Two more out of the way who wouldn’t have to be dealt with in short order. It was hell, he thought, to lose—or sacrifice—good fighting men like this, but he’d raise a toast to them at some point when he was sitting on a beach, sipping a cold one. He hadn’t wanted this particular stint to start with, but he was under orders. To bail might have wafted a bad whiff Washington’s way. He didn’t plan on bagging any bad guys here, but what Colonels Stone and Yehudin didn’t know wasn’t his problem. Just blast, burn and hang back while everybody else did the dirty work.
“Move, move!” Collins barked at Python, Mamba, Diamondback and Brick, throwing a few rounds into the bedlam.
If only just for show, he thought, God love America.
He was just about home free, and then and only then maybe in God he could trust.
THE HACKING, shouting and cursing in Arabic alerted Bolan to their presence even before Gator looked up from his screen and flashed four fingers.
Three steel eggs lobbed down into the smoke, and Bolan jumped back with Tsunami and Gator as autofire stuttered in the cloud. They hugged the fangs of what was left of the concrete housing, rode it out until the triburst of flesh-eaters ripped below, screams lost in the thunderclaps.
Bolan led the charge down the steps, choked by cordite and blood, forging ahead. The blasts bought him a few critical seconds, as he whipped around the corner and spotted a fanatic sans arm. The militant was backpedaling, thick crimson spurting through the smoke and dust when the Executioner waxed him with a 3-round burst to the chest.
According to the blueprints, six rooms on the second floor had to be cleared, including a large area for war council.
Bolan signaled for Gator and Tsunami to move rearward—north—and start sweeping half the rooms. Using the sensor on his handheld, Bolan turned up two targets, roughly fifteen feet away at ten o’clock. Hunkered down and waiting to galvanize into a suicide dash?
Whether they fired in blind panic or heard his approach Bolan couldn’t say. The door was blasted to Swiss cheese, wood slivers slashing Bolan’s face. He waited them out, crouched to the side, the sounds of autofire and explosions from below shaking the floor beneath his boots. When the shouts of panic replaced their firing—clips burned out—Bolan flung himself low into the doorway, pumped out a 40 mm frag bomb, ducked back.
Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, the soldier swung back, peering into the smoke. His screen was clear where he aimed the sensor. Another grenade punching still more needles into his eardrums, Bolan whirled and found Gator and Tsunami hard at work, blazing away, screams and shouts fading moments later.
Combat senses on full alert, Bolan watched each door, glancing at the heat sensor. No red specters were framed on his screen.
It was over, he could tell, at least up top. Moments later, he spotted a figure, partly buried in slabs of wall blown down by frag blasts. Nothing left of the face, but one look at the diminutive corpse, and he could tell the body of a small child when he saw it.
He listened to the withering autofire from the first floor, watched the hall.
It was a done deal for the Compound Intifada, probably nothing left to do but clear a few more rooms. For a moment, he wanted to ponder the horrible dilemma that kept this country from ever knowing peace, how men who claimed to believe in God would send out children to commit suicide and murder the innocent.
Who, though, he figured, could fathom evil? In the final analysis, he concluded, perhaps it was enough a few good men were around to at least fight back.
OPERATION STRANGLEHOLD was over, at least as far as covert incursions into countries harboring terrorists went, but Bolan hardly felt satisfied with the results. Five countries, almost twice as many engagements, and all they were bringing back to Camp Zero were twenty-four terrorists. None of the major’s targets inside the compound were left breathing to spill intelligence. Had it been worth the effort? Bolan wondered, and knew the answer was affirmative. Whatever they could learn from the prisoners could prove invaluable in stemming the tide of terrorism, perhaps even someday erase its dark stain from the world forever. And a few less butchers on the loose today made tomorrow a little safer place for those who only wished to live their days in peace.
The Executioner was standing out front near an M-1, waiting for Collins to emerge with what was left of the latest Cobra casualties in a bag. In the distance he made out the howling of mobs getting worked up into a frenzy. Just another day in the war-torn promised land. The sky, he saw, was choked with Apaches and Black Hawks, Israeli soldiers hopping out of the bellies of several of the birds, gone to join their comrades-in-arms to hold back what he could be sure was a raging Palestinian mob. The soldier maintained vigilance for any snipers lurking on the rooftops or claiming shooting holes inside the windows of surrounding apartment buildings.
Bolan saw Mamba and Diamondback wend their way through the rubble, a body bag each draped over their shoulders. According to Collins, Colonel Yehudin had lost two of his own men. Collins followed his commandos outside, keying his com link, Bolan spotting the Black Hawk coming in for pickup.
Collins walked up to Bolan, teeth gnashed. “We lost Lionteeth and Doc Holliday—one of those suicide bombers. I hope this isn’t where you’re going to tell me ‘I told you so.’”
Bolan simply shook his head.
“Good. Because Colonel Y. isn’t in the mood, either, thinking I somehow fucked up.”
Bolan kept his expression neutral as Collins peered at him.
“Nothing to say, Colonel?”
“No.”
“So let’s get out of this lousy country. We’ve got a ride to catch and some suspects to start grilling. I hear there are snipers in the area still, and I’d hate to get waxed now that this thing is over.”
Why was it, Bolan wondered, every time Collins opened his mouth he was sure the man was lying?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Habir Dugula knew he was staring into the faces of something so cold, deadly and lifeless the two white men were perhaps not even human, or so they at least appeared in his fear-addled state of mind. They were a malevolent presence, no question, he thought, inhuman creatures with no regard for human life, unless they were served, obeyed, could take. What was this? he wondered. He shivered next as the voice whispering deep in the caverns of memory seemed to want to tell him something. But what? That he was…looking into a mirror?
No. He was different, certain they had no families to support, nurture, care for, no allegiance to even their own, thinking and craving only themselves, the sating of the dark force raging inside their souls. He might have taken life himself, killed scores of his own people, but it was in the hope, he told himself, that someday he would rule and save Somalia.
He preferred the two whites with their black hoods on. On second thought he didn’t prefer looking at them with or without the ghoulish concealment, but there he was, and there they were, in the frightening flesh. Their silent laughing eyes seemed to want to tell him something, left him wondering if the future was now. Which, he feared, meant he was about to be executed.
The anxiety—the same churning in his belly he had felt since first encountering them—hit deep again, nearly paralyzing him when they unchained him from the bench, beckoned him to follow.
He rubbed chafed wrists, felt bowels rumble, his bladder swollen from endless hours of sitting in one position. Soiling himself now, he thought, would be the least of his concerns.
“Need to take a leak, Habbie, before we start?”
He balked, thinking One Eye could actually read his mind.
“Relax, Duggie.”
The scarred mind reader, with those reptilian eyes boring into him, made Dugula believe this one didn’t think the fires of Hell were all that bad, that he could take whatever he dished out, and then some.
“Don’t look so constipated,” the Scar went on. “We’re here to help. Sort of lay out the future for you and the others.”
“What we call show
time. About that leak?”
There was an open commode in the rear, and he had watched as the others had been unchained, one by one, led by gunpoint to stand or squat over the stainless-steel bowl. Several times One Eye had undertaken the task. Whereas the others flushed the waste out of the ship, the One Eye ghoul left it, stinking air that was already vile with hanging fumes of sweat, blood and fear. Dugula gave relieving himself brief consideration, but the hideous spectacle of One Eye grinning at him in front of the others, and he figured he could hold on until they landed wherever they were going.
“I can manage.”
“Good,” Scar said. “Do follow.”
One Eye chuckled. “Hey, but if you feel the urge, let me know.”
They passed the cubicles where a few soldiers were hunched over consoles. They were airborne once again after hours of delay on unknown ground. More soldiers with assault rifles—twenty in all, he counted—had come up the ramp, most of them now standing guard over the others.
They led him deep to a dark corner, port side. He became uncomfortably aware they were moving him far away from any sign of life. He saw another cubicle, more computer consoles, communications equipment, a soft green light dancing off the partitioned walls. Out of the shadows, One Eye slid a large footlocker across the floor, placed it in the open area in front of the cubicle.
“Take a seat, Duggie. There is where you get the dreaded ‘we need to have a talk’ moment.”
He hesitated, then sat, watched as One Eye slid the pistol out of his holster. His heart lurched, the sick grin staring him back, but One Eye set the weapon on the edge of a table. Scar settled down on a table opposite his comrade, one leg dangling. They lit cigarettes, both blowing thick streams in his face, his eyes tearing at the harsh sting, lungs hacking, then the clouds thinned enough where he could breathe.
Scar held out his pack. “Want one?”
One Eye swiveled the seat on a bolted-down chair. “Go on, might help you relax.”
Dugula shook his head. One Eye hit him with another cloud between the eyes, but Dugula began to feel something moving, around or beneath him he wasn’t sure, looked at his feet. Was it the floor? he wondered. The plane shimmying, up and down, as it hit turbulence, rocking the bin beneath him? Was that a thud he heard inside the box?
“The Exterminator, huh,” One Eye said, cigarette locked in the frozen grin.
“I’m here to tell ya’, you ain’t no Attila, Duggie,” Scar said.
One Eye scowled. “Nor any King Groethe.”
“You ever hear of the Dark Ages king of the Groethe clan?”
“Called the Snake-eater?”
A pause, twin waves of smoke rolling over him and for a moment the two whites vanished in the clouds.
Scar glanced at One Eye, frowning. “Didn’t think so.”
“Yeah, why would a charcoal-colored baboon know anything about European history? Doesn’t even know about his own. How it was Arabs, the rejected offspring of Abraham, by the way—and not Europeans—who were the greatest enslavers and oppressors of blacks. Kind of ironic, don’t you think, they claim Islamic names and wrapped themselves all up in Muslim brotherhood back in America?”
Now the racial insults, he thought, keeping any expression off his face, but felt the anger now cracking through his mounting fear. Were they simply taunting him? Did they want him to erupt in a rage, give them an excuse to kill him?
They smoked in silence for several moments, staring him down, shrouding themselves in clouds, then Scar said, “It’s called the secret history of the world. It’s locked away in a vault deep beneath the Vatican. I know of a close personal friend, once assigned to guard the Pope after the assassination attempt…. Well, I’ll spare you the details, but he’s seen it.”
“It has it all, from what the Garden of Eden really was, where man—and woman, excuse me, my political incorrectness—was first born, what his original sin was, meaning what Eve actually did, entire history of the human race. Every sad or gory or proud or vainglorious or supernatural moment down through the ages to the present and future. Even spells out the exact date of the end of the world, events leading up to, the horror…”
“And the rapture.” Scar lit another cigarette off the dying butt. “What that particular event will be is a UFO. Covers the entire sky, four corners of Earth.”
“Blinding light show, then poof. The chosen vanish into the mothership.”
“King Groethe is in this book,” Scar said.
“The Dark Ages king, remember, Habbie. Listen up, this is important.”
“What it was,” Scar said, “Attila, king of the Huns, made several massive incursions into Eastern Europe.”
“The original Exterminator, Habbie, not a pretender like yourself.”
“Anyway, Duggie, they swept through Poland several times, got to the border of what is now Germany with every try, then got thrashed by King Groethe and his barbarian hordes. Real tough guys to a man they were, I’m talking they doled out a shellacking that was beyond epic. Picture a bunch of little arrow-winging Huns on those little ponies charging thousands of Conans, decked out in leather and fur, swords as long as you are tall…what were the numbers?”
“The Huns always invaded with nothing short of two hundred thousand strong. Groethe’s force was one-quarter that size. Amazing stuff.”
“Kicked the Hun crap out of them, chased them nearly a thousand miles back into Russia, a river of blood the whole way.” Scar chuckled. “You’re talking a trail of hacked-up, decapitated, amputated, castrated Huns that not even the two of us can fathom or picture in our wildest wet ones. Love that guy Groethe.”
“You want to take our food, you want to fuck our women, assholes?” One Eye laughed.
“You’re going to have to earn it, because if I lose I won’t be around to see or feel the shame and disgrace. Nothing but big swaying balls all around. Except for the two of us here, they don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
Dugula was becoming more unnerved, but felt his anger rising over their sick nonsense. He felt his lips move, uttered, “The point?”
“We’re getting there,” Scar said.
“Jirvic,” he continued, “the hill in Poland was called. The last try by Attila was a few weeks before he died. He gave it one last shot, give the man credit where it’s due, and it was a whopper. Groethe and men charged down the hill, same sad story for Attila. This time, Attila makes a fast exit, and Groethe holds back…”
“Figures by now Attila’s seen the light.”
“But on their way out of Poland,” Scar said, matching his comrade’s grin, “they leave behind a very nasty surprise. They brought cobras with them from the Far East and India.”
“Cobras?” Dugula said.
“Cobras,” Scar said. “It nearly changed the entire course of human history.”
“Fifteen-thousand-plus serpents, carried in sacks, all the way from home sweet home,” One Eye said. “Most of them impregnated females, ready to pop. Devious bastard, Attila.”
Dugula felt the grin nearly cut his lips, then checked it as twin scowls, forming as if on cue, stared him back through the smoke.
“I see you, Mr. Skeptical,” Scar said. “Thinking it’s too cold in Poland or anywhere in Europe for serpents to live. Easy enough to explain. It was summer. They could manage a few more months, but that’s all Attila was hoping for. By then, he figured enough of his enemies would be killed off, countryside crawling with cobras, ride back, shoot with arrows whatever was left slithering about.”
“Didn’t work out that way, Habbie.”
“See, Attila had torched so much of Poland, destroyed all their crops…”
“No one, not even the Groethe clan—who had a few bad years farming because they were busy running around and massacring Huns and saving Europe—had anything to eat.”
Scar let the silence hang, then smiled. “Yeah, I see you, Mr. Wondering. Don’t wonder, Habbie, the Groethe clan did it, it happened. See, they had never seen
such a creature, awed and afraid, the hood, the fangs, all that, basic human reaction to snakes.”
“Perfectly understandable, the fear, revulsion. Even the Devil is a snake, or so we hear. Me? I don’t believe there is a Devil.”
Dugula shuddered, thinking, Then you need to take a look in the mirror.
Scar cleared his throat. “At first, naturally, they didn’t realize its bite could kill, then when a few of them keeled over, they knew they had a serious problem, suspected even they were faced with extinction.”
“Near perfect form of genocide. Let the snakes do the dirty work.”
Scar smiled around his cigarette. “They hunted down the cobras, thousands at a time, had to. Save themselves from getting bitten first, but you’ve got Groethe and clan starving—a man’s got to eat, right—so they hacked off heads with swords, stomped them, whatever it took.”
“Once trampled, they were skinned, skewered over fires, Groethe and clan with bellies probably bloated on drink, then feasted on cobra meat. Written in this Vatican book they even used cobra venom as a sort of…mixer for their wine. Female eggs, cracked open on skillets, scrambled or over-easy, all of it. Now you’d think drinking all that venom would have killed them. Apparently it didn’t, hell, it only made them stronger, even more ferocious because the Romans were up next, but that’s another story that needs to be corrected, Hollywood having gotten it all wrong with their Gladiator nonsense.”
One Eye flicked away his cigarette, head bobbing. “Damn near ate the cobra population to its own extinction. What they didn’t consume the winter got.”
Dugula couldn’t find his voice, mind racing, wondered about this insane story, if they were lying, but something in their eyes told him…
No, he thought, it couldn’t be true. If it was, then how could this fantastic accounting of supposed history be kept from the world? Again the turbulence, and he would have sworn something was stirring beneath him. They caught the look, but there was never any doubt they would.
“Wondering if it’s true, Duggie?”
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