“There…” he cried. “Over there! The boat…!”
Leaving the surface of the roadway, the Ford lost traction in the sand as Jarral urged Furag to go faster. Completely fixated on the motor launch, Jarral had failed to notice the American as he raced back from the water’s edge and disappeared behind the overturned hulls of a dozen beached fishing boats. Leaning out the passenger side window with his Uzi, Jarral sent a spray of bullets out across the water. But the jostling of the pickup as it plowed through the sand sent the bullets short and wide to the right. Cursing, Jarral was forced to reload, ejecting the empty magazine and jamming a new one into the heel of the gun.
At the same time, standing in the cargo bed behind the cab of the pickup, Mamood inserted the first warhead into his RPG, arming the launcher. Ignoring the muzzle flashes coming from the direction of the overturned fishing boats stacked to his left, Mamood took aim at the launch and prepared to fire. Beside him, Zameer opened up with his AK-47 but missed, sending the rounds into the night as he struggled to get a fix on the elusive target now flying back across the water.
Without warning, the driver’s side window exploded. Instantly, the pickup began to slow, then ground to halt halfway across the sand. Momentarily confused, Jarral felt something wet and sticky strike the left side of his face. Reaching up, he tentatively touched the strange sensation. Looking down, he realized that the same wet, pulpy residue now also clotted his cheek and sleeve. Turning, he started to shout at Furag but found the driver’s body slumped across the steering wheel. Struck in the left temple, all that remained of his brains now covered the inside of the cab. Recoiling, Jarral opened the door and tumbled backwards out of the pickup, landing on the sand. Still clutching his Uzi, he scrambled up in fury, emptying the second clip in the direction of the beached boats.
At the same time, Jarral could hear Zameer cry out as several rounds pounded into his torso. A moment later, whoever was out there had wounded Mamood as well, causing him to squeeze the trigger of the rocket launcher sending the first missile screaming harmlessly into the night sky before another round struck him in the throat. As the RPG slipped from his grasp, it tumbled over the side landing at Jarral’s feet.
Staring down at the rocket launcher as if it were a gift from God, Jarral picked it up, shaking the loose sand from the trigger housing. Spotting the second warhead on the floor of the pickup’s cargo bed, he reached in and grabbed it. Dropping down behind the rear axle, he began to rearm the RPG. His fingers worked quickly as he slipped the rocket into place, cocking the firing mechanism.
*****
At the same instant, less than fifty meters across the sand, Corbett crouched low behind the hull of a fishing boat, gripping the carbine. The rancid odor of rotting fish mixed with gunpowder filled his mind with images of Kibera and Jon Alesander’s lifeless body lying in the mud-choked street. Feeling his stomach begin to churn with that familiar sense of vertigo, he remembered the searing cry of his sister’s voice over the phone on 9/11 and forced himself to go deeper, to concentrate. Tariq would not die here. He would not allow it. No matter what. Having kept count, he knew now that only a single cartridge remained. One chance. Chambering the final round, he repositioned himself for a clear shot.
Having observed a total of four Jihadis in the pickup as it had driven out across the sand in pursuit of Tariq, Corbett could account for only three: the driver and the two riding in the bed of the truck above the cab. That left a fourth hidden somewhere in the darkness behind the pickup.
As he crept closer, he caught a glimpse of something moving. But before he could draw a bead, the dark figure scuttled over the side of the cargo bed and snatched what appeared to be a warhead for a rocket launcher before dropping from sight once more.
Glancing to his left beyond the breakwater, Corbett could just make out the launch as it reached the stern of the trawler. Two sailors grabbed Tariq by the arms and helped him over the rail onto the afterdeck. A moment later, the trawler’s twin Diesels roared to life, sending sound waves echoing across the water.
Instantly, Corbett knew. The fourth man was mounting the warhead on the RPG. Scrambling up, Corbett started running to his left, his line of sight still blocked by the rusting chassis of the pickup. In the faint moonlight Corbett could just make out the warhead as the Jihadi raised the rocket launcher to his shoulder.
*****
Loaded and ready to fire, Jarral pressed his eye against the sight. Focusing hard, he located the motor launch bobbing on the waves, now tied to the stern rail of the trawler. Two sailors were reaching down to help another man aboard. The moment he saw him, Jarral knew it could only be Tariq. Giving praise to Allah, he prepared to finish it. He was indeed the chosen one. Placing Tariq in the crosshairs, he pulled the trigger.
*****
Still lacking an unobstructed view at the shooter, Corbett dropped to one knee and took aim at the only thing he could clearly see – the RPG itself. Squeezing the trigger, he felt the carbine kick. A moment later, he could hear the distinctive sound of the warhead being released, racing low across the water. One second, two… then the concussive blast as the rocket exploded.
Shattered by the thought of Tariq’s death, Corbett clutched the empty carbine as he now ran directly for the pickup and the last Jihadi still hiding there. As he closed the distance, he could finally see him. The RPG had been knocked from his hands by the impact of the bullet. His eyes still fixed on the sea, Jarral never saw Corbett until he was almost upon him.
Then reacting to the pounding of Corbett’s footsteps across the sand, he instinctively stepped back brandishing the peshkabz as he met the charge of the Infidel. Lunging, he caught Corbett’s left side, the tip of the blade slashing across the American’s lower ribcage, drawing blood. But before the Jihadi could strike again, Corbett swung the carbine like a cudgel, striking Jarral across his wrist, sending the long knife flying from his hand.
Rising together, both men threw themselves after the loose blade. Grabbing it first, Jarral attempted to regain his feet as Corbett tackled him from behind, clutching the Jihadi’s wrist with his left hand. As the two men wrestled for the sword, Corbett slipped his right arm around Jarral’s throat and leaned hard against his windpipe. Listening to his labored breathing, he felt Jarral’s grip grow slack. Releasing the choke hold long enough to wrest the peshkabz from his grip, Corbett spun away.
Gasping for air, Jarral scrambled to his feet. The thought of the Infidel desecrating such a sacred weapon now consumed him. Hurling himself at Corbett, he found instead the upraised blade. Bracing himself, Corbett drove the peshkabz deep into Jarral’s chest, allowing the Jihadi’s own body weight to do the rest. Lips still moving in silent prayer, his eyes fixed on some distant point of light, Jarral hung there suspended for an attenuated moment, then collapsed at last, dead as his body hit the ground
Pulling free, Corbett disentangled himself from the dead man and stood, exhausted. It took several moments before the sound of the twin Diesel’s reached him. Turning, he stared out across the water. He could see the trawler churning through the waves once more. It took him a moment to realize that that final bullet must have actually struck the RPG itself, altering the warhead’s trajectory. For there, gripping the aft rail, the lone figure of Tariq stared back.
For a long time, Corbett stood watching as the trawler disappeared into the early morning mist. When he could finally no longer see the ship in the cold gray dawn, he turned and began the long trek back across the sand.
Stopping near the road, he removed his shirt and tore a strip of cloth from the bottom. Binding his wound, he tied it tightly, then turned the shirt inside out, and slipped it back on.
As Corbett began to make his way along the edge of the blacktop, his thoughts returned to Tariq. What was it he had said? “Insha’Allah.” God’s will be done. A simple act of faith. But what if that faith were misplaced? The irony of such a possibility resonated within him conjuring up the words from Lawrence Durrell’s Justine: �
��…That God neither created us nor wished us to be created, but that we are the work of an inferior deity, a Demiurge, who wrongly believed himself to be a God.” Who could say for certain which one was right? Corbett stared into the darkness. It was nearly daybreak. A new day. And with it the chance to begin again.
THIRTY
T he small café stood beside the highway near the beach just before the road turned inland toward Bilbao. Given the predawn sounds of gunfire, the talk of terrorism was once again on the news. The lone television screen had been tuned to CNN’s European edition where a pair of newsreaders, a woman with a British accent and a man who sounded vaguely Middle Eastern, were describing a strange story that had broken overnight.
“While authorities refuse to confirm or deny the possibility, there appears clear evidence of international terrorism here. The question is: Why…?”
The image of the newsreaders was replaced by footage of the decimated base camp along with a shot of the burned-out skeleton of the rescue helicopter near the cave’s entrance. Police and medical personal were everywhere. The area had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.
“The attack occurred overnight at an anthropological dig being conducted by the University of Salamanca. Located in the Pyrenees not far from the village of Xeria, itself the victim of recent terrorist activity, the body count currently stands at twenty-three, but is expected to go higher.”
An old photo of Corbett now filled the screen.
“Still among the missing, American visiting professor Michael Corbett.”
Seated at a small table at the back of the café, Corbett watched, his bandaged ribcage concealed beneath his shirt. His face betrayed no sign of emotion as the woman behind the news desk continued her report.
“The lone survivor appears to be a female student, also American, in her twenties. According to authorities, she has been taken into protective custody. Her identity has not been released.
Corbett’s image on the television was now replaced by a shot of the disabled pickup on the beach as the newsreader continued.
“In a separate, but potentially related incident, several bodies and a burned-out pickup truck were discovered early this morning on a remote beach northeast of Bilbao. Stay tuned to CNN as we continue to update this story throughout the day…”
Moving from behind the counter, the barista made his way among the customers to the corner table. Collecting the empty coffee cup, he quickly cleaned the table with a damp rag. Corbett was gone.
EPILOGUE
The Pyrenees Mountains, Northern Iberia
32,000 B.C.E.
Night had fallen. Beside the entrance to the cave, a crackling bonfire sent showers of sparks into the pitch black sky as the Cro-Magnon hunting party huddled together, arguing among themselves in a primitive, half-spoken tongue. At the center of the circle stood the young hunter whose shaft had first impaled the Neanderthal earlier that day. Afraid of the darkness and all they did not understand, the others shook their heads, motioning to him that it was time to leave.
Rising in defiance, the young hunter grabbed his fistful of spears and drove them into the soft earth. Then selecting a single shaft, he stooped to pull a burning stick from the fire. Fearful that the Neanderthal’s angry spirit might somehow be lurking within, the others stepped aside, allowing him to approach alone.
Holding the torch before him, the young interloper entered the mouth of the cave and moved cautiously forward. Spotting something on the ground, he knelt to examine the dark, irregular splotches of congealed blood leading deeper into the darkness. Hesitating, he began at last to follow the trail. Step by step along the narrow rock shelf, he moved further from the entrance until, at last, he came upon his prey.
Propped up against the stonewall of the cave, the mortally wounded Neanderthal stared back at his executioner through hollow, dying eyes, his breath now shallow and labored. Collapsed in a pool of his own blood, he seemed resigned to the inevitability of death.
Still holding the flaming torch in his left hand, the Interloper stood above his victim and drew back the shaft in his right. Then with a decisive thrust, he drove it deep into the Neanderthal’s chest. Watching as his eyes lost their luster, the young hunter raised his head again and began to howl in primal ecstasy.
Outside the cave’s entrance, the others began to make low guttural sounds of approbation. Calling out for him to return, they waited. Yet none was willing to risk the journey into the darkness to join him.
Standing on the narrow ledge above his victim, the Cro-Magnon withdrew his spear. Running his finger along the shaft, he licked the blood and began his death chant. Exulting as he felt the rush of power coursing through his body, he sensed he was not alone. He turned to stare into the dark recesses of the cave but saw nothing.
Then without warning, a thick-bodied Neanderthal female lunged out of the darkness, swinging a cudgel with all her might. The blow landed just above his left ear, shattering his skull like a dry gourd. The Interloper dropped like a stone, his body collapsing upon his victim. Lying there together, two as one, their blood now conjoined in death as it never had been in life.
At the mouth of the cave, the Cro-Magnon hunters stood silent, uncertain what to make of the strange sounds emanating from within. Then they heard it: a high-pitched vibrato keening. A solitary otherworldly cry coming from somewhere deep within as the Neanderthal female began to mourn. As a primal fear took root, the hunters backed away. Stepping quickly to the fire, each took a flaming stick, as if attempting to drive back the night. Then banding together, they moved cautiously into the unknown in search of a sign.
*****
Illuminated by firelight, strange shadows danced across the rock walls of the cave as the small band of Neanderthals gathered, staring down at the two bodies now entwined in death. Holding a long hollow reed, a Shaman stepped forward, his body painted and pierced. Placing one end of the reed into the pool of blood, he put the other end to his lips and drew in the dark crimson liquid. Then placing his hand against the rock wall, he exhaled in a single breath, aspirating the blood into a fine mist, coating both the wall and his hand. Removing his hand at last, its silhouette remained, an ochre handprint indelibly fixed upon the rock by an outline in reddish umber. Forever.
About the Author
A graduate of Colgate University and Northwestern University’s Graduate School of Communication, Garner Simmons has worked in both Television and Motion Pictures as a writer, producer and director. His biography on the late filmmaker Sam Peckinpah (PECKINPAH: A Portrait in Montage – The Definitive Edition) is still in print. He has lectured both in the U.S. and abroad as well as contributed commentaries to the majority of Peckinpah’s feature films on DVD. He is a member of the Writers Guild of America, the Writers Guild of Canada, the Directors Guild of America, and the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. Simmons and his wife, educator Sheila Simmons, live in Southern California. The Exfiltrator is Simmons’ first novel.
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