Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) (6 page)

Ahmad nodded again.

The warehouse was where Massai’s people stored their weapons. To get into the airport, it had been necessary to go in without a gun or even a knife. But if Somers was truly with Joker and his people, Massai and Ahmad would need to arm themselves before going after them.

Secretly, Massai was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Joker again. Nothing would make his day better than to put a bullet in that man’s head.

6.

Hassi turned out to be more a gathering of houses than an actual village, at least that’s what it looked like from the air. When CJ pointed to the speck on the horizon, Bishop at first thought he was pointing to a single building. As they grew closer, he spotted the individual structures that made up the village, including a rickety water tower and a squat, unadorned mosque. A few buildings he recognized as small businesses, but most of them looked like single-family houses, and many of those were spaced far apart. If there were more than five hundred people living in Hassi, he would be very surprised.

“What do these people do for work?” he asked.

“Most of them worked in the fields to the north,” CJ replied. He pointed.

Bishop saw a huge swath of scorched earth sandwiched between the village and the foothills of the Alborz Mountains. Here and there, a few crops poked their way out of the soil, but most of the area looked burned and desolate.

“The jihadists,” CJ said. “They came through and put just about everything to the torch.”

Now Bishop saw the blackened squares of concrete between the houses. He hadn’t noticed them before because the inhabitants had done a fair job of cleaning up, but now he recognized them as home foundations. The dark slabs of concrete were all that remained of houses that had been demolished.

“How many did they kill?”

“I’m not sure. Hassi had a population of about a thousand people a few months ago. Now, no more than a few hundred are left. Certainly there are no more than four hundred residents still living here.”

“They killed six hundred people?”

“No, a lot of people fled when the jihadists came to town, but the bastards still managed to kill a couple hundred. Most of the people were simple farmers who tended the fields you saw.” CJ shook his head; for once his ever-present smile was nowhere to be seen. “There won’t be many crops to harvest this season. But even if there were, there’s no one left to do it.”

They landed the plane on a small road just to the east of Hassi. A battered green Saipa Z24 sat at the edge of the runway. A single occupant sat on the hood. The man looked to be in his sixties, or perhaps his seventies, with large, bushy white eyebrows and a few tufts of gray hair poking out from under his stained Red Sox cap. He waved to the plane and CJ brought it around.

“That’s Ilias,” CJ said. “An old friend of mine. He’ll get us to the Manifold site.”

“He has a truck,” Bishop noted, pointing at the Saipa.

“It doesn’t run. That thing’s been sitting in that same spot for years.”

Bishop looked again and noticed the flat, dry rotted tires, the large patches of rust and the smashed headlights. So much for a nice, easy drive to the site.

When the plane came to a stop, Bishop and CJ stepped out into the sunlight. The first thing Bishop noticed was the heat. Waves of it rolled upward from the sun-baked ground, making the image of the Saipa shimmer. Almost immediately, sweat began to pool in his underarms and on his forehead. Tehran had been warm, but the edge of the Kavir was
hot.

CJ noticed his discomfort. “You were born here, weren’t you? You’d think your body would be better prepared for this.” He winked.

“I didn’t complain,” Bishop said.

“You get used to it, B. Just make sure you have enough water.”

Bishop didn’t need to be told. He’d spent plenty of time in arid regions on one mission or another. He knew how to get by. No Special Forces team ever went into service in the Middle East without some form of desert survival training; it was a prerequisite to deployment. As a Delta operative himself, CJ was undoubtedly aware of that.

He’s probably just baiting me again,
Bishop thought. He liked CJ, the man was easy with a smile and seemed perpetually cheerful. During his previous correspondence with the man, Bishop had never quite grasped the level of the man’s geniality. Amazing how much of someone’s character could get lost sending short, clipped messages through cyberspace. That said, he could do with a little less conversation and a little more action. “Let’s get to it.”

Ilias stood as they approached, his dry, cracked lips spreading into a wide gap-toothed grin.

“Welcome back, Hani,” he said in Persian, embracing CJ. “It is good to see you.”

“Hani?” Bishop asked.

CJ looked at him and for once managed to look a bit embarrassed. “It’s a nickname. It means—”

“Happy,” Bishop finished for him. “I know.” The name fit CJ’s personality.

CJ nodded. “Ilias is one of my oldest friends. He gave me the nickname as a child.”

“I’ll have to remember that one,” Bishop said.

Ilias turned to Bishop and held out his hand, which Bishop took. “A pleasure to meet you,” Ilias said in stilted English.

“Likewise,” Bishop replied, then switched to Persian. “Where’s our ride?”

“In a hurry?” Ilias asked.

“He’s all business,” CJ said. “I—”

“Actually,” Bishop said. “We
are
in a hurry.” They really didn’t have time to share pleasantries. If this man really was a friend of CJ’s, then he would get over the curt greeting.

“Of course,” Ilias said with a nod, and motioned toward a copse of trees. “Apologies. Our transport is over there.”

Bishop looked, and there, underneath the trees, were two small motorcycles with wide, fat tires, and a four-wheeler. The four-wheeler had a faded orange gas can and a blue cooler strapped to the rear rack. An old single shot rifle was secured to the front rack. Bishop recognized the bikes as Yamaha Big Wheels, which were popular back in the late eighties, along with big hair and parachute pants. But the wide, knobby tires would be perfect for riding through the desert.

Seeing the rifle strapped to the four-wheeler reminded him that he hadn’t secured a weapon yet. He turned to CJ. “Have something with a trigger and bullets for me?”

“Of course,” CJ said. He turned back to the plane and stuck his head into the cabin. After a few minutes rooting around behind the passenger seats, he produced a large black suitcase and a pair of green, military-style backpacks. “One of the benefits of flying an ugly, beat up plane,” he said. “No one ever bothers to search it.” He set the suitcase and the packs on the ground and opened the case, showing Bishop the contents.

Inside were four pistols. A Desert Eagle .357, two Sig Sauer P220, and a matte, black Beretta .380 Cheetah with an improvised laser sight. Beside each gun was a pair of extra clips, all loaded. CJ reached in and grabbed the Beretta, then tucked it into the rear waistband of his pants.

“This one’s mine,” he said. He grabbed the two clips and put them in his front pocket.

Bishop looked at the suitcase. He grabbed one of the Sigs, checked the safety, and tucked it into his waistband. Then he grabbed the two extra clips, along with the two clips from the second Sig, and shoved all four into his pockets.

“Think you’ll need that much ammunition?” CJ asked.

“You’re aware of the kind of weapon I normally carry?” Bishop said.

CJ laughed and closed the suitcase. Bishop was well known for carrying large, chain-fed machine guns that could level an army. The Sigs were pellet guns in comparison. “Fair enough,” CJ said, then put the suitcase back on the plane. He handed one of the backpacks to Bishop and slung the second over his shoulder.

“Pretty standard stuff in there,” CJ said. “Canteen, matches, MREs, that sort of thing. Plenty of room for more if you need any samples.”

Bishop nodded, then put his arms through the straps.

“What about Ilias?” he asked.

“He’s got his rifle. That’s all he needs. Right Ilias?”

Ilias nodded, then showed Bishop his right hand. It shook with a mild palsy, and Bishop understood. The old man would never be able to aim a pistol properly, but he could brace a rifle against something—a four-wheeler, perhaps—and still be an effective shot. Although it limited his availability in a crisis. Still, looking at Ilias with his wrinkled skin and rheumy eyes, Bishop wasn’t sure how much use the old man would be in a firefight, anyway.

“All right, then,” Bishop said, swinging a leg over one of the bikes. “Let’s go.”

Together, the three men sped south over the dry, unforgiving terrain.

***

Massai and Ahmad sat in the rear of the Bell 206 LongRanger, while the pilot—a grumpy, middle aged Iraqi refugee named Devan—flew on in silence. The two men had been forced by limited aircraft and time constraints to secure a private aircraft for this trip, and Devan had been the first available pilot they found. They’d interrupted his lunch, and he complained loudly about it until Massai, in a moment of weakness, had allowed the man to see his pistol. After that, the pilot wisely kept quiet.

It was all a bluff. Massai couldn’t harm the man. Neither he nor Ahmad knew how to fly a helicopter, and they were flying over the desert. Even after they landed, they would still need to get back. Hopefully they would have Somers with them when they did.

The desert passed below the blue and tan charter helicopter at a rapid pace, but to Massai it seemed they were barely moving. Joker and Somers could already be there, and who knew what reinforcements they could have accumulated in the interim? Probably none yet, but CJ would find allies soon enough, and Massai had only Ahmad and a reluctant, grumpy pilot.

He leaned forward and poked his head between the two front seats. “Is this the fastest you can go?” he asked.

“We are already traveling at 220 kilometers per hour,” Devan replied.

“Can we go faster?”

“I am sorry, but this is as fast as the helicopter goes.”

Massai grunted, then sat back in his seat. “220 kilometers per hour. They are probably in Joker’s plane already, and they have a large head start. We should have waited for the Sikorsky.” Shahid’s sleek black Sikorsky S70—the civilian version of the famed Blackhawk—could fly at speeds of over 350 kp/h. They would have had no trouble catching up to Joker and Somers in that, but there was no time to get it here. Shahid had promised to send it to Hassi as soon as he could, along with the pilot and the mounted minigun, which would have proven very useful if Joker had any of his friends with him.

Ahmad put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Allah is watching over us. You will see. Even if they are in Joker’s plane, it does not go any faster than this helicopter, and he cannot land it in the Kavir, so they will have to travel overland from Hassi. We
can
land in the Kavir. The advantage is still ours.”

Massai tried to share Ahmad’s fervor, but he had never been as spiritual as some of his countrymen. He tried to think of his lack of faith as realism. Too often, his comrades would rely solely on the will of Allah to get them through any tough situation, and all too often, it ended with someone dying. His friends and associates would attribute this to “Allah’s will” and go on as if that solved everything, but Massai’s pragmatic side would remind him that he could do better for himself and his people by staying alive as long as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any faith at all, Massai simply preferred to try to keep himself safe and let Allah worry about bigger things, like running the universe.

“How long before we reach the site?” he asked, raising his voice to make sure Devan heard him from the back seat.

“The coordinates you gave me are not far,” Devan replied. “As long as they are correct, we will be there within an hour.”

As long as they are correct,
Massai mused. The pilot was finding his courage again. He briefly entertained the notion of putting the fear of death back into Devan, but decided against it. When they reached the site, they might need all the courage they could get.

7.

The ride to the site didn’t take very long. What had taken the two men from Hassi that had inadvertently discovered the site, a day and a half to walk, took less than three hours on the bikes. Sometime around sixteen hundred hours, Bishop pulled his bike to a stop alongside a large concrete cylinder sticking up from the ground. Atop the cylinder was a solar panel ten feet long and half as tall. Not nearly enough of a panel to power any sizable outpost, even with the constant sunshine of the Kavir Desert to charge it, at least under normal circumstances.

But nothing about Manifold ever turned out to be normal. Ridley had already impressed everyone from physicists to guys with a PhD in engineering with some of his advanced technology. This would probably prove to be more of the same. Bishop made a mental note to take pictures of anything that looked like it might be useful intel, as he got off the bike and stretched.

“Still clear?” CJ’s voice crackled through the radio on his waist. Bishop grabbed it and brought it up to his face.

“Clear,” he said.

“On our way,” CJ replied. He and Ilias were about a hundred yards back, watching through field glasses. They had stopped at that distance to assess the approachability of the outpost. After watching through the binoculars for about half an hour, they’d had a short debate over who should make the initial approach. It ended when Bishop crossed his arms and looked down at his temporary partner whose thigh was about the same thickness as Bishop’s upper arm.

Bishop had approached with one hand on the throttle and the other on his pistol, fully expecting to be accosted by guards before he reached his destination. But nothing happened.

He heard CJ’s bike rev, and a few minutes later, they stood side by side looking up at the top of the cylinder. Ilias had remained behind, his rifle now mounted to a little tripod on the front of his four-wheeler. He would cover them if things went bad in a hurry.