by Eric Meyer
“How long?”
He looked at Custer. “It’s hard to tell, but I’d say no more than six hours before the effects of the radiation become irreversible.”
Bryce was listening, and as bad as their situation was, the falling morale worried him even more. Getting out of this room was next to impossible, but that didn’t mean they had no chance. Provided they kept trying, kept working, and believed they were getting out of here.
“We’ll spell each man every fifteen minutes. That means every man working on the hinge will be fresh, and you can guide it hard.” He heard a grown, and he ignored it, “Get to it, all of you. We need to work harder than we’ve ever worked in our lives. Unless any of you want to die?”
No one replied, and he glanced at Custer who was still sitting on the floor, as if it wasn’t worth the effort to get up. He felt a bit sorry for him, thinking this was the Lieutenant’s personal catastrophe, his very own Little Bighorn. Just like his namesake, this dank basement room rapidly filling with radiation could prove to be his final battleground.
“Lieutenant, why don’t you do a search of the floor? We found the nail, there may be something else.”
“We already looked.”
“Maybe we missed something. Sir, you need to try. You owe them that.”
“I guess,” he muttered with no enthusiasm. But Bryce stood over him, watching him until he got onto hands and knees and began quartering the floor, feeling with his hands. After a few minutes, he stopped, “Master Sergeant, there’s no point. There’s nothing.”
“Sir, you haven’t done a thorough check. For the sake of your men, keep trying.”
He bent back to the task, groping around, and Bryce left him. He went to the door and took over from Merano. “How’re we doing?”
He gave him a one-word reply. “Slow.”
Bryce took the nail and hacked at the cement, tiny chip by tiny chip. The hinges were buried deep. Too deep, and he knew they had no chance of getting that door open in time. And yet, giving up wasn’t in his nature. Wasn’t in his DNA, and sure wasn’t part of his training.
“Lieutenant, how are you doing?”
“There’s nothing. Wait! I think I found something.”
He came to life and ran to the door. “It’s a builders chisel.”
“Hallelujah.” He grabbed the chisel, “Someone, help me. We have two tools. Now we’re smoking.”
On reflection, he thought it was an unfortunate choice of word. The radiation seeping into the room was slowly cooking them, and it wasn’t hard to let the imagination run riot and think about the end.
“Zeke, how long do we have?” He didn’t stop hammering the cement while he waited for an answer.
“Five hours left, maybe less. It’s not looking good, Master Chief.”
He didn’t like the sound of resignation in his voice. “Listen up, all of you. We have two tools to work on the hinges, so we’re going twice the speed. Men, we’re getting out of this, and that’s no bullshit. Work faster!”
To set example, he hacked even hard at the cement. Vince Merano took over the nail once more, and they flew at the impenetrable material. But after a few minutes, Merano met his eyes, and the look was eloquent. They weren’t going to make it. All they could do was keep up morale, so the men didn’t die in abject despair. They needed a miracle, and a miracle wasn’t about to happen. Not here, not in some toxic dungeon in the depths of the war-stricken capital of the Islamic shithole known as Syria.
* * *
They reached Damascus, and it was obvious Misha had done the journey before. He was also an expert in staying out of trouble. He drove an undulating route, taking them along dried riverbeds, beneath low bridges that almost ripped the roof off the Patrol. Once he turned into the rear courtyard of an apartment block, and drove through into the next courtyard, and the next, and the next.
He didn't emerge until the fifth courtyard, and they’d traveled an entire city block. The route wasn't without obstacles, and before they turned out onto the main street the elderly Yazidi stopped the Nissan so they could clear the bundles of washing they'd collected along the way. Nolan heard shouts, and at first he thought they'd been spotted. They had, but not by any hostiles. Unless you counted the women, some of them clad in black robes, racing toward them, fists raised as they chased after their washing.
They leapt back into the vehicle before the angry mob caught up with them and drove to the west of the city. The old cab driver’s unerring sense of direction took them to the address they were looking for, the villa of General Omar Youssef. The gates were closed, so he halted outside.
Nolan’s knock on the door resulted in a small observation hatch, people called a ‘Judas.’ The guy stared out at him with a hostile expression. "Yes?
"We're looking for General Youssef. We need a word."
"You have an appointment?"
"No appointment, but it's urgent."
"You must telephone to make an appointment."
The hatch slammed shut, and he considered their options. Ramming the gates was one, but it would inevitably result in trouble, considering the guy who lived there was a government minister. He returned to the vehicle, looking for Ryder, and he wasn't there.
"Where did he go?"
Stern smiled. "He saw they were giving you a hard time, so he decided to go over the wall. He climbed on the roof of the Nissan and shinned over the top. We didn't hear any shooting, so we assume he's okay."
Misha had understood every word, and he didn't look happy. "This house belongs to the Defense Minister. We cannot wait here. Soldiers will come and arrest us."
The guy had a point. "Misha, drive two streets south and wait for us there. I'm going in after Ryder."
"I'm coming with you."
He looked at Stern. "It's not your fight. This is our business."
He gave him a faint smile. "The last a heard, the U.S. and Israel were allies. You don't know yet if the men inside are friendly or hostile. If they're hostile, you'll need help, and the State of Israel is offering you that help."
He nodded. "Colonel, it's appreciated. Let's go, same way as Ryder. Up on the roof of the vehicle and over the wall."
He gave a final glance at Rachel. She looked back at him with a strange expression, and he found it indecipherable. He jumped on the roof of the Patrol, pulled himself onto the wall, and dropped down inside the courtyard. Almost without a sound, Stern landed next to him. A man was entering the villa, and they followed him. The front door was unlocked, and they went inside, hearing footsteps disappearing down the passage. They went after him, and he turned into a room packed with electronics. Nolan peered through the door, and they'd been lucky. A row of CCTV screens made it a security monitoring station, and he cursed himself for missing the cameras mounted outside. The guy who'd entered the room had evidently stepped out for some reason, probably to check one of the cameras, and he’d missed them climbing over the wall.
He looked at Stern and pointed, making a cutthroat motion. The Colonel nodded his understanding. Nolan tiptoed inside the room. The guy was turning the dial on an old-fashioned radio, tuning in a station playing weird Arabic music. It always sounded to him like a truck grinding along the street with faulty bearings, a piercing, discordant screech that hurt the ears.
He’d almost reached him when the guy sensed something and turned. He was grabbing for a gun lying on the table, and Nolan hit him so hard his head snapped back. As he fell, his neck collided with the edge of the table. The body lay on the floor at an awkward angle, and when he checked, there was no pulse. He felt a slight qualm about killing a guy who'd only been doing his job. But then again, when someone pulled a gun on him, he deserved what he got. And he usually got it.
Stern entered the room. “I checked the nearby rooms. There’s no sign of Ryder.”
“We’d better find him first, before anyone else does.”
* * *
He crept through the house, careful not to make a sound, and checked the
huge main room. It was empty. No sign of Youssef. He went from room to room, and still nothing. It was if they'd cleared out because of some emergency, and he couldn't work out what that could be. He was about to return to the Nissan when he heard a noise, a slight rattle coming from the rear of the villa. He drew the huge knife, once more feeling the sense of satisfaction at the leather nonslip handle he’d had custom-made, and touched the blade. At a pinch, he could have used it to shave. Then he walked along the passage, and he heard the noise once again.
He regretted leaving his rifle in the Patrol, but on second thoughts, maybe not. If it came to a shootout, there'd be soldiers racing in from everywhere. After all, this was the home of the Syrian Minister of Defense, and if he couldn't call on several squads of soldiers to protect him, no one could. The smell of cooking wafted toward him, which meant he was heading toward the kitchens. He glanced around the doorway at the end of the passage, and a cloud steam had enveloped the room. A man was standing in the center, stirring a huge pot. He was dressed in classic chefs whites, even with the fancy high hat and the blue checked pants. He had his back to him, and all Ryder needed to do was stroll up behind him, put an arm around his neck, and bring the blade in front of his eyes.
"If you don't make a noise, I won't have to kill you. Savvy?"
The voice was terrified, almost a squeak. "Sir, I promise you, I won't make any noise."
"Good man. First, who else is working in the kitchen?"
"Only me, the other staff will be here in one hour, to prepare lunch for the General."
"And where is General Youssef?"
He felt the vibrations through his arm wrapped around the guy’s neck, as if he was turning to jelly. "I know nothing about the General, nothing!"
Ryder rested the point of the blade against his cheek and let it slide down an inch. Blood began to trickle down his face, and he shivered even more. "Please, don't kill me."
"Last chance, pal. General Youssef, where is he? And when does he get back?"
The answer came in a rush. "He went to the Ministry. It is in the center of Damascus. He is due back at lunchtime, in two or three hours."
He relaxed his grip a fraction to let the guy know he was saying the right kind words if he wanted to go on living.
"Last question. Some Americans were due to visit the General. Where are they?"
He had to hold him up; he was that scared. "Please, he will kill me."
"It's up to you. I'll kill you first if you don't talk. I promise you, I won't say word to General Youssef. Talk now, and you stand a chance of living a long and happy life."
"In the basement. The door to the elevator is locked, but I understand they took them down there and locked them inside one of the rooms. That is all I know."
"That'll do for me." He reversed the knife in a quick flip, held the blade between his fingers, and tapped the hilt on the guy's head. It was heavy, and he sagged, dropping to the floor, unconscious. Ryder knelt beside him and checked his pulse. It was ragged and uneven, and he decided he'd come to in a few minutes. He tapped him again with the hilt, and this time he went out, unlikely to come around inside of a couple of hours. He smiled to himself.
About in time to cook Youssef's lunch; the General may be angry enough to insist the chef's head is served up on a silver platter, but if the food he cooks is decent, there’s a good chance he'll survive.
A final check around the kitchen to make sure there were no more Syrians looking, and he left the way he’d come. Back out into the passage he saw movement, men coming toward him. He dove into an adjacent room, left the door slightly ajar, and waited. Two men, and as the last one went past, he stepped into the passage in a swift move, about to plunge the knife into the neck of the man at the rear.
He stopped with the blade held high. "You! That was close."
Stern shook his head ruefully. "Too close, but at least we found you."
"And I've found our guys. At least, that's what the man said."
"Which guy?"
"The one I knocked unconscious in the kitchen."
"Right. Where are they?"
He explained about the door to the elevator, and a minute later they were standing outside, inspecting the lock.
"If Zeke was with us, he’d have that open inside of a minute."
Ryder grimaced. "If they're still alive, Zeke is down there, locked in the basement. We need a key."
Stern stepped forward. "You need an Israeli. All part of the training."
He took out a set of picks from an inside pocket and set to work on the lock. He struggled to find the correct pins, and it was all of fifteen minutes before it clicked open.
* * *
The car seemed to drop forever. When it reached the bottom, Nolan opened the door. In the dim illumination of an armored light fitting, he saw two doors in front of them. One locked top and bottom, and the other secured with two massive bolts.
He nodded to Ryder. "We'll try that one first. Colonel, keep us covered."
He slid the bolts across and swung the door open. Two men were standing inside, both holding metal implements of some kind, and astonished expressions on their faces. They wore SEAL camos.
"Will, Vince, thank Christ we found you. Are you all here?"
"All of us, Boss," Bryce replied, "But time for explanations later. We need to get out of here, and fast."
He smiled. "You sound like there's an unexploded bomb down here."
"Close, very close. How about a leaking dirty bomb? As in nuclear."
"You're kidding me."
"I don't kid about stuff like that. I'm serious. We need to get out. The bombs are locked in the next room, and like I said, at least one is leaking. Every second we spend down here means a bigger dose of radiation. Are you sure I’m not glowing green?”
“Not yet. Lieutenant Custer, are you okay?"
He was getting to his feet from where he'd been crouched against the wall. "I am now. How did you find us?"
"A long story, and I'll tell you later. We need to get out of here.” He grinned, “And it's good to see you again."
They made it back to the first floor and straightaway ran into the guy they’d seen outside. The one who’d refused them entry. At first he didn't notice the SEALs walking behind them. All he saw was Nolan, Ryder, and Stern. He did a double take, turned, and started running. They took off after him, and Ryder was quickest. But the Syrian ran like an Olympic sprinter, and the chances were he could dodge out of sight, the alarms go off, and they were back in the shit.
He rounded a corner, and they heard his footsteps disappearing into another part of the villa. There was a loud cry, and a thump, the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. He rounded the corner, and Rachel was standing over him. The guy was moaning softly with blood pouring from his nose.
She looked up. "He didn't seem keen to hear what you had to say, so I thought I'd persuade him."
Nolan stood over the man, looking down at his injury. "You broke his nose. I'd say that was mighty persuasive. Where did you learn that, in the IDF?"
"They teach us a lot of things in the IDF. They took that one from the Canadian Mounties. It comes under the heading, how to get your man."
"I told you to stay with the Nissan."
"They teach us how to handle pushy men as well. SOP is to ignore them." But her lips twitched in amusement to soften the words.
Bryce pushed his way through and picked up the guy by his shirtfront. He shook him like a wet dog and put his angry black face close to his.
"Mister, are you listening to me?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Where is General Youssef now?" He looked at Nolan. "If you're wondering why I'm so angry, this is one of the guys who herded us down into that basement and fed us a diet of nuclear waste."
"Knock yourself out. But don't knock him out, not if you want information."
"Maybe I should take him down to the basement and lock him in. See how he feels. A couple of days in there and he could light
up the center of Damascus, a funny shade of green, but enough to see where you're going. I asked you where is the General."
"I don't know."
He held him by his neck and lifted him off the floor, so he was choking. "If that's the way you want to play it, a couple of days in the basement may make you think again."
"Stop, I’ll tell you everything. He’s at the ambush site."
"You mean where he plans to shoot the President?"
He stared at the man in disbelief, "Did I hear that right? You're talking about Bashar al-Assad, the President of Syria?"
He looked down the floor and shuffled his feet. "Yes."
"What is this, some kind of a coup? I don't get it." Nolan looked at Will. "Do you know what's going on here?"
"Oh, yeah, we do now." He explained about the dirty bombs in the basement. How Omar Youssef had convinced the United States that al-Assad intended to purchase them in quantity from the Russians and deploy them against his enemies, "Except it was all a crock of shit. The idea was to use us as fall guys. Bump off the President, and the General would step in as the savior of the country. As for the bombs, he had them here all along, and you can bet your last dollar the moment he took the top spot, intended to use them. None of us like what this civil war is doing to the country, tearing it into little pieces and opening the door for nutjobs like ISIS, but the alternative, to scatter radiation around the war zones is one hundred times worse."
Nolan took a few seconds to absorb what he'd just heard, and he looked at their captive. "Tell us about this ambush site."
He gave them an address. "It is a preliminary inspection. He has recruited four men for when he drives past. His journey was postponed until tomorrow, and they plan to get into position after dark. He is due back here for lunch."
“We get the picture. Mister, we need weapons. Where are they?”
He tried to evade the question, but Ryder introduced him to the razor-sharp alternative, and he led them to a steel cabinet in a storeroom. It was locked, but he produced the key from beneath the rug. “General Youssef said we should hide it, in case intruders tried to steal the weapons.”
