Strike Matrix

by Aiden L Bailey

  “Can we please get out of here?” Casey insisted, hugging herself tight. “Now?”

  Szymanski looked ready to say something profound, but he never got the chance. One side of his head exploded outwards in a shower of skull fragments, blood and brain matter. His body crumpled like a puppet with its string cut, and he fell dead to the earth.

  CHAPTER 37

  Wilks was the first to react, fired his M4 in a continuous burst at three hovering drones. Each was a meter across with eight propellers in an octagonal formation. In each undercarriage hung a Colt M4A1. One fired a burst into Rashid’s gut but not before the man shot a grenade from the M203 launcher fitted to his own M4. The high explosive round tore through the first drone, the detonation tearing the machine into a thousand metal fragments. Several of those fragments ripped across the two adjacent drones. The impacts badly damaged them, but were not out of the fight yet.

  Simon recovered from his shock of the sudden attack. He fired his own grenade at the first wobbling drone destroying it with another loud and brilliant explosion. He emptied the magazine in his M4 destroying the last drone. No longer able to fly, it dropped like a stone and shattered on the pavement.

  Clementine and Casey looked on with shock, hands covering their mouths.

  Simon went for Rashid. He had fallen hard onto the pavement, bullet holes peppering his abdomen. It was a miracle Wilks lived, but he wasn’t likely to survive for much longer. Minutes at most.

  “It doesn’t hurt… if you were wondering,” Wilks said through bloodstained, gritted teeth. He nodded to the skies behind Simon. He turned and saw what he had believed were a flock of birds. They were a flock of drones. “You were right buddy, it’s what we can’t see that kills us.”

  “I’ll get you out of here.” Simon said ejecting his spent magazine and loading another.

  Wilks shook his head. His pained eyes motioned downwards. Simon saw the dead man’s switch in his hand. Once released, the truck would detonate. It was less than fifteen meters from their location. If Wilks set it off now, they were all dead.

  “Give me your weapon,” Wilks demanded. “They’re coming after threats.” He nodded towards Clementine and Casey who were already fleeing for cover. The drones weren’t chasing the women. They were coming for Wilks and Simon.

  Simon passed Wilks his M4. “I’m sorry it ended like this.”

  Wilks winced. “God will forgive me. I might not have been a good Muslim, but I tried.” His skin was clammy and his eyes lost their focus. He pulled at a diamond ring on a chain from around his neck and kissed it. “You need to run for your life!”

  “I’m sorry mate.”

  Simon didn’t look back as he sprinted after Clementine and Casey. He heard gunfire as the drones engaged Wilks.

  Simon felt the heat and the light first. Then the concussion wave propelled him forward. The noise hurt his eardrums. He hit the rocky ground and rolled. When he was back up on his feet, he looked behind him. The explosion had vaporized the truck and most of the data center. All the drones, and the corpses of Rashid Wilks and Paul Szymanski disintegrated with them.

  Simon stood, dusted himself off. Rage threatened to consume him. He swore it was an engagement ring Rashid had grabbed. The soldier had planned on proposing to someone he loved? Now he never would.

  So many people had died. Millions more people would die in the coming weeks. The AI Shatterhand who battled it out for total domination of the planet didn’t care that so many humans had and still would become casualties in this global war that had no front lines. Szymanski and Wilks were nothing to them. It was all fucked up.

  He turned when he heard two four-wheel drives screech to a sudden stop. Casey and Clementine clambered into the first with Saanvi while Simon jumped into the second. Peri was behind the wheel. She changed up through the gears and sped them away.

  “Wilks and Szymanski?” she asked. She didn’t sound hopeful.

  Simon shook his head.

  Venom laced her next words, “Their sacrifices have to mean something. I hope you got what you came for?”

  He didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say that would make anything better. He stared through the dusty windscreen watching the second four-wheel drive out in front, with Saanvi behind the wheel speeding the others back to the main roads and the fastest route out of Navi Mumbai.

  Now they were on the move again and had time to reflect on the mission, Simon wondered how everyone was coping? Wondered how they were taking the shock of losing another two of their team?

  Once they were on the highways and merging with the fast-flowing traffic, Matondkar’s cell phone rang. Simon had switched it off earlier. Yet powers greater than he could understand had hacked his phone and switched it back on.

  “Simon Ashcroft?” The voice asking was Irish and male.

  “Who is this?”

  “Please confirm, you are Simon Ashcroft?” the voice asked again.

  “Yeah, I am.” Simon said sensing that whoever was calling already knew the truth. This could well be GhostKnife adopting another guise now that Roger Gridley-Brooks was dead, or it could be Shatterhand calling to taunt him. Either way, Simon was ready for a verbal battle.

  “Good,” said the caller sounding relieved. “Simon, I have to ask, did you shut something down? In the last ten minutes? Something big?”

  Simon paused. This was not what he was expecting. “I might have? Why?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for days mate. I’ve only just gotten through. Shatterhand doesn’t want us to speak, so you must have just diminished its powers.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I have information you — no, we need, schematics, plans, pass codes, locations — everything on the Shatterhand Code and its source.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know how to shut the AI down, once and for all. I know where its core data architecture is. It’s source — so to speak. I got everything from someone known to you.”

  Simon felt the same out-of-body sensations he’d experienced when he had spoken to GhostKnife. But this voice didn’t present as the cold logic of a calculating machine. This was a frantic and worried man. He sounded… too human. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Alan Irvine. I… all his… data…” Interference distorted most of what he said next.

  “Irvine?” Simon answered trying not to get his hopes up. “He’s with you?”

  More crackling over the line. More of the conversation was lost.

  “Who are you?”

  “The name… Rafferty… Conner Rafferty.”

  “I know nothing about you?”

  A laughter rattled down the line. “I feel like I know everything there is to know about you, mate.”

  Simon turned to Peri. Her frown was severe and her eyes were like ice. She looked ready to interrupt. Simon raised his finger to signal now was not the time. He recalled his last conversation with GhostKnife, at the bar in Ratnagiri. What had the AI said then, about sending Simon help?

  “Conner, right?” Simon asked.

  “Yes mate, that’s my name.”

  “Where are you, right now?”

  The Irishman laughed again. “Middle of fucking Arabia, that’s what.”

  Simon shuddered. What had GhostKnife told him? ‘We work through intermediaries, those that have the initiative to work out what needs to be achieved without requiring explicit instructions.’

  Was Conner Rafferty the man in the Middle East GhostKnife had planned on sending to Simon? If that were true, did Rafferty have a real solution to end this mess once and for all?

  “Simon, mate, where are you?”

  “Outside Mumbai, India.”

  “Yeah, I know Mumbai. Can you get to Bengaluru?”

  Simon looked to Peri. She nodded. He hadn’t realized she could hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Sure. But why?”

  “I’ll contact you there, in three days. We need
to meet up Simon, otherwise, I’m convinced we’re all fucked.”

  Simon was about to answer when the line turned to static, then went dead all together.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Empty Quarter, United Arab Emirates

  Conner woke. Almost cried out. Feared he was in a dark forest. Alone and lost.

  Instead, he was bouncing in a seat. The four-wheel drive they had stolen raced through the largest sand desert in the world, the Rub’ al Khali. The Empty Quarter. There was nothing to see but miles and miles of hundred-meter-high sand dunes and clear blue skies. Despite the air conditioning the atmosphere was searing. Sweat drenched his skin. He grabbed his canteen and guzzled water.

  “You were dreaming,” Nahla Asem said from behind the wheel. She no longer wore her headscarf. In its place her long dark hair cascaded down over one shoulder. He had never seen her so exposed. “You were having a nightmare, about a girl?”

  He remembered his dream. An unnamed woman stood with him in the Amazon rainforest. Jungle tree trunks closed in around them. Her pistol pressed into the small of his back, but she was the one pleading not to die. She died anyway. A soldier materialized from nowhere and shot her. Conner bathed in the blood exploding from the wound. The nightmare never changed.

  He shuddered. “It’s not what you think?”

  “I hope not.”

  He wished for dreams featuring hot, slim men sharing his bed. He thought of one or two past partners with great bodies and remembered those encounters with fleeting passion. But he couldn’t hold on to the memories. Since his bloody meeting with South American terrorists his dreams were never pleasant. “Where are we?”

  “According to the satellite phone, we’ve just crossed into the UAE.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Conner and Nahla had driven non-stop for two days. They’d stopped only to refuel or for rest breaks. They drove in four-hour shifts taking it in turns to sleep. Driving through the desert was hard going but proved safer than risking the roads clogged with refugees, Saudi armed forces and Islamic State militants. Two days in the dunes they had encountered no one.

  Conner found he enjoyed the solitude. The desert oozed peace despite its many risks. Yet their ploy had paid off. They still had most of their fuel, food and water and they were almost at their destination. McIntyre’s mysterious coordinates lay nearby.

  “Any thoughts on what awaits us?” Nahla asked.

  Conner shook his head, realizing that the car interior stank of sweat and he’d grown used to it. “Do you?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Conner reached into the backseat and grabbed the M4 Carbine. He checked it over to ensure it was clean, free of sand and all parts were working. He was glad he’d spent time with mercenaries and soldiers in the most dangerous countries in the world, learning from them how to operate and maintain assault rifles and pistols. But he didn’t like what kind of man he was with a weapon in his hands.

  All his life Conner had considered himself a pacifist. He opposed killing and war in any form. For over ten years he’d reported to the world all the atrocities he had witnessed firsthand, hoping that in some small part he could influence the world away from further senseless murders, rapes, tortures and other miseries.

  But now he had become the people he hated. A killer. An executioner. He was as violent and ruthless as any of the warlords he had reported on and shamed.

  It was his soul that Conner feared more. He knew with a sickening realization he had in him the ability to kill other men. He would kill again if he had to, despite the long-term costs. His recent experiences had changed him on so many levels since the massacre in South America. He couldn’t sleep because of dreams poisoned with nightmares. He drank too much and his recklessness was getting worse. He didn’t like the man he was becoming. The man he had become.

  He also didn’t believe he’d had any other choice.

  As if sensing his distress, Nahla grabbed his hand. She had never touched him before. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Scared all the time. You put on a brave face, but I think you are too.”

  Conner grimaced. “With any luck, this is nothing. We’ll be out of here and somewhere safe and comfortable soon.”

  “You believe that?”

  He smiled because he didn’t believe. But he could hope.

  All too soon they sighted their destination. A series of abandoned rectangular houses of sand-colored stone and darker, flat ochre colored roofs. Sand had blown up against the buildings and the windows were devoid of glass. A few sparse thorn trees grew in patches. The ruins resembled a forgotten workers’ camp that perhaps once supported oil drilling in the region.

  They drove closer. Nahla spotted two Jeeps. Two men carried jerry cans from the vehicles to a cage outside the buildings. The cage was about three meters wide by two meters long.

  “Stop the car,” Conner commanded.

  Nahla brought them to a fast stop about four hundred meters distant. Conner climbed out and scanned with his binoculars. The sun was behind them eliminating the risk of rays reflecting off their windscreen. He could see men dressed in black headscarves and robes, with AK-47s slung across their backs. If he were to guess, these were more of the Islamic State fighters.

  “Shit,” he swore. He passed Nahla the binoculars so she could see.

  “They have a man in the cage,” she said after a long moment of close observation.

  Conner’s gut turned in knots. He’d reported on too many disturbing stories on the horrific tortures this barbaric terrorist organization inflicted upon non-believers. He knew the jerry cans held a sinister purpose.

  “Conner? We need to stop them!”

  “Agreed,” Conner said. “Cover up your face. I’ll do the same. You drive. When we get close enough, I’ll shoot.” With a black scarf wrapped around his face, he took the second Islamic State flag he had found earlier in the back seat and draped it over the side of the vehicle. “Hopefully they’ll realize too late we’re not who they think we are.”

  “There could be more of them.”

  “I know… But I don’t want that man to die.”

  Nahla nodded. “You’re right. I don’t either. Let’s do this.” She took a pistol from the glove box, pulled back the slide chambering the first round as Conner had shown her. “I’m ready.” She looked terrified but determined.

  Conner gave her one of his signature cocky grins and they drove again.

  When they came within a hundred meters, the insurgents acknowledged them. They yelled in fast Arabic and waved their AK-47s.

  “They insist we stop,” Nahla translated.

  “Keep driving.”

  “Okay,” she said trembling and pushed on.

  Conner pulled back on the M4’s charging handle chambering the first round.

  Fifty meters. Forty. The men still yelled, threatened with their weapons. One fired several bullets into the skies.

  Their ruse wouldn’t last much longer. Conner leaned out the window and fired a return burst. Not into the skies, but at the men.

  The soldiers flew into a rage. Their yells became loud and shrill-like. They ran back and forth, firing their weapons in full bursts at their vehicle. The windscreen shattered and Conner ducked down just fast enough to avoid having his head and shoulders torn to shreds.

  When the firing lulled, he looked to Nahla. She’d tightened into a ball, gritted her teeth in fear.

  “You hurt?” he asked.

  She breathed fast and shallow. “I’m fine. Kill them!”

  Conner rolled out of the stalled four-wheel drive. He laid on the sand and fired another controlled burst. He soon hit an insurgent. The man’s head snapped back as he fell fast.

  The second insurgent tried to return fire but nothing happened. Perhaps the AK had jammed.

  Conner took the opportunity and advanced for a better shot.

  The insurgent dropped his weapon, grabbed a jerry can and ran for the cage. Soon he was splashing fuel over the prisone
r trapped inside.

  The prisoner called out. An American, begging for his life.

  Conner shot the insurgent twice in the back. Blood erupted down the man’s spine and across the sand, and he fell forward.

  But the man was not dead. He crawled towards the cage.

  Conner advanced until he was close enough to put a bullet in the back of the insurgent’s head, silencing him forever.

  But not before a lit cigarette lighter fell from his limp hand into the fuel.

  Flames raced across the saturated sands and exploded inside the cage.

  “Help me,” screamed the American. He looked to be in his sixties, fit and good looking for his age. “Please?”

  Conner rattled the cage, forged of welded iron bars on every side.

  The flames grew large. Already he could feel the heat radiating off the metal.

  “The lock,” the American pleaded and pointed. “At the door. Break the lock!”

  Conner searched until he found the entrance. A thick padlocked held the iron grill shut.

  A burst of flame shot up and licked the American’s face and hands. He screamed in pain. His skin reddened and blistered. The fire grew larger by the second.

  Conner thought to throw sand on the fire but there was no time to cover everything. Dead wood inside the cage already acted as fast burning fuel. The iron bars were soon too hot to touch.

  The man screamed again, worse than before.

  “I’ll shoot off the lock!”

  Nodding, the man turned away.

  Conner fired. Sparks flew everywhere exciting the flames. One bullet ricocheted and hit the American in the arm causing him to flinch and scream again. Nothing Conner was doing was helping.

  The flames grew intense. Skin peeled away from the man’s flesh. His moans of agony became gut-wrenching to hear. His immolation too horrific to watch.

  “Shoot me!” he pleaded.

  “What?”

  “You can’t save me. Shoot me. McIntyre sent you, didn’t he?” He screamed again. “I don’t want to die like this!”