by Ronald Kelly
Khiem and the others stood there for a horrifying moment, awaiting the inevitable. It came an instant later. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
Franco, one of the last of the three on the right, lost his nerve. "Where is it? Where is the rotten son of a bitch?" He fired a short burst from his M-16 into the undergrowth around him. The other two, Weinberg and Swenson, backed away from the panicked soldier, trying to keep some distance between their feet and his bullets. They were so involved with Franco's wild gunplay that they neglected to see the dark tendrils until they were wrapped around their legs. They went the way of the others and suffered the same horrible fate.
"Chill out, Franco!" Khiem yelled. "Whatever the thing is, it can be killed."
But the merc was past rationality. He ran through the forest, eyes wild, firing hysterically at the slightest movement or noise beneath the dense ivy. Soon, his assault rifle had spent its last round. Rather than reload with a fresh magazine, Franco drew his sidearm and blasted away at the kudzu with 9mm slugs.
"Stop it, Franco! You're just wasting ammunition!" He watched as Franco continued to ignore him, firing his pistol until the port was empty and smoking. Then, as if waiting for the perfect moment, one of the tendrils emerged directly behind the exhausted soldier. Khiem opened his mouth to shout a warning, but before he could, the dark arm encircled Franco's throat. The Cambodian watched helplessly as the last man under his command was quickly dispatched, his neck broken with a single, sharp jerk, much like a farmer's wife wringing the neck of a chicken.
Franco was then spirited away beneath the deep foliage, joining his comrades in an unmarked grave of dense ivy. Khiem acted immediately and without hesitation, shucking a fragmentation grenade from his flak vest and pitching it at the spot of Franco's disappearance. It hit dead-center and detonated five seconds later in a flash of smoke and fire. Debris rained down—smoking bits of leaf and vine, as well as bloody pieces of Franco's anatomy. But there were no mangled fragments of the dark creature. It looked as though the phantom attacker had escaped the exploding shrapnel unscathed.
Where are you, dark dragon? wondered Khiem. He reached for another grenade, planning to have one ready when the enemy revealed its position. But before he could, the rattle of parting ivy sounded directly behind him. He whirled just as a writhing trio of tendrils emerged. They grabbed at him, blindly groping for the column of his neck. One ripped away the front of his flak vest, while another jerked the AK-47 from his hands and flung it into the forest. The third arm grappled with his black bag, but Khiem wasn't about to part with it so easily. The bag ripped open as the two struggled for its possession. The creature came away the victor, but Khiem lucked out, grabbing the nunchucks before the dark tendril retreated back into the undergrowth.
Khiem kept his eyes glued to the spot; using every bit of discipline he could muster to drive away the creeping panic that threatened to turn him into a careless victim like the rest. He threw away the remaining shreds of the flak vest and focused himself for battle. As he prepared for the attack to come, he heard a peculiar sound come from beneath the ivy. He puzzled over the noise for a moment, before realizing that it was the sound of pages being turned. He remembered the karate and mercenary magazines in the inner pocket of his vest and an illogical idea came to mind—the preposterous idea that the creature was somehow reading the magazines within the shelter of its dark concealment. But that was impossible. The thing that had seized his men and snapped their necks, one by one, was not human. It was some nightmarish beast that should not even exist on the same realm as man—some dark ogre totally devoid of mind or soul.
Or was it? Perhaps the brute that had terminated Yellow Team was much craftier than he was willing to give it credit for.
The ruffling of paper stopped. Khiem didn't let his guard down. His senses took in the slightest sound and the smallest motion beneath the thick ivy. Then another sound took the place of the first. It was a loud crackling noise, reminiscent of the fireworks of a Hong Kong street festival. The image of a dragon came to mind once again, but not one constructed of multicolored crepe and a dozen dancing men. No, the dragon he envisioned was one of pitch blackness, bristling with horns and talons and fangs, breathing smoky black fire.
The strange sound reached a disturbing crescendo, then stopped abruptly. Khiem braced himself, holding the long sticks of the nunchucks, one in each hand, the silver chain stretched tautly in between. He watched as a pair of dark hands emerged from the leafy undergrowth, a pair of recognizably human hands. They peeled back the upper layer of heavy vine and a form clad entirely in black stood erect no more than twelve feet away. Khiem gaped at this dark adversary with an expression of utter bewilderment and disbelief.
The foe who confronted him was a ninja warrior. The man was the same height and lithe build as Khiem, and was dressed in the classic black uniform of a Japanese assassin. The costume was authentic in every detail, from the snug hood to the split-toed Tabi boots. Above the half-mask was a ghastly gray face with almond-shaped eyes as dark as black marbles.
The ninja bowed courteously, and out of habit of training, Khiem returned the gesture. The mercenary watched warily as the assassin raised his hands, producing two shuriken as mysteriously as a magician conjures coins from midair. Khiem recognized the throwing stars as those from his black bag. In turn, he showed his prowess with the linked fighting sticks. He demonstrated his kata, handling the nunchucks fluidly and without error, letting them swing over his shoulders, under his arms, then back and forth from one hand to the other. Satisfied that he was ready for the dark warrior, Khiem made the offensive move forward, giving the war cry and brandishing his weapon with lethal speed and accuracy.
The hands of the ninja flashed, launching the shuriken at conflicting angles. Khiem deflected the first with a sweeping blow of the nunchucks, but the second star broke through his defenses. The shuriken struck him in the left shoulder, the razored points slicing deeply into skin and muscle. He restrained a curse—anger would only be hazardous to himself at that point—and calmly plucked the star away. He continued his advance, whipping the fighting sticks in swift, crisscross patterns, trying to throw a degree of uncertainty and apprehension into his enemy.
But the ninja was unimpressed. He waited until Khiem was directly upon him and then dodged like greased black lightning as the deadly sticks missed his skull by mere inches. He played the game of duck and weave for a moment or so and then tired of the defense. Like a striking cobra, the dark assassin lashed out and grabbed one of the spiraling rods as it flashed toward him. He wrenched with such strength that the other stick was torn from Khiem's grip. The black eyes of the ninja sparkled as he held the twin sticks out at arm's length and, with a quick and effortless wrench, snapped the silver chain in half.
Khiem was shaken, but only for a second. Then he crouched instinctively and spun, bringing his right leg around for a powerful roundhouse kick. The edge of his foot struck the ninja across the midsection. The desired effect was not what Khiem had hoped for. His lower leg shattered on impact, breaking in a dozen places. Khiem was gripped with agony, but as he fell, he shot the flattened palm of his left hand up at a deadly angle, aiming to strike the base of the assassin's nose and send splinters of cartilage and bone spearing into his brain. Again his tactics backfired. The bones of his hand crumbled and collapsed within their glove of flesh. Khiem opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so great that only a tortured wheeze escaped his throat.
He hit the ground and lay there, staring up as the right hand of the hellish assassin doubled. The sound of crackling came again and, with it, a long, iron-gray blade unsheathed itself from the hollow of the fist. Khiem identified the length and design of the sword instantly—a straight-edged katana, the customary weapon of the Japanese warrior. Its gray edge glimmered in the sunlight that sparkled through the treetops, exhibiting its razor sharpness.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" growled Khiem, furious in his agony and anger. "If you're going to do it
, do it right!"
The ninja bowed once more, and then brought his sword flashing downward. It whickered through the air with a faint whistle, and then just as swiftly, returned to its original position, coated with a thin sheen of crimson.
Nguyen Khiem felt himself spinning. At first he thought that he was rolling out of harm's way and that the ninja's sword had missed its mark. But he found that he was sorely mistaken. As his head came to rest in the soft bed of honeysuckle and kudzu, the Cambodian glimpsed his twitching body lying a few feet away, the neck cleanly severed, spouting a geyser of blood. As consciousness faded swiftly toward darkness, Khiem watched as the ninja lowered his black mask. The true face was revealed and it was his own. The ebony eyes regarded him with cold triumph, before the crackling began again and the dark warrior vanished from his sight forever.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Blue Team had been on edge ever since they heard the explosion on the western face of the mountain. All the team leaders had been given strict orders to confine their force to small arms fire so as not to draw attention to the secret operation that was in progress. But something must have gone wrong during Yellow Team's deployment. Desmond Jamal had tried to summon Khiem on his radio, but all he got was unresponsive static.
They continued with their own climb, crossing the southern access road and moving steadily upward. The forest was now unusually quiet and devoid of animal life, in contrast to what they had found during the first half of their journey. No one talked as they pressed onward, guns ready and eyes alert for signs of movement.
The silence was so complete that the soldiers nearly jumped out of their skins when a loud commotion came from a short distance ahead. They halted and listened to the sound of unbridled fury. Something was in the camp that had been set up during the surveying stage of Project Pale Dove. They heard the sound of breaking glass and buckling metal, along with the hoarse bellows of the creature that was responsible for the ruckus. Jamal felt his heartbeat quicken at the sound, for the thunderous cries were unnervingly familiar to him, teasing a boyhood fear that still lingered in his African mind.
"Let's check it out," he called to his men, and together they continued up the southern face. "But be careful. Something up there is madder than a baboon with its ass on fire."
When they reached the camp, they found the place in ruins. Only one of the three trailers stood upright and intact. The other two were caved in, their metal siding riddled with deep dents and long, jagged tears. The contents and furnishings of the trailers lay scattered across the ground, smashed and broken with deliberate malice.
"Spread out and search the area," ordered Jamal. "I want to know what it was that caused all this damage."
They split up and began to move through the devastated camp. Jamal walked through the center of the jumbled clearing, his dark hands clutching an Uzi submachine gun. As his men quietly picked their way amid the rubble, Jamal spotted a deep track in the middle of the camp, next to the battered remains of a gasoline generator. He knelt and studied it. It was a huge, circular track, bearing the indentations of three stubby toes. He had seen such tracks before, but it had been many years ago, back on the hot grasslands of Rhodesia. Again, the thrill of childish alarm shot through him, conjuring images of brutal death lumbering through the sweltering African sun. This is insane, he told himself. Such a beast couldn't possibly be here. It's just a trick to throw us off guard.
He was moving on when a shrill scream sounded from the far side of the undamaged trailer. It was followed by the deep bellow of the animal they had heard on the way up. Before the commandos could make a move, the threat loomed into view, its cumbersome footfalls sending tremors through the earth beneath them.
It was a rhinoceros. A hulking, fourteen-foot, five-ton mammal of incredible fury. Its thick hide, which hung like armored plates upon its massive frame, was dusty black in color. Jamal instantly recalled the National Geographic special that he had watched on television a few nights ago. The beast was the spitting image of the one featured on that program—the same size, same height, and same surly disposition. It even had the same single horn jutting from its snout. The only difference was the squirming soldier that was impaled on the gray spike of curved bone.
They watched in horror as their fellow mercenary, a German named Strauss, hung from the shaft of the great horn, which protruded from the center of his abdomen. His screaming had given way to a choking gurgle as blood filled his throat and spewed from his open mouth. He stared into the stunned eyes of his comrades and silently pleaded for deliverance. A bearded Afghan named Bhadajahn read the boundless agony in his expression and raised his rifle, putting a merciful round between the German's eyes.
The rhino bellowed as the man on its horn grew limp in death. Its dark eyes narrowed in anger and it flung its head wildly, dislodging the soldier's body. Strauss hit the side of the trailer and slid to the ground in a motionless heap, leaving a bloody smear down the metal wall.
Blue Team began to fire, aiming their weapons and cutting loose. The storm of slugs did not penetrate their target, however. They only ricocheted or flattened against the black hide of the rampaging rhino. The beast thundered onward, trampling soldiers underfoot or flinging them aside with a toss of its powerful head. A few others endured the torment of Strauss, too slow to dodge the gray spike of the nose horn.
Soon, only Jamal and a merc named Cameron remained amid a twisted tangle of broken and bloody humanity. "Hey, you ugly bastard!" yelled Cameron. "Turn around…I've got a freaking surprise for you!" He lowered his M-16 at hip level and aimed the tube of the M-203 grenade launcher that was mounted underneath.
The dark rhino wheeled around swiftly, then charged, snorting and bellowing like hell on four legs. Cameron triggered the launcher, sending a 40mm shell racing to meet the five-ton behemoth. When the grenade hit the beast dead center, both mercenaries thought the conflict was over. The grenade detonated on impact, engulfing the rhino in a brilliant burst of fire and concussion. Then, a second later, the black beast was galloping from the heart of the explosion, seemingly untouched by flame or shrapnel. Cameron was so startled that he froze on the spot, presenting an irresistible target. The rhino lowered its massive head and hooked the soldier with its horn, tossing him into midair. Cameron spun limply into the forest, traveling a distance of fifty feet, until he struck the trunk of a large oak, shattering his spine. Motionless, the man slumped to the ground in a broken heap, a look of utter surprise forever etched on his face.
During this fatal attack, Jamal had moved to a higher vantage point. He climbed to the roof of the third trailer and watched as the rhino turned its attention back to him. He was the last survivor of Blue Team, but he knew that he might very well join his commandos in defeat if he didn't call in some reinforcements. He unclipped the walkie-talkie and was about to call up Hendrix when the rhino spotted him on top of the trailer and charged. It hit the wall broadside, rocking the trailer on its foundation. Jamal lost his balance and lost hold of the radio. It left his hand and tumbled to the ground below, where it was promptly stomped to smithereens by the angry rhino.
Again the fear of childhood trauma threatened to overcome the Rhodesian. When he was seven years old, he and some friends had been playing in the grasslands when a solitary rhino approached them and charged. The other boys had escaped, but he had been trapped in the top of a scrubby tree. He had cowered there for nearly an hour while the rhino circled, snorting and tossing its spiked head. Eventually, a few men from the village arrived and drove the pesky rhino away.
Stranded atop the trailer, Jamal felt like that treed boy once again. He watched as the rhino circled the mobile home, sometimes charging and slamming the side, causing the trailer to pitch and toss, but never with enough force to roll the structure onto its side. Jamal knew that help would be late in coming, if it came at all, and he realized that his survival depended solely on his own strength. He broke from the childish terror and stood there boldly, sending a steady shower
of 9mm slugs down upon the rhino. When the Uzi's magazine gave out, he slapped in another and continued firing. The gunfire had as much deadly effect as throwing rice at a wedding. The commando then resorted to explosives. He tossed one grenade after another, but like the projectile from Cameron's launcher, they seemed only to peeve the dark giant even more.
Jamal watched as the black rhino ran to the far edge of the clearing, then turned and charged at full speed. He had no doubt whatsoever that the rhino would succeed at overturning the trailer this time. He prepared to leap and run for cover, but a strange thing happened during the animal's thunderous charge. A loud crackling filled the air, sounding much like the decorative rattles the tribal medicine men used during their dance rituals in the African village of his youth. He watched in bewilderment as the rhino seemed to grow flaccid and melt before his eyes, flattening into a wide, black pool of gelatinous matter. The black mass shimmered across the ruins of the campsite, flowing like quicksilver over twisted debris and the bodies of Blue Team. Then it disappeared from view as it reached the trailer. Jamal ran to the edge and peered over the side just as the shadow squeezed through the open door of the trailer.
The Rhodesian listened as the sound of crackling grew louder and then faded into silence. He strained his ears and heard the faint sound of footsteps creaking on the inner floor of the trailer. He was an experienced enough tracker to distinguish the footfalls of a human being from that of a common animal, and that was certainly what he heard echoing from within. His mind wanted to rebel against the bizarre truth of what he had just witnessed, but he decided to ponder the irrationality of the spectacle later. Now he must defend his life and avenge the deaths of his murdered team.
Carefully, Jamal climbed from the trailer and stood at the far end, his back against the wall. He breathed deeply, preparing himself for the inevitable confrontation. He slipped a fresh magazine into the Uzi and snapped the bolt, priming it for combat. It was more an involuntary action than one of confidence. He had already witnessed the creature's invulnerability to both gunfire and explosives, but it must have a weak spot like any other living thing. He recalled the dark, liquid eyes of the rhinoceros and knew that the tender orbs were the monster's Achilles' heel. If he could hit one of the creature's eyes with a bullet, he was sure that the shot would penetrate its armored defenses and reach the brain beyond.