Plains Of Fire. Don Pendleton

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      BITTURUMBA KNEW IT WAS early, but he poured himself a tumblerful of brandy, his eyes tracking across the desk to glare at Kedzi Kartennian.

      “So we lost the second shipment of canister shells?” Bitturumba asked.

      Kartennian nodded.

      The general sloshed the brandy around, not caring that he was bruising the body of the liquor. He took a deep swig and grimaced. “To whom?”

      “Aflaq called in and said that it was an American. The Russians described him, as well, as someone they feared,” Kartennian stated.

      Bitturumba looked over the olive-skinned Turk. “You’re kidding, right?”

      Kartennian shook his head. “One man, they said.”

      “I sent twenty-four fully armed men!”

      “And only seven, including Aflaq, survived.”

      “Where’s Bashir?” Bitturumba asked.

      “Aflaq said he’s at the bottom of the harbor,” Kartennian said.

      Bitturumba sneered. “Where did he get that information from?”

      “From the lone crusader,” Kartennian stated. “Who’d disguised himself as one of the Russian smugglers.”

      “So Bashir is alive,” Bitturumba mumbled.

      “What?”

      “Bashir’s alive. I don’t know how well he is, but he’s in enemy hands,” the Thunder Lion chief stated. He took another swig, looking at the big machete lying on his desk. It was a well-worn blade, its edge gleaming and slender from multiple sharpenings, the thick spine displaying a slight curve from countless impacts as it sheared through bone and heavy muscle. He reached out and flicked a speck of flesh from a small crack in the spine.

      “Any chance of recovering him?” Kartennian asked.

      Bitturumba shook his head. “No worries. Bashir knows where our bases are in the Sudan, but he doesn’t know the actual plan. He’s expendable.”

      “And the others?” Kartennian pressed.

      “Have them go on soft alert. I’m pretty certain that Aflaq was followed back to the fallback,” Bitturumba stated. “This American’s going to close in on him, and I want to provide a delaying action. Perhaps even expend some of this mysterious warrior’s resources.”

      “The American has always been said to fight alone,” Kartennian noted.

      Bitturumba smirked. “If he even exists. It’s a psychological ploy. He has backup, and he has resources. We lay a trap for him. Call your friends in the Muslim Brotherhood. We won’t let Aflaq know that he has backup. I want a ring of fire and steel ready to collapse on the American and his allies when he goes after the backup base.”

      “Why would he go there?” Kartennian asked. “He knows that we’ll be ready for him, and that we might even call in additional support for our people.”

      “I’ve heard this man’s legend. He is nothing if not thorough,” Bitturumba stated. “He will visit flame and death upon our organization. He will destroy our forces in Alexandria, leaving their corpses as a signpost to our inability to maintain our security.”

      “To send a message to us,” Kartennian mused.

      Bitturumba nodded. “He’ll wait a while, so we have time to marshal a force to bolster the remaining men. Let Aflaq know that this is to be a scorched-earth defense. No amount of sacrifice is too much.”

      “He told me that you’d say something like that,” Kartennian relayed. “He told me that he was willing to die for the cause. We will cleanse our lands of the unbelieving scum, praise God.”

      Bitturumba looked at Kartennian, then mechanically muttered, “Praise be unto him.”

      The burly militia commander paid lip service to the Muslim Turk’s utterance. While he’d been raised by a moderate Islamic mother, Bitturumba had no real stake in any organized religious faith. He put on the facade of one of the faithful, however, only because those fanatics threw their support behind him. Bitturumba used their blind insanity to bolster his climb to power, creating one of the most powerful militias in Africa. The Prophet, however, held no sway over Bitturumba’s decision-making, no more than the Christian Messiah held any sway over his half brother Alonzo Cruz.

      There was only one god that Bitturumba surrendered himself to, and that was himself. As the Thunder Lions grew in power, so did he. Many in the militia had transferred their worship from the Prophet to the African thunder god who wielded a hammer that would rock the entire world. His half brother, a European sorcerer who had forged an even more powerful thunderbolt for him to wield, was the Loki to his Thor. It was only fair that the two gods would unite to begin their own pantheon. Bitturumba was the embodiment of war, Cruz the master of misery and suffering. Together, their intellects and resources combined were far more powerful than they were alone. Bitturumba didn’t mind. He loved his sibling, and knew that the sum was greater than the parts, power growing exponentially from their united effort.

      Kartennian was one of Cruz’s gifts to Bitturumba. The Turkish rebel had branched out, bringing about the hardcore Wahabite teachings of radical, extreme Islam to the rest of the world. Bitturumba was familiar enough with the Koran and the Hadritha to walk rings around the Turk in a theological debate if he wanted to. The only thing that the Prophet had accomplished that impressed the African warrior was the sheer terror he’d inflicted on the Middle East, decapitating thousands of enemies, and enjoying the lamentations of their women and children.

      “Praise be unto him,” Bitturumba repeated.

      Kartennian looked at the brandy remaining in Bitturumba’s glass. “You really should not drink.”

      Bitturumba looked down. “I am a warrior, embarking upon a battle that will shake the world. Did not the Prophet allow for true believers to partake of hashish in order to gird their will?”

      “But…”

      “Did he not?” Bitturumba asked. “And yet, where is your gift to me, the warrior who will bring God’s will to this continent?”

      “Alcohol is the devil’s tool,” Kartennian mentioned.

      Bitturumba tapped the glass. “Then Satan’s swizzle is pretty damn transparent.”

      Kartennian managed a laugh.

      “My mind and heart are clear. Satan has placed no words in my mouth,” Bitturumba told him. He wrapped his beefy paw around the glass bottle. “I hold the wick of the devil and control it.”

      “Peace be with you,” Kartennian stated with a nod. “I shall speak with our Egyptian brothers.”

      Bitturumba dismissed the Turk with a smile. Naturally, Kartennian’s communications would be monitored.

      One did not become a god of thunder and war without keeping an eye on even those who’d claimed to be allies. If Kartennian betrayed him, his head would be mailed back to his family with a grenade jammed in the neck hole.

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