Hammer of God: Alex Hunter 5.5 (5 page)

There was a flicker of movement in one of the windows.

“Time to go,” Alex said. “Seems there is somebody home after all.” He flicked the cigarette away, and together they ambled down the street and turned the corner.

*

Casey walked beside Eli. Both were looking at the street, assessing, searching for anything that would hint at danger or higher risk. She spotted Sam and Moshe at a far intersection but ignored them. Theirs, Alex’s, and also Sam’s risk assessment would all feed into the coming night’s insertion plan.

“Fucking graveyard,” Casey muttered. There were a few people about but behind the walls and doors, there was silence.

“Music is banned, singing is banned, secularism is banned.” Moshe snorted. “Welcome to paradise under Hezar-Jihadi rule.”

“Yeah, real fun place,” Casey growled back.

They turned into an alley, this one more decrepit, with a few of the buildings looking abandoned. Doors hung open or teetered on bent hinges, and beyond their entrances was nothing but darkness. From further down in the alleyway there came a squeal, like that of a hurt animal.

“We should go another way,” Moshe said.

“Why? If there’s a risk, I want to see it and assess it now, rather than tonight.” Casey lifted her pace.

“Hey …
ach
.” Moshe scurried after her.

At an open doorway, a man lay sprawled in the street, and an older woman was trying to cover him with her hands. A girl was being held by the hair by one of two men in army fatigues who stood over the group.

“What the fuck?” Casey hissed through clamped teeth.

“Do
not
intervene,” Eli said, grabbing at her. “These men are Morality Police. They enforce strict religious rule. Leave them be.”

“What? Like maybe they saw her through a window singing, or more likely with her hair uncovered? That’s not policing.” She half turned. “What’ll happen?”

“That depends. They may beat them, or maybe just imprison her for her crime.”

“What freaking crime?” Casey’s teeth were bared as she yanked her arm free of him.

Eli shrugged. “They make up rules that suit them. But we cannot get involved.”

“Like hell we can’t,” Casey growled. “Think I’ll show them my rules.” She continued toward the two men, who still held so tight to the girl’s hair that her head was pulled back, exposing her neck.

Casey could see that the elderly father had already suffered severe blows to his face, probably just for the insult of trying to defend his own daughter.

“This will be bad.” Eli tried to keep pace with Casey.

“Damn right it will be,” Casey spoke over her shoulder. “If the strong do not protect the weak, what is the point of being the strong?”

“
Shitzn
, wait, let me do the talking.” Eli sped to overtake her.

Both men attacking the family paused as Eli and Casey came down the lane toward them. Eli raised a hand. “Brothers, can we help with this foolish family?”

The men looked briefly at each other and shook their heads. “No, be on your way.”

“Then the girl … is she for sale?” Eli put his hand in his shawl. “She is a beauty; what is her price?”

One of the men snorted. The other looked down at the girl, nodding. “Yes, she is that. But she must be taught a lesson. If she acts like a whore, she will be treated as a whore.” He looked at Eli and grinned. “You can have what we leave … for free.”

He started to drag her away. The girl screamed and the mother wailed, wanting to stand, but the father was in too much of a mess to release his bloody head from her hands.

“Well, you’ve had your turn,” Casey said to Eli as she threw her shawl back. Her white crew cut, fair skin and ice pick blue eyes glared at the two Mosul fighters. Both froze momentarily, not sure what they were actually looking at.

The man holding the girl dropped her like a sack and fumbled with his gun. Casey crossed to him in three quick steps and brought a blade up and under his chin, jamming it through his larynx and up into his brain. His mouth opened, showing a hint of dark steel at the back of his throat, and his eyes rolled back.

“Bye bye,” Casey said into his face.

Eli still had one hand in his pocket, and through the folds in the material a soft spitting sound emanated as a tiny hole appeared. The second soldier stood shocked momentarily with a corresponding hole between his eyes, before he fell back like an axed tree.

Eli turned to the family. “We were never here,
they
were never here.” He pointed at the blood on the ground. “Clean this up and speak of it to no one.” He bowed. “Enshallah.”

Eli then turned to Casey as he grabbed one of the bodies by the shoulders. “Take the other one. We’ll hide them in one of the empty buildings.”

Casey grabbed the other body and together they dragged them twenty feet down the street to the first abandoned building they could find. They pulled them inside, past broken doors and smashed furniture. Piles of rubble created perfect burial mounds. Casey lifted a huge sheet, and scoffed.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” She pointed. There was already a body hidden there, desiccating in the dry air. She grinned down at it. “Would you like some company, pal?” She lifted the sheet higher and then threw the new body on top of the old. Eli added his corpse, and together they dropped the huge sheets and more debris on top.

Eli turned to her, his hands on his hips. “You feel better now?”

Casey shrugged. “Sorry. Hey, what did you say these guys called themselves?”

“
Hezar-Jihadi
; Party of a Thousands Martyrs,” he responded.

She snorted. “A thousand minus two now, huh?”

“This is not funny.” Eli looked at her from under heavy brows. “You should follow your captain’s orders, and his example.”

“Yeah, right.” She started to turn away but paused. “Come on, and I’m warning you; no distractions this time.” She laughed as she pulled her hood up once again.

Eli groaned and followed.

*

Alex and Adira sat outside at the café, several hundred feet down from their target building. There were a few other patrons inside, but they were the only ones seated on the street. Half a dozen other tables sat waiting for their food and drinks.

Adira had ordered coffees, and the dark thick rich liquid was poured at the table. A plate of dates was also set down for them. Alex lifted the small glass cup in the ornate gold holder to his lips.

“Whoa, like a triple espresso on steroids.”

Adira laughed softly, the sound muffled from under the folds of her niqab. “It’s Turkish style – brewed, rebrewed and then cardamom pods added. It enhances the flavor and strength. Why do you think they’re all wild eyed in these parts?”

Alex ate a date, and let his eyes travel down the street. “If that’s the right building, then I think we’ve missed the party.”

“Someone may be still inside, but I think you’re right. If nuclear weapons were being assembled and dispatched from that place I would have expected a fortress. Or at least a significant military presence.” She looked at the surrounding rooftops. “And much more security in the adjoining structures.”

“I think they’ve done what they needed to do, and then moved on. Still, we need to go in and check it out,” Alex said. “Front door is too visible from the street.” He looked along the rooftops; the buildings were jammed up against each other and all were of comparable height. “Be better to enter next door, and drop down through the roof.”

“Yes, this might work.” Adira faced the building, peering at the ancient Arabic writing on its façade. “What happened here? That writing is only on the one building. I can partly understand its words, but not its meaning.”

Alex remembered her translation of the script. “
Praise those who are chosen to become the fire of god.”
He turned to her. “And what better fire than a nuclear one?”

“Yes.” Adira continued to stare at the writing. She turned back. “It is time we take a small risk.”

The café owner was approached. “Enshallah, brother,” Adira said. “We are visiting relatives from over the far side of the city. My brother here,” she motioned to Alex, “is a teacher of languages, and was wondering about the writing on the wall.” She pointed one gloved hand at the Arabic script.

The man looked down the street to the wall. His eyes narrowed. “One day it just appeared. I cannot read it, but an old customer who comes here told me that it is a warning.” He became furtive and leaned toward her. “Dark magic,” he said.

“
Shukran
.” Alex slid a five thousand dinar note across the table. The man took it and bowed his thanks before departing.

“Dark magic,” Adira repeated. “That would work to keep the superstitious away.”

“Maybe that’s why there are no physical guards – the superstition provides enough of a barrier for the locals,” Alex said, sipping his dark liquid. “And they’re not expecting there to be anyone else in this place.”

Adira sat back. “I have seen enough to know that you cannot discount magic. This land has known human habitation for nearly ten thousand years. Long before the machines there was alchemy and sorcery, and there are ancient tomes written by the foremost scientists of their times. The things they included would not make sense in these modern times.” She looked around. “Unless the modern times were being rolled back.”

“And that’s exactly what’s happening here; no music, no women on the streets, education outlawed. Barbarism is rushing to reclaim this part of the world.” He sighed and nodded toward their target.

“Looks wide open. We enter via the next building, and then onto the roof.” Alex finished his coffee. “We should head back. See what the other teams have found for us.”

As the morning began to give way to midday, the streets started to fill with people, and Adira led them quickly to their house. Suddenly the few woman started to scatter, and the remaining men moved to the walls, clearing a path and watching and waiting.

“Heads up,” Alex said, turning back along the street from under his shawl.

Adira turned away, looking in the reflection of a window. From down the street jogged a group of armed men. There were three lines of them – the outside lines all wore black balaclavas. They were strung with ammunition and were armed. The inside men had hands on their heads and were tied together, a rope looping each of their waists. Each of them was barefoot, and many had blood to the ankles, the sharp debris of the roadway uncompromising on bare flesh.

“Hezar-Jihadi,” Adira whispered.

Occasionally one of the soldiers would reach inwards to slap one of the prisoners over the head, urging them on. In among them was a man dressed in the remains of a flight uniform. This one also had the extra disadvantage of being tied to a huge man on both his left and right – a special prisoner. As he approached, Alex and Adira could see a tricolor patch in his sleeve. He was French, then. The man’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were already vacant,in a slack, blood smeared face.

At their rear, one of the men – stouter than the rest – carried a hard suitcase. Alex could tell by its size and shape that it was recording and satellite equipment. It seems there was to be a show.

“They make them run to their execution,” Adira said.

“Enemy fighters?” Alex asked.

“Maybe the wrong religion, maybe a petty crime.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Everything is punishable by death in this city.” She watched them from the corner of her eye. “And the one big prize – a captured western pilot – him they will undoubtedly burn alive.”

Alex was still staring at the lines of men as they jogged down the street and around a corner. “I’ve seen it before. They’ll take them to a killing field, set up their cameras and film it for consumption by their fan boys around the world.”

“And fan girls.” Adira snorted. “Weekly, hundreds of young women flock to this land, even from comfortable homes in the west. They seek to become jihadi brides, or even frontline fighters.”

“A madness,” Alex said, but then shook his head. “
No
, more an infection that is contaminating the Middle East.”

“It is a madness
and
an infection. But like all severe infections, it will burn itself out.” Adira shrugged. “We have been dealing with the terrorist mind for decades, you have not. You need to be patient. Guns alone will not solve this problem.”

“Guns will do for now,” Alex said, as he continued to watch the now empty street. “We are the sword and shield.” His words were whispered. “They want a show? We’ll give them one to remember.”

“No, you will not intervene.” Adira came and stood in front of him. “We can call in their position for a strike. But if we intervene, we may put our mission at risk.”

Alex looked down at her. She was right, but logic didn’t matter now. The coiling hate inside him was demanding something more. “Where will they take them?”

She stared, perhaps wanting to argue more, but she saw something in his face that changed her mind. Perhaps she remembered what he could be like. She sighed loudly. “A field, a vacant lot.” She looked up at the sky. “They will want to be away from the city crowds, and will need good light for the filming.”

“So, they’ll be away from their main command, isolated?” Alex smiled grimly, pulling the shawl further down over his face. “Let’s go and enjoy the show.” He spoke quickly into his throat mic. “Sam, on my position, now.”

Yuval Goldmeir, a satellite technician, watched the OPsat satellite’s data feed of his section of the Golan Heights. It was a strategic piece of land, captured during the Six-Day War, and over three thousand square miles of basaltic plateau bordered by the Yarmouk River in the south, the Sea of Galilee in the west, Mount Hermon in the north, and the Raqqad Wadi in the east. He and many others each monitored multiple grids of the vast area, night and day.

Today Yuval Goldmeir’s area of interest was the town of Nawa, close to Syria. He leaned forward, frowning. The analytics built into the geo-security systems had picked something up, and alarms had demanded his attention.

He drilled down to a view position a few miles above ground. There seemed to be a single figure walking alone in the desert, about three miles southwest of Nawa. After rewinding the feed, he could see that the person had skirted the city, but had effectively walked across the landscape.

Goldmeir leaned back in his chair, half turning. “Yev …
oy
, Yev, what do you make of this?”

Yev Cohen, his closest technician colleague, swung around and craned to see his screen. He shrugged. “Miles away, and only a single person. Forget it.”

“We’re supposed to call in anything strange … and risk analytics has flagged it as a level-one threat.” He circled the figure and then typed some queries into his system. His eyes narrowed. “In seventy-four minutes, this person will walk into the Golan.”

“Then border patrol will pick him up.” Cohen turned back to his own screen.

Goldmeir continued to watch for a few more seconds before commanding the image magnification to drill down even further. The huge weight on the figure’s back now became apparent. The technician’s brows were furrowed as he hurriedly entered more commands, asking it to search for a high energy particle trace. His eyes went wide as a second warning began to flash on detection confirmation.

“A Traveler.
I think it’s a Traveler
… and radiation is off the scale.” He spun from his desk, his mind spinning. “What do we …?”

Beside him, Yev Cohen snatched up a phone.

*

The IAF F-15E Strike Eagle came in at just under Mach-1. Its radar saw the target long before the pilot would obtain a visual.

“Target acquired; deploying Vulcan.”

The bottom of the Strike Eagle opened and a multi barrelled weapon lowered. The weapon chosen was the M61 Vulcan, a pneumatically driven, six-barrel, air-cooled, electrically fired Gatling-style rotary cannon, which fired 20mm rounds at a rate of approximately 6,000 per minute. The laser-sighted and the computer-directed gun locked onto the lone figure.

“
Clear to fire, Fox-1
,” came the mechanical voice directly into the pilot’s headset.

“Firing.” The pilot let loose a short burst of fifty high penetration M56 rounds.

“Good strikes, command. Coming around.” The pilot banked, taking multiple pictures and preparing to head on home.

“
That’s a negative on kill shot, Fox-1. We still have movement
.” The mechanical voice had a touch of urgency this time.

The pilot looked back at his targeting screen. “Impossible on a miss, command. Confirm miss.”

“
Computer says you had good strike rate, but target is not down
.” There was strain in the voice over the radio. “
Target has stopped and is now removing pack. Suggest immediate missile deploy
.”

The pilot banked hard, coming in on another run. He knew there was no way a normal human being could have survived even a single strike from a huge 3.6 ounce M56 round. He should have had a hole the size of a hubcap in his chest.

It didn’t matter; the next weapon he chose to deploy on the single, slow moving target was an AGM-84HK SLAMER. It was a precision-guided, air-launched cruise missile specially designed for striking both moving and stationary targets. To add to its accuracy, the pilot could control the SLAMER all the way down.

The pilot’s targeting system locked in.

“Target acquired and locked.”

“
You are go on launch, Fox-1
.” The voice had regained its confident edge.

The pilot pressed a small button on his joystick, and the shining spear shot away from the plane.

“Bird away.”

The 500-pound destex-packed warhead would destroy anything it hit, and it never missed. The SLAMER rapidly picked up speed, arrowing forward and then down. From the air, the explosive force of the strike seemed small as the pilot banked away. As he looped back around, he tilted the Strike Eagle, and looked down. There was nothing there but a blackened crater.

“Target destroyed, confirm, command.”

“
Confirmed, target destroyed. Good day’s work. Bring it home, Fox-1
.”

“Roger that, command. Coming home.”

*

General Shavit continued to look at the screen for many minutes. The satellite image had drilled down to a perspective of only a few feet from the ground. Nothing remained larger than a few smoking fist-sized pieces of debris, and it was impossible to tell if they were biological or something other. He pressed a button on his comm. unit, and was put through to his bio-defense unit.

“Send a cleanup crew. I want every scrap from that site brought back here for analysis.”

Shavit sat back, sucking in wheezing breaths.
So close
, he thought.
Too close.

*

The cleanup crew was on site within the hour and moved as quickly as they could manage in the bulky radiation suits. The residual HREs were high, but containable, and they were easily identified and secured in lead lined casing.

The biological remains were less easy to identify, as many of the fragments were nothing but splintered bone or flesh charred down to flakes of ash. However, outside of the impact crater, some blackened lumps of meat were found, and bagged to be sorted and tested back at base.

Later, Yair Shamir, the head scientist for the Bio-Defense Unit, stood beside Major David Mitzna, both in simple biohazard suits and masks. The physical debris collected was laid out in a refrigerated room. Yair stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the assembled flesh fragments laid out on a long steel bench top before them.

“So, he,
it
, is not dead then?” Mitzna continued to stare down at the blackened lumps.

“Oh, it’s a
he
all right. Has definite XY heterogametic sex chromosomes, and I think alive or dead are very loose concepts in relation to this sample.” Yair picked up a long probe and used it to prod at one of the lumps of charred meat. Dark, sticky liquid oozed from one end onto the gleaming bench top.

“You know, if you hadn’t told me when and where you had recovered this from, and shown me the footage, I’m not sure I would have believed you. I mean it’s still functioning at a cellular level. You see, we can even see its cells attempting to wound-heal.” He pointed with his probe. “Platelets adhering to the site of injury, coagulation, cross-linked fibrin proteins in a mesh. It’s amazing, and not real.” He straightened.

“Not real? What does that mean?” the major asked, leaning forward.

“I mean, it just seems … unreal, and I can make out some stitching. Also, there are several DNA samples, suggesting multiple people, all sort of attached or melded together.” Yair shook his head, frowning now as he searched for the right words. “Like it was made from scratch, pieced together like a quilt.”

“And it’s not dead,” Mitzna said softly. “How can I explain this to General Shavit?”

Yair shrugged. “Not dead, but not alive; something in between I think. It’s probably why the bullets didn’t stop him. I wish I had more to test.”

“How is that possible?” Behind the Perspex plate of his mask, the military man’s face betrayed his revulsion. “And who can do this?”

Yair walked along the bench to a scrap of flesh, no more than the size of a cigarette packet. It was blacked at the edges, but there were rents in it that could not have come from the bomb’s obliteration. It looked like script, but in an ancient language.

“These are words, carved into the flesh.” He looked up. “How? Why? I have no idea. And who? No one,
no one
has the capability to do this … today.”