Infidels (17 page)

It all
felt so puritan to him, like the Christians and Jews were the witches in Salem,
the Muslims the town elders.

And now
here he found himself, surrounded by eyes filled with hate, the embassy at his
back the pyre upon which he had a funny feeling they were all about to burn.

Somebody
threw a rock, it breaking into several pieces not five feet from his position,
a shard hitting his leg, bouncing off painlessly.

Another
landed nearby, this one a cobblestone, the thud it made making him thankful it
had missed. He glanced around for some cover should things really begin to fly.

A window
shattered, the guardhouse taking a hit, his Master Gunnery Sergeant getting on
the radio to report the escalation. They had been hoping nightfall would lessen
the crowds, especially after midnight, but they had been sadly mistaken. These
people either didn’t have jobs, or simply didn’t care whether or not they were
well rested for their morning commute.

Something
bright caught his eye.

Oh
shit!

A
Molotov cocktail arced through the air, smashing into the guard hut, the
alcohol immediately igniting, bathing the entire side in a fury of sickly
flame, the two men inside immediately rushing out and retreating to his
position.

The Gunny
called in the fire.

“No goddamned
way they’re going to let any fire crews through.”

Griffith
looked at the guard who had barely avoided a good singeing, not able to place
his name, the man new only last week.

Fox?

“Let’s
just hope they can’t throw much farther,” he said just as another flaming
bottle spiraled through the air, shattering on the road in front of the gate.
“This whole situation is bullshit.”

“No
shit! Man, I was in Fallujah. Never thought I’d see so many pissed off Muslims
in one place again.”

Griffith
looked at the man.
Christ, how old
are
you?
He had joined after
Fallujah so had managed to avoid that hellhole, but had heard enough stories to
know he was lucky to have been born a couple of years later than this guy
obviously was.

And if
this were about to turn into a Charlie-Foxtrot like that, a lot of people were
going to die.

He
fingered the safety on his M4 assault rifle,
Fox
apparently noticing.

“Just
keep your shit together, Marine, we don’t want to start anything.” He tapped
his sidearm. “And remember to keep one bullet for yourself.”

The
distinctive thumping of a helicopter had them all looking up, Griffith at first
not spotting it, the sound filling the area, the din of the ‘Death to America’
chanting mob making it difficult.

Fox
pointed. “There!”

Griffith
looked and immediately spotted the dark silhouette of a Eurocopter AS-532
Cougar approaching. Suddenly the entire embassy went dark, the bright security
lights that had been blazing for hours turned off, almost silencing the crowd
for a moment.

Making
the sound of the chopper unmistakable.

The
crowd roared in renewed anger as the helicopter bounced to a landing on the
lawn, a group of people rushing from the front entrance toward the transport.

A
whistle blew, then another. Griffith’s head swiveled back toward the crowd to
see a group shoving the security barricade aside, charging the police position.

A shot
rang out.

It
didn’t sound like one of theirs, more likely French or from the crowd.

Another
shot.

Screams.

He
flicked the safety off his weapon.

The
French police fell back, parting at the center as the cordon broke, the crowd
surging toward the gate.

“Hold
your fire!” ordered the Gunny as the chopper lifted off behind them, a second
one he hadn’t noticed landing moments later. The crowd was at the gate now,
hands grasping the bars, shaking it hard.

There’s
no way they’re taking that down.

Someone
began to climb over as several shots rang out in the distance. A quick glance
over his shoulder and he saw the second chopper being loaded, a third hovering
overhead.

There’s
not going to be time.

The
first protester landed on his knees on the wrong side of the fence, two Marines
charging forward and grabbing him, dragging him away from the gate before zip-tying
him.

“Look
out!”

He spun
toward Fox’s cry, seeing him turn, shielding himself with his arm. Griffith
spotted the flame out of the corner of his eye, too late, the bottle smashing
at his feet, the fluid inside rushing out and up his pant legs, the flames
following a moment later.

The rush
of heat was intense as he turned away from the explosion, covering his head.
Then he felt something strange that he couldn’t place for a split second before
an eruption of agony gripped his body.

He
screamed, every muscle clenching as he turned toward the crowd, wondering why they
were doing this to him, his finger spasming on the trigger, his weapon belching
three-round bursts at the crowd behind the gate as his comrades leapt for
cover, the Gunny racing toward him, diving through the air.

It was
then he finally noticed his entire lower body engulfed in flames.

And he
wondered if he still had a bullet left for himself.

Mohammed Aziz felt a rush of adrenaline flow through his system as
he watched the American pig burn, the Molotov cocktail he had just thrown
finding its mark. Someone beside him grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him
with joy as the crowd around him roared their approval as the infidel screamed
in agony, his fellow soldiers trying to douse the flames.

Another
helicopter lifted off.

And the
rage burning in the pit of his stomach grew as he realized more and more of the
infidels responsible for the greatest affront ever to Islam escaped.

When he
had heard about the original broadcast with the kidnapped Saudi prince he
hadn’t believed it at first. He simply couldn’t fathom a true Muslim saying
such hateful things, but when the truth had come out, that the broadcast had
been faked and the prince was actually forced to say such things by his
captors, things had made sense once again.

No true
Muslim could hope to live another day saying such blasphemous things.

But when
the second broadcast had been shown, a blind rage had filled him, his shouts of
anger so great his neighbors had come to see what was the matter, and as they
all watched the broadcast being shown over and over, they too joined his
fevered pitch of fury.

They had
immediately gone to their mosque, it quickly filling with others from the
neighborhood as they discussed the unbelievable possibility that the Americans
had actually been the ones who had kidnapped the prince and stolen the Black
Stone. Their Imam had quoted from the Koran and his duty was immediately clear,
he and his friends quickly returning to their homes to prepare for a march on
the embassy.

The
embassy that now sat in front of him, filled with infidels he intended to burn.

He shook
the bars in front of him, his eyes glaring at the smoldering man, a thin smile
still on his face.

You’ll
all pay for what you’ve done!

He had
travelled to Mecca three years ago for the Hajj, it taking him years to scrape
together enough money to attend. He had been disappointed not to be able to
touch the sacred stone, despite his best efforts—there were simply too many
people. On one of his circuits his hand had come within feet of the stone, the
experience so moving he had almost broken down in tears as an overwhelming
sense of faith and fervor washed over him.

And he
had vowed he would save every penny he could to return one day, to make a
second attempt to touch the stone Mohammed himself had kissed so long ago.

But now
if the Americans had the stone, he’d never be able to fulfill that promise to
himself, nor would any other Muslim. After much heated discussion and little
debate last night, it had been agreed that there could only be one reason the
Americans would take the stone—to destroy it. The only logical reason for doing
so was their misguided belief that if the stone was gone, Muslims around the
world would lose their faith, converting to their sacrilegious Christianity.

A
ridiculous notion.

Islam
was more than a holy relic, more than a point on a map. It was a way of life, a
faith stronger than any the world had ever known. There wasn’t a true Muslim
alive who wouldn’t die for their beliefs, and though he had had doubts until
only moments ago, he now knew he was among the hundreds of millions willing to
take a life to further the establishment of the Global Caliphate demanded by
Allah himself through his vessel Mohammed.

His thin
smile turned into all out joy as he saw the soldiers trying to carry the now
twitching body of their friend, a man who should he survive, would suffer for
the rest of his life for his misguided beliefs and his government’s
sacrilegious actions.

And he
wouldn’t be the first.

Mohammed
reached up and climbed to the top of the fence, turning back toward the crowd
and raising his fist.

“Death
to America! Kill them all!”

“Code Black, I repeat, Code Black. All personnel report to their
assigned secure area, I repeat, all personnel report to their assigned secure
area.”

Dawson frowned,
looking at Laura Palmer lying in a hospital bed, fear on her face. This was a
woman he had known to display exceptional courage in the past and that hadn’t
changed—except for the fact that today she was helpless, stuck in a bed with no
hope of defending herself.

Her husband
showed the same concern, though instead of fear it was clear he was angry.

“Let me
see what’s going on.” Dawson stepped into the hallway, flagging down a Marine.
“Sergeant, report!”

“Sir,
protestors have overrun the main gate and are on the grounds. We’re falling
back to inside the building. All civilian personnel are to report to the
basement bunker.”

“Carry
on.” The Marine bolted, Dawson stepping back into the room, looking at Niner.
“Find out where we need to get the professors.”

Niner
nodded, about to leave when the door flew open and a nurse rushed into the
room. “We’re moving you now,” she said, her voice shaking as her flushed cheeks
and trembling hands indicated just how terrified the woman was. She unhooked
the IV bag from the stand, placing it on Laura’s chest then disconnected the
monitors with a yank, the snaps and clips popping off in a single shot.
Unlocking the bed with her foot, she pulled it out from the wall, Acton
helping.

“I’ll
push,” said Acton, “you lead.”

She
nodded as Niner opened the door and they pushed out into the hallway, turning
left. A second nurse appeared, relieving Acton. “I’ll do it, these can be hard
to handle if you’re in a hurry.”

And they
were. Gunfire once sporadic was becoming more steady, the distinctive sounds of
American issued weapons mixed with others, some probably brought by the locals,
others perhaps captured from the overrun police, the live news broadcasts
showing police being beaten and murdered, their comrades unable to reach them,
instead falling back with weapons drawn but not firing.

This
isn’t going to end with negotiations.

Four
Marines, faces grim, charged toward them, M4’s at the ready. “Gunny, where’s
the armory?”

The Gunny
stopped, motioning for his men to continue on. “Civilians are to report to the
basement immediately.”

“We’re
not civilians.”

“Your
unit?”

“I could
tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

A smile
spread across the man’s face.

“Follow
me.”

Acton squeezed into the elevator, most of it taken up by Laura’s
bed. Her hand gripped his tightly as they waited for what seemed an eternity
for the elevator to descend several levels, opening to a dull gray room, thick
metal doors greeting them with half a dozen guards flanking the entrance to
what Acton assumed was some sort of nuclear bomb shelter repurposed into a
panic room.

The two
nurses guided Laura’s bed out of the elevator then they quickly rushed through
the massive doors and down a brightly lit, featureless hallway, closed,
windowless doors on either side, each neatly numbered and labelled.

He
didn’t read a single one.

The
first nurse ran ahead, opening a door labelled Infirmary and moments later they
found themselves inside a basic medical bay with four beds and a lot of dated
equipment.

Looks
like it hasn’t been updated since the Cold War.

The
nurse seemed to read his mind.

“Sorry,
but no one ever thought we’d actually use this place.”

Acton
shook his head. “No need to apologize. Do you have the supplies to take care of
her?”

The
nurse pointed at a wall of cabinets. “Fully stocked. We’ve got all the meds and
supplies we’ll need, just not the fancy equipment.” She patted Laura on the
hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll be able to take good care of you down here, and
there’s no way they’re getting through those doors.”

Acton
chewed on his cheek for a moment.

“How
long can we hold out down here?”

“Long
enough.”

Niner flicked the safety off his M4 as he and Dawson rushed up the
stairs to take positions on the roof. M4’s and Berettas were opening up
outside, the situation apparently out of control.

This
is insane!

He could
only imagine what would happen to Red and the guys should they be captured and
said a silent prayer for their safe return. As they burst through the door to
the roof he focused on the job at hand.