Infidels (7 page)

The man
lumbered past the body, oblivious, then stopped at the bottom of the dune they
were supposed to take cover behind. He turned to face the camp, Red slowly
letting the flap close, leaving all but a sliver. Suddenly he reached behind
his back, pulled something out, tossed it on the ground, then dropped his pants
around his ankles and squatted.

A fart
rolled across the desert sand, followed by several more.

“Pleasant,”
muttered Spock.

“I guess
he’s never heard about not shitting in your own campground.”

“Zero-Two,
One-Zero. We’ve confirmed the object he threw on the ground is a handgun.
Subject is hostile, over.”

Red
squawked twice, sheathing his knife and taking his Glock back. “Let’s take him
out.”

Red
pushed the flap aside, stepping out as if he owned the place, his weapon behind
his back as he strode toward the man, deep in thought, oblivious to his
impending doom.

Another
fart and a giggle this time, the man looking up, his jaw dropping. Red fired
twice, the man falling back in his own pile of shit.

Explain
that one to your 72 virgins.

He raced
past the dead man, holding his breath to avoid the pungent odor, quickly
clearing the ridgeline, Spock at his side. “Bravo Team, Zero-Two in position.
Prepare to take out confirmed hostiles in three… two… one… firing.”

Red
fired a single shot from his MP5, immediately peering through the scope, the
night vision attachment giving him a clear view of the camp below.

Somebody
shouted.

Followed
by more shouts as the tent closest to them suddenly stirred, the flap thrown
open as the first victim poured out, AK-47 in hand. Red took a bead on the man,
leaving him for the sniper teams.

He
crumpled to the ground, a massive hole where his heart used to be.

Another
emerged, spotting his buddy, shouting a warning as he whipped his own rifle
into position. His body skid across the desert sand, catching on his fallen friend.

Red
switched to infrared, there only one man left in the tent, the shitter having
already left it.

Gun.

He
squeezed off two rounds, the man dropping.

More
gunfire from the other side of the camp echoed through the dunes, the distinct
sounds of the M24A2 Sniper Weapon System burping single shots from their left
along with MP5 rounds ahead quickly dwindled as only a single AK-47 round was
heard.

“Bravo
Team, One-Zero, all clear, over.”

“Roger
that, One-Zero. Keep us covered. Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Anything to report,
over?”

“Negative,
Bravo Zero-Two, UAV continues to show all clear, no movement on your hostiles,
over.”

“Roger
that, securing area, over.”

Red
advanced cautiously, Spock at his side, confirming their kills, meeting Atlas
and Jimmy at the center of the camp. He activated his comm and gave the all
clear.

“Jimmy,
get photos to Control for identification, let’s see if we got anybody
worthwhile. No eyes on our man?”

Atlas
shook his head. “Negative.”

“Okay,
search the tents, see if there’s any intel. We’ll start with this one,” he
said, pointing to the largest tent where no one had been sleeping. Pushing
aside the flap, he stepped inside the large tent, high enough to stand fully
erect inside. He flicked his MP5’s tactical light on, as did Spock, revealing
half a dozen good sized crates of weapons and ammo.

“These
guys were loaded for bear,” said Spock, his trademark eyebrow cocked. He pried
open one of the crates revealing half a dozen AK-47s. “These are brand new.”

Red
lifted one of the weapons. “Still got that new gun smell.” He tossed it back in
the box. “Check the rest of these, we’ll disable them before we leave.” He
turned to survey the rest of the tent, several large baskets lining the other
side. He slipped the lid off the first to reveal it half-filled with rice.
“Looks like food supplies here,” he said, moving down the line. He flipped the
lid off the last basket, smaller than the rest. “Oh shit.”

“What?”
asked Spock as he looked over at Red.

Red
shone his light into the basket and shook his head.

“I think
we found our prince.”

Spock
walked over and took a look, cursing.

Inside
was the head of Prince Khalid, his neck a bloody stump, his face showing signs
of having been beaten before the beheading.

Red
stepped back, activating his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We found our
target. He’s dead, over.”

“Bravo
Zero-Two, Control, please confirm your last transmission, over.”

Red
tapped the side of the basket with his boot. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. We found
a basket with the prince’s head inside. Sending you images now, over.”

Spock
snapped several shots, transmitting them then nodding to Red.

Red’s
comm squawked. “Zero-Two, Zero-Seven. We’ve got something here you’re going to
want to see, over.”

“On my
way.”

Red
motioned toward the crates. “Document everything then set some charges for when
we leave.”

“Your
wish is my command.”

“And
don’t you forget it.” Red left the tent, heading for where Jimmy was beckoning
him. “What’ve you got?”

“Trouble.”

He
stepped inside, Atlas turning toward him, his tactical light shining on a crate
near the rear. “Take a look at this.”

Red
stepped over to the crate and looked inside. “Oh shit, is that what I think it
is?”

“I’m not
going to say what I think it looks like,” said Jimmy. “But maybe I’ve been
hanging around with Niner too long.”

Red
chuckled as he examined the large silver object, protecting a black hole in the
center that he assumed held the Black Stone referred to in the briefing.

“This
can’t be real, can it?” asked Atlas.

Red
shook his head. “I’m way out of my depth with this. But I know someone who
might be able to help us.”

Assistance Publique Hôpitaux de Paris, Paris, France

Archeology Professor James Acton looked toward the door of the
hospital room, the hard rap on the door startling him and his still recovering
wife, Professor Laura Palmer, awake. She had been shot in the stomach barely a
week ago and had nearly died. She was still battling a bad infection that had
almost cleared up, though she still had ten days of antibiotics to take before
she’d be able to leave the hospital, her wound torn back open during her ordeal
in the French countryside.

It had
been a terrifying experience for both of them, with devastating consequences
that would have repercussions for the rest of their lives, the past few days
being a horror of rollercoaster emotions.

Yet
despite their history of finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong
time, a man so clearly government standing in their doorway was still enough to
startle them.

Especially
in the middle of the night.

He rose
from the chair he had fallen asleep in, placing himself between his wife and
the man. “Can I help you?” he asked as Laura moaned, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you
Professor James Acton of St. Paul’s University?”

Acton
felt his chest tighten slightly. “Who’s asking?”

The man
stepped inside the room, another taking his place at the door, facing outward
as if covering the entrance. “I’m with the United States Government,” he said,
flashing identification without giving Acton time to actually inspect it. “Your
government requires your assistance.”

Acton
frowned, looking over at a now wide-awake Laura. “In what way?”

The man
placed his briefcase on the tray table by Laura’s bed, spinning the tumblers to
unlock his briefcase before snapping it open. He withdrew two folders. “First I
need you to both sign these Classified Information Nondisclosure Agreements.”

“Why?”

“What
you are about to hear cannot be revealed to
anyone
. We need any promise
you make to maintain the secrecy of this information to be in writing so it is
legally binding.”

“And if
we violate this agreement?” asked Acton as he quickly skimmed the document.

“You
will be charged and face possible prison time.”

Acton
shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He looked at Laura. “What do you
think?”

“I
wonder how as a British subject this would impact me.”

The man
nodded toward the second file. “Yours is specific to you and already cleared
with your government.” The man tapped his briefcase impatiently. “Please,
professors, this matter is extremely urgent.”

“Can you
give us an inkling?” asked Acton.

The man
pursed his lips then looked over his shoulder. “Close the door.” The other man
complied, sealing the room from prying eyes and ears. “You have
friends
who need your help.”

Acton
instantly felt a rush of adrenaline as he exchanged a quick glance with Laura
before scribbling his signature on the document. There could be only two
possibilities as far as he knew. One was his former student, CIA Special Agent
Dylan Kane, but with the term ‘friends’ being plural, he was leaning toward the
Bravo Team, members of the elite Delta Force, and men who had done their best
to kill them both during their first encounter.

Operating
under falsified intel, they had been told he was the head of a domestic
terrorist cell, leading a group of students who were about to commit terrorist
acts against their country. The Bravo Team had been sent in to eliminate them.
It had been several days of hell, but in the end he had survived, met Laura,
and made some of the best ‘friends’ anyone could hope to have, especially in
his line of work that took him far too often into conflict zones.

Or the
fact conflict seemed to seek him and his wife out.

But
members of the Bravo Team had helped save his wife only days before, so
whenever he was able to help them in any way, he never hesitated.

Laura
handed her file over.

“Thank
you, Professors.” The man flipped open some sort of fancy laptop from within
the briefcase, entering a code in a side panel. The display snapped to life
revealing the smiling face of a man he only knew as Red, his nickname
apparently earned by his fiery red hair he kept shaved clean, though today he
seemed to have a little stubble revealing his true colors. Acton had met him on
several occasions and trusted the man with his life.

“Hello,
Professors, sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but we have a situation
that requires your expertise.”

Laura’s
bed rose as she pressed the button to get a better view of what Acton assumed
was some sort of secure communications terminal. Red appeared to be in combat
gear, which meant he was definitely in-theatre somewhere, which also meant
there would be no time for pleasantries.

“How can
we help you?”

“I’m
sending you photos now of what we just found.”

The
screen started to flash several photographs and Acton gasped, Laura squeezing
his arm. “It can’t be!”

Acton shook
his head as what was clearly the Black Stone was shown, but he knew that was
impossible. It had to be a fake. He said so.

“That’s
why we’re contacting you, doc. We need to know if this is the genuine article
or not.”

“It
can’t be, there’s no way.” Acton paused, his jaw dropping slightly as his eyes
drifted toward the ceiling, recalling the news broadcasts from earlier in the
day. “Does this have anything to do with that Saudi prince?”

“It has
everything
to do with it. We found his head about fifty feet away from this crate, and
chatter has him kidnapped when he was picking up this thing to get it
repaired.”

“What
have the Saudi’s said?”

“They’re
denying it, but we can’t take the risk that it’s the real McCoy and just leave
it here.”

“Where’s
here?” Acton waved his hands at the camera. “Never mind, forget I asked.
Listen, I’m not sure what you want from me?”

“We need
to know if this is the genuine article.”

“The
only way I can know is if I see it in person.”

“We’ll
have you on a plane within thirty minutes.”

Laura
gripped his arm a little tighter and Acton shook his head. “No, I can’t, my
wife’s still recovering from being shot.” He tapped his chin for a moment,
thinking, then smiled. “But I know someone who
can
help, and if I had to
hazard a guess as to where you are, he’s a hell of a lot closer than Paris.”

“Who?”

“Professor
Mahmoud Hamidullah from Umm Al-Qura University, he’s an expert in all things
Islamic. I’ve met him several times and I think he can help.”

“Can you
reach out to him discretely?”

“He’ll
need to know why I’m calling.”

“Give
the agent his contact info. We’ll arrange a conversation.”

“How?”

Red
smiled.

“We have
our methods.”

The Unit, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Colonel Thomas Clancy swiped his pass, entering the secure control
room for the Yemini op Bravo Team was in the midst of. The briefing he had just
received from the Op Center Chief had him pissed off and concerned.

He had
been lied to.

The
question was had he been screwed directly by Colonel Faisal bin Nayef, or were
they both victims.

Or was
it all just an elaborate hoax?

“Status?”
he asked as he entered the darkened room, a wall of video screens showing
various camera feeds from the Bravo Team, one from the UAV over the area and a
map of their exact location, each member pinpointed on a zoomed in portion.
Flash bulletin messages the Pentagon thought might be important general
knowledge also scrolled by on a display, one he usually ignored.