Hammer of God: Alex Hunter 5.5 (2 page)

General Meir Shavit was the head of Metsada, the Special Operations Division of the Mossad. Short and grizzle-haired, he had served his country for over fifty years in both military theaters and dedicated intelligence services. He could even boast an apprenticeship under the fearsome Ariel Sharon in the infamous Unit 101 – Israel’s very first Special Forces command.

Though the Mossad was classed a civilian bureaucratic security operation, Shavit’s Metsada was the most structured and professional. It was also the deadliest, responsible for assassination, paramilitary operations, sabotage, and psychological warfare. Metsada was Israel’s fist, and Shavit was its brain.

Shavit spread the photographs out on his desk like a hand of playing cards. His stubby finger came down on one with a circle of red around a flat roofed building.

“In here, Addy. That is where we believe the bomb originated.” He looked up at his niece, his eyes yellowed from years of smoking. “There are no traces leading in, only ones leading out.”

Adira Senesh nodded, looking at the building, memorizing every stone, crack and piece of rubble in the streets surrounding it. Noting access points, exits, and potential danger zones from surrounding buildings.

“A bomb factory.” She knew it must be fortified. “They must have landed a helicopter on the roof. Dropped the components or completed device in that way.”

Shavit grunted. “I think yes. They received it there, and then someone, one person, somehow walked it to Soran.” He sat back. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible.” She remembered one man who could do it.
And if he could
… She stood at attention, waiting for her orders.

“The American Central Intelligence Agency has combined with the Iraqi National Intelligence Service and the Iraqi Army. But none of them can safely enter Mosul while it is under the control of Hezar-Jihadi. And what good is a spy agency when every informant they pay, the terrorists pay more to send them wrong information or entrap them.”

His fingers drummed for a moment. “Addy, we cannot wait for our answers. We must know what’s in there.” He breathed wheezily for a few moments. “Be our eyes in there, Addy.”

“And if we find something?” she asked.

Shavit seemed to hold his breath, and looked up at her with rheumy eyes. “Then destroy every atom of it.”

The International Zone, formerly known as the Green Zone, or just “the Zone”, was home to American, British, Australian and Egyptian embassies, as well as numerous private military contractors.

It was an oasis of modernity and what the Iraqi government hoped would one day be a template for the rest of the country. Access was heavily guarded, and few thoroughfares were larger or better monitored than the Arbataash Tamuz Suspension Bridge that crossed the Tigris River, a border to the Zone.

A watch tower and a series of gates slowed the traffic across the bridge, and a couple of M1117 Guardian Armored Security Vehicles, or ASVs, were parked off at each side, both with their turret mounted M2HB Browning machine guns pointed at the roadway.

There had been no attacks in months now, and slowly, hour by hour, the city seemed to be moving back to a sense of normality.

Zaid Surchi was one of six guards in the span tower that stretched across the entire roadway. His automatic weapon was slung over his shoulder, and in a large hard covered case at his feet sat an RPG rocket launcher. The barriers would slow any foolhardy suicide bomber in a vehicle and then the RPG would send them to hell long before they got to the Zone.

Zaid checked his watch – four more hours to go of his shift. The sun was high, and a small mercy of working on the bridge over the river meant a constant cool breeze; he knew there could be a lot worse places to be stationed.

On his rotation he had five shift partners, and they were currently spread along the long watchtower’s platform. Three chatted quietly together, one watched the boats moving on the river with a powerful pair of field glasses, and the last, his friend Hajii Mahmoud, watched the road, his neck straining.

Hajii pulled the glasses away from his face momentarily before going back to staring, his brows knitting together. From the roadway there came the sound of car horns blaring.

“Hey …” he said. “Hey, Zaid, come look at this.” He was grinning now. “Looks like some oaf has decided to bring their washing.”

Zaid turned and squinted at the rows of cars. One lane of the approaching traffic was being held up, slowed by a figure walking ponderously down the center of the road with what looked like a huge sack over his shoulders.

“Pretty big for a washerwoman.” He clicked his fingers at one of the other men. “Hey, get the ASVs on the line; get us a visual.”

All the five guards now strained to see the approaching figure. Zaid frowned. “Looks like they’re wearing a niqab, but … I think it must be a man, or the biggest woman in the world.”

Hajii still grinned as he lowered his field glasses. “It is a washerwoman. See, she brings her washing machine with her.” He guffawed.

Jamal Barzani, their superior officer on watch, joined them. He motioned with his head. “Someone better get down there and get that fool off the road. The traffic is backing up.”

Horns blared, and the lanes still open became sluggish as drivers slowed to stare or yell abuse at the slow moving man. But on he came, one foot after the other, bent forward, his deep shawl hanging loosely, totally covering his face. The giant man never looked left or right, just walked on as if the world around him didn’t exist.

Zaid heard Jamal call his name and he turned to his officer. “You’ve notified the ASVs?”

Zaid nodded.

“Good.” Jamal leaned on the railing. “Go down there, take Hajii, and be careful. Could be a diversion.” He went to turn away, but paused then spun back. “Call it in to HQ. Just in case.”

Zaid and Hajii both groaned, but nonetheless shouldered their automatic weapons, went to the end of the tower platform, and descended the steps to the street. Shoulder to shoulder they jogged down the roadway.

“By all the prophets.” Hajii slowed. “It is a giant.”

Zaid also slowed. “Still think it’s the local washerwoman?”

Even hunched forward, the figure was taller than both men; straightened, he would have stood nearly seven feet tall.

“Cover me.” Zaid walked forward while Hajii, who was cradling his rifle in his arms, brought the barrel around in the direction of the huge figure.

Zaid held up a hand. “Hey, you there, stop.”

The giant ignored him, or didn’t hear him.

“Hey, you. I said,
halt!
”

The huge person lumbered on, neither looking one way nor the other. Zaid turned to shrug at his colleague. In turn, Hajii shook his head and then pointed his gun in the air. He fired twice, the reports loud even over the sounds of the traffic.

The being stopped, and there was an almost imperceptible lifting of his head, as though checking on his whereabouts. He was now over the river and only a half mile from the direct center of the Zone.

“Identification papers.” Zaid came forward, feeling his heart race in his chest. There was a strange smell surrounding the figure, like old meat left out in the sun. Zaid kept his hand on his gun. Even though the person’s head had lifted slightly, he still had no hope of seeing the face underneath the folds of the long cowl.

The man suddenly shrugged off the large pack, and let it slide to the ground. Chips of road pavement flicked out, and Zaid felt the thump of the impact through the soles of his feet.
Whatever it is, it must have enormous weight
, he thought.

The huge hands came around to the pack, and Zaid saw they were ripped and scored with raw scars in the shape of some sort of unintelligible Arabic script. The fingers worked slowly and methodically to unstrap the pack, and flip the top open. Zaid leaned forward, his eyes suddenly going wide.

“
Bomb!
”

The single shout seemed to freeze time and space for a fraction of a second. In a city once wracked with shootings, kidnappings, and sectarian tension, this one word was the most feared. It was like yelling shark at a crowded beach.

People screamed and ran, cars sped away or tried to futilely back up. Zaid and Hajii raised their weapons, screaming orders, their training taking over, and the ASV machine gun turrets swung around.

With the pack now open, the man straightened, flipped back his cowl, and looked skyward, revealing his dead gaze, and a patchwork of scars and differing hued flesh, as though the huge, monstrous being was a human quilt sewn together. On his carved face, his lips opened, as if the thing wanted to speak, but could not.

Zaid fired first, immediately followed by Hajii. Their M16A4s each had thirty round clips, and both were set to full automatic. Two streams of 62-grain rounds smacked into the massive body at close range. The giant being’s clothing dappled and jumped from the strikes, but the man didn’t go down. Instead, he simply bent back to the drum-sized package.

The two Guardian Armored Security Vehicles opened up with their turret mounted M2HB Browning machine guns. The heavy caliber weapons chewed up the road surface as they traced a line toward the figure, at last belting into him. One of his trunk-like arms was nearly blown from his shoulder, and fist-sized chunks of flesh exploded from his neck and trunk. But if the thing felt pain, if he heard or sensed anything, he didn’t show it.

Finally, he reached into the pack with his remaining good arm, and then pressed down hard on something. The world turned white-hot.

*

“It’s all gone.” Five-star General Marcus “Chili” Chilton threw the folder onto the desk. “The International Zone is gone; even the surrounding land will be uninhabitable for the next decade, and that’s only if we get scrubbers in there.”

He sat down heavily. “Sixty thousand dead. That’ll end up more like a hundred thousand once the critically injured die. And that included a helluva lot of our people.” He sighed. “Greg Swan and his family were in there. Good people, all vaporized.”

Chilton turned to Jim Harker, his staff sergeant. “Thirty fucking kilotons, Jim. Bigger than Nagasaki and Hiroshima combined, and the first goddamn thermonuclear device to be set off in a major city for over seventy years.” He clasped one fist in another. “A big tactical weapon, a city killer, brought right to our front door.”

“Walked to our front door,” Harker said softly. “Jack Hammerson is calling them
Travelers
; he’s sent us some images you should see.” He called up the data on his tablet and handed it to Chilton. “It’s just like Soran.”

Chilton stared at the small screen for a moment. “Yeah, just like Soran.” He snorted softly as he watched the satellite trace track backwards in time. “And emanating from Mosul again.”

Harker nodded.

Chilton laid down the tablet and sat back. “We burned through a lot of blood and treasure in Iraq, we’re pulled out for less than a year, and already its cities are being overrun by medieval barbarians. They’re beheading, burying alive, butchering, and raping their way across the countryside. Many can’t even read or write, and now they suddenly get access to nukes? This is not a good picture being painted here.”

Chilton stared into the distance. “We should go back in, to Mosul. But it would take a thousand troops and a mountain of armor to fight our way into that city. Congress would never allow it.”

“And even if you got approval, what if you managed to get your troops and mountain of armor to kick down Mosul’s front door, and they had another nuke, just waiting for you?” Harker shook his head. “Can’t bring ashes home in body bags, sir.”

Chilton turned, his face grim. “We still need to go in.”

“We need to go in, but can’t be seen in there. Need something that can travel under the radar, but has high lethality.”

Chilton picked up the small computer tablet, and looked once again at the screen images. “Hammerson gave us this, did he? Seems he’s already taking an interest.”

Chilton’s finger tapped on the desk for a moment as his eyes narrowed. “If I know that old hardhead, he’s already halfway there.” He leaned forward and snatched up a phone. “Get me Jack Hammerson, now.”

*

Hammerson put the phone down – the Iraq mission was a
green light
. He looked back to his screen. It was a shot of the Middle East taken from low orbit. A huge oily stain spread across the landscape, from the center of Baghdad, out for a hundred miles, almost touching the city of Fallujah to the west.

He recast the impression timeline. Once again the HRE trace had emanated from Mosul, and this time it was a 220-mile walk. Hammerson frowned, and pulled out a calculator, tapping in numbers. He wrote the result and began again. When he finished he compared the numbers and then sat back.

“You sons of bitches left at the same time, didn’t you?”

Based on his calculations, the walking bomb vectors, the Travelers, had set off from Mosul at the same time, the extra distance to the ground zero point at the Zone had delayed the second bomb detonation. Hammerson looked at the time line – the speed and pace were constant for days on end. This vector didn’t sleep, didn’t deviate, and never stopped, not even for a sip of water.

“Who or what the fuck are you guys?”

Hammerson rubbed both hands through his iron-gray crew cut before springing forward and snatching up his phone to call their electronics surveillance factory beneath the base. He sought out Gerry Harris, a friend and the man responsible for coordinating the constellation of orbiting birds that fed back a lot of the high-altitude intelligence from over the United States mainland, and also much of the globe.

He got him on first ring. “Gerry, it’s Jack, I need a favor. Can you tap into the Iraqi communications grid and find me any data from the last twenty-four hours relating to the Zone?”

“Easy. What are you looking for, Jack? Ah, wait, the nuke in Baghdad, right?” There was a furious tapping of keys. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll extract comms and bounce around the security grids for any stored CCTV.”

“Good man, Gerry, I’ll be here.”

Hammerson went back to his mission files and started to select a team. He wanted a small unit – two or three bodies, max. He had several HAWCs off-mission. He needed the best, the most formidable and experienced, and given they might need some local support, he had the perfect candidates in mind.

He selected several classified HAWC files, and then called up each individually. Firstly, there was Alex Hunter, the mission leader. His picture was at the side of screen file. Hunter was six foot two and had a brutally handsome face that could turn women’s heads or deliver a stare that’d freeze combatants to the spot. Alex Hunter was his protégé, and in some ways he was like a son. After all, Hammerson knew he was responsible for raising Alex from nothing – first to the HAWC ranks, and then later bringing him back from the brink of death.

Hammerson stared at the photograph. Hunter was older now but didn’t show it, other than a haunted sadness behind his eyes. After a mission in Chechnya, Hunter had suffered a catastrophic battlefield trauma and was brought back to the HAWCs more dead than alive. He’d been expected to live out his life in a vegetative state until his body withered, perhaps with his mind trapped inside, screaming to be free. But Hammerson had handed him over to the newly formed ASRU, the Alpha Soldier Research Unit of Fort Detrick’s Medical Command Installation. Hunter was to be their test subject for the experimental Arcadian treatment. It wasn’t expected to do more than deliver some cerebral stimulation for enhanced cognizance and muscular mobility. After all, the man was little more than a vegetable. But Alex Hunter had woken – and was much more than he had been. In fact, much more than anyone had ever been on the planet.

He was the one real success of the Arcadian treatment. Something already in Hunter’s system had bonded at the DNA level, changing him – mostly for good. He had increased strength, increased speed, improved cognitive abilities and wound recovery. But there were dark psychological side effects, some which nearly destroyed him. Hunter managed them, but the monster from the Id lurked inside the man. His fury was chained for now, but always there, waiting to break free.

Hammerson half smiled. The codename had stuck; Hunter wasn’t just the only Arcadian subject, now he
was
the Arcadian.