David Leadbeater: Weapons of the Gods

“Where are we with the weapons?”

“Tempest are in control, I’m afraid. They have almost twenty god-weapons. They have Secretary Crowe. Lauren is clearly being hunted. And, by now, I’d imagine they have a plan to take the President out if Troy overheard all that. This just got huge.”

“Understood,” Hayden said, and turned back to the satphone. “You two managed to locate Tempest’s hideout, right?”

“We identified where they meet, yeah, from Gleeson’s laptop.”

Hayden acknowledged every pair of eyes in the big cabin. “We have to destroy Tempest. Immediately.”

Smyth pumped the air with a fist. “Exactly!”

“I’m sorry,” Cambridge intervened. “It’s not quite that easy. Tempest are not alone, as you know. The terrorist camp is now fully operational. It won’t be long before they’re shipping them out in droves just to cover up what they’re planning next.”

A deep, difficult silence fell across the cabin. There was no easy answer.

“How many terrorists?” Luther asked.

“Hundreds,” Cambridge replied. “At least.”

Strike Tempest, or strike their network, Drake thought. Save Lauren and Crowe and possibly the President or cripple a terrorist army?

Hayden came up with the plan. “I’m afraid there’s no choice. We will have to split up, again, and both teams will be heading into severe danger.”

She rose with all the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Say your goodbyes while you can. We split in five. I’ll take Smyth, Mano and Molokai with me. The rest of you will deal with the terrorists.”

There were no protests, no diverting suggestions. Hayden was right and had decided their course of action. The team rose and crowded around, making sure Smyth knew he had their support and passing everything they had on to Lauren. Hayden told the New Yorker about a doctor she knew, that might be able to admit her to hospital under an assumed name.

“Get over there right away,” she said. “I’ll tell him you’re coming and work out a code word.”

“I will,” Lauren croaked. “And guys… thank you.”

“We’ll see you soon,” Hayden ended the call, addressing Cambridge.

“So, any thoughts on how five soldiers are gonna take on hundreds of terrorists?”

“That had crossed my mind too,” Drake added for good measure.

“Five?” Cambridge laughed. “No, no. How about one hundred Special Forces soldiers. Everything from Navy SEAL teams to Marine Recon, Green Berets to Delta Force. And that’s not including the undercover CIA teams and half a dozen more that don’t even have names. They’re all ready to help you.”

“Fuck me,” Drake murmured. “Talk about a dream team.”

“Never again will there be such a team assembled to defeat a terrorist army,” Cambridge said. “I’m bloody jealous of you.”

“Stuff of fantasy.” Dahl rubbed his hands. “Can’t wait.”

Hayden gestured at the chopper. “But who goes first? We only have one transport.”

“You,” Cambridge said immediately. “Because, Hayden, our insiders are already hearing chatter. A Tempest attack on President Coburn is imminent.”

Through code words agreed at face-to-face meetings that Whitehall and Cambridge had arranged through old-school contacts, the widespread, cut-off Special Forces teams began to gather in Syria. The agreed meet point was a lofty, abandoned village about a mile from a dusty main road — easy enough to get back onto the main route, far enough away to meet en masse and attract no attention, simple to defend if need be. At first the teams trickled in one by one, but then began to arrive in groups after finding it relatively simple with their skills to slip into the war-torn country.

Leave your ego at the border, was a welcome, flapping sign; the first thing Drake saw as he walked into the village. Somebody had scrawled the words on a dusty gray sheet and hung it between two buildings. With Alicia, Mai, Luther, Kenzie and Dahl he strode up Main Street, getting a feel for the place. They were well-armed and well-fed, ready to depart immediately, and were just waiting for somebody to call a meeting to order.

It happened quickly, as soon as the last team attended the meeting point — a simple desk set up in the street where codenames could be ticked off. When all were present an Englishman of maybe fifty walked up behind them, climbed up onto a rickety wooden chair and called out for some attention.

“I’m not in charge,” were his first words. “I’m not your leader, and I’d never want to be. You all know Cambridge? You all know Whitehall? They asked me to speak first so we can come to order and make a plan. Are we ready?”

A general affirmative filled the air.

“Then send your captains forward. Right here and now. We’re gonna make this plan and go kick some terrorist arse!”

Cheers erupted and feet shuffled. Drake slipped sunglasses on since the bright yellow orb was beating down hard, causing sweat to pop out along the creases of his forehead. Dahl nudged him.

“Wanna toss for leader?”

Alicia nodded at Kenzie. “You do Dahl. I’ll do Drake.”

The Swede closed his eyes wearily. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Drake said. “But really… honestly… I think we have a celebrity in our midst.”

More and more as they’d moved along with the crowd, as people pressed around them, he had noticed respectful and admiring eyes being turned upon Luther. To some he was a real myth, to others no less than a legend. Drake remembered Crowe calling him the old-school blood warrior. The man that brought hellfire to every enemy of the United States.

He wasn’t a man prone to egotism. “I think we have our captain right here.” He nudged the big, bald warrior. “Go forward, mate.”

“Me?” Luther tried to look modest.

“You’re bloody famous, mate. Go for it.”

Dahl grabbed Luther’s huge shoulder before he could move. “But don’t fuck it up.”

Luther shrugged and walked through the crowd, joining over a dozen others. First, they divided their hundred or so soldiers into four teams — one for each direction of assault. Aerial recon pictures showed the terrorist camp as it was — five main areas positioned either side of a wide stream — a parking zone, a place for all the tents where the trainees slept, a teaching school, a meeting house and a makeshift town. Nothing was obvious or perfectly clear from the surveillance, but at least the teams knew what they were dealing with.

Four teams then, Drake thought. After that they were keen to allocate four points of contact within those teams — not leaders, they were quick to point out. Luther quickly became the point of contact for the team Drake and his companions became part of. It would be Luther’s job to ensure his larger team coordinated seamlessly with the other three.

And then they were ready to move. No exorbitant, intricate plans. They were here to neutralize a terrorist camp and destroy Tempest’s worldwide reach. Only Drake and the others knew there were two attacks coming — the other being at the heart of the secret organization and led by Hayden.

It took some time to maneuver so many men into place, but with the help of cutting edge comms, and years of training that suited this very purpose, they were ready.

Drake had eyes on the camp. A river ran through the middle, about as wide as a man lying lengthways, flowing rapidly. It filled a natural depression in the ground; the parking area, roughly graveled over, to his left had enough space for three buses and half a dozen cars. Beyond that stood a low building made of metal sheets which they told him was the training shop — the school. At the far side he saw a big huddle of tents, one brushing up against another and a brick-lined well. To the right of that, across the river, he spied the meeting house — somewhere to let off steam, perhaps.