Return to Armageddon

by Gar Wilson

  Annotation

  Assassination is the cure as two terrorist hit men disguised as orderlies breach hospital security to confront the Israeli prime minister recovering from a heart attack. Their revolutionary treatment is planned to remove his pain - permanently! - and place the blame on an innocent Egypt.

  Phoenix Force's Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen is summoned to the aid of his native Israel. Together he and his hard-core friends from the Force face wave after wave of crazed renegade fanatics who lust insatiably after murder.

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  Gar Wilson

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  The Gar Wilson Forum

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  Gar Wilson

  Return to Armageddon

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to William Fieldhouse for his contributions to this work.

  1

  The congregation of fanatics stood in the assembly hall, silently waiting for the old man. The scent of jasmine incense filled the hall, all but concealing the pungent odor of hashish. Symbols were engraved on the walls. To those not initiated to the Order, these emblems were rather crude stars and interlocked circles, yet the symbols had great meaning to the initiated.

  The followers of the Order stood rigidly, like soldiers about to be reviewed by an inspector general. Indeed, they were soldiers — totally dedicated to their cult and its messiah.

  The old man, the messiah, emerged from behind a beaded curtain. Dressed in a white djellaba — robe — with a matching keffïyeh — Arab headdress — and a red sash around his waist, Hassan the Sheik of the Holy Order majestically walked across a raised platform to a throne. He sat in the royal chair, thoughtfully stroked his flowing white beard and gazed at his followers through coal-black eyes.

  Hassan was pleased with his disciples. They were the elite of the order, the true devotees. They were, according to the prophet Hassan, the hands of Allah, chosen to carry out the will of God on earth.

  Every member of the congregation wore a white brussa — shirt — and trousers with a red sash and boots. A crest was sewn into the breast of each brussa — a heart-shaped symbol with two vees breaking the top and bottom of the emblem.

  "My children," Hassan began, "the infidels continue to increase in number. They surround us and threaten to contaminate our pure belief with their poisonous sin. We are surrounded by the Jews and Christians and those who call themselves Islams and claim to follow the will of Allah."

  "Hassan and Allah are one," the followers chanted. "His voice is the only true word of Allah."

  The old man held up a hand for silence. The command was instantly obeyed.

  "As you know," he continued, "the prime minister of Israel has again been stricken by a heart illness. Allah punishes this fiend who must die many times to compensate for his wrongs."

  "Death to all infidels," the crowd called out in unison.

  "And it shall be death," Hassan said. "The destruction of the heretics is at hand. The Israeli prime minister has been rendered helpless and placed in a vulnerable position for a reason. It is part of Allah's plan to annihilate those who worship false religions. Only we who know the Truth will remain to be rewarded for our devotion."

  The congregation was unable to bottle its emotion. An excited murmur filled the hall. The prophet had promised that the great day would arrive in their lifetime and now it was upon them. The hands of Allah did not doubt their master's word. They had been to paradise. They had actually seen the green valley and drank from the rivers of wine. None of them feared death and none questioned the word of Hassan.

  "I will allow Basi Majid to explain the rest," Hassan announced as he clapped his hands.

  Jemal, Hassan's personal manservant and bodyguard, appeared. Jemal, a large black man, was a eunuch slave. As an infant, he was castrated so that he could not be led astray by women; his tongue was cut out so he could not utter blasphemy or lies; and he was illiterate, unable to read or write untruth.

  Jemal was considered "pure" in his ignorance. Hassan had molded him since childhood, personally supervising the boy's religious education and vigorous physical training program. The success of the latter was obvious. Jemal's body bulged with heavily developed muscles.

  The eunuch wore white silk breeches, red slippers and a scimitar thrust in a scarlet sash. He carried a large silver tray with a dome lid and marched to a small table covered by a crimson cloth. Hassan nodded at his servant. Jemal carefully placed the platter on the table.

  "You all know that Basi Majid is one of my most trusted subchiefs," Hassan said. "He is a true believer who has been part of the Most Holy Order for many years. Today he achieved the ultimate glory. Allah told me it was time for Basi to join Him in paradise. So I ordered Jemal to dispatch Basi to the next world."

  Hassan gestured with his hand and Jemal promptly grabbed the lid and removed it from the tray. The congregation stared silently at the face of Basi Majid. The man's head was in the center of the platter, surrounded by blood. His eyes gazed at the ceiling without blinking. His open mouth was stained with scarlet.

  "Basi was chosen to join Allah," Hassan explained, "and to deliver a message from our Lord in paradise."

  The congregation continued to stare at the man's head on the tray. Then a gasp erupted from the onlookers as they saw Basi's eyelids flutter. Slowly, the head's lips moved.

  "Brothers," a voice from Basi's head called out hoarsely. "Allah has granted me salvation for loyal service to the great prophet Hassan. Follow his word, for it is the only path to paradise."

  "Lord Hassan is Allah's only true prophet," the congregation cried. "We shall obey the Law. We shall obey the word of Lord Hassan."

  "There is more, brothers," Basi declared. "The great war of the infidels is about to happen. We, the true believers, are to be the catalyst for this conflict. The Israeli leader's death will be the beginning of the last holy war. The great Lord Hassan will tell you how this shall come to pass. Follow his word and victory shall be ours. It is the will of Allah."

  * * *

  Later that evening Hassan relaxed on a comfortable sofa with his bare feet propped on some pillows. Nasser Fawzi sat across from the old man. Jemal poured jasmine tea for the pair.

  "Alf Shukreh, Jemal," Hassan told his servant. "Now fetch the dates and yogurt."

  Jemal nodded and turned to carry out the command. Hassan saluted Fawzi with his teacup.

  "To success, my friend," he said. "Or should I call you comrade, Colonel?"

  "Just colonel," Fawzi replied dryly. "You are not a member of the United Arab Front, so there is no reason for you to address me as comrade."

  "Very well, Colonel," Hassan said, shrugging.

  Fawzi wore a khaki uniform and web belt with a Makarov 9mm pistol on his hip, but he was not a soldier in a regular army. The tall Syrian had appointed himself colonel when he formed the United Arab Front, a small organization that consisted of some of the worst fanatical terrorists in the Middle East. They were renegades with a reputation for being mad dogs, and they were so radical even Arafat and Khaddafi did not want to be associated with them. However, Fawzi had found an ally in Hassan and his Holy Order. And, he had found that the old man's followers were even more fanatical than the UAF.

  Hassan was not as old as he appeared to be. He had dyed his hair white to s
uit his image as the Lord of the Holy Order. Forty-five years old and reasonably fit, Hassan purposely tried to look at least twenty years older then he was. He was a showman and knew how to make an impression on his men.

  "You put on quite a performance today, Essiyid Hassan," Fawzi remarked as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  "I know my children," Hassan replied, opening a small teak box. "I know their superstitions and the legends that comprise their religion. I've got some Turkish cigarettes here, Colonel. Would you care for one? They're made of the finest tobacco in the world."

  ''Just tobacco?" Fawzi asked suspiciously.

  "I'd have no reason to drug you, Colonel," Hassan assured him.

  "I'll smoke my own," Fawzi told him, shaking a cigarette from its pack.

  "You must learn to trust me, Colonel. After all, i trust you to pay me in full — although I've received only a fourth of my fee thus far."

  "You'll get the rest," Fawzi said. "And you agreed to the partial payment until the completion of your mission."

  "I'm not complaining, Colonel," Hassan told him. "But make certain the rest of the payment is in diamonds. Small stones. Uncut if possible."

  "I understand. Diamonds are an international form of currency. You may decide to leave the Middle East abruptly."

  "That may be a wise choice of action," Hassan confessed. "Considering what will probably happen in the very near future."

  "Probably?" Fawzi frowned. "You guaranteed success of your assignment."

  "My assignment will be successful, Colonel," Hassan promised. "But no one can predict how the Israelis will react."

  "The Jews will react exactly the way we want them to," the colonel said. "When they do, it will enhance your image as a prophet because the holy war you spoke of will then begin."

  "The will of Allah," Hassan joked as he plucked a cigarette from the box.

  "Doesn't it bother you to constantly play the role of a holy man?" Fawzi asked, unable to conceal his contempt.

  "The worse part is having to appear to be divine in the presence of my followers," Hassan explained, lighting his cigarette. "I cannot smoke, drink, eat or even spit when they can see me. God sustains me in all things."

  "But you manipulate these men," Fawzi said. "You use them to achieve your own selfish, greedy goals."

  "Really, Colonel," Hassan laughed. "You've hired me to do a job and now you question my ethics? That is quite amusing since your organization is nothing more than a gang of murderers..."

  "We're fighting to liberate our people from oppression," Fawzi insisted.

  "Save your Marxist rhetoric for your comrades, Colonel," Hassan replied. "We both know that you manipulate and use your men just as I do."

  "I do not claim to be speaking for God."

  Hassan merely laughed.

  Fawzi realized his criticism of Hassan was absurd. He was a Communist, an atheist. And Fawzi hated men like Hassan, men who preached from the Koran and the Bible. Religion had kept the Arabic nations from endorsing communism. Until they all united under the red banner, the Arab world could never hope to destroy the Jews or drive out the imperialistic Westerners from the Middle East.

  But Fawzi believed the end justifies the means, so he had no qualms about Hassan's role in the mission. He decided to change the subject.

  "That talking head trick was very effective. How did you do it?"

  "Why don't you ask Basi?" Hassan suggested.

  Five minutes later, Jemal escorted Basi Majid into the room. The bearded head was mounted on a stocky body, remarkably recovered from his decapitation. Basi grinned at Hassan and Fawzi.

  "Colonel Fawzi is curious about today's performance, Basi. Explain it to him."

  "Simple enough," Basi told the UAF commander. "I was hidden under the table, concealed by the tablecloth. Jemal carried in the tray that was covered by the lid, so no one knew it was really empty."

  "Actually it did contain some goat's blood," Hassan interrupted. "The tray is hoop shaped with a hollow center."

  "So Jemal put the platter on the table and Basi simply poked his head up through a hole in the table top," Fawzi said, guessing the rest. "Very clever."

  ''A variation of an old trick.'' Hassan shrugged. "My namesake, the original Hassan who founded the order centuries ago, used a similar technique to convince his followers that he could control life and death."

  "An effective illusion," Fawzi stated. "But how will you explain Basi's resurrection to the others?"

  "That won't be necessary," Hassan replied.

  "I'll have to remain in hiding here in the secret chambers," Basi told Fawzi. "Then, when the time is right, I'll be smuggled out of the country."

  "That plan is too risky, Basi," Hassan sighed. "Another choice of action must be taken. Jemal, see to Basi's departure."

  The startled Basi's eyes expanded with fear. "What do you...?"

  Jemal seized the man from behind. His left hand clawed into Basi's bearded chin, pressing his jaw shut, while the slave's other fist crashed into Basi's right temple. Basi Majid's senseless body slumped limply into Jemall's arms.

  "What will happen to him?" Fawzi asked as he watched Jemal drag his unconscious victim from the room.

  "Basi has outlived his usefulness," Hassan replied.

  "Basi was one of your most trusted men," Fawzi remarked. "You knew him for years, yet you don't hesitate to kill him just to ensure his silence?"

  "A dead man tells no secrets, Colonel," Hassan answered. "And Basi can now serve one last function. His decapitated head will be displayed to my followers once more. This time they'll be able to examine it in detail. Of course, it will no longer speak since the holy message Allah placed in Basi's mouth has already been delivered. Seeing that the head of Basi Majid has indeed been separated from his body will further convince my children that they did indeed witness a miracle this day."

  "I wonder," the colonel began, "is it wise for me to trust a man who can kill a friend so casually?"

  "Friendship is a commodity to be used and discarded when it is no longer needed. I am interested in two things — profit and power. If you continue to be useful to me in my quest for these goals, then you have no reason to fear me, Colonel."

  "I think we understand each other," Fawzi told him, saluting Hassan with his teacup. "Success at any price."

  "A fine motto," Hassan said. "Words to live by..."

  The sound of Jemal's scimitar carried into the parlor. The two men heard the blade violently slash through air before it chopped into flesh. Hassan frowned when he heard Basi Majid's head strike the floor.

  "Or die by," he added philosophically.

  2

  First Lieutenant Arthur Goldblum was grateful for the air conditioner. He had been an Israeli citizen for almost ten years, yet he had never adjusted to the heat.

  Goldblum, a Jew, had grown up in the Bronx. His father had owned a small grocery store in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.

  Goldblum had been an Airborne Ranger in the United States Army in Nam. He saw plenty of action in history's dirtiest war. But most of the battles he was involved in never received much press coverage; their significance mattered only to the men who fought them.

  Like thousands of other American servicemen, Arthur Goldblum had returned from Vietnam to discover hostile territory was not confined to the jungles of Southeast Asia. Americans did not welcome him home with parades and flowery speeches. Instead, they shunned him like a leper.

  Opponents of the war hated him because he fought instead of fleeing to Canada. Supporters of the war regarded him as a wimp because his generation had failed to defeat a little fifth-rate Communist country. Everyone seemed to regard him as either a war-loving psycho or a coward.

  Arthur Goldblum decided to leave the United States and move to a new country — one in which he was automatically a citizen by birthright.

  Israel is a country surrounded by hostile nations. It is, by necessity, a militaristic country. All eighteen-year-ol
ds are required to spend three years in active military service, and they remain in the reserves until the age of fifty-five. Thus, Israel welcomed experienced warriors. Goldblum had found a new home.

  He joined the elite Israeli Independent Paratrooper Detachment and rapidly rose through the ranks. He received a commission and became an officer. He also received a top-security clearance and served duty attached to the Sheruth Modiin, the Israeli Military Intelligence Department. Lieutenant Goldblum participated in several clandestine raids into Lebanon and Syria.

  Lieutenant Goldblum had earned the trust and confidence of his superiors. He had been chosen by Lieutenant Colonel Zavarj to be a unit commander of a special security-guard force that was protecting the prime minister while he recovered from a heart attack at the Straus Health Centre in Tel Aviv.

  The Sheruth Modiin had blocked off the entire sixteenth floor of the east wing and stationed soldiers at the elevator and stairs. No one was permitted to enter the area without a special identification badge complete with a photograph and a code number. All personnel who entered the wing had to pass a checkpoint.

  The third checkpoint on the sixteenth floor was Goldblum's responsibility. He sat at a field desk by the elevators with a clipboard full of names and code numbers.

  Two commandos stood guard in front of room number twenty-six. They were highly trained professional soldiers, well armed with Uzi machine pistols and side arms. Every man also carried a small two-way radio on his belt in case reinforcements were needed.

  Like the other soldiers in the unit, Goldblum wore a practical green fatigue uniform with a red beret of the Israeli Paratroopers. He was the only officer on the sixteenth floor. Two silver bars were tacked to his beret, the insignia of a first lieutenant — identical to the insignia of a captain in the American Army.

  Goldblum, eager to be off duty, glanced at his wristwatch. He would still be restricted to the hospital, of course — everyone was locked in the building until the prime minister was ready to leave. Still, Goldblum was bored behind the field desk.