Kismet was attempting to fix enemy positions by the angle of incoming fire and rising from cover only long enough to snap off one round at a time before ducking down again. Higgins switched the selector on his own weapon to single shot as well, but knew it would merely delay the inevitable — that moment when he squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. He raised the M16 above a dune crest, firing at what he thought might be a sniper position, then ducked down again.
It would be over soon, he realized, and for some reason decided that he didn’t want to die alone. He had always known death in combat was a possibility — for a Gurkha it was almost inevitable — but he had never imagined that he would be the last man standing. Kismet was only twenty meters away, but reaching his position would mean running a gauntlet of enemy fire.
Kismet wasn’t a Gurkha. He was by his own admission barely a soldier; he was a reserve officer, engaging in military drills in order to pay for a college education, with no combat experience. Higgins would have willingly died for any man in his regiment, even the much-loathed officers, but for this American?
You’re going to die anyway, mate.
He almost laughed aloud at the admonishment of his inner voice. “So I am.”
He triggered a three-round burst over the dune crest, then launched into motion. He had gone three steps when a 7.62-millimeter slug from an enemy AK-47 ripped across the back of his right thigh. He winced at the unexpected burning sensation, but his leg did not fail and he did not stop running. After a dozen more strides, with blood streaming down his leg and into his boot, he made a desperate dive for Kismet’s position.
“I’m out,” shouted Kismet.
Higgins indicated his own weapon. “My last.”
Kismet nodded gravely and laid his carbine aside. Then he did something that left Higgins stunned. He drew his blade, the kukri Higgins had given him earlier.
The large knife was the signature weapon of all Gurkha fighters, and this one had belonged to the fallen Corporal Singh. Higgins had offered it as a token of his respect for Kismet, in that now barely remembered moment when he had glimpsed a bit of steel in the young officer, but had never expected to see it used by the American.
You’re one of us now, he had said. And at the time he had meant it, even though so much about what had happened that night remained beyond his comprehension.
How did I forget that? he wondered.
The lull in firing from their position gave a clear signal to the enemy. Higgins could hear the orders, barked in Arabic, for the soldiers to advance cautiously on their position. Not much longer now.
He had no idea how many rounds remained in the magazine of his M16—he figured he could probably count them on one hand. He set his gun beside Kismet’s and drew his own kukri.
The first man to crest the dune led with his rifle, flagging his approach with the barrel of his AK-47. Kismet heaved the boomerang shaped blade against the gun, smashing it aside in a spray of sparks then reversed the edge, hacking across the soldier’s torso. Higgins sprang at the next man, pivoting on his good leg and putting his full weight behind the cut.
A headless enemy soldier fell back into the arms of his comrades.
As if linked by a common mind, Higgins and Kismet dove into the heart of the approach. The stunned Iraqi riflemen had no idea how to repulse the crazed attack; they could not shoot for fear of hitting each other. They parried the assault with their rifles, swinging the wooden stocks like cudgels when they saw an opportunity, but several of their number prudently fell back.
As retreating soldiers formed a ring around the knife-wielding pair, Kismet and Higgins repositioned, back to back, to meet whatever attack was to follow. Both men were bruised from numerous blunt traumas and Higgins’ right trouser leg was soaked in his own blood, yet the fire in their eyes was undimmed.
There was fire in the eyes of their enemy as well. The soldiers of the Republican Guard orbited their position warily, their visages twisted with a mixture of rage and trepidation. Some of them drew bayonets which they affixed to their AK-47s while others drew long fixed-blade combat knives.
One strident but nevertheless commanding voice was audible above the rest. Higgins didn’t know enough Arabic to translate, but he had been a soldier long enough to know when an order to attack was given. The ranks began moving in, more cautiously this time, determined not to be taken off guard.
Higgins gripped the haft of his kukri fiercely and waved it back and forth in front of the advance. He assumed Kismet was doing the same. The American officer’s back was pressed reassuringly against his own. At least he wouldn’t die alone. “A pleasure serving with you, sir.”
“The pleasure was all yours.”
Kismet’s voice sounded strange when he said it, and it took Higgins a moment to realize that the American was laughing; a harsh, sarcastic chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.
My God, thought Higgins. He’s actually laughing in the face of death.
“Hey, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?” Higgins was in awe, wondering what the American would say or do next, but Kismet’s voice was now only solemn.
“See you in the next life.”
PART ONE
Strange Bedfellows
ONE
In the deepening twilight, the becalmed surface of the South China Sea resembled an expanse of black velvet, stretching in every direction almost as far as the eye could see. The only landmass visible to the occupants of the Bell JetRanger 203 helicopter, beating the air high above the inky waters, was the eastern tip of the Malaysian island of Borneo, rising out of the sea to the south.
Nick Kismet gazed through the Lexan viewport, watching as even that last remaining link to terra firma dissolved in the distance, and then swung his gaze forward. He shifted uncomfortably in the cramped rear seat. The headset he wore over his close-cropped dark hair allowed him to converse both with the other passengers and the flight crew, but its primary function was to muffle the noise of the rotor blades as they hacked through the air, giving lift and speed to the craft. He knew from experience that the sound was almost deafening; even muted by the foam earpieces, it was still loud enough to destroy the illusion of floating peacefully above the darkened sea.
His fellow traveling companions were strangers, though he knew two of them by reputation. One of the female passengers had made a furtive effort at introductions, but no one else had manifested a desire to converse once the helicopter was airborne. The crossing would be brief and there would be plenty of time to socialize once they reached the ship.
The vessel to which they were bound was a mid-sized cruise ship, based out of Hong Kong. It was presently flying the flag of the Sultanate of Muara, from where it had just commenced a historic voyage that would, if all went according to plan, last nearly two years and take the ship to every corner of the globe. By arrangement with the shipping line, the craft had been renamed The Star of Muara and would be operating both as a fully-staffed maritime luxury resort and a museum of priceless antiquities for the next twenty-two months.
Unlike his fellow passengers, Kismet was neither enjoying the thrill of a helicopter ride, nor particularly looking forward to a week of being pampered aboard the cruise ship. With respect to the former, he’d had more than had his fill of helicopters during his brief time in the US military; even a sleek JetRanger held no more excitement than a drive to the corner store. As far as his stay aboard The Star of Muara was concerned — well, that would be work.