Desert Assassin (7 page)

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The sun was a few minutes away from dropping below the horizon. Williams was sitting in front of a tent located twenty feet from the lead helicopter. Morgan approached with an open bottle of Merlot and two glasses. He poured the wine into both glasses and handed one to Williams. “The temperature is starting to drop.”

“Thanks.” Williams wasn’t surprised by the Merlot. Without doubt, Morgan had access to information that very few in the country had. He wondered what else Morgan knew.

Morgan had barely taken his first sip when there was a shout from someone in the lead helicopter, “Morg!”

Both men dropped their glasses and dashed to the helicopter. “It’s got something. Happened too fast for me see what it was.”

Forgetting he wasn’t in charge, Williams yelled, “Play it back.”

Morgan didn’t utter a sound.

“Tarantula, a big one,” said Williams. “Body is about three inches, leg span nine to eleven. The good news is that most of us can get some sleep tonight.”

“Just like the Kangaroo Rat?” asked Morgan.

“Exactly.”

“Why don’t you pay a visit to the General? You can let your two scientists know as well.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

“G
ENERAL,” SAID
W
ILLIAMS,
“let’s take a walk.”

The General, who was sitting in a folding chair outside of a small tent, put down a glass of scotch. He tossed a small empty glass at Williams and handed him a bottle.

“It’s about time you showed up. I thought you had taken one of his bribes.”

“A couple of Killer Two’s steaks might do it.”

Glasses in hand, they began walking away from the General’s helicopter and the tents which surrounded it.

“Ling just filled me in on the tarantula attack.”

“They’ve got a feed?” asked Williams.

“And it’s secure and there is nothing he can do about it. What’s next?”

“We wait and see how Assassin changes. This should give us a little time. I need you to locate Fowler?”

“Fowler? Why?”

“Can you think of anybody better to have in the hills than him?”

“You’re right, but it’s been ten years since he was discharged. He could be anywhere, including dead and buried. Anyway, why the hell would he work with us?”

“He was running with the Ugandan army when I was there and he flew back to the States with me.”

“You danced with that psycho?”

Williams nodded and handed the General a slip of paper. “Here’s a cell number. Whoever calls, say nothing other than Nyamilima. Fowler will tell them where to find him.”

“They don’t make B-movies this bad.”

Williams smiled. “Get him to Socorro on a private jet. He’ll need a secure phone. Unless Assassin makes an unexpected move, I’ll be back here tomorrow night to give him instructions. Meanwhile, have a green ATV with rear cargo space ready for him with hunting gear. See if you can get an old four wheel pick-up with a trailer for the ATV. After I talk to him, I’ll give you a list of everything else he’ll want. I’m going back to get a steak.”

Fowler was one of those rare individuals who often seemed to be devoid of anything resembling a conscience. His discharge was for indiscriminate torture of prisoners during the early days of the war in Iraq. The only reason there wasn’t a court-martial was to avoid publicity.

He was absolutely fearless and with or without weapons he was, like Williams, a lethal killing machine. Williams had seen him in action when they both assisted the Ugandan army against rebel forces. Fowler was about to get cut down from behind when Williams fired several rounds into two attackers. “You ever need me,” said Fowler afterward, “I’ll be there.”

After they deplaned in Miami, Fowler scribbled a phone number on a scrap of paper, and said, “Nyamilima.” The slip of paper had remained in Williams’ wallet from the moment he received it.

In addition to his killing prowess, Fowler was a master at making himself disappear in virtually any terrain. Just as the General considered Williams his ace in the hole, Williams considered Fowler to be his ace.

Ling and Henderson watched Assassin’s latest devouring and tossed out a number of wide-ranging speculations regarding what external and internal physical changes might result. Among Ling’s ideas was the possibility that Assassin might add eight large legs, while Henderson thought its number one priority would be to incorporate the tarantula’s venom into its arsenal.

The initial fleeting kiss and the follow-up kiss initiated by Henderson left no question that there was an attraction between them. Ling, however, understood that in his command position anything more than an occasional kiss and hug would have to wait.

As expected, Assassin remained motionless during the next twenty-four hours. “I wonder what would happen if something decided to attack our alien while in this state?” asked Morgan while he and Williams were eating lunch.

“I’ve wondered about that ever since it nailed the assassin bug. My best guess is that it is fully aware of its surroundings and would respond. What it might lose is whatever it is taking from the tarantula.”

“How’s the General doing?”

“Waiting for you to hang yourself.”

Morgan laughed. “He’s not the only one. How about you?”

“You know how far back the two of us go. My loyalty will always be to him.”

“Understood.”

“However, I want to see where you are going to take this. We both know you are taking one helluva risk. You also know that if it gets away from you, I’ll go after it and stop it anyway I can.”

“It won’t get away. Once it takes on something big, it will be time to capture it and bring it to a secure facility. We will then be done and you walk away with your meteor money and you’ll be a phone call away from whatever else you may need or want down the line.”

Williams went back to see the General late in the afternoon. As soon as they walked a football field’s distance away from the helicopter, the General said, “Your psycho is in Socorro. Before you call him, go over with me exactly what you are going to tell him.”

Williams fully briefed the General.

“You had better be right on this one, Bill.”

They walked back to the helicopter. After they climbed into it, the General passed a phone to his major and exited.

Williams and Fowler spent fourteen minutes on the phone with Williams doing virtually all of the talking. At the end of the conversation, Fowler said, “I’ve got most of what I need.” He then read off a list of the rest.

Arthur Jonathan Fowler was an honor student throughout his four years in high school. He was the only child of parents who divorced when he was six-years-old. Shortly after the divorce, his father disappeared and with him went child support. Money was scarce throughout his childhood. While in grade eight, he began delivering newspapers after school. He turned sixteen during his junior year in high school and managed to get a job working after school and weekends in a neighborhood delicatessen. The job carried through to the summers following his junior and senior years.

He needed to help support his mother whose health was failing. As a result, he turned down several college scholarship offers and decided instead to attend a local community college in his hometown of Worcester, Massachusetts. This would allow him to continue working at the delicatessen.

Fowler was just shy of six feet tall and thin. With no family car, he had never dated. His non-school and non-work time was most often spent reading.

Two weeks before he was to have started junior college, he was beaten and robbed while walking home just after nine at night following nine hours of work at the delicatessen. There were four attackers, all of whom took turns punching and kicking him. They made off with six dollars. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately as future events would seem to prove, he did not recognize any of them and, as a result, he did not report the attack to the police.

He decided against attending college. Instead, he joined the local boys’ club and began lifting weights, as well as taking boxing and wrestling lessons. He also read whatever he could find on martial arts and practiced as many moves as time would allow. All the while he worked full-time at the delicatessen.

Seven months after the attack, three teenagers walked into the delicatessen. Fowler recognized them as being three of his four assailants. As they left the store, he told the owner that he was sick and needed to go home.

The owner, a crusty old Italian known as the Deli Don, noticed the look on “Young Artie’s” face when the three walked into the store. “Young Artie,” said the Deli Don as Fowler was about to leave the store, “don’t you go nothing stupid.” Not lost on the Don was how much his young employee had bulked up since the attack and how possessed he had become with training.

Staying well behind the trio, Fowler followed them for nearly two hours as they walked through the Main South area of Worcester. Finally, they stopped in front of a two apartment tenement house. After they conversed for a few minutes, one went into the house; the other two continued walking. It was now dark outside. Fowler picked up his pace, closing to within a half block of the two. They stopped in front of an old three-decker. He grew impatient as the minutes rolled on and considered going after both of them. Instead, he decided to wait, confident he would eventually get all three.

The conversation finally ended. The taller of the two headed for the front steps of the house while the other walked slowly away. Fowler quickly and quietly closed the gap until he was approximately ten feet behind his prey. Sensing someone was behind him, the soon to be victim turned. Shrouded in darkness, Fowler struck, delivering blow after blow to the head. Just as his victim was about to drop, Fowler applied a wristlock to his right arm and sharply twisted it using every ounce of his strength. Several loud snaps and screams followed. He knew he had broken one or more bones and had torn ligaments. Releasing his group, he calmly watched the piece of human garbage, as he thought of his victim, collapse to the ground. Fowler walked away smiling as he heard the screams fade into the distance. “One down, two to go,” he said to himself, realizing that he would most likely never be able to identify the fourth assailant.

As he walked into work the next day, the Deli Don asked, “Are you feeling better today, Young Artie?”

“Yes, I think your pepperoni was bad.”

“Stronzate,” replied the Deli Don as he dropped a copy of the Worcester Telegram, the local newspaper, onto a counter in front of Fowler. In the left hand corner of the open page was a short account of the previous night’s assault.

As he heard the Italian word Stronzate, Fowler laughed to himself and thought, “Of course it’s crap.”

The Deli Don looked straight into Fowler’s eyes and said, “You forgot to sign out last night when you left the store at ten.”

Fowler had left just before seven. In addition, he had never signed in or out since the day he started working at the delicatessen.

A second attack, similar to the first one, happened four weeks later in the same neighborhood. Seven weeks after that, the third and last occurred.

Fowler’s mother passed away several weeks later. Shortly after the funeral, he enlisted in the United States Army. He returned to the city only once. That was fifteen years later for the funeral of the Deli Don.

Armed with a military GPS and the coordinates of the position of Morgan’s two advance helicopters, Fowler pulled out of Socorro three hours after his phone conversation with Williams. Heading west on Route 60, he passed through Magdalena and then drove to Datil, where he turned onto Route 12.

He traveled through the night using back roads off Route 12 to position himself in the hills and mountains west of Morgan’s forces. Shortly before dawn, he parked the truck in a deeply wooded area near a shallow stream. He ate a quick breakfast and then fell soundly asleep in the bed of the pick-up.

Fowler awoke a few minutes past noon. First on his agenda was the opening of a beef stew MRE. Once the meal was finished, he shaved by the edge of the stream, stripped, used the stream water to clean himself and, finally, dressed in civilian hunter’s gear.

Using both the GPS and a paper map, he estimated than he was about twenty-two miles from the location of Morgan’s two advance helicopters. His goal was to try to get the truck to within five miles of the helicopters by early evening. The terrain was not as bad as he had feared it would be and, as a result, he reached his goal shortly before three. A half hour’s worth of walking yielded a near perfect area to hide the truck and trailer, as well as to set up a campsite.

Returning to the truck, Fowler put himself through a rigorous ninety minute workout before beginning the difficult drive to the new campsite. The sun was about to set by the time everything was in place. The consuming of two MRE packets and nearly a quart of water was followed by an overnight sleep in the pick-up.

With a dawn chorus of chirping birds serving as an alarm clock, he took care of the necessities and loaded the ATV with as much as possible. The collection ranged from food to an M1 rocket launcher. He rode the ATV to within two miles of his target and parked underneath a thick strand of trees. Using a knife to mark his path, he walked until the helicopters came into view. It took another twenty minutes to find a vantage point – underneath a ledge outcropping – from which he could not be seen by the helicopter crew, the satellite cameras and the drone. He had an approximate four-hundred foot elevation advantage. Two trips back to the truck to gather the weapons and supplies left him ready. His only fears were that he might not come into contact with Assassin, whatever the hell it was, and with Morgan’s forces.