Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

Now Bishop saw the blackened squares of concrete between the houses. He hadn’t noticed them before because the inhabitants had done a fair job of cleaning up, but now he recognized them as home foundations. The dark slabs of concrete were all that remained of houses that had been demolished.

“How many did they kill?”

“I’m not sure. Hassi had a population of about a thousand people a few months ago. Now, no more than a few hundred are left. Certainly there are no more than four hundred residents still living here.”

“They killed six hundred people?”

“No, a lot of people fled when the jihadists came to town, but the bastards still managed to kill a couple hundred. Most of the people were simple farmers who tended the fields you saw.” CJ shook his head; for once his ever-present smile was nowhere to be seen. “There won’t be many crops to harvest this season. But even if there were, there’s no one left to do it.”

They landed the plane on a small road just to the east of Hassi. A battered green Saipa Z24 sat at the edge of the runway. A single occupant sat on the hood. The man looked to be in his sixties, or perhaps his seventies, with large, bushy white eyebrows and a few tufts of gray hair poking out from under his stained Red Sox cap. He waved to the plane and CJ brought it around.

“That’s Ilias,” CJ said. “An old friend of mine. He’ll get us to the Manifold site.”

“He has a truck,” Bishop noted, pointing at the Saipa.

“It doesn’t run. That thing’s been sitting in that same spot for years.”

Bishop looked again and noticed the flat, dry rotted tires, the large patches of rust and the smashed headlights. So much for a nice, easy drive to the site.

When the plane came to a stop, Bishop and CJ stepped out into the sunlight. The first thing Bishop noticed was the heat. Waves of it rolled upward from the sun-baked ground, making the image of the Saipa shimmer. Almost immediately, sweat began to pool in his underarms and on his forehead. Tehran had been warm, but the edge of the Kavir was hot.

CJ noticed his discomfort. “You were born here, weren’t you? You’d think your body would be better prepared for this.” He winked.

“I didn’t complain,” Bishop said.

“You get used to it, B. Just make sure you have enough water.”

Bishop didn’t need to be told. He’d spent plenty of time in arid regions on one mission or another. He knew how to get by. No Special Forces team ever went into service in the Middle East without some form of desert survival training; it was a prerequisite to deployment. As a Delta operative himself, CJ was undoubtedly aware of that.

He’s probably just baiting me again, Bishop thought. He liked CJ, the man was easy with a smile and seemed perpetually cheerful. During his previous correspondence with the man, Bishop had never quite grasped the level of the man’s geniality. Amazing how much of someone’s character could get lost sending short, clipped messages through cyberspace. That said, he could do with a little less conversation and a little more action. “Let’s get to it.”

Ilias stood as they approached, his dry, cracked lips spreading into a wide gap-toothed grin.

“Welcome back, Hani,” he said in Persian, embracing CJ. “It is good to see you.”

“Hani?” Bishop asked.

CJ looked at him and for once managed to look a bit embarrassed. “It’s a nickname. It means—”

“Happy,” Bishop finished for him. “I know.” The name fit CJ’s personality.

CJ nodded. “Ilias is one of my oldest friends. He gave me the nickname as a child.”

“I’ll have to remember that one,” Bishop said.

Ilias turned to Bishop and held out his hand, which Bishop took. “A pleasure to meet you,” Ilias said in stilted English.

“Likewise,” Bishop replied, then switched to Persian. “Where’s our ride?”

“In a hurry?” Ilias asked.

“He’s all business,” CJ said. “I—”

“Actually,” Bishop said. “We are in a hurry.” They really didn’t have time to share pleasantries. If this man really was a friend of CJ’s, then he would get over the curt greeting.

“Of course,” Ilias said with a nod, and motioned toward a copse of trees. “Apologies. Our transport is over there.”

Bishop looked, and there, underneath the trees, were two small motorcycles with wide, fat tires, and a four-wheeler. The four-wheeler had a faded orange gas can and a blue cooler strapped to the rear rack. An old single shot rifle was secured to the front rack. Bishop recognized the bikes as Yamaha Big Wheels, which were popular back in the late eighties, along with big hair and parachute pants. But the wide, knobby tires would be perfect for riding through the desert.