“I will rejoice once I see the Prophet’s banner flying over the infidels’ lair,” he lies.
“Shall we wait till nightfall?” Skinner asks. “My friends have a better sight in darkness than the Tribe’s NVGs. Could give us another advantage.”
“We will not wait.” Impatience lingers in Commander Saifullah’s voice. “As soon as my warriors finish their prayers, we will strike and finish the infidels, once and for all!”
“Suit yourself,” Skinner replies with a shrug. “All the better, actually. We’re getting hungry.”
Saifullah leaves him in a hurry. The thought of relying on these man-eating monsters makes his stomach turn and he can hardly wait to cleanse his soul by leading his warriors in prayer.
When the Talib has left their lookout, Skinner spits on the ground.
You will never see your flag over the Alamo because I will eat your eyes first.
He waves to the smiter next to him. Looking into the mutant’s eyes, he senses its hunger.
Soon we will be feasting, brother. Soon.
In reply, the smiter’s eyes flash with anticipation but Skinner senses the creature’s anxiety as well.
“Their bullets. They hurt. Fire hurts.”
I know, but they must be running out of ammunition. We will revenge our fallen brothers.
“And then no human will ever hurt us again?”
Then this land will be ours, brother.
The mutant’s reaction would be just an aggressive growl to anyone but Skinner.
Yes. We will exterminate them all. Now go and gather the brothers.
The voice of prayer comes from the Taliban’s camp where Saifullah’s warriors have gathered. The many rows of several hundred fearsome warriors make an impressive sight, and the human deep inside him cannot deny a certain beauty from the scene and the chant of prayer carried by the wind.
He watches Saifullah deliver a short sermon. Though he doesn’t understand a word, Skinner has no doubt that it’s to encourage the warriors, telling them what a great victory they will score and how happy those will be who go to Paradise today.
His stomach rumbles. Skinner pats his abdomen.
That’s where you all gonna go, not Paradise.
Saifullah’s warriors begin to cheer. Their voice echoes in the valley and there’s no doubt that the renegade Marines must have heard it too. All the better—they know that their time to die has come.
Through the cheer and rifle shots fired into the air, Skinner’s sensitive ears detect a low drone.
An airplane? What the hell?
“Did you hear that?” he shouts to Saifullah who has just finished addressing his men.
“What?”
“An airplane is approaching!”
“Maybe it’s coming to evacuate them!”
“You should know by now that the Tribe never runs away,” Skinner snaps.
“One more reason to push the assault. We are ready.”
“Let’s finish what we came here for,” the half-mutant replies indifferently, giving a loud whistle.
Three dozen smiters take up position among the Taliban, ready to lead the charge. Saifullah climbs up a rocky knoll where he theatrically points to the Tribe’s stronghold.
“Bismillahirrahmanirrahim!”
In reply, the voice of hundreds of his warriors thunders.
“Bismillah!”
Shaking his head, Skinner looks at the smiter that is still wearing rags of Clear Sky armor.
That idiot better get into cover, lest he wants a sniper to shut him up.
But with the waves of Taliban beginning to march on the Alamo, any fighter behind the battered ramparts has something better to do than that. The first volleys of .50 calibers are already being fired. The Talib sharpshooters return the fire in an attempt to give their assaulting brethren cover. Ahead of the assaulters, smiters charge forward.
A lonely airplane appears from behind the northern ridge. To Skinner’s relief it is no combat aircraft, not even American, just an Antonov cargo plane.
The first smiter reaches the Alamo’s gate. Acting as a self-propelled bullet shield, it keeps the dushman behind it safe from the small weapons fired from the ramparts above. In a few minutes they will reach the upper fortifications.
For an instant, it appears to Skinner that the airplane is about to smash into the host of assaulters — it is flying directly at them at an extremely low altitude and apparently not even trying to approach the Alamo’s airstrip on the fortified mountain. Then it just roams over, as if it could do nothing apart from scaring them.
Though surprised, the assaulters don’t let themselves be distracted by the airplane that must be flown by crazy or suicidal pilots. Relentlessly, they keep streaming through the ruined lower quarters towards the hilltop fortifications.
“Saifullah,” Skinner yells. “What the hell are you waiting for? Shoot that crazy plane down!”
“All our machine guns are pinning down the infidels!” the Talib commander replies. “Never mind! It’s flying away!”
Indeed, the airplane begins to climb once more but then, instead of receding, turns back at an even lower altitude. Suddenly, it begins to release thick streams of brownish vapor from its four engines and the fuselage. Skinner and Saifullah can barely exchange a bewildered look before it thunders over them, so low that they can even see the crew member in the nose cupola, the bolts in the fuselage and the patterns on the wheels of the lowered landing gear. In a moment, they are covered with sickening, oily vapor.
It only takes a second for Skinner to realize the danger.
“It’s kerosene!” he screams. “Scatter! Scatter, everyone! Do not fire your weapons!”
The vapor bites his nostrils and windpipes, forcing him to pull over his gas mask.
The assaulting Taliban can either not hear him or don’t understand him, and the slow-witted smiters can only sense his fear but don’t realize where the danger is coming from.
The airplane turns back once more, this time roaring over the narrow alleys of the lower fortifications where the assaulters are thronged in so tightly that they couldn’t scatter even if they heard Skinner’s desperate command. Helplessly, Skinner and Saifullah watch humans and mutants alike look up at the airplane, coughing and trying to wipe the noxious substance off their skin.
Then several bold but stupid dushmans fire their weapons at the airplane that is now ascending and turning away. Their muzzles flash. A split second later, they go up in an orange ball of detonation that quickly engulfs the ruins and the assaulters among them.
Sensing what’s coming next, Skinner grabs the arms of the two smiters still at his side and begins to run towards the hillside where the caves offer the only way to escape their impending doom.
Saifullah helplessly watches them run away, brutally pushing the men around them and crushing those who don’t make way fast enough. He wants to scream but falls to his knees with a cough that turns into vomiting. Even in his wretched state, he can hear the whizz of incoming mortar shells.
For a second, he sees the hilltop fortifications standing out from the smoke and fiery inferno like an island in a stormy sea of fire. Now he knows that the Prophet’s banner will never fly over the accursed infidels’ stronghold. He shakes his fist in a last, threatening but powerless gesture.
Then a full volley of high explosive incendiary shells impact, fired just a few seconds ago from the Tribe’ 81mm mortars. Saifullah wants to die calling on his God and emits a ghastly scream — but it comes without any meaning, since it is just the air being sucked from his lungs a split second before the earth trembles and the whole valley goes up in a thundering firestorm.