Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  The Colonel drove on, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. He touched his earlobe. “I want you to move four squads along the southern approach. Heavy machine guns…Do it, Lester. Goddamnit, Lester, you disobey another one of my orders, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Another ten minutes and the Colonel parked outside the entrance to one of the many tunnels into the mountain. He got out, saluted the guards inside the entrance, and kept walking. Rakkim and Leo followed. The tunnel was barely lit, rock debris everywhere. It smelled like sweat and engine grease.

  “Hang on,” said Leo, voice reedy as he struggled to keep up.

  Neither the Colonel nor Rakkim slowed his pace.

  Leo was gasping for breath when he finally caught up with them a hundred yards later, the two of them waiting for him outside a cleft in the rock. He clung to the wall, bent over. “I…I’m claustrophobic,” he wheezed, shaking his head.

  Rakkim grabbed Leo by the hair, dragged him into the opening.

  “Intellectuals,” snorted the Colonel as Leo banged his head against a rock outcropping. “Always a reason they can’t do something. The porridge is too hot, the porridge is too cold, but it’s never just right.”

  Rakkim dropped Leo on the other side. “Careful, Colonel, he’ll give you some fancy math problem, then laugh at you when you can’t solve it in your head.”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time,” said Leo, scrambling after them. “Might as well try to teach a chimp particle physics.” The kid did okay. He kept up, even though he’d put his shirttail over his mouth, trying to cut down on the dust they were breathing.

  It took longer than Rakkim anticipated to get there, the barely lit tunnel gradually sloping, down, down, down, until even he found himself slowing his steps, feeling the weight of the mountain closing in on them. The Colonel felt it too.

  “Almost…almost there,” said the Colonel, his voice too loud.

  They rounded the bend and there it was…the lake. Even with the floodlights spread along the rocky shore, the surface was the color of an oil slick. They approached cautiously, stood blinking as they looked out.

  “This is what the hour before creation must have been like,” Rakkim said quietly. “Darkness moved across the face of the water…” He took in the oxygen bottles littering the shore, the single thermal blanket. “You let him dive alone?”

  “Moseby insisted,” said the Colonel, not taking his eyes off the black lake. “I told him to wait…he’s been pushing himself for days and—”

  “I see something.” Leo wiped his nose. Pointed.

  Rakkim saw a light deep below the surface, coming closer…brighter now.

  A diver burst out of the water, sent spray into the air. He paddled toward shore, almost invisible in a full black dry suit and black dive hood. Only the flickering halogen penlights on either side of his face mask made his position clear. The diver paddled crookedly, exhausted, his gloved hands barely clearing the water. He left a wake…he was towing something.

  Rakkim splashed into the shallows, immediately felt his legs go numb from the cold. He stayed there, took another step. “Moseby!”

  Moseby turned his head awkwardly, barely able to stay afloat.

  “This way!” shouted Rakkim, teeth chattering as he moved to deeper water. “Here!”

  Moseby swam toward him, arms flopping as he kicked himself forward.

  Rakkim reached for him, dragged him closer; then he fell backward, head underwater for just an instant, but his ears felt like they were going to burst from the cold. He scrambled up, pulled Moseby partway onto the shore, slipped on the wet rocks. He tore off Moseby’s face mask. “J-John…” he gasped, shivering. “It’s…it’s okay now.”

  His eyes bright red from exploded capillaries, Moseby tried to speak but couldn’t. He just lay there, trembling like a hooked fish.

  Leo ran over, looked down at both of them, unsure what to do.

  The Colonel bent down, grabbed Rakkim and Moseby by the collar, and pulled them farther up onto the stones, then sat down beside them. The sound of their breathing echoed off the rocky cavern. Echoed. Echoed.

  Rakkim raised himself up and stared at the gray graphite canister resting along the shoreline, “72/106” stenciled on the side. He was looking at both the past and the future, and it gave him no pleasure. None at all.

  Chapter 41

  Rakkim hit the front door with his shoulder and carried Moseby inside.

  The Colonel and Leo followed him in, the Colonel hefting the graphite cylinder. A dozen guards took up positions outside the Colonel’s house, squinting in the midafternoon sun.

  Rakkim gently laid Moseby onto the sofa. Worked the dry suit off him, Moseby shivering uncontrollably, eyes fluttering and unresponsive, his lips blue. Water dripped off his short hair, beaded along his chest—diving that far underground had increased the pressure exponentially, far beyond the limits of the suit, allowing the frigid waters of the lake to seep in.

  The Colonel put the canister on the floor, Leo elbowing him aside to get at it. The canister was smaller than Rakkim thought it would be, maybe four feet long, and twice the diameter of Moseby’s oxygen tank. Sixty, seventy pounds tops.

  Rakkim rubbed Moseby’s bare arms, his legs, the skin cold and rubbery—he cursed the man for his stubbornness and bravado. There was a deep tear along the back of the suit where he had brushed up against something sharp. Moseby had to have known the suit was compromised, yet he had stayed down in the icy depths, feeling the numbness spread until he could barely breathe. It must have been the Colonel’s decision to split his troops that had forced Moseby to continue—he had realized the danger they were in and gone after the canister without waiting for Rakkim.

  “Go on about your business,” said Baby, bustling in with fresh thermal blankets, ignoring Moseby’s nakedness. “Shoo, Rikki.” She slipped heat socks onto Moseby’s feet, patted his bare thigh before covering him with a thermal blanket. “I’ve got water boiling for tea,” she said to Moseby, as though he could hear. “You’re going to be just fine, John.”

  Moseby jerked, teeth chattering.

  “I’ve seen Baby just about raise the dead, boys,” said the Colonel.

  There was nothing Rakkim could do for Moseby. He turned away, watched as Leo studied the canister, wincing as the kid tapped it with his knuckle.

  “That thing’s safe to have here, isn’t it?” The Colonel rested his hands on his hips. “Got to say it looks kind of disappointing after all the trouble we went through to find it.”

  “It’s not the package, it’s the toy inside that counts.” Leo pressed his fingertips against a small panel at the end of the cylinder, eyes closed, intent as a safecracker.

  “What’s he up to now?” said the Colonel.

  “No idea.” Rakkim lied. Leo said he could directly access computers using the natural conductivity of his skin, plus those genetic maximizers…an epidural interface, he had called it, which sounded like something Sarah had gotten when Michael was born. He smiled at the memory. The first time he held Michael, he’d started crying. Sarah had laughed, exhausted, said if he felt that way, they could always trade Michael in for a baby more to his liking.

  The Colonel walked over to the sofa, watched as Baby slid heat packs under Moseby’s covers.

  Baby looked up at him. Her hair curled around her face, her expression as angry as it was tender. “I hope whatever you boys got there is worth practically killing this poor man.” She placed her slim white hand on Moseby’s forehead.

  The Colonel touched the communicator on his earlobe. “Son of a bitch.” He started pacing. “Tell the men to get ready because we’re sure as shit going to get hit tonight. Any updates from the scouts?” He checked his ivory-handled pistols, slid them back into their holsters. “Send out another team and then set the perimeter for maximum sensitivity, thermal as well as motion detection. I don’t care if we get false readings, I’d rather be wrong than surprised.” He turned off the earpiece with another to
uch.

  “I’m armed and dangerous, sweetie, so you go do what you have to,” said Baby, still smoothing Moseby’s hair. The top two buttons of her blouse had come undone and Rakkim could see a tiny birthmark between her breasts. She looked up and caught him staring. It didn’t seem to bother her.

  “You should go to the bunker, Baby,” said the Colonel.

  “What kind of Christian would I be if I did that? God hates a coward. You scoot now.”

  “What’s happening?” Rakkim asked the Colonel.

  “I hoped Alpha Company might get back before morning, but the bridge over the Hatchie was dynamited a few hours ago. Next crossing is forty miles of bad road in the wrong direction, so no reinforcements until tomorrow. Looks like we’re on our own.” The Colonel’s expression turned wistful. “Wish that Moseby had found that canister a few days sooner. Lord knows what’s inside that thing—I’ve heard stories about black-ice projects on impenetrable force fields and sound waves that throw men into a panic. Be nice to have something like that right about now.” He straightened his shoulders. “Guess we’ll have to kick ass the old-fashioned way.”

  “Old-fashioned works just fine for me,” Baby said softly.

  The Colonel kissed her. He glanced at Leo bent over the canister and shook his head. The door closed after him.

  Through the window, Rakkim saw the Colonel give orders to the guards outside. He got down beside Leo. “Can I help?”

  “Yeah, try not making me laugh with dumb questions,” said Leo, eyes half closed. “It’s distracting.”

  Rakkim stayed on the floor, watching Baby hold Moseby’s hand. He touched his own ear link. The Colonel’s officers used a dedicated frequency, but their links had lousy security filters compared to the Swiss link he had.

  “…this is Tiger Six, I want your men dug in along the west ridge,” said the Colonel, “and tell the miners to soldier up. We’re going to need every one of them.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Scout team D missed their check-in…”

  Rakkim drifted along on the com links, heard nervousness among the buzzing voices. Nothing worse for a soldier than being hunkered down, waiting to be attacked. No idea where the assault would be launched, or how many of the enemy there were. The young ones pretended to be tough, cursing and watching their comrades out of the corner of their eye, looking for a reflection of their own fear. Old warriors dozed before a coming battle, or took a last, comfortable crap.

  “There we go,” said Leo, grinning, eyes wide. His fingers danced over the buttons on the end of the canister, and there was a hissing sound as if pressure was being released. He unscrewed the top as easy as if it were a pop bottle.

  Rakkim leaned in closer.

  Leo reached into the cylinder, pulled out a clear, insulated pack filled with computer cores. He set them carefully down, reached farther in. Finally tipped the cylinder so that a long, rectangular box slid onto the floor with a thunk. Dinged the wood floor, it was so heavy. The box was sealed with lead and stenciled with various official Defense Department seals and the same number marked on the outside of the canister: 72/106. Leo looked at the box and went back to the computer cores.

  “That’s it?” said Baby.

  Leo opened the insulated pack, gently pulled out the first computer core. He placed his fingers on the download inputs and closed his eyes. He breathed heavily now, laboring at something. His eyes darted back and forth under his closed lids.

  “Leo?” said Rakkim.

  Leo sat frozen, head twisted at an odd angle, barely breathing now.

  “Something wrong with him?” said Baby. “Looks like he’s thrown a fit.”

  “He’s just…thinking,” said Rakkim.

  “How long is he going to sit there thinking?” said Baby.

  Rakkim shook his head.

  “I can’t tell if he’s smart or slow,” said Baby. “Seems to me if the Russians want to pay billions of dollars for that weapon thing, they could have hired somebody who does more than sit there and drool.”

  Ten minutes later, Leo opened his eyes. Picked up another computer core.

  “You want to talk?” said Rakkim.

  Leo moved his jaw a few times. Probably grinding his teeth while he was…gone.

  “Is it working?” Rakkim shook him. “Leo?”

  Leo stared at him.

  “Leo! Are you in?”

  Leo slowly nodded. “Tenth…tenth-gen security hash logarithm, but I am in…in like sin,” he whispered. “Massive gamma radiation…far beyond anything the Tether program anticipated,” he said, voice trailing off. He was in there somewhere, but not anyplace Rakkim could reach.

  Rakkim watched him go through five more of the cores, no longer responding to questions from Rakkim or Baby. Not responding to anything outside the interface. It was getting dark now, the ear-link chatter more frequent.

  “Go on, Rikki,” said Baby. “I can tell when a man’s restless. Can’t blame you either. Leo’s a sweet boy and all, but I sure don’t see him doing any honest work.”

  Rakkim got up and bent down beside Moseby, placed a hand on his cheek. “Hey, John, how are you doing?”

  Moseby didn’t respond but his breathing held steady and his skin was warmer.

  “Go shoot somebody, handsome, I got things under control here,” said Baby. “Go. I been taking care of sick men my whole life.”

  Rakkim said good-bye to Leo, but got no response.

  Bartholomew finished his morning prayers, carefully rolled his prayer rug, and placed it in his cubby. His position had been slightly off during his devotions, his spine not perfectly straight. He begged Allah to forgive such sloppiness. The most minute error could have catastrophic consequences, that was both his professional and personal creed.

  Through the window of his office, he could see Frank, his personal secretary, waiting patiently for him to compose himself before knocking. A slender, beardless modern with a too-ready laugh, Frank had been a difficult hire. Most of the other inspectors refused to work with moderns, viewing that as un-Islamic and unclean. Let him go to work making pornography or serving beer in the Zone, his colleague Nicolas had said after they finished the interview. It had been two years since Bartholomew hired the modern. Two years and Nicolas still refused to go to mosque with him, but Bartholomew knew what he was doing.

  When an opening in the elite security detail was announced, Bartholomew was the one who got the promotion. He was not so arrogant as to believe his new duties were solely the result of his superior test scores and performance evaluations, though he ranked in the upper 1 percent of certified aircraft inspectors. The president surrounded himself with moderate Muslims, moderates not just in dress or demeanor, but in behavior as well. Hiring Frank was considered a clear sign of Bartholomew’s charity and tolerance; he was just the sort of professional the presidential staff trusted and wished to encourage.

  Bartholomew checked his reflection in the glass. He smoothed his hair. Picked a minute spot of lint off the lapel of his black suit. The bows in his knotted shoelaces were the exact same size and length. He finally beckoned to Frank, acknowledged the gratitude in the modern’s eager face.

  Come the change Bartholomew would have the apostate beheaded.

  The Colonel’s base camp was perched on a scraggly, rocky plateau midway up the mountain. It should have been easy to defend except there were too many access points from the valley below—two-lane logging roads from the north, a series of gravel paths from the south, and dozens of trails cut through the surrounding trees along the western perimeter. While a mechanized force would be limited to attacking from the north, lightly armed men like Crews’s End-Timers could assault the camp from the south and east as well. Holding the high ground was still an advantage, but if the End-Timers were willing to ignore their mounting casualties and keep coming…

  Rakkim imagined skeleton men drifting through the woods as he passed lines of empty tents, hurrying to where he had parked his car after coming back
from Stuckey’s last night. Four-wheel-drive trucks with heavy machine guns mounted on back roared past, some so close he had to dive for cover. By the time he got to the motor pool he was covered in dust and the sun was setting. In New Detroit and Philadelphia, the muezzin would be calling the faithful to prayer, the man’s strong voice undulating in the crisp air. Instead of bowing to pray, Rakkim was nodding to a young soldier guarding the vehicles. He slid under his car and pulled his rifle from a hidden compartment. Grabbed a handful of ammo clips too, and stuffed them in his pocket. He probably wouldn’t have gone to mosque anyway.

  Scout team D…still hasn’t checked in.

  Disperse…ammo, said the Colonel.…don’t want…lucky round…set it off.

  Rakkim cradled the weapon, a sleek sniper rifle made by a gunsmith in Greenville, the next town over—simple, rugged, and accurate. “You seen the Colonel?” Rakkim asked the soldier.

  The soldier pointed.

  Rakkim found the Colonel and Gravenholtz striding down a gravel path, the Colonel pointing out gun emplacements and natural cover to the redhead.

  Gravenholtz eyed Rakkim’s rifle. “This ain’t your fight.”

  “Fight?” Rakkim fell in beside them. “I thought we were hunting turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  In twilight now, the Colonel seemed determined to walk the whole line, stopping every few minutes to talk to the men, reminding them to stay alert and not waste ammunition, and promising that God was watching over them. The same suggestions and assurances that good commanders had offered their men since time began.

  …oil pressure still not where it should be, and the rotors are noisy.