by Eric Meyer
He dismissed the idea. No matter what the obstacles, no matter how much he could see Ryder burning to extract justice for the death of Helen Shapiro, his boss Admiral Jacks had given him a direct order. To see this through, deliver the cash, and get back to San Diego without running into any more trouble with the law. He made a mental note to remind Ryder to keep his hands off Waverley and resolved to do whatever it took to see this through. Even though he’d no idea what that meant. No idea where the next attack was coming from, and all he could do was try to relax, and occasionally glance at the pretty girl sitting behind him.
She was a tough cookie. For any single girl to take on this kind of journey required more than just a few guts. Determination, strength of character, and when it came down to it, a streak of bravery. He smiled, recalling the way she’d dealt with Waverley, direct and straight to the point. Or straight to the testicles, depending on which way you saw it.
They covered another forty kilometers, making good time on the journey to Aleppo. He started to relax. There’d been no sign of further hostile activity, and he glanced around again to look at Rachel Dayan. It was almost like she was psychic, that she’d been expecting it. Then again, she was a pretty girl, so it was natural she’d expect to attract admiring glances. While he was looking her way, something caught his eye, a long way behind. A plume of dust, thrown up by a vehicle traveling at speed, and he focused on it for several minutes. It was gaining on them. Ryder sensed his tension.
“What is it?”
“We’re being followed. How far to Aleppo?”
“About forty klicks.”
“Can we outrun them?”
“I’m driving as fast as I can on this surface. Any faster and we could lose another tire, and we don’t have another spare.”
“Then we have trouble. They’ll be on us in around ten or fifteen minutes. Only one thing to do.”
Ryder nodded. “Lock and load.”
He was inserting his last magazine into the M-16 when he happened to glance at the girl. He’d worried she’d be scared, but the opposite was true. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with excitement, and lips pulled back over her teeth, bared in a savage grin.
Maybe she didn’t understand what was likely to happen when the pursuing vehicle caught up with them, didn’t realize the devastating effect of gunfire on the human body. When the bullets started flying, men would die, bodies torn open by volleys of lead. Then she’d know the truth about war. There was nothing exciting about war, just the grim reality of men and sometimes women on opposite sides doing their best to kill each other. Doing their best to stay alive, when all around them, their friends were dying.
Maybe he could at least spare her some of that grisly reality. “Rachel, this could get nasty. Crouch down on the floor, and keep your head down.”
“Like him?” Waverley was no longer on the seat. He was already crouched down on the floor, head held as low as possible.
“Just like him.”
She did as he told her, keeping well away from Waverley. Nolan breathed a sigh of relief. They were safe as they could be, and he looked again at the vehicle coming up behind them. He could see it now, a Toyota truck, and configured in the unique way they called a ‘technical’. Which in this region meant they’d bolted a heavy machine gun on the back, and in this case it was a single barrel DShK 12.7mm, the equivalent of the American .50 caliber, with an effective range of over two kilometers. He estimated the truck was well inside that range, and as if to confirm his guess, he saw the flashes winking out as they opened fire. Heavy bullets tore up the road surface fifty meters behind them.
“How close is he?” Ryder shouted over the racing engine.
“Too close. We have to do something.”
“I’m open to ideas, Boss.”
He didn’t have any ideas. There was no way to get off the highway, and when the next hurricane of bullets tore up the road even closer, their sole option was to fight back, no matter how unequal the odds. It wasn’t the sole option. The other was to die.
Chapter Four
“We’re being followed.”
Bryce hadn’t been able to rid himself of his feelings of unease since before they made the drop, the start of the mission. Nothing had gone right.
“Ten minutes. Depressurizing in eight minutes. Switching to oxygen.”
The jumpmaster, wearing his oxygen mask, secured the safety line to his harness and lowered the ramp. The winds at high altitude howled into the hold of the giant aircraft, and the temperature, already cold enough for a colony of Arctic penguins, dropped even more.
He went through the final checks, mask, harness, oxygen, altimeter, communications, everything they’d need to survive the jump from thirty thousand feet. The two voices shouted into his headset at once. One panicked, the other calm.
“This is the Captain; enemy radar has locked on, and I’m taking evasive action. Guys, find something to hold onto. This is about to get hairy.”
The panicked voice shouted again. Custer. “My oxygen supply, it’s not working. I can’t breathe!”
He found the Lieutenant and held his shoulders to reassure him he was there. “Take it easy, Lt, I’ll find the problem. Relax.”
“I can’t breathe!”
“Give me a moment.”
He found the problem. An equipment check failure, the oxygen bottle was empty. Somehow it had got mixed up with the others, and Custer was sucking on a vacuum. He stripped off his own breathing gear and gave the mouthpiece to the officer while he attached it to his harness.
“You’ll be okay with this. I’ll talk to the crew and grab a replacement.”
His eyes were still wide with terror, and he was sucking in deep breaths, but he calmed. “Uh, okay, I’ll be fine. What about you?”
Will was forcing the thin air into his lungs, but he forced a casual reply. “I’m good. Make sure they’re ready to jump while I sort this out.”
His breathing was hoarse, and he began to feel lightheaded, but he’d resolved the immediate problem, and he went to the jumpmaster. “I need a spare oxygen bottle. We have one that’s defective.”
He looked at him in surprise. “That’s sloppy, Master Sergeant, leaving it this late.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Okay, I can do that for you, but I wouldn’t screw-up again.”
He walked back along the cargo hold to a locker behind the cockpit. He reached in, pulled out a full bottle, and came skidding back down the floor of the hold as the aircraft pitched into a steep bank, almost at ninety degrees to the horizontal. The pilot completed the maneuver by putting the nose down in a steep dive. Balanced on the starboard wingtip, he compounded the maneuver by abruptly changing course, a hard jerk over to the opposite bank. Through the open ramp they saw the missile soar past trailing smoke, to disappear into the clouds.
“This is the pilot. Sorry about that, folks, but we got lucky that time.”
The crewman was hanging onto a spar to stop himself from sliding off the ramp. Will made his way over to him and helped him up. He relieved him of the bottle that he still clutched in his hand and connected it to his mask. Sucking in oxygen he was able to recover. Although all they could do was hang on grimly as the aircraft performed a more violent maneuver, but not violent enough to avoid the missile that slammed into the port outer engine.
The aircraft tilted even more until the pilot regained control. The C-17 could fly on three engines, but taking evasive action was out of the question for such a lumbering aircraft. He heard a click in his headset announcing the press of the transmit button.
“This is the pilot. The Syrians won’t give up until they’ve shot us down. We have aircraft patrolling a hundred klicks to the north, and I’ve requested their aid. They’ll go to afterburners and get here in minutes to attack the missile batteries, but in the meantime I suggest our passengers get out now while the going’s good. I’ll do my best to give you a few seconds straight and level for you to leave the ramp. For yo
ur information, we’re fifty klicks shorts of the LZ, so you’ll have to arrange onward transport. Sorry, guys, it’s the best I can do.”
Bryce acknowledged. The aircraft was still tilted at a crazy angle, and he groped his way down to the ramp. The men were waiting for him, unsurprised by the change of plan. Except for Custer.
“What’re we going to do, Master Chief?”
“Same as before, just a bit sooner than we planned. Stand by the ramp. We’ll leave the moment we’re flying level. These are the numbers for the new LZ.”
He read off the coordinates, the aircraft tilted over yet again, except this time it stayed level. Bryce shouted, “Go!”
They stepped off the ramp. He was last, and in front of him, Custer hesitated, until he came up behind him and gave him a gentle push to remind him of the direction they were going. They plummeted out into the freezing night sky, and he assumed the legs and arms out posture to give him some guidance. The Lieutenant looked like he was okay, and just visible by the light of the stars. There was no sign of the others, which was as it should be. He looked around, searching for the aircraft they’d just left, but it had already disappeared into a thick bank of cloud. At first he thought he was seeing more missiles heading in, but two F/A 18s roared in so close their turbulence tossed him around like a cork on a rough sea, and then they’d gone. Arrowing down to their targets, the explosions showed bright red as their missiles hit. They circled for several minutes, but there was no more anti-aircraft fire, and they roared away to the north.
He checked his altimeter. He was almost on the ground, spitting distance of the LZ. He bent his knees, relaxed his body, and absorbed the shock as he hit the ground, taking two steps to keep his balance. He wasn’t the first. The others were on the ground, all except for Custer. He compacted his ‘chute and strolled over to the other SEALs who were burying their ‘chutes.
“Where’s the Lieutenant?”
Vince Merano pointed to a dark shape in the distance. “I heard a noise over there. Maybe that’s him.”
He walked over, and Custer was tangled in the lines of his ‘chute. He helped him free himself, and they rejoined the others. “Lt, we’re around fifty klicks from the original LZ, so we’ll need transport. We’re close to the highway, so I suggest we hitch a ride.”
“A ride?”
He grinned. “What else can we do? We have to meet the Syrians, and if we’re late, they may leave and go home.”
He cursed the Lieutenant’s insistence on wearing uniform, but they’d have to make the best of it. An ancient vehicle wreck lay close to the roadside, a Citroen 2CV that looked like it had been there forever. Half buried in sand, they spent precious minutes digging it out and dragging it across the road. All they had to do then was wait. It wasn’t for long. A huge gasoline tanker drove toward them, heading north, the right direction. It braked to a halt with a hiss of air brakes, and the driver climbed out of the cab, scratched his head, and got back inside. The engine roared as he edged forward, nudging the obstruction of the highway, and he continued on his journey.
The SEALs were already on top of the long tank, holding onto the grab handles as they closed the distance. When they were close to the LZ, Bryce signaled them to be ready. They climbed down and dropped off the truck, rolling onto the soft sand at the side of the highway. The driver continued on through the night, oblivious to the passengers he’d carried, and soon he’d disappeared. Will checked his GPS and pointed.
“That way, around two klicks, we’re nearly there.”
They were waiting for them in a shallow depression in the desert, four men wearing the uniform of the Syrian Army. One was a Colonel, and Custer recognized the rank tabs, walked up to him, and saluted.
“Lieutenant Custer, Sir.”
His gaze was cold. “You’re late.”
“We had a problem with your air defenses.”
“Yes, I heard on the radio they were under attack by fighter-bombers. Yours?”
“We had no choice.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. We must be quick. Our vehicle is close, and we have to get into the city before the next patrol comes along.” He checked his watch, “We need to get you off the streets and into cover inside of half an hour, before an Army patrol sees you and starts shooting. This is a war zone.”
“No shit,” Will murmured.
He led the way across the sand, and they reached an unnatural bulge. It proved to be an unmarked truck beneath a camouflage canvas cover. The other three soldiers pulled off the cover, and the Colonel gestured for them to climb into the open back. Two soldiers joined them, and the Colonel and the other man, a corporal, jumped into the cab. The engine started, and they bumped across the uneven sand until they reached the highway. The going became smoother, and Bryce started to relax. They’d landed without injury, the Syrians had met them as planned, and they were on their way into Damascus.
They’d had a couple of difficulties, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Things were looking good. That’s when he noticed movement in the distance, a vehicle coming up behind them, no, four vehicles. They were all showing lights, and the headlamps of the rear vehicles lit up those in front. Military. Soldiers. And they were closing fast.
“We’re being followed.”
Custer stared at them. “Any ideas, Master Chief?”
“They’re not about to welcome us to Syria.”
Bryce looked at the nearest soldier, who so far hadn’t said a word. “Do you understand English?”
“English, yes.”
He pointed. “Look.”
He looked, and his mouth dropped open. He lunged for the cab, almost toppling off as he tripped on a loose length of rope. He shouted through the driver’s window, and a moment later, the truck picked up speed. They were racing along the highway. In the distance, the first buildings of the city were ghostly shapes in the darkness. Dawn wasn’t far away, and Bryce glanced at Custer.
“Lt, if it’s light when we reach the city, they’ll make us right away. The first cop or soldier will raise the alert, and the mission is a bust.” He gave him a meaningful look, hoping he wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake again. Elite forces went in undercover, not flaunting their uniforms and battle flags.
He nodded. “We’ll make it before dawn, I have no doubt.”
I have plenty of doubts.
“Unless those trucks catch up with us first.”
Custer watched the trucks behind them, and he was trying to gauge time and distance. His voice was a murmur. “It’ll be a close-run thing.”
“Close-run is right. We should strip off our camo jackets. At least we won’t be recognizable if we’re not sporting American camouflage.”
He didn’t take long to make up his mind. “Very well, give the order.”
They stripped off, down to their T-shirts. From a distance, they could be troops of any Caucasian nation, like Russia, Syria’s main ally. But still, those trucks were following them for a reason. They weren’t any nearer when they reached the outskirts of the city, and the driver entered a maze of streets. Many of the buildings were ruined, a testament to the war which had raged for so long. To their relief, they’d lost their pursuers, and they drove through the deserted streets without seeing any other vehicles.
The driver reached a pair of double gates that opened as they approached. They entered the courtyard of a villa, and amidst the rubble and the ruins, it was a miracle it had survived. A miracle they’d managed to keep the luxurious surroundings untouched by the war. The courtyard was cobbled with close-fitting pink stones, and in the center, an ornamental fountain. A man was standing next to it, and he walked forward to greet them. Although he wore civilian clothes, his military bearing was a dead giveaway. He reached Custer and held out a hand.
“My name is General Omar Youssef. I am the Syrian Minister of Defense.”
He was plump, the curse of many Arab senior officers. A smooth face and hair that was cut close to the skull. The eyes were small, squinting at t
hem, almost in suspicion. Or was it something else. He looked fit enough for a politician, and if he was going to seed, Will Bryce saw something in the eyes that suggested he was the kind of guy who’d always have a fifth ace up his sleeve. Sneaky. But he was an Arab and a politician, a bad combination.
They shook. “Lieutenant Custer, Sir. U.S. Navy SEALs.”
He gave him a wintry smile. “The legendary American elite forces. I trust you will not let me down. You know why you are here?”
“We’ve been briefed.”
“Good. Perhaps you would come into my humble home, and my wife and daughters will arrange food and drink. There will be no problem with security. The servants have been sent away for the duration. There is only my family and my soldiers, all of whom are loyal to me. Please, follow me.”
They were seated in a cool, air-conditioned room large enough to hold a small convention, provided there were no more than two hundred people. The rear windows looked out over a walled garden the size of a soccer pitch, luxuriant with a thick carpet of well-watered grass. In the midst of the chaos of war, General Youssef clearly knew how to take care of his creature comforts.
They sat on comfortable sofas, sipping cold lemonade supplied by two young women in their late teens. They wore scarves over their dark hair, and they were both striking. One for her beauty, dark eyes, café-au-lait skin, and the other for opposite reasons; a long nose like the end of an Apollo rocket, and squinty eyes that stared at them in a way that made him uncomfortable.
“Did you have any trouble on the way in?” The General was staring at them with an anxious expression. Custer was shaking his head, “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
