A CNN reporter, while interviewing a Marine Sniper, asked, "What do you feel when you shoot an Irken?"
The Marine shrugged and replied, "Recoil."
Chapter Twenty
Fajairah
Gulf of Oman
The Empress finished her phone conversation with Patti and plopped on the bed. "We'll be here for a while," She told Chopra and the boy.
"Why?"
"No more questions." She took a deep breath and wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't. She stared at the pistol, lying a few inches from her hand.
They saw it, too, but they only sat there, watching.
"I guess I should say thank you." Her voice cracked as she spoke, a sign of weakness.
"For what?" Asked Chopra, furrowing his brow.
"You could have made this a lot more difficult."
He snorted. "We should have."
"Those people you work for," Began Hussein. "You'll give them all the money?"
"I said no more questions."
"You started the conversation," Said Hussein.
She grinned crookedly. "So I did."
"They get the gold, the oil reserves, everything?" Asked the boy.
"That's what they think."
"You have another plan?"
She took a deep breath. "I have lots of plans."
In fact, she had considered stealing the gold for herself, but once again engaging in an operation that complex and pulling it off at the last moment was improbable, to say the least. Then again, you never knew how the radioactive winds of fate could blow...
Patti had indicated that a Russian Spec Ops force was occupying the city. The Empress had told her that she had no plans to infiltrate a heavily fortified Special Forces controlled building with an old man and a boy. Patti had said that she and Mohorovic had already put plans in motion that would allow The Empress's convoy and twelve man "work team," in reality a Chinese Special Forces team, to arrive at the vault site without facing resistance.
"How?" She asked.
"Your old friend Storr."
"Excuse me?"
"He's coming with his Elite force. We've tipped him off."
"Are you insane?"
"No. Tak hired him to bring you in. Prokofiev Delta is Storr's problem, too. He can't come after you with them in the way."
"So now what?"
Patti laughed under her breath. "As expected, Storr called for help, a diversion, so he could follow you. Now here's where it gets interesting. Tak knows that if she sends in her own forces, the Americans will respond in kind. She doesn't want to do that... So she'd called on the Euros."
"The Euros?"
"Yes, they have two Enforcers Corps companies airborne and they'll be in Dubai by nightfall, along with air support."
"How did she manage that?"
"She threatened to pull the plug on their oil supply, so they'll do what she says. The Euros will attack Prokofiev Delta north of the tower and keep them preoccupied while you slip in and empty the vault. Initially, the Americans won't interfere because the Euros are their allies. There will be a lot of saber rattling, but not much else from them."
"What about Storr? I'll have him on my back."
"No, you won't. I've left an indication for Prokofiev Delta. They'll cut off Storr before he reaches the city. About forty combatants already in place. He'll be coming up from the south, following the main coastal road. They have a nice little ambush set up."
"And if they fail?"
"Then the Euros won't."
"You've turned this into a nightmare."
"I thought you'd enjoy the challenge."
"You thought wrong."
"Well, you know what you have to do, and I suspect I'll be calling with some good news. You can make plans for your reunion with General Zim."
"That's not a bribe. He doesn't even know I'm still alive. And when he finds out, he won't want to see me."
"Oh, he knows very well you're alive, and the Americans have been leaning hard on him for information. In fact, he's become quite the security risk."
"So you're not rescuing him for me. It's for yourselves."
"It's for everyone."
The Empress had snorted and ended the call.
"I have to go to the bathroom," Said Chopra, rising from his chair, his expression asking the question.
She nodded and watched as he moved past the bed, behind her, toward the bathroom. Her hand had remained on the bed, away from the pistol.
A mistake.
He came in from behind her, dropping his full weight on her back and trapping her there.
Then he reached across the bed, nearly getting his hand on the pistol before she slammed her elbow into his arm.
He gasped in pain as the weapon flew off the bed and thumped onto the carpet.
"Hussein, get the gun!" Cried Chopra.
Dib had thought that after three decades of this madness he'd seen it all- police officers selling drugs out of their stations, Marines using their armor breastplates as grills to cook steaks over an open fire. His world was utterly absurd, yet the insanity had begun to feel familiar and comfortable. Expect chaos and suddenly everything is normal, despite the gasps and wide eyes from civilians.
But maybe he had not seen it all. He certainly hadn't seen this coming.
Surveillance video along with detailed hardcopy and electronic documentation had allowed Major Katrina Parsons to give Zim an Irken Defector/ Citizenship card and a "transfer."
She had transferred him, all right.
Straight into the unknown.
They were both MIA.
"My God, General, is she a traitor?" Asked Dib.
"We don't know anything else yet, but since Zim is connected to The Empress, I wanted you updated. From this point on, you'll be working with Colonel Oliver instead of Parsons. I'll be checking in from time to time myself. This is a strange and disturbing turn of events."
"Roger that, sir. I'll add Parsons and Zim to our friend or foes cues."
"That's already been done," Said Oliver. "We have no reason to believe she'd head to your location, but a rendezvous between The Empress and Zim could occur in the near future"
"Yeah, in prison," Added Dib.
"Now, Lieutenant," The General began, narrowing his gaze. "We know what you're up against. Just remember: The Russians have a saying- feel the cloth. It comes from the days when men used to fight shoulder to shoulder and you could feel your buddy's arm rubbing against yours. It gave you courage. It reminded you that you weren't alone. Just go out there and feel the cloth. We're here to back you up any way we can."
"Thank you, sir. Our infiltration was successful. I expect that if the target arrives, she'll be either terminated or in custody."
"Excellent."
The General ended his link, leaving Dib to face Colonel Oliver, whose deep scowl transformed him into an angry bird about to sink his talons into his flesh. Remarkably, he abandoned the cutting remarks and criticism and got down to business. "Dib, I'm taking into account that you might have received bad intel from Major Parsons and that she no doubt tipped off our enemies, but now more than ever we need results. I see you've placed snipers on the roof and have a perimeter around the tower."
"Observation posts out to about a kilometer from the vault. And I've got Volker moving down to recon the entrance. Schoolie's still patched into his sticky cams."
"We're looking at those cams as well. I've also been following Lakota. Still no contact with Prokofiev Delta."
"She's working on that, and she tells me she's an excellent translator."
Most of his team had received extensive language training, but with the Cross-Com and intelligence teams monitoring back home, they could receive rapid fire translations as they spoke with foreign peoples without having to attach a translator to the team. This was a welcome improvement in the last few years. Many of the translators Dib used in the States were Irkens, and mainly turned out to be spies or were branded as traitors by other troopers and targeted for execution; consequently, they required extra protection.
"Once we link up with Prokofiev Delta, we'll see who's running the show," Dib went on. "Do we have any better estimates on the size and composition of this force?"
"Pretty big. I'm surprised they have this many SF units. Battalion sized force. Maybe a thousand if they're lucky. Heavily equipped. High powered rifles. Advanced armor systems. Pretty high tech. We've had some sketchy intel on these guys in the past, but this group has been largely ignored, they always flew under the radar and we couldn't gather enough intel on them. There's a lot of movement in and out of Kish Island right here," He said, switching his image to a topo map of the area.
Kish was about 120 miles northwest of Dubai, across the Gulf. Before the strikes it had been touted as a consumer's paradise because of its free trade zone. Now it was a bombed out junkyard.
"Alright, we'll keep an eye on that place, too. This could be a problem if we can't get them to work with us, they're heavily armed and they've got the numbers. Hoping this is easier than high school and I can make new friends."
"Good luck with that, Dib. You'll need it. Because we're going to pin a medal on your ass or boot it. Either way, when this is over, you and I will sit down and have a nice, long talk about the way you handled this."
He took a deep breath. "Understood."
Bang, he ended the call.
Well, there it was. Even if he brought in The Empress, Oliver would still burn him for going over his head. So it didn't matter anymore, really. He wasn't supposed to be here for himself, right? He was here to complete the mission, which in turn was vital to the security and stability of his entire planet and country. That's the promise he'd made. That the promise he'd keep, career be damned.
But just to show them how good he was, he'd capture The Empress, drag her kicking and screaming all the way back to Fort Bragg, and dump her in Oliver's lap.
"Ghostex Lead, this is Lakota. We've made contact."
Well that didn't take long, he thought. "On my way."
Nice thing about the suits. Both her location and a suggested route were already superimposed in his HUD. He followed the yellow line, or the yellow brick road, as they liked to quip, to her location between the towers, where she, Pak, and Heston were standing beside two militants who'd been wearing older MOPP gear much rather than the newer suits, and had removed their heavy face masks.
Dib was not surprised when he'd discovered the two heavily bearded Prokofiev Delta troops spoke Russian. They said they were operating under the command of one Major Tuvia Vantutin, who had established a camp on Kish Island from where he directed operations. They'd called Tuvia, who'd said he'd be willing to meet with Dib. Tuvia said that since the orbital bombardment, he'd been tasked with observing the area as well as protecting key locations among other things in the world.
Lakota said it was a two to three hour boat ride to Kish, and Dib was concerned that The Empress might arrive while they were gone. He asked the men to see if Tuvia could come to see them, but Tuvia refused. This was, Dib knew, part of the "power game" of negotiations, and if Dib wanted anything out of Tuvia he needed to play along.
"All right," Dib said. "Tell him we're coming out to see him. Copeland? Daugherty? You guys are in charge of your teams. Lakota and I are going to Kish Island. Schleck, Riggs? Keep eyes on."
The snipers acknowledged.
"I want to be back before nightfall," Dib told Lakota.
She nodded. "All we can do is try."
They climbed into the Prokofiev Delta Tigr and drove toward the coast.
Chopra could not believe the power that lay within The Empress's arms. She threw him off as though he were weightless. He sailed off the bed, toward the back wall, as she dove for the pistol lying on the floor.
Hussein just sat there, frozen. He could have reached the gun before she did.
The Empress snatched up the pistol, then came around and back toward Chopra, her eyes fiery as she reared back and pistol whipped him at the base of his neck. His glasses flew off, so he didn't see the second blow coming, only felt the sudden pain in his cheek. Had that been a fist or a boot? He wasn't sure. He slid down the wall and slammed onto his rump.
Hussein screamed for her to stop, but The Empress shouted more loudly, "Just when I was thanking you for making it easy, you do this!?"
"Please don't hit him anymore! Please!" The boy cried again.
"Are you serious?" She asked. "You don't care about him. You didn't care about your country, your father, your family. You don't give a damn about anything but yourself. You're a selfish little bastard, and maybe, after you give me what I want, I'll cut off your head and put it on a stick outside the vault. What do you think of that?"
"I think you're a crazy bitch."
"Then you should've gotten my gun. You're a little boy. A fool. That's what you are. You've thrown away everything your family stood for so you could be a pig watching movies and playing games all day. If your parents could see you now, they would vomit."
Chopra reached out, fumbled across the carpet, and found his glasses. He slipped them on, but they'd been bent and the nosepiece dug in sharply. He removed them, made an adjustment, then pushed back against the wall, trying to stand. His cheek was already swelling, and his neck throbbed and ached. He began to feel nauseated himself as he swallowed back more blood.
"You can take me to the vault," He told The Empress. "But I won't let you in. I won't."
"You will,"She said confidently. "Because I know how much you care about him. And I'll torture him slowly, right in front of you, if you don't do what I say." She raised a brow. "I won't remind you of this again. I'll just do it."
Chopra looked fire at her.
Hussein just stared.
"You're not a Sheikh," She said, turning back to the boy. "You'll never be."
Chopra glanced at Hussein, the gears obviously turning in his youthful head.
There was no deal to strike with The Empress. The boy should understand that by now. They had but one goal: escape. Chopra wasn't sure how else to convince the boy.
Dib wished he could have sent Lakota and Daugherty over to Kish Island to meet with Tuvia, but he knew how these lone gun commander types operated. First, Tuvia would not respect Lakota's authority because she was a woman. Second, Tuvia would feel slighted because Dib had sent his underlings instead of coming himself. You had to show face to save face. Dib would hear phrases like, "We are a proud people" and "The invaders who come to rob our planet will be executed."
While riding aboard the small and agonizingly small boat, he contacted Oliver and had him tap Ghostex's intelligence sources to positively identify Tuvia. Oliver said once they had an image of his face they could do so immediately.
They reached the east side of the island and were met at the dock by a security force of eight men, all wearing the newer gear like Dib's team. They climbed into two Tigrs and were driven down to the postwar remnants of the Dariush Grand Hotel, once a 125 million dollar five star affair with more than two hundred guest rooms. Cross-Com data indicated the place had been built to resemble Persepolis, a city of ancient Iranian civilization and the ceremonial capital of the Persian Empire.
Now the hotel's once magnificent grand columns and towering archways that reminded Dib more of ancient Rome than Persia lay in piles of rubble through which they threaded, finding what had once been an ornate marble stairway framed by rubble and leading down into the shadows.
Two of the security fired up flares, which made Lakota glance strangely at Dib. He assumed they'd have at least flashlight powered by solar cells or other conventional batteries, but they clearly had limited resources being on their own.
In the eerie, hissing and flickering flare light, Dib noted that the walls, once adorned by ornate murals of gardens and waterfalls, had been scorched black by terrible fires, and as they descended farther, Dib experienced the enormity of what happened in this region. They had been far from ground zero, but there had been an unrelenting shower of conventional plasma shelling prior to the orbital bombardment. Kish, though not a primary military target, had been flattened as an economic blow, because it was one of the most popular tourist destinations and helped bolster the Iranian economy.
They continued on, winding their way through a labyrinth of bombed out hallways intersected by fallen walls and doors blasted off their hinges. Once they had descended two more flights of stairs that had been somewhat expertly repaired with bricks and thick mortar, they finally reached an open area that might have been some ballroom or conference room, Dib wasn't sure. Giant chandeliers hung like twinkling ships from the ceiling but remained dark. The room was in fact lit by only a few dim, battery operated floodlights.
Two unmasked men stood at the entrance, both clutching the bullpup variant of the AK-103. They allowed the group to pass. Several large writing tables laden with maps, charts, all other kinds of paper, and small computers and GPS systems lay directly ahead, along with books, thousands of books rising in piles like the Manhattan skyline against the horizon of more massive bookshelves lining the back wall.
Seated behind the broadest desk, a hand carved piece of furniture as gaudy as Dib had ever seen, was a man who had to be Tuvia. He had his knee high leather boots kicked up on his desk, his long finger ran down the margin of a report in his hand. A pair of bifocals had slipped down the tip of his nose. Dib found it a bit ironic that a relentless Special Forces group still managed his forces via hardcopy documentation; that was about as old school as it got. Ghostex: Delta 6 had been paperless as long as Dib or anyone else could remember.
Tuvia glanced up from his report. "Ah, finally!"
He immediately rose and walked around the desk to greet them. He was a tall man, six foot five and Dib guessed the man was two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, dressed in digital flora combat fatigues, black portupeya belt wrapping around his abdomen, attached sash going over his right shoulder. Tuvia wore some type of sage visor hat that Dib had never seen before. Surprisingly enough, Tuvia proffered his hand and said, "You must be Lieutenant Dib Membrane of Ghostex: Delta 6, team alpha of the first company."
He spoke perfect English with a Russian accent. Abruptly, a data box opened in his HUD, and information on the man scrolled downward as Oliver had promised. Tuvia's face had been analyzed by the teams back home, who updated Dib with more than he'd ever need to know. Tuvia, the analysts guess was as good as Dibs, was cousin of the Al Maktoum family, not directly in line to lead, but family member nonetheless.
"I see they're feeding you the gossip on me," Said Tuvia, indicating the little flashes of light he detected in Dib's faceplate. "But you won't find much. You can take off your helmets here."
"Thank you. I'm sorry, but how would you like to be addressed?"
The man grinned. "Tuvia would be fine."
Dib removed his helmet, which clicked and hissed as he rasied it over his head. "All right. I'm Alex."
"Alexander the Great," Said Tuvia with a grin.
"No, just a soldier here to help. And most people just call me Dib." He turned. "This is my second in command, Sergeant Lakota."
Lakota removed her helmet and shook out her hair. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
He issued a polite if not perfunctory grin at Lakota but refocused his attention on Dib. "First we eat, drink, then talk."
"Excellent," Said Dib.
Lakota looked at him, a bit weary. They didn't have time for this, but refusing the invitation would be an insult.
As they followed Tuvia toward the door near the back, Dib nodded at Lakota, who was donning her Cross-Com headset and earpiece so they remained in contact with the team and the network. As they walked, she spoke softly: "I'm having a hard time connecting to Oliver now. WAN uplink temporarily unavailable."
"That's weird. Keep trying," Said Dib.
"I don't like this, sir."
Dib gave her a sobering look. "I'll check back at the towers, see if LAN's operational." He did so, and the team reported back in sans any comm problems.
"Dib, I've finished my reconnaissance of the entrance way to the vault, and I've picked out some ambush points, if you want to take a look," Said Volker.
"Busy now, But I will. Run them by the others. Meantime, stand by. I'll be in touch."
(End Chapter)