“Cut! Great job!” the director said. “Everybody to second marks, and we’ll do the big fight scene!”
Standing on the sixteenth floor of the Chandra Building, the executive director of RAW scowled at the dimly heard commands. “Everybody to the second marks.” If the hero didn’t win the first time, then just do it again and again until he did. No problem. If only it was that simple in real life, the man thought.
In the room behind him, the top agents for RAW were sitting around a large conference desk reviewing Most Secret reports. If their conclusion matched his, then the entire world was in more danger than he could possibly imagine.
The agency was called RAW, the Research Analysis Wing, and was the external intelligence agency for India. Officially located in New Delhi, the covert agency actually operated out of Mumbai, posing as a legitimate business constructing desalination plants to make sea water drinkable. Which they did, but only as a sideline. Reporting only to the prime minister, the organization had stopped hundreds of terrorist attacks since its creation, and often joined forces with the Americans to eliminate terrorist training camps in Pakistan. RAW helped the Mossad capture Nazi war criminals, assisted Ukraine Intelligence to kill former KGB agents and joined forces with NATO in stopping human trafficking, as well as its usual duties of protecting the nation. But this new threat…
Watching the water trickle down the bulletproof window, the executive director briefly thought back to the warm summer rains of his childhood, playing in the mud puddles and sailing folded paperboats. Ah, youth. However, with the new information they had just obtained, it would seem as if those days were long gone, as antiquated as a coin-operated payphone.
“Sir, are you sure this HUMINT is hard?” the agent muttered, rifling through the sheath of documents.
“Yes, the human intelligence has been confirmed from two different sources,” the executive director replied curtly, folding both hands behind his back.
“Then he’s back,” another agent stated, crumpling a sheet of paper in his fist.
With a scowl, the executive director turned away from the window. “So it would appear,” he growled. “What’s more—”
Suddenly, the unbreakable window vaporized into superheated plasma as it was hit by a lightning bolt, then a second came through the opening and the executive director exploded, his steaming internal organs blown across the conference table. The agents hastily dove for the floor, but a split second later it detonated into blackened splinters. Scrambling for the door, the agents got only halfway there before there was a flash of light, terrible pain and then an endless eternity of soothing darkness.
Again and again, lightning ravaged the office building, blowing out windows on every story and setting countless fires.
Meanwhile, the movie cameras continued rolling down on the dockyard. However, they were no longer pointed at the actors, but at the bizarre flurry of violent activity that was slowly destroying the entire Chandra Building.
Baghdad, Iraq
IT WAS A SURPRISINGLY COOL DAY in the desert, barely out of the nineties. There was no wind worth mentioning, and the sky was a deep azure-blue.
A trail of dust rose from behind a low swell in the hard-packed ground, and moments later a speeding Hummer came into view, jouncing and bouncing along the cracked pavement of the new road.
There had been a lot of new roads poured since the invasion and the subsequent fall of Saddam Hussein. Mostly because the loyalists, terrorists and others kept blowing them up with roadside bombs buried in the loose sand. The crazy Americans called them IEDs, improvised explosive devices. But everybody else in the world simply called them bombs.
For this day’s mission, the three members of Project Ophiuchus were dressed in loose civilian clothing, black combat boots, sunglasses and kaffiyehs, the latter worn more to disguise their features from orbiting spy satellites than to keep the sand out of their mouths. The desert was merely a part of life, neither good or bad, just something to be endured or ignored.
“Almost there,” Lieutenant Fahada Nasser said, shifting gears as the Hummer raced around a bomb crater. The sand was sprinkled with broken pieces of exploded machines, black ants feasting on any organic remains.
Although rather short, the lieutenant had a womanly figure that she did her best to hide under loose uniforms. But her eyes were a dark violet, described as “oddly mysterious” by Interpol in her wanted poster.
Her long black hair was tightly bound into a ponytail, and a jagged scar circled her neck where a Mossad agent had tried to slit her throat and failed. She was armed with a 9 mm Tariq pistol, which was partially hidden under an open jacket. But lying on the floor was an XM-25 grenade launcher, and her pockets bulged with extra shells.
“I used to live here, too,” Major Zafar Armanjani replied, adjusting the red-and-black kaffiyeh covering the lower half of his face.
A tall man, Armanjani carried himself with a quiet sense of authority that gave other soldiers the urge to salute for no logical reason. Possessing the wide chest and thick arms of a professional weight lifter, Armanjani also had a strangely smooth face with tiny scars along the eyes and ears—the telltale marks of cheap plastic surgery. His only concession to vanity was a small silver scorpion hung around his neck as a good-luck charm. Tucked into a shoulder holster was a 13 mm Tariq Magnum pistol, and handcuffed to his wrist was an expensive leather briefcase.
In the rear seat, Sergeant Benjamin Hassan grunted, not because he had anything specific to say, but because he was grimly determined to be a part of every important conversation. The trouble was, Hassan couldn’t really tell the important ones from the casual, so he chimed into every conversation just in case.
Abnormally wide, Hassan resembled a gorilla more than a man, the thick black hair covering his body only adding to the image. However, his face was closely shaved, a small nick on a lip showing his haste that morning. As befitting his role of a hired bodyguard, the sergeant was openly armed with two 9 mm Tariq pistols, one on each hip, and a machete. But resting on the seat nearby was an Atchisson autoshotgun, a big drum of 12-gauge cartridges inserted into the lower receiver.
Glancing sideways, Nasser and Armanjani exchanged a knowing look about the sergeant, then dismissed the matter. Ever since he had been kicked in the head by a camel as a child, Hassan wasn’t able to understand many things that other people easily could. Normally, that would have been a serious detriment for a soldier. But his amazing marksmanship, brute strength and animal ferocity in battle more than made up for the minor inconvenience of his scrambled intelligence.
As the Hummer rumbled across a new wooden bridge, the major remembered how once it had been a beautiful concrete bridge decorated with a row of bronze statues of Saddam Hussein and equipped with steel hooks for hanging minor criminals. But that was all gone now.
Not so very long ago, the Republican Guard had ruled this desert like the sultans of legend, obeying only the commands of their leader. Then the Americans came, endless waves of them, like a never-ending sandstorm.
Most of the army had broken rank and run away, stripping off their uniforms to try to hide among the civilians. But the clever Americans had established checkpoints along the roads, and simply arrested everybody not wearing shoes.
Realizing the futility of the trick, Armanjani had done the opposite, killed a lowly private and switched clothing. Then he attempted to attack a platoon of American soldiers with the safety still engaged on his rifle. He was arrested, searched and laughingly dismissed as a harmless conscript.
Armanjani grinned at that memory. The fools! A wise man fought like the scorpion, not the beetle. The beetle attacked dung, while the scorpion watched and waited in cool shadow as the hot sun made his enemies weak. Then he pounced and feasted.
Before the war, the Iraqi army had been