The Shroud of Heaven
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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The Shroud of Heaven
Copyright © 2008 by Sean Ellis
ISBN: 1-59998-181-5
Edited by Sarah Palmero
Cover by Vanessa Hawthorne
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: March 2008
The Shroud of Heaven
Sean Ellis
For Connor and Campbell, the future of adventure.
The Chains of God
January 1991
The Chinook abruptly lurched, gaining fifteen meters of altitude in a heartbeat, only to plunge back down an instant later. The pilot, an insectoid-looking figure in his bulbous headgear and night vision goggles, tilted his head sideways as if to grin at the helpless passengers clinging to nylon web straps in the rear of the helicopter.
“Sorry, mates. Telephone lines.”
Nick Kismet nodded indifferently, though his stomach was still pitching from the sudden maneuver. Some of the Gurkhas were not as adept at hiding their momentary nausea; the one he knew only as Sergeant Higgins looked positively green despite the liberal coating of camouflage paint that concealed his face. Of course, in the monochrome display of the PV-7 night vision device affixed to his Kevlar helmet, everything looked green.
The swooping flight of the CH47 seemed an appropriate metaphor for Kismet’s life recently. Still trying to overcome the temporary shock of the mobilization orders—a not entirely unexpected event given the escalation of tensions on the Arabian peninsula—he had been further thrown off guard by the strange mission thrust upon him less than a week after his arrival at CENTCOM in Riyadh. Unable to adequately process all of that information, he elected to simply ride it out until things made a little more sense. It was the same philosophy that would, he hoped, get him through this roller coaster insertion.
The flight was probably routine for the pilots. Kismet knew that American Special Forces and British SAS soldiers had already been dropped into enemy-held territory to gather information. As an officer in US Army Department of Intelligence, albeit a lowly 2nd Lieutenant and a reservist at that, he was aware of the covert missions that were laying the foundation for the impending assault designed to drive the fourth largest army in the world from their entrenchments in Kuwait. That he would find himself a part of such an operation, much less one that would penetrate deep beyond Iraq’s border, was a scenario too ludicrous to even consider. Nevertheless, here he was.
The sergeant swallowed queasily and flashed him an insincere thumbs up. Kismet nodded again.
The Gurkhas signified yet another indecipherable factor in the clandestine mission. He did not know a great deal about the men or their combat division; it was his understanding that they were a sort of foreign legion for the British, originating in Nepal and modeled after the fierce warrior tribe that was their namesake. They were indeed a cosmopolitan bunch, evincing a full spectrum of racial characteristics. Higgins, one of two Caucasian soldiers in the squad, was a Kiwi—originally a citizen of New Zealand.
Though their sand-colored uniforms had been sterilized—no indication of nationality, unit or rank—he had recognized them by virtue of their
kukri
knives. The large chopping knife with a broad, boomerang-shaped blade was their signature weapon. According to their tradition, each recruit was initiated into the elite corps through a bloody ritual in which he was required to behead a young bullock with a single stroke of his
kukri
. A few bits of presumably outdated trivia, however, represented the full extent of Kismet’s knowledge about the Gurkhas.
Not much intelligence for an intelligence officer
, he thought sourly.
The presence of soldiers of the United Kingdom of Great Britain was a riddle at least partially explained. According to his commanding officer, the information leading to the mission had been channeled through British resources, and despite the fact that Kismet, an American officer, had been singled out for special attention, the British would continue to manage the particulars of the insertion. But that did not satisfactorily explain CENTCOM’s decision to send this particular unit.
Though legendary for their fierceness, the Gurkha warriors were not an ideal choice for covert insertions. Those assignments, at least where Her Majesty’s armed forces were concerned, typically went to the men of the SAS—Special Air Service—who trained extensively for everything from anti-terrorism to hostage rescue to long-range reconnaissance. He could think of only one compelling reason for the commander in charge of the mission to choose men who were not natural citizens of the British commonwealth, but rather rogues and expatriates: they were expendable. Kismet wondered if he fell into that category as well.
What little he had been told had not inspired him to confidence in the success, much less the importance, of their mission. He knew only that it involved the possible defection of a high-value target; someone who might be a member of Saddam Hussein’s inner circle of advisors. After reading the operation order, a bare bones overview of what he would be expected to accomplish, Kismet had immediately become suspicious. His first impulse was that the supposed defection was an elaborate ruse designed to test the capabilities of coalition forces in penetrating Iraqi air defenses. Despite assurances otherwise, he remained skeptical.
The Chinook continued through the desert night, following the nap of the earth to avoid detection by radar, jinking and swooping when necessary to dodge phone lines and possible SAM sites. There was little for the passengers to see through the small portals on either side of the ungainly looking aircraft. Even with the aid of night vision goggles, the desert was a featureless wasteland. Each wadi—the dry gullies that cut randomly across the dunes—looked very much like the next, but one of them concealed the man he had been sent to meet.
In the earpiece of his headset, Kismet heard the pilots continue their exchange of information, calling out the obstacles that lay in their path as they became visible. He knew they were nearing their destination because the co-pilot regularly updated their ETA. The countdown was now a matter of mere minutes.
“City lights,” observed the flight officer, pointing over the pilot’s shoulder. He consulted a military map specifically designed for use with night vision gear. “That’s Nasiriyah.”
“Close as I want to get.”
“I have a visual of the target,” the co-pilot announced. His voice dropped to an incredulous murmur. “Bloody wanker’s having a fag.”
Kismet absent-mindedly translated the idiomatic expression. Somewhere out in the desert, the man they were supposed to meet was smoking a cigarette. In the display of the night vision devices used by the flight crew, the pencil-thin ember would flash beacon-bright as the man drew smoke into his lungs, even from a distance of several hundred meters.
One of the Gurkhas tisked. “He should know better. Must be an officer.”
Kismet laughed, grateful for their humor. He was the highest-ranked person onboard and well aware of the age-old rivalry between enlisted men and officers, but he took no offense at the veiled jab. This close to the objective, with his adrenaline spiking, he needed the distraction. Nervously, he checked his gear one last time.
The mission called for the team to be dropped near a rendezvous point established by the Iraqi defector. This would give them an opportunity to reconnoiter the area, just in case it was a trap. The Gurkhas would then dig in, securing a temporary forward operating base, while Kismet made contact with the defector. They expected their mission to last no more than forty-eight hours, but even that short time span required each man to carry several liters of drinking water, along with all of their combat gear and body armor. In addition to his ruck, Kismet carried a stubby CAR15, the carbine version of the M16A2 assault rifle, and his personal side arm, a Beretta M9 automatic pistol. Most of the Gurkhas carried American M203s—M16s equipped with integrated 40 millimeter grenade launchers under the rifle barrel—but two of the men were packing fully automatic Minimi light machine guns. Kismet noted that the latter pair would not be carrying their own water, a fair trade for the additional weight of a thousand rounds of ammunition apiece, stored in drum magazines and cloth bandoliers. Ideally, they would not have to expend a single round. If everything went according to plan, they would be returning to Saudi airspace with only their water supply depleted.
The Chinook dropped quickly to the desert floor, bouncing the passengers violently one final time. The Gurkhas immediately burst into action, pitching canvas bags out into the sand as the aft ramp slowly descended. Their movements seemed practiced, belying the tension that Kismet knew each man must be silently enduring. After swiftly disembarking, the small group of soldiers huddled close to the ground as the twin rotors of the Chinook whipped up a sandstorm. A few heartbeats later, the helicopter vanished into the night.
Higgins removed his NOD and gazed skyward, fixing the North Star with a fingertip. He extended his other arm at a ninety-degree angle. “Our guy’s that way. Wong, Renke, dig us a nice little den. Lieutenant, I guess you’re leading the way.”
Kismet was thrown by the Kiwi sergeant’s pronunciation—“Lef-tenant”—and gaped dumbly at the other man for several awkward seconds. “Sorry,” he finally mumbled, hefting the CAR15 and turning in the direction Higgins had indicated. “Let’s go.”
They stayed low to the ground, pausing at the dune crests to survey the landscape for signs of the enemy. Visual contact with the defector—still puffing away on his cigarette, or perhaps chain-smoking one after another—was reestablished almost immediately. They were less than two hundred meters from the man’s location.
“I don’t see anyone else,” Kismet murmured. “No vehicles either.”
“How the hell did he get out here?” Higgins wondered aloud. “Flying bloody carpet?”
Kismet stifled a chuckle. “Maybe.” He turned to the sergeant. “I guess this is it. I’m counting on you guys to watch my back.”
The Gurkha nodded, but Kismet was not overwhelmed with confidence. Nevertheless he crept forward, topped the dune and scooted down the other side, moving unaccompanied toward the sole Iraqi. If it was a trap, he alone would face that peril. Even if the Gurkhas brought their firepower to bear, there was little hope of his surviving the first moments of a hostile encounter.
As he drew closer, he was able to make out the facial features of the defector. The bland countenance seemed pale beneath his thick black brow, as if the man had somehow managed to avoid direct exposure to the sun during his life on the cusp of the Arabian desert. Only the nervous quivering of the cigarette at his lips bore testimony that his bloodless hue had more to do with anxiety than pigmentation. In the green-tinted display of his night optics, Kismet noted that the man’s pupils were tiny white dots. The incessant lighting and smoking of cigarettes had compromised the waiting defector’s ability to see naturally in the dark, verifying the earlier observation made by the Chinook pilot. Either the man was too inexperienced in matters of survival to know better, or he simply didn’t care.
Kismet paused, scanning the surrounding desert for any indication of an ambush party in concealment.
Nothing. If the defector was bait for a trap, then it was a well-covered snare. He edged forward, circling around the smoking man, and approached from his left side. When no more than ten meters separated them, he rose from his cautious crawl and pushed his goggles out of the way.
