"Alright, give me a sat view of Aleppo 4, tell me if anything comes up in-flight, and call Devereaux."

"On it." DADA replies. It's been several minutes since I took off, and I'm finally done readying all my gear for landing. The coordinates for the destination came just as I was halfway through the stupidly tall fake building that serves as a giant elevator to ferry over the aircrafts in the underground hangar to… well, as close to the skies as one can get. It's really only necessary for the bigger crafts, as the smaller one-person crafts are rather less demanding in space.

Unfortunately I hadn't gotten around to practicing on any of them yet, and I'm certainly not doing my test run on a critical flight halfway across the planet. Well, not unless I have to, at least.

"All systems green, Eddie. Satellite view of Aleppo 4 coming up, and I've also taken the liberty of accessing internal Syrian government files on the base and put them on your screen."

"Ah. Thanks. Devereaux?"

"Connecting… and here we go."

The next voice that comes from the console belongs to the old man who's mission this is. "Well, Mr Montague. 38 minutes! That's a pretty good time to make!"

"Thank you, Mr Devereaux. Now, you had additional details about the job?"

"Yes. As far as we can tell, Aleppo 4 is where they've taken all of the girls. They're planning to get started on their plans regarding them in a few hours, so you should be just in time."

"Why are they waiting? One would think they'd want to get going as soon as they can. Not that I don't prefer that they wait."

"I believe they're waiting for the best time for it to hit the american airwaves. The plan is to broadcast everything live on every channel, you know."

I pause there for several seconds, because the sheer stupidity of the notion, frankly speaking, stuns me.

"I… just to be clear, they're planning on raping, tortuting and murdering fifty young American women on live TV."

"That's correct."

"And they're doing this not a full week since Grand Central."

"Yes, they are."

I… if this happens America will be left with no choice but to make a parking lot stretching from from Turkey to India. To do it is bad enough. Doing it on live TV…

Fuck.

"So that's my timeline. Probable hostiles?"

"Unknown at this time. Easily in the several dozens, but less than a hundred."

"Syrian military?"

"Possibly. This is an official base, so probably."

"How does that work anyway? The Syrians don't sound stupid enough to pull something like this."

"The current thinking is a rogue general or something. It's someone pretty high up anyway, considering the level of cooperation. Heads will probably roll once it all unravels."

"I see. You have anything else for me?"

"A full complement of our troops will be arriving in six hours, give or take. Your job is to make sure that the ragheads don't do anything stupid in the meantime, and get as much useful data as possible. Guard positioning, exact numbers, all that."

"Is that all?" I ask, ready to disconnect.

"No. No it isn't." he says very definitively.

I pause. Then I stare at the air in front of me. I probably should ask, it'd be better than finding out in the field. But goddamit, I left behind two beautiful, willing naked women at home for this. I really don't want more bad news right off the bat.

"What is it?"

"There's an American… soldier, and I use this word only for lack of a better one, on the base."

… okay. That's not so bad. Americans have turned traitor before. "Like… with the terrorists?"

"No."

… a friendly American soldier? That'd be a story to tell… "Okay, I don't exactly mind a friendly being in place already? Why hesitate in telling me, then?"

"Because it's not a friendly."

Aaaand here we go. How is life going to fuck me over this time? Let's find out. "Explain"

"It's a very long story."

"My autopilot is the best in existence, and Syria is very far away."

"Ever heard of J Edgar Hoover?"

Yeah… no. What is it with old people and wanting to turn literally everything into a history lesson? "Syria's not that far away. Summarize."

"His files. You know about them, of course?"

Who doesn't? "Yes, I do?"

"You know that your grandfather tried to have them stolen once?"

"No, but I have no trouble believing it. What happened, did the guy fail?"

"No. He did steal them. But then we caught him. Only, he'd already hid them away."

"Ah. Who found them?"

"A very, very stupid young spy with some ridiculous ideas and utterly moronic biases. He was a borderline lunatic with some very strong opinions."

Something about the way he's saying this… oh. I've seen this before.

"So what did you do with them?"

He starts a little, before his shoulders slump in acceptance. "A lot of very vile things. But none worse than the facilitation of certain hiring policies. I made it possible for some of the sickest, most disgusting lunatics ever to be found in this country to be allowed into places where they acquired the training and resources to become numerous orders of magnitude worse."

"And then you repented and got redeemed, yada yada. So how bad is this guy?"

"You should be less disrespectful of my return to sanity, you know. Your mother played a great part in it. In any case, this man is Mike Harmon. A savagely misogynistic, violently insane psychopath with delusions of grandeur. He also has the best scores in every form of exercise the Navy Seals threw at him. Ever since I managed to get him out of there, he was studying at Georgia State, and got entangled with the matter somehow. In fact, he played a part in alerting us to the matter."

"Y'know… I really don't care. What about him?"

"You have kill-on-sight authority on everyone in that base, Agent Kruger."

"Gotcha."

Yeah sure. I'll do that. Why the hell not? I disconnect the call with a grimace.

"DADA? The Syrian government files, throw 'em up, please. And any other surveillance in the area too."

"Yeah… about that." The AI's voice trails off.

"What?" I do not like his tone here. There's no response for a moment, then he speaks almost hesitantly. "You're not going to like this. Any of this."

"Like I've been liking any of this so far? Tell me." I order again, before a series of pictures appears on the screen in front of me.

So, these are regular staff orders, allocation and budget forms all related to Aleppo 4, and what they say is… ah. Okay. So DADA isn't very sensitive to my opinions. When he says that I wouldn't like something… yeah, he means it.

Aleppo 4 is a WMD base. Not nukes, thankfully, but that's all that's not done there. Bioweapons, Chemical Weapons, the whole nine yards. From production to testing, it's all done at Aleppo 4.

Because of course it is. Why wouldn't it? It makes perfect sense, right?

Right?

I control the severe urge to scream my head off in frustration. Breathe in, breathe out. Patience.

Then I look at the surveillance. The first is the satellite surveillance, revealing the base as it is, and then are the variety of scan images, that tell the story of a series of underground expansions and reconstructions, probably to increase capacity. All pretty normal.

The other sets of images… aren't.

"Where did we get these from?" I ask DADA. It can't be satellite images, not with that angle and detail.

"UAV monitoring of the base is infrequent, but regular. They practically saturated the sky this morning, presumably when this Harmon guy reported things."

"Hm. Speaking of which, pull up everything anyone has on him. I'll need to…" I trail off. No. Nonono. This can't be fucking happening to me. I look at the photograph on the screen once more, just to confirm. And it's still there, with the same people in it.

"DADA?" I barely manage to get out through my gritted teeth.

"Yes?"

"Please tell me this picture is from, like, years ago or something? I'm begging you here."

"I'm sorry Eddy, I'm afraid I can't do that."

I just about manage to stop myself from smashing the screen at the reference, but it's a close-run thing.

Trying to control my temper, I ask, enunciating each word slowly and clearly "Then when is this picture from, DADA?"

"It was taken by a UAV a couple hours ago." DADA responds. His voice is apologetic, almost as if he's trying to console me. It's not working.

Right. Sure. Of course. Why would things start getting better at this point?

I zoom in a bit on the picture, taking a look at the guards arrayed in formation. I look at the vehicles, and try to calculate how many more should be inside. Then I leave the screen zoomed in and focused on the face of the President of Syria, where he's being greeted by the Base Commander of Aleppo 4.

Something breaks in my head. I've been shirking away from my potential for a while now. As a fully trained ninja of the Ozunu clan and as Lamorak of the Kingsman, there's a life I'm supposed to lead. And I have been leading it, only lamenting it's highlights wherever possible.

Well then. Okay. I feel a smile developing ever so slowly, carving its way across my face almost against my will.

I guess we're doing this, then.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Final count?"

"Over six hundred Syrian Commandos, little over half that in Mujahideen. A thousand, give or take."

I check the straps on my gear one last time, readying all options. A little bit of stretching and flexing ensures my muscles are ready for this, too.

"The girls?"

"They arrived roughly an hour ago. There's some very strong signal output channels from the facility, but they're not active yet."

"So at least they're not started yet. I don't think that'll last very long. Alright. Keep hovering for an hour or two, maintain a regular scan schedule and keep me informed of stuff. Get ready to bail me out if things go sideways." I look up at the camera while talking to DAD, even in the middle of tying in the last bits of my camouflage. One might be tempted to think that a Ninja's disguise capabilities are limited to black wrappings and taking out lighting, and certainly the clans spend a lot of effort maintaining that perception. But it's never been, y'know, true.

I'm currently in a brown-yellow, dust-coated getup designed specifically to mesh with the surroundings of this base, and the inside deco too, from the pictures I have. There aren't very many, since even the Syrian army doesn't keep extensive how-to-infiltrate guides of its facilities, not even on its own servers.

On the other hand, my plan once I'm inside doesn't really involve that much hiding, per se. Fair enough.

Setting the plane to hover, I take one final look at the base. A tap on my spectacles, and I get the full descent course we plotted twenty minutes ago. It's somewhat tricky, but it should put me right in position to get in as quickly and quietly as physically possible.

Yeah, there's no point trying to delay this. I jump.

Navigating air current at international-flights heights with nothing but your own body is… tricky. Not as tricky as some of the other work I've done, but tricky.

The complicated bit is, I don't have a parachute to take my worries off about 'what if I fail'? No, that was just not going to be possible if I wanted to carry any serious firepower. The good bit is that I have the best replacement possible. Telekinesis beats mundane gear hands down.

Slowing my descent down as I reach the building, I crush a little ampoule embedded into my jump-suit. Almost instantaneously, the liquid floods through it, starting to dissolve the radar-reflective coverings in an instant. It's great for jumping in like this, but terrible to have on oneself where anyone can see me. Shines like you wouldn't believe.

Aaand landing. I arrive right on top of the storage bunker of the facility, a sorta-kinda warehouse next to the main buildings. Landing, I lie down immediately, reducing any possibility of visibility as much as possible.

Then I concentrate… and I feel the wall envelop me. Moving through solid surfaces never stops making me feel like a fly in amber, but the feeling ceases as soon as I'm through, at least. Landing on the pads of my feet, I take a look around. Plenty of firepower, some random office supplies, detonation equipment…

I mark the place in my head for a teleport point, then start working. Ninja camouflage is designed to be, until really needed, worn on the inside of better camouflage. That is, some of these uniforms I see here. It takes me barely ten minutes to have everything in the right place, and my getup is all but indistinguishable from a Syrian soldier. My skin is color is still a problem, but not for long.

I take out the kit again, opening an inner zip to reveal a row of tubes. African, Tamil and… here we go. Middle-Eastern. Taking it out and spreading the paste around, I work it into my face and both arms. A few minutes later the skin is exactly the same as one of the shades of brown that can be found anywhere from here to India.

It won't last long, barely an hour max. But that should be plenty, and in any case I have more.

Stepping out, I disassemble my spectacles to fit in different frames, circular fiber ones more common in Asia. A tap on the side "System check?"

"All systems normal. No broadcast yet, but I can see generators starting up. They're going to get going anytime now, Eddie."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it. Any hint of Harmon?"

"Uh, yeah. Outside the room you're in, walk over to the metal shaft just outside the building. There's a loose panel"

I follow the instructions, looking to all the world like I'm the boss of anyone I come across. No one challenges it, just as I knew no one would. I have a Syrian Army ID I printed on the plane, but using it would probably overcomplicate things, considering the President's presence here.

Walking over to the panel, I pull it off, ready to defend against a bewildered SEAL. Nothing comes. Did DADA get it wrong? I look in, turning first one way and the other. And sure enough, he… is… there.

Is that asshole sleeping? What the fuck? I pull Harmon's file up on my spectacles once more. Yup. That's him. That's the bastard Devereaux told me about, who could fuck this up. I… there are dozens of girls about to be raped and murdered not fifty feet from here, and hedecides to catch up on his fucking nap time in here?

Control. I regulate my breathing once more, dismissing useless anger. There's no point trying to make sense of something this nonsensical.

Then I lean in and slit his throat.

What? I trust Devereaux. Well… not really, but I trust him this much, at least. Besides, I read this guy's file.

But he's not the only one in this compound who needs to die, just the easiest one to actually kill. Time to get working on the actual work here.

Moving as quickly as I can without arousing suspicion, I photograph every bit of the outside of the base. Guard towers, patrolling units, vehicles in sight, the works. Once that's done, that's my 'official' business on this mission done. I head for the main building at the center.

This time there are a few challenges, but modesty aside, I'm a very good actor, and I have the Oscars to prove it. Granted I won those in the last jump, but the point is that I did win them. Between the right uniform, posture and my command of Arabic, nothing worth mentioning occurs until I'm inside.

"DADA. Give me a building map." I murmur gently, just loud enough for the microphones in my glasses to pick up. A moment later I see a full map laid out at the corner of my vision, not unlike a minimap in a game.

Okay, then. Outside in open air is one thing. Here in the central area of a WMD manufacturing center, with the President present here, Acting is not going to get me through here.

I step into a an empty office. No one leaves it.

No one crawls onto the ceiling, before rushing on in a single motion to the other end of the corridor. I find a grate not unlike the one the lowlife was using to sleep outside, and we're a go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Atif Al-Ansari was a full Lieutenant in the Syrian Army. Due to his high scores in marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat, he had been selected for an elite duty, the guardianship of the President of Syria himself!

Right now he was standing on the right of his principle, close to the door where the President was talking to the… the other man.

Atif tried very hard not to pay attention to the man the leader of his country was talking to, especially not to how… deferential the most imperious, masterful man he had ever known was being. He was slightly more successful in this than he was in ignoring the screams coming from the other room.

"No, please, no! Let me go, please! LET ME GO!"

The soldier cocked his head, trying to listen closer when he heard a slight noise somewhere in between that. But looking around, it had probably just been her voice hitching. He turned away in disgust.

"Does the whore have to shout so loudly? It annoys me." The… man Atif's president was speaking with said.

Atif had the sudden, violent instinct to empty his whole gun into the man, who had made a business out of betraying everything Islam stood for at every turn and of making young men like Atif into his foolish puppets. It was not due to the way he talked about the girl. She was an American, and so the epithet was probably accurate enough.

No, it was the way he presumed to command the President of Syria, as if his very life were not dependant on the charity of the man. Atif did not know why his President had decided to invite Usama Bin Laden into his house and hearth, why he had provided the terrorist (and whatever people claimed, America was right about that) with such support. Even now he knew the Mujahideen that came with the terrorist would be conducting things not entirely unlike what people were going to do to the American girl, except on good, Muslim women of nearby villages.

It was an abomination, the way these worthless creatures had perverted the teachings of the prophet and the ways of his people. But he was powerless to stop it, and so he forced himself to stop paying attention to it and turn to the other abomination going on across the glass screen. The shameful excuses that called themselves soldiers had been working the girl over for several minutes now, and already her skin was covered in welts and shallow cuts. Now they were pulling back and putting away their tools.

Atif jerked as he saw something move sharply at the corner of his eye. Turning, he realized it was an errant flame from where a third guard was testing a blowtorch inside the room where they were torturing the girl.

He knew what would be coming next. Done with the torture, they would get the things they somehow still had the guts to call their manhoods out, and set to defiling her. Again, Atif cared little for the girl. But he thought it was far beneath them for good Muslims to be committing such acts. It went against everything the kindly old mullah had told him Islam stood for. It was-

And then Atif thought nothing at all. It wasn't his fault, though. Thinking with a throwing star almost the size of your fist embedded into the top of your head is harder than one would imagine. Three more hit his body in quiet succession, pinning it upright as they connected his uniform to the wall behind him. These ones were smaller, almost impossible to notice in the dimming lights of the room.

Which was why they'd been used, of course. One after the other everyone in the room other than the President and the Terrorist Warlord died, entirely without anyone noticing it, even those two, engulfed as they were in their conversation.

Until a hand reached out from behind them and touched certain nerves in the neck of first one, and then the other, and before a second had passed neither were in position to pay attention to anything at all anymore.

The man that stepped out of the shadow then looked around then, looking at the door with an intense look on his head. Considering his options, he opted to simply bolt it for now. Things would have to develop in a certain way here.

Then he stepped across the door into the torture chamber, where the animals pretending to be people had just about managed to suppress the girl's thrashing, which had been renewed when she realized what they meant to do next. The first of them was preparing to enter her even as he died.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I must make a sight, emerging from the shadows like… well, like a Ninja, wrappings stained in blood and a bruise quickly ripening across half my face.

So… fun fact. When someone tells you that the League of Assassins is consorting with terrorists, it might actually mean that the League is consorting with terrorists! I have eidetic memory. How the fuck did I fail to take that into account? This one isn't on DADA, Devereaux, or anyone else. They said that Ra's Al Ghul was seen talking to the asshole in the other room. Why wouldn't that lead to three of his boys being stationed to protect him?

As much as I want to slap myself silly, though, I don't have the time. They're all dead, at least, and here in this room I have an innocent young woman who looks worse than I feel right now.

Untying the girl in a few quick motions, I step backwards as she scrambles away from the table. Then she's looking at me, and then at the dead torturers.

"Who… who are you?"

Ah. Interesting question. But at least I prepared for this one.

"Look… you're probably not in a mood for this, but I really can't tell you my name. Call me John Smith."

I imagine she's the type that would raise an eyebrow at this in normal circumstances. As it is, she just nods. The terrified expression is just about starting to fade from her face, but it'll take a while, I imagine.

"Are… you here to rescue us?"

I just nod, holding my hands up in the universal 'harmless' gesture.

"Look. Just… try to calm down. You're safe now. What's your name, miss?"

She flinches as if struck. Ah… they probably asked her that too. Nice going, jackass.

Then, with a visible effort, she resolves herself. Squaring her shoulders, she answers "Clarissa. Clarissa McCutcheon".

"Well, Clarissa. Why don't you come with me and we unchain the rest of the young women back there?"

She nods… before visibly starting to collapse. I rush in, ignoring the way her nails dig into my already bruised face as I hold her steady, before slowly lying her down.

That'll be the pain, then. The body's a funny thing. So long as the immediate threat of violation had been pumping adrenaline into her everything, her tolerance had probably jacked way up. Now…

The first girl I free rushes to Clarissa, picking her head up into her lap and starting to talk softly to her. She looks me in the eye, and I give her an encouraging nod. Then I move on to the rest.

It takes a little while before the last of them are freed. They're milling about already, several of them hugging and reassuring the others. Some are just crying. I give them a minute to settle down, then I stand up.

The room falls to silence in an instant. It's funny. I've had dreams involving similar amounts of naked flesh on display. Thankfully, none had a beginning like this one.

"Well, ladies. We're in a pickle, aren't we?"

None of them responds. Probably too soon.

"Okay, before we talk about any of this, I need any of you who has any kind of medical training at all."

A few raise their hands. I drop a small box of medical supplies in front of me, before gesturing at Clarissa. "See what you can do for her, please?"

I get a few nods, so I stand up and turn to the door to check. And to talk "DADA, status?"

"No alerts so far. All of our devices are working, so I should be able to give you plenty of advance warning." Why yes, I planted bugs and camera all across the base as I moved. I'm not a moron.

"Have you sent over the stuff we captured?"

"Not yet. I'm still trying."

So… yeah. Turns out that after spending untold billions of dollars trying to shore up their problems, the American security infrastructure still has situations like this, where the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing. As in, one of them sends me in to gather information and tell them. The other drops a fucking jammer on the whole place to try to shut down the broadcast.

And it doesn't even work, because they've got hard lines to like a dozen relay stations, from where the actual broadcast… is… going from.

The broadcast. Which is covering the events here. As in, this room. The one I'm standing in right now. Turning around, I see the camera. Pointed not at me, thankfully, but rather at the table where Clarissa was.

The same table where I freed her from her bonds, and killed both her rapists, and then dragged their bodies away from.

… really, at this point… I'm trying to care. I am, really. But from deep within me I'm hearing a voice that says 'just… fuck it.' I'm not inclined to disagree.

So, the point is that I can't tell Devereaux that it's done. It's tempting for a moment to use the bloody broadcast itself for it. Then I slap myself, because letting the terrorists know of our current status is.. yeah.

What is it with me today, anyway?

I'm interrupted from my self-recriminations by a touch on the shoulder.

"Yes?" I turn. It's the girl who volunteered to help Clarissa.

"Hi. I'm Amy. So look, we've got Clarissa stabilized as much as possible. D'you want us to do something about those gashes?"

Huh? Oh, the ones on my chest. Okay, I'm starting to develop respect for these girls here. That they can think to help me in their situation…

"Ah, thanks but no. I can get along for now, and I can't afford painkillers clouding my head."

She nods reluctantly. "Also, Clarissa wanted to apologize for clawing your face, as we were wondering…"

Oh gods… please don't let this be anything from a B-movie…

"Yes?"

"Would it be possible to get some clothes? I think we'd all feel a lot better if we weren't, I mean…"

Oh thank fucking gods. Hallelujah. Yes. Relevant, important things. No cheap movie tropes.

"Well… depends on how you feel about ugly army uniforms."

She's actually recovered enough of her wits to give me an 'are you kidding me' stare! I'm starting to like this girl.

"Anything will do. I have some psychology experience, and-"

"Yeah, I know, I know. Give me ten minutes." I drawl out, before walking out. I take care to keep out of the camera's line of sight this time.

Getting back out, I check to ensure Laden and the President are still out. "DADA, anyone in the armory?" I ask, referring to the armory I dropped in initially.

"Nope."

And then I'm standing inside it, a moment later. I move quickly, gathering up as many uniform bundles as I can out of the big crate. Then I shrug and drop them all back in, and pick up the whole crate. I'm just about to move when I see something.

Huh. Plastique. And not a little bit of it. There's enough Semtex here to make for some very pretty fireworks indeed.

Between this and the chemical weapons lab downstairs… I feel the barest beginnings of a plan start to develop. But I shouldn't need it, considering the kind of leverage I stumbled into.

"Here you go, ladies. Turns out it was a storage room next door." I lie blatantly. It's not like they're in any position to check!

As the young women get to dressing themselves, I walk out again. Time to have a couple of chats.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And they won't compromise even for your life?" I ask the President once more.

He's actually regained some of his balls by now! "If I told you once, I told you a thousand times. We spend months filling this place up with the worst hardliners I could find in my military. They've all been looking forward to this for at least that long. They'll lynch me themselves before they stop it on my orders."

Huh. Well, he did. I just didn't believe it the first time. And there was a force which had his life as it's topmost priority. I killed them all when I took him captive in the first place.

"And now you see the manifestation of Allah's magnificent plan, you-" I punch Laden in the face again, knocking him out. The problem with that one is, he's really, frighteningly intelligent. And he's figured out I'm not going to kill him. I mean, I'm not. As satisfying as it would be, he's worth several hundred times his weight in fuckin' platinum alive. And I'm not talking about money.

Ho hum. Looks like I'm going to have to go ahead with the plan anyway, then.

"Tell me, Mr President, how does someone like you end up entangled in something this stupid anyway?"

His face colors, before he starts "Well, it was…" and he's lost. I seem him gather his concentration again. "That is, it was suggested… no, it was… a plan… it was my…" Oh. Oh fucknuggets. Crapbaskets.

Of course. The man is a brutal, ruthless, cruel and an asshole of a dictator, but he isn't this stupid. Few people are.

Of-bloody-course. Why would things start getting simpler at this point?

I ignore the conclusions for now, once. They don't matter in the here and now very much, in the end. "Well, Mr President. If you're that useless to me, time to go back to sleep."

"Wait, I-" Nope. Not interested.

I walk back out of the room, to where the girls are now all dressed in army fatigues, several of them almost comically oversized. And it's had a visible effect. There's a general reduction in the whole 'oh god we're all gonna die' air about them. Amy seems to have been elected leader thanks to some unknown rites, and it's she that comes up to talk.

"What are you going to do, Mr Smith?"

"Something very, very clever, Amy. Something to get us all out of here safe and sound. Now, I'll need some cooperation from you girls."

"Anything." She answers, desperation tangible in her tone.

"Keep them calm. Make sure no one gets any bright ideas to sneak out or something, and no one says anything about me on that broadcast you're talking on."

She becomes flustered very quickly "You… er, know about that?"

Now it's my turn to give her a stare. I keep it up until I leave the room.

From there it's quick work. I pick up as much of the explosives as I can, along with several detonators. Then it's to the recently depopulated chemical labs downstairs, and to work.

I hurry as much as I can, keeping in mind that one misstep will probably doom everyone here to death, and if it leads to anything… unwise happening in the biological labs it could very well doom half the planet. It takes me almost an hour to get done, putting together the canisters, the plastique and the detonators.

Then I need to put an army uniform back on, and teleport out as it I was always there. The base on the whole seems largely unaware of anything having happened downstairs. I mean, it makes sense. It's only been like an hour and a half, tops. But the trouble is, I can't rely on that. But this should help, at least.

It's several trips before I'm done, but each of the bombs is placed where it needs to be, and entirely unlikely to be noticed before it's too late. I check the sprinkler system once, just to make sure of something.

Then I'm back downstairs, and it's 'go' time.

Before I do it, though… "DADA, any luck with the authorities?"

"Good and bad news. I've gotten the message out to Devereaux, and he called back too."

"Wait, what? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he said he had only a couple minutes and you were neck deep in VX at the time!"

Ah. That's a remarkably good reason. Though I wish he hadn't phrased it like that.

"Well?"

"The big boys are en-route, but it'll take a while."

"How long?"

"Too long. There's a Syrian Army detachment on the way too, and they'll reach first."

Eesh. That's ugly. "Why?"

"Apparently the Presidential Guard missed a check-in."

Eurgh. It can't be helped, then.

"Very well. Take control of the detonators."

"In position. Ready to detonate at your command."

I just nod, knowing he can tell by the way my glasses move.

Well then. Showrtime.

I reawaken both the President and the terrorist with a touch to the right nerve. Jolts like hell, but works.

Before they start saying anything, I do.

"Stay quiet and listen to me." My voice isn't quite a geas, not really. It's actually hypnotism, but of the vocal variety. It's basically to real mind-control what cheap plastic is to good metal. It can look like the real thing, even kinda-sorta work, but not remotely as effectively or reliably. Much like a Magician's trick. In my case it's exactly the same as a magician's trick, only, y'know, without needing any of the supporting stuff.

"Okay, Mr President. Here's what you're going to do. In a moment now, you're going to call the Base Commander, and tell him that you've just received information that a small fleet of American helicopters has landed not three miles from here. You'll tell him to get all his men loaded up into the base's vehicles and get ready to go, without opening any of the garage doors. With me so far?" I ask to confirm. His eyes are just a bit glazed over as his brain, in extremely enhanced suggestibility, processes the instruction. After what feels like an age, he nods.

"Okay. Then you'll tell him to get all the Mujahideen to get going too. Their leader will ask for the Great Leader's direct order on this, and you, Mr Laden, are going to give it to him." I turn to look at Laden. But he has almost overcome the effect, eyes sharpening and regaining focus right in front of me.

Before he can say anything, I speak again "And you, Mr Laden, are going to give him the order."

He just nods weakly. I'd pity him, but honestly, he's Osama Bin Laden.

Then I call the base commander's office, and hand the President his phone.

The commander is all too delighted to do it, probably already enjoying the visions of torturing and killing American soldiers on live TV too.

Within thirty minutes of the order being given, all but the non-essential staff are loaded up, leaving behind a skeleton crew in the dozens.

The commander asks about the order to keep the garage doors closed. I answer in the President's voice "The intelligence department has said the Americans watch us with their eyes in the sky. It would give our strike against them away."

"They know of us here already, Sayidi?" there is obvious fear in his tone now. I answer quickly "It would seem so, Rafeeq. But you needn't worry. None of their usual solutions are available to them, not with the whores here. And Syria is not Iraq."

"Inshallah. You're right, Sayidi. Syria is not Iraq."

"Are you ready to go, my friend?"

"We are, Mr President."

Then go, you assholes. I disconnect the call, before touching my glasses. "Do it."

"My pleasure, Eddy." DADA responds. An instant later I feel a slight tremor coursing through the walls. It's not any kind of Earthquake, as disastrous as that would be here and now. It's almost two dozen grenades detonating at once, filling up a closed garage with deadly, WMD-grade, chemical gas.

Specifically, it's something really familiar to me. Putting the bombs together, I couldn't afford to use any of the gases being made here without unfortunate questions coming to light afterwards. But with the materials and the equipment, I could put together an old friend once again. Silent Night is filling up the garage above, taking hundreds of the 'soldiers' and the 'warriors of god' gathered in their vehicles in its embrace.

Ten minutes after the detonation, I give the order and DADA starts up the sprinklers. They're not giving out water, either. I had enough time to put together a little compound that would ensure that the poison gas breaks down that much more effectively. By the time America combs over this place, no one should have a clue how it was done. Especially considering what I intend to do next.

But gentle as it was, the tremor was enough to wake both the President and Laden from my control.

I don't take much joy in the horror that fills their faces. In punching Laden in the face once more, on the other hand, I definitely do.

"Well now. We've resolved the problem of the base full of people more loyal to their own perverted version of Islam than to you. How about we get going further, eh?"

"What… wh-what do you want?" he asks, looking at the bearded terrorist next to him and back to me.

"Yeah. Interesting question. Let's see. You're going to pick that phone back up. Then you call the Air Force base near here, and tell them to stand the fuck down and keep out of the way of the Americans, when they come." I pause here, staring into his eyes to make sure he understands.

Seeing him nod in that way utterly terrified people do, I continue. "Then you're going to arrange for some clothes to be flown in. The latest American fashions, from Damascus." Another set of nods. "After that you're going to make another call, to your bankers. You're going to deposit a million dollars, American, into the accounts of each of these young women. And finally, you're going to have a press conference along with the leader of whatever American force comes, and tell the whole world all about how horrified you were to discover that rogue elements of your military had taken over this base, and how grateful you are for the help from America."

Ah, but it seems something's finally too much for him. I see reluctance taking shape. "What?"

"That last bit. Please, please can you drop it? I can't do that!"

I… is he serious? "Mr President. You understand our situation here? You understand that you're on film, standing with Osama Bin Laden watching American girls get tortured? You know that once it gets released there's no place on this planet that you, or anyone in your family, or anyone in your whole regime would be able to hide?"

He just signs resignedly. Ah. I think I get an idea of the problem here.

"You're in that position anyway, aren't you?"

"I don't know what I was thinking. These years it seems I've been in a constant dream. But now I find every part of my military, my secret police and all the rest infested with these… madmen. They disobey me, quoting the Book! Me!"

I… I have no words. Am I supposed to be sympathetic? On one hand, he's a brutal, ruthless dictator. On the other, he's sane.

"Well, that's another thing we'll need to deal with, then. Fine. Make your bargains with the Americans as you will, once you get back to your palace. Arrange the rest."

He just nods, still shaken. But he picks the phone up and makes the call, barking orders in Arabic, so it's okay. I have a feeling he won't do anything very stupid.

On the other hand… "Eddie, you have incoming."

"How many?"

"About twenty or so of the remaining staff. The rest ran already."

"Good on them" I mutter, picking my gun back up.

I turn to the President. "Don't let the girls see you. I have to take care of your last few officers around here."

He stares at me.

I smile at his expression. "What? Keep talking. This won't take long."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

So… some questionable stuff, but I think it should be okay, rule-wise? Someone please, please tell me immediately if it's not. This is Ringo stuff I'm working with.