Midnight At The Oasis Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  About the Author

  MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

  A MORRIS AND CHASTAIN INVESTIGATION

  Justin Gustainis

  Praise for The Morris & Chastain Investigations

  “Smart, sexy, and supernatural – Black Magic Woman goes for the throat and doesn’t let up until the very last page. I wish I’d written this book; it’s a hell of a ride.”

  Lilith Saintcrow, author of Working for the Devil and To Hell and Back, on Black Magic Woman

  “A very good book, and I’ll look forward to reading another one in the series.”

  Charlaine Harris, author of the True Blood series, on Black Magic Woman

  “Gustainis does well in keeping the outcome shrouded in doubt, right up until the very end.”

  Graeme’s Fantasy Book Review on Evil Ways

  “The story’s fast pacing is guaranteed to hook readers in while an interesting selection of supporting characters gives the story depth and makes it more than just an action driven fantasy thrill-fest.”

  Love Vampires on Sympathy for the Devil

  “A tremendously enjoyable mash-up of political thriller and urban fantasy, intelligently written and full of tension.”

  Green Man Review on Sympathy for the Devil

  “Keep an eye on Justin Gustainis. You’ll be seeing more of him soon.”

  Jim Butcher, New York Times best-selling author of the Dresden Files and Codex Alera series

  Also by Justin Gustainis

  MORRIS & CHASTAIN INVESTIGATIONS

  Black Magic Woman

  Evil Ways

  Sympathy For The Devil

  THE HAUNTED SCRANTON SERIES

  Hard Spell

  Evil Dark

  STAND ALONE NOVELS

  The Hades Project

  First published 2013 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-482-0

  ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-483-7

  Copyright © Justin Gustainis 2013

  Cover Art by Pye Parr

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  This is for

  Kingston Ignatius Bleau

  Welcome to the world, little man.

  “No beast is more savage than man,

  when possessed with power

  answerable to his rage.”

  – Plutarch

  “The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize.”

  – V.I. Lenin

  “You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”

  – Larry Webster

  One

  May 1, 2011

  0138 hours

  THE TWO HELICOPTERS knifed through the still, warm air like vengeful ghosts, flying as close to the ground of Eastern Afghanistan as was safely possible. They were Sikorsky Black Hawks that had been extensively modified for missions exactly like this one. The alterations (all classified Top Secret) made the ships relatively quiet, hard to see from the ground, and virtually invisible to radar.

  In addition to the helicopter crews, the mission personnel included twenty-four SEALs assigned to the Navy’s Special Development Group (known to the media as SEAL Team Six), a dog named Cairo (for sniffing out explosives and tracking, if necessary), a Navy midshipman who was the dog’s handler, a civilian translator fluent in both English and Arabic, and one other.

  Thomas Powell was also a SEAL, his MOS listed as “Demolitions Expert.” This was a lie, but a necessary one. Powell’s real military occupational specialty did not appear anywhere in the Navy’s official nomenclature.

  Powell was a combat magician, and the object he held across his lap was not an assault rifle. It was a carefully-designed, titanium magic wand.

  Once intelligence reports had named a certain house in Abbottabad as Geronimo’s likely hiding place, a Pakistani doctor on the CIA payroll had been sent in, on the pretext of vaccinating the house’s residents. The visit had two purposes. One was to get miniscule tissue samples from each person vaccinated. Even though nobody thought the doctor would be allowed anywhere near Geronimo, the other people in the house were believed to be family members. If so, some of them would carry Geronimo’s DNA, which the CIA had on file for comparison.

  The other reason for getting the doctor on the property was to see if he brought back traces of black magic. There were whispers that Geronimo was protected by more than human power – which would explain why the old bastard had survived so long – and there were a very few people high up in the U.S. government who knew enough to treat such rumors seriously. To that end, the doctor wore under his clothing a very special amulet that had been programmed (the military’s term for “ensorcelled”) to be sensitive to the presence of black magic.

  The “vaccinations” completed, the doctor had made his way to a nearby CIA safe house. There he had dropped off the tissue samples and taken off the amulet, worn on a silver chain around his neck. These materials were smuggled out of Pakistan in a diplomatic pouch, and were at Langley within forty-eight hours. There, a doctor with a
Top Secret security clearance compared the harvested DNA with the known sample from Geronimo. Conclusion: suspicion confirmed.

  In another part of the CIA’s sprawling complex, an expert with a very different set of credentials examined the amulet, employing tools and procedures not to be found in any the Agency’s manuals. Her conclusion was the same as the DNA expert’s: suspicion confirmed.

  As a result, Thomas Powell, the U.S. Navy’s only SEAL-qualified combat magician, was quietly added to the mission’s Table of Organization and Equipment.

  Following completion of BUD/S, the immensely difficult SEAL training program (Powell’s class had started with a hundred and thirty men and graduated fourteen), he had volunteered to spent six months in the United Kingdom, under the tutelage of a former SAS sergeant major who was said to be the greatest combat magician living. Powell never found reason to doubt that assessment. Once his magical training was completed, he had been assigned to one of the SEAL teams, with the understanding that he would be available for “special missions,” as needed.

  Lieutenant Brad Marcellus, the team leader in Powell’s chopper, was checking the magazine of his H&K MP7A1 submachine gun for the fourth time when a voice spoke into his left ear. “We’ve just crossed into Pakistani airspace, sir,” the pilot said calmly. “Estimated time to the LZ, sixteen minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Marcellus said into his throat mike.

  The risk factor of the mission had just ratcheted up tenfold. Since everybody from the Commander in Chief on down knew that notifying the Pakis about this mission in advance would have been tantamount to taking out a full-page ad in the Islamabad Tribune, America’s nominal ally had been kept in the dark about the planned operation. That meant, technically, that the U.S. Navy had just invaded Pakistan.

  In the unlikely event that the choppers were noticed by the Pakistan Air Force, the mission team had both fighter jets and helicopter gunships on call. Two heavily-armed Chinook helicopters containing twenty-four more SEALs were waiting in a deserted stretch of desert three miles away. They would be called in if Pakistani ground forces tried to intervene.

  With this mission, the U.S. government was risking, at worst, war with Pakistan. But no one who knew about the mission had the slightest doubt that the objective was worth taking the chance.

  In no time at all, the pilot’s voice came through Marcellus’s headset again. “Estimate one minute to the objective, sir.”

  “Roger.” Marcellus turned to face the rest of the team. Raising his voice a little, he said, “Sixty seconds out and counting, people. If anybody wants to change his mind and go home, better speak up now.”

  That raised several grins, and a little nervous laughter. Every man in that chopper had volunteered for the mission. Even the dog would probably have signed up willingly, if you’d asked him. They had trained hard, assaulting specially-built replica buildings over and over again.

  Operation Neptune Spear had been in the works for five weeks. Now it was showtime.

  “We have visual ID of the objective,” the pilot’s voice said. “Beginning descent now.”

  “Doors open!” Marcellus yelled.

  The SEALs seated closest to the large sliding doors on either side of the aircraft pulled them back, giving those inside a clear view of the rapidly approaching ground, and allowing them to lay down fire if a threat emerged from the compound while they were still in the air.

  The plan was for the Black Hawk to land briefly in the compound’s northeast corner and disgorge Powell and four other SEALs, along with the dog and his handler. The chopper would then rise again and hover over the house while the remaining SEALs inside fast-roped down onto the roof.

  When Helmuth von Moltke said, “No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy,” he knew what he was talking about – even if nobody ever told him about magic.

  Powell was staring out the portside door, scanning the compound for the kind of threat he had been brought to deal with, but it was one of the other SEALs, stationed at the starboard door, who spotted the first sign of trouble.

  “Dude just came out of the house,” said the SEAL, a Boatswain’s Mate named McDonald. “Waste him, Lieutenant?”

  “Is he armed?”

  “Negative, far as I can tell.”

  “Then leave him until we’re on the ground,” Marcellus said.

  “Roger that.”

  Something in the air made Powell uneasy. He turned in his seat and said to McDonald, “The guy you spotted – where is he?”

  McDonald pointed. “There – about fifty feet from the front door.” The chopper was about three hundred feet over the ground now.

  “Got him.” The man on the ground stood with his hands spread wide, as if in supplication or surrender. Powell recognized the posture; it represented neither.

  “I think we better take this guy out, Lieutenant,” he said urgently.

  Before Marcellus could reply, there came the sound of a human voice, but amplified a hundred times, saying the same phrase, over and over: “Harif men sama! Harif men sama!”

  All at once, the Black Hawk lost all power. Blades, rotors, electrical systems – all dead as a doornail. In the sudden silence, Powell could hear the pilot’s voice clearly, even though the closed cabin door. “Brace for impact!”

  Powell had an all-purpose counter-spell ready, and he said the words of power quickly, hoping to reverse the bad mojo that the wizard below had just laid on the helicopter. It worked – the blades began turning again – but the helicopter had already been in freefall for six seconds, which, that close to the ground, was four seconds too long. Their rate of descent slowed, but Powell could feel the tail dragging along the compound’s concrete wall, and that meant they were screwed. A few seconds later, the ground came up and slammed the chopper to a halt, the noise bouncing off the high walls of the compound. Something snapped in the superstructure, and they abruptly listed to the left.

  Marcellus was the first to find his voice. “Anybody hurt?” In SEAL terms, “hurt” meant broken bones or uncontrolled bleeding. No one on the team responded affirmatively.

  Powell figured that things could have been worse. His counter-spell had turned a potentially fatal crash into something you might charitably call a hard landing – although it was clear that, if and when they extracted out of the compound, it wasn’t going to be in this particular bird.

  Marcellus started giving orders. “Out the starboard door, fast! Alpha Team first, then supplemental personnel, with Bravo Team last. Move out!”

  “Supplemental personnel” meant the translator, the dog, his handler – and Powell.

  A few seconds later, they were all on the packed dirt of the compound, the helicopter’s tilted body between them and the house. The other chopper was hovering a couple of hundred feet above them, and the members of the other SEAL contingent were fast-roping to the ground.

  Marcellus turned to Powell. “Was that what I think it was that brought the bird down? Some kind of magic?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, sir.”

  “So they’ve got a fucking – whadoyacallit – wizard in here?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m pretty sure that was the guy we spotted coming out of the house.”

  “Can you take him?”

  The standard SEAL response to a question like that was supposed to be “Of course I can take him, sir! Hooyah!” But Powell figured that Marcellus would be better served by honesty than machismo. “There’s no way to tell, sir.”

  Marcellus looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Guess we’ll find out.” He turned to the rest of the group. “Chopper crew stays here. Braddock, Marshal, you stay with the bird, too. Prepare thermite charges to blow it, at my command. We can’t fly it out, and we’re sure not leaving it behind for the Pakis to sell to China.”

  He pointed to a smaller building within the compound. “Alpha Team, secure the guest house. Kill anyone who resists or shows a weapon.” He indicated the translator and the dog�
�s handler. “You two stay with Bravo – but be ready to come quick if I call. Powell, you’re going in the big house with us. Let’s move out.”

  Keeping to the shadows, they jogged in single file toward the three-story house and whatever awaited them inside.

  Two

  THEY USED SMALL charges of Semtex to blow the front door off its hinges, and went in fast, weapons at the ready. What they found inside was not what they expected.

  The CIA had cut electrical power to the house a few minutes before the raid team had arrived. Each man had a powerful flashlight attached to the barrel of his weapon. A dozen bright beams crisscrossed the room, to reveal... nothing.

  The ground floor appeared to be one huge room with plain white walls, a dirt floor, and a whole lot of emptiness. There was not even a staircase leading to the second floor, which was ridiculous, since there obviously was a second floor.

  “What the fuck, Lieutenant?” one of the SEALS said.

  “Wait one,” Powell said, and reached into one of the canvas pouches riding on his web belt. The other members of the team used these containers to carry extra ammunition, but Powell’s contained materials far more unusual – and just as dangerous.

  From the pouch Powell brought out a glass vial whose contents seemed to glitter like flakes of silver. He poured most of the powder into his open palm and flung it into the air in a wide arc. While the powder was still airborne he said, loudly, “Vascate!”

  At once the large empty room disappeared, replaced by a smaller one that looked like a living room. It contained traditional Arab furniture, cheap art on the walls – and a set of stairs leading up.