Free ARISEN, Book Eleven - Deathmatch by Michael Stephen Fuchs Page B

said to Ali. Turning to the others, he said, “Get to work on the assault plan. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
    * * *
    Four minutes later, the two of them were up on the crown of the mountain, laid out by Ali’s rifle. She pointed out to Handon where she saw whatever she’d seen in the forest below.
    “Okay, got it,” he said. “But that’s not why I came up here.”
    Ali nodded. She’d figured, and figured he’d get to it.
    Now he filled her in on everything she’d missed that morning, from the impossible and discarded plans for assaulting the Stronghold to their one potentially viable plan – including its one inconceivable option: using the Warsangali children as an expendable diversionary force. And finally to the prospect of just calling up and asking if they could have Patient Zero.
    “Yeah, that’s a tough one,” she said when he finished. She was mainly glad this wasn’t her decision. But she also knew Handon had come to rely on her, and more importantly, to trust her judgement. She figured he was confiding in her now because he knew with her he didn’t have to be utterly resolved, and free of doubt, as he did around the rest of the team.
    He said, “We’ve gotten burned too many times.”
    She knew what he meant: by trusting other people. Trying to help those girls on the pirate boat, for instance. But that made her think of Emily, the girl they had rescued – and also her sister, the one they hadn’t. And some part of Ali, one she didn’t totally trust, wanted to tell Handon to have faith in humanity, to trust, just one more time.
    She looked across at him, draped in his heavy mantle of leadership and loneliness. And she herself felt the burden of whatever she was going to say next – because she knew he would probably listen to her. And whatever they did next was going to have eternal consequences, and not just for everyone on the two teams.
    For everyone left alive.
    * * *
    “Make the call,” Handon said, striding back into the team tent, which also held Triple Nickel’s set radio. For better and worse, the tent was occupied by Jake, Baxter – and Henno.
    Henno stood up to his full height, opened up his chest, and angled his head toward Handon. “We can’t trust these fucking al-Shabaab guys,” he said. “Fuck sake, we can’t even trust these guys.” He nodded at Jake. “No offense.”
    “None taken,” Jake said. Then he also stepped toward Handon. “Because you’re right. Trusting al-Sîf would be a huge mistake. That son of a bitch has got a lot of blood on his hands. Including my teammates – and some of my closest friends.”
    Handon understood that. He really did. But he also knew Jake’s history with al-Sîf, and his emotions about it, couldn’t be the basis for this decision. He looked back and forth between Jake and Henno, who were both in his face now.
    “This is an operational decision,” he said. “I have operational command and authority. And I’m making this decision based on operational and tactical considerations. Even assuming we distract the singularity long enough to get in, a frontal assault on that Stronghold is likely to fail. Which means the mission fails. That makes this a better option. And a risk worth taking.”
    He turned to Baxter and said it again.
    “Make the call.”

Islamist Asshats
    The Al-Shabaab Stronghold, Galmudug, Central Somalia
    Al-Sîf pushed a pile of papers away from him across the desk. He never would have taken this job if he knew paperwork was involved. He could read and write well enough – unlike most of the Islamist asshats who made up the rank-and-file of al-Shabaab. But, then again, he didn’t really care to spend the rest of his days doing it.
    And, especially lately, the days seemed to pass very slowly. Ever since he had inherited Sheik Godane’s empire, the long hours of the post-Apocalypse had hung heavy upon him. It didn’t help that they were penned inside by the dead, and couldn’t go anywhere or do anything,