Midnight At The Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  “An illusion,” Powell told the team.

  Several of the SEALs stared at Powell, but Marcellus broke their bewilderment. “Check the other rooms first. This floor’s gotta be secure before we go upstairs. Come on, let’s go!”

  They cleared each of the ground floor rooms the way they had been taught – overlapping fields of fire, watching each other’s back, being wary of booby traps.

  “Floor’s clear, Lieutenant,” one of them told Marcellus ten minutes later. “Not a creature stirring.”

  “The fuckers are upstairs, then,” Marcellus said. “Let’s go find ’em. Fire Team One goes first.” He pointed at Powell. “I want you with them, third in line. Just in case.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Powell said. He looked toward the stairway grimly. The magician defending this place was good – there had to be more tricks up his sleeve than a simple illusion spell. Well, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, too, motherfucker.

  They made their cautious way up the stairs without drawing fire of any kind. The second floor presented them with three closed doors and a corner where the hall bent to the right. “Team Two checks the rooms. Team One, keep that corner covered,” Marcellus said softly. “Anybody comes around it who doesn’t have his hands up, zap him.”

  Powell was getting a lot of bad vibes from around that corner. He didn’t believe in intuition, but his witch sense was well developed. Something bad was close by – he could feel it.

  The three rooms were checked and found empty. Marcellus was about to give the order to continue when Powell said softly, “I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s around that corner, Lieutenant.”

  Marcellus looked at him. “That’s it? Nothing more specific?”

  “No, sir, but I’ve learned to trust my feelings when it comes to stuff like this.”

  “Well, we can’t fucking stay here all night.” Marcellus thought for a few seconds, then motioned for one of the team members to join him.

  “Martinez, you’re carrying the telescopic mirror?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  “Unlimber it. I want to know what’s around that corner.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Martinez slipped off his pack and removed from it several sections of aluminum tubing and a mirror about the size and shape of a dinner plate. The tubes were threaded so that they screwed together, like a custom-made pool cue. Within a minute Martinez had six feet of tube assembled, the mirror securely attached at the end. He walked to the corner, put his back flat against the wall, and slowly extended the mirror until it could reflect what was in the corridor, if anything was.

  Martinez watched his mirror, and Powell watched him.

  He saw Martinez squint, apparently unsure of what he was looking at – then his eyes grew wide, as if he realized he was seeing something that had no business being in that house, or any house, ever. Powell was about to sidle over next to him and ask what was going on when a great tongue of flame shot down the corridor from the direction Martinez was looking.

  The flare of light and heat lasted only a second or two. The carpet was smoldering a little, sparks winking in it here and there like fireflies, and Powell could see that the wall was scorched in places – but nothing was burning. Yet.

  Martinez had quick reflexes, and he had yanked back the pole holding the mirror as soon as the flames had appeared. But all he held now was about four feet of aluminum tubing. The rest of the pole, along with the mirror it had carried, was a small pool of molten metal, gently steaming on the corridor’s carpet.

  Martinez turned toward Powell, and the expression on his face was one that Powell never expected to see on a Navy SEAL. It combined shock, confusion, and – most improbably – fear.

  All the other team members had their weapons trained on the bend in the hallway, ready to repel the assault that was sure to follow the gout of flame. But no attack came.

  Marcellus looked at Martinez and made a summoning motion. Although not invited, Powell decided he’d best join the upcoming conversation.

  Marcellus led them into one of the rooms that had already been cleared, but kept the door open; if anything happened in the hallway, he wanted to know it instantly.

  “How many of them did you see?” Marcellus asked softly. “Besides the guy with the flame thrower, I mean.”

  Martinez seemed to have his feelings of shock and awe under control now, but he still looked uneasy as he said, “Weren’t no flame thrower, Lieutenant – not the way you mean it. Weren’t no guys, either.”

  Marcellus looked at Powell. Then he turned back to Martinez and said, “Just tell us what you saw, or think you saw. I don’t care how fuckin’ wacko it sounds – just tell it.”

  Martinez cleared his throat. “It looked –” He stopped, then tried again. “It looked like... a fucking dragon, Lieutenant!”

  Marcellus kept his face impassive. “A dragon,” he said flatly.

  “I know it sounds psycho, sir, but –”

  “Just do what the Lieutenant said.” Powell kept his voice calm, even though his mind wanted him to start screaming. “Tell us what you saw.”

  Martinez swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Okay, like I said, it looked like some kind of dragon, right out of the movies – green, scales, fangs, the whole nine yards. And the fire that zapped the mirror – that came from its mouth, I swear.”

  “Anything else you noticed?” Powell asked him.

  “Well, I only got a couple seconds’ look,” Martinez said, “but I’m pretty sure the fuckin’ thing had, like, wings.”

  Marcellus took in a breath and let it out slowly. He looked at Powell. “You figure they got another illusion going on, here?”

  “No, sir,” Powell told him. “I’m pretty sure what they’ve got is a fuckin’ dragon.”

  Three

  MARCELLUS RUBBED HIS right temple, as if hoping to pull a solution out of his mind by main force. SEALs, especially officers, are trained to make quick decisions, but even BUD/S doesn’t address the tactical problem of how to overcome mythological reptiles.

  “So, what do I tell those guys out there?” he asked Powell. “That we’re gonna launch an assault on a fuckin’ dragon?”

  “You could, sir, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “You wouldn’t advise telling them?”

  “No, I meant that I wouldn’t advise launching an assault.”

  “Explain that.”

  “I’m no expert on these things, sir – they don’t appear very often. I’m not even sure if our weapons could harm it. Maybe, but maybe not. Anyway, you saw what happened to the mirror. Anybody who turns that corner is gonna be instantly incinerated.”

  “So, how would you suggest we carry out our mission? And we will carry out that mission. For SEALs, failure is not an option – and that’s especially true this time.”

  “I know that, sir,” Powell said. “And I think I’ve got an idea.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The dragon was summoned – or created, I don’t know how these things are done – by the same guy who brought down our chopper and set up that illusion downstairs.”

  “Their magician.”

  “Affirmative. He’s the key. Destroy him, and the fruits of all his magic disappear – including that thing around the corner.”

  “Fine, we’ll destroy the bastard. How do we find him?”

  “I figure he’s pretty close to the dragon – probably behind it. Something like that beast, you can’t control it from a distance.”

  “That’s not real helpful, Powell. If he’s behind the dragon, and we can’t take down the dragon, that means we can’t get to him.”

  “We can’t, sir – but maybe I can.”

  “How?”

  “From behind.”

  “How the fuck are you gonna do that? There’s no way to approach that hallway from the other side. You’ve seen the builder’s plans, same as I have. There’s no stairs on that side.”

&nbs
p; “I wasn’t planning to use stairs, sir.”

  Walking through walls is not impossible, for a trained magician – but it is dangerous. Aside from casting the spell properly, the practitioner must give his passage through the foreign matter every iota of his concentration. Otherwise, he might materialize too soon and join his atoms with those of whatever substance he was trying to pass through. The result would mean his death, or something far worse – his consciousness could become part of the wall itself, in effect burying him alive until the day, perhaps decades from now, when someone knocked the wall down and set him free. Unless, of course, there was a fire in the meantime.

  The other problem, assuming you got through, involved where you ended up. If you were dumb enough to pass through a fifth-story wall, you were setting yourself up for a five-story plunge to the ground. Go through the wall of a furnace room, and you just might find yourself inside the furnace.

  Powell was reasonable certain that the wall he was looking at was the one where the hallway terminated on the other side – the hallway containing the dragon, and presumably the wizard controlling it. Go through the wall, and come out behind the wizard and his fire-breathing pet. In theory.

  The element of surprise should give Powell the advantage in the confrontation to follow. The Arab wizard might well have defensive spells ready to go, but he wouldn’t be expecting attack to come from his rear. Probably.

  Powell took off his pack and set it down. The more weight he was carrying, the harder it would be to pull this off. He stepped to the wall, stopping when his nose was just a few inches from the plaster. In one hand he held his wand; the other hand gripped a SIG Sauer P226 automatic, the SEALs’ favorite all-purpose handgun.

  Powell took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began softly to recite the words of the spell.

  Two minutes later, Powell sensed that his feet were on solid ground and opened his eyes. It seemed that luck was with him, since 1) he had apparently picked the right wall, 2) he had made it through said wall with all his parts and implements intact, and 3) neither the dragon nor the wizard who controlled it seemed to be aware of his presence – yet.

  Martinez had not been exaggerating what he’d seen. Yep, that’s sure as shit a dragon, all right. Imagine Godzilla’s little brother, except in green. Now give him wings, big pointy ears and the ability to spout fire from his mouth. What Powell was looking at was like that, except ten times worse. Then there was the odor – at close range, the dragon smelled like a fishing boat full of mackerel that had been left in the sun for three days.

  The wizard, who was crouched next to his noxious pet, appeared to be one of Geronimo’s Saudi countrymen – at least, he was wearing the long white cotton thawb that is the standard in that country. He wore a red and white check head cloth, held in place by a double circle of black cord.

  Powell must have made some kind of sound, or maybe the wizard simply felt his presence – some of them can do things like that. The man, who looked to be in his sixties, rose from his crouch, turning toward Powell as he did so. A fierce battle of magicians, East versus West, might have ensued, and Powell seriously considered taking part. Then he reconsidered.

  Take too long. Besides, I might lose.

  Powell quickly brought up the SIG Sauer, and shot the old man in the chest. Twice.

  At the sound of the shots, the dragon’s head turned toward Powell. It gave a roar that shook the walls, and Powell figured that the fire breath would be next. He realized that he had neglected to prepare a spell for this eventuality, and was about to pay for his stupidity by dying in the most painful way possible.

  Then the wizard, who was sprawled on the floor bleeding, kicked his legs a couple of times and was still – and the dragon, whose image would haunt Powell’s dreams for years to come, disappeared into thin air.

  Powell stared at the place where, a moment earlier, his death had been standing. Then he looked at the wizard, dead in a pool of his own blood. With a deliberate effort, he pulled himself together and prepared to continue with his mission.

  “All clear!” he yelled, or tried to; his voice just now would barely have carried across a small room. Powell drew more breath into his lungs. “All clear, Lieutenant. I got the bastard!”

  Martinez appeared cautiously from around the corner of the hallway, surveyed the scene for several seconds, then withdrew.

  A few seconds later, Marcellus appeared. He began walking rapidly toward Powell, then paused to call over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go!”

  When Marcellus reached him, the first thing he said to Powell was, “Are you okay?” Receiving an affirmative response, he then asked, “What’s that you’ve got all over you?”

  Powell realized he was covered with a fine white powder. “Must be plaster dust,” he said. “Picked it up on my way through.”

  “You actually did it, didn’t you? Walked right through a fuckin’ wall.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Outstanding work.” Marcellus turned to look at the still form on the floor. “And that’s the wizard, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, although we were never formally introduced.”

  “I’d say you gave him all the introduction he needed. And the dragon – there really was one?”

  “Affirmative, sir. If my buddy over there had taken another two seconds to die, I figure I’d have been guest of honor at my own personal barbeque.”

  “Glad he didn’t linger, then.” Marcellus looked at the nearby flight of stairs. “That the only way up?”

  “Far as I know, yes, sir.”

  “That means Geronimo is up there someplace, and it’s time for us to complete our mission.”

  Marcellus turned away from Powell then, and began to deploy his troops for the final assault.

  Four

  43 hours later

  Excerpt of President Robert Leffingwell’s

  Address to the Nation

  Delivered live, via television

  My fellow Americans:

  Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation leading to the death of a terrorist who has been responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women and children, both in the United States and abroad. It was more than ten years ago that a bright September day was darkened by the worst attack on the American people in our history. The images of that day are now part of our collective national memory: the hijacked planes; the twin towers burning like funeral pyres; black smoke billowing up from the Pentagon.

  The men who carried out these brutal attacks did not represent the Arab people or the religion of Islam. Rather, they reflected the terrible, twisted vision of a single man – a man who has finally faced the justice that was promised by my predecessor on the day those attacks occurred.

  Two days ago, elements of our special operations forces conducted a raid on a house in Pakistan, a building that was located after more than a year of intense work by our intelligence agencies. After a brief firefight, our troops killed the man who was the mastermind behind the attacks that ended the lives of so many Americans, and scarred the souls of so many more...

  Five

  April 9, 2012

  AT A LITTLE after 4:00 p.m., the avenger was sitting at an outdoor café in Paris’s eighteenth arrondissement, reading one of the city’s many Arabic-language newspapers. A man in his mid-fifties, Dr. Abdul Nasiri had coal-black hair and a full beard, both lightly sprinkled with the gray of middle age. His blue pinstripe suit was of excellent quality, and his Rolex watch had an alarm that reminded him five times daily of the time for prayer.

  In the unlikely event that someone was keeping track of such matters, at that moment in time Abdul Nasiri could be considered the third most dangerous man in the world. The dubious honor of first and second place would have been awarded to North Korean President Kim Jong-un and Ayatollah Khomenei, Supreme Leader of Iran, respectively. If Dr. Nasiri (Ph.D. in Anthropology earned at the Sorbonne, no less) was awa
re of his distinction, he bore the knowledge lightly.

  Nasiri had taken a vow on the day he learned of the death of the man whom he revered above all others. He had seen on Al Jazeera the video of the American president; the dog had been barely able to contain his joy as he reported the Sheik’s death to the world.

  They believe that the struggle died with the Sheik, in that house in Pakistan. They think they are safe now. They will soon learn otherwise.

  Six

  AT 4:15 PRECISELY, another man approached Nasiri’s table. Nasiri saw him, stood, and extended a hand.

  “Peace be upon you, brother,” he said in Arabic.

  “And upon you also,” the other man replied. He carried a small suitcase, which he set down in order to shake with Nasiri. He could have carried the suitcase in his left hand, but he came from people for whom the left hand has only one purpose, and old habits die hard.

  Nasiri invited his guest to sit, and signaled a waiter to bring more tea. They would not speak of important matters until the waiter was again out of earshot.

  The tea was delivered, and the guest added milk and sugar and took a long, appreciative sip. Jawad Tamwar’s hair and beard were darker than Nasiri’s – this was unsurprising, since he was only forty-two years old. His suit, however, was clearly of inferior quality. Tamwar cared little for what westerners would call the finer things in life. He was a man in love, and committed deeply to that love. His demanding lover was jihad.

  Jawad Tamwar had what some might have considered a checkered past. Born in Pakistan to a wealthy family, he had spent three years at the National University of Sciences and Technology before dropping out to study instead at a Saudi-funded madrassa that had taught him to embrace Wahhabism. This stern, radical branch of Islam holds that it is the will of Allah for the devout to destroy infidels. In the mid-1990s, Tamwar had been a star pupil at the al-Qaeda training camps in his native country, then spent several years as a bomb specialist for Hamas in Lebanon’s Beqaa Valley. Later, he helped fight against the American occupation of Iraq, under the notorious Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, from 2003 until the latter’s death in 2006.