Killing Ground

by Eric Meyer

  Bryce chimed in with a more accurate explanation. “The Syrian Air Defenses launched missiles at our aircraft, and after we landed, we were followed. Soldiers in regular Syrian Army trucks. General, is there any reason they’d have been following?”

  “None.” The single word was curt, as if he’d insulted him by asking the question.

  “Sir, I don’t buy it. They didn’t launch those missiles for no reason, and those trucks did their best to catch up. Someone knows we’re here, which is not good news. But we can contain it, provided they don’t know why we’re here.”

  “I can personally guarantee they don’t have any idea of what we’re planning. If they saw you they’d have assumed you were Russians. All they wanted was a routine document check.”

  Russians don’t fly C-17s. And they didn’t send out four trucks loaded with soldiers to check the stamp on our passports.

  He let it go for now. “What’s the plan, when do we take up position ready for the hit?”

  He glanced at his daughters. “Please leave us.”

  He spoke in English, and they replied in the same language. “Yes, Father,” they chorused.

  They left the room and closed the door. “The day after tomorrow. The President is due to leave the city at midday. The place I have chosen is a car dealership that overlooks the route. German cars, Mercedes, Porsche, and Volkswagen, it used to be the preferred choice of wealthy Syrians. Unfortunately, it sustained a hit from a missile, and the vehicles inside the showroom were all damaged beyond repair.”

  Vince Merano, who’d been checking out his riflescope, looked up and grinned. “That’ll mean a lot less pollution from all those diesel engines. They say war is hell, but air pollution kills as many people.”

  Youssef gave him a frosty glance. “Destroying a city is a hard way to reduce air pollution. The German manufacturers weren’t impressed.”

  “They’ll get over it. Like they did last time.”

  “Last time?”

  “Berlin 1945. This city is almost undamaged in comparison, and they rebuilt. A pity they messed with their diesel engines.”

  “Indeed.” The frost had become solid ice, “As I was saying, you’ll take up position on the second floor of this building and wait for the President to pass. When his motorcade is within range, I have fixed up for a line of armored vehicles to emerge from a side street as if they are traveling across the city, and they’ll block the road. When the motorcade has halted, you will have a stationary target, and you should be able to carry out the hit without any problems.”

  Custer was nodding in enthusiasm. “General, you’ve fixed it all up for us, and all I can say is we’re very impressed.”

  Bryce ignored him. “What about our exfil? How do we get out of Syria after the hit?”

  His expression was smooth, and in that moment, he knew something was wrong, badly wrong.

  Will he let us make the hit and throw us to the wolves?

  “I have made arrangements. You do not need to concern yourselves with the details. Remember, afterward I will be the new President of Syria, and I will have an entire country at my disposal.”

  “With respect, Sir, this is our necks on the line. We’re gonna need details.”

  The Lieutenant understood where he was coming from. “That’s true, General. What have you fixed up?”

  His smooth expression changed. At first, the merest glint of irritation and hostility, and then the smile. Smooth as an oil slick on water, and about as dangerous.

  “I will have a helicopter on standby to take you off the roof of the buildings and fly you to Damascus International Airport, which as you know is to the east of the city. An executive jet will be waiting on the tarmac, it’s destination Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. From there, you will transfer to a flight back to the United States. Everything is in order, and you have my personal guarantee that nothing will go wrong. Now, I must leave you to attend to some business. I will arrange for my men to show you to your rooms, and later, my daughters will be more than pleased to keep you company until I return.”

  He left the huge room, and they were alone in the large, echoing space. Except for the armed man, presumably one of his soldiers, standing at the door.

  To protect us, or to make sure we don’t leave?

  Their rooms were spacious and as luxurious as the rest of the villa. Bryce shared with Vince Merano, and he voiced his concerns. “That guy’s as trustworthy as a used car dealer. Remember, he’s arranged for us to kill his boss. That puts a huge question mark over his reliability.”

  Merano frowned. “I’m not entirely comfortable with the way things are. I have a few questions, and the first one is where are these dirty bombs? Al Assad is sure to want to keep them under his control, which means they must be close to Damascus. I’d like to eyeball them and know what we’re here for.”

  “Agreed. What else?”

  “I still don’t see why General Youssef can’t keep this hit an internal affair. He commands plenty of soldiers, and most of ‘em would feel the same way about these nukes. Why us?”

  “Good question, and I don’t know. When we see the General next, we need to insist on seeing these bombs. Our intel people back home will want to see evidence of them, photos of the casings, stuff like that, so they can pinpoint their origin. As for the rest of it, I gather it’s too risky for a Syrian to make the hit. If the conspirators were caught, al-Assad would roast them over a slow fire.”

  “And if we were caught?”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. We’ll talk it over with the others, but the recce is important. Take some vacation snaps to send home.”

  They spent the day relaxing and prowling around the house. Except for one door on the first floor, securely locked, and guarded by two capable-looking soldiers armed with Russian made AKSUs, the shortened version of the Kalashnikov AK-74. When they went near, they snarled a warning, making it clear they weren’t welcome. They turned back but both SEALs were puzzled.

  “Something about those two guys,” Merano murmured when they were out of earshot, “I can’t work it out.”

  “They weren’t Syrians,” Bryce supplied the answer, “Definitely not Arabs, they looked kinder Asian, but white-skinned. Mongolian maybe, but why Youssef would recruit Mongolians, I don’t...sonofabitch, of course. They’re Russians. Probably mercenaries.”

  “Why Russians guarding that door?”

  “Because he has something valuable inside, and he doesn’t trust his own men not to steal whatever it is. Gold, jewels, share certificates, it could be anything. Look at this place; the General’s a wealthy man. And he’ll be a whole lot wealthier when he takes over the number one slot.”

  Merano nodded his understanding. “At least he’ll make sure those nukes don’t get deployed. For that alone, he’s welcome to anything he can get. Nukes, they give me the creeps.”

  In the early evening they showered and shuddered. Putting sweaty clothing back on top of clean skin was less than ideal. The men went back to the huge living room, and they’d laid a table at one end for a meal. They ate and drank, and the two girls, Muna and Asma, helped serve the food, then joined them. Asma, the girl with the ski-slope nose, was surly and silent. Muna, the pretty one, was vivacious and talkative.

  “Tell us why you are here, Lieutenant Custer.”

  They realized then they didn’t know about the mission to kill al-Assad, which was good news. If security was that tight inside the house, it looked like the objective could be watertight. They talked late into the evening, and Bryce found himself drawn to the exquisitely pretty Muna. If he hadn’t been married, he’d have been keen to take things to the next stage. Custer was single and had no such inhibitions. He entertained her with the stirring story of his namesake at the Little Bighorn, although his face filled with regret when they asked him if he was related.

  “There is a possibility of a connection on my father’s side, going back several generations.”

  Bryce winced.

&nbs
p; He means no.

  They finished the meal and returned to their rooms to spend a comfortable night. He didn’t feel comfortable. Something was stirring in the back of his mind. Too many things didn’t add up.

  Who were those soldiers who followed us into the city? And using American soldiers instead of their people. Sure, if it all goes wrong, they can blame the U.S. After all, doesn’t everyone blame America for everything that goes wrong in the world? Still, it doesn’t feel right. I could talk it over with Custer, but he’ll want to see it through, and maybe he’s right. Bryce seems infatuated with Muna, so his thinking will be clouded with an excess of hormones.

  He finally got to sleep in the early hours. Tomorrow they were due to get into position to pop a bullet into one of the most heavily guarded men in the world. After that, a helicopter off the roof, which reminded him of the newsreels of the evacuation of Saigon in 1975.

  Why did I think of that? They didn’t all make it out. A premonition? Jesus Christ, I hope not.

  In the morning they dressed and went down for breakfast. The table was bare, and all that awaited them was General Youssef. “I have news.”

  Bryce wondered about that premonition the night before. “What is it, General?”

  “We have a leak. You have to get out of here. They’ll be coming to search my home within hours.”

  “What about the mission?”

  “We have to postpone for twenty-four hours. President Assad is suspicious, and he won’t be leaving the Presidential Palace until tomorrow at the earliest. We must hurry if we are to get you to a place of safety. Come with me.”

  They made it out into the courtyard before they heard the rumble of engines. Youssef spoke to a man who was staring through a grille, watching the approaches.

  “He says they have come. We are too late.”

  * * *

  Nolan was thinking hard, trying to work out who was behind them. Another burst of gunfire tore up the road surface, but still they were unscathed.

  Thank Christ those guys were such lousy shots.

  Ryder kept his foot pressed to the floor, and the ungainly, overloaded technical behind them fell back. Until they drove into a series of tight, twisting bends, when they had to slow almost to a crawl to negotiate the tight turns. The Toyota gained, and several times they opened fire, yet each time they missed.

  “They want us to stop,” Waverley shouted from in back, where he still crouched on the floor, “That’s why they’re not hitting us. It’s a warning. Petty Officer Ryder, you must stop this vehicle immediately.”

  He glanced aside at Nolan, who shook his head. “Not yet, I’m still thinking. They could hit us with a short burst, maybe take out the tires. Why aren’t they doing it?”

  “Because they don’t want to see us crash and the vehicle catch fire. If it goes up, the cash could go with it.”

  Waverley’s explanation made some sense, except for one tiny problem. If they took the money, they’d kill them. Why keep them alive to identify who’d carried out the robbery? On the other hand, he was at last getting the germ of an idea.

  “Ryder, as soon as you round a bend and they’re out of sight, you can stop.”

  “Thank God,” Waverley muttered.

  John-Wesley fixed him with a puzzled expression. “Why stop, Boss?”

  “Because I’m getting out. I have an idea.”

  “It better be a good one.”

  “It is.”

  I hope.

  He scooped up his Mk 11 sniper rifle, with the twenty-round box magazine already loaded and full. The Land Cruiser halted, and he leapt out the door and started running. The land was flat, but he’d seen a stone building that he assumed was a pumping station for the local irrigation system. Enough to give him cover, and up on the roof he’d have sufficient elevation to see what was going on. He’d just scrambled on top of the corrugated metal roof when he saw the technical draw up behind it, the formidable DShK heavy machine gun covering them.

  The driver and gunner stayed with the vehicle, and two men climbed down from the cab, Arabs, maybe Kurds, or any of the other variants living in these parts. The robes were the giveaway that they weren’t Russians. They approached the Land Cruiser, and the leading man shouted something to the occupants. He saw Ryder, the only one with a gun toss it out the window. They climbed out, Waverley, the girl, then Ryder, and at a shouted order put their hands in the air. He saw them exchanging words, and the man opened the trunk. He shouted something to the other man, who walked up and removed the aluminum case. They were both smiling, and when he looked at the technical, they were also smiling. The goose had laid the golden egg, and they’d already be working out their share of the loot as they carried it back to the technical.

  Now was as good a time as any. The men’s heads were filled with dreams of hitherto unseen wealth, and they weren’t looking for threats. He took aim, centered the cross hairs on the man behind the gun, and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the exploding bullet coincided with a bloom of red appearing in the center of his head, and he fell forward against the gun. The driver jerked his head around and died with a bullet that slammed into his chest.

  The other two men started running toward the technical, and they made a big mistake. They kept hold of the case, which slowed them down enough for Nolan to put a bullet into the third man. The fourth and last spoofed him, darting back to the Land Cruiser. He grabbed Rachel Dayan from behind and searched for the shooter. His eyes fell on the stone building, and he shouted to him.

  “If you fire another shot, the girl dies.”

  He was stymied. The girl almost covered him, and even though he could fire into a tiny area of his body that was visible, it would be a huge gamble. The guy stared up at him and took a step toward the technical, keeping her in front of him as a human shield. He saw John-Wesley move. He’d assumed he’d disarmed him, but a gun wasn’t the only weapon in Ryder’s armory. Neither was it the most effective.

  The Arab was swerving from side to side, making him a difficult target. Each time he moved he pulled the girl with him. If they let him take her, as well as the money and the technical, they may as well sign her death warrant. He was weighing the chances of a successful shot when it happened, and afterward he still didn’t believe what he’d seen. The girl seemed to trip, and she shrilled a wail of pure terror. As she fell, her shoulder went up into the Arab’s belly, winding him and nudging him away from her.

  From the roof of the pumping station, he at last had a clear shot. He squeezed the trigger, a split second after Ryder threw the knife he’d pulled from under his coat. The blade entered the man’s neck, and a spurt of blood flew into the air like a fountain. Before he started to fall, Nolan’s bullet struck home, slamming into the center of his face. It tore out the back of his head, leaving a mess of blood, bone, and brain tissue exposed to the sky. He fell to the ground, and Rachel slowly picked herself up. After a final sweep to make sure they were alone, he vaulted down from the roof and rejoined the vehicle.

  John-Wesley wiped the bloody blade of his knife on the guy’s white robe, before it disappeared back inside his coat like a conjurer’s rabbit.

  “Did we get them all?”

  He glanced at Nolan. “He will destroy them and kill them all. Their bodies will be thrown outside. The stink will rise from the bodies, and the blood will flow down the mountains.”

  “I guess that means we did.” He ran to Rachel. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thanks. That was a lucky fall, it gave you a chance for a shot.” She looked more closely at the body, “Two chances, I believe. And neither of you missed.”

  She grinned at them. “It’s good to have men fighting over me. It makes a girl feel good.”

  He looked at her, and he wasn’t sure about her.

  She’s calm, too calm. Why?

  It struck him then, she was an Israeli, and every Israeli citizen had to undertake military service in the IDF, the Israel Defense Force. After basic training and two
years’ service, all soldiers went on the reserve list. As a result, Israel could call on three million trained soldiers in time of war. For a nation surrounded by hostile Islamic fanatics, their Army, Air Force, and Navy were indispensable.

  “You were a soldier.”

  He said it as a statement of fact, and she didn’t deny it. “Yes.”

  “Which branch?”

  She made a throwaway gesture.

  “Nothing special, infantry, that kind of thing. You know.”

  She wasn’t the average footslogger. So what’s her specialty in the IDF?

  He forced himself to concentrate on the mission and surveyed the ground on either side of the highway as they drove. What he saw wasn’t pleasant. They were nearing Aleppo, and scenes of devastation littered the ground, a testament to the war they’d been fighting for so long. Wrecked vehicles, some broken down and unrepaired, some destroyed by air attack, and people's possessions scattered across the desert. Heaps and bundles of rags, and he didn't want to dwell on the possibility they weren't abandoned clothes, but the owners were still wearing them.

  He estimated they had thirty kilometers to travel before they reached the city, and in a war zone, thirty kilometers was a long way. Anything could happen, and they could come under attack from any of a wide range of possible hostile forces; ISIS, with their absurd claim to an Islamic caliphate, Syrian regular army, defending the nation and their dictator from attacks by the Free Syrian Army, where it had all started with an attempt to dethrone al-Assad.

  Then there were the Russians, allies of the Syrians. There was also Hezbollah, sponsored by Iran, pushing their support for the Syrian Shiite brand of Islam. There was Turkey, determined to fight off the threat from the Kurds. The Kurdish PKK was active in the region, fighting off attacks from all sides, and what they regarded as their sovereign territory. Throw into the mix the American support for the Kurds, and the Israelis who were fighting to defend their borders from the wide range of enemies operating inside Syria, he decided the risk of hitting trouble before they reached Aleppo was high. And if they hit trouble, they'd need to fight their way through.