by Greig Beck
At their rear, one of the men – stouter than the rest – carried a hard suitcase. Alex could tell by its size and shape that it was recording and satellite equipment. It seems there was to be a show.
“They make them run to their execution,” Adira said.
“Enemy fighters?” Alex asked.
“Maybe the wrong religion, maybe a petty crime.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Everything is punishable by death in this city.” She watched them from the corner of her eye. “And the one big prize – a captured western pilot – him they will undoubtedly burn alive.”
Alex was still staring at the lines of men as they jogged down the street and around a corner. “I’ve seen it before. They’ll take them to a killing field, set up their cameras and film it for consumption by their fan boys around the world.”
“And fan girls.” Adira snorted. “Weekly, hundreds of young women flock to this land, even from comfortable homes in the west. They seek to become jihadi brides, or even frontline fighters.”
“A madness,” Alex said, but then shook his head. “No, more an infection that is contaminating the Middle East.”
“It is a madness and an infection. But like all severe infections, it will burn itself out.” Adira shrugged. “We have been dealing with the terrorist mind for decades, you have not. You need to be patient. Guns alone will not solve this problem.”
“Guns will do for now,” Alex said, as he continued to watch the now empty street. “We are the sword and shield.” His words were whispered. “They want a show? We’ll give them one to remember.”
“No, you will not intervene.” Adira came and stood in front of him. “We can call in their position for a strike. But if we intervene, we may put our mission at risk.”
Alex looked down at her. She was right, but logic didn’t matter now. The coiling hate inside him was demanding something more. “Where will they take them?”
She stared, perhaps wanting to argue more, but she saw something in his face that changed her mind. Perhaps she remembered what he could be like. She sighed loudly. “A field, a vacant lot.” She looked up at the sky. “They will want to be away from the city crowds, and will need good light for the filming.”
“So, they’ll be away from their main command, isolated?” Alex smiled grimly, pulling the shawl further down over his face. “Let’s go and enjoy the show.” He spoke quickly into his throat mic. “Sam, on my position, now.”
CHAPTER 6
Tel Aviv, Israel – Satellite Command
Yuval Goldmeir, a satellite technician, watched the OPsat satellite’s data feed of his section of the Golan Heights. It was a strategic piece of land, captured during the Six-Day War, and over three thousand square miles of basaltic plateau bordered by the Yarmouk River in the south, the Sea of Galilee in the west, Mount Hermon in the north, and the Raqqad Wadi in the east. He and many others each monitored multiple grids of the vast area, night and day.
Today Yuval Goldmeir’s area of interest was the town of Nawa, close to Syria. He leaned forward, frowning. The analytics built into the geo-security systems had picked something up, and alarms had demanded his attention.
He drilled down to a view position a few miles above ground. There seemed to be a single figure walking alone in the desert, about three miles southwest of Nawa. After rewinding the feed, he could see that the person had skirted the city, but had effectively walked across the landscape.
Goldmeir leaned back in his chair, half turning. “Yev … oy, Yev, what do you make of this?”
Yev Cohen, his closest technician colleague, swung around and craned to see his screen. He shrugged. “Miles away, and only a single person. Forget it.”
“We’re supposed to call in anything strange … and risk analytics has flagged it as a level-one threat.” He circled the figure and then typed some queries into his system. His eyes narrowed. “In seventy-four minutes, this person will walk into the Golan.”
“Then border patrol will pick him up.” Cohen turned back to his own screen.
Goldmeir continued to watch for a few more seconds before commanding the image magnification to drill down even further. The huge weight on the figure’s back now became apparent. The technician’s brows were furrowed as he hurriedly entered more commands, asking it to search for a high energy particle trace. His eyes went wide as a second warning began to flash on detection confirmation.
“A Traveler. I think it’s a Traveler … and radiation is off the scale.” He spun from his desk, his mind spinning. “What do we …?”
Beside him, Yev Cohen snatched up a phone.
*
The IAF F-15E Strike Eagle came in at just under Mach-1. Its radar saw the target long before the pilot would obtain a visual.
“Target acquired; deploying Vulcan.”
The bottom of the Strike Eagle opened and a multi barrelled weapon lowered. The weapon chosen was the M61 Vulcan, a pneumatically driven, six-barrel, air-cooled, electrically fired Gatling-style rotary cannon, which fired 20mm rounds at a rate of approximately 6,000 per minute. The laser-sighted and the computer-directed gun locked onto the lone figure.
“Clear to fire, Fox-1,” came the mechanical voice directly into the pilot’s headset.
“Firing.” The pilot let loose a short burst of fifty high penetration M56 rounds.
“Good strikes, command. Coming around.” The pilot banked, taking multiple pictures and preparing to head on home.
“That’s a negative on kill shot, Fox-1. We still have movement.” The mechanical voice had a touch of urgency this time.
The pilot looked back at his targeting screen. “Impossible on a miss, command. Confirm miss.”
“Computer says you had good strike rate, but target is not down.” There was strain in the voice over the radio. “Target has stopped and is now removing pack. Suggest immediate missile deploy.”
The pilot banked hard, coming in on another run. He knew there was no way a normal human being could have survived even a single strike from a huge 3.6 ounce M56 round. He should have had a hole the size of a hubcap in his chest.
It didn’t matter; the next weapon he chose to deploy on the single, slow moving target was an AGM-84HK SLAMER. It was a precision-guided, air-launched cruise missile specially designed for striking both moving and stationary targets. To add to its accuracy, the pilot could control the SLAMER all the way down.
The pilot’s targeting system locked in.
“Target acquired and locked.”
“You are go on launch, Fox-1.” The voice had regained its confident edge.
The pilot pressed a small button on his joystick, and the shining spear shot away from the plane.
“Bird away.”
The 500-pound destex-packed warhead would destroy anything it hit, and it never missed. The SLAMER rapidly picked up speed, arrowing forward and then down. From the air, the explosive force of the strike seemed small as the pilot banked away. As he looped back around, he tilted the Strike Eagle, and looked down. There was nothing there but a blackened crater.
“Target destroyed, confirm, command.”
“Confirmed, target destroyed. Good day’s work. Bring it home, Fox-1.”
“Roger that, command. Coming home.”
*
General Shavit continued to look at the screen for many minutes. The satellite image had drilled down to a perspective of only a few feet from the ground. Nothing remained larger than a few smoking fist-sized pieces of debris, and it was impossible to tell if they were biological or something other. He pressed a button on his comm. unit, and was put through to his bio-defense unit.
“Send a cleanup crew. I want every scrap from that site brought back here for analysis.”
Shavit sat back, sucking in wheezing breaths. So close, he thought. Too close.
*
The cleanup crew was on site within the hour and moved as quickly as they could manage in the bulky radiation suits. The residual HREs were high, but containable, and they were easil
y identified and secured in lead lined casing.
The biological remains were less easy to identify, as many of the fragments were nothing but splintered bone or flesh charred down to flakes of ash. However, outside of the impact crater, some blackened lumps of meat were found, and bagged to be sorted and tested back at base.
Later, Yair Shamir, the head scientist for the Bio-Defense Unit, stood beside Major David Mitzna, both in simple biohazard suits and masks. The physical debris collected was laid out in a refrigerated room. Yair stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the assembled flesh fragments laid out on a long steel bench top before them.
“So, he, it, is not dead then?” Mitzna continued to stare down at the blackened lumps.
“Oh, it’s a he all right. Has definite XY heterogametic sex chromosomes, and I think alive or dead are very loose concepts in relation to this sample.” Yair picked up a long probe and used it to prod at one of the lumps of charred meat. Dark, sticky liquid oozed from one end onto the gleaming bench top.
“You know, if you hadn’t told me when and where you had recovered this from, and shown me the footage, I’m not sure I would have believed you. I mean it’s still functioning at a cellular level. You see, we can even see its cells attempting to wound-heal.” He pointed with his probe. “Platelets adhering to the site of injury, coagulation, cross-linked fibrin proteins in a mesh. It’s amazing, and not real.” He straightened.
“Not real? What does that mean?” the major asked, leaning forward.
“I mean, it just seems … unreal, and I can make out some stitching. Also, there are several DNA samples, suggesting multiple people, all sort of attached or melded together.” Yair shook his head, frowning now as he searched for the right words. “Like it was made from scratch, pieced together like a quilt.”
“And it’s not dead,” Mitzna said softly. “How can I explain this to General Shavit?”
Yair shrugged. “Not dead, but not alive; something in between I think. It’s probably why the bullets didn’t stop him. I wish I had more to test.”
“How is that possible?” Behind the Perspex plate of his mask, the military man’s face betrayed his revulsion. “And who can do this?”
Yair walked along the bench to a scrap of flesh, no more than the size of a cigarette packet. It was blacked at the edges, but there were rents in it that could not have come from the bomb’s obliteration. It looked like script, but in an ancient language.
“These are words, carved into the flesh.” He looked up. “How? Why? I have no idea. And who? No one, no one has the capability to do this … today.”
CHAPTER 7
Alex and Adira followed the line of Hezar-Jihadi who continued to jog, dragging their captives across the sharp stones on the outskirts of the city. They drew with them a few resident stragglers, caught in the tail of the brutal comet, as they were morbidly interested in the promised spectacle.
From a corner, Sam appeared, followed by Moshe. The big HAWC nodded imperceptibly to Alex, and they too followed the procession as it made its way to a large languid river.
“Of course, the Tigris,” Adira said. “They will execute them here, let their blood flow into the river. It is symbolic, as it will then flow all the way to Baghdad, and other areas not yet under their control.”
“Yes, a symbol and a message to Baghdad,” Alex said. “The blood of your people comes first, then we will follow.”
The Hezar-Jihadi came to the riverbank, and forced the line of captives to their knees. A man set about digging a deep hole, and then dropped a stout pole around ten feet in length into it, which he then covered in, so just five feet of it remained above ground. The French pilot was lashed to this pole, and a small metal drum of liquid was put beside him. It was clear what his fate was to be.
The cameraman set up his tripod, and then arranged a dish to transmit their gruesome display directly to the satellite.
Adira snorted angrily. “There will be waiting fans right across the world. Also some news services all too willing to give them a platform. It is a barbaric time.”
The twenty kneeling captives had twenty Hezar-Jihadi in black balaclavas line up behind them. Each had been filmed taking a shiny new blade from a bin, and stood ready for their performance. Alex saw that the captives’ expressions were a mix of abject fear and resignation, right through to anger and defiance.
A crowd was gathering now, some calling out their support to the terrorists. Many of the curious were looking for excitement, or others to satisfy a bloodlust, and thank whoever they prayed to that it was being inflicted on someone else for a change. Alex, Sam, Moshe, and Adira were able to blend in and move closer.
Alex kept his eyes on the line of men. “Sam, you and I will take the butchers. Moshe, any man that lifts a gun is to be taken down. Adira, you free the pilot.”
“What about the camera? Will we knock that out first?” Sam asked.
“No,” Adira said fiercely. “Let it run. Nothing would insult them more than to see their brave warriors smashed, and their captives set free. We will send our own message today.”
Alex smiled grimly. “I doubt this episode is going to feature in their next recruitment drive.”
A single older man with a heavy silver-streaked beard cleared his throat, as two of the terrorists kept the crowd back and out of camera shot. The cameraman grinned as he adjusted his focus, and then held a hand up with one thumb raised. He set the camera to run on auto and stepped back, arms folded.
The silver-bearded man started to intone, calling to their faithful, and issuing dire warnings to any who would oppose them. He listed the sins of the captives, and then began to call for death to …
There was coughing from the assembled crowd, and silver beard waved his hands, probably yelling: cut, cut.
Sam snorted. “Just like Hollywood, isn’t it?”
“Damned amateurs.” Alex laughed softly. “Let’s not wait until they get it right.” He turned. “Adira, you’re up.”
The Mossad woman nodded. “Wait for my signal.” She walked calmly toward the French soldier, her dark niqab concealing her entire body and face. She was the only woman, and even though garbed, she caused heads to turn – women, even fighters, were not allowed to witness executions. Unless of course they were on the hit list that day.
The pilot watched her with trepidation. Sometimes individuals from the crowd would take it upon themselves to inflict some sort of minor torment on the prisoners, ensuring that their last few minutes before execution were as loathsome as possible.
Adira spoke to the man, who seemed shocked at first, but then nodded jerkily. He hung his head. The silver bearded man came forward to take Adira roughly by the arm. His face registered shock, probably because the arm he clasped was more muscular than his own.
Adira turned, wrenching her arm free, and lifted a hand to her face-covering, pulling it from her head. She grinned like a death’s head into his stunned face, then turned to the group, all now watching open-mouthed as she sucked in a deep breath.
“Am Yisrael Chai!” It was one of the battle cries of the Israeli forces, simply meaning, “Israel lives on!”
The silence on the riverbank was like a physical weight. The cameraman swung the lens toward her, and the bearded one grabbed for the AK47 slung over his shoulder.
Adira’s arm came out of the folds of her niqab holding one of her Baraks, which she fired point blank into his face. He was kicked backwards off his feet by the powerful handgun. She spun, picking up the barrel of fluid and heaved it toward the crowd, who had been cheering for the death of the captives only seconds before. Before it even landed among them, she fired several shots into the barrel. A single spark of a bullet piercing the steel ignited it like a firebomb, covering many of the audience, and sending them scuttling away like flaming roaches.
“Enjoy the show,” she yelled in Arabic.
Shock and confusion rooted the terrorists to the spot for only second, but by then Alex and Sa
m were already in among the butchers, smashing heads together and twisting necks so violently that the terrorists fell, still holding tightly to their brand-new knives that would never taste blood.
The cameraman had turned to film the chaos, but after a second or two had decided to run for his life, leaving the camera on auto to shoot scenes from a madhouse. Adira took him down before he made a dozen paces.
The screams of the terrorists were now those of fury and confusion. They had seen their leader shot dead, and now from nowhere, huge men were tearing them limb from limb. Whether it was two or two dozen, they couldn’t know as it felt like they were in a storm of pain, and too late they realized that lions were now loose among sheep.
Sam had smashed down two of the men, kicking a third with his MECH suit leg hard enough to send him spinning fifty feet out into the Tigris. Suddenly, there was an oasis of calm around the big HAWC, as the fighting had been drawn away from him. He looked up in time to see Alex gripping two men, flinging them around like they were bags of meat. Broken bodies flew through the air, and only the terrorists’ wild-eyed fanaticism still drove them on in their fight to the death.
Sam was frozen, watching, as Alex’s face registered insane enjoyment. His shawl was thrown back, and a huge gash had been opened across his forehead. Blood ran down his face, making his eyes seem to glow through the bloody visage. The HAWC leader’s movements became faster and faster, until they became a blur, and the screams of the men he fought were mixed now with the sound of breaking bone and rending flesh.
Sam pushed forward, but Alex was already before him. The rest of the Hezar-Jihadi fighters were just crushed remnants at their feet, with Alex raining blows on the last, the sound a sickening wet crunch.
Sam lunged to grab at him, trying to restrain him, but Alex spun to grip Sam’s forearm. Though Sam was taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds, Sam felt the bones in his forearm begin to grind together. He immediately realized that the person that grabbed him wasn’t Alex anymore.