‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ He scoffed. What did Chanakya know anyway? Scorched earth was all that was left. Someone needed to pay. And pay, they would. The younger man slung his AK47 and brought up a pair of binoculars, following an object flying low along the coast far up ahead. It moved with skilful precision, unhurried and steady. He passed the binoculars to the old man just as it slowed above the dark waters.
“God is good,” The old man muttered vengefully.
“It’s hard to make out anything at this distance,” the young man lamented, squinting in an attempt to focus. “What do you see?”
The object’s nose suddenly dipped as it halted and hovered in place. There was movement. A long rope-like thing descended from it. Like an anteater’s tongue gathering up a handful of insects, it lowered itself into the waves. The silhouette of a man appeared just above the water and clung to it, the last one to ascend before it retracted, and the object resumed its low-altitude northward traverse. Completely absorbed, mesmerized even, the old man’s gaze continued to burn through the lenses long after the object had disappeared from sight.
“I would know those people anywhere,” he frothed and spittle accumulated in the corner of his mouth.
He finally put down the binoculars.
“What do you mean, father?” The younger man looked confused.
“Get her on the radio. Now.” The old man barked with clenched fists.
Streaks of red pulsed beneath his olive temples. The young man keyed a code on the black brick, and the transmitter responded with a series of beeps.
“This is Ahmed calling Washington Washington. I repeat Ahmed calling Washington Washington.”
The old man had always hated the infidels’ phonetic alphabet, and it would be a cold day in hell before the word ‘Whiskey’ slipped from his or his sons’ tongue. The radio’s speaker sizzled with static, then a faint female voice came on.
“Ahmed, this is Washington Washington. Send message. Over.”
“Tell her to call General Abshir. What we thought was lost has been found again. Tell them to track the helo. Oh, and let the president know we are on it.” The old man brimmed with the satisfaction of imminent revenge.
She would know what to do next. It was time to call in some old favours.
The young man again keyed the radio and relayed the message. A double-click from the other end confirmed receipt.
“What do we do now, father?” The young man clipped the radio onto his belt and unslung his AK.
“Now, Ahmed, we will go below and eat. No man should face the enemy on an empty stomach.”
He put his arm around his son. He smiled, imagining the moment he would finally put his knife through the man’s heart and that of his wretched offspring. He could not allow the infidels to retain even a glimmer of hope. In the setting sun, foreboding shadows, as if to escape their undead masters, stretched long across the broken streets of the city around them, magnifying the absurdity of it all.
The two men went below into the ruin, where a flickering fire invited them to their evening meal.
◆◆◆
Enjoyed Book 2 of Dark Hemisphere? Want to find out what happens next? Book 3 of the series is most certainly in the works.
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The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 35
