Termination Orders(22)

“Now I just need to . . .” said Conley, trailing off, and he began forcing something in the engine with a screwdriver, putting his weight into it. The screwdriver slipped, and he jerked away suddenly, clutching his right hand. “Damn it!”

“What is it?”

“Goddamn it. Nothing, it’s nothing, just a cut.” Conley tried to wave it off, but Morgan saw that his hand was bleeding, small drops falling and congealing on the dusty ground. Morgan reached into the car for the first-aid kit. “Goddamn stupid thing to do,” said Conley.

“I guess now we know who the shooter is going to be,” said Morgan. It had been a point of contention; both were crack shots, and each wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. Morgan was glad it had been decided for them.

Conley held out his hand and winced when Morgan cleaned out the cut with rubbing alcohol. It was deep but not enough to do any permanent damage. Azibo watched curiously as Morgan sutured it over a sterilized plastic sheet and wrapped bandages around Conley’s hand.

They crossed the border into Libya sometime after nightfall. Shortly beforehand, Azibo had left the road entirely, making the crossing in the open desert. It was bumpy, slow going. All Morgan could see was the dusty ground directly in front of the headlights, and the stars above, brighter than he had ever seen them. A fresh breeze began to blow, a blessing after the scorching heat of the day.

When they came to a rise in the terrain, Conley told Azibo to stop. The driver cut the engine, plunging them into darkness. The absence of the motor also brought on an eerie quiet, with no sound except for the drifting sand hitting the side of the jeep.

Morgan took the night-vision binoculars from his pack and leaned out the window. He swept the horizon, a barren, godforsaken wasteland, no more alien for being entirely green in the night-vision goggles. He didn’t spot what he was looking for, so he pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on and off in a sequence of longs and shorts, alternately pointing in several different directions.

“There!” said Conley, pointing north. It took Morgan a moment to make out a faint flashing dot.

“That’s got to be him.” Morgan clicked the flashlight on and off in its direction several times to acknowledge the signal, then sat back down. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later their headlights shone on a battered, oversize jeep not too different from their own, and a lone man standing next to it, wearing a traditional robe and a desert scarf, the kaffiyeh, on his head. Azibo stopped thirty feet away in a cloud of dust. Morgan opened the door and got out of the jeep, his MAC-10 machine pistol firmly in his hand, safety off. He approached the man with tense caution. Conley, flanking him, did the same.

The man held out both of his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of friendship that also served to demonstrate that he was unarmed. He stared at the two men intently and said, after a moment: “One of you is Cobra. The other is Cougar.” The statement had a slight, hopeful inflection to it. His accent was minor, but the precision of his pronunciation revealed that English was not his first language.

Morgan brought the aim of his MAC-10 to the stranger’s chest. “And you are?”

“Code Name Wings. I am Lieutenant Colonel Kadir Fastia.”

Morgan lowered his weapon but remained tense, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. The man in the turban smiled, bowed, and said, “Salaam.”

“Salaam,” they each responded in turn.

Salaam. The word echoed in Morgan’s head. Peace. Not in this world.





Morgan rode shotgun as Fastia drove them down an old dirt road, not a sign of humanity in the encroaching darkness. “The main highway is not safe for the three of us traveling together,” Fastia told them. “This way will take us longer, but we will not be stopped. I am afraid we have a long way to go. I have arranged safe lodging near Tripoli. But you may sleep now if you wish.” Morgan looked back at Conley, who was sitting behind Fastia, alert and with his gun resting loosely in his hand, ready to shoot Fastia through the seat if necessary. Trust only went so far.

“Cobra . . .” said Fastia idly. “Tell me, did you choose that name yourself?”

“Yeah, I did,” said Morgan curtly.

“May I ask why?”

“The cobra is a killer,” Morgan responded. “Agile, cold, ruthless, and efficient. You don’t want to mess with a cobra. And I wanted everyone I encountered to know,” he said, looking pointedly at Fastia, “that you don’t want to mess with me.”

“Not all men are able to choose their own names,” said Fastia. After a few minutes’ silence, Fastia began to speak again, still staring dead ahead at the road before them. “A man under my command was bitten by a cobra once. We were running exercise drills in the desert, and he stepped in the wrong mound of sand. The snake bit his ankle, right through his boot. It was an unfortunate circumstance. The man responsible for bringing the first-aid kit, which had the antivenin necessary to save this man’s life, had forgotten it. We were too far into the desert to get him back to safety in time. He convulsed violently for interminable minutes as we tried in vain to suck the poison out of the bite. His ankle grew swollen and black. He screamed and screamed, in pain. For us to save him. Yelled out for his mother. A grown man, yelling for his mother. It was not long before he died. Do you know how people who are bitten by the cobra die?”