Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Rakkim imagined skeleton men drifting through the woods as he passed lines of empty tents, hurrying to where he had parked his car after coming back from Stuckey’s last night. Four-wheel-drive trucks with heavy machine guns mounted on back roared past, some so close he had to dive for cover. By the time he got to the motor pool he was covered in dust and the sun was setting. In New Detroit and Philadelphia, the muezzin would be calling the faithful to prayer, the man’s strong voice undulating in the crisp air. Instead of bowing to pray, Rakkim was nodding to a young soldier guarding the vehicles. He slid under his car and pulled his rifle from a hidden compartment. Grabbed a handful of ammo clips too, and stuffed them in his pocket. He probably wouldn’t have gone to mosque anyway.

Scout team D…still hasn’t checked in.

Disperse…ammo, said the Colonel…don’t want…lucky round…set it off.

Rakkim cradled the weapon, a sleek sniper rifle made by a gunsmith in Greenville, the next town over-simple, rugged, and accurate. “You seen the Colonel?” Rakkim asked the soldier.

The soldier pointed.

Rakkim found the Colonel and Gravenholtz striding down a gravel path, the Colonel pointing out gun emplacements and natural cover to the redhead.

Gravenholtz eyed Rakkim’s rifle. “This ain’t your fight.”

“Fight?” Rakkim fell in beside them. “I thought we were hunting turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner.”

In twilight now, the Colonel seemed determined to walk the whole line, stopping every few minutes to talk to the men, reminding them to stay alert and not waste ammunition, and promising that God was watching over them. The same suggestions and assurances that good commanders had offered their men since time began.

…oil pressure still not where it should be, and the rotors are noisy.

The Colonel pressed his ear link. “I don’t care what the oil pressure is, Royce, you get that damned bird airborne.”

Tiger 6, still no word from scout team D.

Gravenholtz threw a light punch at Rakkim’s jaw, but he caught the redhead’s fist and pushed it aside. “Maybe when this is over, you and me can have some fun,” said Gravenholtz, embarrassed at being thrown off balance. “Ex-Fedayeen, you must have some skills. Unless they kicked you out for cowardice or queerity.”

“Queerity?” Rakkim laughed. “You making up words now, Lester?”

“This isn’t the time for school-yard nonsense,” chided the Colonel. “Lester, make sure your men have secured the northern access points. I want them dug in along the logging roads in case-”

“My boys don’t take to scraping in the dirt, sir.” Gravenholtz sucked at a tooth.

“That’s an order, Lester,” said the Colonel.

Gravenholtz tugged at a lock of red hair. Glowered at Rakkim. “How about you and me make a date for when the fireworks are over.”

“No queerity, Lester,” said Rakkim. “You’d be marching crooked for a month.”

Gravenholtz stalked off.

“I wish you wouldn’t provoke him,” said the Colonel. “I’ve got enough trouble keeping him in line. His men are even worse-they’ve been through hell and back so often they think they’re fireproof. No fear. No discipline. If we get through this night, I’m going to disband them, send them back to whatever swamp they call home.”

“They may not go without-”

“Baby?” The Colonel turned away from Rakkim. “You doing okay?”

Don’t you worry about me. I’m just tending to John Moseby and watching Leo play with his toys.

“Love you, Baby.” The Colonel turned to Rakkim. “I’m going to the western perimeter; you’re welcome to come.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Rakkim.

“I’d like to hear more about Redbeard,” said the Colonel as they strolled along, the Colonel realizing that the troops were watching him for any sign of panic. “Did he really die of a heart attack, or was he helped along by his enemies?”

“It was a heart attack. If he had been murdered, he wouldn’t have any enemies left. I would have seen to that.”

Tiger 6! The cry came from a dozen voices over the ear link, a squawking cacophony as gunshots erupted from all sides of the camp. Tiger 6, we got action…multiple hits…everywhere…sector B reporting heavy activity…overrunning…need men…

“Baby,” said the Colonel, “get in the bunker now.”

…not afraid, darlin’…you do what you have to…

Rakkim and the Colonel scuttled along the west ridge, crouched over, hearing the crack of small-arms fire in the distance. The wind kicked up as the temperature dropped; chilled by their own sweat, they slipped through the scrub and took up positions with a commanding view of the dozens of access trails running up the slope.

The Colonel sat with his back against a rock, flipped open a palm display of the battlefield, at least that part with perimeter sensors. The northern and southern sectors had moderate activity, but the treeline fronting the steep, western approach to the camp was a mass of red dots. Crews’s main force was heading right toward the Colonel; scores of fighters passed through the sensor array, immediately replaced by others charging up the slope. Rakkim had suggested that Crews launch a limited attack, fifty or sixty men, but this was a full-out assault involving hundreds of End-Timers, more men than Rakkim even thought Crews had under his command.

…movement northeast perimeter…fire for effect…shit, shit, shit…

Rakkim eased himself flat against the ground, arms supported by a rise of dirt, the sniper rifle peeking out between the rocks. Machine-gun fire bombarded the perimeter. Wasteful. The seduction of raw firepower in the darkness, spray and pray. Rakkim kept both eyes open as he looked through the scope of the sniper rifle, saw men moving through the brush below, their movements jerky in the darkness, wired up on bathtub crank and death. He waited…finally saw a skeleton man emerge, the white bones stark in the night as he gesticulated at his men. Rakkim put a single shot through his mouth, the back of his head exploding.

Rakkim turned, hearing a faint laugh…but there was no one except the Colonel and it wasn’t his laugh.

“Bulldog Two, lay down suppressing fire at a sixty-degree arc along the clearcut,” the Colonel said evenly. “Mustang Three, maintain your position…”

Rakkim shot an End-Timer with a necklace of dolls’ heads through the throat, the man standing there with a look of surprise before he collapsed.

The Colonel glanced at Rakkim, then back at the palm display. “Eagle Two, you got that chopper ready? We could use those Gatlings. Shitbirds are stacked up along the perimeter.”

…almost there…

“Almost my ass,” said the Colonel. “You get that thing airborne.”

Rakkim shot another End-Timer. Another. Another. Breathe and fire, breathe and fire. The living stepped over the dead and kept coming.

“You want a night scope for that sniper rifle?” the Colonel asked Rakkim.

“No thanks.” Rakkim took down another skeleton man. “Things are going to be lit up soon, and night scopes will be worse than useless. I’ll stick with the eyes God gave me.”

“Thought Fedayeen got special eyes from corpses,” said the Colonel. “Implants or something so you can see like an alley cat in the dark.”

“When I was a boy they told us Christians liked the taste of pork so much they fucked pigs every chance they got,” said Rakkim. “I grew up, though, and learned better.”

The Colonel grinned, then looked over as the Monsoon 4 lifted off, he and Rakkim shielding their eyes from the dust it kicked up. “That’s better…” His face fell as the chopper set back down hard, bouncing on its skids. The Colonel talked over his com link to his other officers, trying to coordinate their actions.