Chapter 6.5: Arabian Nights

Tal Afar, Iraq Autonomous Region, Kingdom of Krugis (Area Seven), April 2006 ATB

The base was quite impressive, in its own way.

From his vantage point, on the outskirts of Tal Afar, Hamid had a good view of the base. At the centre was its airfield, consisting of a single concrete runway a full three kilometres long. A smaller marshalling area stood next to it, connected to the runway by a pair of taxiways. Next to the marshalling area in turn stood the control tower; a blocky concrete structure that, going its size, was also the base's HQ. Spaced out around all of them were a series of nondescript buildings; their purpose not entirely apparent.

Hamid smirked. It was almost certainly deliberate; intended to confuse enemy spies or attackers. The harder it was for them to figure out a building's purpose, the less likely they were to hit something important.

Unfortunately for them, he had no interest in the buildings or their contents; except insofar as they could hinder his plan.

The building atop which he had concealed himself was a restaurant; its owner two towns away where plenty of people could see him. Hamid had done him the small favour of staying well out of sight; a skill he had honed to near-perfection over many violent and dangerous years. If all went well, the security forces would have no reason to examine this place, nor wonder what part its owner had in the events of that night.

And even if they did, all they would ever get out of the unfortunate man was a name; Mousa.

Hamid lowered the binoculars, blinking as his eyes were exposed to the night air, taking in the entire view. Tal Afar base was a fortress, surrounded by many kilometres of reinforced concrete wall. It was close enough to the town of Tal Afar to be able to dominate it, but far enough away to be safe from most kinds of attack. The garrison consisted of an entire mechanized infantry battalion, supported by air force infantry, anti-aircraft units, and at least four knightmares.

It was quite the treasure box. But the treasure inside it was worth a lot to Hamid; and not just in the money his new employers would provide for it.

He checked his watch. 01:27. The package would be arriving in a matter of minutes, and with it his best chance of pulling off this mission.

His thoughts turned to the old-fashioned walkie-talkie at his hip. It was nothing like as sophisticated as a modern comm-earpiece or phone, but that was all to the good. The simpler the technology, the easier it was to modify, and the less likely that someone inside the base would be listening for it. To use it at all was a calculated gamble, but a reasonable one.

No, not yet. Another minute or so.

He lowered himself down behind the bare concrete parapet, casting his eyes skyward, seeking for the distant lights of an incoming transport plane. If the information his employers had provided was correct, the plane would be carrying their treasure, a treasure they had paid him one hundred thousand Euros up-front to collect for them.

It had allowed him to pay off certain people, and close a chapter in his life; not to mention cover the rent on a small but rather comfortable Geneva apartment for several years.

Perhaps it might be worth staying on after all.

Despite the parapet, he could feel the cool night wind on his face. It felt pleasant to him, familiar after years in the desert. It reminded him of another time, a time when he had been innocent, trusting, hopeful; ready to kill and die for what seemed like a just cause.

He was starting to hate this mission. No, not the mission. It was Mousa he hated, the skin he had worn for the past six months as he had travelled around the Middle East; making connections, sourcing equipment, and gathering his followers. Mousa was a type Hamid had known well, back in his KPSA days. A thinker, a planner, a mastermind; but above all, a ruthless fanatic ready to kill and destroy for whatever cause he happened to be espousing.

Tonight, his cause was the KPSA; the once-idealistic liberation movement, that the horrors of war had mutated into a pack of murderous tyrants, and which defeat had reduced to just another pack of terrorists. Tracking them down had not been easy, and he had run a not-inconsiderable risk that someone might recognise him. But once he had found them, convincing them had been easy.

All those months enduring their constant whining and complaining. All those months of having his ears irradiated with their bitterness and resentments, their murderous fantasies and their pathetic yearnings. All those months of telling them what they wanted to hear, all the while wanting to rip his own tongue out.

Tonight, it would be all over. Tonight, they would get what was coming to them.

And so would Krugis.

Then he saw it. A point of light in the far distance coming around in a slow, steady arc. The timing was right, and so was the vector. He reached for the walkie-talkie, willing his heart to beat slow and steady.

"This is Mousa. Go."

"Understood."

It wasn't much of a starting order, but simplicity was a virtue in such matters. Above the background noise of the sleeping town, he heard the thrum of engines. His allies were underway, and in a matter of minutes they would reach their starting positions.

He took one last look at the incoming plane. It was still coming around, banking for the final approach. If his allies got their timing right, and he was as sure as he could be that they would, the noise of the plane would cover their approach.

In the old days, it would have been a simple matter to hide a few men with MANPADS around the base, and shoot down any plane that tried to approach or take off. But the Krugisians were wise to that trick, and in any case he couldn't shoot the plane down for fear of damaging the treasure it carried.

At least, if it was the treasure, he would have little difficulty in getting it out of the base.

He heard a vehicle pull up on the street below. Hamid raised himself to a crouch, and hurried towards the fire escape. He hauled himself around, and slid down the ladder, hitting the sandy ground with a thump.

A quick glance around. No sign that anyone had seen him. Hamid hurried along the dark alley, pausing only to peer around the corner, making sure that there was no one else around.

Aside from a single battered-looking pickup truck, the street was deserted.

He strode towards the truck, one glance telling him that was indeed his ride. He pulled open the door and climbed into the back.

"Took you long enough," grumbled the man in the driver's seat.

"I needed the height," Hamid replied, ignoring the pain in his legs. "You got everything?"

"Yes, Mousa!" The youth in the passenger seat turned his head to smile at him. "We're good to go!"

"Then step on it."

The driver, whose name was Haider, muttered something not entirely polite, and the truck growled into motion. Hamid sat back in the fusty-smelling seat, allowing himself to relax as the truck trundled through the deserted streets. No need to go fast, not yet anyway.

"Is that what I think it is?" Hamid gestured at the bundle on the seat next to him."

"Yes, Mousa!" replied Selim. There was something puppyish about him, Hamid thought, a kind of bright innocence that had somehow survived despite his involvement with KPSA. It would not survive much longer, that much he knew only too well.

He pulled at the bundle and opened it. There were three assault rifles and three handguns, all with spare clips, and six grenades. He took one of the handguns, checked it, then slid it into his waistband before picking up one of the assault rifles.

It was an elderly but apparently serviceable AK-47, one of the last models of mechanical firearm before electromagnetic weapons caught on. It was old, but as tough as they came. He could bury it in sand, drag it through the mud, and bludgeon someone to death with it, and it would still almost certainly work. There must have been millions of them floating around the world, many left over from Soviet times, or manufactured in black market gun shops.

It was a perfectly usable gun, but still a reminder of how bad-off KPSA was these days. Back in the day, pulling off an operation like this would have been a simple matter. This time, he had had to pull together a half dozen different groups; not an easy task by any means.

Hamid glanced up from checking the rifle. The truck had pulled onto the main road, and was accelerating. The first of the night's calculated gambles had paid off.

"No check points anywhere," grumbled Haider. "You'd think nothing was going on."

"That's the point," replied Hamid. "If they blocked the roads and swarmed the place with troops, they might as well put a sign up saying they're up to something secret. Whoever was behind this transfer, they're keeping it quiet even from their own side."

"But what for?" Haider sounded suspicious, as he always did. "Krugis takes orders from Britannia. Why would they hide anything?"

"According to my client, the manufacturer has cut some kind of deal with Krugis," Hamid said, warming to his tale. "Knightmares are a growth industry these days, and the manufacturer is getting a little…uncomfortable. They want to corner the Krugis market, and they mean to impress with this prototype."

"I just hope it's worth what you promised," growled Haider.

"Oh it will be," Hamid assured him, smirking. "In money, and in propaganda."

He glanced out of the window again. They were outside of Tal Afar now, speeding along the main highway. The road was not particularly busy, but there were enough cars and trucks and buses to ensure that they would not attract undue attention.

The turn-off leading to the base was directly ahead. In accordance with the plan, Haider pulled the truck to a gentle halt on the roadside directly in front of it. They could only hope that some well-meaning police patrol didn't pull over to offer help, or ask what they were doing hanging around near a side-road leading to a military base.

When the timing was this tight, there was no choice but to gamble.

They sat and waited, cars and trucks rushing past every few minutes. Hamid forced himself to sit back, to not glance at his watch, to appear relaxed; as if everything was going exactly to plan. He looked again out of the window, fixing his eyes on that little point of light as it grew bigger and bigger. Soon it split into multiple lights, moving ever further part, ever so slowly, until he could just about make out the outline of a plane.

The roar of a heavy-duty truck engine filled his ears. He looked up, and saw a heavy freight truck, its sides emblazoned with the logo of a local catering company, slowing down beside them. As the truck turned onto the side road, the driver glanced down at Haider, giving him a small but noticeable nod. Hamid saw Haider nod back, and the truck rolled down the side road towards the base.

It was on.

Hamid finished checking the rifle, and passed it over the seat to Selim. Another rifle followed, then two handguns and four of the grenades. They were as ready as they were going to be.

Heart hammering, he looked out at the truck as it trundled slowly towards the base. The heavy bomb-proof door was closed, and he could see guards spreading out around it, one of them waving at the truck to slow down.

It was working. The catering company the truck supposedly belonged to was contracted to supply the base, so its presence would not be all that much of a surprise, even if a supply run wasn't due. They would assume the truck's arrival was due to a scheduling error, and keep it waiting a few minutes while they asked HQ what to do. Then they would either check the truck and let it in, or send it away.

Hamid's heart clenched as the truck suddenly accelerated. He could see the guards dashing out of its way, firing their rifles into the cab. But between the driver's determination, and the little modification Hamid had made to the steering column, it was already too late.

He got only the briefest glimpse of the truck hitting the door, before it vanished in a flash of light that hurt his eyes even at that distance. The sound came an instant later, a crack like a gun being fired right next to his ear, the shockwave washing over them, making the pickup sway as if in a high wind.

The gate was out of sight, hidden behind a billowing column of black smoke pouring up into the sky. Hamid could hear the wail of the klaxons, followed by the whoosh and shriek as the mortar and rocket units concealed in the surrounding terrain opened up on the base.

Right on time, another truck rounded the corner and sped towards the gate, slowing down just as it reached the wreckage. The tarpaulins were pulled aside, and a pair of worker frames dropped to the ground to either side and rolled towards the smoking ruin that was the gate.

Hamid watched as the frames reached the wreckage, dozed blades lowered. They began to push, their wheels throwing up clouds of sand. He clenched his teeth, almost praying to a God he no longer believed in. Had the bomb failed? Was the wreckage too heavy or too badly fused?

He let out a hiss of triumph as the frames slid slowly forward, pushing the wreckage back into the base, clearing a path for those who followed.

More frames dropped out of the waiting truck. Eight M-17 Workloader frames, their arms fitted with gunpods and enormous power claws, their cabs armoured with welded slabs of metal. The crude knightmares raced forward, passing their bulldozer counterparts in single file and vanishing into the base. The truck soon followed, the gap now wide enough.

"It's working!" Selim was almost bouncing in his seat. "It's working Mousa!"

"Didn't I tell you it would?" retorted Hamid triumphantly. He pulled out his walkie talkie and thumbed the switch.

"Team B! What's your status?"

"We're on our way! ETA two minutes!"

"All right!" Hamid put away the walkie talkie and gripped his rifle. "No point in hanging around! Let's get stuck in!"

Haider growled in agreement, and gunned the engine. Within moments the pickup was moving, rounding the corner and speeding towards the base. Hamid ducked as they passed through what remained of the gate, half-expecting a burst of gunfire, but not came.

The scene inside the base was pandemonium. Tan-clad bodies lay everywhere; though whether they had been killed by the explosion or the terrorists, Hamid could not tell. The bomb-proof door hung where the explosion had hurled it, sticking out of the nearest building like a mangled toenail. The towers and wall into which it had been set were scattered rubble.

Hamid was rather proud of that. He had put a lot of effort into that bomb, not to mention expense. All the more reason to pull this mission off.

He could not see any of the armed Workloaders, whose mission was to wreak havoc around the base. The two dozer-frames were nearby, acting as moving cover for a half-dozen terrorists, who were exchanging fire with a group of Krugisian infantry hiding behind a cargo hauler. The truck that had brought them in had concealed itself beside a nearby building, the door of which was hanging off its hinges; and Hamid could see the flashes of gunfire inside.

"Pull in there and wait," ordered Hamid. Haider did as he was told, pulling the pickup over beside the truck. Hamid got out, rifle at the ready, and crept along the wall of the building. He half-expected some Krugisian soldier to jump out at him, or a door to open and a rifle to emerge. But nothing came. Eventually he reached the corner, and had a clear view of the runway.

His heart leapt as he saw the enormous cargo plane, sitting on the taxiway like a beached whale. Either one of the Workloaders had shot out the landing wheels, or they had turned the plane too fast trying to get it off the runway.

The Workloaders had formed a cordon around the plane, and some were exchanging fire with a pair of APCs standing by the centermost of a line of five hangars, its doors open to welcome the now-immobile plane. A pair of Babur LAVs raced into view and pulled up alongside the APCs, opening up with roof-mounted heavy machine guns.

He could do this. All he had to do was get to the plane and get inside. It seemed almost too simple.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the runway. Four tan shapes had emerged onto the runway, and were approaching at speed. He recognized them immediately; Ganymede ALI knightmares, but this time in army tan rather than Javidan red or Britannian blue.

The Workloaders noticed. Four of them split away from the plane, racing up the runway towards the newcomers, gunpods blazing. But the Ganymedes dodged with easy grace, splitting into two pairs as they moved to flank the Workloaders. They fired, their 20mm assault rifles spitting lines of tracer at the Workloaders. One exploded as two lines of tracer intersected over it, another had its arm torn away.

The two unharmed Workloaders slewed around in tight arcs, closing in on the left pair of Ganymedes. Hamid saw their power claws crank open, ready to grasp and crush, co-axial plasma cutters glowing.

But the Ganymedes were too fast. Even as the Workloaders approached they were evading, lowering their rifles and pulling long tubes from over their shoulders. Hamid hissed at the sight. Those K-Mauls were crude, as close combat options went, but he had seen what they could do.

One of the Workloaders reached its opponent, grasping with its claws. But the Ganymede twirled like a dancer, spinning out of reach and lashing out with its K-Maul. The heavy mace caught the Workloader on the arm, crushing it and knocking the crude knightmare away. As the Workloader staggered, trying to right itself, the Ganymede leapt upon it, bringing the K-Maul down again and again, the armoured cab bending and twisting under the onslaught.

Hamid forced himself to look away, to focus on the job. It was a sight he had seen plenty of times, once the Britannians had started supplying Ganymedes to their Krugisian lapdogs. Then it had frustrated and enraged him, now it enthralled him; a mechanic's joy in seeing a fine piece of machinery do its work.

Those fools who tried to fight them, who didn't understand that the world had changed, who could not see past their cause, or their bloodlust, were getting what they deserved.

The other four Workloaders broke away from the plane, racing to assist their comrades. A moment later, two four-wheeled commercial trucks emerged from the direction of the gate, their sides falling away to reveal welded steel armour and heavy machine guns. He could see men on foot too; fighters of the groups he had recruited, clad in stolen desert fatigues, their faces hidden behind wraps of cloth. He had set a hundred of them aside for this part of the mission, hidden around the base near the road, ready to swarm in once the gate was blown. The rest were wreaking havoc in Tal Afar, keeping the authorities thoroughly confused.

He had one chance.

Hamid waited for one of the guntrucks to pull past him, then broke into a sprint. He could only hope that the enemy would be distracted, too busy to notice one running man. The guntrucks were firing, their heavy machine guns roaring in his ears. His lungs were beginning to burn.

He reached the plane, slapping his hand against the fuselage as he slowed to a halt. He ducked under the tail, forcing his straining lungs to breathe slowly and regularly.

He looked around, getting his bearings. As he had suspected when he first saw it, this particular type of cargo plane had a rear hatch, under which he was crouching. The wheels had come off, and the plane was sitting on its underside, but he could probably still get the prototype out.

Probably.

He glanced around one corner, then the other. He had a clear run at both side hatches, but which one should he choose? The one to his left was out of sight of the battle, but closer to the hangars, and other places were enemies might be hiding. The one on his right was further from such threats, but within sight of the battle, and possibly a stray bullet.

He decided on the right. Better the devil he knew.

He advanced cautiously up the fuselage, rifle at the ready, eyes darting about for danger. He heard a hiss to his right, and snapped his head around to see an RPG leap away from the furthest guntruck, a narrow white cloud marking its path towards one of the Ganymedes.

The Ganymede brought up its rifle, firing off a frantic burst of tracer, and the RPG exploded.

"So they got that upgrade after all," thought Hamid, with mild interest. Something to remember.

He reached the side hatch. He was only momentarily surprised to see the handle in plain sight, hidden inside an alcove and marked with brightly-coloured signs. Like any civilian cargo plane, the hatch was designed to be opened quickly and easily in an emergency, not to keep troublemakers like him out. Taking one last glance around, Hamid took the handle and forced it down. The hatch clunked, and Hamid pushed it slowly inward. Holding his rifle one-handed, he eased the muzzle round the opening door, keeping an eye out for enemies.

No one was there. Either the crew was hiding somewhere, or they had bailed out when the wheels failed.

Hamid pulled himself inside, and glanced around the hatch. He was inside the cargo area, which took up most of the fuselage. The hatch opposite him was open, so the crew must have bailed out.

Or there was someone in there with him.

The lights were off, and all he could see was a dark shape in the middle of the floor. Crouching cautiously behind the hatch, he reached for what he hoped was the light switch. It was, for the lights came on, revealing a hunched shape under a tarpaulin, tied down with long, heavy-looking cables.

Just one thing to deal with in the meantime.

Hamid saw the door to the pilot's compartment. It was open, invitingly so. Slowly, cautiously, he crept towards the door.

At the faint clink behind him, he spun around, squeezing the trigger. The rifle bucked, and the soldier hiding behind the knightmare was flung backwards, hitting the floor with a thump.

Hamid smirked, but the clink-clink on the floor beside him banished his triumph. On instinct, he darted through the pilot's door, kicked it shut, and threw himself into the cockpit.

The blast was brief but loud, the sound more like a cough than the sharp crack he had expected. A flashbang perhaps? Did they fear to damage the prototype?

Hamid rolled over, bringing up his rifle as the door opened and a soldier burst in, rifle up and ready. Hamid fired, his burst catching the man in the chest and throwing him back. There was another behind him, too close to get his rifle up in time. Hamid put him down, then pulled himself to his feet.

He had a few seconds, maybe. The Krugisians weren't stupid enough to send more than two men into such a cramped space, but they wouldn't hang around long. He heard footsteps outside the hatch to his left, the one facing the hangars. He yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, threw it out, and crouched inside the doorway.

He heard the explosion. With any luck it would buy him some time.

Hamid stood up, and surveyed the cargo. It was held down by two heavy cables, secured to the floor by four hooks. He knelt down by the nearest hook and took it in both hands, forcing the latch open and unhooking it.

A clank from behind made him spin round, rifle at the ready. He only just stopped himself from firing.

"Selim!" he roared. "I could've shot you!"

"It's all going wrong Moussa!" pleaded Selim, his eyes full of desperate hope. "They're too strong! What do we do?"

Hamid bit down the urge to tell Selim the truth. Of course the enemy was too strong. Even with those mortars and rockets they had imported from China, at such expense and risk, a couple of hundred terrorists were not going to overcome this base. That had never been his intention, never his real plan. He had only needed them to think it possible, to believe that the base was lightly garrisoned, and that if they were only brave enough, determined enough, they could do it.

And they had believed him. It had taken many months, a lot of his employer's money, and several smaller operations, to make them believe him.

And Selim still believed him.

"Just guard those hatches!" he barked. "I need a minute to get this thing working!"

Selim obeyed, watching the hatches as Hamid unhooked the cables, and pulled them and the tarpaulin away, revealing a blue and white knightmare, kneeling on its pallet like a knight awaiting his lord's command.

It was indeed the prototype, the treasure his employer sought. It looked vaguely like the Ganymedes outside, but there were many differences. The head was smaller, the arms and legs better-proportioned, the whole form generally more streamlined, more professional-looking.

But that wasn't what mattered.

"Is this it, Moussa?" Selim stared at the crouching knightmare, awestruck.

"Yes, it is," Hamid replied, without turning around.

"We can use it, can't we?" pleaded Selim. "We can still win!"

"Yes, we can." Hamid turned to face him, and saw something moving behind him. "But I need you to do something for me."

"Moussa?"

"Die."

Hamid grabbed Selim and pulled him in front of him, just as the wounded soldier squeezed off one last burst, the bullets tearing into Selim's back.

"Moussa…" Selim coughed, and slid to the floor. Hamid yanked the handgun from his belt and aimed it at the soldier, but his arms had already fallen limp. It had been the second one, Hamid realized; the one coming after the one who had burst into the cockpit. Evidently he wasn't as badly hurt as Hamid had thought.

Still alive though, if only just. His eyes were glazing over, but they still shone with bright hatred.

"Sorry guys, but the bastards win every time. And I'm the biggest bastard of them all."

"Javid shah…" the soldier croaked, blood frothing at his lips. "Light of the Aryans…Light of the World…"

And he fell still.

Hamid turned his attention to the knightmare. Its back was somewhat bulkier than the older model, and he could make out a narrow join, indicating a rear hatch. A quick examination revealed the release handle, hidden inside a covered alcove.

He paused, then turned back to the cockpit door. A series of controls were set into a panel next to it, including the button for the cargo hatch. He stepped over and pressed it, then hurried back to the prototype as the hydraulics began to groan and clunk. He pulled the release handle, and his heart leapt as the rear hatch clunked open.

It took him only a moment to clamber inside, lock the hatch behind him, and another to find the activation switch. The lights came on, and the HUD spooled up; revealing four screens arranged above the dashboard; one in front, one above, and one to either side.

Hamid felt a shiver as he looked over the cockpit, a thrill he had not felt in a long time. It was a work of art, as exquisite as a Masamune katana, or a Toledo sabre. It was certainly a far cry from the modified Workloaders and similar he and his former KPSA comrades had been forced to make do with.

But the screens were still dark, except the main screen, which brought up a Britannian flag with elaborate, curly script emblazoned over it.

We pledge to the spirits of founding fathers. And the Glory of the realm our mother. That we shall be the shields which defend our homeland. And the halberds which smite those who would harm us.

Hamid let out an ironic laugh. But it was all he would ever see unless the next part worked out.

He reached into his t-shirt, and pulled out the small, black memory stick. It wasn't actually a memory stick at all, but a rather interesting little device his employers had given him; along with a dire warning of what would happen to him if it showed up on the black market. Hamid had no intention of betraying them, not for the pittance he would likely get for it; it was his only way out of there.

He slid it into one of the dashboard's access ports. For a moment nothing happened, and Hamid feared it might have been damaged. But then the screen flickered, de-rezzed, then went completely black.

And then, in a flurry of lights and icons, it came online.

Hamid wanted to check everything, to scroll through every last option, every last entry, but he knew he didn't have time. He flicked what he thought were the activation switches, and felt the prototype come to life. He could not straighten up, so instead he deployed the Landspinners and pressed down the pedals, rolling cautiously towards the hatch.

Then he was out, out in the open air, displayed in brilliant resolution on the screens all around him. The old worker frames had been cramped, claustrophobic even. But this machine gave him a fine field of vision.

As he straightened up, he took in the scene. The Workloaders were all down; reduced to so much smoking wreckage on the runway. The guntrucks had been taken out too; both were burning fiercely, the terrorists who had manned them lying dead on the concrete. But the base too had taken a beating. Several buildings had been destroyed, and others heavily damaged. Those 200mm rockets had performed better than he had expected.

But more important were the four Ganymedes standing on the runway amid the carnage, their one-eyed heads swivelling to face him. Hamid heard a beeping, and saw a small screen appear on the HUD. It was in English, but he understood it to be the comm-system politely informing him of an incoming communication request.

He ignored it, instead gripping the two joysticks and using his thumbs to work the rollerballs, moving down through his list of weapons options.

Not much. One K-Maul, and two Slash Harkens, whatever they were. He supposed the Britannians actually including weapons and ammunition in the same flight would have been too much to hope for.

Oh well, he would have to make do.

He selected the Slash Harkens, and squeezed the triggers. He hissed in surprise as something leapt from the prototype's shoulder joints. There were two of them, one from each shoulder, slamming into the nearest unsuspecting Ganymede, throwing it to the ground.

The other three snapped up their rifles. Hamid jammed down the left pedal, sending the prototype hurtling away over the concrete. His stomach lurched as he tried to regain control.

"Damn! Too sensitive!"

He managed to come around, rounds bouncing off his armour as he dodged the lines of tracer. He saw the long metallic cables reaching out from his shoulders, snaking along the ground to a pair of red shapes lying on the concrete where they had fallen.

Anchors. They were rocket anchors. But whatever for?

He didn't have time to wonder. He gave the triggers and experimental squeeze, and sure enough the cables began to retract, hauling the Slash Harkens back in with lightning speed. Deciding to stick with what he knew, he keyed for the K-Maul; the prototype's right arm bending inward to lift the weapon from its back.

The nearest Ganymede suddenly dropped its rifle, and raised its own K-Maul. Hissing with anticipation, Hamid charged straight at it, jamming the joystick forward to lash out. The K-Maul swung, but not the way he had intended, and the Ganymede dodged away.

Another came at him, swinging its own maul. Hamid dodged, a little more gracefully this time, and straightened up for another charge. He broke left as he drew near, swinging the maul at waist height. The Ganymede tried to dodge, but the flanged head caught it on the plastron, sending it staggering backwards.

Hamid came around again. He was getting the hang of the Landspinners, at least. The fourth Ganymede was pulling the first Ganymede, the one he had downed with the Slash Harkens, to its feet. The other two were charging him, mauls at the ready, crossing back and forth to confuse him.

He gritted his teeth. It would take more than that to throw him off; even in that over-sensitive prima donna of a knightmare frame.

He charged, slewing gently from side to side, matching their movements. He waited until the nearest one was almost upon him, then ducked suddenly, barely avoiding its swing, then back-handed at its comrade as he passed. But the blow missed, and he was racing away up the runway.

Hamid cursed. He was loving everything about this knightmare except the maul; or rather the system that controlled it. The joystick was too simple, its range of movements too limited. The system seemed to be programmed to respond to particular joystick movements; doubtless calibrated by the previous test pilot; movements he didn't have time to work out.

He came around in a tight arc, and keyed for the Slash Harkens. The targeting reticule appeared, shifting towards the nearest target as he tweaked the rollerballs. He fired, sending the anchors spearing towards the fourth Ganymede, which had just finished helping up its comrade. The heavy anchors caught it on the back, spinning it around and throwing it to the ground. Hamid squeezed the triggers to retract, then brought the prototype hard around to the right. The anchors curled in mid-air as they retracted, flashing around like whips, catching the first Ganymede and smashing it down.

His smirk widened. These Slash Harkens had possibilities.

No more time for fun. He looked around, and his eyes fell on one of the dropped rifles. Taking a change, he aimed the prototype straight at it, leveling the reticule and clicking the rollerball. The system understood, and as he raced past his left hand reached down and grabbed it. With a click he stowed the maul, and with another he readied the rifle, noting with some relief that there were still rounds in the clip.

The melee pair were charging again, criss-crossing as they had before. Hamid levelled the rifle and fired, sending a stream of tracer straight at the second Ganymede's small head. The head exploded, and Hamid barked a laugh as he broke away to the left, coming around the stricken knightmare in an arc and pouring fire into its back. The Ganymede jerked forward, and exploded into a fireball.

Hamid let out a yell of triumph, but had to dodge again as the first Ganymede opened up with its own rifle. Hamid fired back, the exquisitely-calibrated targeters sending his fire straight into the Ganymede's left shoulder joint, blowing the whole arm clean off. Another burst, and the right arm was gone too.

Three down, one to go.

Hamid turned to face the last surviving Ganymede, as it stooped to pick up its dropped rifle. But a new threat was emerging. From behind a building further up the runway, two APCs were emerging, their turrets swivelling towards him. Hamid jinked hard, and jinked again, as twin streams of autocannon rounds lanced through the night air towards him. Those guns were 30mm cannons, much more destructive than the 20mm assault rifles; powerful enough to rip any frame or knightmare apart.

The third Ganymede was firing two, tormenting him with short, sharp bursts. Hamid snarled, and fired off a burst at the Ganymede's head, blowing it apart in a shower of sparks. He raced past, curved around its back, and fired into its back. An explosion erupted from the perforated armour, and the Ganymede slumped to the ground.

He was out of time.

Hamid turned and raced straight for the exit, ignoring the fire of the APCs. He ducked between two buildings, emerging onto the entrance concourse.

Where another two APCs waited for him, turrets coming around. There were infantry too, staring in disbelief at the monstrosity thundering towards them.

Hamid knew he couldn't dodge; there wasn't enough room. He could use the rifle; but it might not penetrate even at that close range.

But one other option was available.

He keyed for the 80mm grenade option. Two grenades left; one each, one chance.

He fired, then threw himself to the left, his head banging against his seat as the knightmare rolled. The grenade hit, and the APC blew apart; throwing nearby soldiers to the ground. Hamid rolled to his feet and fired off the last grenade, hitting the other APC in the front wheel. The APC was hurled back against the wall, bouncing away like a child's toy car.

Hamid saw his chance, and charged straight for the gate.

He was out, out in the night air. He raced down the road and onto the highway, ducking and dodging between the halted vehicles, laughing at the stares from the motorists. He brought up the comm system, and used the rollerball to key in the frequency he needed.

"This is Satan's Sultan, calling Manticore," he said, as the transmission began. "The package is ready for collection, over."

A pause. Cars honked as Hamid weaved in and out, heedless of the danger. This had to be the greatest night of his life.

"This is Manticore. Be advised, multiple enemy air assets active. Rendez-vous at point delta, over."

Hamid keyed for the tactical map, and mentally fixed point delta on it. He didn't blame them for the choice, not with Krugisian aircraft scouring the desert for terrorists; but it was going to be tight.

"This is Satan's Sultan. Understood, on my way."

Definitely the best night of his life.

Finally got this done. Sorry to all for the delay. Hopefully the entertainment will make up for it.

A much-needed change of pace, and I think it all works well. As a minor point, the Workloaders mentioned here are those labour machines seen a few times in season 1 of Gundam 00.