Bishop nodded. “Just the base unit. Back in that first room. If we follow those wires,” he pointed to the ceiling, where a group of cables ran along the length of the wall, “we should be able to find it.”
“You’re good,” CJ said, his smile returned. “Let’s do it.”
The two followed the wires to a room in the center of the facility. The door was solid steel with a large window made from reinforced glass. The door stood ajar, and Bishop pulled the handle to reveal a small room with a bank of monitors on the front wall. There were eight monitors in all, and each one flashed static, casting the room in an eerie light. On the left hand wall was an empty rifle rack, and on the right wall was a row of cabinets. All the doors were open, showing them to be empty. Here and there a stray round sat on floor, the brass casings glinting in the light of the monitors, and Bishop guessed the cabinets to have been used for ammunition, among other things. The jihadists had even taken the chairs.
“They really cleaned this place out,” CJ said.
Bishop stepped into the room. He walked over to the bank of monitors and examined them. The equipment had been left intact. The terrorists probably hadn’t seen a need to smash it since no one knew the place existed, but had they searched it thoroughly? He hoped not. In less than a minute, he found what he was looking for.
“There it is,” he said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the KA-BAR knife CJ had supplied, which he then inserted into a thin seam in the base of the bank of monitors. After a few moments of prying, a panel popped off, revealing a compartment underneath. The door to the compartment was locked, but the designer hadn’t put in a very strong lock. Most likely, they didn’t think they would need one since the compartment itself was supposed to be hidden.
“Did I say you were good?” CJ asked. “You’re James Freaking Bond.”
Bishop didn’t reply. Instead, he jammed the KA-BAR into the compartment seam and pried it open. It took a few seconds, but the lock eventually gave under the pressure and the compartment popped open, revealing a stack of DVDs. Bishop looked through the discs; all of them were labeled according to date and sector, with the last of the entries dated just over two weeks previous. Above the compartment, a single DVD drive sat, its light blinking red. Bishop touched the eject button and another DVD came out. This one was dated the day the two men from Hassi had found the place. He held it up to show CJ.
“Score!” CJ said, and held up his palm for a high five.
Bishop looked at CJ’s upraised hand and raised a single eyebrow in response. Not a chance. “These should tell us everything we need to know about who raided this place.”
CJ lowered his hand. “Here…” He reached around his back and removed his backpack. “Stick ‘em in there for the time being. We can watch them when we get back to Hassi.”
“We might be able to watch them now,” Bishop offered. “If the technicians were living here, there’s bound to be a DVD player somewhere.”
“Unless the terrorists stole it,” CJ said. “Those guys like to watch movies too, you know.”
“It won’t hurt to look. Besides, we—”
“You guys should get out of there,” Ilias’s voice crackled through the radio. “There is a helicopter coming. I can see it without my rifle scope. Ten kilometers away. Perhaps less, and moving fast.”
“Is it one of ours?” CJ asked into the radio.
“No, it looks like a charter. I can’t read the writing from here, but it has two-tone paint. Blue and tan, and it is flying straight toward us. No question. This is its destination.”
Bishop shoved the DVDs into CJ’s pack. “Let’s move.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” CJ replied, and both men ran for the exit.
On the way out, Bishop’s foot kicked something. He turned just in time to see a clear water bottle roll across the floor. It sported a bright yellow biohazard symbol on the label. The jihadists must have missed it. He thought he should grab a sample for the lab back in the US.
Bishop paused for a moment to pick up the bottle and look at it. The liquid inside was perfectly clear, and could easily be mistaken for water. In fact, it probably was water. Water infected with Manifold’s new and improved ergot. If someone were to drink it, say, someone who didn’t know what the biohazard symbol meant, they would be in for a nasty shock.
“You coming, B?” CJ shouted from the exit.
“Right behind you,” he replied. He shoved the bottle into his pack and ran to the ladder. When he reached the top, CJ was waiting for him.
“What kept you?” CJ asked.
“Later,” Bishop said. “Where is that chopper?”
“Right there,” CJ pointed.
Ilias was wrong. The helicopter wasn’t ten kilometers out.
It was hovering right over their bikes.
***
Ilias squatted behind the four wheeler, his eye glued to the scope. He could make out the pilot’s head through the helicopter’s portside window. So far, they hadn’t paid him very much attention. He was just an old man, after all. They wouldn’t be the first people to underestimate him, and probably not the last, either. He lined up the scope and looked for a reference to judge the wind. The backwash from the helicopter made a wind check impossible, however. He would have to wing it.
So be it.
He lined up the scope again, putting the pilot’s head right in his crosshairs, and his finger pressed down on the trigger.
***
It all happened in a matter of seconds, but to Massai the time slowed to a crawl. The first bullet pinged into the cockpit from behind and exited the windshield only slightly to the left of Devan’s head. Massai immediately opened the aircraft’s portside door and returned fire with his pistol, a Sig 1911. After his first few shots, the bullets seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Devan screamed, while Ahmad opened the door on the other side and propped his rifle against the seat. Massai didn’t have time to watch him, but he knew Ahmad would take his time and aim well. He was as good with that rifle as anyone. If Massai could cover him on this side, Ahmad could make a shot that counted.
The sound of shots mixed with the ping of bullets as they tore through the interior of the helicopter, but Massai kept his eyes on the two men taking cover behind the old Manifold facility. They worked in tandem; one would pop out and fire off a few rounds while the other hid behind the concrete cylinder, then they would switch. Massai found himself hiding behind the helicopter’s doorframe more often than not, but he managed to keep up a steady stream of return fire, even if he wasn’t able to aim for each shot.
Because of their tactics, his opponents had more time to aim. Their shots clattered around the interior of the helicopter with an accuracy that Massai feared would prove too much to overcome. Eventually someone inside the helicopter would get hit, or a bullet would pierce the gas tank, and that would be it.
Behind him, Ahmad’s rifle boomed. Even with the sound of gunshots all around, the rifle sounded like a cannon in the confines of the Bell 206.
“The man by the four-wheeler is down,” Ahmad said.
Massai barely heard him over the ringing in his ears.
“Good,” Massai said. “That just leaves Somers and The Joker.”
“Pull us around,” Ahmad said to Devan. “Take us around the cylinder so we can get a better shot.”
“Are you insane?” Devan shouted. “They are shooting at us.”
“And we are shooting at them,” Massai said. “Let us hope we are better shots than they are.”
“What if you aren’t?” Devan asked.
“Then I hope you are ready to meet Allah,” Ahmad said.
***
Bishop stepped out from behind the cylinder and took another shot, sending several rounds through the windshield of the helicopter but not scoring any hits to the pilot or either of the gunmen, who must have been reloading because they did not shoot back.
As soon as he ducked back behind the concr
ete, shots rang out again, and after a moment he heard CJ’s grunt of pain.
“Damn!” CJ said. “The guy with the rifle is good!”
“You hurt bad?” Bishop asked.
“Just a scratch.”
“We need to move,” Bishop said. “Sooner or later they are going to fly that thing around the concrete and try to get us from a different angle. Draw their fire. I’ll get to the bikes.”
“Draw their fire?” CJ said, sounding aghast. “What the hell do you think—” A shot rang out and sent him ducking. The concrete just above his head exploded as a high caliber round struck home. Had the bullet found its target, CJ’s head would have been reduced to gore.
Bishop sprinted out from behind the cylinder and made a beeline for the Big Wheel. Behind him, CJ shouted at the helicopter and started firing. Almost immediately, shots rang out from the chopper. Bishop waited for the sand at his feet to erupt with slugs as they tried to cut him down. He reminded himself that he couldn’t regenerate if he got shot, so he made sure to run in a random zigzag pattern, ducking into a roll every now and then to throw off the shooter’s aim.
But the shots never came.
When he reached the bike, he risked a look back at the helicopter. The shooters seemed to be concentrating on CJ. He climbed on the bike and pulled out his pistol. Most people couldn’t ride and shoot at the same time, because the throttle is on the right. But he’d been trained by Delta and could shoot just as well with both hands.
He revved the engine and took off toward the chopper as they spun away from him in pursuit of CJ, who was dodging the helicopter the same way kids have a standoff on either side of a kitchen table—by running around and around. But eventually someone figures out that they can go under the table. Or in this case, over the table. CJ didn’t have long.
Bishop fired several rounds, but they ricocheted harmlessly off the helicopter’s fuselage. 9mm rounds were designed to punch through flesh, not thick metal. He’d have to get up close and personal. Luckily, the sound of the chopper drowned out the sound of his ride and shots. They might have seen him run, but they had no idea he was coming back.
Moving as fast as he could, Bishop steered the Big Wheel around in an arc, moving closer, but keeping behind the chopper’ tail. As the helicopter rounded the concrete cylinder, it came lower to the ground, hovering just twenty feet up. It was a dangerous place for them to be, but the rotor backwash was kicking up so much dust, CJ would be blinded.
They were moving in for the kill.
So was Bishop.
He cut his angle of approach, aiming for the helicopter as it spun, and the large rock below it. He would reach the chopper just as the pilot turned its side to him. What he was about to attempt wasn’t his style. It was more Queen’s M.O., but he’d seen her in action enough to wing it. As the bike sped up, the chopper spun around and descended a few more feet.
Just right, Bishop thought. Too high and he’d miss. Too low and he’d get sliced to bits by the rotor blades. After a quick adjustment to his course, Bishop got his feet up beneath him, and crouched, keeping the throttle wide open.
Then, the Big Wheel crashed.
The large rock was just the tip of something even bigger, buried beneath the desert. It stopped the vehicle in its tracks, launching the back end up. Bishop pushed off the seat at the same time catapulting into the air. The man with the rifle didn’t see him coming until the last minute, but he flinched away in time to dodge Bishop’s first shot.
He never got to take a second. His arc through the air brought him below the helicopter. But not too low. Bishop collided with the helicopter’s skids and wrapped his arms around it. The helicopter pitched to the side, because the pilot was not prepared for the sudden weight change. Bishop’s body ached, but he fought to hold on. The helicopter nearly crashed, but the pilot managed to right the craft. When he did, Bishop pulled himself up to the open door. He couldn’t see well because his eyes were watering from the helicopter wash, but he had to try.
Holding onto the skids with just his legs, Bishop unloaded his clip into the cockpit. When the gun clicked empty, he let go. The ground greeted him harshly, knocking the air from his lungs, but the fall had been short—just eight feet. While he caught his breath, he quickly reloaded the Sig and took aim at the helicopter again. He didn’t fire. He just waited.
But the helicopter didn’t swing around.
***
Devan screamed, but Massai barely heard it over the sound of rotors. He risked a look over at the pilot and saw a large red stain on Devan’s left shoulder, the one closest to the window. The stain bloomed outward in an ever-expanding flow, and Massai knew they could not keep this up.
“Swing around!” Ahmad said.
“It’s too late,” Massai replied. “Devan is hit.”
Devan slumped into the seat, his right hand clutching the stick while his left shoulder pumped blood freely through his shirt. Massai was impressed. Most men would have grabbed the wound and tried to staunch the bleeding, but Devan kept enough presence of mind to keep flying despite the pain. Of course, by the look on the Iraqi’s face, it could be simple shock.
“Devan,” Massai shouted, “You have to land. Now.”
“Land? Here? Are you crazy? Did you see what that man just did? I’m getting out of here as fast as I can go.” The aircraft pitched to the side as Devan made a hasty u-turn.
“You are losing too much blood, Devan,” Massai said.
“Those men have already shot me once,” Devan said. “I will not give them a chance to do it again.”
If either of them had known how to fly a helicopter, Massai would have yanked Devan from the pilot’s seat and taken control, but as it was, they had to watch their pilot as the shock and adrenaline started to wear off. Massai tried his best to staunch the flow of blood, but the angle was bad and Devan squirmed and writhed in the seat. At least he flew low over the ground, though that would not matter much at 220 kp/h.
Less than three minutes after the first shot was fired, Devan’s eyes began to droop. Thirty seconds after, he lost consciousness altogether. Massai and Ahmad watched helplessly as the desert floor rose up to meet them.
9.
Bishop watched the helicopter fly west, toward Qom, until it simply fell out of the sky. He did not see the chopper crash, but from the last few erratic moments of its flight, he was sure it had. There was no explosion—those usually only happened in Hollywood, but a few seconds later he heard a distant sound that was most likely the helicopter hitting the sand. Bishop guessed the crash site to be no more than two or three kilometers distant.
CJ poked his head from behind the concrete, then seeing that the coast was clear, he came running up to Bishop. The sleeve just above his right elbow was red with blood, but he looked otherwise unhurt.
“Everything functional?” Bishop asked.
“That was, ahh, that was some really crazy shit there, B.”
Bishop grinned. “Yes. It was. Now are you okay?”
CJ nodded, flexing his arm to show he was fine. “Bastards shot my backpack, though. Blew a hole right through my canteen and bent the blade of my KA-BAR.”
“The DVDs?”
CJ shook his head. “K.I.A.”
Damn. Those DVDs were important.
“Should we investigate the chopper?” CJ asked.
Bishop shook his head, no. “Check on Ilias.”
Ilias was dead, killed by a single shot through the chest. The wound looked to be the work of a large caliber rifle. Probably a .50 cal with a scope, judging by the size of the exit wound and the single loud shot that had come from the helicopter. They wouldn’t know unless they searched for the bullet, but something told Bishop they didn’t have time.
“Did you get a look at any of them?” CJ asked.
Bishop shook his head. He’d seen the rifleman as he flew through the air, but it was just a glimpse, and he was more focused on not being sliced into bits, shot or bludgeoned by the helicopter at the time.
“You?”
“Just the pilot.”
“He look familiar?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” CJ replied. “He works for your father’s group.”
“My father? This is his doing?”
“Looks that way.”
Bishop looked out at the cylinder and imagined the two men dead within. Then he looked over at Ilias, whose blood continued to soak into the dry desert soil. He shouldn’t be surprised. CJ had told him Dawoud Abbasi was a terrorist, after all, but still. It bothered him to think he could be related to such a man.
It would explain why Ilias had been the first to shoot, too. Ordinarily, operatives were not supposed to engage an unidentified party unless the party engaged them first. But if Ilias had recognized the men as terrorists, that would be different. In such cases, shooting first was widely accepted as a proper course of action.
“We should get out of here,” CJ said. “If those guys knew we were here, more are probably on their way.” He looked at the Big Wheel. The front end was crumpled in where it had struck the rock. It might run, but Bishop didn’t want to rely on the beaten machine. “I’ll take Ilias’s ride. You take the other.”
Bishop looked at the dead man’s body. There wasn’t time to bury the man or even take his body with them. Fresh anger welled within him. Somehow, someone was going to pay for the old man’s death. It felt good to let the anger in. Like inviting an old friend to dinner. He and it had a lot of catching up to do, and they could start on the ride back to Hassi.
“Let’s go,” CJ said. He slid Ilias off the ATV, wiped off as much blood as he could and started the engine.
Bishop followed suit, swinging his leg over the Big Wheel. He said a mental goodbye to Ilias and started the bike, then he and CJ rode away from the Manifold facility, headed for Hassi. From there, they would take CJ’s plane to Shiraz, where Bishop would finally meet his father.
He thought of the Sig in his waistband and realized the meeting would not be the friendly one he’d first imagined.
Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) Page 6
