liz was there. He didn’t like that thought one bit.

  He checked his ammo supply. “I’m going to do a fast patrol around the village to make certain Liz isn’t still somewhere near. Hogan, get your stuff on. You’re coming with me. Sweeney, get your radio, and let’s do a quick test to be certain they’re still working.

  Sweeney nodded and stalked off to get his radio. While John waited for Hogan to get his gear on, he reached down and turned his on.

  Immediately, he heard a static-laced transmission through the headset. “…Four-Four, over.”

  At first he figured it was simply interference of some kind, maybe from the UNFIL observers that roamed this area. Then it came through again.

  “This is Solo-Four-Four calling Task Force Valor. Come in, Valor.”

  The Fortress

  Imad Hijazi watched the flames lick up the ancient stone wall and smiled. Tomorrow would be a wonderful day.

  He turned to his leader and smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Magnificent,” Abu Shaaban said.

  “I am glad you are pleased, sir. After tomorrow the names Ansar Inshallah and Abu Shaaban will be known throughout the world as defenders of Allah and Islam.” And the name Imad Hijazi, too, if he had anything to say about it.

  He looked at the old man. He still stood straight and moved with vigor. Imad smiled to himself. Such would not always be the case. Age and illness were no respecters of persons. Even Abu Shaaban would sicken and die. Given his age, that day couldn’t be too far off.

  And he would be waiting. After the success of Allah’s Fire, it was merely a matter of time until he assumed his rightful position as the leader of The Followers of God’s Will. Those who now commanded him would become his servants, obeying his instructions, following his orders.

  There was also his coming marriage to Abu Shaaban’s niece, which would make him family. Another link in the chain he was forging. Too bad Karima was such a sad little thing. He did not foresee much pleasure in his marriage bed.

  But power was the great aphrodisiac, and power would be his, great power, thanks to Allah’s Fire.

  Of course there was one possible complication. They hadn’t yet found the rogue commandos he was convinced were hiding somewhere nearby. He wasn’t overly concerned. He knew they would eventually be found. They would never be able to outthink him.

  When they were captured, he hoped they were taken alive. Then they could be subjected to the same fate the blond woman would soon face.

  As far as he was concerned, she was fulfilling her purpose quite well. Misdirection. If only Abu Shaaban weren’t so displeased with her kidnapping.

  “You will have very powerful people looking for her, and by extension us,” he had said the night she was taken, and he had said it in front of the rest of the leadership. “We are not extremists like those in Iraq. We do not execute women.”

  Imad stood tall and spoke clearly. “Not even a Westerner married to a Lebanese? Sir, she is one of the very ones we want to rid our land of.”

  Abu Shaaban stroked his long white beard. Imad, his contempt and ambition carefully concealed, watched along with the others as the old man thought. Finally he could stand the silence no longer.

  “The Hotel Rowena showed our power.” He spoke with much force. “The woman will divert them from finding out what our next target will be. They will concentrate on locating her, not Allah’s Fire.”

  “Then you will care for her,” Abu Shaaban said. “You are responsible to see she is fed and kept well. Whether we behead her or not is yet to be decided.”

  So Imad had seen to her, using the meek and foolish woman he was to marry as the caregiver. He would be happier, though, when her death sentence was carried out, for no matter what Abu Shaaban said, she would die.

  He frowned. What was that terrible noise? Animals?

  The Fortress

  LIZ BLINKED IN SURPRISE. The courtyard was suddenly empty. The men had all run off in different directions, some to the front gate to protect the fortress from the marauding goats, some back down the stairs at the far corner of the courtyard. The old man and his assistant had gone into the castle tunnels.

  She could see that this unexpected opportunity would be her only chance to get inside the fortress, but how? She sat up and looked over the edge of the wall. Could she downclimb that?

  At the gym, climbing down had always been harder than going up. In truth, she’d usually tried to just lie back into the safety of the rope and let the belay guy lower her to the ground. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she flattened herself on the top of the wall once again.

  Come on, girl. You can do this. Just take it one hold at a time. From the climb up Liz knew there were plenty of cracks and crevices to provide holds for her. She was more concerned about turning her back to the courtyard as she climbed—she’d be unable to see if someone was coming.

  Looking around, she chose a corner to her left where the shadows reached highest on the wall and would give her the best chance of climbing undetected until she could drop the rest of the way without hurting herself. The last thing she wanted was a broken leg.

  She searched all the darkened corners of the courtyard just to be certain no one was skulking about, waiting to grab her as soon as she was on the ground. She saw no one. She could hear the men shouting at Anwar and his goats, and it br
ought her a brief smile.

  She scooted carefully to the chosen corner, keeping herself as low as possible, then peered over the edge, searching for a foothold. In the rapidly dimming flare from the explosion and the weak light from the fixture mounted on one of the sheds, she saw a promising crevice and another below it.

  She rolled to her stomach and lowered her legs, her toe finding and jamming into the opening between two massive stones. She let that foot take her weight and began the nerve-wracking business of feeling for a way down. Spread-eagled against the fortress wall, she had never felt so vulnerable.

  And I used to feel like I’d get swatted climbing in the gym!

  All she needed was one man to decide the goats weren’t a grave threat after all and return to the courtyard.

  Keep ’em bleating Anwar!

  She had gone about halfway down the wall when she saw movement above her out of the corner of her eye, something black moving against the lesser black of the sky. She looked, then froze.

  A guard! Walking the top of the wall! Had he just climbed up, or had he been there all along? His leisurely pace proved he hadn’t seen her. He seemed more interested in what was happening at the front gate than in his patrol duty.

  All he had to do was look down, and she was toast. He walked steadily toward her, his rifle held casually in his hands. She could hear the crunch of his footsteps and the rattle of little stones that he disturbed as they fell from the wall.

  When he stopped right above her, she turned her face down, hoping the top of her dark head would provide some limited camouflage. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would make her more invisible. She opened them quickly as a weird feeling of vertigo swept over her.

  Then she couldn’t help it; she had to look up, compelled to see where the guard was. She swallowed hard when she saw the tips of his shoes hanging over the edge of the wall directly above her. The flare of a match and the scent of tobacco came to her. He was lighting a cigarette, taking a break, at the worst possible place!