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Ganymede

a novelBy Terrence Douglas

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Terrence Douglas
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-6208-9

Chapter One

The scrape of the leather boots as they pushed aside the metal debris on the street could be heard in the stillness that precedes the dawn. Once a dark chocolate brown, they were now so deeply scuffed at the toes and along the sides that they had become a sandpaper tan. The original laces had been replaced with a garish red variety, since the boots had been pulled off the body of a soldier who had fallen in some nameless firefight in the middle of the city.

The young man wearing the boots was as anonymous as the battles in which he had fought. He was slight of build and gangly. His erect posture made him appear taller than his height. He was no more than sixteen years old. The dark hair above his lip and the occasional blemish of an adolescent were all that marred his smooth olive-complexioned face. His stride was even and purposeful. Yet one noticed that there was a weariness about him, or maybe it was caution in the almost indistinguishable pause as he brought forward one foot to replace the other.

Every fifteen steps or so he stopped in place and shifted his head slightly to gather in any sound around him—it was not light enough to detect much with his eyes. Still erect, he moved forward again, staying close to the pockmarked building line on his right. From time to time he brushed against the crushed concrete of a building front, creating a chalk-like smudge on his dull green fatigue jacket. It was zipped up against the early morning chill. The sleeves of an oversized gray sweatshirt were visible. He had pulled them down over his hands in place of gloves. He wore nothing on his head so as not to impair his hearing.

Slung over his left shoulder on a thick black leather strap was a rifle. It looked oversized for one so young. He had rescued it from a companion who was mortally wounded six months earlier. The weapon was a precision instrument that he had learned to care for as he once cared for a guitar in a more peaceful time. He recognized early that while the guitar promoted popularity with friends, the rifle gained respect from his elders.

Reaching the top of the hill, lined on either side by abandoned buildings, the young man paused again. With the suddenness and surprise of a mountain cat, he crouched and turned silently into the entrance of what was once a prosperous ten-story office building. The decorative wooden doors had long since been carted off for firewood. He walked up the marble steps into the lobby littered with pieces of furniture that had not survived the frenzied looters. He could not avoid the broken glass that crunched beneath each step. He proceeded directly to the stairwell on the right and began his ascent to the top floor. Gray light filtered through the window frames, shattered in rage by competing factions who alternately occupied the building.

He was not winded when he reached the top floor. Before he ascended further up the service staircase to the roof, he urinated against the wall. He then mounted the last twenty steps, dropping to his knees before he reached the top. The metal door had been pulled from its hinges long ago to allow easy access to the roof. He swung the rifle smoothly off his shoulder. The cold metal awakened his hands, which still bore stains from the cleaning oil. He removed the protective cloth from the sniper scope and snapped a single round into the firing chamber. On his stomach, knees, and elbows he crawled across the rooftop to a gargoyle decorating the edge of the parapet. He brought the rifle forward and into position in his left arm, and with his right hand he delicately released the safety. He spread his legs wide to allow as much comfort and stability as possible on the cold, hard surface of the roof.

The sun was beginning to inch above the horizon formed by the sea behind him. With the light, an expanse—the equivalent of six square city blocks—of shattered buildings stretched before and below him. All of this area was just across the Green Line in enemy territory. In an hour or so, the rising sun would bring warmth, but he would barely notice the difference. The gray of the false dawn slowly receded, and a clearer source of light crept over the rooftops and touched the crevasses of the city. He had selected at random an intersection below upon which to train his rifle that morning. Unhurriedly he moved the rifle into position and waited.

Three hours passed. In that time, the sun emerged, and with it a hazy blue sky became visible. The squawk of gulls could be heard faintly, the sound lifted as if it were on the strong breeze from the sea. A growl sounded in the distance as a generator started. Life was beginning to stir in the tortured terrain before him, though he yet perceived no movement. He waited. His right eye looked through the high-powered scope, which made it possible for him to select targets over a thousand yards downrange. From time to time he closed his eyes gently for a moment to avoid eyestrain. His shoulders and the rest of his body remained in position. Hours could and often did go by, yet he never experienced a muscle cramp or spasm.

In the fourth hour the furrows on his forehead deepened. Two dark-clad individuals negotiated their way cautiously through his preselected intersection. They were both dressed in long, loose-fitting overcoats. It was impossible to determine their age or gender. Without hesitation, he focused his sight on the individual trailing and squeezed the trigger purposely. The recoil jolted into his shoulder but did not interrupt his concentration or follow-through. The report from the rifle resounded in the cavern of cement and steel.

The intended victim fell. The second doubled back to assist and became a similarly inviting target, but the shooter on the roof was not greedy. Tomorrow was soon enough. He watched as the individual struck by the burst of metal was pulled out of the line of fire. At that moment he turned his eyes to the right, to that familiar, faded sign with the huge unintelligible letters painted on the side of the neighboring building.

Welcome to Beirut

Chapter Two

It was late November as four elderly men sat huddled in the rear of the Bacchus Restaurant in East Beirut. They were there to share the grief of one of their number whose wife had been slain by a sniper three weeks earlier. Against his advice, Pierre Kettaneh, known as Kalenti, accompanied his wife to place flowers at the site on the Green Line where their son was slain in combat on that date the previous year. They were crossing a street in the abandoned section of the city when Kalenti heard the whine of the bullet. His worst fears were confirmed as he whirled around to see his wife of forty years drop to the pavement. Deep red blood poured through her overcoat from the gaping wound in her chest.

Anger and the desire for revenge permeated the silence that engulfed these old friends and comrades. But against whom would they strike? The assassin and his group, if he was not working independently, were as nameless as the victim to the person who pulled the trigger. No group had claimed responsibility—not that it mattered. This was the depth to which the barbarity had descended. No longer was the violence directed against one faction to right a real or imagined slight. Now, random acts of violence became evidence to the moral corruption and the disintegration of the society's fabric.

The murder of another...