Why then were these helicopters playing such a dangerous game?
Things had been weird around the compound in the past couple of days; that was probably the only reason why the Red Squad commander was called to look at the radar screen just as the midnight shift change was about to take place.
His name was Bumpin Slakker; he was a former South African military officer. Slakker understood Rapiers. He knew what they could do and that it was highly foolish for anyone to play tag by passing in and out of their fields of fire. Yet that was exactly what these two blips were doing.
At first, Slakker wasn’t sure what to do. It was late, he was tired, and he certainly didn’t want to go around yelling that the sky was falling just because of two weird radar blips. However, he was concerned enough to decide that he would pass this information on to the Black Squad. He would explain the helicopter situation as best he could to the Black Squad’s CO, and let him decide whether or not to bring it to the attention of the Great Zim.
And because it was the end of the shift, and Slakker was due to go off duty anyway, he would deliver the message to the Black Squad CO himself.
It was exactly midnight when he started making his way across the vast compound. Down from the outer wall, through the inner perimeter, towards Zim’s chamber itself. He nodded to a pair of Yellow guards on patrol near the inner gate, and finally reached the alley that led to the Black Squad’s barracks. His immediate plans after passing on the information to the Black Squad were to inhale a plate of food, then drink a bottle of wine, and then go to sleep. He’d worked three shifts in a row and was dead-tired.
He deserved a little shut-eye.
Slakker reached the huge black ornamented door that led into the Black Squad’s billet and pounded on it three times.
There was no answer.
He pounded three more times. Again, there was no reply.
There was a window next to the door, but it was made of thick yellow glass and only the barest of shadows could be seen through it from the outside. Slakker rapped on this window several times, but saw no movement inside.
Now this was odd. The Black Squad had little to do with the palace security, except to guard Zim himself, and they did this just two at a time. Even in a shift change, that would mean only four men could be out of pocket at any given moment. So where were the other thirty-two members of the squad? Asleep? Drunk? Both?
Slakker considered just forgetting the whole thing and simply retiring to his billet. Choppers out along the radar perimeter? What was the big deal?
But something was stuck in his craw about this one, and it wouldn’t let go. So he decided to take one last step to pass the information along.
He began walking around the back of the small villa that housed Black Squad. Here, he knew, was a secret, emergency exit through which the Black Guards had been known to take delivery on drugs, booze, girls, and other very non-Muslim temptations usually supplied on the sly by the less-than-savory guests at the palace’s Hotel.
Slakker figured that a knock at this hidden door was one the Black Guards would always answer.
But when he made his way to the back of the barracks, he was surprised to find this secret door unlocked and wide open.
Now this was getting very strange. He knew the Black Squad was very careful about this rear portal. He’d seen the myriad of locks on the door from the inside. Why now had it been left so carelessly ajar?
Slakker went through the door slowly, his hand on his pistol. The first thing he saw was a pool of blood gathered around the billet’s refrigerator. He slowly pulled the pistol from its holster. He took one step forward, followed the stream of blood with his eyes, and made a shocking discovery.
Thirty-four members of the Black Squad were lying facedown on the floor of the barracks mess hall. They were lined up so neatly, it was obvious great care had been taken in leaving them just this way.
They were all dead.
Each one had been shot in the back of the head.
Slakker ran across the compound, out the inner gate and across the courtyard, reaching his squad’s position in thirty seconds; it was a trip that would usually take about two minutes.
His mind was reeling. What he’d just seen in the Black Squad billet had not yet registered fully in his brain. But he was relying on instincts. He was a soldier, he’d been in combat before. The Black Squad was dead—their killers unknown. His job now was to get to his own position and make sure it was secure.
That was why he made it back to the first minaret in one quarter of the normal time.
But another nightmare was waiting for him there. He burst into the Rapier control hut only to see yet another pool of blood. Two of his men were still in their seats, heads hanging back, throats slit from ear to ear.
Slakker lost his poise at this point. A bunch of guys from Black Squad getting killed was one thing. He’d just talked to the men in front of him not five minutes before. Now their heads were hanging off their bodies in the most ghastly fashion. Slakker threw up in the corner and then staggered outside.
The compound was eerily quiet. He could see no one moving about. This was not all that unusual. The palace was usually sedate, especially at night. Yet amidst this deathly silence, three dozen men had been very quietly killed.
Slakker was convinced the bloodbath was the work of Zim—a coup pulled off by the palace king himself. But then Slakker heard a low growl coming from off in the distance. Suddenly his mind switched back to the matter at hand: the mysterious helicopters orbiting just beyond the Rapier’s missile’s range.
He looked to the west and heard the noise again, and saw two helicopters flying very low and heading right at him.
He stood, stunned, as they went over his head, so low he could see the faces of the men at the open loading door staring down at him. In the next instant, he felt a cold sensation below his right ear. Then he heard a horrible slitting sound. Then he felt strange hands grabbing his chest and a foot kicking his legs out from underneath him. Then he hit the hard wooden floor of the parapet and saw yet another pool of blood gathering. This blood was his own. His neck had been sliced, from ear to ear, with no noise, no muss, no fuss.
As Slakker’s life ebbed away, he became aware of two things. The helicopters were almost right above him now. And many feet were rushing by him—and still there was so little noise. Who were these silent warriors?
Two pairs of boots stopped right next to where he lay dying. One boot was so close to him, he could actually read the serial numbers on its heeclass="underline" 97846304991. Beneath these numbers it read: MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Americans? Slakker thought in his last instant of life.
How did the Americans ever find us here?
Unlike the four color-coordinated squads of mercenaries protecting the outer and inner walls of the palace, a hodgepodge of paid soldiers guarded the Hotel, many from black African nations, wearing nothing more elaborate than plain green camo battle fatigues and bush hats.
What these men lacked in aplomb and style, they made up for with numbers. Indeed, there were a hundred of them watching over the Hotel alone. They all carried AK-47 assault rifles and prided themselves in seeing who could carry the most ammunition on his person. It was not unusual to see men in this so-called Z-Squad walking about with five or six ammo bandoliers hanging around their necks.