Stream of Madness Read online

  That was no animal I saw.

  Far from a superstitious man, something about the last few minutes stuck with the Russian as the VTOL rose into the night sky. Something is stalking the desert. Krieger hoped that if his friend was still alive, he would stay far away from whatever it was.

  South of Raqqad Valley

  July 16th, 2015

  THE RIDERS of the Scorpion had bedded down for the night around the almost dry reservoir, preparing for an early morning when the search would begin anew. Saladin prepared his bedroll near the simmering coals of the fire. Just as he was about to fall asleep, the palm PC tablet in the folds of his cloak began to rumble. Fishing it out, Saladin activated the device to see an incoming message from Brutus. A camera feed showed the Sand Scorpion the darkened outline of vertical take-off and landing aircraft rising up from the desert. The map coordinates listed the aircraft due east of the bombed out Valley.

  Saladin recognized the aircraft immediately. It was the experimental stealth gunship utilized by Colonel Walsh’s terrorists, the Peacemakers.

  They were here in Syria.

  Saladin rewound the footage and scrutinized it for any details. He saw two men, though he only recognized one. It was the team’s pet Russian-Arab mercenary, Krieger. Brutus had managed to take excellent images and Saladin could not detect anyone else aboard. After a few minutes, the aircraft rose quietly into the air and flew off.

  They had not found the errant Olympus defector yet.

  The Sand Scorpion leaned over and roused his second-in-command. Rashid woke with a grunt.

  “What is it, my lord?”

  “ISIL is no longer our only enemy in the way of finding this Centurion.”

  Saladin showed his subordinate the footage.

  “The Peacemakers?”

  Saladin nodded. “Yes, my friend. If the Peacemakers are here, they are obviously after our same quarry.”

  “What do we do?” Rashid asked.

  “Nothing for now. Traveling the desert at night is far too dangerous, you know that. Brutus is tracking down the vehicles that were here earlier today. We get a few hours of sleep and tomorrow, he bring to heel this defector and secure our place within Olympus.”

  Chapter 11

  Strangers

  Somewhere in the East Syrian Plateau

  July 17th, 2015

  THE TASTE of water flowing into his mouth caused Joe to sputter out of his dreamless sleep. The first thing he saw was the face of a beautiful woman. Joe’s mind was working at half speed and for a moment, the woman resembled another familiar face in his life.

  “Jade?” he asked, not fully understanding where he was.

  The face smiled, shaking her head. “No, Sergeant Braddock. I am a nurse. Please lie still. The drug has not totally worn off yet.”

  The woman spoke almost perfect English. As Joe’s cognitive senses returned, he saw the woman was young, in her late twenties, with a dark blue hijab headdress. Her eyes were brown and soulful, but tinged with loss; an expression that Joe recognized all too well.

  As his eyes focused on his surroundings, Joe realized he was in a cave, somewhere. It was an ancient hollow, carved into a canyon of rock somewhere in the desert. Ten feet from where he lay splayed out on a bedroll was an entranceway. Moonlight streamed in from the night sky beyond.

  The woman spoke to Joe in a calming voice, “My name is Ayishah Bakr. Try not to move – you may have suffered a mild concussion.”

  A man stepped up from behind the nurse, leaning in to scrutinize Joe. He was around the same age as Ayishah, with deep brown eyes and a scarred right eyelid that drooped slightly from some past injury.

  “Step away, Ayishah,” the man said disapprovingly, “It is not proper to speak to a man such as this.”

  “I understand, Jamal, but he is hurt,” Ayishah replied, placing a wet washcloth against Joe’s forehead, “Allah will understand my indiscretion. Besides, Sandor says we can trust him.”

  The man called Jamal did not seem happy with the woman’s defiance, but grudgingly let it go. Joe tried to lift himself up, but noticed his arm was handcuffed to a heavy portable generator.

  “We are sorry about the restraints, Sergeant,” Jamal said, his voice guarded, “Sandor was unsure what condition you would be in when you woke.”

  Joe was still groggy from the drug, but not enough to push down the anger he felt at being held against his will. He noted that Jamal gripped an AKS-74u. Joe knew he was in no condition to attempt an escape if he was indeed a prisoner. “Who are you people?” he asked, “How do you know my name?”

  “Because I told her,” said a voice from across the cave. Joe cast his eyes over and saw Sandor Delacroix approach him. Around the Centurion were nearly a dozen other Arabs, resting in sleeping bags throughout the interior of the cave. The Olympus soldier knelt down at Joe’s side. “I’m sorry about the dart, Braddock, but the Syrian steppe isn’t the place to have a debate about proper extraction procedures.”

  Anger blazed through Joe’s blood. “That will be the first and last time you ever get the drop on me, Centurion.” He spat the word out like a rotten caraway seed. Braddock had to push back the hatred he felt for everything this man stood for, at least until he heard the full story.

  Sandor grinned, “Never mind the grandstanding, Braddock. I didn’t lie in my communiqué. I need your help. Give it, and I promise to aid the Peacemakers in any way I can in bringing down Olympus. All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say.”

  Joe locked eyes with the Centurion. He did not trust the man any farther than he could throw him, but from where he lay, there was little he could do but play along.

  Ayishah held out a cup for Joe to drink.

  Water.

  Joe downed it gratefully, coughing as the liquid stuck in his parched throat.

  “Are you going to tell me where I am?” Joe asked, passing the cup back to the pretty Arab woman. She refilled it from a bucket beside her.

  “You’ve been asleep for nearly three hours,” answered Sandor, shifting his weight as he spoke, “We’re in a cave about forty miles due east of the Raqqad valley.”

  “Who are all these people?” Joe asked, his eyes looking over at the sleeping individuals behind the Centurion.

  “I think I should probably start at the beginning,” Sandor unshouldered the PSG-1 and leaned it against the wall of the cave, “A lot has happened since I sent that message to you. I had been fighting throughout the Al Raqqah Governorate in the north of Syria for the last two months. The Third Cohort – my unit – was entrenched across the region, fighting against the ISIL scourge. Lord Falco had greatly reduced our numbers over the last several weeks. I saw many of my brothers fall as our reinforcements were cancelled and our air-support countermanded.”

  “Lord Falco?” Joe blinked. His mind briefly went back to that day in Zimbala. The one-eyed, white haired soldier Danny had fought and defeated in front of the ruined Barbarian was actually an Olympus Lord.

  Delacroix nodded, “That’s right. He is our Tribune – our commander. We fought for him, under the fool al-Assad’s direction. We were to retake the Al Raqqah region, but instead were pushed further and further away from water and reinforcements.”

  A shadow crossed the Olympus Centurion’s face, “My brethren fought like men obsessed. We fought for control of the town of Al-Thawrah, just beyond the Euphrates River. I lost half my Unit there. My comrades…my friends were taken by ISIL. I watched from a distance as the jihadists crucified them. They cut their heads off and drove them onto spikes,” Sandor sniffed dryly, his face cold and impassive. “That was the day we received the news. The Olympus contract with al-Assad was being nullified. The dictator couldn’t pay his bills, so we were ordered to leave.”

  Joe had followed along closely. His head was beginning to clear. “So where do these people come in?”

  If possible, the shadow on Sandor’s face grew darker. He put his hand up to the back of his head and rubbed his neck. “Condition
ing. It’s what they call it in Olympus. We all get it. It’s how we communicate as one. You don’t realize until you’re no longer part of the Stream how much it controls what you do.”

  Joe was confused, “What do you mean ‘Stream’?”

  “The Olympus commanders maintain their Centurion cohort’s skills and abilities by a constant stream from the implants. We all have them – placed in us by Lady Octavia. With the Stream in our minds, Olympus’s word is absolute.”

  The Code. Joe recalled the information Danny had given the Peacemakers during his time in the Ukraine, speaking with the whacked out Doctor Mobus. The so-called ‘Stream’ must be the Centurion’s word for how the Code interacts with the mind; an audible short-hand for a complex invention.

  “Believe it or not, Braddock, but when I joined Olympus, the only thing I wanted to do was help people. That’s how they recruit. You’ll make a difference, provide for your family forever.” Sandor’s brow creased as if from a painful memory, “But when you join, you find out quick that you are only a cog; a piece of machinery made to fit a larger device. You’re plugged into a system and you can’t disconnect.”

  Sandor shifted his weight, shaking out his tired knees, “And then one day, everything changed. We were ordered to evacuate, right as an ISIL attack force invaded Al-Thawrah. We had taken many people from the town prisoner, fearing they were ISIL spies. Included in them were members of the Shaitat tribe – these people,” Sandor jerked a thumb towards the sleeping tribespeople.

  “Jamal had been running guns for the Syrian rebels of the south for some time. He was a known sympathizer of the Syrian Opposition to Assad’s rule. We were ordered to find and neutralize him. Al-Assad had given orders for them to be eliminated before the Olympus evac was to be completed. The job was left to me and two of my Centurion brothers. But…the Stream failed. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I thought about my wife, my boy. My brothers called me a traitor for failing to follow the orders of Olympus. They tried to kill me–” Sandor winced at the thought, “–I killed them instead. I then removed the Stream…ended it completely.”

  Sandor turned his head away from the Peacemaker. On the back of his neck was a bandage covering the wound where the Code implant chip had once rested. Joe grimaced, not wanting to think about how the Centurion had managed that feat. The ramifications of an Olympus trooper overriding the mysterious Code implants was almost too incredible to believe. The wealth of information this man could give the Peacemakers was too important to lose.

  “So what then?” Joe asked.

  “I took the people under my protection. They had nothing…no hope but death. They placed their trust in a member of an army that had tried to exterminate them. We stole a truck back in Al-Thawrah and took off towards the south. News of my…attack on my brothers would soon return to Olympus command. Jamal told me of a rebel hideout on the western side of the Syrian plateau, but it was destroyed when we reached it. We were almost out of food and my choices were running thin. I had Jamal lead the surviving tribespeople to this cave, while I sneaked in to the Raqqad valley ISIL encampments to make the call to your people. My radio was damaged a few days before, and the ISIL forces there had the only one within fifty miles.”

  Sandor gestured at the people in the cave, “So now, these people, the survivors of Al-Thawrah, are under my protection. I’ve promised to deliver them to the town of Dummaya, thirty miles north of the Jordan border. It’s held by the rebel army of Syria. They have people there that will smuggle them past Damascus and into the Lebanon refugee camps.”

  Joe had listened in silence to the man’s story. He felt fairly certain that Sandor wasn’t lying to him. The man’s eyes held a strong emptiness that Joe recognized in a man who had lost much that was dear in his life. His only hope to escape this country was laying on bedroll in front of him. Still, it angered Joe that Sandor had failed to mention his cadre of people in the message.

  “Why don’t you take them south?” Joe asked, “They can get through to Jordan if–”

  Jamal, who had remained quiet during Sandor’s story, spoke up, “No, Sergeant. My people have helped the Syrian Opposition and are well known to the ISIL forces along the southern border of the country. We would never make it across. Lebanon is our best opportunity.”

  Joe glowered. Although he didn’t want to abandon these people, Joe resented the Centurion for leaving him no choice.

  “So why didn’t you mention these people in your message?” Joe asked.

  “You would never have come.” Sandor replied, his eyes looking hard at Joe as he spoke, “I needed you to think I was alone. I’m sorry.”

  “So that stuff about Danny, was that all just fluff to get me here as well?”

  Sandor fixed Joe with a deadly serious look, “You still wear his charm around your neck, don’t you?”

  Joe reached his hand up to clasp the Inuit charm that indeed still rested against his chest.

  “I knew your friend,” said Sandor, “He is alive, as I said.”

  Joe’s heart leapt, “Where? When did you see him?”

  “Some time ago. All I can say now is he is alive. Do as I’ve asked, Sergeant Braddock. Help me get these people to the town of Dummaya and I will tell you everything you want to know, about Danny, Olympus – anything.”

  “Please Sergeant,” Ayishah said, her voice pleading, “Sandor has helped us this far. He is a man of his word. You can trust him.”

  “Trust him?” Joe shot back, “He drugged me and misled my team! Why should I trust him?”

  “Shh!” Ayishah turned to see if Braddock’s voice had woken any of the tribespeople, “Because without him, we would all be dead. Please…don’t allow your mistrust of the dark army to cloud your judgement.”

  Joe scowled to himself. What else could he do? The chances they could make a hundred mile trip across the Syrian plateau were next to zero, and even if they could make it, how would he get Sandor out of the country?

  “Do you have a radio?” Joe asked, his mind working on a plan, “Or a phone?”

  Sandor shook his head, “My comlink died when my suit’s battery failed during our trek here. There’s no cellular service in this part of the desert.”

  Jamal pipped in, “There will be a radio in Dummaya. You can contact your people there.”

  Joe nodded. That sounded better. “How are you planning to move these people?”

  “After I…stunned you, I traded my Jeep for one of the ISIL semi-trucks from your would-be captors. It has ISIL flags and markings that should be able to mask us from any Islamic state scum at a first glance. We’ll have to keep off the main roads – ISIL patrols them regularly. Jamal knows a secondary route: a road used primarily by gunrunners during the height of the civil war. It should be lightly patrolled, if at all.”

  Joe mulled everything over for a moment. He had missed both extracts and knew his bosses back at the Cottage would be hanging him out to dry. Jade and Brick would try and fight to keep the mission alive, but for all they knew, he was dead. It wouldn’t matter a damn if they did manage to take these people across the desert if there was no extract for him and the defector at the end.

  There was, however, a more pressing concern.

  “There’s something else…” Joe said, hesitating on whether to give the Centurion the bad news, “…does the name Saladin mean anything to you?”

  Sandor’s face betrayed a glint of worry, “Of course. Everyone in these parts has heard of the Sand Scorpion. He fights for Olympus as a free agent against ISIL, but owes allegiance to nobody. Why?”

  Joe held a hand to his temple, checking the bandage around his head, “Apparently, he’s here, under Olympus contract. We have reason to believe he’s been hired to stop you from defecting.”

  Jamal and his wife shared a worried look between them.

  The Centurion chewed his lip, “Never thought I was important enough to concern the great Saladin. Okay, we’ll leave first thing in the morning – give the people a few more
hours of sleep.” He removed a small key from his cloak and held it up to Joe’s face, “So, Sergeant Braddock of the Peacemakers – you help me get these people to Dummaya and I defect to the Peacemakers, sound fair?”

  Joe took a deep breath, hoping he was making the right choice. “Alright, but just remember–” Joe’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, “–the moment these people are safe, you tell me everything you know about Danny Callbeck, deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Sandor unlocked the cuffs. Joe rubbed his hand, moving circulation back into the appendage.

  “Get some sleep, Braddock,” said Sandor, “You’ll meet the rest of our group in a few hours. Ayishah, that goes for you and Jamal as well. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  * * *

  THE NIGHT passed slowly for Joe Braddock. The drugs Sandor had shot him with had finally begun to leave his system and with them any real desire to sleep. Joe’s mind was on the morrow, when he would travel with these people across a desert of fire and hell to find a way out – for him and the wayward Centurion.

  As he lay in a sleepless stupor on the bedroll, Joe’s eyes wandered over to the Centurion. Sandor kept watch at the cave entrance, the big PSG-1 cradled in his arms. Joe scoffed quietly. He had to admit, the Olympus soldier was not what he expected.

  But then, what had he expected?

  Somehow, the trooper had managed to gain the trust of a tribe of Syrians who had until recently been fighting against Olympus. The direness of their situation had loosened their hatred for the so called ‘Dark Army’. They had embraced a complete outsider as a temporary leader, despite their religious and cultural beliefs. It baffled Joe to no end how Sandor had accomplished it. The Peacemaker had to admit to a certain admiration for the man.

  If Joe could make good on his promise and get Sandor to safety, the man would provide a fountain of knowledge for the Peacemakers. Tactics, inner company operations, leadership; there was no end to what they could learn from the Centurion.