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

Just before the impact, Massai grabbed the stick from Devan’s limp hand and pulled it back. It was the only thing he could think to do. The craft tilted upward and slowed, and for a moment he thought it would be like flying a small plane, but then the stick jerked to the right and the whole craft pitched sideways. The stick bucked and jerked like a living thing, and soon ripped itself free of his grip. The Bell spun and rolled its way to the desert floor while he tried to get into his seat. Just before he could buckle himself in, they hit the ground with an ear splitting metallic screech. Then the whole world turned into a bright white light.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back. He looked up to see the cockpit of the Bell above him. Devan hung upside down from his seat, his broken body still strapped into the pilot’s seat. Blood dripped from the wound in his shoulder to patter onto the vinyl of the seat next to Massai. By the angle of Devan’s head, there was no way the pilot could still be alive. Massai checked for a pulse anyway, just be sure, and found none.

He glanced at the radio. It looked fine. At least there was that.

“Ahmad,” he called. “Are you there?”

“I am here,” Ahmad said from somewhere outside the wreckage. “Are you hurt?”

“Not badly,” Massai replied. His head ached, and he felt a warm trickle from his right temple to his jaw that could only be blood. His left wrist stung, leading him to believe he’d sprained it, and two of his ribs felt like they might be broken. But it could have been much worse. Both his legs worked, and that was the main thing. It meant he could walk. “How about you?”

“I am fine. A few scratches, nothing more.” Massai couldn’t believe it. He pulled himself out of the wreckage to find Ahmad kneeling in the sand about five feet away and praying. He didn’t have his mat with him, but he didn’t seem to mind putting his knees in the dirt and prostrating himself on the desert floor. After a few minutes of prayer, he stood up, brushed the sand off his knees, and smiled.

“The radio looks all right,” Massai offered.

Ahmad’s smile grew. “I told you Allah would protect us,” he said cheerfully.

Massai would have preferred Allah be a bit more proactive in his protection, but he kept that thought to himself. “Devan is dead.”

Ahmad didn’t flinch. Death was nothing new to either of them.

Massai noted several tracks around the helicopter, including a set that went away from the crash and then returned. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Twenty minutes. I used that time to look around.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“A few kilometers west of the research facility.”

“You saw it?”

Ahmad produced a pair of binoculars from the ground at his feet and handed them to Massai. “If you climb over that small ridge, you can see for yourself.”

Massai took the binoculars but didn’t bother to look. “Are they still there?”

“No, they have long gone, but they left one of the motorcycles behind.”

“Do you think Joker disabled it?”

“It looks good from here,” Ahmad answered. “In any case, it is a better alternative to the radio.”

Massai couldn’t argue. He could probably raise Shahid on the radio, but there was never any telling who might be listening. It would be better to take the bike and ride it back to Hassi. Once there he could contact Shahid on an encrypted line, as long as his cell phone still worked.

He pulled it out of his pocket and turned it on. As he suspected, he had no signal at all, but at least it was still working. He turned it off to save the battery and started walking.

An hour later, he and Ahmad, sweating and cursing, reached the concrete cylinder that marked the entrance to manifold’s facility. By then, both men were parched and thirsty, but there was no water to be had anywhere. Joker and Somers had taken the four-wheeler he’d seen earlier, and thus the cooler and gas it carried. He’d expected as much, of course.

Ahmad examined the Yamaha, checking the fuel level of the tank, and nodded. “Nearly full,” he said. The front end looked bent, but the engine seemed intact.

Good. The ride might not be comfortable, but it should get them back to Hassi. From there they would call in the Sikorsky.

“They will still beat us there,” Ahmad said. “They have too great a head start.”

Massai nodded. “But we know where they are going.”

“Shiraz,” Ahmad said.

Massai nodded. “We will confront them there, in the Abbasi…what is that?”

In the dirt by the cylinder, Massai spotted a crumpled green shape. He walked over to it and recognized it as a backpack. Olive green, not quite military issue, but clearly modeled after those given out by the Iranian Army. On the flap was a sewn-on patch featuring The Joker from the American comic books.

“It’s his,” Ahmad said.

Massai picked it up and looked inside. He couldn’t believe his luck. In addition to four bottles of water, the pack had ammunition for a .380 pistol, several packs of American MREs, a knife, a flashlight and ten or twelve DVDs. He picked up one of the DVDs and read the writing on the disk.

Manifold, Ergot Facility, Camera 12 - April 14, 2010. 1600 to 0000.

Security tapes from inside the facility!

“What are these doing out here?” he wondered aloud.

“The Joker must have been taking them and dropped his pack during the fight.”

“Why would he want them?”