Hammer of God

CHAPTER 14

Jack Hammerson leaned back in his chair, a pair of strong blunt hands clasped together across his stomach. He faced a huge screen set into his office wall that showed an image of the nighttime desert in the Mashhad District of Northern Iran. Even though it was night, the illumination settings of the VELA satellite feed made it as clear as daytime.

The small town of Tous suddenly rose about fifty feet in the air, like it was sitting upon a huge blister about to pop, and then with a venting of boiling gasses from a million cracks over a two-mile radius, it simply fell back in on itself, forming a massive sunken crater. Anything and everything below ground would have ceased to exist.

Hammerson continued to watch the screen. To him, it looked like the earth had just been pounded by a mighty fist, or titanic hammer.

“So strikes the hammer of God.” He smiled. “That’s what happens when you play with fire.”

He knew the drill; mining accident, the government would say for the local and international press. Nuclear accident, the Iranian military would agree.

Hammerson grunted. They did it to themselves, Hammerson would say, if any of his superiors asked of their involvement. He turned away from the screen. His recovery teams were already waiting in Turkmenistan to pull Alex and the team out.

He closed the folder and got to his feet, crossing to the window. He stood looking out over the parade ground, hands clasped behind his back.

“You push, and we push back harder.” He watched a storm rolling in from the west for several more minutes before hearing his computer ping with a message. He turned back to his desk, and sat down reading the new data, and watching the new satellite feed.

He grunted. “One last loose end to tie off.” He placed a headset over his head and prepared to initiate the order.

The huge figure lumbered toward the ancient city of Misrata in Libya. It joined the masses of humanity heading in toward the busy coastal city, once called the Riviera of Libya, now just another boiling pot of sectarian violence.

The figure was bent under the weight on its back, but it still towered over the people around it. The giant plodded on, unfeeling, uncaring, and unswerving in its allotted task. A cowl was pulled forward over a heavily scarified face.

A man fell in beside it to its left, and the giant ignored him. Another fell in to its right. This one was also ignored. The behemoth plodded in, its designated target — Rome — all that mattered.

Eyes watched from a thousand miles overhead, and single word was spoken into the ears of the men on each side of the hooded figure. Immediately, long knives were drawn, and in a single sweep the large head was removed from the body. The two attackers didn’t stop, slashing at the shoulders and removing both arms to the horror of those who watched. The massive drum fell from the torso to thump on the dirt.

The two then didn’t stop their hacking until there was nothing but chunks of flesh, some still twisting and writhing at their feet like small animals.

A covered truck slid to a stop, and small crane swung out to lift the large package into the rear. The driver jumped free with a canister, pouring gasoline over the remains, and then igniting them.

In another few seconds, the truck, and the attackers, had vanished, leaving a trail of greasy smoke rising into the air, the only remnants of the magic and monstrosities of the world’s last great alchemist.