Cairo Countdown at-5

by Dick Stivers

  Another terrorist struggled to lift a legless comrade from the wall’s wide walkway. Gadgets snapped 9mm slugs into the heads of the Arabs.

  Lyons turned to Blancanales and Abdul. “Hit the truck with the rockets!”

  “Take cover!” Blancanales shouted. He sprawled on his belly to sight on the truck below them. The others went flat against the outer wall as the rocket slammed into the cargo of SAM-7 antiaircraft missiles.

  The blast shattered the truck, sent a churning ball of flaming diesel fuel upward. Missiles flew wild, ripped into trucks, exploded against walls, pin-wheeled high into the sky. Flames rose from burning trucks. A car exploded, the gasoline spraying liquid flame over other vehicles. A burning terrorist ran screaming from the inferno.

  Flame and gutted hulks blocked the fortress gates.

  Lyons called out to Blancanales and Gadgets, “Pistols first! Until they catch on…”

  Two Arabs in the patterned keffiyehs of the Palestine Liberation Organization ran up the stairs. Nine-millimeter slugs from Blancanales’s silenced Beretta 93-R punched through their hearts.

  Able Team and its allies crept to the east wall. They stayed close against the wall where the choking black smoke hid them from the gunmen on the opposite walls.

  An officer ran through the smoke and flames, pushing the weapons of his soldiers, attempting to bring the wild autofire under control. He spoke into his walkie-talkie, listened for a moment. He directed three soldiers to the south wall. The AK-armed terrorists ran directly into Blancanales’s Beretta. He put steel-cored 9mm subsonic slugs into their chests.

  Lyons motioned Abdul forward. “Have a rocket ready. Sweep the wall when I signal…”

  Abdul went to one knee and sighted his RPG-7 on the line of terrorist riflemen firing into the shadows and darkness of the windstorm. Mohammed, Zaki and Gadgets cleared away from the back of the launcher.

  Lyons sighted between the shoulder blades of the shouting officer, snapped his spine with a hollowpoint. The officer flopped to the stone, flailing his arms for a moment before his last breath sprayed blood from his throat. Terrorists rushed to the dead man. Forty-five-caliber and 9mm slugs from the silenced autopistols dropped them. The screams pierced even the cacophony of the autofire and exploding fuel in the courtyard.

  The line of terrorists manning the wall turned. Some saw a wounded man staggering drunkenly with his hands to his shattered face. Others saw the group of black-clad soldiers crouching at the corner of the walls. Kalashnikovs pointed at Lyons.

  “Hit them with the rocket!” he roared.

  Slugs tore past Abdul as he pulled the RPG’s trigger. A brilliant flash ripped the east wall. Abdul reloaded the launcher and looked to Lyons for a command.

  Gripping his Colt with both hands, Lyons searched for living terrorists. Screams and moans came from the twisted debris. A terrorist clawed at the wall tiles, tried to crawl away from the horror of what had been his lower body. Lyons snapped a silent hollowpoint slug into his head and ran forward.

  A dying Palestinian clutched a Kalashnikov. A .45 slug ended his suffering. The Colt’s action locked back, and Lyons paused to drop the empty mag and slap in another. Blancanales charged past him after two terrorists running up a flight of stone steps. Two bursts of 9mm slugs spun them and sent them rolling down the steps.

  A central building met the east wall, doors and windows opening to a roofed walkway. Other windows opened to the wall’s walkway. The roof walkway continued around the building to the north wall. An autorifle fired from the corner, slugs gouging the wall near Abdul.

  Mohammed, who still monitored the terrorists on the captured walkie-talkie, shouted to his compatriots, “They know! They’re getting it together to waste us!”

  Unaimed AK slugs tore through the smoke, punched the walls as gunmen on the west wall fired blind. Holstering his Colt, Lyons sprinted to the windows. He pulled a grenade from one of his battle armor’s pouches and tossed it through the window. The blast sprayed glass. He looked up to the roof to see the form of a sentry silhouetted against the graying sky. A second grenade went up to the roof. An instant after the blast, a body fell to the walkway. Lyons finished the wounded man with a stomp on the throat. Then he signaled the others to join him.

  “Abdul! The corner. Sweep that north wall!”

  An Arab keffiyeh bobbed at the corner. Blancanales brought up his Beretta, waited an instant. When the headdress and a Kalashnikov appeared, he sprayed a three-shot burst into the Palestinian’s face. Blancanales tore the pin from a grenade, let the lever flip away as he ran to the corner. He pitched it, then motioned Abdul forward.

  The grenade sent steel wire zipping through the air. Abdul did not risk exposing himself to sight the missile. Extending the launcher at arm’s length, he pointed the rocket around the corner and fired. A roar-flash shook the building. He reloaded the launcher even as bits of stone and metal rained down.

  Autofire from the opposite wall raked the deserted walkway of the east wall. The smoke and swirling soot concealing Able Team also hid the gunmen.

  Lyons grabbed Gadgets and Mohammed. “The roof! Boost me up.”

  Lyons stood on his partners’ shoulders to grab the edge of the wall. He scanned the rooftop for a moment, then swung his legs over. An AK flashed.

  Shock slammed Lyons against the wall. Slugs searched for him, bits of clay and whitewash falling on him as he scrambled away. He tore his Colt from its holster to trigger a three-shot burst at the muzzle-flashes. He saw a rifle fall to one side. Sighting at a form sprawled on the rooftop, he fired again and saw a piece of a gunman’s skull fly away.

  Lyons unslung his Atchisson before searching for his wound.

  He felt no pain. Feeling his shoulders and back, he thought perhaps his battle armor had stopped the slug. Then his hand touched a gouge in the plastic foregrip of the Atchisson. The slug had only scored the plastic.

  Leveling the Atchisson, Lyons flicked off the safety and rose to a crouch. He checked a body, found it was a Palestinian girl. Her back was spotted with tiny wounds from his grenade’s steel wire fragments. Lyons searched her bloodsoaked uniform and came up with Soviet grenades. Going to the edge, he helped pull Blancanales to the roof.

  “Thought you were gone,” Blancanales told him.

  “Me, too.” Lyons leaned over the edge and shouted to the others, “Watch that patio. Watch the north wall. Pol and I will put some fire down their throats.”

  Gadgets put a burst of Uzi fire into a terrorist rushing up the stairs. A grenade bounced across the ground. Mohammed kicked it as the others dropped flat. The Soviet frag tumbled down the stone steps and exploded in the courtyard.

  Lyons sighted his Atchisson on yet another form silhouetted by flames. He killed the terrorist, then followed Blancanales to the north. Below them, autofire hammered.

  Chancing a glance over the edge, Blancanales saw two soldiers behind a sandbagged searchlight position who were firing at Abdul. In front of the gunmen, only torn bodies and blood pools remained of the terrorists hit by the rocket. Taking a grenade from his thigh pocket, Blancanales jerked out the cotter pin and let the lever sail free. He counted to three, dropped the frag and pulled his head back to safety. The grenade exploded in the air three feet above the terrorists. High-velocity steel shards reduced their heads to pulp.

  Another terrorist broke from cover, screaming, an arm hanging limp. He ran for the west wall. A terrorist stuck an RPG around the corner and fired. The rocket hit the wounded man in the chest. It vaporized his upper body.

  Pulling out more grenades, Lyons and Blancanales ran to the west. They pulled the pins. Blancanales said, “Now…” The levers flipped away. “One, two, three — over they go!”

  Simultaneous blasts cleared the corner. Lyons leaned over the roof’s low wall and snapped semiauto 12-gauge shots into every terrorist he saw, emptying his magazine in less than two seconds. He ducked back as AKs popped. Slugs chipped the wall and whined into the sky.

  Keying his h
and radio, he shouted, “North wall’s clear…”

  An explosion knocked the two of them flat. Stone showered them. A section of the wall edging the roof had disappeared.

  Lyons found the radio and shouted, “Hit the west wall! They’re hitting us!” He jammed the radio back in a pocket and helped Blancanales to his feet. “How many grenades you got left?”

  “Haven’t been counting…”

  A round grenade arced toward them. Lyons lunged forward and whacked the grenade with the plastic stock of his Atchisson, sending it down into the courtyard’s inferno. A rocket shrieked over them and continued high into the sky, where it exploded. Lyons dropped the empty box mag out of his Atchisson and jammed in another. “This is getting serious.”

  Blancanales jerked the pin from a grenade and looked for a target. Kalashnikovs flashed. He dodged back, blindly tossing the grenade. Lyons counted to three and crouchwalked forward. When he heard the bang of the grenade, he stood up and sprayed three riflemen with high-velocity steel shot.

  A terrorist with an RPG had leaned from cover and was sighting on Lyons. Lyons sighted on the terrorist’s face. The Able Team hotshot squeezed off a burst. One hundred sixty double-ought and number two steel balls riddled the terrorist and his launcher. One of the steel pellets crushed the rocket’s electronic fuse cap. The explosion left twenty feet of the walkway a smoking ruin.

  Terrorists scrambled from cover. Blancanales sighted on a form, saw the rifleman disappear off the wall. Another terrorist jumped off the wall to the sand outside the fortress. A second later, a mine exploded, throwing a leg into the air.

  Rifle fire came in bursts from isolated positions. A rocket flash swept the west wall. Lyons ran to the northwest corner and looked down at Abdul reloading his launcher. “The south wall! Clear it!”

  “You got it, Yank! Cover me.”

  Dashing around the corner, Abdul sighted on the muzzle-flashes. The flash destroyed a sandbagged searchlight and silenced an AK.

  The building heaved beneath Lyons’s feet as a rocket came from a concealed terrorist. The charge blasted through the exterior wall. Abdul sighted on the rocket man’s hiding place and hit it.

  Lyons keyed his radio again. “Wizard. The enemy is retreating, holing up. We got to find that Agency man.”

  “There are still the squads outside. They’ll come back.”

  “I doubt it. If they do, let them try the minefield.”

  Blancanales aimed single shots down at forms in the graying predawn. Slugs killed wounded, punched more wounds in the dead. No shots answered Blancanales’ methodical fire. Finally, nothing moved on the walls.

  “Now search the place,” Lyons told his partner.

  “After we find our man, we pull out,” Blancanales said. “We’re pushing our luck way too far.”

  “No argument from me…”

  Going to the roof’s edge, they signaled to Abdul below. Lyons lowered Blancanales to Abdul’s shoulder, then Abdul and Blancanales helped Lyons down.

  In the courtyard, fires still burned in the gutted hulks of the trucks and cars. Dead and dying terrorists were sprawled everywhere. Human debris littered the walkways, the tiles slick with blood. Above the desert, the first pink light of day streaked the sky.

  Able Team moved through the wreckage and death, searching for the American prisoner of the National Liberation Front.

  19

  Hiding in a closet, Omar shook with fear. The darkness of the tiny space stank of the urine fouling his fatigues. Ashamed of his fear of martyrdom, yet fearing capture more than death, the commander thought of suicide, to die with his men rather than accept the shame of trial.

  Or interrogation. Were the attackers Egyptian commandos? If his countrymen took him, there was no hope. He would be dismembered as a matter of course. Unless he had enough gold to buy his freedom.

  Or were they American? By radio from Cairo, his leader had warned him. It had been the Americans who had attacked his command center in the city. Did they now search for the American he had captured? What treatment could he expect? He thought of suicide, his body shaking at the thought.

  Should he rush from hiding? Throw himself at the attackers? Offer his life to Allah?

  Despite his terror, he laughed at these possibilities. He talked like that to his soldiers. He talked of Allah and martyrdom and Paradise, but he knew only graves awaited dead soldiers — sometimes not only graves, only places by the side of the road, a feast for green-backed flies.

  But what if Americans found him?

  Forcing himself to face the chance of death, he realized he feared death less than capture by the Americans. And even if he fought, death might not come quickly. Fumbling in the thigh pocket of his tailored fatigues, he found a grenade. He looped a finger through the safety pin.

  If Egyptians found him, he would surrender and trust his luck to his compatriots’ fickleness.

  If Americans found him — the determined Americans — he would give himself a quick death and take the Americans with him.

  *

  In the first gray light of day, nothing moved. Flames flickered in the courtyard. Soot-heavy smoke rose in swirls as the dying wind whipped the flames. Somewhere a wounded man screamed and whimpered.

  “We can’t go room to room,” Blancanales told Lyons. “We’d run into every one of those losers who are still alive.”

  “I know all about it. Number one cop fear: searching rooms with lowlifes waiting to kill you.”

  “If we can find one alive, one who’ll tell us where our man is…”

  Lyons laughed. “Then we got to search these rooms. Let’s go.” He keyed his hand radio. “Wizard!”

  Gadgets jogged around the corner. “What you want?”

  “See any of these losers alive?”

  “I hear one.” He pointed toward the sound of the screaming man.

  “Get the others organized. We got to find that Agency man. If we can find a raghead who knows where, that’ll get us out of here quick.”

  Turning to the office behind them, Lyons pointed to himself. “I take the door. Cover me through the window.”

  Blancanales stood beside the window. He leaned forward for an instant, exposing himself to any terrorists hiding inside, then snapped back. An autoburst ripped through the window, glass tinkling to the tiles.

  “Come out and you live!” Lyons shouted.

  Arabic answered him. Abdul shouted Arabic to those inside. They waited for an answer. “I told them we would give them mercy…”

  The door slammed open, a blur with a Kalashnikov spinning to aim his autorifle at the men at the window. Lyons fired his Atchisson from a distance of six inches into the chest of the terrorist. The muzzle-blast lit a girl’s face as the shock threw her through the air, her back exploding in a spray of blood.

  A grenade flew from the window. Blancanales swatted it back with one hand, then crouched as the flash threw glass and dust from the window. Abdul called out again for the terrorists inside to surrender.

  No answer. Gadgets pulled a grenade from his battle armor. “These diehards deserve a special treat.” He jerked the pin from a canister, let the lever flip free, counted, “One, two, three…”

  As he pitched the grenade in, a voice shouted. Abdul translated, “They want to surrender.”

  White phosphorous created hell. They heard screams inside. “Too late,” muttered Gadgets.

  As they went to the next office, a form glowing with specks of metallic incandescence clawed at the window. Jagged shards of glass slashed the screaming terrorist’s hands and arms. White fire burned in the howling mouth of the creature as the phosphorous melted through the face, continued burning into the tissues of the throat. Abdul raised his Uzi to give the agonized terrorist the release of death.

  Lyons pushed the weapon aside. “Let it go. Maybe that noise will motivate these other crazies to come out.”

  Abdul went to the next office and shouted inside.

  A voice answered in Arabic. As the
screaming continued, Abdul spoke with the terrorist inside. He turned to Lyons. “He says he’ll surrender. Will you kill him?”

  “Not if he tells us what we need to know.”

  Abdul negotiated with the man inside. The door opened and a Kalashnikov clattered onto the tiles. A young man came out, his hands high. Lyons grabbed him by the collar and slammed him down to the tiles. With one foot on the boy’s back, Lyons held the Atchisson against the boy’s head as Blancanales searched him. Blancanales found two grenades, which he passed to Gadgets. He pocketed a knife.

  “Is there anyone else in there? If he lies, I kill him.”

  The boy shook his head to Abdul’s questions.

  “Now ask him where the American is.”

  Again the boy shook his head, pleaded with his captors. “He says he doesn’t know anything about him.”

  “Is the American still alive?”

  Abdul questioned the boy, then translated the answers. “He saw the American. The others brought the American from the city. He doesn’t know anything about him. He’s only a recruit. With the National Front a month.”

  “And there’s no one else inside there?”

  “He said no.”

  “We’ll find out.” Lyons jerked the boy to his feet and shoved him into the office doorway. Crying and pleading, the boy twisted to face Lyons. Holding his prisoner in front of him, Lyons stepped into the room. Blancanales waved a flashlight over the interior.

  A dead soldier sprawled on a table, his stiffening hand holding a wadded rag against a chest wound. Blood soaked his uniform, puddled on the table and floor. Using the boy as a shield, Lyons searched the room. He hooked a closet door open with his boot, stepped back. Blancanales shone the flashlight inside. They saw stacks of papers and books.

  Stripping a grenade from the dead terrorist, they went to the next office. Abdul called out for surrender. He received no answer. Lyons shoved the boy in front of the window. No shots came.

  Lyons kicked open the door, then took cover against the thick clay wall. But no terrorists fired. Lyons pushed the boy through the door. Then he rushed inside, his Atchisson ready. Blancanales followed an instant later.