[b]Atlas Mountains, Spanish Morocco[/b] Through a pair of binoculars, Julio Zuraban scanned across the desert wadi, combing across a jagged horizon where a hazy blue sky met the dark basalt of the Atlas Mountains. Still nothing. The coast remained clear. "Nothing yet." Julio reported, lowering the binoculars and laying them down upon the boulder he sat behind. "Good." The news bore no effect on Graciela, who continued staring out over the valley from behind the scope of a monstrous rifle. Laid across the top of the same boulder, the gun was every bit as long as its user was tall. It was a high powered rifle built to penetrate the engine blocks of armored vehicles during the Great War. Such weapons were no longer in vogue in modern militaries; man-portable rocket launchers had become the vehicle-killer of choice for well funded armies, and so Great War surplus like this trickled down to brushfire conflicts and rebel armies the world over. For her purposes, however, this mothballed anti-tank rifle was exactly the tool the plan required. "Eyes up," Graciela reminded tersely. "Gunships frequent this area, we could get company at any moment." Julio returned the binoculars to his face and resumed his vigil over the sky. No sign of the dreaded helicopters that patrolled these lands so doggedly, Julio's attention went to a band of Tuareg warriors milling about in the bottom of the wadi. Within the twin ovals of the binoculars, Julio watched as the Bedouin carried worn old tires on their back and deposited them at the trunk of a spindly acacia shrub. The Ethiopian adviser, Dejene, watched as the Tuaregs made their haphazard pile about the scrubby tree before splashing the tires with the contents of a small jerrycan. Seeming satisfied with the pile, Dejene struck a match, cast it upon the pile and orange tongues of fire sprouted forth from the tires. Julio followed the thick, black smoke as it rose up into the clear sky above. "That should attract some attention," Graciela mused as she watched the tire pile ignite through her scope, along with Dejene gesturing to the Tuareg to assume ambush positions. Julio followed the Bedouin as they scrambled up the rocks on the opposite side of the wadi. Even with sheathed swords dangling at their hip and billowing robes knocking against their knees, the Tuareg easily negotiated the boulders on the far slope and tucked themselves into crags in the rocks or beneath acacia scrub. Within moments, the desert warriors were invisible. The wadi had returned to its previous desolate and uninhabited state. The inky smoke rising from this barren land would be suspicious indeed to anyone who happened on the site from the air. "Now pay careful attention to the sky, Julio." She reminded, somehow aware he was no longer scanning the horizon for activity. Julio's binoculars traced the distant peaks. A speck of motion far off in the distance - a dark speck rising upward against the lavender-blue haze that frosted the horizon. It could only be one thing: Spanish aircraft. "I saw something," Julio reported, his pulse intensifying. "Where?" "Off to the left, between the..." "Clock positions, Senator," Graciela demanded. "Erm.... ten, eleven o'clock?" Julio combed over the peaks he had seen the twinge of motion. He found it again, hovering over that same dusty peak, but could not see what exactly it was. His fingers fumbled with the focus knob between the two lenses. As the wheel spun, the world became blurry - wrong way. A few spins in the reciprocal direction and the clarity increased. He could see what that speck in the distance was. "Nevermind," Julio sighed. "What do you mean?" "It was just an eagle. We're still clear." Julio's face reddened with shame, lowering the binoculars again. "Apologies for putting you on edge." "Don't apologize," Graciela chastised, still scanning over the land through the rifle's scope. "I'd much prefer an early false alarm to learning too late that we're not alone." Julio nodded, stealing a glance of Graciela. She laid flat against the boulder, the dark leather of her pilot jacket blended well against the basalt. Baggy khaki trousers that once comprised part of a complete [i]Ejercito[/i] battle uniform were rolled at her ankles to accommodate well worn combat boots; he caught himself staring at the neat mound her buttocks made in spite of the oversized khakis. "I take it you've served in the Ejercito?" "Not a chance," Graciela bristled. "Women can still only join in non-combatant roles as nurses and such. But even if I [i]could[/i] fight, I'd sooner lop off my trigger fingers than enlist. The Ejercito has spilled much of my family's blood." A sensitive subject it seemed. Better to drop the conversation, Julio reasoned. "What makes you ask?" She pressed. "The outfit? The jacket came from one of the pilots on that plane you came down on; the pants from a patrol that came too close to the camp." "That and the way you handle the firearm," Julio added, attempting to cover his oogling. "I was born in the Basque Country; hunting is common in that part of Spain. My father took me hunting since I was five years old, I shot my first boar before my seventh birthday. The Ejercito has no monopoly on marksmen, certainly not on markswomen." "Keep watching." She reminded once more. Julio once again put the binoculars to his face and screened the desolate landscape. "Have you ever... uh," Julio stumbled over words as morbid curiosity overcame his trepidations. "Have you ever shot a [i]person[/i] before?" "I wouldn't call them people, the men I've killed. After what they've done to my father, people like you, I feel no remorse in ending them. I don't distinguish between a hog and one of Sotelo's men." "My condolences for your father," Julio offered. "I fear the worst for him. He was an avowed enemy of the state. Those like you and Joaquin only asked too many questions for the regime's liking. You were more of an indirect threat to Sotelo's power, dangerous in your own right but not as pressing - they had to disguise your sequestration with this ridiculous virus quarantine story. My father and his colleagues presented an existential threat to Sotelo - Basque nationalists who decided to work with other disaffected circles when Alfonso Sotelo started to show the country who he really was. That was the beginning of the Partisans." "That was where my father and his colleagues made their mistake - letting strangers - spies, informants - be privy to the workings of the movement. They bided their time until the critical moment, and took them all in a swoop." "They sent them to... Arratzu?" Julio shuddered as the name left his lips. The memory of that wretched place filled his mind with unwelcome images. The sting of the truth serum crackled through his brain by association, he winced tacitly behind the binoculars, waiting for the surge to abate as he calmed down. "No need for it. From what I gather from you and the others on the plane, Arratzu is an interrogation center disguised as a quarantine hospital. My father and his friends were clearly enemies of the state - no need for that ridiculous virus story for them. And the informants in their midst had relayed everything Sotelo could have ever wanted to know. If they didn't execute him on the spot, then the only place the regime would have taken him is [i]La Cabeza[/i]." [i]La Cabeza[/i] - the Head. Since crashing down in this land, the fortress one hundred kilometers to the southwest was the center of every endeavor, at the heart of all questions. He had heard from Dejene that the Bedouin locals had noticed heavy construction equipment moving deep into the desert sometime in mid-1976. That had been a tumultuous time indeed for the Second Spanish Republic, a brief engagement in the Second North American War, followed immediately thereafter by Miguel Tejero's assasination and the attack on the Capitol complex in Madrid. Alfonso Sotelo ascended to power in the ensuing the emergency elections. And while Spain proper's attention was assaulted by immense happenings, the publications were too distracted to make note of the momentous construction efforts going underway at the edge of the Sahara. Whatever was at La Cabeza, it was to be left alone. The government had gone to immense lengths - literally - to assure the facility's security. Even at a distance of a hundred kilometers, patrol aircraft combed the desert to assure prying eyes stayed well away from a facility buried underneath a mountain. The settled Moroccans were easy enough to keep at bay, but it seemed that the Tuareg Bedouin required more persuasion. If Dejene was to be believed, the Spanish government had done terrible things to these people. But if La Cabeza to be left alone, why then had Julio been sent with a hundred other prisoners to this place, one of numerous daily shipments of people being taken to this place? Slave labor perhaps. In addition to the planes, trains laden with all manner of materials had been reported moving to the facility, but invariably leaving emptied out for the return trip to Tangiers or Marrakesh to be loaded with more materials. That seemed to be the most plausible explanation. It was one of the more optimistic outlooks. "What do you think is there?" Julio asked, his curiosity demanded to know if Graciela had heard more from Dejene or the Tuaregs about what La Cabeza was or was not. "I have no idea, but we'll know soon enough what that place is." --------------------------- Locusts made rattling calls from the acacia scrub as the day wore on. Six interminable hours had passed since they had arrived to establish this ambush. The signal fire had died down multiple times as the tires burned down, and now Dejene and the Tuaregs were running out of tires. Around the charred stumps where the acacia bush had been hours before, robed Bedouin placed bundles of dessicated acacia limbs into the fire to supplement their dwindling supply of vulcanized rubber. Soon, they would would be out, and they would have to return to the camp to scavenge more tires from abandoned hamlets within La Cabeza's exclusion zone - dangerous and laborious task in itself. Julio could feel his face burning in the desert sun. Sunscreen was a luxury the Tuareg did not possess, likely why they insisted on their full-bodied robes, and so Julio had to do without. He was certain that looking through the binoculars for several hours had left two rings of unburnt skin around his eyes, the sort of sunburns tourists at Ibiza or the Canaries got after leaving their sunglasses on a long day at the beach. He looked once again across the landscape. The sun was lower in the sky now, casting long shadows against the rocks and crags of the wadi. It would be dark in a few hours, and the ambush would have to be called off soon even if there was plenty of rubber to burn. Being out in the dark, exposed to nighttime patrols, was a dangerous proposition as it was feared that the gunship pilots had cutting-edge infrared goggles to see activity even on moonless nights. "We need to be going soon," Julio spoke up, his voice raspy for lack of water. "Much longer and we'll be hiking back in the dark." "One more hour, or until Dejene runs out of tires - whichever comes first. Keep looking until then." The same, bleak empty horizon greeted Julio as he scanned once again. In the distance, a pair of eagles could be seen in the distance, gaining altitude on the updrafts rising over the mountains. On second glance, it was one large eagle. Julio spun the knob to focus on it. It wasn't an eagle this time. "Graciela, we have company! Your two o'clock position!" Graciela slid down off the boulder for the first time in hours, pivoting the massive rifle to the reported direction. A second of silence as she fixed the scope upon the object, and then Graciela's uncovered eye widened. "Barracuda!!" She screamed across the wadi to Dejene. "Coming in from the West! Get to cover!" Julio slid down out of the open behind the boulder next to Graciela, occasionally peeking out into the wadi as the Tuareg scattered for their hiding spots. Dejene rolled the last two tires into the fire before breaking for the rubble and ducking into cover just as the roar of the chopper's propellers became audible. The gunship decelerated as it descended toward the wadi, its downgusts sent sheets of dust and sand scattering off the ridges as it approached. There was no doubt, the pilot had noticed the smoke and had decided to investigate. The constant thwocking of the propellers was now deafening. Julio slid as far down beneath the boulder as he could. Wispy desert brush waggled behind him as the gunship slowed to a crawl over the wadi. He looked directly above and saw the underside of the attack helicopter. At this distance, the individual rivets of the aircraft could be counted. The boots of a gunman seated at a pintle-mounted machinegun dangled mere meters above him. His heart was racing now as he hoped desperately that the soldiers inside did not think to look down at this moment. Fluttering earthward in the downdraft, a glowing cigarette butt fell from the helicopter and nearly landed on Graciela's boots. The gunship eased off to his right, circling around over the wadi - wisely scanning the area for any sign of danger. So long as they weren't very thorough, Julio hoped. The helicopter was now somewhere over the big boulder, Julio nor Graciela dared to peek over to see exactly where. But the rotors were winding down - gradually but surely. The gunship was going to land and investigate - the bait had been taken. A minute passed, and Julio could definitely hear the rotors idling now. The gunship had certainly landed at this point. He shifted about, crawling around to the side of the boulder to peer out into the wadi. Dust danced about the valley as three Spaniards clad in Ejercito battle uniforms disembarked from the open fuselage of the chopper while a pilot and copilot threw switches behind the windshield. The soldiers stepped out incautiously into the desert wash with seemingly little concern, though standard issue firearms slung across their backs could be accessed at a moment's notice. There was plenty that could go wrong with this ambush yet. "Tires," one of the soldiers reported to his comrades in Castillian, poking the smoldering rubber with his boot. "Goddamn Tuareg were probably camped out here. I saw a ton of footprints in the sand before the props blew them all away." "Probably buggered off when they heard us coming," the more-senior of the soldiers concluded. "I doubt they got far. See if you can find some tracks, will you? I'll go ahead and make sure they call it in. Graciela too had heard that exchange, and knew full well that attracting any more attention was not an option. It was time to strike, silence the radio before anything unusual could be reported. She hefted the giant rifle back up onto the flat of the boulder and took aim. "[i]Jesucri-[/i]" One soldier blurted too late. What followed was likely the single loudest thing Julio Zuraban would ever hear in his entire life. It sounded like a grenade had exploded in his ear. A shell the size of a man's fist tumbled down off the boulder, trailing smoke as clinked down to the ground - inaudible to Julio as sharp tinnitus rang through his head in lieu of the popping of a firefight. Graciela tumbled down behind the boulder before a salvo of small arms fire ricocheted off the rocks. Julio stole a momentary glimpse of the wadi. The three soldiers appeared to have survived, taking cover on the far side of the valley behind a mass of fallen rock. A poor choice of cover indeed - Dejene gave the call for the Tuareg to begin the attack, and immediately they were beset by gunfire from directly behind them. The three of them were dispatched instantly, while another contingent of Tuareg and some of Julio's fellow survivors stormed the gunship. "Let's move!" Graciela commanded, scooping the rifle up into her arms. Julio bolted out from behind the stone and clambered down the hillside to the wadi. By the time they had reached the bottom, all members of the gunship's crew had been disposed of. Four killed by gunfire, another two had attempted to surrender. For their cooperation, they were put to the takooba shortswords carried by the nomad warriors. The Tuareg demonstrated once again that they did not take captives. The Tuaregs and the prisoners removed the dead from the chopper, rifling through their weapons, ammunition, and supplies. When they arrived at the chopper - its blades still whirling overhead - Julio could see the damage inflicted by Graciela's rifle: a perfectly round bullethole had effortlessly pierced the bulletproof windshield panel directly in front of the pilot's seat - leaving only minor spiderweb fractures in the glass. Just inside, the glass, the pilot's upper torso had been pulverized by the monster round. Perhaps a gallon of thick, pasty gore had been splattered across every conceivable surface in the cockpit. Two Tuareg fighters emerged from the Barracuda carrying the lower three-fourths of the pilot's remains in blood-soaked arms. They went out a few paces and then unceremoniously dumped the body with the bodies of the other crew. Julio felt a twinge of remorse. Even though these soldiers would have killed him if given the chance, these were his countrymen that he was complicit in gunning down. If the atmosphere were any less hectic at that moment, perhaps he would have felt serious regret. "You've made a terrible mess in here, Graciela." Dejene reported jestfully, leaning out of the open fuselage as Graciela and Julio jogged over to the chopper. "Will it fly though?" Graciela asked in between pants. "My hands will get very messy, but it appears to be in good condition," the Ethiopian smiled. "You haven't hit anything vital." "Good. Go ahead and start the propellers back up, we need to get moving before they notice the gunship missing." "Agreed. I'll inform the Tuareg to hide the bodies and make their way to camp and await radio communication to mobilize." Dejene explained "I can assist with that," Julio offered. "Without combat experience, I'll be of more use here." "No, you and the other Spaniards go on the gunship with us. We need everyone who can pass for a Spanish soldier on hand if we have any hope of getting into La Cabeza alive."