Scorpion

by Andrew Kaplan

  Suddenly, he felt his spine prickle, somehow aware of someone behind him. The corner of his eye caught the gleam of a khanjar blade. The Scorpion whirled and fired almost point blank into a bearded Shiite soldier’s face, opening a bleeding red hole where the nose used to be. The dying Shiite slashed savagely with the khanjar as he fell forward. The Scorpion fired again, but there was only the hollow click of the hammer on the firing pin. He had fired his last round! The blade sliced into the Scorpion’s arm even as he tried to sidestep. He swung the rifle with both arms, smashing the butt into the back of the Shiite’s head, cracking the skull like an eggshell.

  The Scorpion retrieved the dead Shiite’s khanjar and his M-16 rifle. It had a full clip. Two more Shiites ducked under the portico, their guns blazing. The Scorpion shot them where they stood.

  He charged across the colonnade, jumping over the bodies of the dead Shiites and through the arched doorway into the ancient citadel which stood at the heart of the fortress. He raced for the stone stairs leading to the old tower, where he had heard Salim’s scream coming from, just before Bandar had tried to execute him at the well.

  The narrow steps were steep and barely a foot wide. There was no banister and only a dim light filtered through the dusty air which seemed as ancient as the fortress itself, as if it had been here since the beginning of time.

  The Scorpion paused before ascending. His left arm had been cut near the bicep. It was bleeding steadily, but there was no time left to bind it. His luck still held, he thought, at least the muscle hadn’t been sliced through.

  He glanced around the citadel corridor, but it was empty. A long line of colonnaded arches made of mud brick stood lonely sentinel over the dust of centuries. The sounds of battle outside were muted, as if he were under water. He peered cautiously upward. There were about a hundred stairs, made of stone worn smooth as glass and concave in the centers from centuries of long-ago foot traffic. At the top of the stairs the outline of a square opening could be dimly seen; the stairway was a death trap, but there was no help for it, he decided. It was the only way up.

  He began to climb the stairs carefully, as if walking on eggs. He kept the M-16 aimed up at the opening on top. As he glided upwards silently as a ghost, the roar of explosions outside began to grow louder. He was about halfway up when he heard the clicking sounds of something bouncing down the steps.

  Two hand grenades!

  There was no escape! He couldn’t duck or sidestep or outrun them. There was only one chance. The Scorpion leaped upwards to meet them; only a second or two left. He caught one in his bare right hand and hurled it up towards the opening at the top of the stair as he swept the second grenade sideways with his foot. Balance gone, he fell back against the fortress wall. He was tumbling back down the stairs when both grenades went off at once.

  The grenade he had kicked exploded in mid-air well below him, the stairs partially shielding him from the razor-sharp fragments. His ears rang from the concussion and he couldn’t hear the screams from above.

  The Scorpion clawed at the stone stairs to arrest his fall and scrambled crazily upward on all fours, pouring automatic fire into the opening.

  He shot up through the opening like an exploding champagne cork, firing in mid-air in a wild blind arc. The bullets stitched across the middle of a wide-eyed Bedu officer holding a Colt. 45 and staring in terror at the three bleeding carcasses collapsed around the stair opening where the second grenade had blown. The Bedu tried to raise the pistol, but it clattered to the stone floor even before the Scorpion emptied the last M-16 rounds into him.

  The Scorpion dropped the M-16 and grabbing the Colt, leaped at the wooden ladder in the corner leading to the top of the turret. As he grabbed the bottom rung, a dark face peered down at him from a narrow opening at the top of the ladder. The Scorpion fired and the man’s rifle fell with a clatter down to the turret floor. The dead Arab slumped across the narrow opening. The bullet had hit him in the forehead, making it look as if he had three eyes.

  The Scorpion pulled himself up the ladder. He paused at the top for a second. What if he was too late? In a single movement, he yanked the dead Arab down and dodged sideways. As the body hurtled down, the Scorpion sprang up on to the roof of the turret, his heart pounding.

  The three men froze like figures in an improbable tableau.

  Prince Abdul Sa’ad stood in the center of the turret, a scimitar held high above his head. His face was dark with rage. The long curved blade glittering like ice in the brilliant sunlight. At his feet knelt the half-naked figure of the king, his torn white thaub hanging from his waist like a skirt. His hands were bound behind him, the fingertips red and bleeding from where his fingernails had been ripped away. It was an execution, the Scorpion realized. Another second and he would have been too late.

  The prince seemed to be standing in space, the small platform surrounded by the immense blue sky. Far below, from the crenellated parapet around the rim of the tower, the battle could be seen raging among the ruins, jagged as a lava field. The ancient tower swayed with the explosions like a tree in a summer storm.

  Abdul Sa’ad’s eyes glittered murderously as a snake’s.

  “Who dares …” Abdul Sa’ad hissed and the Scorpion realized that he was utterly insane.

  “You know who I am, O Prince of the Destroying Flame,” the Scorpion replied, his eyes narrowed to slits against the blinding sky glare.

  “You are too late, O Scorpion who was dead and now is spewed up from Hell. Thy sting cannot harm the Mahdi, the Chosen of Allah. Now all the nations shall see his sword outstretched in glory, shining like the Night of the Qadr,” intoned Abdul Sa’ad, his eyes fixed upward.

  “No, by the Dawn and the Ten Nights. Your armies are scattered like the evil tribes of Aad and Thamoud,” the Scorpion said.

  “Too late,” howled Abdul Sa’ad beginning to slash down with the scimitar at his brother’s bared neck.

  The Colt bucked in the Scorpion’s hand as he fired. The bullet caught Abdul Sa’ad in the temple. The sword clattered on the hot stone slate. Abdul Sa’ad collapsed over the kneeling king. As King Salim straightened up, Abdul Sa’ad rolled face down on the roof.

  With a slash of the khanjar, the Scorpion freed the king’s hands. Together, they shakily rose to their feet. Salim looked sadly down at Abdul Sa’ad’s body. He sighed as only an Arab can sigh, from the very depths of his soul.

  “He was my half-brother, you understand. A son of our father, the great King Abd al Aziz himself. He had much promise once. Too much perhaps. But unused talent is like uneaten food; after a time it begins to fester and rot. It will poison a man’s soul, O Scorpion.

  “It is hard. To be betrayed by a brother and saved by a stranger is hard,” Salim said wearily. He leaned heavily on the Scorpion’s shoulder. Then he forced himself to straighten up. He walked on shaky legs to the parapet.

  “I must show myself. It will hearten my soldiers,” he said, and waved down at his soldiers still cleaning up the last pockets of resistance. Then he turned back, an oddly playful look in his eye. “What took you so long? I was beginning to worry.”

  “So was I, Your Majesty. So was I.”

  The king gestured awkwardly at the Scorpion’s wounded arm as if he wished to bless it somehow.

  “Your arm. It’s bleeding badly.”

  “I know. There’ll be time for it now,” the Scorpion replied, cradling his blood-slick arm. Then something in his expression changed, causing King Salim to touch his shoulder with concern.

  “What is it?” Salim asked.

  “I was wrong. There is no time. Bandar must have gone back for the girl,” the Scorpion replied, a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The Sands of Dahna

  THE HOT WIND blew steadily into their faces as they pushed deeper into the heart of the desert. Youssef drove the Land-Rover hard, its four-wheel drive ploughing across the flat sandy plain.

  Youssef’s face was battle-weary and grim. Climbing into the
Land-Rover, the Scorpion had said the forbidden word at long last.

  “It’s time to settle all accounts—and for Aisha,” he had said. Youssef had nodded. Nothing is forgotten. He followed the tire tracks of Bandar’s stolen Jeep as fixedly as a bloodhound. It wasn’t hard. The parallel lines were the only tracks on the virgin sand. From time immemorial, travelers had avoided the uncharted wastes of Dahna. Perhaps that was why Bandar had fled in this direction. Youssef glanced over at his brother. The Scorpion lounged beside him, cradling an M-16 against his shoulder like a baby.

  It was late afternoon; still enough time, the Scorpion thought. The desert air had the opalescent sheen it acquires just before the long shadows and colors of dusk begin to emerge. The elongated shadow of the Land-Rover raced far ahead of them towards the distant rolling dunes of the Dahna. They had to catch Bandar before it grew too dark. Some of the dunes in the Dahna were over a hundred meters high. There were countless places for Bandar to hide among the steep hills of sand which could move ten or fifteen feet in a day.

  The desert air was blistering on his skin. He could smell the odor of the desert. It was an odor that had no odor—only heat, like water that has no taste yet is unmistakable. Youssef and he both leaned forward and scanned the empty horizon ahead like a pair of hunting falcons. Behind the Land-Rover was an endless plume of dust churned up by the wheels. Ahead, he could see only the twin tire tracks leading onward across the honey-colored plain and the distant shapes of the dunes on the horizon.

  He tried to put the girl out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about how he had come back to the well, knowing he would find it empty, yet still getting that hollow kicked-in-the-stomach feeling when he found her gone.

  It wasn’t hard to track Bandar’s movements. A trail of bodies, including some he had simply driven over, led them into the desert. There was still fighting and mopping up to do and Harris tried to fill him in over the radio. The Saudi National Guard had rallied to the king and loyal elements of the Royal Saudi Army had halted the Yemeni drive towards Mecca at Taif. There was a report that the Cuban, Huevas, had been killed outside Taif. Fighting had broken out at Qamr Bay on the Yemeni-Omani border. PLO commandos had blown up the oil facilities at Sea Island and Ras Tanura, but were now trapped by Saudi National Guard troops supported by U.S. Marine helicopters and naval air support. Fighting was reported at Basra in Iraq. Iran had mobilized forces on both its Soviet and Iraqi borders and had vowed to destroy the U.S. fleet and close the Straits of Hormuz. Apart from some bow-scraping incidents and a few dog-fights in the Straits, the U.S. and Soviet fleets stalked each other but hadn’t gone to DEFCON Red yet.

  Harris wanted a report on the ground situation, but the Scorpion left the receiver dangling and Harris talking to the air. A Rualla tribesman picked up the receiver and listened to the incomprehensible English sounds.

  The Scorpion had grabbed clothes and an M-16 from a dead Mutayri and he and Youssef had driven off.

  Why had she left the well, he wondered. Was it fear? Or was it getting too hot there? Or panic—after all she’d never before been in the sheer chaos and horror that is battle. Or maybe something else. Or maybe Bandar.

  But Bandar had found her. Bandar, whose very touch made her shudder like the slithering caress of a snake. And now they were racing for the darkness. It was kismet, the Scorpion knew. Either he or Bandar would die before the evening star rose over the dunes.

  The Land-Rover began to buck as the plain broke up into wavelets. The wheels sprayed plumes on either side as they drove straight through hillocks of sand. Behind them the sun began to droop towards the horizon, a blood-red tinge beginning to smear across the sky.

  Youssef nudged his shoulder and pointed dead ahead. “Allah is good. Look there!”

  Then the Scorpion saw it: the tiny shape flickering in the windshield glass, the man and woman like toy figures in the distance.

  “Faster. We have to get them before they reach the dunes,” the Scorpion shouted and was rewarded with a surge as Youssef floored the accelerator.

  The Land-Rover began to skid and fishtail as they bounced roughly across the humps of sand. The Scorpion had to grip the M-16 tightly with one battered hand and hang on with the other, but they were closer. They could see the two figures clearly now. The slender image of the woman, her golden hair streaming in the wind and the man in his black bisht fighting the wheel, glowed in the reddish dusk light as if outlined in neon.

  The Scorpion leaned dangerously out of the open window. Hanging on to the side and rocketing swayingly over the uneven ground, he raised the M-16 and fired short sharp bursts at the Jeep. He had to stop it, even at the risk of hitting Kelly. Ahead he saw Bandar raise a rifle, turn and fire a single shot back at them.

  The bullet ricocheted off the door mirror with a metallic whine, leaving a deep scar in the twisted chrome. It was an incredible shot, firing backwards while driving over uneven terrain. Bandar’s skill had to be taken into account, the Scorpion realized, even as he leaned out and fired again, emptying the clip. Whether any of the bullets hit the Jeep he couldn’t tell. They seemed to have no effect.

  They were beginning to close up, the skidding Jeep barely a hundred meters ahead. But the light had turned fiery red, as if the horizon was burning. There was little time left.

  Then, on his third clip, the Scorpion got lucky. He clearly heard the metallic whunk as the bullet slammed into the Jeep’s gas tank. The air filled with the strong scent of gas as the Jeep’s tank began to leak as though a tap had been turned on. Suddenly the Scorpion was thrown sideways as Youssef swerved to avoid Bandar’s aim. The slug tore through the windshield, creating an instant spider web, and embedded itself in the Land-Rover’s roof, passing cleanly between Youssef’s and the Scorpion’s head.

  They could hear the Jeep sputtering ahead. Youssef pumped the brakes like a demon and swerved the Land-Rover broadside, across the sands. He and the Scorpion dived for cover behind it as it skidded to a stop. Even before it had stopped they were already firing across the hood at the stalled Jeep.

  With a savage growl, Bandar hurled Kelly out of the Jeep and leaped after her, using her as a shield between him and the Land-Rover. He grabbed her by the throat and kept the muzzle of the AK-47 jammed into the underside of her jaw.

  “Scorpion! Throw down your rifle or by the Prophet’s beard I’ll blow her head off!” Bandar shouted.

  His voice had an ugly edge to it that caused the hairs on the back of the Scorpion’s neck to rise. He and Youssef looked at each other. Then they looked back at Bandar standing behind the girl. Her eyes were blank and mute as a rabbit’s. She was utterly terror-stricken.

  “Scorpion! I’ll kill her! I mean it!” Bandar howled, a fleck of froth at the corner of his mouth giving him the appearance of a mad dog. The Scorpion had no doubt whatever that he meant it.

  “Shoot her and you’ll be dead before she hits the ground,” he called back.

  “Throw down your gun and she lives. This is your last chance,” Bandar screamed.

  “No, Bandar. If I throw down my gun, we’re all dead. Either way the woman dies. She means nothing to me. All I want is a clear shot at you.”

  “You have murdered her! Let it be on your head!” Bandar howled in a frenzy. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Wait!” Youssef called.

  Bandar hesitated. If he fired, he was doomed. His last card had been trumped. He had only malevolence left.

  “Settle this the way it began … with khanjars. The woman is the prize for the victor,” Youssef said.

  An utter silence settled like dust over the desert. The wind died and the sand ceased its timeless whisper. Only the ragged animal breathing of the woman could be heard anywhere.

  “So be it!” Bandar announced contemptuously. He flung the woman aside and tossed the AK-47 back into the Jeep. The khanjar glittered in his hand as he waited. A trembling Kelly crawled behind the wing, her eyes wide as saucers, an unreadable look in them.

&nbs
p; “Do this for me. If he should win, shoot him,” the Scorpion muttered to Youssef out of the side of his mouth.

  “As Allah is my judge,” Youssef swore.

  The Scorpion stood and dropped his gun. He pulled the khanjar from his belt sheath and stepped out from behind the Land-Rover.

  Bandar and the Scorpion stood facing each other about ten feet apart. The sand was warm and red as blood. The setting sun had turned them all into figures of fire and shadow. The Scorpion’s heart pounded. It was for this moment that he had been born. His kismet had brought him to this desolate arena as surely as if he had been guided along a track. Now all the remembered insults and humiliations came back. Rage bubbled under icy control within him, the optimal killing attitude. They both went into a crouching stance, knives held before them, circling in a deadly rite as ancient as time itself, never taking their eyes off the opponent’s dagger. The blades were razor sharp. They glittered like rubies in the scarlet dusklight.

  Bandar suddenly dropped his shoulder and stabbed forward, the blade tip coming within an inch of the Scorpion’s belly, but the Scorpion didn’t flinch. He had judged it a feint.

  They circled in the sand, feinting and dodging to test each other’s reflexes. The Scorpion flicked his khanjar at Bandar’s wrist. Bandar’s blade circled under the Scorpion’s and stabbed at the Scorpion’s heart. The Scorpion twisted aside at the last second. Allah, he thought. Bandar was quick as a cat. Bandar’s bad eye glowed red as a bloodstone.

  The Scorpion moved. He feinted at Bandar’s arm, then circled under Bandar’s parry and thrust forward. Bandar’s khanjar slashed back at the Scorpion’s, blade ringing dully against blade and then they were apart, circling again. This time a new wariness had come into Bandar’s good eye.

  Bandar stepped back two paces, whirled and as he turned back towards the Scorpion, there was a shadow of something dark in his other hand. The Scorpion heard a muffled scream from Kelly’s direction even as he reacted with a back-to-front crescent kick. His foot caught Bandar’s automatic as the trigger jerked and sent the gun spinning into the shadows as it fired. The loud report shattered the stillness like crystal.