The DMZ

by Jeanete Windle

  He glanced over at Rick. The biochemist had finished with him and was putting away his syringe. “Oh, yes, you ID’d him correctly, Captain Rick Martini of the … let me see, what was it? Oh, yes, the 7th Special Operations Group, am I right? In fact, your entire assessment was remarkably accurate considering the scant information you had in your possession. Your analysis of our chances of success, for instance, agrees a hundred percent with our own.”

  Julie didn’t ask how Tim had found all that out. Though she had no conscious memory between that injection out on the airstrip until awakening in this room, she retained a vague impression of her own voice babbling on and on. At least he’d told the truth about whatever new drug the white-coated Raman had pumped into them. Already Julie could feel the paralysis ebbing from her limbs.

  Rick, too, was sitting straighter in his bonds. His battered face showed no response as he looked coolly at the Iranian agent. “Well,” Rick told him, “my analysis was wrong. You won’t get away with this—not unless you’re planning on making this a suicide run. I know the specs on that plane out there. Your fuel will barely get you to the U.S. border. Unless you’re planning on flying home on fumes—or you have another target in mind.”

  Julie glanced at Rick, surprised at the uncharacteristic adversarial tone of his remarks. Then she caught the intentness with which he was watching Tim, the quick, unobtrusive survey of the communications equipment now that he could move his head freely. He wasn’t trying to needle Tim, Julie realized incredulously. He was still trying to provoke information out of him.

  Tim chuckled. “Sorry, but I’m not going to fall for that one. You’re just going to have to get by without the traditional last-chapter explanations of the bad guys’ plans,” he said mockingly. “Suffice it to say we’ve had ten years to plan for every eventuality. Two weeks from now, when Washington, D.C., finally wakes up to the fact that they’ve got an epidemic on their hands, we’ll have hit every major city in the U.S., starting with the capital itself, and be well on our way through the smaller ones. Our pilot is a volunteer and perfectly willing to be a martyr to the cause. He’ll keep flying until he’s shot down, which if the U.S. military lives up to its normal efficiency, will come sooner or later. But by that time—well, to put it bluntly, the U.S. will no longer exist as a nation.”

  Julie stared at Tim unbelievingly. Even now, knowing what she knew, it didn’t seem possible that this good-looking, personable extrovert of a man was capable of conspiring mass murder. He just seemed so … normal.”

  “Tim—or whatever your name is—why are you doing all this?” she burst out. “It’s clear you’ve lived in America before, your act is so … so perfect! All your talk about God and serving Him, you were so good at it. You even helped me! So how can you just stand there and talk about murdering millions of people? What have we done to you that you should hate Americans that much?”

  The Iranian agent’s eyebrows shot up in good-natured surprise. “You can call me Tim. I’ve been using it long enough. And yes, I did think I did the missionary bit pretty well. I still don’t see where I went wrong. I spent a lot of time studying your TV evangelists.”

  That explains it, Julie thought sourly.

  “But, hey, I don’t hate America. My own mother was American—my father married her during his college years in America. She made sure I was well indoctrinated with Disney and baseball and apple pie before the ayatollah came along and abolished degenerate American culture from Iranian soil. That was the last I saw of her, because she didn’t care for the ayatollah’s plans for women—or for the fourth wife my father had just taken. Fortunately for me, Khalkhali—the present ayatollah—was an old family friend of my father’s, and he decided it would be useful to have someone who could pass for an infidel in his intelligence network. He arranged for tutors so I wouldn’t forget my English, then a boarding school in New York—under another name, of course—and college. With Islamic studies on the side, so I wouldn’t forget my duty to Allah and country.”

  Glancing at his companions, whose uncomprehending expressions showed they didn’t understand the English he was speaking, Tim added confidentially, “Though, if you’ll promise not to spill the beans, I’ll admit they never did manage to instill in me my countrymen’s religious zeal. You wouldn’t catch me wasting my life on martyrdom! No, I’m afraid I’m in this for that oldest of American values. Sheer capitalism. This job lets me live in a way I never could back in Iran. Truth is, I like the United States—at least the conveniences and freedoms of living there. It’s a lot more fun than under the ayatollah’s regime. I even tried to talk Nouri out of this madness when I found out about it. A few smaller epidemics would make their point, but knocking off the most prosperous nation on the planet—it’s crazy! Khalkhali has no concept of what it will do to the world—including his own nation.”

  “If you feel that way, why are you helping them?” Julie cried out. “You could have stopped this with a phone call!”

  Tim’s eyebrows went up again. “And who’s going to come up with my next paycheck—a sizable one, I might add? Besides, maybe Khalkhali’s right. After all, he’s the one with the direct line to God—Allah, I mean. No, I’ve already transferred my bank account overseas. I’ll miss America, but Rio or the south of France will offer a tolerable alternative for entertainment.”

  Julie felt sick with disgust. Tim had never looked more handsome, his mouth curved with that warm, confident smile of his, the blue eyes twinkling down into hers. The contrast to Rick’s battered, grim features and blood-streaked torso was that of a joyous golden Apollo to a battle-worn gladiator.

  But behind Tim’s twinkling eyes and handsome face there was—nothing. No humanity or concern—not even for his own side. No spark of moral conscience. None of the caring—for the people of this country, for the world, for herself—that Rick managed to keep hidden most of the time under a brusque exterior and his almost implacable commitment to duty. Not even the fanatic dedication the guerrillas and perhaps these Iranians and Iraqis too, gave to their cause.

  Just shallow self-interest and a facile tongue enclosed in a well-decorated facade.

  “So—what are you going to do with us now?” she demanded bitingly. “Infect us with anthrax like you did with those poor villagers and Dr. Renken and her party? I presume that’s what happened to them.”

  “Their arrival did prove rather opportune.” Something in Julie’s expression finally pierced Tim’s self-complacency because the white-teethed smile thinned into a sneer. “We had just received the first shipment, and we weren’t too eager to sacrifice any of our workers—at least not then. Your friends and those bumbling Indian guides of theirs were—convenient. But, no, we aren’t in need of any more test subjects. We’ve already proved that Saddam Hussein’s bio-weapons are still thoroughly effective. For you we have other plans!”

  “Julie, don’t try to argue with him,” Rick cut in tiredly. “He isn’t worth it.”

  Tim was unruffled by his comment. Lifting his heavy frame from the edge of the table, he got to his feet. “You’re right, we’re wasting time with this discussion. And you two have cost us enough time tonight already. Raman!” At Tim’s gesture, the biochemist sprang forward to cut at Julie’s bonds with a surgical knife, then moved over to repeat the process on Rick. “You should find yourself able to walk now. Let’s move! Any more delays, and it’ll be daylight before the F-117 is back home and under cover.”

  At his signal, the guards prodded Julie and Rick to their feet with their machine guns. But even with the sharp jab to her ribs, Julie stopped dead in her tracks. “Delays? You mean, the plane hasn’t taken off yet? I … I thought it was all over!”

  Tim’s eyebrow shot up again. “We couldn’t exactly take off until we found out what you two were up to, could we? Or whether you had alerted a reception committee to be waiting for us. And since we now know you’ve failed miserably at your attempt to sabotage this operation”—his sneer deepened—“it’s time to get this
show on the road. Unlike myself, Taqi Nouri hates Americans with a passion. He wants to see the expression on your faces when his cargo of death lifts off to rain destruction and damnation over your homeland. His words, not mine!” Tim added sardonically. “Then …” Tim made a dismissive gesture that was oddly un-American. “He plans to have the personal pleasure of shooting you.”

  The threat was intended to strike terror into the two prisoners, but instead it brought a jolt of excitement to Julie. Hope was not entirely dead! She managed a surreptitious glance at her watch as the guard prodded her out the door. Incredibly, if her watch was still accurate, only two hours had passed since their capture on the runway.

  Stumbling down the steps, she made a swift search for the F-117. Even if this were not the darkest night of the lunar calendar, the huge camouflage mats overhead blocked out any glimmer of stars or moon, but there was actually more illumination than when Rick and Julie had made their futile assault. Glow sticks had been placed at intervals to mark both sides of the runway clear out to the swamp, and out in the middle of the airstrip, two fluorescent lanterns created overlapping circles of light.

  Above the lanterns loomed the F-117 like the crouching shadow of some prehistoric beast. It hadn’t moved, as far as Julie could tell, not even to taxi into position for takeoff, and the ladder still led up to an open canopy. Was it possible that Rick’s dropped grenade still lay somewhere in the blackness beneath those swept-back wings?

  But there was no way she or Rick could approach the stealth fighter for another attempt, even a suicidal one. Every living being in the encampment had to be out there on that airstrip waiting for them. A ring of soldiers circled the plane. Others were fanned out in a V-shape from the foot of the ladder, and as the two prisoners stumbled onto the runway, Julie heard the sharp click of slides being shot back. Any false step, and they would be gunned down in an instant.

  Even the Indian laborers were gathered for the show, huddled together under the watchful eye of one of the guards, and Julie saw women among them. The kitchen help? Did they have any idea what these intruders in their territory were up to? What they had done to their own people?

  Taqi Nouri himself was watching their approach from the foot of the ladder. At his left side stood the pilot, his recovered helmet in hand. As the guards prodded Rick and Julie to a stop, the Iranian intelligence agent began to speak.

  It was a ceremony, Julie realized. The occasion was far too momentous for a simple takeoff. And whatever language he was speaking—Persian or Arabic—he was doing a good job of stirring up emotions. An angry rumble rose among the soldiers, with dark looks toward the two prisoners.

  With the briefest of pauses, Taqi Nouri switched to precise, cultured English, and as the fury of his speech blasted over them, Julie understood why she and Rick had been brought here. They were to be the stand-ins for all those sleeping Americans who weren’t present to hear the outpouring of hate with which this mission of death was being launched. More than just mass annihilation, Taqi Nouri and his colleagues wanted to see with their own eyes the horror and agony on the faces of their victims as they realized what had been done to them. Since that wasn’t possible, Rick and Julie were to be their representatives.

  “You have chosen to wage war against the followers of Allah!” Nouri shouted across the runway. “You have wantonly invaded our territory and given aid to our enemies, the infidel Jews. You have visited death and destruction on Muslim cities and countrysides and brought disease and starvation to our children. Your imperialistic ambitions and the decadence of your culture with its godless immorality have spread like a cankerous sore across the entire world. But tonight that will stop. Tonight death will rain down on your cities as you have rained death on ours. Tonight your children will fall to disease and destruction. Tonight by the will of Allah, justice will at last be visited upon the infidels, and the cleansing fire of righteousness will obliterate the spawn of the Great Satan.”

  Abruptly, the Iranian cleric switched into his earlier language, his voice rising in one last fervent outpouring before he suddenly broke off. Whatever that last passionate speech had been—a blessing? a prayer?—the ceremony was over. Climbing the ladder, the pilot clambered into the cockpit and pulled the canopy down over him. Two soldiers pulled the ladder out of the way. The powerful turbo-fan engines rumbled to life, and the nose of the F-117 began slowly to turn, not nose-forward, but in a leisurely circle that would back it up against the embankment at the end of the runway.

  The soldiers scattered out of its path, two pausing to snatch up the fluorescent lanterns. At Tim McAdams’s gesture, Rick and Julie’s guards shoved them over to the side of the runway, and a unit of soldiers closed in around them. As the stealth fighter continued its slow taxi, Taqi Nouri strode over toward the prisoners. Already, the Iranian intelligence agent was unholstering his Uzi machine pistol, and with shock, Julie saw that Tim McAdams had somehow acquired an Uzi as well and was holding it on the prisoners with the ease of long experience. His cool expression showed little more than academic interest in the two Americans, but the smile on his superior’s face was gloating. The burning hatred in Nouri’s eyes was reflected in the faces of the other guards.

  This is it. Closing her eyes against their hateful glares, Julie braced herself against the bullets that had to be imminent. O God, I know this is just a step from here to You. But I’m so afraid! She had always heard that when death was at hand, her whole life was supposed to flash before her eyes. But all she felt was an enormous weariness.

  Opening her eyes, she looked to the rugged profile of the Special Forces officer beside her. Incredibly, his own narrowed gaze was still focused on the slow taxi of the plane as though even now some opportunity for action might present itself. Julie watched him, imprinting desperately on her mind every curve of the firm mouth that could be grim and sardonic and angry and yet tender too, the strong planes of his face, the sweep of those long lashes dropped concealingly now over his cool gaze. And if her heart was only too clearly revealed in her own eyes, it didn’t matter anymore. Of all the hopes and dreams Julie had relinquished that night, this was the hardest to let go.

  Suddenly, Julie felt the tautness leave Rick’s lean frame. As though drawn by her eyes on him, he looked down at Julie, and as their eyes met, he smiled. It was a surprisingly carefree smile, as though he too had at last recognized the futility of struggle and had thrown in the towel, relaxing the grim, weary line of his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes with a wry tenderness that was as intimate as an embrace. Reaching over in the darkness, he slid his hand over Julie’s, his long fingers folding around hers. The warmth of his hard palm against hers was like a current of strength pulsing between them, and Julie read in his steadfast gaze what he couldn’t say aloud. It’ll be okay. Just hang in there. I love—

  The butt of a machine gun struck their hands apart. A guard shoved Rick back, the muzzle of his weapon against Rick’s bare chest. Taqi Nouri raised his Uzi to zero in on Julie’s forehead. She closed her eyes again, exhaustion drawing her into a black cloud. O God, just let it be over!

  Smack! The blow across her face was almost more of a shock than a bullet would have been. Cruel fingers bit into Julie’s chin, and another cruel hand yanked her hair back.

  “Oh, no, you will not spare yourself!” a gloating voice hissed in her ear, the cultured English a direct contrast to the malice of its tone. “You will watch until it is done.”

  As the merciless grip bit deeper into her face and hair, Julie opened her eyes to the black-bearded features of Taqi Nouri, distorted with mingled hate and satisfaction. Viciously, he twisted his hand in Julie’s hair to force her gaze to the F-117, the Uzi grinding against her cheekbone. Julie watched helplessly as the stealth fighter began the final rotation that would turn its tail to the bank and its nose outward, ready for takeoff.

  But in the next heartbeat, as abruptly and unexpectedly as he had grabbed her, Taqi Nouri’s vicious grip loosened, the Uzi dropped awa
y from her cheek. Julie stumbled under the heavy weight as the Iranian agent sagged against her. Recovering herself, she stared with bewildered amazement as his body slid to the ground. Had his very spite and hate brought on a heart attack?

  Then she saw Tim McAdams slap at his neck. His hands flew into the air, his Uzi flying out of his hand as he hit the ground. The muzzle against Rick’s chest fell away as the guard slumped down. Then another.

  Suddenly, incredibly, Julie and Rick were standing alone and free.

  Stunned, Julie saw a feathered dart protruding from Nouri’s neck. With sudden realization, she whirled around. Yes, there it was—a flicker of movement at the jungle edge beyond the motion sensors. Down the runway a few meters, a shadow moved across the firefly glimmer of the glow sticks. An instant later, one of the soldiers holding a fluorescent lantern went down. The huddle of natives, who had already retreated from the taxiing aircraft back toward the cambuches, scattered screaming.

  “Rick!” Julie whispered in dazed incredulity. “The I’paa—they came back!”

  It wasn’t quite that easy. As one of the guards went down, the soldier beside him raised his machine gun. A rat-tat-tat of gunfire stitched a trail of light across a tree trunk, and a scream of agony rose from the shadows beyond.

  “Get down!” Rick dove at Julie, carrying her to the ground with him. As they hit the ground, more gunfire erupted. With another choking scream, a body tumbled forward down the bank to lie spread-eagled on the concrete. From the jungle, a cry of rage arose, and an arrow shot out of the trees to catch the gunman in the chest with such force that he was thrown back through the air before landing with a crunch in the middle of the runway.

  A shower of arrows followed. Rick covered Julie’s body with his own, pressing her head down to the ground as they whistled overhead, some so close Julie could hear the hiss of their passage and the thud of arrowheads striking concrete.