As morally repugnant as the woman had been, she’d finally let loose with some good information. Below the servant class of nationalities was a group of people even more degenerate. An Emirati that had openly fought against the abuse of the slave class.
One such Emirati had worked in the same financial mall as herself. She’d seen firsthand how he’d been stripped of his job, his wealth, and his home. Cast out to live amongst the very people Mohammed bin Hasan al Qassimi fought to protect.
He eyeballed his jeans and t-shirt with longing. Only in the malls, at the resorts and in bars like the Double Decker had he been able to wear them without standing out. With the white sufra tied around his head, he left the hotel room, praying that he would be out of the gulf region before he had to switch to a heavier wrap for winter.
A line of cabs waited in the circular drive of the hotel. A quick ‘salaam’ and his destination to the Souks market had him rolling between the river and golf course in no time. The last time he’d been in the United Arab Emirates, he had been in the military. Compared to twenty-five years before, the traffic congestion had eased considerably on the four-lane roadways. All because, he found out after arriving, an edict had been passed that only those in the higher income brackets could own cars.
In less than ten minutes, the cab pulled over and let him out at the curb across the street from the old plaza. Making sure not to tip so well that it made him memorable, he shut the door behind him and looked for the nearest crosswalk. The smallest infraction of UAE law would land him jail time and much more scrutiny of his identity than it could handle. He wasn’t taking any chances.
Unlike the modern glass and steel metropolis that surrounded the Souks, like the older residential neighborhoods and the al Fahidi Fort district, the narrow alleys were bordered by homes and businesses that were standing testaments to the old ways, built out of palm fronds, gypsum and coral stone. The buildings were topped with towers that held barjeels or wind-catchers – long, narrow slatted windows where warm air inside was forced out by air cooled by underground water. The first natural air conditioners.
As the bells rang high in the towers of mosques, Max ducked into an abandoned alley and waited in the dark. No matter how much he needed to blend in, he could not get to his knees at prayer hour and pretend to worship as they did.
In the darkness, cotton and wool cloth created a wave of sound as millions got to their knees, their voices creating a chorus rarely heard in the bustling Deira district as they went about their duty of faith. So many voices whispered as one that it created an almost physical vibration through the bazaar and along the cramped alleyways. When it had passed and life resumed its early evening ebb and flow, Max stood and stepped back to the street.
He collided with a woman dressed head-to-toe in a traditional black abaya. She pressed her body to him as he tried to step back. “Hal a’abaki?”
Her words – Do you like it? – told him what she was, even before she reached out to stroke his arm. In a region with such strict codes of conduct for its citizens, especially its women, her behavior, though subtle, was wantonly forward. Speaking to him in the dark, reaching out to touch his arm, she could only be a prostitute.
With a polite smile and shake of his head, he moved to step around her before the soft glow of street lanterns caught the hammered gold at her neck. During his time in the city, he had seen that intricate maze-like pattern before, but he couldn’t quite place it. Intent on his meeting with Al Qassimi, he shook it off and found the nearest crosswalk.
Every available space was taken with men selling their wares and earning their meager living. The narrow halls were cramped during the day, while flocks of tourists sought trinkets to take home and shoppers came to replenish their spices. Nightfall did little to ease the congestion.
A man stepped out of a connecting passageway and called out. “Hahmmed? Hahmmed the mattress maker?”
Men shining shoes, repairing clothing, and cooking rice repeated the call until a burly man with a heavy beard stood up. Leaving his small square of floor space, he threw a large woven satchel over his shoulder and answered the call. “Hahmmed is here! I am coming!”
In this way, customers called for and found the vender they needed, despite their temporary stations. Similar calls filled the halls as night began to press against the loosely woven fibers that created a roof over the alleys. Stepping over and around men plying their trade, Max followed the strong scents of saffron, cardamom and turmeric until he found the man he was looking for.
Men, most dressed in white and light blue ankle-length Kandooras, lined the narrow space as al Qassimi doled out lamb kabob after lamb kabob. It was crowded enough in the Souks. The last thing Max wanted was to ask this man questions while a line of Middle Eastern men stood waiting. Though most looked like working stiffs, grabbing a late snack before heading home, he didn’t want to risk being overheard by the wrong person.
The line moved faster than he expected, but as vendors wrapped up for the night, many took their place in line and waited for al Qassimi. Each time, Max stepped aside and waved them forward until at last, the alley and the way ahead stood empty.
Speaking a few pleasantries in Babbel, al Qassimi threw the lamb kabobs into a napkin and handed them over. Max took the offered food and filled the man’s palm with more money than the simple meal called for. “What story tells us about Adam and Eve?” Max asked in al Qassimi’s native tongue, watching the man’s hollowed cheeks and bruised eyes for any sign that Genesis might have a deeper meaning for him.
There was nothing. “Adam’s story is told throughout the Quran.”
“Surely you know your laws forbid me to touch the Quran.”
With this, the man looked up, surprised. “You are a Westerner? Your Arabic is good.”
“I understand you are cast down.”
With the mention of his shame, an Emirati cast down from the towers they rule from, al Qassimi’s tired smile faltered. His eyes narrowed and he snatched the food out of Max’s hand, returning his money. Without a word, he turned back to his small stand and began packing away his goods.
“I know where you live, Mohammed.” Max’s words were quiet, as non-threatening as he could make them, but al Qassimi’s back stiffened. He got the point. Making sure, Max added, “I know about your granddaughter, Lexmi. I know where she sleeps.”
Al Qassimi was shaking, the silver tools he used to earn his living fell from his hands, but he didn’t turn around. “I have done nothing to you.”
“I just have questions,” Max soothed. “Tell me what I want to hear, and you will never see me again. Lie to me, and I will force you to watch as I kill your family.”
Turning to look at Max, still shaking with fear and anger, al Qassimi growled. “What is to keep me from calling out, killing you where you stand?”
“Because I am not alone,” Max lied. “Killing me will stop nothing.”
Al Qassimi’s shoulders sank ever-so-slightly, but Max saw it. “What is it you seek?”
“Genesis.”
The confusion in al Qassimi’s eyes could not be faked. “It is the story of life, found both in the Quran and the Bible. Others have it as well. How can I give to you what is so easily found?”
Frustrated at finding yet another dead end, Max scrubbed a hand over his growing beard. Maybe Mittie Kate was right after all. Maybe there was no mastermind behind the project. “This Genesis does not give life, it takes it. The creator of it is no god.”
“Takes life?” Something flashed in al Qassimi’s faded eyes and he leaned against the wall.
“You know something?”
“An old friend of mine spoke as you do,” al Qassimi shook his head. “It made no sense, but he has paid a great price for his foolishness.”
“What did he say? Exactly,” Max asked, his hopes rising.
“He only spoke to me once about it. Before I knew what had happened, they had taken him away. He said ‘Genesis isn’t life, it is death and he i
s no god’. To speak that way, one of us. It was shameful.”
“Where can I find him?”
“You cannot. He was taken to Sonapor.”
“Sonapor? I thought they closed the camps after the human rights movement.”
“Closed.” al Qassimi started laughing. He laughed so hard, he had to squat down. “Where would you put millions whose passports have been taken? Where would you put millions who you would not have mar your image as the perfect city?”
Al Qassimi’s laughter faded, replaced by the pinched eyes and thin lips of one who has struggled against the abuse of slaves and failed. “The ones who are allowed out of their camps to work, must dress and act as if they are members of this city. To do differently would send them to debtors’ prison. It is a far worse fate than the camps, I assure you.”
Max tossed the money back on to the table. “Write down his name and location in the camp.”
“My friend was old when you were young.” Al Qassimi did not touch the money, but he did take out a small scroll of paper and began to write. “Even if he has survived life in the camps, what would you have him do?”
With the paper in hand, Max turned to leave before al Qassimi shouted him down. “What of my granddaughter? Do you have any honor in you?”
Considering the man could have led him down a false trail to save his own hide, Max thought about holding it over him until he verified the information. Instead, he shook his head. “You and your granddaughter have nothing to fear from me. And the Genesis your friend spoke of wasn’t a slur again Islam. I watched that very device kill hundreds in a small town in Mexico.”
“Why do you seek it?”
“I’m going to kill the man who funded it.” With that, Max turned and worked his way back through the market. If he found a cab, he could be at Sonapor in as little as twenty minutes.
Al Qassimi called after him, his voice echoing through the narrow halls. “Then go with Allah. May he guide your hand.”
3
Melanie Edwards thrilled over the stealth of the modified Sikorsky Black Hawk. The beauty was so quiet she could even hear Gunny hyperventilating in the co-pilot’s seat. It was a shame she had to wait until they were in a warzone before she could play with it. “Easy in, easy out, then we’ll be heading back to the U.S.S. Garrote for some down time.”
“From you lips to God’s ears, Mel.”
“If you don’t calm down, I’m going to turn this car around and go home,” she grinned. “You’re freaking me out.”
Gunny pulled the chewed up stub of a cigar out of his mouth. “I hate flying up here with you. You have to push everything to the limits. I’d rather be in the back, pretending someone else is flying.”
“Please, this girl handles like a Lamborghini on the autobahn. Even if we’re spotted, we’d be back to the Garrote before the Chinese could get off the ground.”
Ignoring Mel, Gunny thumbed his headset to go ship-wide. “Eagle, you got ears on the front?”
Eagle’s voice filled Mel’s headset. She looked at Gunny and laughed. The kid in the back sounded bored. “Got it, Gunny. All the action is still focused on the Parcel and the Spratly Islands. Sounds like our guys are starting to make headway pushing the Red Army out of the Philippines. We should have clear sailing.”
The Anambas and Natuna Islands were situated at the southern end of the South China Sea. As one of the final pushes in China’s massive reclamation and territory-stealing project, the two small island chains had been filled in and joined, to create one massive island. While there had been no secret that the Parcel’s and Spratly’s had been destined to become military bases, the Anambas Natuna had lain dormant prior to China’s military take-over of the Philippines and Malaysia. Though new, the large stretch of island had already been taken over by the jungle.
“I still don’t understand why we’re here and not on the front lines,” Eagle complained.
Gunny turned in his seat to look back at the kid. “I guess you’re young enough you’re allowed to be stupid. And that isn’t a war-zone, it’s a pissing contest. The Chinese are only holding on, they’re not pushing back.” He turned to look back at Mel. “That bothers me.”
“You sound like a paranoid old man, Gunny,” Mel said.
“You’re not young enough to be stupid.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Mel added. “I agree it’s strange they haven’t done anything with Anambas Natuna, but you act like they’re sitting on America’s doorstep. You thought Russia would jump in at the first chance they got. They didn’t. They’re still focused on expanding their Ukraine territory. You thought terrorist activity would sky rocket. It’s at an all-time low. Has been for nearly ten years. Just because you were around for the action in the Gulf doesn’t mean World War Three is on the horizon.”
“I trust my gut, kid. And so should you. Things aren’t adding up. We know China, Korea, and Russia have been building up their military platforms. Now’s their chance, so what are they waiting for?”
“You act like you want all hell to break loose.”
“I don’t like waiting. That’s what it feels like. We’re waiting for the real shit to hit the fan.”
“There’s a word for that.” Mel shook her head. Telling Gunny to relax was like telling a bull not to buck when a cowboy dug in his heels. “Paranoia.”
Gunny hit the switch so it was just he and Mel on Comms. “You remember what I told you?”
“Yeah, Gunny. I got it.”
“Tell it back.”
“I got it, I said. Give it a rest.” Mel hit ship-wide coms as they approached the southern tip of Anambas Natuna, silencing Gunny. “Eagle, how’s the weather?”
Knowing she was talking about radio chatter rather than the skies around them, Eagle worked his magic on his console before answering. “Still quiet. This should be just another Sunday cruise.”
When Mel looked over, Gunny was shaking his head. She was sure he would have smacked the kid if he had been sitting in back with him.
Twinkling lights could be seen up and down the coasts of the Malaysian islands. Nothing but darkness loomed ahead of them. The black mass of land, surrounded by a moonlit ocean, was the only indication they had they were nearing their target.
Gunny straightened up in his seat, flipped down his infrared goggles and began scanning the ground as it passed beneath them. “Get your eyes on it, Eagle. If it’s man-made, we need to see it.”
“Copy that,” Eagle acknowledged. “Eyes on.”
The boredom in his voice had taken a hiatus, at least for the moment. With Eagle, it was never far away. As soon as they came up empty handed, he’d be back to grating on Gunny’s nerves. Forcing her hands to relax on the controls, Mel slid the Black Hawk lower.
“We’ve got a problem,” Eagle called from the back. “I’m getting some strange signals.”
“No heat signatures, wait... INCOMING! Two o’clock, one degree down!”
Mel looked right even as she worked the stick to move right. Dropping the nose forward, she worked the foot pedals to swing the nose around. Twin missile tails scarred the dark horizon, on an intercept course for the Black Hawk. She reached down next to her seat, grabbed the collective control and put on as much speed as she could get out of the old girl while taking her up, out of their strike zone.
The missiles changed direction to follow. “They’re tracking, Gunny. Can’t outrun or out-climb them.”
“Heat seeking.” Gunny popped his harness and crawled to the back. Within seconds the gun door on the starboard side of the bird opened. “Right below us. I need line-of-site.”
Mel rolled the chopper, trying to put Gunny’s door directly over the missiles, praying he was strapped in. Speed was a problem. As much as they updated the Black Hawk, it still had to follow the laws of physics. Fighting the stick and pedals, she yelled, “You got two seconds!”
Red lights lit up the control panel and alarms began screaming. Even as a flare left the gun door, Mel was forced to
barrel-roll the helicopter. The downdraft created by the rotors pushed them toward the missiles, and the ground below, at breakneck speeds.
Mel forced the helicopter to move laterally while struggling to get the old bird upright again. She lost the battle when the flare lured a missile off course and caused it to detonate. The explosion set off the second missile and the pressure wave shoved the Black Hawk across the sky as if it had no more substance than a paper airplane.
Mel slammed against her harness and the rotors flexed hard enough to scrape the metal skin and windshields of the chopper, cracking the Plexiglas in front of her eyes. With the rotors damaged, alarms screaming, the chopper had all the graceful handling of a giant toaster oven.
Fighting to get the bird back under control, with Mel’s eyes fixed firmly on the console, she almost didn’t see the twin tails racing up out of the dark forest below. Losing altitude and unable to maneuver, it was all she could do to keep the bird from falling from the sky.
Light flashed out the window as Gunny fired another round of flares. Firing blind, the flares traced a pattern across the bow of the missiles. They were half a football field away from their tips but it was enough to grab the attention of the sensors, pulling them off course.
The cigar shaped bombs chased the flares into the tree tops where they exploded. There was no new damage to the chopper, but it was too late. The Black Hawk was a wounded duck and there was no saving her.
Mel hit the coms. “We’re going down!”
Working the pedals with her feet, she managed to get the chopper turned, to try to minimize damage to the superstructure by the rotors. Just before slamming into the jungle, she released the stick and covered her face and head with her arms.
Even with the bird turned, the sound of the rotors ripping into the jungle’s canopy was deafening. Shrapnel, thrown off as the rotors slammed into the shell of the superstructure, flew through the cockpit, tearing through her flight-suit and biting into her flesh as she was tossed around like a ragdoll in her straps.
Genesis (Extinction Book 1) Page 7
