Death itself. Hardly more than skull atop a wasting body, a skeletal frame whose flesh was hardly thicker than paper and translucent throughout.
“And how are you today, Qarnain?” Killov asked, saluting quickly, his arm snapping to attention, half in a Russian salute, half a Nazi stiff arm—although that could just as easily have been from the colonel’s arthritis. His body had been wracked for years now, by abuses of so many kinds that he had been shrunken down to his bare essentials—muscle and bone and hide. Like a sewer rat that grows lean and mean, with its slicked-back black hair, its teeth showing dimly in the dark. Thus was Killov himself a survivor who had been forged into compressed but murderous gristle and grime. The colonel smiled thinly, his parted lips revealing yellow teeth, some rotted nearly all the way through. A nasty odor that blew out from between the thin lips made Qarnain turn his head for a moment.
“So, Qarnain, our rendezvous is drawing close,” Killov said, standing with his hands behind him, staring ahead into the Atlantic ocean as they headed toward the country he had been chased from. “We must make a final inspection of the armaments, be assured that the technical support teams are all proceeding smoothly in their preparation operations. Do not forget the trouble we had with the main hydraulics. Timing is crucial to this whole operation. There will be no second chances.”
“Yes, yes, Colonel, we shall inspect,” Qarnain said. “But do not for a moment doubt the success of this final Jihad. Allah is with us—and Allah is great. We can only win.”
“I do not, of course, question your Allah,” Killov smirked quickly. “I know that Allah is as you say—great. But I, too, have a few tricks up my sleeves.” He licked his dry, cracked lips and popped a few blue pills into his mouth, drinking them down with several sips of a red liquid from a flask. The man was always popping pills, Qarnain had observed. He hardly seemed to eat a bite of real food. It was as if the act of eating, of digesting, disgusted him.
Sometimes the Arab fighter felt afraid of this man. He knew Killov had no belief in Allah at all—or anything else, for that matter. He just wanted to kill the Premier, seize control of the Red brass—and world power. But that was fine with Qarnain. The Arab would use Killov until it was no longer necessary. But then would come a time . . .
The colonel looked as if he had died a hundred years ago and been preserved with some fluid that slightly tanned his stretched, leathery skin. His hands were long and thin and seemed hardly more than cold bones. The other men, the crew, the commandos, referred to him as “Skeleton Hands” and “He who is dead”—behind his back, of course. When he walked on the deck or through the ship, they always conveniently turned their eyes away, not daring to meet those black pits of fire head on.
The two men walked toward the hold as Arab guards armed with long scimitars, as well as Kalasnikov automatics, bowed deeply, as their leader, the Last Prophet, passed. They walked until they came to a long flight of metal stairs leading down into the guts of the giant tanker. Qarnain led Killov through a honeycomb of metal tunnels painted stark white, until they reached a thick metal door; four men armed with machine guns stood in front of it. The black-robed guards opened the door, pushing it slowly like the ritual door to a secret mosque. They all bowed low as Qarnain and Killov stepped through.
The two men suddenly entered another world—an immense cavern of steel garishly lit by high intensity lamps strung around the superstructure of the tanker’s girders. The huge room hummed and buzzed with activity, the whir of motorized vehicles, lifts and pulleys working and grinding away in the salty air. The smell of exhaust fumes was almost overpowering as they filled the great space with a grayish haze. The hold of the tanker, normally filled with
“And how are you today, Qarnain?” Killov asked, saluting quickly, his arm snapping to attention, half in a Russian salute, half a Nazi stiff arm—although that could just as easily have been from the colonel’s arthritis. His body had been wracked for years now, by abuses of so many kinds that he had been shrunken down to his bare essentials—muscle and bone and hide. Like a sewer rat that grows lean and mean, with its slicked-back black hair, its teeth showing dimly in the dark. Thus was Killov himself a survivor who had been forged into compressed but murderous gristle and grime. The colonel smiled thinly, his parted lips revealing yellow teeth, some rotted nearly all the way through. A nasty odor that blew out from between the thin lips made Qarnain turn his head for a moment.
“So, Qarnain, our rendezvous is drawing close,” Killov said, standing with his hands behind him, staring ahead into the Atlantic ocean as they headed toward the country he had been chased from. “We must make a final inspection of the armaments, be assured that the technical support teams are all proceeding smoothly in their preparation operations. Do not forget the trouble we had with the main hydraulics. Timing is crucial to this whole operation. There will be no second chances.”
“Yes, yes, Colonel, we shall inspect,” Qarnain said. “But do not for a moment doubt the success of this final Jihad. Allah is with us—and Allah is great. We can only win.”
“I do not, of course, question your Allah,” Killov smirked quickly. “I know that Allah is as you say—great. But I, too, have a few tricks up my sleeves.” He licked his dry, cracked lips and popped a few blue pills into his mouth, drinking them down with several sips of a red liquid from a flask. The man was always popping pills, Qarnain had observed. He hardly seemed to eat a bite of real food. It was as if the act of eating, of digesting, disgusted him.
Sometimes the Arab fighter felt afraid of this man. He knew Killov had no belief in Allah at all—or anything else, for that matter. He just wanted to kill the Premier, seize control of the Red brass—and world power. But that was fine with Qarnain. The Arab would use Killov until it was no longer necessary. But then would come a time . . .
The colonel looked as if he had died a hundred years ago and been preserved with some fluid that slightly tanned his stretched, leathery skin. His hands were long and thin and seemed hardly more than cold bones. The other men, the crew, the commandos, referred to him as “Skeleton Hands” and “He who is dead”—behind his back, of course. When he walked on the deck or through the ship, they always conveniently turned their eyes away, not daring to meet those black pits of fire head on.
The two men walked toward the hold as Arab guards armed with long scimitars, as well as Kalasnikov automatics, bowed deeply, as their leader, the Last Prophet, passed. They walked until they came to a long flight of metal stairs leading down into the guts of the giant tanker. Qarnain led Killov through a honeycomb of metal tunnels painted stark white, until they reached a thick metal door; four men armed with machine guns stood in front of it. The black-robed guards opened the door, pushing it slowly like the ritual door to a secret mosque. They all bowed low as Qarnain and Killov stepped through.
The two men suddenly entered another world—an immense cavern of steel garishly lit by high intensity lamps strung around the superstructure of the tanker’s girders. The huge room hummed and buzzed with activity, the whir of motorized vehicles, lifts and pulleys working and grinding away in the salty air. The smell of exhaust fumes was almost overpowering as they filled the great space with a grayish haze. The hold of the tanker, normally filled with
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