Three Kings

As they made their approach, Fedorov spotted the angular plateau ahead, recognizing it from an article he had read the previous year… so long ago it seemed now, in the year 2020. That was the place where BP made that great breakthrough. He was not thinking of Bletchley Park this time, but of another BP, British Petroleum. Yes, that was the place that was supposed to save the Western world for the next twenty to fifty years with flows of light sweet crude that must be hidden there even now, deep beneath the forbidding terrain. What was the name? He remembered it now, a strange handle for the world’s newest superfield in 2020. It was called Sultan Apache.

“Troyak calls it the Devil’s Teardrop,” said Orlov.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Zykov. “The Devil never weeps. He’s too busy laughing.”

The other men chuckled at that as they huddled near their field tents. The helo was down, safely landed with the engines capped off and secured from blowing sand, which wasn’t bad yet. The men had established a camp to wait forPopski’s comrades and their jeeps. Popski thought it might be wise to have a look around while they were on the ground, and Fedorov agreed. If the Italians had patrols out, they might stumble on them by surprise.

Popski assisted the Marines in getting ‘desertized’ as he called it. He had them tuck their trouser cuffs into the top of their boots, and made sure each man had a good pair of goggles and a scarf. Thankfully they had brought these things at his request, and they now proved their worth when the sand started blowing. The Marines then set up tents that could be well sealed off, but Troyak knew they would have to mount a security watch, and he took the post himself, along with Popski, who seemed restless and ill at ease the moment they were on the ground again.

“You expecting the night witches any time soon?” Zykov asked their guide, ribbing him a bit.

“If they come, they’ll be in an Autoblinda-40 armored car with a pair of nasty 8mm machine guns mounted in the turret.”

“Oh?” Zykov smiled. “If they do, they’ll get a nice little RPG-30 for their trouble, and I’ll blow them half way to hell.”

Popski gave him a stolid grin. “You men might be well armed, and I can see you’ve been well trained, but understand one thing here. You’re never safe in the desert. Never. Look around, we already are half way to hell. If any place on this earth could be called that, it’s right under your ass as we speak. Your Sergeant Troyak knows as much. I can see it in the way he took his post the moment we landed.” Popski nodded to Troyak, who was standing off a ways out from the helicopter, his assault rifle unshouldered and at the ready.

“Hey Popski,” said Orlov. “What do you make of this?”

He tossed their guide the strange object he had found in Siberia.

“One of your grenades?” Popski gave it an odd look.

“Naw, just something I happened across on another mission. Troyak calls it the Devil’s Teardrop. Ever seen anything like it?”

“Can’t say as I have. Damn thing is smooth as silk, so it is not any kind of rock I’ve ever seen. Good name for it, given its shape. Where’d you come by it?”

“Siberia, another kind of desert. Dangerous there too.”

“Scared the shit out of Orlov,” said Zykov. “That’s for sure.”

“Zavaliyebalo!” Orlov swore in protest, but Zykov just gave him a wink.

“Maybe I’ll get there one day and we’ll see,” said Popski. And he tossed the object back to Orlov, who held it in his hand, fiddling with it like a man might play with a marble. Then he suddenly had a strange look on his face, his eyes widening, hand opening quickly as he dropped the object to the stony ground.

“Yob!” he said loudly, shaking his hand. “What did you do to the damn thing? It’s hot as hell!”

They all stared at the object, amazed to see that it was glowing with a strange luminescence, a phosphorescent green. Then there came a roar that sounded like a peal of distant thunder, and Popski looked over his shoulder, his weathered eyes laden with concern.

He reached for his submachine gun where it rode easily on his broad round shoulder. The other Marines acted on sheer instinct, weapons ready and up on their feet at once. A second crack of thunder was heard, then eerie green lightning scored the darkening reddish brown sky, which was suddenly alight, backlit with a bright glow.

Any explosion in the desert could mean only one thing, thought Popski. They had been found. It had to be artillery. They were under attack.

Part IX

The Brigade