Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (2 page)

He and his squad of five men climbed into two jeeps and raced for the smoldering wreckage in the nearby hills. Within minutes they arrived, travelling the last several hundred meters on foot. As they neared the crash site Trubitsin saw larger and larger pieces of debris, debris that might yield valuable secrets for Mother Russia.

Ordering his men to fan out, they moved forward in a straight line, searching for the cockpit. It didn't take long to find it lying on its side, its canopy glass shattered, severed from the plane’s rear half. Trubitsin bent over and peered inside, finding the two crew members still strapped in their seats. Drawing his weapon, he slapped the pilot. The man stirred slightly.
Good, prisoners for interrogation!
Leaning over the pilot, he reached out with his left hand to check if the weapons officer was alive. Before he could slap the man's face, his eyes opened. Startled, Trubitsin accidentally squeezed the trigger, shooting the man through the neck.

This brought his squad running toward his position, his second-in-command, Dimitri Reznikov, jumping onto the nose cone from the other side. “Comrade Major, are you okay?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” He pointed at the pilot. “This one is alive. Get him out and tend to his wounds. Don’t let him die, the KGB will want to interrogate him.”

“Yes, Comrade Major.” Trubitsin swore he heard the young man's boot heels click, which should be impossible since he was sprawled across the front of the aircraft. He was a good soldier of the empire. Followed orders, impeccably neat, fiercely loyal. Exactly what you wanted in a second-in-command. Someone who would back your orders without question, who the men could respect.

He explored more of the fuselage as he heard several of his men begin to extricate the now moaning pilot. From outside he heard an excited Corporal yell. “Comrade Major, come! You must see this!” Trubitsin frowned. He should have gone to his Sergeant first.
Follow the chain of command!
He decided to ignore him.

“Comrade Lieutenant, you and the Major must see this!” This time it was his Sergeant, Boris Yakovski, a career military man who had seen action in more conflicts than the empire admitted to being in, who was excited. Trubitsin wasn't sure he had ever heard him excited about anything in the two years Yakovski had served under him.

Trubitsin climbed down from the cockpit and rounded to where the rest of his platoon was now staring. A bomb bay door at the bottom of the fuselage was torn away, revealing a missile inside.

A tactical nuclear missile.

This time Trubitsin smiled outwardly.

Alamut, Persia

November 18, 1256 AD

Faisal, exhausted, slowly shoveled the food into his mouth. Every muscle in his body ached. Covered in cuts and bruises, some new, some days or weeks old, he ignored them, the pain no longer registering, but the fatigue inescapable. The training he had undergone was beyond anything he had ever endured, and in training for most of his life, that was saying something. Both his father and eldest brother were members of the Hassassins, the name given to The Order of the Assassins, whispered in reverence by their supporters, and in fear by their enemies. His father had reached the rank of Greater Propagandist before being killed in battle against the Saracens a year ago, and his brother was now a Propagandist. They had prepared him for the better part of ten years to join with them in their quest to maintain balance between Islam and the infidel Christians, a task handed down by the great Sabah, The Order’s founder.

But now he was on his own. His brother and father could no longer help him; he had been handed over to The Order. He was shocked at first by some of the rituals. His kin had hinted at them, but never filled him in on any, begging off his questions by citing the oath they had taken when accepted into the fraternity of The Order. And as a good son, a good brother and a good Muslim, he hadn't pressed. He knew they had their reasons, and it made him all the more determined to join The Order and learn its secrets.

His entire squad had trained for four straight hours with the sword and bow on foot and on horseback, followed by sessions studying the Quran with the Imam, and finally another four hours of unarmed hand-to-hand combat, all with no food and little water. The sun had now set, this meal and fresh water their reward, a reward that would last for mere minutes before they would be sent for evening prayers and study, then bed.

The double clap of a pair of hands raised the drooping heads in the mess hall, all eyes now on the Lasiq who had entered the room. He scanned the room, and pointed at a student at a nearby table. “You, report to the corral!”

The young man rose from the table, and dutifully hurried to the exit. Everyone in the hall lowered their heads, trying to avoid eye contact. No one wanted to report for corral duty. Faisal tried to hide behind the piece of bread he had just taken a bite of.

The Lasiq pointed at him. “You!” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating Faisal should follow his companion.

Faisal’s heart sank.
I hate corral duty.
He rose from the table and headed through the tall stone archway of the mess and glanced back to see who else would receive the duty usually reserved for new recruits, not those who had trained for almost a year. He smiled when his friend Jamar was selected, and outright grinned when the son of a camel’s behind, Momar, was also chosen, the look of shock on his face at being selected for such a task worth whatever amount of dung required shoveling tonight.

The four were brought into the corral, one side the high southern wall of Alamut, the massive mountain-top fortress that had served as the Hassassin stronghold for over a century, the other three of piled stones, about chest high, but the horses normally held here were nowhere in sight.

But their manure was. Faisal flashed back on his first weeks, thankful they were over—nothing was worse than cleaning up horse droppings in the baking Persian sun. But it appeared that was not to be their task tonight, as their instructor stood in the center of the corral, beckoning them to hurry. The four students lined up in front of him and bowed.

Their instructor, Master Hasni bin Saeed Al-Maktoum, who held the rank of Greater Propagandist within The Order, stared at them gravely. “You have all been taught in the ways of killing. Your mastery of these techniques, I have no doubt in. You have also been trained in how to incapacitate your opponent without killing him. Interrogation can be critical. Before a great battle, you may be sent by your commander to capture an enemy patrol in order to gain valuable information that might mean the difference between victory and defeat. But in the heat of the moment, the skirmish between you and your potential fountain of information could turn into a fight to the death. You must overcome that temptation, the temptation to slay your opponent who is so determined to slay you. And this makes your task all the more difficult, for he is only trying to survive, and he cares not if he kills you or merely maims you enough to escape. You however must care. Your task of gathering information is more important than your life. Succeeding in your mission could save hundreds or even thousands of your brothers.”

Hasni slowly stared down each of them as he spoke, making sure his words sank in. “And that is why, tonight, you practice on each other, your own brothers, your friends. Only one may walk from this corral tonight. Your mission is to incapacitate your opponents.” Faisal glanced to his left where his three comrades stood. They had trained together for almost a year. Two he considered good friends. They, like him, had worried expressions on their faces. None wanted to hurt the others, except maybe Momar. “But!” yelled Hasni, his voice so piercing all four whipped their attention back to him, “if any of you kills one of the others, you will be joining them by my own hand!” Faisal gulped. Hasni clapped his hands together. “Prepare yourselves!”

The four recruits stared at each other in confusion. “Begin!” Faisal tensed up as he and the other three slowly backed away from each other, none wanting to strike their friend first. Faisal found himself facing Jamar, one of the most gifted students at the academy. In fact, if Faisal thought about it, all four were probably the top of their class.
I wonder if
—
.
The thought was cut off as Jamar lunged at him. Faisal clasped Jamar's leading hand and pulled it toward him, causing Jamar to lose his balance slightly. Faisal whipped Jamar's feet out from under him and threw him unceremoniously to the ground. Jamar quickly jumped back to his feet and approached again, this time more warily.

From the corner of his eye, Faisal caught a glimpse of the other two students, Momar and Eid locked in combat. Unlike Jamar and himself, these other two were not friends. In fact, they were competitors since the beginning, Momar unable to make friends or peace with the fact he was now one of many gifted warriors. In his clan he was praised as a great future warrior and sent to train with the best, the Hassassins. But upon arriving, he was treated like everyone else, no better, no worse, but the same, and he no longer stood out. Yes, he was gifted, one of the best there, but just one of. Not
the
one. And this irritated him to no end.

Jamar lunged again and this time got a grip of Faisal’s robe and jerked him forward, kneeing him in the stomach. Faisal gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. He heard Jamar whisper, “Sorry”, as he was tossed to the ground. This continued for almost five minutes before Eid cried out. Faisal, who had Jamar in a particularly painful hold, looked up to see what had happened. Momar released Eid from a headlock and threw his crumpled body to the ground, his neck in an unnatural position, a look of shock still on his face.

He was dead. That much was obvious. Momar had a satisfied expression on his face until Hasni screamed at him in anger. “What have you done?” He raced from the side of the corral where he was watching with several other instructors.

“I—” was all Momar was able to say before Hasni drew his scimitar and, spinning clockwise, his arm extended fully, swung the blade in a clean arc. It made contact with the still speaking Momar's neck, slicing clean through. His body stood for a few seconds, an expression of confusion on his face, and then finally, slowly, his head slipped off the neck that once held it as his knees gave way. His body collapsed to the ground in a heap, its former head landing beside it then rolling several paces away.

Faisal and Jamar stared in disbelief. Hasni turned to them. “Continue!”

They didn't budge.

Hasni raised his sword, still dripping with Momar's blood. “Now! In the heat of battle, your brothers will die by your side. Will you stop and stare while the enemy runs you through, or will you continue to fight, and avenge your brother’s death? Continue!”

Faisal spun at Jamar, grabbed him around the neck and twisted him into a sleeper hold. Within less than a minute Jamar was out cold.

Hasni came over and congratulated him. “Well done, my brother. I knew you had it in you.” Faisal’s stomach churned. He couldn't stop eying the body of his friend Eid and the severed head of Momar. Hasni glanced at the bodies and then back at Faisal. “This is the first time you have looked upon death?”

Faisal nodded.

“Then look at it. Gaze upon it in all its sickness and glory. Learn to hate it and learn to love it. Despair in that you have lost a friend; rejoice in that you have lost an enemy. But most of all, remember the lesson that was learned here tonight. Obey your orders, or you may die not by your enemy's hand, but by that of your brother.” Hasni placed his hand on Faisal's shoulder and lowered his voice. “I know he was your friend. Honor him tonight in your prayers, and tomorrow we will feast to his sacrifice.” He gave Faisal's shoulder a squeeze then swatted him on the back. “Off to bed with you, we will see you in the morning.”

Faisal nodded and headed to his bed chambers. As he lay there exhausted, he couldn’t help but think of what had happened in the corral. Two students dead. He tried to shake the image of Eid's face staring up at him from the ground but he couldn't. It wasn't until the sweet release of sleep began to mercifully overtake him that he was able to rid himself of the evening’s horror.

But not for long.

As he was about to drift off the door to his room was kicked open and three men stormed in, brandishing shamshirs he recognized as Mongol, bitter enemies to the Hassassin. He flipped over the side of his bed, avoiding a blow that split the frame in half. Reaching for his sword, the other two men leaped at him and before he could stop them, grabbed him by the arms. As he struggled against his captors, the third who had struck the initial blow approached him, his menacing grin revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth. But rather than run him through, he held a cloth over his mouth, a pungent odor filled his nostrils and he felt drowsy. One of his captors let him go and he watched, almost in a daze, as the man raised his sword high over his head. As he brought it down, Faisal passed out, praying he had led a good enough life to reach paradise.

Sixth Round of New START Negotiations, Geneva, Switzerland

September 24, 2009

“Gentlemen, it is now time to turn our attention to the problem of Broken Arrows.”

The silence in the room defined uncomfortable. Justin Lee, chief negotiator for the United States in the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty talks, stared across the table at his Russian counterpart. He leaned toward his official translator who whispered in his ear.
As if you didn’t understand what I just said.
Lee knew the “translator” was the puppet master’s representative in the room, and that Lee’s honored counterpart, Aleksandr Petrenko, was merely a marionette on the international stage, with strings extending all the way back to the office of the man who truly controlled Mother Russia, the Prime Minister.

Petrenko grunted, and said something in Russian to the room. His delegates nodded, and then the translator spoke.