The pilot looked back at his targeting screen. “Impossible on a miss, command. Confirm miss.”
“Computer says you had good strike rate, but target is not down.” There was strain in the voice over the radio. “Target has stopped and is now removing pack. Suggest immediate missile deploy.”
The pilot banked hard, coming in on another run. He knew there was no way a normal human being could have survived even a single strike from a huge 3.6 ounce M56 round. He should have had a hole the size of a hubcap in his chest.
It didn’t matter; the next weapon he chose to deploy on the single, slow moving target was an AGM-84HK SLAMER. It was a precision-guided, air-launched cruise missile specially designed for striking both moving and stationary targets. To add to its accuracy, the pilot could control the SLAMER all the way down.
The pilot’s targeting system locked in.
“Target acquired and locked.”
“You are go on launch, Fox-1.” The voice had regained its confident edge.
The pilot pressed a small button on his joystick, and the shining spear shot away from the plane.
“Bird away.”
The 500-pound destex-packed warhead would destroy anything it hit, and it never missed. The SLAMER rapidly picked up speed, arrowing forward and then down. From the air, the explosive force of the strike seemed small as the pilot banked away. As he looped back around, he tilted the Strike Eagle, and looked down. There was nothing there but a blackened crater.
“Target destroyed, confirm, command.”
“Confirmed, target destroyed. Good day’s work. Bring it home, Fox-1.”
“Roger that, command. Coming home.”
General Shavit continued to look at the screen for many minutes. The satellite image had drilled down to a perspective of only a few feet from the ground. Nothing remained larger than a few smoking fist-sized pieces of debris, and it was impossible to tell if they were biological or something other. He pressed a button on his comm. unit, and was put through to his bio-defense unit.
“Send a cleanup crew. I want every scrap from that site brought back here for analysis.”
Shavit sat back, sucking in wheezing breaths. So close, he thought. Too close.
The cleanup crew was on site within the hour and moved as quickly as they could manage in the bulky radiation suits. The residual HREs were high, but containable, and they were easily identified and secured in lead lined casing.
The biological remains were less easy to identify, as many of the fragments were nothing but splintered bone or flesh charred down to flakes of ash. However, outside of the impact crater, some blackened lumps of meat were found, and bagged to be sorted and tested back at base.
Later, Yair Shamir, the head scientist for the Bio-Defense Unit, stood beside Major David Mitzna, both in simple biohazard suits and masks. The physical debris collected was laid out in a refrigerated room. Yair stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the assembled flesh fragments laid out on a long steel bench top before them.
“So, he, it, is not dead then?” Mitzna continued to stare down at the blackened lumps.
“Oh, it’s a he all right. Has definite XY heterogametic sex chromosomes, and I think alive or dead are very loose concepts in relation to this sample.” Yair picked up a long probe and used it to prod at one of the lumps of charred meat. Dark, sticky liquid oozed from one end onto the gleaming bench top.
“You know, if you hadn’t told me when and where you had recovered this from, and shown me the footage, I’m not sure I would have believed you. I mean it’s still functioning at a cellular level. You see, we can even see its cells attempting to wound-heal.” He pointed with his probe. “Platelets adhering to the site of injury, coagulation, cross-linked fibrin proteins in a mesh. It’s amazing, and not real.” He straightened.
“Not real? What does that mean?” the major asked, leaning forward.
“I mean, it just seems… unreal, and I can make out some stitching. Also, there are several DNA samples, suggesting multiple people, all sort of attached or melded together.” Yair shook his head, frowning now as he searched for the right words. “Like it was made from scratch, pieced together like a quilt.”
“And it’s not dead,” Mitzna said softly. “How can I explain this to General Shavit?”
Yair shrugged. “Not dead, but not alive; something in between I think. It’s probably why the bullets didn’t stop him. I wish I had more to test.”
“How is that possible?” Behind the Perspex plate of his mask, the military man’s face betrayed his revulsion. “And who can do this?”
Yair walked along the bench to a scrap of flesh, no more than the size of a cigarette packet. It was blacked at the edges, but there were rents in it that could not have come from the bomb’s obliteration. It looked like script, but in an ancient language.
“These are words, carved into the flesh.” He looked up. “How? Why? I have no idea. And who? No one, no one has the capability to do this… today.”
CHAPTER 7
Alex and Adira followed the line of Hezar-Jihadi who continued to jog, dragging their captives across the sharp stones on the outskirts of the city. They drew with them a few resident stragglers, caught in the tail of the brutal comet, as they were morbidly interested in the promised spectacle.
From a corner, Sam appeared, followed by Moshe. The big HAWC nodded imperceptibly to Alex, and they too followed the procession as it made its way to a large languid river.
“Of course, the Tigris,” Adira said. “They will execute them here, let their blood flow into the river. It is symbolic, as it will then flow all the way to Baghdad, and other areas not yet under their control.”
“Yes, a symbol and a message to Baghdad,” Alex said. “The blood of your people comes first, then we will follow.”
The Hezar-Jihadi came to the riverbank, and forced the line of captives to their knees. A man set about digging a deep hole, and then dropped a stout pole around ten feet in length into it, which he then covered in, so just five feet of it remained above ground. The French pilot was lashed to this pole, and a small metal drum of liquid was put beside him. It was clear what his fate was to be.
The cameraman set up his tripod, and then arranged a dish to transmit their gruesome display directly to the satellite.
Adira snorted angrily. “There will be waiting fans right across the world. Also some news services all too willing to give them a platform. It is a barbaric time.”
The twenty kneeling captives had twenty Hezar-Jihadi in black balaclavas line up behind them. Each had been filmed taking a shiny new blade from a bin, and stood ready for their performance. Alex saw that the captives’ expressions were a mix of abject fear and resignation, right through to anger and defiance.
A crowd was gathering now, some calling out their support to the terrorists. Many of the curious were looking for excitement, or others to satisfy a bloodlust, and thank whoever they prayed to that it was being inflicted on someone else for a change. Alex, Sam, Moshe, and Adira were able to blend in and move closer.
Alex kept his eyes on the line of men. “Sam, you and I will take the butchers. Moshe, any man that lifts a gun is to be taken down. Adira, you free the pilot.”
“What about the camera? Will we knock that out first?” Sam asked.
“No,” Adira said fiercely. “Let it run. Nothing would insult them more than to see their brave warriors smashed, and their captives set free. We will send our own message today.”