Chapter 4: A matter of ideals.

"A coward dies many times before the time of his death. It is the valiant one who dies only once."

William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"

00000

Fort Meade, Maryland

"Yes sir. We got him." The terrorist reported; a non-encrypted transmission in a sea of satellite communications. They made the deadly mistake of mentioning the name of that Kurdish Renegade. "Slervansk is ours."

What they didn't know was that after Shadow Moses, the names of the FOX-HOUND members had been put into Echelon, a machine used by the National Security Agency, capable of tracking special keywords in the internet and through satellite communications. Although it was originally planned to track down any possibility of non-American Government factions knowing about the identities of the FOX-HOUND members, the named shared by the Assassin, and this young man was detected and reported. The entire conversation was immediately sent, in real time, to Colonel William Sharp, at his desk in Fort Meade.

"Good job, Hassan." An Arab-accented voice cracked in the low quality transmission. To Sharp's idea, this could well be a former Baathist intelligence officer, or a Shiite commander. Up to the point, it didn't matter. All he knew was that there were already three NSA officers trying to follow the communication. Soon, they'd pinpoint the location with a Satellite; as far as he knew, there was a Meteorological satellite, owned by France, that was now somewhere above Kazakhstan. Within three hours, it would make a 20-min sweep through Iraq; more than enough to track the constant flow of radio communications the gunmen who had the Kurd at gun point used.

In Will's opinion, Campbell was just wrong in believing that... His thought was interrupted.

"What do you want me to do with him?" The mercenary asked. His voice, a dry tone, was more than enough to make the small hairs on Sharp's back stretch.

"Execute him." Bill quickly hit the desk. Fucking bastard! Campbell, you stupid fuck... "Make an example out of that traitor."

00000

Baghdad, the Sunni Triangle

Elijah felt the pistol touching his back, a horrible experience... His initial reaction was to stretch his muscles and turn his head around; and Arab, dressed in traditional clothes and with a Browning Hi-Power in his hand. The square shaped slide and the lack of painting made it clear that it was a military issue version. He knew he was FUBAR; but surrendering was not an option. He remembered what Campbell told him about Layla; that she had given up her will to live. Elijah had sworn to himself he wouldn't walk down that path. There had to be a way out.

He turned around civilly, scouting. He noticed that one of the Technicals (The US Army jargon had stuck with him)'s men had not yet been deployed. That meant that it was a quick support vehicle... But where the fuck where those IRI forces? Hadn't they heard the gunfire?

To Sniper Wolf's brother's infinitely good luck, the gunshot was heard in a three block radius, and by chance, it reached a jeep patrol. Four infantrymen from the Islamic Republic of Iraq's 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment suddenly stopped their vehicle as soon as they heard more than 200 grains of gunpowder detonating.

It was pure common sense that told them that reinforcements were necessary. Thanks to a quick army set up, handled by a former Red Army officer, they had a direct-intervention unit in the neighborhood, comprised of a T-72 tank, a couple of UAZ Soviet-made infantry vehicles, and around 10 infantry soldiers, armed with Kalashnikovs and Ingram MAC-10 SMG's. It was not combat capable equipment, but more than enough to mow down those annoying Sunni resistance elements. Mercenary companies like Hassan's were a small bother, when one had a seven-ton tank on their side.

ETA: 5 minutes.

00000

"On your knees, infidel" The terrorist spat, Elijah obeying nicely. There was no point in struggling; not if he could walk out alive, ready to fight another day. Slowly, he put the pistol in his holster and pulled the rifle off his back.

"I guess you are quite the follower, if you are ready to abandon the Koran's precept in its name." Elijah didn't even mention he was a Muslim by birth as well.

The terrorist didn't even care what the Kurd would do; he raised the Soviet Assault rifle. To Eli's eyes, it seemed like he projected himself upwards, like an evil giant, and then lowered it like a waterfall, in a crash course with Elijah's face. The Kurd's body shook in an unearthly manner upon impact; his head flew downwards and hit the dusty floor in a freakish manner. His torso soon become horizontal, his legs badly positioned, causing his muscle to resent.

Eli's blue eyes closed for a bit, but he then opened them wide; the white part of his eye was reddish due to the blood, causing a –despite the circumstances- amazing picture; a wonderful contrast of bleeding veins and the blue iris, which could have charmed an artist. His crazed eyes never lost sight of the Browning in the hip holster.

He couldn't think. In that moment, the rush to his head turned him into an absolutist, someone who had his mind set and would never think otherwise; all of him was focused on the gunman; the Kurd had forgotten who he was, who Layla was, who the hell was that soldier in front of him? He didn't care. He just wanted the fucking gun.

Without even acknowledging the other gunmen's existence, he instinctively moved his leg, in a parallel way to the ground, towards the Gunman's leg. Eli's foot hit the tango in the knee, the sudden amount of pain striking the terrorist, making him fall in no way different to Eli. The difference lay in the AK-47, which instinctively fired the entire 30 round magazine, in a drunken way; of course, no bullet hit Elijah, but the gunman in front of him got sprayed with the medium caliber projectiles, the juices of his body mixing, changing of chamber, small roses filling his shape; a pitiful sight.

The Kurd raised among the dust; becoming a reasonable human being again; he noticed the guy with AK was still alive; he quickly took the gun from his holster with a quick pull and then raised the terrorist himself; holding him by the armpits, leaving the AK in the floor. Who was going to need it anyway? By the time the dust had cleared and the five other terrorists realized what had happened, Eli used the now-conscious terrorist as a human shield, his own Browning grazing his temple.

The five tangos (it seemed unit two had heard something, taking the leader with them) pointed their guns in distress; Slervansk seemed to know where the snipers were, for he maneuvered in such a way to avoid both of their positions...

"Let him go!" One of them yelled. Eli didn't respond: he just kept dragging the tango backwards, towards a door. The Renegade knew clearly that his only chance was to stay indoors.

"Come and get him!" The target shouted back, reaching for the door. The sweat was now a constant thing, his eyes still staring. He was just on the verge of breakdown.

But not just yet.

He reached to the handle, and pulled the magazines from the tango's belt. Three other 15 round magazines; not half bad, he told himself. The door was locked. He bent himself and fired at the doorknob with 9mm handgun, shattering the pins. He re-positioned it, about to blow the terrorist's head.

"He's going to escape!" The sniper hissed through the radio, when...

The IRI officer's prediction was wrong. The vehicles' engines were hot already, so the time spent was greatly reduced. The surprise was epic when one of the snipers, set in an abandoned apartment, spotted the T-72. One has to understand that not even the roughest of men can stand the sight of a 44 ton monster, but that wasn't the worst of it; a 125mm 2A46M/ D-81TM smoothbore main gun, aimed towards the too-visible from that point, sniper. Capable of going through medium armor, the 125mm ammunition was more than enough blow the apartment to hell, the sniper in the window turned to his basic materials; no longer a proud Arab, but a just a bunch of Carbon and some proteins.

All turned to dust, in deafening explosion, as a vertical volcano blew up in the window and shot dust and debris all over the place.

It is not a common thing; hearing the explosion; all five terrorists turned to some degree, to witness one of the snipers blow up; and the IRI armored division bust into the marketplace, trashing the wooden stands, showing their power. The other sniper; Yosuf, fired an instinctual shot towards the bunch, and decided that retreat was the only option. Not before, though, killing the bastard.

He lined up the scope. The Kurdish fiend was opening the door, entering one of the abandoned apartments, abandoned since the fall of Baghdad to IRI forces. He knew he had almost no chance of hitting Slervansk without killing that man... he was aware of sacrifice, anyway. He lined the scope to the target's chest, as if the gunman and Slervansk were just one being. He violently pulled the trigger.

The bullet, less than a pound of metal, flew and spun in a never-ending course that always had an ending. The terrorist sniper, though, forgot a kilometric detail, something that saved Elijah Slervansk's life. Every shot that surpassed fifty meters had to have the Magnus effect in consideration. A difference counted in millimeters at that distance.

When the bullet spins, rifle-shaped projectiles tend to turn to the right if the scope wasn't "zero'd" (The act of modifying the scope's setting in order to make the crossing of the crosshairs and the point where the bullet will land match) in correctly. Now, even though it didn't much matter if he was shooting the average man who in truth Slervansk was using a human shield, as the shot was meant to go through the hostage's lung into Slervansk's heart: Easy money. But Comrade Magnus's discovery was forgotten. The bullet started turning to the right due to gravitational circumstances. What should have landed in the right lung turned to the left from the victim's perspective; thus hitting the right side of spine.

Typical of bullets that had to cross the entire body, the bullet hit the gunman's vest, losing 75 percent of its speed, turning into a dragging monster that crushed organs on its way rather than piercing them; then, a contact with the 4th rib ended with a broken rib, a lung that seemed to be hit with a trillion nails, and a bullet that had lost 98 if its original speed. The crazy journey ended as the 7.62 x 51mm round hit the spinal cord; and epic demolition happened, as the marrow and the network of tiny bits of nerve spread. The bullet fragmented, but the touching of both the rib and the spine had severely redirected the spray, now heading rightwards.

00000

Elijah barely felt pain. What seemed like an extremely low-caliber shotgun blast erupted from the middle of the Tango's back, and barely two fragments grazed the renegade's abdominal region. The rest had hit the open door, causing small holes to appear.

What really shocked the Kurd was the kinetic power; it was more than enough to launch both men backwards, a moment felt in slow-motion, as this horrible process happened inside the Gunman's body, the victim of the attack was merely thrown backwards, feeling all the impact of the landing on the wooden floor.

The IRI infantry rushed to their positions; entrenching themselves among the wooden stands; opening fire with their Kalashnikovs, aiming poorly; the dust naturally formed a fog of war that made the situation just too confusing for all three sides. The five terrorists turned in panic as they saw the Tank advancing; but that wasn't their main concern. The three of them that were closer quickly rushed to cover, following logic; and fired back at the infantry. The panic was enough to make all the shots miss; the heavy recoil shot the ammunition in all directions:

Elijah Slervansk landed gruffly, and saw the enemy try to finish their jobs; without even pushing the corpse above him, he merely took his hand from below, holding the Browning, and still using the carcass as a form of shield; he fired the gun multiple times; the recoil was low, perhaps because the ammo was of low quality; but the rounds hit their targets; round after round, the two that were within his line of sight fell, twitching with every impact, and every time the slide went on a trip, back and fourth the rest of the gun.

Meanwhile, there of Hassan's men (and a support gunner) lay down suppressive fire, keeping the Shias at bay; even with .50 ammunitions flying around, it seemed that the mercenaries had the will to keep the entire Fast Response team at bay. The constant blazing of gunfire, the rain of empty shell casings, the devastating stresses were like drunks dancing around. The Shia vanguard was quickly mowed down by the fury of the Sunni's AKs, as their brownish uniforms were painted red and they fell, holding their guns like the Teddy Bears.

"The two of you! Circle around the homes and get Slervansk!" The squad leader shouted, not taking his eyes of the Kalashnikov's ironsights, and firing a five-round burst into one of the IRI troopers, sneaking in the Market Place. His two soldiers obeyed at once. Only one of his men was till standing; firing his AK, and an RPG in his back.

The Commander then looked forward, half crouched as to avoid the small arms fired coming from the Shias. The T-72 was already turning his turret, it would be stupid to believe they could evade a 125mm round, fired from a Tank's main turret. There was a solution; firing the RPG. The Sunni understood perfectly: while his boss fired the last few shots in his clip, he quickly hopped above a wooden table, and set his RPG in position.

The weapon was simple: a round metal tube, and a powerful warhead at the tip. It was extremely protuberant, and it was an advanced version of the WW2 era Panzerfaust, which was also disposable. The RPG's rudimentary iron sight (Obvious, given a Tank is usually an easy target) was quickly aligned with the turret; the only one shot he had would blow up the turret, kill all three men in the crew, and eliminate the 125mm gun. It would turn the tide of the lost battle. He fired; the huge head of the device got separated and sped forwards, leaving a white trail of smoke. The missile, thanks to gravity and fuel of most mysterious quality, started turning downwards, hitting the tank, only in the lower region.

Unlike what Hollywood shows, most Anti-Tank rockets don't blow up in huge explosions; quite on the contrary, the burning plasma is sent forwards, burning through the armor and the occupiers. This was not the exception; the round, hitting the lower part of the tank, blew the steel wheels and the driver to oblivion, gone. Instead of a huge fireball, all the IRI forces saw of their support vehicle was smoke ejecting violently and particles of burnt steel. The tank commander was charred as the fireball entered the tank. A small ignored fact remained; although the Gunner was dead, being struck by the pieces of metal and composite armor flying after the explosion, the 125mm gun remained intact.

00000

An ethnologist would have been charmed by the situation; as the Shias and the Sunnis killed each other outside, the Kurd leant on the wall, trying to make some sense. His head hurt horribly, his stomach was bleeding, and the rest of him was aching badly. Elijah Slervansk had better days indeed. The gun on his hand was, to his surprise, quite well maintained. He was glad to see that the three 15 round magazines were full indeed; the cartridges looked of acceptable quality, too. The gun itself wasn't loaded by a pro, though. There were originally 15 shots, proving that the Terrorist quartermaster (if they had such a thing) had not learnt the trick of loading an extra shot in the chamber. Eli had.

The gun clearly had, when it first showed up, 15 rounds. He made a count of his shots, trying to maintain consciousness; one shot of blow up the pins, and five to mow down the two gunmen. He had nine shots left in the gun, enough to survive. Plus other three mags, he had the more than acceptable quantity of 54 shots to fire. Again, not half bad, the renegade said to himself.

The walls were orange, but the floor didn't seem too good; he was, to his opinion, in the lower part of an apartment building. Eli advanced, his gun raised, in a sort of SWAT tactic, clearing the room through quick turns and not leaving a corner free to sneaky terrorists. He opened the door, reaching the well-lit hall. No hostiles, he said to himself as he verified, creeping his head from behind the open door.

Elijah was well aware that escape was the only option. He checked his watch: 3:00 PM. He just realized how hot he was, his traveling clothes soaked with sweat; and Eli now remembered that his luggage would reach Iraq soon; it was just a small, bureaucratic mistake. He hoped that IRI authorities were more forgiving with Delivery companies and not with Airlines.

00000

Zahyr entered the Apartment building through the back, covered by a man he didn't really like and a gun he hated using. That was the Nine Millimeters UZI, designed by Zionists, for Zionists. He wondered why Hassan, his boss, even cared about "Close Quarters capability"; heck, an AK had more power, and that was all that was needed, in his opinion.

The man behind him was Mohammed, (Zahyr knew at least thirty people with that name, something not surprising when one thinks about how it is the most popular name in the world.) It wasn't as much he hated him as he really didn't want to know him. In that business, it was better not to get too attached to people: Because people died. It was a fact, and no amount of religious teaching could change that. If any, it was the nice perspective that his partner would go to Heaven, fighting the infidels.

They both entered the first floor, knowing Slervansk wouldn't be far...

00000

Eli advanced slowly, weaving a pattern with his legs as he advanced in a way similar to SWAT officers, the Browning in his hand ready to fire. The home he entered was full of small objects; mostly decoration, and the pattern in the carpet on the floor made clear that Arabs lived there. It was well lit; a ray of sunshine entered through a window.

He walked forward, holding the gun with both his hands; but a sound came from the Left; a small sliding door; clearly a footstep, Elijah crouched and aimed the gun at the sliding door; a dark figure walked out easily, to quickly spot the Kurd and gasp; another female civilian, with her Burkha not covering her face. She was younger and taller (and more attractive) to the lady that had approached him in the marketplace.

"You! To the floor!" he shouted in English.

The lady shook her head; she didn't speak a word in English, he reasoned. He stepped forward, now aiming to her head. Elijah was a gentleman, not an idiot.

"Emsiek! " Eli growled, displaying his knowledge in Arabic. "Marhaba salam alekom." He said, as he smiled shyly. (Stop! Who are you?)

She understood him, and slowly raised her hands. The face showed clear worry; not everyday an Aryan-looking man storms your home with a handgun and is actually nice to you. They were usually Arab-looking men storming, packing assault rifles and not being nice at all. She started approaching slowly.

"Bass or kefaya!" The Kurd warned aggressively as he stretched his arms in order to make the gun look larger. A good trick when you want to scare someone. (Hold it right there!)

The woman shook up to Elijah's shouting, throwing her hands upwards and her head slightly behind, in utter terror. She stepped back as Eli slowly walked towards her; the gun aimed at her chest.

"Do you speak English?" He asked, slowly and clearly, as the woman slowly got on her knees.

"I can..." She answered, clearly troubled.

"Where am I?" Elijah asked, firmly.

"This is my home, sir... Please, don't do anything to..." She said in panic. Eli raised his eyes; there was a young child looking at him from behind the sliding door; the woman's child was dark and seemed confused. Eli decided it was best to ignore him.

"Stay where you are." He said, as he seated on a nearby chair; wooden and stiff, he had been more comfortable. He put the Browning in an improvised holster, his own belt, and started putting on the tactical harness (which was also uncomfortable). He then ran his hand through his forehead, feeling the layer of sweat. He was a mess.

The Kurd had bitten the bait, they decided. He quickly checked his not exactly pretty IMI UZI; there was indeed a round in chamber. He then peered; he was distracted, looking at the female civilian. He nodded to his companion. The submachine gun (term applied to any Machinegun that uses a Pistol Caliber) had thirty 9mm shots, more than enough to kill Slervansk and possibly the civilian, following his orders: not to leave any survivor.

The both slowly opened the door. The target turned his head in disbelief as they quickly rushed, moving their legs disproportionately and aiming their guns. They both quickly rose their hands in disbelief, only differently; while the civilian again showed no intention to fight, Eli responded by assuming an "Icarus" –Aiming the gun with slightly closed elbows to reduce recoil- position.

"Drop that weapon!" the insurgent growled, aiming his weapon at him. His voice noted lack of professionalism; he was a mad monkey with a gun. The eyes were wide open. Eli took a glance at the situation; the kid was crouched, trying not to be part of the situation. His mother's breathing was heavy. He didn't drop his gun.

"Let them go." Elijah stated, with eerie calm again.

"Drop your gun, little Persian shit." The other one had far superior English, and looked far more professional. His gun was set on the lady. Elijah wondered if Chivalry still existed in the world, and if all of this was worth it. This modern Knight knew he had to get the kid and the woman out of harm's way, yet wondered if his ancestors would have cared about those values, given they were fighting the knights in the crusades. Eli then cursed himself for letting his mind drift away from the situation.

He dropped the handgun without much wondering. It felt roughly, but no damage had been done. He had not even put a safety to it, and even left in the Double Action setting. That would mean that the hammer was cocked and that the shiest of trigger pulls would discharge the weapon. Eli's strategy would be a blitzkrieg in every sense of the word.

The second one spotted the child; Elijah felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. He knew that stakes had just risen. The tango made signs to the kid, and quickly went to grab him. The child had either not noticed, or was not surprised, at the fact that the man had an assault rifle. He returned, showing the little Arab to his mother, and both of them knew that the second the gunfight began, he would meet an early ending. Eli was just back of fighting for his own survival, but other's was just a different game.

"Let him go." Elijah stated.

"Come and take him." The terrorist bullied. Poor decision: a man without a gun is not necessarily unarmed, less if he went through Green Beret training. As he started his charge, he went through the CQC (Close Quarter Combat) manual all over his head; a sort of synthesized martial art developed for Special Forces use. He quickly performed an onslaught on the man on the Left, aiming at him, initiating enough pressure to cause an unwanted discharge of the Uzi, making the female got jumpy and cower, while the other terrorist pushed the kid forward a bit, confused.

Eli didn't fully detach his feet from the ground, instead, he pushed the tango out of the way, and quickly turned his attention to the terrorist on the right; the enemy was trying to get his AK in a position suitable for firing; feat impossible to accomplish in such small quarters, with two bodies so near him, and with the AK's size. Eli rushed and hit him with the palm of his hand in the middle of the chest, pushing him back, to the floor. He had, in less than four seconds, thrown both hostiles to the floor.

He then grabbed the AK, and threw it to the lady.

"Roah!" He said, as she took the Soviet Rifle and took her child, sprinting away.

The other terrorist slowly rose, and aimed the Uzi at the passing civilians. Eli knew that he couldn't rush to him and kick the gun out of his hands; that would rush the enemy, who was taking his time aiming. Eli reacted with a level of intelligence amazing for the situation. In a blink of an eye, he leaped across the room and rolled his way towards the Browining, set in perfect conditions to allow him to shoot. He grabbed it with a single hand, aimed quickly but not precisely. By the time the enemy had set the Uzi in a practical position, Elijah delivered seven shots with the browning. Needless to say, five of those hit the enemy in multiple areas, causing him internal bleeding and death.

He approached the body with professionalism. He was pretty dead; the blankness of his eyes and the bleeding said so. The other was already twitching; He reached for one of the Grenades on his pocket.

"Allahu Ackb... " Before he finished his war cry and pulled the pin, Eli emptied the magazine in his head, one shot after the other. The slide of the Browning was pulled backwards, which meant that it had run out of ammo. He pressed the magazine ejector, and instead of letting it fall like in the movies, he grabbed it. If he was lucky, he'd find a 9mm ammo box somewhere, and he'd reload the magazine.

He noticed (not without some surprise) that of the three magazines he had in his harness, two were filled with Full Metal Jacketed Rounds (that being ammunitions using a metal covering to aid penetration) and the other one was filled with Jacketed Hollow Pointed ammunitions, cartridges that had their tip pierced so that with the hot air, the projectile would "flourish" in mid air, making it bigger, and instead of piercing the target, ripping through it. JHP's were horrible in terms of accuracy and penetration, but firing at close ranges, against unarmored enemies, they were deadly, if brutal.

He inserted an FMJ magazine, and then lowered the lever, returning the slide to the normal position, and thus placing a Round in the Browning's chamber. He glanced around him; evading the enemy was not going to be easy. He had an idea. He searched the body of the terrorist on the left; he still packed the Uzi, and a military uniform; Woodland pattern trousers and a black shirt. It took him just a couple of minutes to get undressed, leaving only his socks and his boxer left on, and to remove the dead terrorists' uniform. Eli noticed that the shirt was pierced repeatedly and covered in blood by his own shots. He took the other terrorist's, which was olive.

It took his around five minutes to dress the terrorist on the left with his clothes, and exchanging uniforms. He was now wearing the woodland pants and the olive shirt, but that was not enough. Now, there was the problem of ethnicity: Eli needed the Camouflage he was now wearing, but the terrorist would be discovered, given his hair was black, and the subject's was blond. Eli took an extreme measure.

He reached the enemy's Uzi; there were still 21 shots in it. He slowly passed the 9mm bullets from the Uzi's magazine to the empty Browning magazine. As he reached the 15 shots, he reinserted the Uzi magazine, with only 6 bullets left in it. He pulled the Uzi's bolt, reading for another shot, and aimed towards the dead terrorist's scalp.

He fired all 6 shots in quick succession; the hair was now covered in blood and the face was a bloody mess. He considered grabbing the Uzi, but there was a problem; this was not the usual American micro-Uzi, but the Israeli made standard Uzi, that had a wooden stock and thus, impossible to conceal. He decided to leave it, and make the bad guys believe that he had taken the Uzi with him. Eli walked away, trying to figure out how to escape the apartments.

00000

Fort Meade, Maryland, National Security Agency's command center.

"Sir..." The operator called Sharp, hurriedly. William had just arrived to what they called "The God Room"; the command center in which they operated their satellites; Dark, and reminiscent of a Submarine's control room, the "God Room" had around 20 NSA operators working on 12 hours shifts, following different areas. Sharp had reached the spot, in order to command the efforts to locate Elijah Slervansk. "We just caught an Iraqi Military transmission. It's a mess, sir, they killed some Sunni militiamen, and..."

"Slow down. What does this have to do with Slervansk?" Sharp asked, quietly.

"Witnesses in the area claim that the dead gunmen held a Persian-looking man at gun point before the IRI authorities stepped in." The operator was a kid, barely 21 years old, his eyes hysterical and focused on his commander, loyal as a crazy rabbit.

"You think that's Slervansk?"

"No Kurd would get into Baghdad if he wanted to live, that's for sure. The Sunni nationalists hate them with all their souls, and the IRI barely tolerates them because of their Ethnic link with the Iranians."

"It's a funny connection; The Shiites share their religion with the Iranians, that being Shia Islam, and the Kurds share their ethnicity with the Iranians, but that doesn't help in the negotiating table, does it?"

"You could say so, sir."

"Anyway. Any luck tracking Slervansk?" He returned to the task at hand rather bluntly.

"No Good. Thermal sensors show people running into nearby buildings. In a perfect world, we could identify people by their body temperature, but as you can imagine, everyone has the same one." The technician explained.

"Maybe, if we could put a tracker into the fucker..."

"The only way we can do that is in-situ. That would mean sending operatives, personnel..."

"I am aware of the legal implications, Tom." Sharp thought for a second. "Call me when the next satellite passes by Iraq. "

"That's in around eight hours, sir. It's one of ours."

"Good. If my wife calls, tell her I'm saving the world."

00000

Baltimore, Maryland.

Retired Colonel Roy Campbell's home in D.C. was welcoming, but the Hotel in Baltimore he was given (to fit his relocation to Fort Meade) was creepy at best. Room 213 had a reddish atmosphere, given the carpet and the wallpaper. He decided he needed some sleep; the paperwork regarding this new unit was exhausting,

He undressed and went to bed. A man of his age, even with his excellent shape, had limits, and he enjoyed a bit of rest. As he closed his eyes, falling into a deep sleep, the phone rang: an energetic series of beeps that made his brain jump. He picked the tube.

"Mr. Campbell?" The boring voice of the receptionist appeared.

"What is it?"

"A lady named Meryl Silverbourgh called. Do I patch her through?"

"Yes." He said, opening his eyes violently.

"Uncle?" A croaky, young female voice answered, she was a mess of nerves and Roy could sense that.

"Meryl?" He asked, patiently.

"I needed to call you... " She said, a bit scared. "It's been almost a year, and..."

"You need someone to talk to?"

"It isn't that."

"What is it, then?"

Meryl seemed to look for the right words.

"A man called home. He said he was a certain Colonel William Sharp."

"Sharp? Motherf... What did he tell you?" Campbell grumbled a bit; Sharp was in charge of the operation regarding Elijah Slervansk, and that couldn't be good.

"He says that he talked to my C.O., and that I need to go to Baltimore with you."

"I don't like this."

"Me neither."

00000

Eastern Iraq, 30 miles off the Iranian border.

"My sights are hot. Two sentries, 120 meters away." Gunnery Sergeant David Hazansky, Spotter for the Sniper Team attached to the 10th Special Forces group, informed through his radio. This scouting mission would prove dangerous, he was sure.

The 10th Special Forces Group encompassed 1400 soldiers. He belonged to the 3rd Battalion, 1st Company, Fourth Team, which were units of roughly 12 men. He was a Green Beret; a member of the Special Forces Operational Detachment A, a well trained operator in tasks of Antiterrorism, Reconnaissance, direct action, guerilla warfare, anything. He, however, was under the specific command of Master Sergeant Michael Lee, commander of the Sniper Team assigned to the Fourth Team. He was lying a foot away, his weapon being a gargantuan Barret M95 Anti-Material Sniper Rifle: a huge rifle of silver colors, Infrared scope and a barrel that looked like a pipe.

Meanwhile, Hazansky, a polish-ascendancy young Spotter, had a Bolt-Action L24 sniper rifle; chambered for the 7,62 x 51mm NATO round, and an accurate range of 750 meters, the L24 was the Sniper Rifle of choice of the US Military, with the possible exception of the Marine Corps's M40A1. Sly and dark, it was the perfect anti-infantry device to balance out Lee's M95.

"Roger that, Rifle-2." Lee responded. "I won't fire just yet. Fire team Alpha is in position already."

"Good. I'll take the Sentry on the Left, and I'll leave McTarant's crew to deal with the rest."

"Carry on, Rifle-2."

00000

The shot sounded harsh in the Iraqi twilight, one of the sentries guarding the back entry to an abandoned Armored Division's base, from Saddam's era, fell with a screech. The bullet had gone right through his chest, and his partner, as he saw the splash of blood in the wall, turned desperate and reached his AK.

In that moment, a four-man fire team (Alpha, commanded by Lieutenant Roger McTarant, a young Irish-American Officer from Idaho), rushed from below the sound, in their desert camouflage BDU, and the forward man, Corporal Craig Hernandez, did a great job, firing an instinctual double shot from his M4A2 SOPMOD, quickly eliminating the enemy subject.

The four-man team (that had left their HMMVV with another team that was coordinating the assault) rushed to the entrance bunker's door. They had done this a gazillion times before in Training; room clearing was a science, and it had been so documented that the procedure was mechanized in their minds.

"State your numbers." McTarant demanded, softly, at the entrance.

"One." Craig Hernandez claimed.

"Two." The Lieutenant clarified.

"Three." Ali Marawki, the Arab translator, was assigned to team Alpha.

"Four." Martin Jenkins, the black SAW Operator, hissed.

"Alright, boys, let's rock." Roger said, showing some stress.

The procedure went well: Hernandez, AKA 1, opened the door violently. No hostiles forward, and the room was dark. It wasn't good. Following, Marawki threw in a M67 Pineapple Grenade into the room, five second fuse.

"Fire in the hole!"

The grenade flew in, blew up, in a brute sound that made his ears sore, and then the plan was in motion. Hernandez busted in, M4 ready, and as soon as he entered the room, started strafing towards his left. He quickly noticed an Insurgent, turning around after being shaken by the Grenade. Craig fired his Carbine instinctively to his back, both shots landing, causing small, oozing holes, yet not knocking his target.

McTarant, number two, entered right after, but instead of taking his Left like Hernandez, he marched forward; they both covered the room efficiently; he also saw the insurgent, and fired a three-round burst at his head; the cranium popped and the enemy fell to the floor like a mannequin hit by a bulldozer.

Marawki entered, and took his left, following Hernandez. Yet, by the time it was over, Jenkins also took McTarant's path. The room was clear.

"Cap'n..." McTarant used his headphone, contacting the Squad's commander. "We took out the Communications outpost... Bring in the HMMVV's, we need extraction."

00000

Baghdad, Sunni Triangle; Security Status; Orange Alert

Slervansk had evaded his hunters, for now. He was again alone, this time wearing an Insurgent uniform – If they could be called that way- and looking tired. He had killed men before, but he had never fought so close and personal; heck, in Iraq, most of the kills where either in rush CQB maneuvers in which you couldn't even see the enemy's face, or 30 meters away. Nothing like shooting the baddie and then having to strip him.

He heard a shy machine noise behind him, as he walked alone, in a sidewalk. The Iraqi downtown was under curfew of IRI forces; and Eli knew that if he had barely escaped from Guerillas, what chances did he have against a regular army? He turned around; an American made Ford pickup. His eyes quickly narrowed; the vehicle started approaching him, increasingly slow. He could see the driver clearly. An Arab man, smiling, with a five O' Clock Shadow and thin skull, he was about 60 years old, but seemed rather healthy.

"You seem lost, my friend." He said, in excellent English. Elijah didn't give away his cover.

"Ana mabsoot, ana kowayes." Eli said, carefully, and analyzing the man. I am fine

"No need for that. It seems like you need a Cup of Coffee." He said. What a gentleman, Elijah told himself. Who was this man? The Kurd's curiosity was still one of his worst enemies.

"Thank you." He said, not without doubting first. "What's your name, sir?"

"Mahmoud Shalab." He said, smiling. Maybe a College Professor?

"That's weird. My middle name's Mahmoud."

"What's your First name, Tired Pilgrim?"

"I'd rather not say..." Elijah made it clear as softly as he could.

"Are you running from someone?" He asked, in a paternal way.

"Maybe you saw them." Slervansk's voice gained a glint of sarcasm. "They wear black balaclavas, and like to shoot their rifles into the air."

The driver cracked a smile. "You are not unarmed yourself." He had seen the Browning. Damnit.

"Shouldn't you be packing too?" Eli asked. He didn't need to explain why; the man was too rich for the neighborhood, and didn't seem to be the head Anti-American chump in the land.

"Who says I'm not?" He extended his arm; in the passenger's seat, laid an AK rifle.

"Is that Kalashnikov loaded?"

"It's a Chinese version, according to the man who sold it, and it IS loaded."

"Wonderful."

"Get in. I suppose there's a lot of men after you."

"Where are we going?" Eli asked.

"Not Fallujah." He said, smiling, presuming his guest had heard about the riots. "I live further down south, in the Shia area."

"You a Shiite?" He asked, revealing caution, but not fear.

"Yes, I am. Not a Fanatic one, though."

"That's really great."

"C'mon, we don't have forever."

The drive wasn't long; the curfew, enforced by armed IRI footmen, kept the civilians at home. For some reason, Shalab wasn't stopped at any point by the camouflage-wearing army. They seemed to recognize him; if he was a member of the IRI Government, then Elijah had made his worst mistake yet. Fortunately, he was wrong. They remained silent the whole trip, Eli constantly glancing. He wouldn't be ambushed again.

Slervansk entered Shalab's home slowly, the open door and his invitation was not good enough; the place looked neat, rather Western, certainly much more comfortable than the Apartment he had stormed earlier. He had to leave; there was no point endangering a woman and her child for no reason. Slervansk knew he was a human jinx, and it was clear Shalab knew it too – He, again, extended his arm, telling Elijah to sit at the kitchen table. It looked nice. Maybe Shalab was married?

"You must understand, Pilgrim, that if I'm going to allow an enemy of that Angry Mob, I'd prefer knowing as much as I can about his situation, don't you think?"

Elijah gave a cold look at the man. "Do you really want to know?"

"May I presume you don't know?" He asked, sitting down, then rising again, quickly. "I'll get you some Coffee."

"That won't be..." Elijah said, quickly.

"I don't mind. It's an Arabic tradition, after all." He said, as he headed for a drawer.

"I just don't know what happened; I came here, and there was this bunch of Gunmen waiting for me. They had Snipers, Technicals, they even had a escape plan!" Elijah vented off. "It's almost as if I was walked into a trap."

"So, why are you here? You don't like England?" He asked, as he crushed the grains.

"I wanted to come." Elijah said, somewhat directed at himself. "I figured I would just head to Hisdan and..." Elijah opened his eyes wide when he realized he slipped.

"Syed Hisdan? Have you lost your mind?" The Old man lost a bit of balance as he turned around towards Elijah, his eyes filled with horror.

"That's what I keep telling myself. Who is this Hisdan anyway?"

"A Warlord." He said, as he handed Elijah his cup. "And one of America's darkest secrets."

"He was CIA?" The Kurd jerked as he heard that last line.

"No; Quite in the contrary. Syed was one of Saddam Hussein's worst henchmen. Everything you heard that Saddam did to his people, Syed was involved in. Expert in torture, he would just take someone, make them experience hell, made them forget all they loved, in a whirlwind of pain... At the end, you were either dead, or a crushed man, Saddam Hussein's little worshipper, whose mind only remembers pain and hatred." Mahmoud's eyes got wet. He was remembering something.

Elijah listened. This wasn't far from any means from what he believed happened to Layla. He didn't explode in anger. He controlled himself, took a shy sip of his coffee, and then shot again. "How do you know all this?"

"Because..." Mahmoud pulled from his sleeve; the white shirt slowly retreating to reveal torn flesh, an old battleground. The skin was burnt, stabbed, broken.

"I'm sorry." Elijah said, lowly. "If you don't want to talk about it..."

"It's perfectly alright, Pilgrim." He said, covering the scar. "I got this when my son was captured by Saddam's men; he allegedly had taken part in the Shia rebellion in 1992. He was only 17, Pilgrim." The pain in Mahmoud's eyes was still there; He cared more about his son than his own wounds. "They believed the rest of the family was involved. He also met Syed Hisdan. He didn't walk out alive... All I got was a scar in my arm."

"This was in 1992?" Elijah decided not let his emotions affect him.

"Yes." Mahmoud's eyes seemed lost.

"When would you think Hisdan started working for the Baathists?"

"He seemed like a genius. As if he were doing this since he was 20."

"Would you think he'd be torturing Kurds towards the end of the Iraq-Iran war?" Elijah asked, professionally.

"I'm sure. He once tried to show me what he was capable of. He showed me a cut-out blue eye, and said it was from a Kurd he had killed in 1988. It is plausible." Mahmoud let off a sigh. "He said he preserved it in a jar filled with formaldehyde."

Elijah leaned his head back. "Is he still alive?" Slervansk had overlooked the possibility that the man he might end up killing was already dead.

"Oh, Yes! Hisdan is still influential. After the Iraq War, he became unemployed. It was believed that he was hunted by the CIA and Mossad for a couple of years. It is said he captured a Mossad officer, a Sephardic Jew, I believe, kept him at his home in Fallujah and tortured him for four entire days with his car's batteries, until he suffered a Heart attack. The Israeli was only 26. Do you know how much pain it takes to make a 26 year old die from a Heart Attack?" Elijah didn't answer. " He gained some reputation among this so-called "Resistance", and I heard he is now employed in Ansar Al-Islam, hunting down possible traitors. Did I mention he was an Interrogation expert? "

"I think you glossed over it." Elijah said.

"Be my guest, Tired pilgrim. I still have my Child's room. I haven't been able to even enter it..." Mahmoud shook his head. "Then, at morning, we can pray together, and then, I'll help you with whatever you need." Elijah couldn't reject such offer. He was still human, no matter how much effort he put into denying it.

That didn't mean he would sleep.

00000

Fort Meade, Maryland, USA.

William Sharp was increasingly nervous. The hallway was long, but mostly empty; most NSA officers were at home at that point; After all, it was just a regular day for most of them. Being a Colonel at such an early age had made Bill into a bit of an oddball; it seemed Politics and Espionage were the usual things for him.

The man he expected approached silently. Extremely tall, with short jet-black hair and an extremely formal black suit, approached. He seemed majestic, taking long steps towards Sharp.

"Colonel William Sharp?" He asked. His voice was low and grave.

"The same." He answered, shifting his head slightly upwards.

"I'm Dr. Nathan Lars Harker, from the Central Intelligence Agency." He extended his arm. Bill shook his hand accordingly. There was something about his Formal ways that Sharp didn't like.

"Nathan Harker? Your parents were into Dracula or something?"

"Actually, my father had no idea about Bram Stoker's novel, it was my Mother that came up with it. " he said, trying to break the ice. Somewhat pale, Bill could well see Dr. Harker in a Vampire story, though not exactly as a good guy. "So, tell me, why do you need the Agency's help?"

"I was expecting an Inter-Agency consultant, actually." Bill said. The two started walking towards his office. "What's your field, Doc?"

"I'm a jack-of-all-trades, actually, but my specialty is Law." He said, slowly. He sort of looked like an Attorney. "Apparently, there's some doubts regarding the legality of Slervansk's operation in Iraq."

Bill seemed surprised, but still annoyed. The CIA guy was as smug as they came. "So, before the CIA can help us, you must verify this entire thing is legal? What sort of Intelligence Agency are you?"

"One with Rules, Colonel." Nathan informed, and Bill was liking Nathan less and less. "As you must know, the CIA has forbidden to commit political assassinations. If we kill, it's to protect our identities, but murder is never the mission objective, despite what those crazy Liberals in Hollywood want to show. Now, from that point of view, we cannot aid the NSA in the assassination of Syed Hisdan."

"Holy fuck." Bill blurted. "You can't be serious."

"On the other hand, Elijah Slervansk is not technically part of any US Intelligence Agency. In short, Laws don't apply to him. It could be even claimed the NSA is not interested in seeing Hisdan die, they are just letting Slervansk do it."

"Then why doesn't Langley move?"

"Because, when the trial happens, and it will, the Military Attorney will easily claim that Slervansk is what we call a NOC Agent; a non-official operative, without any sort of Diplomatic Protection, therefore, invisible to the authorities. As I was saying, the CIA has no way to prove Slervansk is not a NOC."

"What if the NSA takes responsibility?"

"The NSA is an Intel gathering agency, officially, so the Ops department is, technically, the CIA's bitch. Now, NSA field operatives are subject to the same laws as those who work for the CIA, the FBI and the DIA."

"In short, Slervansk could be a NOC for either agency?"

"That's what the Military Attorney will tell the JAG and a jury. The CIA can't release their NOC list, for safety reasons. In short, we'll have to plead guilty, sinking more careers than I can count."

It took them a couple of minutes the reach the office. Sharp's office was rather dull, far from original, and certainly just now acquired. Sharp kept a picture of a pretty Black Woman in his desk, her wife, Alexandra. The Desk itself was rather old and the office hadn't yet been decorated, it was impersonal, and that made Harker extremely comfortable.

"Is there any way to avoid this trial?" Sharp asked.

"It won't be easy, you see. At some point, someone's going to notice Hisdan dying. Even if it isn't an Iraqi, it is possible for some Analyst to dig up the mission file. At some point, Slervansk's file will come up and some of those damn analysts actually consider telling the JAG some dirty secrets as a way to climb the ladder." Harker explained, slightly annoyed. He seemed honorable, and seemed angry when he mentioned the analysts. "How many people are into this op anyway?"

"So far, less than a Hundred. About Twenty of them are part of the Satellite team we have tracking Slervansk. There are about fifteen guys in the Higher Administration that need to know that I'm working on this. Then, there are a handful of Inter-Agency liaisons on this, not to mention that we have been talking to some guys at the Department of Defense. Even the USSOCOM (United States Special Operations Command) is in on this."

"SOCOM? What the fuck? As far as I'm concerned, recruitment is usually up to the regional Station Director, right? Even if the guy was top-notch, it would never go beyond the NSA Director." Nathan sounded perplexed and intrigued. His eyes were more visible now and he leaned forwards, speaking in a secretive fashion.

"That would be the SOP (Standard Operational Procedure) but it turns out Mr. Slervansk is being recruited for a Presidential Initiative. That's why USSOCOM is in on this; Apparently, Slervansk has some sort of connection with the Shadow Moses Fiasco." There was no need to tell Harker about ECLIPSE, Sharp decided. He'd end up telling him anyway.

"Presidential Initiative? Shouldn't POTUS be watching after his own little experiments?" Nathan complained.

"Don't be so dense. President Johnson will be briefed. So far, the highest ranking official involved is the Secretary of Defense. He knows Slervansk has slipped out of contact, anyway. There's also a guy from the General Staff, one General Irvine Garret. " Sharp explained, a bit concerned.

"Jesus Christ... Who is this Slervansk?" Harker showed emotion for the very first time. His head was raised dramatically, and his hands moved when he talked.

"I'm telling you, Nathan, as a coworker. Of the whole 100 people involved, only 10 actually know who Elijah Slervansk is. You'll join the club." Bill explained, leaning against the chair, with certain mysticism. "Were you briefed on the Shadow Moses Fiasco?"

"Only the headlines. "Next Generation Special Forces, led by Rogue Agents of Fox-Hound, has Rebelled. They are holed up in a Civilian Installation in Alaska, they got shot up." Why?" Nathan asked, increasingly hooked.

"Well, it's not that simple. Anyway, after the destruction of FOX-HOUND, the boys at SOCOM got pretty pissed, because they no longer could attack as covertly as they could with Fox-Hound. Sears received a lot of Whining from DOD during what was left of his Administration. Johnson gave in, and decided to recreate the unit. Turns up someone big Upstairs came up with the wonderful idea of go on with the Hunter Solider Gene theory."

"The one that says that a Soldier's talent comes from his Genes? That crazy bitch really wanted her fucking Eugenics experiment to get going. I know because I was in the hearing. The guys at her company, AGCL, wanted a Contract with DOD. Seems they got it."

"Yes, and that contract is not yet over. Though the Gene Therapy business has been discarded, it seems SOCOM still wants to play with Genes. Fox-Hound's genes. They decided, in order not to break up Sears's "No-Eugenics-in-Military" initiative, to search Blood Relatives of the Shadow Moses terrorists, and use Naomi Hunter's plan to train them."

"Fucked up." Nathan's eyes were wide open. "That way, you can avoid a lot troubles with Congress, right?"

Always politics with you, huh? Bill wanted to answer back.

"Yeah, only you are drafting non-Americans based on Genetics to form a Spec Ops unit. A lot of people don't like our policies." Bill said. "Do you really want a horde of Republicans calling us Nazis?"

"Don't tell me about it. I joined during the Bush Administration. I was in Harvard at the time I got recruited for the CIA. The environment was tough." Nathan seemed so annoyingly pompous in Bill's eyes, he didn't even respond to that. "Which is funny. My Wife's Father and Mother survived working as slaves in a Mercedes Benz factory during the Second World War."

Bill normally would have asked whether the Kids were going through Christian or Jewish education, but didn't. That would just lead to Nathan spouting his BS again. "Anyways, Slervansk is part of this group. That's why President Johnson is so obsessed with finding them."

"Who's your SOCOM liaison?"

"A Specially recruited, hand-picked, Retired Colonel that was with the Counter-Terrorist force at Shadow Moses. Ever heard of a Roy Campbell?"

"Can't say I have."

"The man is a Former Marine, but he worked for Delta as a Strategist. He's very intelligent and is involved in staffing this new Unit. "

"I'd like to have a talk to him, if you don't mind."

"Me? Mind?"