by Jim Roberts
Like his comrades, Rashid wore a bulletproof combat vest over his traditional Muslim clothing – tanned brown for camouflage. Around his grizzled face was wrapped a black shemagh scarf, to help filter out the dust of the desert. His thick, heavily muscled arms held an RPK Kalashnikov heavy machinegun at the ready.
Rashid was always on guard. Ten years as a soldier in the Lebanese Commando Regiment, waging battles against the Muslim Brotherhood, Hezbollah and Palestinians gave Rashid a unique understanding of ground warfare. Drummed out of the service on false charges of corruption, Rashid had joined any mercenary band he could; plying his skills to any and all who could pay his fee. He’d garnered a reputation for ruthlessness and bleeding edge efficiency in his work.
Then, eight years ago, he had met the greatest desert warrior in the Middle East.
Saladin.
The Sand Scorpion.
Standing beside Rashid was the man he would gladly give his own life for. Saladin stood with his head bowed, eyes closed as he offered a prayer to Allah to look after the souls of the people they and their weak kneed employers in Damascus had failed to protect. The jihadists of the Islamic State had been here and left their mark. Along with these poor corpses, the terrorist state had slaughtered or kidnapped most of the village population. Anyone lucky enough to survive would have made for the Iraq border if they were smart.
The cellphone in the folds of Rashid's clothes began to rumble. Answering it, he listened to the radio operator on the other end inform him of a change in plan. Hanging up, Rashid turned to his commander.
"My Lord, Commander Falco shall arrive in two minutes."
For a several long seconds, Saladin ignored his second-in-command. Rashid knew full well never to rush his master. Born in northern Iraq to a Kurdish mother and Iraqi father, Saladin had spent much of his early life clawing for survival. He had seen war since he was a child; baptized into a hell of hate, religious condemnation and pain before he was even five years old. Instead of watching cartoons on a Saturday morning, like a child in the USA, Saladin would help bury a friend of his family. Death was his constant companion.
Saladin, or the Sand Scorpion, as his men called him, was exotically handsome; darkly so, with eyes that seemed to see through time. His nose was long and birdlike, a trait his father had told him was due to British blood somewhere in his ancestry. His bald dome was covered by a black and white Keffiyeh, a traditional Arab headdress. Beneath his grey and brown cloak was a rynohyde/Kevlar bodysuit, redesigned for desert use.
Anxious by his commander's silence, Rashid dared another attempt, "My Lord, are you−"
"Do you know the works of Edmond Burke, Rashid?"
The question was not expected. "My Lord?"
Saladin cast his dark eyes over the horror before them as he spoke, his voice low and modulated. "An Irish philosopher and politician from the eighteenth century. He witnessed the French Revolution and became a heavy proponent of conservatism within his country. You’ve not heard of him?"
Aware that this was one of his commander's occasional lessons in higher arts, Rashid shook his head.
He owed everything to Saladin. The great man had found Rashid as a broken man, years ago. He’d taken him under his wing, gave him a sense of self-worth. Rashid knew his life meant something again. He would serve Saladin’s mercenary aims until the day he could no longer hold a gun. That was his fate, and he was proud for it.
Saladin spoke quietly as he looked at the bodies, "One of Burke’s many musings has stuck with me through much of my life − 'When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an un-pitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle."
Saladin shook his head, turning back towards the edge of the tiny hamlet. After one final glance at the grisly tableaux, Rashid followed him. They had to watch where they stepped as pools of drying blood and bodies decorated the street all around them.
"Do you think this is a contemptible struggle, Rashid?"
"I don’t know. I follow and obey. That is what Allah wishes of me."
A wisp of a smile pulled at Saladin's lips. "We live in an age of war, my friend. An age of men who are committed to a cause they too believe is in Allah's name. If this is indeed a contemptible struggle, we must not allow our emotions to cloud our judgment."
In the distance, the whine of an aircraft reverberated across the desert steppe. Rashid recognized it as an Olympus Hyperion vertical-takeoff and landing vehicle, the workhorse gunship used by the Olympus PMC.
The two men walked side-by-side down the corpse ridden dirt streets of Hijjâné towards the south edge of the village. There, Saladin's cabal of soldiers eagerly awaited their master's return. The Sand Scorpion commanded one-hundred of the best trained guerilla warriors in the Middle East, most of them culled from various Special Forces units in Yemen, Iraq and the surrounding countries. Men sick of fickle commanders, political maneuverings and religious distrust, flocked to the one called Saladin, having heard rumors of the legendary merc's battle prowess. If there was an opening, and after enduring a brutal initiation that eight out of ten entrants perished in, a man could earn the right to join Saladin’s cadre of elite guerilla mercenaries, known as the Riders of the Scorpion.
Mounted infantry in today’s modern warfare was a rarity, even in barren regions like the Syrian plateau. Saladin had seen potential in a unit of horse mounted guerrilla fighters and designed tactics for their use in attacking convoys and smaller patrols. By picking targets with scouts and striking quickly, Saladin plundered the southern reaches of Syria. They stole gas, food and other resources away from the rebels, as well as ISIL. The Sand Scorpion’s encyclopedic knowledge of desert water locations allowed the Riders to travel efficiently and in relative safety. He could also tap into the Olympus aerial drone network that patrolled the skies of the country to give him a heads up whenever an enemy patrol came too close. The Riders would give reign to his horses and flee before they could be caught. In the past eight years of its existence, Olympus had utilized the Riders of the Scorpion in over twenty-five separate campaigns throughout the Middle East.
Saladin and his troop never disappointed their employers.
Now that very cadre lined the rocky ridge overlooking the massacred town of Hijjâné. Each guerilla fighter sat tall on a brown or black horse, well trained to endure the barbarous terrain of the Syrian Desert. Armed and supplied by Olympus, swaddled in cloaks and wearing Keffiyeh headdresses, the soldiers of Saladin prowled the Biblical Cradle of the world; a group of warriors seemingly at odds with the era they now found themselves.
As Saladin and Rashid exited the village, the Olympus Hyperion VTOL came into view, flying low over the eastern steppe. Saladin halted, watching the aircraft circle momentarily before descending onto the sandy terrain in front of him.
While they waited for the aircraft to land, Rashid asked the question foremost on his mind. He had to shout to be heard over the powerful jet engines of the VTOL.
"What do you think Falco wants with us, my lord?"
A faint smirk pulled at Saladin's mouth. "Need you ask, my friend? Bashar al-Assad is on the verge of defaulting on his contract with Olympus. They shall be pulling out within the week."
The Hyperion set down against the steppe with a noticeable bounce. The pilot seemed unpracticed at landing on the rough terrain of the desert.
Rashid shook his head. "There is still so much to do here, what with ISIL slaughtering anyone that stands against them−"
"Silence, my friend−" Saladin said, holding up a hand, "−much will be settled in the next few minutes. Cease your musings and follow."
Rashid grew instantly quiet, as ordered.
The side hatch of the Hyperion slid back. A figure stepped off the VTOL onto the barren steppe and walked towards the two desert mercenaries.
"Saladin. Salve."
Saladin gave a short bow. "Assalaam `alaikum, Tribune Falco. My compliments on your promotion."
Falco nodded back. The O
lympus commander was dressed in a well-tailored business suit, a far cry from the rynohyde body armor he normally wore. The newly appointed Tribune marched past the Sand Scorpion and his second-in-command towards the outskirts of the village, taking in the sights of the streets littered with dead.
"How many killed?" Falco asked.
"We count 114 bodies." replied Rashid. The second-in-command was unimpressed at the sharply dressed Falco. Olympus higher-ups did not enthral Rashid; he found them to be patronizing and overly cruel. "They were killed as reprisal for Olympus advancements into the north of the country. Mostly older men and young male children."
"The women were taken?" Falco asked, his eyes moving to Saladin.
"Yes," Saladin replied, "and adolescent males too, for ‘re-education.’"
Falco nodded, turning back to his mercenaries allies. "Regrettable, but this is no longer Olympus’s concern."
Rashid stiffened at the Tribune's words. Falco made his way back to the two men, dusting the accumulated dirt and grime from his suit jacket.
"Tiberius has made up his mind. The contract between the government of Syria and Olympus will end, effective one week from now. Olympus’s time here is over. We have a much larger mission on the horizon. So too ends our dealings with the Riders of the Scorpion. You will be paid in full for your services as per our agreement."
Rashid was about to object to the news, but a firm touch on his arm by Saladin, forced his silence. When he spoke, Saladin chose his words carefully, "This is sooner than expected, my friend. Why so sudden?"
Falco adjusted the eye patch. It had shifted slightly from the updraft of wind. "President al-Assad is facing mounting pressure from ISIL on multiple fronts, not to mention increased NATO presence in Northern Syria."
Saladin sighed, "After so long doing nothing against them, al-Assad must deal with ISIL on his own doorstep. The fool should not have delayed. The seeds of his own demise are being sowed as we speak. Without Olympus to protect the villages of the contested regions, more attacks like this will occur."
Falco fixed the Sand Scorpion with his good eye. "As I said, Saladin, this is no longer Olympus’s concern. Right now, we have a more important job ahead of us."
Saladin raised an eyebrow. Falco explained. "One day ago, we received a report from Epsilon battalion, stationed in Al-Raqqah district. It appears Olympus has a traitor."
"A traitor? Who?" Rashid asked.
"Actually, defector would be the better term. One of our Epsilon Centurions." Falco reached into his pocket and pulled forth a palm computer tablet. Inputting a quick command, he held out the device for Saladin. Rashid took the pad first, making sure that nothing was passed to his master before he himself had checked it. He quickly perused the data on the LED screen. It displayed an image of a powerfully built man in his early forties, with a long, twisting scar erupting from the side of his crew-cut salt and pepper hair.
[CENTURION EPSILON 1]
[GIVEN NAME: SANDOR DELACROIX]
[AGE: 41]
[P.O.B: PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA]
[PREVIOUS EMPLOYMENT: DYNCORP PMC]
[PRIMARY SPECIALITY: SNIPER]
Upon reading it, Rashid passed the device to Saladin. When finished reading, the Sand Scorpion looked up at Falco, his face unimpressed. "A layman Centurion. Why should this concern me?"
"Because−" Falco replied, taking back the palm PC, "−this man is planning to give many of our most sensitive secrets to the Peacemakers, including information about the Code.”
Rashid’s eyes blinked at the mention of Olympus’s great secret. He knew Falco would have activated a sound dampener around their position before even saying the word. As the Riders of the Scorpion were sub-contracted to Olympus, Rashid and his master were privy to many of its higher secrets, including the Code.
Falco continued his pitch, “After killing two other Olympus soldiers, he managed, somehow, to disable the Code uplink in his brain stem. He is now completely impossible to track through normal means. Tiberius himself has ordered me to ask you to find and neutralize him."
Saladin dusted a fly off his shoulder. "The Code holds no interest to me, Tribune. Tiberius and I have a deal. My own contract with Olympus gives me total autonomy within the Middle East. In other words–" Saladin fixed Falco with his dark brown eyes, "–I control my own destiny."
Falco's single eye flared with rage, "The Centurion is hiding somewhere to the west. We lost track of him near the Raqqad valley."
Saladin stepped closer to Falco. The two men were only a foot from each other. "Say I help with this task. You are asking for my men and I to wander through the Syrian Desert, in ISIL controlled territory no less, to find one Centurion. You think me a fool?"
Falco smiled. "No...merely pragmatic. I have a gift for you, courtesy of Legate Tiberius."
The old Olympus wardog stepped to the side and made a signal to the Hyperion. By now, the bulk of Saladin's own soldiers had moved down from the upper ridge. They surrounded the landing area, taking up a semi-circle behind their master.
From the interior of the Hyperion came several clunking sounds, as if something very large was moving within. Rashid took a step back, clutching at the RPK for reassurance.
After a few seconds, a massive figure stood in the gangway. Silhouetted from the sun by the Hyperion's dragonfly-like wings, it stepped down from the gunship onto the desert sand.
As the creature came fully into view, Rashid drew a sharp breath.
Falco grinned. "My Lord Saladin, may I introduce you to Brutus, the Olympus PMC's prized tracker."
Rashid now saw that the thing called Brutus was a man, surrounded by a metal armature that had been fashioned into a hydraulic exo-skeleton. The structure covered most of his body, wrapping itself around his arms, legs and torso. The man's face was lost amidst a massive steel helmet shaped to appear like a wolf's head, its mouth open in a perpetual roar. A pair of gauntlets surrounded his forearms down to his hands, where each finger ended with a wicked metal claw.
Brutus trudged into the warmth of the desert, to stand before Falco and his companions. The sheer girth of the beast before them was unlike anything Rashid had ever seen.
The desert raiders behind Rashid murmured in amazement. He himself could only stare at the half machine/half man. "What in the name of Allah is that?"
"As I said, this is Brutus," Falco said, walking up to place a hand on the massive shoulder of the iron beast, "He is the result of three years of careful bio-manipulation and gene therapy. Using concepts developed by Doctor Toshiro Yune, our scientists have taken a normal human being and purged such trivial emotions such as fear and pity from his mind. He is now a perfect predator. His adrenal glands have been heightened to such a degree that he can push himself harder and faster than any human on earth."
The beast called Brutus stood like a monolith of muscle; his entire body seemed to pulse with barely contained strength. From the depths of the wolf-like mask, Rashid could hear the man's breathing. He sounded like a barely contained animal.
Saladin's eyes moved across the colossal brute’s body, sizing it up. "You have created a man that thinks he is a beast? To what end?"
"Brutus is not just the peak of physical power−" Falco walked around Brutus, admiring the craftsmanship, "−his other instincts have been honed as well. Sight, smell and hearing: all have been enhanced to aid his predatory abilities. Trenbolone steroid injections have increased his physical strength beyond that of any known man. His endurance is unmatched. The suit he wears can push his ground speed to a sustained twenty-eight miles per hour. If he requires long range transport, Brutus is capable of tapping into the Olympus defense network of drones within Syria. Within an hour, he can reroute a Griffon transport drone to his location and convey himself anywhere in the country – within reason, of course.”
Saladin nodded, “Ah yes, the famous Olympus drone technology. The wave of the future, so to speak.”
A smile tugged at Falco’s lip, “The future
is now, my lord Saladin.”
Rashid was uneasy at the sight of the Olympus tracker. The machinery crafted by his employers in the Olympus PMC frightened the mercenary at times. He himself was not up to date on the most recent military advancements, but he knew full well the things that this organization created was beyond the general reach of most world powers.
If Saladin was impressed by Falco’s presentation of the massive Brutus, he did not show it. "Why give me such a beast, my Lord Falco? It is, after all, a simple Centurion you wish me to find."
Falco's gaze narrowed. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, my lord Saladin. Legate Tiberius requires the man be caught before the withdrawal of our forces. Brutus will ensure this."
"Staying in ISIL controlled lands any longer than necessary is extremely...hazardous. What is the Legate willing to pay my men for this service?"
Falco grinned. "Still the mercenary as always, my Lord Saladin? Tiberius is willing to pay the order of twenty million to your private account. That should fund your ridiculous crusade for a few years, will it not?"
“You are incorrect in this case, Falco. I no longer wish for monetary compensation.”
Falco raised his only eyebrow, “Oh? Then what do you want?”
“I require entry…entry into Olympus. The time has come for the Imperator to accept my patronage into the Brotherhood of Olympia.”
Falco met Saladin’s deathly serious stare, “You ask much, Kurd. The council of Olympus Lords is no Mickey Mouse club to join at will.”
“Olympus has been defeated several times in this past year; beaten by a group of upstart American terrorists. And now there is the loss of the drone shipment in Lebanon. Whoever is planning your operations is doing rather poorly, wouldn’t you say?”
Falco was incensed, “How did you know about Lebanon?”
“I have ears everywhere in the Middle East, Falco. My network of contacts within the Middle East would be a boon to Olympus, don’t you agree?”
