Free Termination Orders by Leo J. Maloney Page A

statement had a slight, hopeful inflection to it. His accent was minor, but the precision of his pronunciation revealed that English was not his first language.
    Morgan brought the aim of his MAC-10 to the stranger’s chest. “And you are?”
    “Code Name Wings. I am Lieutenant Colonel Kadir Fastia.”
    Morgan lowered his weapon but remained tense, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. The man in the turban smiled, bowed, and said, “Salaam.”
    “Salaam,” they each responded in turn.
    Salaam . The word echoed in Morgan’s head. Peace . Not in this world.
     
     
    Morgan rode shotgun as Fastia drove them down an old dirt road, not a sign of humanity in the encroaching darkness. “The main highway is not safe for the three of us traveling together,” Fastia told them. “This way will take us longer, but we will not be stopped. I am afraid we have a long way to go. I have arranged safe lodging near Tripoli. But you may sleep now if you wish.” Morgan looked back at Conley, who was sitting behind Fastia, alert and with his gun resting loosely in his hand, ready to shoot Fastia through the seat if necessary. Trust only went so far.
    “Cobra . . .” said Fastia idly. “Tell me, did you choose that name yourself?”
    “Yeah, I did,” said Morgan curtly.
    “May I ask why?”
    “The cobra is a killer,” Morgan responded. “Agile, cold, ruthless, and efficient. You don’t want to mess with a cobra. And I wanted everyone I encountered to know,” he said, looking pointedly at Fastia, “that you don’t want to mess with me.”
    “Not all men are able to choose their own names,” said Fastia. After a few minutes’ silence, Fastia began to speak again, still staring dead ahead at the road before them. “A man under my command was bitten by a cobra once. We were running exercise drills in the desert, and he stepped in the wrong mound of sand. The snake bit his ankle, right through his boot. It was an unfortunate circumstance. The man responsible for bringing the first-aid kit, which had the antivenin necessary to save this man’s life, had forgotten it. We were too far into the desert to get him back to safety in time. He convulsed violently for interminable minutes as we tried in vain to suck the poison out of the bite. His ankle grew swollen and black. He screamed and screamed, in pain. For us to save him. Yelled out for his mother. A grown man, yelling for his mother. It was not long before he died. Do you know how people who are bitten by the cobra die?”
    Morgan did not respond.
    “Of asphyxiation. The cobra venom attacks the brain and causes paralysis. The victim soon loses the ability to breathe. Within half an hour, this man’s heart was not beating anymore.”
    There was a long silence between them, during which all they could hear was the rumble of the engine. Morgan later remembered wondering about what Fatia’s purpose was in telling this story, whether it was some kind of test. He glanced back at Conley, who looked at him but made no sign in response. Finally, Morgan spoke. “You’re an intelligence officer in the Libyan Armed Forces, is that right?” he asked.
    “Yes, that is right,” said Fastia, looking ahead, his expression cool and blank.
    Morgan continued. “That has to be some kind of big achievement, yeah? Years of strict training, following orders, giving your complete loyalty to your superiors. Isn’t that right? Or is there something special about how we do things in the US?”
    “No, it is the same.”
    “Do you know what they call it in the US when someone does what you’re doing right now to your country?”
    “I believe you call it treason,” said Fastia bitterly.
    “That’s what they call it. They’d give you the chair for it there. Fry your brains and put you in the ground. Tell me, is it the same here?” Morgan glanced at Conley, who gave him a look that said, You’d better know what the hell you’re doing .
    “No,” Fastia said, his grip on the steering