“You see,” he furrowed his forehead, “these are some pretty unlikely soulmates. Black Mecca and the Army of Allah hate each other even more than they hate the rest of the world. Black Mecca wants to de-stabilize both the Islamic and non-Islamic worlds to such an extent their radical fundamentalists can establish a world-wide theocratic state, while the Army of Allah attacks non-Islamic targets primarily as a means of forcing an unbridgeable split between Islamics and non-Islamics. They don’t want the rest of us; they’re a bunch of isolationists who want to shut everyone else out while they attend to their concept of religious purity. Then there’s the Red Eyebrows. They grew out of the old punker/skinhead groups of the late nineties, and they’re just plain anarchists. They—”
MacMahan stopped himself and waved a hand.
“I get carried away sometimes, and the etiology of terrorism can wait. My point is that all these different outfits share a growing, common interest in what I can only call nihilism, and I don’t think there’s much doubt it stems from Anu’s input. His goals are becoming, whether they know it or not, their goals, and what’s scary about that is what it says about his own mind set.”
The colonel seemed to remember his drink and took another sip, then stared down into it for several seconds, swirling the ice cubes.
“My outfit’s always had to try to think like the enemy, and I have to admit it can be almost enjoyable. I hate the bastards, but it’s almost like a game—like chess or bridge, in a way—except that I haven’t been enjoying it much of late. Because there’s a question that’s been bothering me for the last few years, and especially since Horus told me about you and Dahak: just how will Anu react if he decides we can beat him? For that matter, how would he react to simply knowing that Dahak is fully operational?
“And the reason that bothers me is that I think Horus is right about him. I think the nihilism of his terrorist toadies reflects his own nihilism and that if he ever decides his position is hopeless—which it is, whatever happens to us, if Dahak’s out there—he might enjoy taking the whole planet with him.”
Colin kept his body relaxed and nodded slowly, but a cold wind seemed to have invaded the cabin.
“It makes sense, Colin,” Horus said quietly. “Hector’s right about his nihilism. Whatever he was once like, Anu likes destruction now. It’s almost as if it relieves his frustration, and it’s probably part of his whole addiction to power, as well. But whatever causes it, it’s real enough. He and his people certainly proved that a hundred years ago.”
Colin nodded again, understanding completely. He’d occasionally wondered why Hitler had proved so resistant to assassination—until he gained access to Nergal’s data base. No wonder the bomb plot had failed; a man with full enhancement would hardly even have noticed it. And if anyone had ever shown a maniacal glee in taking others down with them, it had been the Nazi elite.
“So.” He twirled his chair slowly. “It seems another minor complication has been added.” His smile held no humor. “But from the fact that you’re here, Colonel, I imagine you’ve been doing more than just worrying?”
“I have.” The colonel drew a deep breath and met Colin’s eyes levelly. “A man in my profession doesn’t have much use for do—or—die missions, but I’ve spent the last year building a worst-case scenario—a doomsday one, if you will—and trying to find a way to beat it, and I may have come up with one. It’s scary as hell, and I’ve always seen it more as a last-ditch contingency than anything I’d want to try. In fact, I wouldn’t even mention it except for what you’ve told us about the Achuultani. The smart thing would be to wait till things settle down a bit, get you back up to Dahak, and then hit the bastards from two directions at once—or at least get another suppresser down here. But we don’t have time to play it smart, do we?”
“No, we don’t,” Colin said, his tone calm but flat. “So may I assume you’re about to tell me about this ‘way to beat it’ you’ve come up with?”
“Yes. Instead of waiting for things to cool down, we heat them up.”
“Hm?” Colin leaned slowly back, his chair squeaking softly, and tugged at his nose. “And why should we do that, Colonel?”
“Because maybe—just maybe—we can take them out ourselves, without calling on Dahak at all,” the colonel said.
No one, Colin reflected as he watched the Council file into the command deck, could accuse Hector MacMahan of thinking small. Merely to consider attacking such a powerful enemy took a lot of audacity, but it seemed the colonel had chutzpah by the truckload. And who knew? It might just work.
The council settled into their places in tense silence, and he tucked his hands behind him and squared his shoulders, feeling their eyes and wondering just how deep his rapport with them truly went. They’d had barely a month to get to know one another, and he knew some of them both resented and feared him. He couldn’t blame them for that; he still had reservations about them, though he no longer doubted their sincerity. Not even Jiltanith’s.
Thoughts of the young woman drew his eyes, and he hid a smile as he realized he, too, had come to think of her as “young” despite the fact that she was more than twice his age. Much more, if he counted the time she’d spent in stasis. But his smile died stillborn as he saw her expression. She’d finally managed to push the active hatred out of her face, but it remained a shuttered window, neither offering nor accepting a thing.
In many ways, he would have preferred to exclude her from this meeting and from all decision-making, but it hadn’t worked out that way. She was young, but she was also Nergal’s chief intelligence officer, which officially made her MacMahan’s Imperial counterpart and, indirectly, his boss.
Colin wouldn’t have considered someone with her fiery, driven disposition an ideal spy master, but when he hinted as much to one or two council members, their reactions had surprised him. Their absolute faith in her judgment was almost scary, especially since he knew how much she detested him. Yet when he’d checked the log, her performance certainly seemed to justify their high regard. The Colorado Springs attack was the first time in forty years that the southern Imperials (as distinct from their Terra-born proxies) had surprised the northerners, and he knew whose fault that had been. Given the way the Council felt about her, he dared not try removing her from her position. Besides, his own stubborn integrity wouldn’t let him fire someone who did her job so well simply because she happened to hate him.
But she worried him. No matter what anyone else said or thought about her, she worried him.
He sighed, wishing she would open up just once. Just once, so he could know what she was thinking and whether or not he could trust her. Then he pushed the thought aside and smiled tightly at the rest of the Council.
“I’m sure you all know Colonel MacMahan far better than I do.” He gestured at the colonel and watched the exchange of nods and smiles, then put his hand back behind him. “The reason he’s here just now, though, may surprise you. You see, he proposes that we attack Anu directly—without Dahak.”
One or two members of his audience gasped, and Jiltanith seemed to gather herself like a cat. She never actually moved a muscle, but her eyes widened slightly and he thought he saw a glow in their dark depths.