Stream of Madness Page 6

  It was the only real reminder Joe had of his lost brother in arms.

  The image of the Centurion wavered suddenly as the sound of a distant boom resounded from outside the shelter.

  "ISIL is currently fighting rebel forces in this area. I recommend a stealthy approach. I will remain here for three days. By then, if I am not already dead, I will have to flee. After that, you will not hear from me again. I realize what I am asking, but these are my terms. I hope you make the right decision, Sergeant Braddock."

  The brutish face of the Centurion made a brief nod to the camera, then reached up. Immediately, the feed cut to static.

  Krieger was the first to speak. “You have worst luck, my friend.”

  Joe didn't answer. He could only stare blankly at the screen, his mind dizzy with possibilities. The man knew Danny. There was no doubt about it.

  "So, Sergeant–" Stanlin said, "–it seems you have an admirer in Olympus."

  Krieger patted Joe on the shoulder. "Little Canadian is still alive, huh?"

  Stanlin clicked the remote, "After this message was received, our rebel contacts reported that this man–” the view screen changed to a grainy photo of a man that looked like he’d stepped out of a David Lean film, “–a Kurdish mercenary known as ‘Saladin’, crossed the Euphrates River into ISIL territory with close to forty mounted mercenaries. Two ISIL checkpoints between the river and the Raqqad valley have since been destroyed, with no survivors. I’m willing to bet this man has been tasked with finding our mister Delacroix."

  Krieger stepped forward, “I have heard of this…Saladin. He is known as ‘Sand Scorpion’ to his enemies. Runs his soldiers like a horde of nomadic warriors. He is very smart, and very dangerous.”

  Stanlin nodded, “That’s correct. He’s taken the name of Saladin from the legendary Kurdish hero of antiquity. This guy is everywhere and nowhere. He’ll pop up on the intel radar one minute and vanish the next.”

  Joe took a breath, soaking in all the information.

  Stanlin looked at Braddock, “As you know, the President has declared a ‘no boots on the ground’ policy in Syria. Therefore, this will be a completely deniable Op,” The Major’s brow furrowed, “We're going to take a risk here and get this man Delacroix out before Olympus can neutralize him. The Spirit Walker is being prepped right now. Against my better judgement, I'm sending you to Syria.”

  Joe's heart leapt. This was what he'd been waiting for.

  Stanlin continued, “The Raqqad valley is home to several small villages. According to Mister Delacroix’s communiqué, he’ll be located here–” Stanlin pointed at a small location on the map of Syria, “You'll make a HALO jump three miles out from the Raqqad valley at night-time, then rendezvous with our Mister Delacroix. Move him to the extraction point here at LZ Alpha.” Stanlin clicked the remote, changing the LED monitor to a low-lying satellite image of an area one mile due east into the desert surrounding the valley.

  “If primary extract is impossible, secondary extract will be made at 2200 hours here at LZ Gamma, two miles further. Once you've exfilled, the Spirit Walker will head to the Persian Gulf, rendezvous with NATO carrier strike group Two and deplane on-board the carrier USS Bush. From there, Delacroix will be placed in custody until his debriefing by CIA specialists."

  Joe went over the mission in his head, walking through the ins and outs. It was as dangerous and unpredictable a mission he'd ever been asked to conduct.

  And this time, he'd be alone.

  During his time in the US Rangers, Joe always worked in a team. As a grunt in the army, Joe had relied on his brothers in arms; one solid unit, backing each man up as a team should. This time, he would be behind enemy lines, surrounded by ISIL patrols, and forced to defend a man being hunted by a masterful desert commander.

  Piece of cake.

  Several questions still gnawed at Joe. "Did the CIA confirm this man's story?"

  "Affirmative, Sergeant. Our background check proved Mister...Delacroix is indeed telling the truth about himself. We ran two separate checks and both came back positive on his ID." Stanlin picked up a sheet of paper on the desk and read it aloud, "Sandor Delacroix, born Philadelphia, October 4th, 1974. Served in US Special Forces from 1999 to 2008, before resigning to work for the Dyncorp PMC, an American Military Private Contractor. He was listed as active up until 2010 when he just...vanished. All attempts made to access any further information about the man from the Dyncorp PMC have lead nowhere." Stanlin passed the paper to Joe.

  "Any family?" Joe asked.

  “A wife and daughter. Mrs. Delacroix remarried in 2009. They live in Houston, currently.”

  “Looks like Olympus made him an offer he couldn't refuse,” Krieger said, a half smile curling at his lip.

  “Could you excuse us for a few minutes, mister Krieger?” the Major asked impatiently.

  The big Russian seemed about to object, then nodded and excused himself from the room. As Krieger shut the door to the conference hall behind him, the Major shook his head. “I don't understand why Colonel Walsh keeps that man around. He should have been sent back to Russia, or wherever the hell he's from ages ago.”

  "With all due respect sir,” Joe said, “Krieger is one of the best soldier's I've ever served with. He's crass and rude, but he makes up for it with fighting spirit."

  Stanlin waved away the remark as if it meant nothing. “Spare me, Sergeant. He has his use for now. This Unit has been run like some sort of boy's poker club. The Colonel had his way of doing things and now, I have mine.” The Major regarded Joe for a moment, his eyes searching for any sign of weakness in his psyche. “I'm about to send you into the darkest corner of the earth, Braddock. I want you to convince me I'm not making a huge mistake.”

  Joe met Stanlin's eyes directly. “Permission to speak frankly, sir?”

  "Please do."

  “I've been fighting Olympus for over a year. One brush fire to the next, I've seen them at their worst. They’ve killed dozens of soldiers under my command and it kills me every day that we know no more about them than we did then. I will do my duty, as I have always done." Joe's voice became deathly serious, "If you send me to Syria, I will bring Delacroix back."

  “You're a difficult man to get a read on, Sergeant.” Stanlin said, sifting through a sheaf of papers on the conference table. “Your record is one of the most contradictory I've ever read. The most decorated man of your Ranger battalion, permanently discharged for striking a commanding officer,” Stanlin's voice became hard and dangerous, “I went to OCS with that man. That kind of insubordination should have landed you a one-way ticket to civilian life."

  "I made a terrible mistake that day, sir−”

  Stanlin leaned in towards Joe, their faces almost touching. “You're goddamn right you did. Under Walsh's command, something like that could slide. But here, under me, you will follow orders, is that understood?”

  “Yes sir!” Joe belted, staring straight ahead.

  The moment of tension was thick as oil. After ten agonizing seconds, Stanlin broke it. “I expect all those who serve under my command to act accordingly, Sergeant. You fuck with me, a dressing down will be a walk in the park compared to what I'll do to you.”

  “I know my duty, sir. I will follow it to the letter.”

  “Good. The mission details have been sent to your OpTab, waiting for you with your kit on board the Spirit Walker. It's a ten hour flight to Incirlik Airbase in Turkey. I suggest you memorize the info backwards and forwards. Krieger is going with you as jumpmaster and mission coordinator. Get this man out alive, Braddock. Clear?”

  “As air, sir.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  Chapter 5

  Restitution

  Syria, Deir ez-Zor Governorate

  July 15th, 2015

  Is it possible to hate a country more than life itself?

  As he sat in the open cargo bed of the 2002 Jeep hatchback, Hassan Sieda pondered this very question. It was late afternoon as he and his fell
ow ISIL companions travelled through the rocky terrain of the western steppe of the Deir ez-Zor district of Syria. Hassan's patrol of six ramshackle jeeps had been driving most of the day, making their way back from raiding the tribal villages along the Euphrates. Having secured this section of the country from the Syrian Government forces, Hassan and his Muslim brothers controlled most of the area between Damascus and the western Iraq border.

  At least for the time being.

  Every day, the US coalition rocked the region with more drone and jet airstrikes, having decimated multiple Islamic State targets in the towns of Al Qadr and As Sukhnah. Raids by the Free Syrian Army (FSA) rebel forces across the Euphrates were becoming more and more dangerous. And now, there were reports of two Islamic State checkpoints in the Homs District being destroyed by an unknown party.

  The perfect world Hassan had left to build was threatening to crumble around him.

  He looked at his Muslim brothers, sitting across from him in the hatchback. All of them were born in the Middle East, having been drawn, like him to the fight for a new caliphate. They were once young, wide-eyed and filled with verve for the promise of war against the infidels of Syria.

  But now, their eyes were dead; exhausted from the constant warfare and weary from fear of the next drone attack that could take their lives. The raid into Hijjâné had helped lift the spirits of the warriors of God only for a moment.

  Hassan was different from his brothers. For one, he was white. Twenty-five years old, he had left a promising career as an IT tech in Marseilles to join his jihadist brothers in arms in their quest for a world unhindered by the evils of capitalism, Christian fallacy and western influence. Born Phillippe Rochette, he had met a charismatic ISIL recruiter who had radicalized the young man to the cause. Taking an Arabic name, he had thought nothing on earth could stop his new cause from spreading like wildfire across the Syrian populace.

  That was a year ago.

  Now, he looked at this country and hated everything about it. Hated the people, hated the brothers sitting opposite to him. He hadn't had a warm meal in longer than he could remember, hadn't had a decent shit for even longer than that. All the men he'd joined with had been killed long ago in American drone attacks, or clashes with the FSA and the Government forces.

  His own beliefs had begun to wane, and he wished more than anything to return home. But, like all ISIL recruits, he had burned his passport as a rite of passage. He knew he could never leave this country.

  And now, he was surrounded by borderline psychopaths.

  His new Islamic State brothers terrified him. Any dissent among them was dealt with brutally, and he knew his days were numbered. Even though he was a convert to Wahhabism, he was still treated as an outsider.

  The jeeps of the convoy were throwing up huge clouds of dirt into the air as they rushed to make it back to their camp in the ancient city of Palmyra before dark. It was dangerous enough to be out in the middle of the day, what with the risk of drone strikes still ever present.

  As the jeeps trundled along, Hassan began to draw up a plan in his mind on how to escape this hellhole. He could leave in the night, make his way across the desert plains quietly towards the city of As Suwayda. Perhaps he could steal a passport from some member of the Druze minority who–

  His thoughts were interrupted when the jeep slammed on its brakes, throwing everyone in the rear bed against the cab. Clutching his AKS-74u, Hassan righted himself and peered over the cab to see what the holdup was. They were fifth from the front of the six-vehicle convoy, so whatever it was that had stopped them, Hassan couldn't make out.

  As he watched, a plume of smoke erupted from the first jeep. He heard shouts; men yelling as if in warning. A horrific grinding noise rose up from the front of the convoy, setting teeth on edge. The sound of metal striking metal rang through the air, as if something was smashing the jeep again and again. Hassan's ISIL brothers leapt out from the other vehicles, weapons raised to investigate what in God's name was going on.

  Then − jaw dropping to his chest − Hassan saw the lead jeep begin rocking violently side to side. With a final jolt, the vehicle flipped completely over. End over end, it tumbled off the dirt road. Hassan saw the entire front hood was bent and wrenched into a deformed mess; the windows of the cab shattered revealing the gruesome bodies of the occupants.

  Fear clutched Hassan as he leaped off the jeep, weapon in hand. Gunfire erupted from the convoy, turning the area into a mess of screaming men and smoke. Then, the second jeep was brushed aside like a dust-mote. It toppled end over end off the dirt road.

  For a brief second, Hassan caught a glimpse of their attacker. It was obscured by the billowing smoke, but every so often, Hassan saw what looked like a huge machine lumbering amidst the ISIL soldiers. The attacker slayed his way through the defending ISIL men as if they were confetti. With each swing of its metal clawed arms, a man was cut to shreds.

  Then, the beast slowed for a second, just long enough for Hassan to behold a monstrously large man wearing what appeared to be a metal exo-skeleton of some sort. As a reader of Popular Mechanics and military tech manuals in his youth, Hassan could accept the idea of a man in powered armor more than his unschooled and superstitious comrades. The surviving ISIL soldiers fired their weapons at the attacker, but nothing seemed to harm it. Hassan saw several bullets strike exposed flesh where the exosuit did not cover, but it barely phased the monster. The armor wearing beast upturned another jeep, crushing two terrorists under its weight.

  The words demon and monster were screamed by men terrified out of their minds.

  One jihadist, braver than his comrades, attempted to jump on the back of the creature, stabbing at it with a combat knife. The beast screamed an inhuman noise that rattled Hassan's heart in his chest. He watched as the attacker grabbed the man from his back and hauled him to the ground. With both hands wrapped firmly around the ISIL soldier's neck, he made a sharp twist and tore the man's head from his body. An explosion of red blood sprayed from the torso of Hassan’s Muslim brother as it slumped to the ground.

  The sight of this hellish monster was too much for Hassan. Whatever this...thing was, it was not human. He dropped his AK into the dirt, opened the driver side door to the jeep and got in.

  Thanking Allah that the keys were still in the ignition, he started the jeep. Slamming it into reverse, he swerved to miss the last vehicle in the convoy line, pulling a 180. Then, Hassan gunned the engine, pedal to the metal. The tires kicked up a torrent of dirt, speeding the vehicle away from the monster.

  The sight of the moving jeep got the attention of the attacker. Tearing the throat out of the last ISIL enemy in his way, the beast dropped the body and bounded after the jeep.

  Heart jackhammering, Hassan swerved to miss the last jeep, forcing the vehicle to veer out from his control. The moment was all the beast needed to close the distance between itself and Hassan. Through the rear-view mirror, the jihadist witnessed the monster make a running leap, clearing twenty feet in less than a second. A heavy weight slammed into the back end of the jeep.

  He landed on the vehicle!

  Hassan swerved again, trying to throw it off, but it was for naught; the beast held fast. A second later, the roof of the jeep caved downwards – smashed to bits by the monster.

  Panicking, Hassan hit the brakes as hard as he could. There was an audible thud that he prayed was the beast hitting the back of the cab.

  Maybe it is unconscious…

  Opening the door, Hassan jumped out and bolted across the desert as fast as his legs could move.

  It is a demon! This is no man!

  Fear clutched him like nothing he'd ever felt. Hassan had to escape.

  But there was no escape. This was the country he hated.

  Hassan had always known he would die here–

  –he just hadn't thought it would be this day.

  A heavy thumping noise told Hassan the creature was chasing him.

  You are the prey this time. This cr
eature is judgement, come for you...

  Before Hassan Sieda was torn limb from limb, a final thought flew through his mind.

  You wanted your escape from Syria, Hassan Sieda? From ISIL?

  Here it is...

  * * *

  “Allah be merciful...”

  Rashid offered a prayer to the almighty as he witnessed the gruesome spectacle 500 meters away. He lowered the binoculars and got sick into the sand of the butte he and Saladin stood overlooking the attack. Below them, on the other side of the low-lying hill were the remaining Riders of the Scorpion.

  Saladin continued to bear witness to Brutus's handiwork, adjusting his own binoculars for a better look. "Very impressive. Falco was not lying about our new tracker."

  With no more need for stealth, Rashid stood up to take a fresh breath. In all his years, he had never seen such ruthless barbarity from one man. Brutus had slaughtered every jihadist like pigs in a charnel house.

  Saladin dusted off his cloak as he stuffed the binoculars into his pack. "I am certain these were the men responsible for the attack on Hijjâné. One ill turn deserves another. In any case, I needed to see the strengths of our new guide first hand. This test proved more than adequate."

  Rashid wiped his mouth. "What now, my lord?"

  Saladin shouldered his AK-74. "We set our tracker loose. With ISIL still having a strong grip on this area, plus the dangers of Coalition airstrikes, we should not be too quick to expose ourselves. If Brutus can track down our missing Centurion quickly and efficiently, so much the better."

  That sounded fine to Rashid. This entire mission was not sitting well with the veteran mercenary. They had only crossed the Euphrates a few hours past and had been forced to deal with two ISIL checkpoints. The Riders of the Scorpion, striking quick and silent as always, had made short work of the jihadists. But news would quickly travel of their disappearance. ISIL would soon send patrols to investigate. The Riders of the Scorpion would have to be gone before then.