Hammer of God: Alex Hunter 5.5 (3 page)

Hammerson’s phone buzzed and he lifted it to his ear. “Gerry?”

“Got something, Jack. Weird, but it might fit. No footage, but a call from the suspension bridge’s watchtower over the Tigris. Seems they had someone walking across the span bridge, carrying something on their back. The words they used in Arabic translated to:
it looked like a giant
.”

“Carrying a thousand-pound nuke on its back?” Hammerson frowned. Even Hunter would struggle with that. And this guy carried it, day and night, for hundreds of miles.
Impossible
, he thought.

“A walking WMD; like I said,
weird,
” Gerry said. “Give me a call if you need anything else.”

“You got it, and thanks, Gerry.”

Hammerson put the phone down and looked again at Alex’s picture. “Send a WMD to find a WMD.”

He flicked to the next screen. The scarred face of Second Lieutenant Casey Franks appeared. She had been HAWC Special Forces for a number of years. Standing five foot ten she was the most ferocious HAWC they had for hand-to-hand combat, and spent her time training her body – ripping it and punishing it – until she looked like she was assembled from whipcord and iron. With ice blue eyes and a snub nose, her face may have been called attractive once, but a cleft scar running from just below her left eye down to her chin pulled her cheek slightly to one side, giving her appearance a permanent sneer. If you ever needed someone to kick a door down and go through it to Hell, she’d be your first choice.

Hammerson selected her for the mission and moved to his last team member. The next image made him smile as the broad face of Sam Reid stared back at him. Sam was a two-legged tank, standing at six foot eight.. He was older than the rest of the team by a few years, and a man who exuded total confidence and calm. He was as laid-back as they came and was “Uncle Sam” to the team. Sam had been personally recruited by Hammerson himself – he was an ex-Ranger, 75
th
Regiment, just like he had been.

A previous mission to the Amazon had ended badly for Sam, with him shattering his L1 and L2 spinal plates, and worse, severing the cord. But fortuitously, advancements in bionics and battlefield armor had moved to field-test phase, so a few years back, Hammerson had authorized Sam for a trial of the new MECH suit – or part of it. The Military Exoskeleton Combat Harness was designed as the next-generation heavy-combat armor. On Sam, the half-body synaptic electronics were a molded framework built onto, and into, the unresponsive lower half of his body.

The hyperalloy-composite exoskeleton framework was light, flexible and a hundred times tougher than steel. Sam could now do anything he could before, with a few small advantages like being able to run at fifty miles per hour and kick a hole in a metal door.

Hammerson selected him for the mission. Sam also had another role. He was the closest thing to a friend that Alex Hunter had. If Alex suffered one of his fury-episodes and things started to go bad, then Sam was probably the only guy able to talk him back down.

Three top HAWCs was all Hammerson needed. The team was small enough to reduce chances of detection, but each member was the equivalent of a platoon when it came to skill, experience, and lethality. Working on foreign soil came with added risk. And when it was a war zone, that risk was magnified a hundredfold. They’d need local Intel.

Hammerson laughed softly. “Better the devil you know.” He lifted his phone. “Margie, get me General Meir Shavit.”

*

“Do you know how many countries in the Middle East would like to see the total annihilation of Israel, Jack?” Shavit breathed noisily as he waited.

“Most of them,” Hammerson replied evenly.

“Yes. We can engage and defeat any army in our neighborhood; we have done it before. But if one of them suddenly had the ability to carry out that desire to totally annihilate us, or to arm a proxy to do it on their behalf, without even having to show their face?” There was a low growl over the line. “Jack, this is a scenario that cannot be allowed to stand.”

“Then we have common objectives. This is not just
your
problem, General. This is a global problem,” Hammerson said.

“We have two simple objectives – find the current stockpile, and destroy it. Then we must seek the source, and that too must be destroyed.” Shavit breathed raspingly for a few seconds. “And we must seek that source on whatever path it takes us. Are you ready for that, Jack?”

Hammerson knew what Shavit was saying. There were only a few countries in the region that had the technology and capability to supply nuclear material, or perhaps even a fully functioning bomb to the rogue states. Pakistan and North Korea were suspects, but the crosshairs were also on Iran. No one knew exactly what they were capable of, and every time they refused UN inspections, stalled for time, or played politicians for fools, they were suspected of furiously building up their own capabilities in their underground sites.

Hammerson’s mind whirled. If the path led somewhere dark, would he be forced to look away for political expediency? Hammerson smiled with little humor; his role was without politics – Chilton made it that way. In his world, he decided what was right and what was wrong. A threat to the USA or its allies had to be met head on and totally obliterated. And in that regard, his and Shavit’s objectives aligned.

“We stand with you, General.”

“Good, Jack. It is a nasty business, and one we warned would come one day,” Shavit rasped. “I fear these detonations are but the opening act to a much greater performance yet to come.”

“What do you know about them, General?” Hammerson sat forward.

“We know they were brought in by a new type of suicide bomber. But how can this be? Our experts tell us that the first device, detonated at ground level in Soran, would have weighed about five hundred pounds. The next detonation in Iraq was even larger, and the containment and detonation package was estimated to be closer to nine hundred pounds. How can a single man even lift that, let alone carry it for over two hundred miles?”

“They can’t,” Hammerson said. “Or at least no ordinary man can. We call them Travelers, and something isn’t right about them.”

“There are forces who would consign us to a fiery end in the blink of an eye. I fear they are marching to our door. This cannot be left unanswered.” Shavit coughed dryly. “I know you are with us, Jack. But are your masters? That I’m not so sure about.”

“They also obliterated our people, and hundreds of thousands more. We’re all in this together now. If this is a new form of tactical device and delivery methodology, then our military bases in the Middle East are at risk, as well as all of Europe.”

“This is true,” Shavit said, coughing dryly.

Hammerson winced, wishing the guy would take a sip of water. He waited, but the old warrior didn’t continue. Hammerson had a sudden thought – they’d already gone in by themselves. He took a gamble. “General, we know you’re already on the ground in Iraq. You need our support on this.”

There was a hoarse laugh. “Your Intel is good, Jack. But support is a capricious thing. We cannot afford to be constrained by our supporters when it comes to our own backyard. You get to go home, and we are left to clean up the mess, before it becomes everyone’s mess.”

“We’re going in, General. We’d like your assistance, but with or without it, we’ll be there in a few hours.” Hammerson had nothing to lose, so gambled some more. “We’ll see you in Mosul.” He smiled as he waited.

The silence stretched until there came a long, weary sigh.

“General, you won’t be taking orders and you won’t be constrained,” Hammerson said evenly. “We’ll be working together as partners.”

“And if we find anything … provocative?” The general’s voice held a challenge.

Hammerson knew this was the final test. “If we find anything, then we destroy it. We leave zero capability.”

Once again there was silence, and then another soft exhalation of breath. “We have sent three agents. Their orders are immutable, and will not be swayed by your own people. Too much is at stake now, Jack. We will seek and destroy. Join us in this mission, or stay away from us.”

“Then we have similar mission objectives. Where can we rendezvous?”

Hammerson heard some ruffling of papers. “There is a town in the Ninwa Province, called Jurn. I will send you the coordinates. We will be there in six hours, Jack.”

Hammerson looked at his watch and whistled. “Give us ten.”

Shavit laughed. “You were never really on your way, were you?”

“We are now.” Hammerson sat back and smiled.

From the ground the Rockwell B-1R Lancer bomber was invisible as it slipped through the atmosphere at around 42,000 feet. The high speed, high altitude bomber was doing a tick over Mach 2, and at that speed and height, it was well beyond the range of guided missiles. The craft had been cleared by the Iraqis on the pretext it was examining the radiation bloom traveling across the continent – but only part of that data had been true, as the examination to be undertaken would be a little more intrusive than the locals expected.

The three figures seated in the back looked more like assembled robots than human beings. From head to boot, they were encased in an armored uniform that reflected the inside of the bomber’s rear cabin. It was an adaptive camouflage that interpreted their surroundings to provide a suitable cloak, blending them to their environment.

For now, it was as black as the shadows they sat within. Some of the molded plating looked like the exoskeleton of an insect. Further adding to this image was the full-face helmet that had dark lenses, glossy black, and impenetrable insect-like eyes. Over the back and shoulders were aerodynamic packs in a twin-bulbed case that contained a simple thruster propulsion system. Not that the HAWCs would need any more speed on their way down, but as they had no parachutes, there would be a reverse blast from the turbine fans when they needed to slow. Parachutes could be seen from the air, and in some cases even picked up on radar. A single falling body, with low metallic trace, was harder to see … and therefore harder to hit.

Weapons were stored in pouches and sheaths. Heckler & Koch USP45CT pistols, a HAWC favorite, were smooth and matte black sidearms made of a molded polymer with recoil reduction, and a hostile environment nitride finish. The variant trigger made it lightening quick, and the upgraded frequency shifting pushed discharge noise beyond the range of human hearing. The HAWCs also had K-Bar knives – long and short, their tanto edge was like that of a chisel and they were laser-honed so they were sharp enough to perform surgery, and strong enough to cut bone.

The lights in the rear cabin’s bomb bay went to red, and everything took on a gothic gloom. Alex stood and looked at his small team. Both Casey Franks and Sam Reid rose to their feet. Alex held out a fist and they all brought theirs together at the center, the plated knuckles clacking as they struck one another.

“We are ghosts; in and out without a trace.” He waited as they repeated the phrase, knowing it by heart. He stared into the glossy black eye-shields. “We are the sword and the shield. If any get in our way, they will fall.”

“They will fall,” came the response.

Thirty seconds to target zone.
The voice from the cockpit sounded just as the bomb bay doors whined open. A blast of sub zero air screamed in. Beyond the doors, there was nothing but a dark void.

“Form up.” Behind Alex, the huge form of Sam and the muscular Casey got into line, waiting.

Five, four, three, two, one … drop
.

Alex walked forward and without hesitating, dived. Neither Sam nor Casey flinched before following. Yet both probably remembered one of the things that Major Jack Hammerson had told them many years before –
HAWCs rarely died of old age
.

The outside atmosphere at forty thousand feet was a staggering sixty degrees below zero with little oxygen. Their suits would provide air and thermal protection, but only for a while. As they fell, short wings emerged from their packs, and they accelerated quickly. Within a minute they were traveling at two hundred miles per hour.

Alex and his small team moved into an arrowhead formation, hands back by their sides and feet only slightly spread. The ground was still just patches of yellow and brown with a huge mountain range to the north. It was a strange sensation and one Alex never stopped being thrilled by, being at such a height, free falling, and looking down onto snow-capped mountains. The sun was just peaking over the horizon, but they would outpace it, and when they reached landfall, there would still be predawn darkness.

In the distance Alex could see Mosul, their target, perhaps another fifty miles to the north-north east, and just below them was the much smaller town of Jurn, where they were to meet an old friend. Alex smiled in his helmet at the thought of the encounter.

He dropped his shoulder by about an inch, causing his body to bank. Casey and Sam banked with him. They needed to land on the outskirts of the township, and nowhere near any houses or people. The entire area was under control of the terrorists now, and though the people might not have been sympathizers, they were in such fear of the butchers that they might inform on the HAWCs, just to try and buy some safety for their families.

Together the human gliders in the sky corkscrewed down in a two-mile wide loop. They passed through the five-thousand-foot barrier, and Alex’s eyes moved over the landscape, searching for anything that could hint at danger while they were vulnerable in the air. They were still traveling too fast for any snipers to pick up, but he certainly didn’t want helicopters following them to earth.

“Begin our slow.” Alex said to his team, then spread his arms and legs. “Brace.”

The buffeting was instantaneous and punishing. He heard the grunts from Sam and Casey. Alex had done this many times, and he was well aware of what the high velocity turbulence could do to muscle and bone. The suits would insulate them from most traumas, but still, it was like being beaten with a hundred baseball bats.

“Still coming in too hot, boss.” Sam’s voice was tight as he probably gritted his teeth through the beating he was taking.

Time to throw out the anchors
, Alex thought, and then:
please work
. A lot of the HAWC kit was experimental, and they got to field test some cool stuff. Most of the time it worked just fine.

“Fire ’em up.” They each started their thruster packs. One after the other, the turbines began whining to life, and Alex breathed a sigh of relief. Vents opened, front and rear, and air was grabbed, compressed, and then blasted out. The packs were not strong enough for actual flight, but could hold a single passenger’s weight just long enough to give them a soft landing – or at least that was the plan. Sam wasn’t exactly your usual passenger’s weight, though.

At a thousand feet from the ground, the human missiles spun in the air and spread their arms out, their feet directed at the ground. The thruster’s bulb engines sitting over each shoulder started to get hot as they furiously vented the air behind and below them.

They slowed, and then the only problem became keeping upright for a perfect landing. Still, it would feel like jumping off a two-story building, so rocks were best avoided.

Alex and the team headed for a patch of hard-packed sand, just a mile away from the oasis town of Jurn. Alex came in first, landing hard with an audible thump and sinking to his ankles in the sand. He went down on one knee with one fist striking the ground like he’d been taught. He immediately straightened.

Two more thumps and then grunts around him told of his team landing close by. He turned in time to see the huge form of Sam Reid sunk in to his knees, and then dragging his trunk-like legs free to stand tall. If anyone were watching, they would have just seen three huge figures fly in and land.

The thruster engines whined down to nothing as they powered out, their batteries exhausted. Each of them then quickly shrugged off the winged machines that now glowed red from the heat. The dust swirled around them and then settled. On the eastern horizon, a hint of orange told of an approaching dawn. Alex clicked on his throat mic.

“All down; proceeding.”

He knew there would be no response. The information would be compressed, and then bounced off numerous satellites to Hammerson back home. The granite-faced man would read it, his face impassive, knowing the hard work was yet to come.

“Let’s move.” Alex began to head toward the tiny town of Jurn with Sam and Casey at each shoulder.

*

Leyla had her hands clutched to her chest, and could feel her heart beating under her tiny fingers. She had seen the light in the sky and had at first thought it was a shooting star. But it had been much, much more. She barely believed her eyes.

She remembered what her father had told her before he was taken, before the fire. That when things were darkest, then the angels would come.

The dust cleared some more, and then there they were – the three huge angels with glowing wings on their backs. She swallowed down her fear. They were giants, and powerful, but not as she had pictured them – they were frightening to look at.

Good,
she thought.
Father also said that they would strike like the hammer of God
.

She stepped back further into the shadows. She watched them head toward Jurn, and she crushed her eyes shut, and prayed that her father would be rescued.

And if he was dead, then she prayed for a bloody vengeance.