Read Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) Online
Authors: David McAfee,Jeremy Robinson
Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella)
CALLSIGN: BISHOP
Book 1
by Jeremy Robinson
and David McAfee
© 2011 Jeremy Robinson. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]
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FICTION by JEREMY ROBINSON
(click to view on Amazon and buy)
The Antarktos Saga
The Jack Sigler Thrillers
Callsign: Knight - Book 1
Callsign: Bishop - Book 1
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld
Origins Editions (first five novels)
Short Stories
Humor
The Zombie's Way (Ike Onsoomyu)
The Ninja’s Path (Kutyuso Deep)
FICTION by DAVID MCAFEE
Bachiyr Novels
Horror Novels
The Gallows Tree (Coming Soon)
Short Story Collections
Devil Music and 18 Other Stories
After: Taras and Theron, Beyond Jerusalem
The Dead Man Series (With Lee Goldberg and William Rabkin)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Sample: THE LAST HUNTER by Jeremy Robinson
Sample: THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Robinson
CALLSIGN: BISHOP
Somewhere in the Kavir Desert, Semnan Province, Iran
Aziz and Muhaddar walked across the superheated ground and through the occasional scraggly brush. Above them, the sun blazed down from the hot Iranian sky, baking the earth and the dying vegetation and making the trek nearly impossible to bear, but neither man wanted to go back. Jihadists had taken over their village and accused nearly all the men of collaborating with the West. Shouts of “infidel” had split the air along with the sound of gunshots and the screams of the dying. Aziz and Muhaddar, not wanting anything to do with the Jihad, had simply run. A few bullets came close, but none touched them, and before long, they were far from their doomed village.
Of course, trekking through the sun-baked lands in central Iran wasn’t an ideal escape. As the heat rose from the ground in visible waves, Aziz began to wonder whether maybe they should have stayed. At least the jihadists would have killed them quickly. Better that than a slow, painful death in the desert. Already his body felt heavy, even though he knew he’d lost weight. After only one day, he had trouble putting one leg in front of the other. His arms and legs felt sluggish and weak, and there was no water or food in sight. Maybe Muhaddar was right. Maybe they should travel at night. It would be cold, but maybe that would be for the best.
Not that it would make much difference. Without water, they had no chance.
Aziz was just starting to consider turning around to face the jihadists when Muhaddar spoke.
“Look,” Muhaddar said. “Over there. A building.”
“It is not real,” Aziz said, not even raising his eyes. He’d seen enough mirages already.
“No, look,” Muhaddar said, grabbing Aziz by the chin and forcing his face up. “I tell you, there is a building there. See?”
Aziz squinted, looking in the direction his friend pointed. At first, he could see nothing but the waves of heat radiating up from the ground, but after a minute, he spotted something. It looked like a large, squat box half buried in the earth. The sun reflected off a shiny panel on top of the box. A solar panel, maybe? Maybe it
was
a building. What better place to use a solar panel than the middle of the desert?
“Perhaps they have water,” Muhaddar said.
The thought of water made Aziz’s mouth ache. His throat felt so dry he thought it would crack open at any moment. “Perhaps, but who are they? And what are they doing here?”
“Does it matter?”
Aziz thought about his village. The images of the slaughter came to his mind. Bodies falling into the street, hands clutching their wounds as they cried out in pain and fear. Blood splattering the buildings as more and more people died, many of them women and children. Only a few moments ago, he’d been considering walking back to his village to face the same fate.
“No,” he replied. “It does not matter.”
Together they trudged through the sand, making their way to the squat building. As they grew closer, Aziz realized his initial impression that the building was half buried was not far from the truth. The part they could see was a squat round cylinder made of concrete. The rest was hidden below the surface, leaving only the cylinder visible.
As they approached, he expected to hear shouts, or shots, but none came. Soon they stood directly in front of the structure. There was no door, but a set of steel bars embedded in the concrete formed the rungs of a ladder that went to the top. After exchanging a glance with Muhaddar, Aziz grabbed the first rung and pulled himself upward, climbing toward the top.
A steel door sat on the roof like the hatch of a submarine. The shiny surface he’d seen from a distance turned out to be a small solar panel, after all. Words were stamped into the metal door, but they were written in a language neither man could read.
“Is that American writing?” Muhaddar asked.
“I don’t know,” Aziz replied. “It could be.”
Aziz had never learned to speak or read English, but some of the characters did resemble the writing he’d seen on television the few times he’d watched American programs. That didn’t necessarily mean the building was American, however. It just meant the builders used the same letters as the Americans. Just above the steel door was a symbol he thought he had seen before. It looked like three crescent moons arranged in a triangle with their backs touching. A solid circle ran through all three moons, with an empty space in the exact center of the image:
He didn’t know what it meant, but the symbol filled him with a sense of foreboding.
“Maybe we should not bother them,” he said.
“Water,” Muhaddar replied. “What if they have water?”
Aziz looked back the way they had come. The desert stretched away in every direction; it was a flat, barren stretch of land dotted here and there by an occasional bush struggling to stay alive. Without help, they would not last another day.
Maybe the symbol meant nothing.
“Very well,” he said. “Open the door.”
Muhaddar pulled on the hatch, but it didn’t move. After a moment, he grunted, and Aziz could see the strain in his muscles. The door lifted up about an inch. Muhaddar was normally the stronger of the two, but a day spent wandering the desert with neither food nor water had made them both weak. Aziz stepped over to help, and together they lifted the steel plate up enough to reveal a metal ladder leading down into darkness.
“Hello?” Aziz yelled into the opening. “Is there anyone here? We need water.”
