Infidels (8 page)

“The
Colonel is online now, sir.”

“Colonel
Clancy, I understand you have news?”

Clancy
nodded as Colonel Faisal bin Nayef’s image appeared. Clancy yanked his cigar
out of his mouth, flicking it back and forth between his fingers. “We
successfully infiltrated the camp and eliminated the hostiles. I’m afraid I
have bad news.” He motioned with a jab of his finger for the photos to be sent.
“We found Prince Khalid’s head in a basket. I’ve just sent you the photos.
There’s no sign of his body.”

“So he
had been dead for some time?”

“Yes.”

“That is
most unfortunate.”

Nayef
didn’t sound too disappointed, probably because Khalid had betrayed his country
and his religion, two things unforgiveable in Saudi society, which one the more
serious offence he wasn’t sure. But either way, the beheading of a crown prince
of Saudi Arabia wasn’t going to go over too well with the House of Saud. If
restraint wasn’t exercised, he could see the Saudi’s invading Yemen to put an
end to the Houthi rebels and the various other factions contributing to the
chaos in the region.

Which
would suit him just fine.

Take
care of your own damned problems. Why do we always have to be the ones risking
our lives?

“There’s
one other thing,” said Clancy, jabbing air again, a second batch of photos
sent. “Our team found this.” Nayef looked away from the camera and became
visibly excited for a brief moment, then frowned. “What do you make of it?”

Nayef
shook his head. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“You can
tell me whether or not this thing is real.”

“It most
certainly is not. I can assure you the Black Stone is safely in Mecca. This is
clearly a fake.”

“Clearly.”

“Where
is it now?”

“With
our team at the target site.”

Nayef
shifted in his chair, briefly leaning out of camera view. “What will you do
with it?”

Now
for the true test.

“Take it
with us.”

As soon
as the words were out of his mouth Nayef’s face changed completely, a mix of
anger and shock before the rapid reply. “They mustn’t!”

Clancy
resisted smiling. “But I thought you said it was a fake?”

Nayef
sighed.

“We need
to talk.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James kicked at the dirt outside the tent they
had found the Islamic relic inside then stretched, looking up at the
spectacular night sky. It was something he never tired of looking at, being
hundreds of miles away from the nearest artificial light leaving the black
canvas vividly beautiful unlike anything most city dwellers ever experienced.

Including
his young nephew Michael.

Michael
lived in the Bronx where light pollution was a way of life and had never seen a
star until he visited his Uncle Leon. He had been so fascinated, bedtime was
almost unenforceable.

It had
been one of the best weeks of Atlas’ life having the little man around, and the
guys in The Unit were fantastic with him. Michael had even hit it off with
Red’s son Bryson, the two of them almost inseparable after their first meeting.

It had
made him want to have a kid of his own.

Unfortunately
too much of his life had been spent playing the field, never wanting to settle
down until about a year ago, which was when Michael had visited.

It had
changed him, the one-night stands no longer satisfying, the list of go-to girls
if he were lonely just making him feel like a consumer of women rather than a
human being looking for companionship.

And then
he had met Vanessa.

She
could be the one.

They had
met at the grocery store, which he had always heard was one of the best places
to meet a good woman—besides church, which is where his Mama had always told
him he should be looking. Phone numbers had been exchanged, and the rest was
history. He had fallen for this girl, and she him, and there was even talk of
moving in together, though his Mama might have something to say about that.

Might
have to keep that one on the down low.

“Quite
the view, eh?”

Atlas
grunted as Spock approached. “About the only good thing in this piece of shit
country.”

“True
dat.”

“Don’t
try to be black.”

“Niner
isn’t here, so someone has to be.”

“I think
I can handle it.”

“I don’t
know, have you heard Niner rap?”

Atlas
chuckled, his deep voice echoing among the dunes. “He’s actually pretty good. A
Korean Eminem.”

“Better
than what you called him at Karaoke night.”

Atlas
shrugged. “Too many brews that night. What did I call him?”

“The
Asian Bieber.”

Atlas
grinned. “And he thought I said ‘beaver’.”

“Who
knows, you were slurring pretty good that night, you might have. What did he
say you had?”

“Yellow
Man
Fever.”

Spock
stifled a full-on laugh.

Atlas
held up his finger, cutting Spock off as he cocked an ear.

“What is
it?”

“I
thought I felt something, a vibration.”

“Vehicle?”

Atlas shook
his head. “No, like something pounding the ground.”

“Horse?
Camel?”

“I’m not
Carnac the Magnificent. Quiet.”

The
vibrations were distinct now, it clear something was approaching. Spock held
out a hand. “Wait, I feel it too.”

Atlas
activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Seven. We’ve got some sort of movement
out here, not sure what to make of it, over.”

“Bravo
Zero-Seven, Control. UAV still shows area clear, over.”

Atlas’s
eyes narrowed as he exchanged a confused look with Spock, the pounding still
happening, if anything, increasing in intensity. “Roger that Control. We’ve got
some sort of ground vibration here. Stand by.”

Red and
Jimmy approached and Atlas held up a finger, pointing at the ground as he took
a knee, placing a hand on the sand.

And he
could feel the pounding.

And he
could hear something else. Muffled.

“There’s
somebody under the sand,” he finally said. “I can hear them shouting.”

The
others dropped to the ground in silence as everyone listened.

“I hear
it,” said Red, activating his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We’re definitely
hearing something coming from under the sand, sounds like somebody’s buried here.
Are you picking up anything, over?”

“Standby,
Bravo Zero-Two.”

Red
looked about. “How long would someone last buried with no air?”

Jimmy
shrugged. “I saw something on TV once. I think they said you could survive five
or six hours in a coffin if you were buried alive.”

Spock
cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell kind of TV are you watching?”

“Nothing
but the finest reality TV.”

Spock
shook his head. “When millions of people watch Honey Boo Boo I sometimes think
Western civilization is doomed.”

“Bravo
Zero-Two, Control. We’re showing a faint heat signature on the original UAV
footage, fifteen feet north of your current position, over.”

“Roger
that, Control. Stand by.”

They all
turned, walking fifteen paces north before stopping.

“Bravo
Zero-Two, Control. Two paces to the right of your position.”

They all
converged on the spot, Atlas unclipping his MP5 and pounding the ground three
times with the butt of the weapon.

He
distinctly felt three knocks in return then nothing.

He hit
twice.

And
again two in return.

“Hold
on!” shouted Red. “We’re going to get you out of there!”

“Help!”
came the faint voice as the four of them quickly began digging with their
hands.

“English,”
said Red as he stepped back to update Control. Atlas continued to dig furiously
with Spock and Jimmy, the rest of the team still deployed to cover the area.

His
fingers scraped on something hard.

“Got
something.”

“Help!”

The
voice was loud now, as if on the other side of a door, there no doubt now they
were digging in the right place. Red returned from updating Control, his MP5
aimed at the hole not even two feet deep. Atlas continued to scoop dirt out,
his knees now resting on the top of what appeared to be a crate perhaps four
feet across. Reaching the final edge, he leaned back on his haunches, surveying
their handiwork. There was a small hole near one end, about an inch in
diameter, but other than that, it seemed to be a plain crate built from flimsy
one-by-fours.

A finger
suddenly poked through the hole.

“Get me
out of here!”

Red
stepped forward as Atlas pulled his knife, jamming it in the side and prying up
the top of the crate.

“We’re
opening the crate now,” said Red. “Keep your hands visible, no sudden
movements, or we
will
kill you.”

Atlas
popped one side of the crate then tore the top off as he fell back to give the
others a clear shot.

“Don’t
shoot!” cried the man inside, the pungent odor of feces and urine greeting them
as the beaten and bloodied man covered his head. The crate was so small he was
lying on his side, his knees pulled up to his chest, his feet pressed against
one end, the back of his head against the other.

“Identify
yourself,” said Red, his weapon still trained on the man.

“My name
is Josh Pullman. I’m an American citizen. A journalist for Fox News.”

“Christ,
it is,” said Jimmy as he leaned in for a closer look, snapping several photos
for Control. “I recognize him from TV.”

“Well,
if Jimmy Olson says so, then it must be so,” said Spock.

“He
was
an ace reporter in high school,” agreed Atlas as he reached in and sliced the
man’s bindings. “Can you stand?”

The man
shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Shame washed over his face. “I’m s-sorry. I
couldn’t hold it any longer.”

“I’ve
smelled worse,” smiled Atlas as he took the man’s hand and hauled him to his
feet. He nodded at Spock. “You should smell him the day after a chili
cook-off.”

The man
chuckled slightly, it clear he was in pain as he gingerly took a few steps,
supported by Atlas and Jimmy.

“Bravo
Zero-Two, Control. ID confirmed as one Josh Pullman, kidnapped two days ago
from Sana’a, Yemen. His cameraman was killed in the incident, over.”

“Roger
that, Control,” replied Red, lowering his weapon. “Mr. Pullman, what can you
tell us?”

The
reporter stretched, then frowned, standing slightly spread eagle. “Any chance
at getting some clothes?”

Atlas
looked at the orange jumpsuit he was in, sizing him up. “There’s over a dozen
guys here who don’t need their clothes anymore.”

“Fine by
me. This is the second bunch of bastards that’ve held me in the past two days.
I just need a couple of canteens of water, a change of clothes and something to
eat.”

Red
looked at Jimmy. “Check the tents for some clothes, if there’s nothing, strip
the dead.” He nodded at Josh’s shoes. “Are those okay?”

Josh
nodded. “About the only thing that’s mine besides my underwear, which I plan to
retire.” He looked at Jimmy. “Oh, and if you’re strippin’ the dead, I’ll go
commando, thanks.”

Jimmy
chuckled then headed for one of the tents that had slept four just minutes
before. Atlas handed Josh a canteen and a protein bar, Josh quickly downing
half the water then attacking the bar. He nodded at his former grave. “At first
they put a breathing tube in there but I guess they got tired of hearing me so
some jackhole yanked the pipe. Good thing you guys came along when you did.” He
tore off another bite of the tacky bar, chewing and talking, ceremony not
necessary when you were standing with shit-filled pants. “How did you know
where to find me?”

“Sorry
to tell you this, but we weren’t here for you.”

Josh
paused, looking almost disappointed at Red’s answer, then shrugged, taking a
swig of water. “The Prince then?”

Red’s
eyebrows rose slightly. “What can you tell me?”

“Well,
they kidnapped me from Sana’a, then—” He stopped, his face suddenly clouding
over. “Bill, my cameraman? Is he—?”

“I’m
afraid so,” replied Red.

“Shit,”
muttered Josh, still chewing. “He was—” His voice cracked, his head dropping to
his chest. “He was a good man. And a good friend.”

Jimmy
emerged from the tent, waving some clothes. “These yours by any chance?”

Josh
looked over at the Western style clothes, a pair of khaki cargo pants and a
faded denim shirt. He shook his head. “Nope. But judging by them not being
pajamas, I’m assuming you didn’t have to strip them off a dead guy.”

“Nope.
They were just lying in a pile.” He handed him the clothes and a couple of
t-shirts. “Ass wipe.”

Josh
grinned. “Give me a few minutes, gentlemen.” He turned to head for one of the
dunes when he paused. “Umm, anyone got a spare canteen?”

Jimmy
produced his and Josh continued for the dune. Red nodded after him. “Watch
him.” Atlas followed Josh over the nearest dune and out of sight of the camp,
turning his back slightly to give the man some privacy.

“Man, I
thought I was going to be a YouTube sensation before you found me,” said Josh
as he stripped out of his jumpsuit. “As soon as those Qarmatians had me put this
on I figured I was going to star in a propaganda video.”

“Qarmatians?”

“That’s
what they called themselves. Did anybody see the broadcast?”

Atlas
nodded. “Apparently. I saw it as part of the briefing.”

“Good,
I’d hate to think what might have been my final broadcast ended up in the ether
somewhere.”

“No, I think
it’s safe to say it didn’t, though the Saudi’s are claiming it’s a fake.”