Kingdom Come

by David Rollins

  “Just sit tight,” I replied.

  The ZPU burst into life, its .50 caliber barrels spewing death into the teeth of the tracer coming down the hill at us. Every tenth round was bright green tracer. The display was almost hypnotic. Green zips flew from those four barrels in gentle arcs that mostly ended in sudden ricochets that speared off at crazy angles, the lights sputtering like doused fireflies swallowed by the night. The tracer was slowly walked across the hillside, the ZPU operator firing in short bursts. Several distinctive RPG explosions boomed high within the upper rocks and ledges, lighting up the Russian positions with fire, beacons for the ZPU.

  I watched a jihadist backlit by one of these fires pull the pin from a grenade and cock his arm for the throw, which is when the thing in his hand detonated and he disappeared for good inside a cloud of dust and shrapnel. Must have been a captured Russian F1 grenade. Hate the damn things.

  The incoming fusillade seemed to fade a little, which exhorted the ISIS fighters to press harder, and so they advanced; moving, running, their charge championed by the ZPU, which suddenly fell silent. And I saw why as something took the head clean off the man with his finger on the trigger.

  The ZPU’s fearsome racket silenced, there seemed to be a sudden lull in the fighting. But that was an illusion as, up in the rockery, there was a lot of hand-to-hand going on, punctuated by the odd scream and staccato blasts from carbines and pistols.

  I glanced over my shoulder to check six, and also to see what Natasha was doing … Gone. Where had she gone to? “Has anyone seen –”

  At that moment a Russian helicopter – of uncertain variety but let’s call it a Hind – arrived with all guns blazing, cutting off my question as I dived for cover. The cover, beneath a utility, was completely ineffectual as the Hind’s twenty-three millimeter rounds could turn vehicles into metal confetti, the utility two car lengths in front of the one I cowered beneath a case in point becoming shredded, burning scrap after a three-second burst. The helicopter made one pass and disappeared into the blackness, but it would be returning.

  “Anyone seen Natasha?” I asked the comms.

  “Negative,” came several replies.

  She was dressed all in black, which around here on a moonless night was perfect camouflage. I heard the thump-thump of rotor blades somewhere near, the tone of the sound changing as the aircraft turned hard, somewhere close. I figured the next pass would more than likely bring it down the line of vehicles, which meant it was time to move. I pushed myself out from under the utility and ran at a crouch until I fell into a low wadi. I wouldn’t have to tell my guys to do likewise. They did this stuff for a living.

  “Boss,” I heard Alvin say. “That you?” He added, “On your right.”

  I saw movement, and then it congealed and became a man, running at a crouch toward me, a distant fireball illuminating the silhouette of a US soldier, sans head protection. Alvin had ditched the local threads. Maybe it was time we all did likewise. The irony of being mistaken for a jihadist and shot by the Russians wasn’t lost on me.

  Back to Natasha. A tank driver would have to know how vulnerable we were to an attack from the sky. I hoped she had found cover, wherever she was. Nothing I could do about it. Her survival, and Igor’s too for that matter, was in their own hands. As for that helicopter firing its fool head off, the Russian Air Force’s motto seemed to be “No care and no responsibility”.” They had to know this was the Scorpion and his band they were shooting up, which also meant there was a good chance their own president was somewhere on the ground they were strafing with complete abandon.

  “Major.” It was Jimmy, appearing from out of the night on my left, bringing Farib and Taymullah with him. Breathing hard, he said, “Reckon we just let ‘em slug it out. Then we can move in and pick up the pieces.”

  Me? I’d be happy to let those pieces pick themselves up.

  “Bo,” I said into the mike. “What’s your status?”

  Silence.

  “Bo.”

  “Boss, his comms are sketchy,” said Alvin. “Loose connection somewhere. Or maybe low batteries. He told me he was going to look for Natasha. Igor is missing too, right?”

  I nodded.

  The gunship returned, its second attack running down the line as I thought it would. That’s when the ZPU started up again, hammering away at the perfect target: an object at low altitude approaching head-on. Four barrels spitting fire reached out for the helicopter with hundreds of hot lead and pyrotechnic rounds. They sparkled and danced as they were absorbed by the bird’s approaching airframe. The Hind appeared to dip its head in the withering fire, its own guns falling silent. And then it nosed up, climbing, rotor blades pounding the night air accompanied by the symphony of an engine destroying itself. That familiar thump-thump didn't disappear off into the night as I hoped, but continued, changing pitch. Damaged or not, it was coming back to try its luck a third time.

  The ZPU had to be the Hind’s next target. Kill or be killed. I heard someone yelling above the gunfire in a language I didn't understand. Taking a peek over the top of the earth berm I was crouching behind, I saw the Scorpion aided by Ortsa, the Chechen, standing behind the ZPU’s steel armor plate. Al-Aleaqarab was screaming at the top of his voice, spittle flying from his mouth, the weapon’s barrels swinging around for another crack at the inbound enemy.

  But it was not to be. The Scorpion didn't get off a shot. Three rockets streaked in from out of the blackness, the helicopter standing off, out of range. Two exploded short of the ZPU, but the third detonated beneath the Toyota’s engine and the whole area suddenly boiled within a ball of orange flame that lingered on the ground for a couple of seconds before rising skyward.

  The heat and the concussion of the blast rolled past me as the Hind flew by overhead, dipped, went into a corkscrew dive and flew into the side of a rock face. A thunderous explosion followed, with multiple secondary explosions – ordnance cooking off. As it fell to earth, the fireball bulged with each of these explosions like it was breathing, alive and growing. And then it crashed into a ravine with a cracking boom.

  Meanwhile, the ZPU’s usefulness as a weapon had come to an end. Small fires were left burning and I saw one of those fires crawling slowly away, trying to pull another man along with him. “Cover me,” I said to Alvin and rolled up and over the berm.

  Fifty-three

  Ronald V. Small @realSmall

  The Ancient Romans crucified Christians. Are there any Ancient Romans around today? Proof! Crucifixion does not pay!

  Sam Nanaster watched the fireworks through the eyepiece of a night scope, the occasional flare blinding her with green light.

  “The Russians and ISIS slugging it out. Looks to be roughly platoon-sized units squared off,” said Ronan lying in the prone position, the stock snug against his cheek and shoulder, his eye glued to an eyepiece.

  Couldn’t be related to President Petrovich, Nanaster considered. If the Russians thought he was down there, they’d bring up a whole division.

  “Lotta lead being thrown around. Who’s winning?” Li’l Wilson asked, his voice in Nanaster’s comms. He was down range on higher ground, in her three o’clock position - part of Bravo team.

  “Looks pretty even at the moment,” Nanaster replied. “Wait, maybe not for much longer.”

  The distinctive sound of rotor blades reached them before the Hind appeared in their night scopes. The firefight was less than 700 yards away so the cracks and booms of small arms fire and anti-personnel explosions were barely dulled. The Hind came into view, flying a perpendicular course across the lineup of vehicles. Air support would quickly turn the tide in favor of the Russians.

  “Got a bead on any of our breathers?” Nanaster asked, moving the crosshairs to another ISIS fighter.

  “Nope,” Li’l Wilson told her. “But got a good feelin’ they’s down there somewhere.”

  Nanaster settled the crosshairs of the scope on another fighter who had taken cover. No face recognition hits. Next�
��

  ***

  “Is that your Phoenix team?” Schelly demanded in Chalmers’s face, her arm outstretched at the monitor. The Predator had picked up eight new idents, a group that had arrived from the south, and all carried the appropriate fluorescent strips identifying them as American.

  “Major. How many times do I gotta tell ya … ?” He folded his arms and leaned back.

  “Did you manage to get through on the number I gave you?” Epstein asked.

  Schelly took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “No, Madam Secretary.” She turned to Chalmers. “Anything happens to Cooper, Mr Associate Deputy Director …”

  “Are you about to threaten me, Major? If so, I’d think very carefully before I –”

  “Okay, let’s all take a step back,” said the SECDEF. “Everyone’s under a lot of pressure here.”

  “Shhh,” hissed Bunion. “I can’t hear the president.”

  Schelly’s attention returned to the screens. It was almost impossible to figure from the display what was going on down there. The Russians had engaged the Scorpion’s outfit, but what about Quickstep? Had it been drawn into the fighting? And if so, on whose side? And where was Petrovich? And the Scorpion? Both had been lost in the confusion. Without intel from the ground, it was impossible to get any context. There was also now the presence of a mysterious unit of Americans. Schelly’s guts churned. She had a bad feeling about this.

  ***

  Al-Aleaqarab was still alight when I reached him. I kicked dust and dirt over the flames to extinguish him, his beard and hair singed back to the skin. The guy he was trying to drag along, Ortsa, was as dead as a stone. I grabbed a handful of the Scorpion’s clothing and pulled him down into the wadi. He was unconscious and still smoking a little so I took a couple of mouthfuls of water from the Camelbak and spat it over his face and hands. His skin was black and blistered, his eyes closed and he smelt of barbecue and charred funk. But he was alive.

  Alvin made his way along the wadi to help pull the Scorpion along by his collar. Reaching Taymullah and Farib, we stopped.

  “That’s the Scorpion?” Alvin asked, a little disbelieving.

  “That’s him,” I confirmed.

  “Don't look like such a big deal.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to let him live, boss. They killed bin Laden. Best thing they could’ve done. Solved a lot of problems.”

  I nodded. All this was going through my mind too. But at least we had the option. Capturing President Petrovich had kick-started a global movement of jihadist hatred and violence. Maybe capturing the Scorpion would shoot that same movement in the foot. Following that logic, maybe shooting him dead would do the same to the whole End of Days bullshit, and avoid any of the moral dilemmas that would no doubt result from having the guy imprisoned somewhere awaiting trial, bleating about us respecting his human rights. I pulled my pistol, cocked the hammer. What stopped me was a voice in my ear. “Boss,” it said – Bo.

  “You okay, Sarge?”

  “Yessir. Go … tasha an … gor. You’d … etter co …”

  “Where are you?” The transmission was sketchy, the way a loose connection cuts off some words and not others, but I got the gist of it.

  “With Pet … ich. We’re a ways … d … wn … column … vehicles.”

  “Coming to you.”

  I told Alvin to keep his eye on the Scorpion, and ran forward at a crouch along the wadi, the vehicles more or less lined up beside it. Meanwhile, on the higher ground, the firefight between the jihadists and the Russians continued, diverting attention from the convoy. I had the sense that, without air cover, the Russians were being whittled down. But it wouldn't be long before reinforcements arrived. I wondered why they hadn't turned up already.

  When I reached Bo he was keeping Natasha and Igor at bay with his M4, shifting his aim from one to the other. And then I saw that Natasha, in the back of a pickup, had a gun pointed at Igor. Beside her in the bed of the pickup was Petrovich, still nailed to the cross, but he was semi-conscious, his head rolling around. Igor also had a pistol in a two-handed grip, the muzzle aimed at Natasha. “What’s going on?” I asked Bo.

  ***

  “You sure that’s him?” Nanaster asked. There was a group of people in and around that pickup. There was something in the pickup – maybe a person – but from their angle it was impossible to tell. Maybe it was a wounded fighter. One of the people in the pickup was a woman, wearing the full black niqab complete with a khimar, and she was pointing the pistol at a big motherfucker of a jihadist. “You go, girl,” she said softly to herself. “I’m sure he deserves it.”

  “Yeah, boss,” said Li’l Wilson. “Got fifty points on a facial match here. Ninety-three percent certainty it’s Mohammad bin Mohammad formerly from my own patch of paradise – Tennessee. It’s him.”

  Fifty points is all we need. “Take the shot,” Nanaster ordered.

  ***

  “Take hand off knife,” Igor instructed Natasha. He motioned at me. “Tell him.”

  Natasha’s hand was on a knife? I checked the scene again. Yeah, Natasha had a gun in one hand, pointed at Igor, and her other hand gripped a knife handle, the blade embedded almost to the hilt in President Petrovich’s shoulder. I’d missed that detail. Fresh blood poured from the knife’s entry wound. She twisted the handle, which elicited a gurgle from deep within the president’s throat.

  “What are you doing?” I asked her. Okay, as questions go not one of my best because “torturing the president” was the obvious answer, but I was taken aback. Somehow I knew her actions were connected to the reason the bodyguard blew up both himself and the president’s helicopter. And I remembered I had a theory about all that, I just hadn't expected to be dredging it up right at that moment, not with a firefight raging in the hills around us, the world’s most wanted man black and smoking in our custody and questions about how we might get the fuck outta Dodge starting to prick my consciousness. But, in regards to the scene that confronted me now, one thing was absolutely clear. I told Natasha, “I get it. You wanted to stay with us because if you went back to a Russian unit, doing what you’re up to right now would not have been possible.” I thought about this an instant longer, then asked her, “What did Petrovich do to you?”

  “Three, four time … He rape me,” she said and gave the knife a twist, which prompted another gurgle from the president.

  “I stop her,” Igor said. “I stay for this.”

  “You knew this was Natasha’s intention?” I asked him.

  “Da.”

  “Then why the hell didn't you say something?”

  “This for me,” he said. “Not you.”

  First and foremost I was happy to see Bo still alive and kicking because his silence over the comms had made me fear the worst. So I could check that box. Next. “Your president’s bodyguard blew up the helicopter not because he was a jihadist,” I said to Natasha, “but because he was your lover. He didn't say Allahu akbar when he pulled the pin, he said, I love you.”

  Igor smiled a twisted, complicated smile that was impossible to decode. “Da. Tell him,” he said.

  “Yeah, tell me, Natasha. Who knows, I might have Bo here shoot Igor so that you can go right ahead and do to Petrovich whatever it was you intended to do.” I said in an aside to Igor, “I wouldn't really let him shoot you, but I think she knows what I mean.”

  Igor ignored me. “Tell him.”

  “The president would put drug in food for me and Arkady Geronosovich. When we sleep, he would rape me in bed beside Arkady. He did it many time. I believe it is nightmare, but he become rougher, and I wake up bleeding from … from many place. Not nightmare, real. Arkady believe I am lying, having affair with president. I did not tell him truth because I find hard to believe, you know? The general – General Yegorov – warn me about president, but I do not listen …”

  Until it was too late. “Go on,” I told her, “give that knife a twist for me.” I turned t
o Igor. “What about you, Starshina? You gonna pull the trigger?”

  “My duty to protect president. I fail before. Now I do not fail. I swear oath.”

  President Petrovich was clearly an evil motherfucker of the first order, as well as being vain and narcissistic. Igor’s sense of duty to him was misplaced, oath or no oath. Maybe vodka had rewired his brain.

  A gunshot nearby made me flinch. “Shit!” The shooter – it was Mazool. “Mazool!” I snapped. “What the fuck!” He lowered the AK. I looked around. What had he been shooting at?

  “Ahh! You kill him!” Natasha shrieked, a small hole in Petrovich’s chest where there wasn’t one just a few seconds ago. “You steal this from me!”

  “No,” Mazool shouted right back at her. “This was my duty. Duty for my mother, my sister, my brothers. All dead from Russian bombs – his bombs.” Mazool dropped the AK at his feet like he had no use for it anymore. He looked at me. “If you would allow it I would cut his heart from his chest.”

  No one moved. Mazool quickly gathered he was not going to be granted that particular wish. He shrugged and said, “I praise Allah for giving me this bounty. Allahu akbar.”

  Thus, suddenly, the main reason for our presence here was no longer relevant. “Thanks a whole bunch, Mazool,” I said. “My unit was supposed to rescue this guy.”

  Mazool shrugged. Plainly, the Syrian could care less, except that he said, “God bless America. You have helped me avenge my family.”

  Okay, so he’d evened the score for a lot of folks. Good for you, Mazool. The folks back home would be less than pleased. “What about you, Igor? Natasha?” The two of them were still pointing weapons at each other.

  What was done was done. Nothing any of us could do about it now. The starshina lowered his weapon.

  Natasha had different ideas. She pulled the knife from the president’s shoulder and stabbed him in the chest a few times, just to make sure his corpse knew how she felt. Maybe Mazool’s extra request had given her the idea. As for Mazool, I motioned to him that he should make himself scarce – Natasha had a temper.