24991116 | 0322

  National Monument Reserve | EUNESCO Heritage Site 00054

  43° 5' 32.8596'' N

  79° 2' 49.7400'' W

  One of the overhead sterile lights flickered.

  The strip went black for a second before sputtering back to life.

  Rows of reinforced steel lockers lined the walls, pre-Fall military issue.

  Cold as tombstones.

  Faded nameplates marked operatives long dead.

  Some doors bore dents from fists, others bent at the base from repeated kicks.

  Rusted vents hissed stale recycled air.

  The ducts rattled with the distant hum of generators buried deeper in the installation—loud enough to drown casual chatter.

  Condensation beaded across the sweating walls, coolant veins pulsing behind metal ribs.

  A stainless-steel water cooler hummed beside a dead vending machine, its surface slick with frost and condensation.

  At least something still works, Python thought.

  Drops fell steadily from the coolant pipes overhead, tapping against the deck plating in a slow, metallic rhythm.

  Weapon racks filled the center aisle in precise rows, each cradle holding relics of old wars—matte-black rifles with chipped enamel, polymer grips wrapped in fraying tape, scopes scratched by sand and time.

  Under flaking paint, original military stencils peeked from beneath newer serial codes.

  The team stood around a square steel table, filling magazines by hand.

  Brass casings clicked as they slid into well-oiled clips.

  5.56 NATO rounds mixed with old Soviet 7.62.

  A Black Armalite AR-55 lay beside an AK-72.

  Old enemies sharing the same steel surface.

  Gear bags and sealed crates lay stacked beside a grated floor drain.

  The whole space smelled of oil, solvent and old canvas.

  “Make a hole,” Boa said muttered, muscling a long plasteel case onto the table.

  She lifted and slammed unto the solid table, a plasteel case as long as she was tall.

  The latches snapped open.

  Inside lay a Hyperion-pattern rail sniper—sleek, matte, bone-crushing.

  Viper looked up, expression unreadable, then nodded once.

  “Heavy duty,” Python said.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Boa grunted, lifting the weapon free of its foam cradle.

  “I bet you’re itching to try that thing out,” Viper spoke up.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “On what?” Python said, “ED-209?”

  “Just in case Godzilla shows up.” Boa deadpanned.

  “We expecting trouble?” he asked softly.

  “Always expect trouble, Lieutenant,” Viper said, holstering his piece.

  Boa brought the rails-sniper up, sighted down its scope and started calibrating.

  “So,” Python drawled as he locked a magazine into his sidearm with a sharp click and hoisted the duffel bag stuffed with rifles, breaching charges, and field rations, “where to this time, chief?”

  Cobra replied, seated upon the rows of wooden bench as he tightened his boot laces. “North tip of the Nile. Aquifer Water Treatment facility.”

  “We tangling with the corps?” Boa asked.

  “Worse, UAL.” Viper replied, “nasty business.”

  Boa paused mid-strap. “State-owned water filtration plant? Not our backyard.”

  “Orders,” Cobra replied, voice flat. “Priority one.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Python asked. “Classified?”

  “Hydra,” Cobra said, self-explanatory.

  “I don’t like this, chief,” Boa muttered, adjusting the sights. “Deets off a spook.”

  “You ever seen her, boss?” Python added, holstering his bags and grabbing a shotgun.

  Cobra stood up.

  “Half of us have never met our handlers, Lieutenant.” Viper snapped irritably.

  “Your point?”

  “That’s the point. Plausible deniability.”

  “She’s not our handler, Viper.” Cobra said. “Black site – Intel, analyst maybe. I just know this, her probability score is eighty-seven point nine.”

  Boa whistled, impressed.

  They fell into step as they filed out.

  An audible click as the automated system killed the lights.

  “Yeah, but this Hydra lady?” Python said, “I scooped her out, checked with the guys. Heard she doesn’t exist on any payroll.

  No face. No rank. Not even a codename cross-reference. Like she just popped up and made herself handler.”

  “Lieutenant,” Cobra sighed. “If you score that high and you come to me with a hunch. You say jump and I will ask how high.”

  “So you are saying I have a chance.”

  Viper shot him a glare.

  They padded on with their gear.

  Boa muttered, “Sounds like a bug hunt.”

  Python grinned. “Hey, don’t jinx it. Last time you said that we ended up waist-deep in cryo-ticks in Siberia.”

  “This time’s different, something’s up.” Viper said quietly, checking seals on his suit. “The Church. The Scriptures. Old faiths. The Cradle of Humanity. The Nile.”

  Python rolled his eyes. “You quoting that old religious mumbo-jumbo again?”

  “Watch it, Lieutenant.” Boa ribbed him.

  But Viper shook his head.

  “Just feels different this time.” Viper continued, “Four Harbingers.”

  “Religious nutjobs with guns usually comes with a suicide vest and a doomsday prediction.”

  Cobra stopped.

  The rest of the team stumbled as the column halted.

  “We are there strictly as observers.” Cobra hissed, “Insert, observe and extract. No cowboy bullshits. By the book.”

  Boa looked up. “And if the Church show up?”

  “We do not engage,” Cobra said, “emphasis on observe.”

  “Yes sir,” Boa said stiffly.

  He turned to go.

  Viper shook his head.

  No one believed that.

  They made their way to the hangar.

  The blast doors to the hangar groaned open, klaxons spinning up, mist flooding the gantry.

  Their dropship waited in the gloom.

  Coiled, taut, awake.

  A low rumble rolled through the hangar, deeper than turbines.

  The ship emerged from the mist as the flood light snapped on, one by one.

  Sleek, predatory, its hull shaped like a blade drawn in silence.

  Matte-black, constructed of interlocking hexagonal stealth plates.

  No lights, no markings, serial numbers long sanded-off.

  The Black Mamba.

  Matte-black plating drank the light rather than reflected it.

  Edges smoothed; welding so seamless as the scales of a living serpent.

  No exterior vents, no thruster cones.

  A line of recessed impulse ports, a serpent’s breath.

  Boa whistled.

  “Still a beauty.”

  “Not flying coach this time?” Python could not resist.

  “No time.” Cobra replied.

  The fuselage tapered forward into a narrow cockpit canopy, armored glass tinted obsidian.

  “Triple-block scramjets with acoustics dampeners,” Boa whispered to herself, running her hand along the the hull as she neared. “Cold-fusion cycle. Silent run. No transponder. Ghosts in the wind.”

  Python cocked a brow.

  “Why do we need a transponder, no one knows we exist.”

  “You are right,” Boa said, stepping past him, “still a huge risk though, taking the old girl out.”

  The ramp descended without hydraulics or sound, a clean magnetic drop.

  It locked into place with a muted thud.

  Cool, recycled air spilled out along the floor, brushing their boots like a desert breeze.

  The compartment within was stark, functional.

  Gunmetal walls, harness rails, foam-lined racks.

  Four seats, two pilots and two passengers.

  Boa strapped in.

  “Been a while.”

  The ramp sealed shut.

  Lights went red.

  The engines hummed to life, never rose above a whisper.

  The Black Mamba lifted, weightless.

  At the far end, the ancient blast door unsealed and groaned open.

  A roar.

  A cascading curtain of water.

  A trillion-tonne displacement.

  As Cobra and Viper ran the final pre-flights, Python sighed.

  “Middle East again. Christ. Why can’t doomsday cults pick somewhere nice? Fiji. Kyoto. Monaco.”

  He shook his head thrn.

  “No, it’s always Cairo, Berlin, Budapest, Prague. Like we’re stuck in a Mission: Impossible rerun.”

  Viper didn't turn around.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Sir?”

  “Shut up.”