I see movement on the road approaching the stronghold—a Humvee. To my right, down below and far in the distance, the Apaches approach low and fast, skimming the tree line toward the cliff-face; as I watch, they zip closer, the noise of their rotors dopplering confusingly. Muzzles flash from the stronghold, but the shots are wasted.
The Apaches slow their approach and lift upward, rising vertically—in unison, their miniguns blaze, the distinctive ripsaw buzz echoing in triplicate. Their fire is concentrated on the hillside just above the entrances to the stronghold on either side and the ridge just above—tracers slash across the sky from those locations, returning fire, missing widely. Then, in a searing crescendo, the three Apaches launch salvos of rockets which concuss against the mountainside in a cloud of debris and a soaring fireball, chunks of mountain flying. When the dust settles, the three placements are silent.
“Take that up the ass, motherfuckers,” Murph mutters. “Never had Apache support on a stealth infil before.”
“Not sure it’s a stealth infil anymore,” one of the others says, his voice containing a distinct Southern twang. “I think they know we’re here.”
“Fuck yeah they know,” Duke says. “Okay, that was our signal. We’ll still face heavy fire on the approach, but those were the emplacements we were worried about. Satellite imagery showed them being built, but we had no idea what they’d put in.”
I hear the heavy chainsaw rattle of a .50-cal, and something pinging loudly.
“Gotta move,” Duke snaps. “Double-time. The boys in the Humvee need us on their asses—they’re suppressing for our approach.”
He’s gone, then, and I’m following at a dead sprint. Thick pine trunks whip past, pine needles are soft and slippery underfoot, threatening my footfalls at each step. Somehow I keep my feet. I hear Murph behind me. I can’t spare a thought or a look for Apollo—he’s somewhere close. Gunfire echoes—directionless, constant now.
How long can you keep up a flat-out run? I manage longer than I’d thought I was capable. My legs just keep pumping, the rifle clamped in aching hands. Then the Humvee is in front of me, the man behind the .50-cal sweeping, picking targets, firing.
Muzzles flash in the near-distance. Duke shoves me behind the Humvee and hunches behind me. Ducks out around it, fires.
Fuck the hiding. I lean out the other way and spot a muzzle-flash in the huge, arching, stone-block doorway. I send a burst at it. Slide back behind the now-moving Humvee.
The .50-cal is silent, for the moment. We’re jogging behind the SUV in a double line. I gasp for breath. Apollo is beside me, dashing sweat from his eyes with the back of his wrist.
He spares me a look, finds a smile for me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I snicker despite the circumstances. “Jolly good show we’re having, eh?”
Duke, ahead of me, shoots me a dirty look, but I still notice a hint of a smile behind it. “That was the easy part.” He points at the stronghold ahead of us. “Now comes the real fun.”
It’s massive, towering, seeming carved directly from the rock face itself. I can see the lines where giant blocks are joined. In some places, the stone is crumbling with the weight of unbelievable age. The sense of time here is oppressive. This is an ancient place, which has seen a river of bloodshed. I can feel it, even now, despite the chaos and fear and turmoil.
“What the hellisthis place, Duke?” I ask, voice pitched low; we’re walking, now, following the Humvee, watching for an attack from the sides, from the slit windows up high.
“A castle built by Hassan Sabbah, or the group he founded. They’re all over this valley, the Alamut valley. The castle of Alamut itself is way, way up there—” he points at a peak in the distance behind us. “That one is the most famous. But he built a whole bunch more all over the valley. Most are ruins. This one I don’t think most folks knew about, which is why Spaulding wanted it—it was somewhat intact, and it’s hard to get to, and little known.”
“And who is Hassan…whoever?”
Duke glances at me. “Established a group called the Hashishans—fearless warriors who would get high on hashish and kill political rivals of Hassan. Hashishan became our word ‘assassin.’ This was probably built around eleven hundred or so.”
I marvel, despite myself. “No shit.”
“History lesson’s gotta wait.” He drops into a crouch as the Humvee crunches to a halt.
We’re a few yards from the massive arched entryway, now. Dust skirls in the shadows beyond the arch. The other entryway opposite is a distant oval of light. Nothing moves.
There’s no sound, except our breathing, and the rumble of the Humvee.
Tires crunch, and we move forward, under the arch—moss coats the underside of the arch, which spans some twenty feet overhead. Once through, light dims. Shadows tilt as our movement sends the dust dancing. Solid rock overhead.
Duke does something to my rifle—attaching a flashlight, which he flicks on. A dozen or so yards of the tunnel, and then another doorway. Flashlights bounce toward us from the other side, closing in.
My earpiece crackles—I startle, forgetting it was there. “This is Deerdancer,” comes a soft female voice. “Contact, on the ridge above your position.”
“We’re all inside the target, Deerdancer,” comes Harris’s voice. “Engage at will.”
“Weapons free, confirmed.”
There’s a distantCRACK, funneled to us by the entryway. Another, and another.
