“We were,” Short said. “The Arabs took the town while us FFAs were sent to take the airport.”
Harley pursed his lips, thinking. “I see. So, are the Arabs supposed to come here later, or what?”
Short shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Billy what the plans were. The rest of us just followed orders. We weren’t in on the details.”
“Seems like I’ve heard that defense before,” Harley said. “Do you know anything about some airplanes supposed to land here later?”
Short stared at him for a moment, as if thinking about refusing to answer or lying, then evidently thought better of it. “Yeah. Three or four big planes, C-130’s I think, are supposed to land here early in the morning, at first light.”
“You know what they’re gonna be carrying?” Harley asked.
Short shook his head. “No, the Arabs didn’t share that with us. But Billy told me he figured it was more troops and equipment of some kind.”
“He tell you any passwords or codes to use when talking with the planes?” Harley asked.
Short shook his head again. “No.”
Harley jacked the loading slide back on the Beretta and stuck the barrel under Short’s chin.
“Say again?” Harley snarled.
Short began to sweat, and Harley could see white around his eyes. “No, I promise you . . . I don’t know!” he cried in real fear for his life.
Harley eased the hammer down on the pistol. “I believe you, Short. You know why?”
“Uh-uh,” Short mumbled, his eyes still on the pistol.
“ ’Cause you have neither the balls nor the conviction to lie to me.”
Harley whirled around and walked over to the couch where Billy Wesson lay.
He pulled the blanket back and saw three bloodstained bullet holes in Wesson’s abdomen. He knew the man would never live to see a doctor.
He slapped him lightly on the cheeks to bring him to consciousness. “Billy, Billy Wesson,” Harley said in a loud voice. “Wake up.”
Wesson’s eyes fluttered a few times, he smacked dry lips, coughed, and then his eyes came open. He stared up at Harley leaning over him.
“Who . . . who are you?” he croaked.
“My name is Harley Reno,” Harley said in a neutral voice. “I have some questions for you, Mr. Wesson.”
Wesson groaned and moved slightly on the couch. “I’m hurt . . . I need a doctor.”
“We’ll get you one, just as soon as you answer my questions,” Harley said.
Wesson rolled his head back and forth, whining, “No, no answers until I get to see a doctor.”
Harley stood up and shrugged. “Okay, pal, it’s your choice. See ya later.”
Wesson grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you going to get me a doctor?”
Harley shook his head. “No, and I really wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, pal.”
Wesson’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Harley grinned a nasty grin. “Yeah. You see, pal, you got three belly wounds. Now, since you’re still alive, that means you probably aren’t gonna bleed to death, which would be the easy way out.”
Wesson frowned. “What . . . what do you mean?”
“Well, those bullets tore through your intestines, filling your gut with lots of bacteria and other nasty stuff. Since you’re not gonna bleed to death, that means you’re gonna die from infection, and I got to tell you, pal, that is one really mean way to go.” .
Fear filled Wesson’s eyes and he lay his head back on the pillow. “What do you want to know?”
Harley sat on the edge of the couch, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Coop was listening. “I need to know if there are any code words or passwords you’re supposed to use to tell the airplane pilots it’s safe to land.”
Wesson nodded. “Yeah. When they radio in for final instructions, I’m supposed to end transmission with the words ‘Thanks be to Allah.’ ”
Harley looked over his shoulder to make sure Coop had heard. Coop nodded, and Harley turned back to Wesson.
“Now, what about the Arabs who fought in Boise? Are they supposed to join you here later tonight?”
Again Wesson nodded. “The leader, Achmed Sharif, and some of his staff are going to be coming out here while the majority of his troops stay in town to keep the citizens under control,” Wesson said, his voice getting weaker.
“Any passwords with this Sharif guy?” Harley asked.
“No . . .” Wesson said, his voice trailing off as he lapsed into unconsciousness again.
Harley stood up, motioning to Coop and Short to follow him out of the office.
As he walked rapidly down the corridor, he glanced at Coop. “We got to hurry. We’ve got a lot to do.”
“Such as?” Coop asked.
“We’ve got to keep this Sharif away from the airport, and we’ve got to somehow get the airplanes to try and land so we can crash them, an’ we ain’t got a whole lot of people to do the job with.”
“Why not just destroy the landing fields with our mines and get the hell outta here before the rest of the Arabs get here?” Coop asked.
Harley shook his head. “ ’Cause then the pilots would see the ruined fields and abort the landings. They’d just go to their backup landing field and the troops and equipment would get delivered someplace else.”
“Yeah,” Coop said, “you’re right. We’ve got to draw them into a trap so we can blow the shit outta them.”
Harley looked at Coop and grinned. “Ah, a man after my own heart.”
Thirty-two
Harley couldn’t find any rope, so he used duct tape to secure Short’s arms and legs to one of the metal chairs lining the walls of the airport terminal building.
Once the traitor was tied down, Harley met with the other members of his team. Hammer had been moved to a large easy chair in one of the airport offices, and that was where they had their meeting.
Harley filled them in on what the leader of the FFA traitors had said and what he planned to do.
Jersey shook her head. “I don’t know, Harley. That’s an awfully ambitious plan for only six people to carry out.”
Hammer struggled to sit upright in his chair. “Hey, don’t count me out. I can help too.”
Jersey turned a hard face on the soldier. “You move around and get that wound to leaking again and I’ll personally kick your ass, Hammer,” she said in a voice that left no doubt she meant every word.
“Well, don’t forget the air traffic controllers,” Harley said. “They can pretty much take care of the control tower. I figure we can put four people on the road coming into the airport to take out the Arabs when they arrive, and that leaves two to cover the landing field.”
“How are two men—or women,” Coop added when Anna gave him a look, “gonna take out three or four C-130’s when they land? We don’t have any LAW rockets or SAMs or anything big enough to take down a BUF,” he said, using the acronym BUF for Big Ugly Fucker, the name a C-130 was called by the grunts who had to ride in one.
“As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right, Harley,” said Jersey, glancing at Coop. “Those C-130’s would just laugh at our Uzis, and even the Big Thumper could only get one before the others were warned off.”
Harley nodded and walked to the window overlooking the airfield, trying to think of some way to do the job.
Anna walked over to stand next to him, her hand on his arm.
Suddenly she stiffened and pointed out of the window. “That’s it!” she said.
“What’s it?” Harley asked, trying to follow her pointing finger.
“The fuel trucks,” she answered.
Hammer was carried up the stairs to the air traffic control area so he could help if the controllers ran into any questions from the airplane pilots they couldn’t answer.
Once Hammer was situated, Harley and Anna rushed out onto the tarmac to start up the fuel trucks standing near the hangars, while Jersey and Coop and Beth and Corrie drove out
to the guard station on the road leading into the airport, hoping they were in time to intercept the incoming Arabs before they found the tied and bound guards who had been left out there at the beginning of the attack.
The guards were still there, but had lost a tremendous amount of blood from the thousands of mosquito bites they’d had to endure.
As Jersey and her friends bent and dragged the men out of sight, putting gags on their mouths to keep them from yelling and alerting the Arabs, Coop looked at the swollen red bites all over the men and laughed. “War is hell, gentlemen. You should have thought of that before you decided to betray your country.”
Achmed Sharif yelled at his driver, “Hurry up, you imbecile, or the planes will have landed before we get to the airport.”
“The road to the airport is just ahead, your excellency,” the driver called back over his shoulder.
They were riding in a large, black Lincoln Town Car, following a HumVee up ahead that contained ten of Sharif’s handpicked men. He intended to take over from the infidel Billy Wesson and make sure the landings went off perfectly.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, they made the turn onto the airport road and approached a series of sawhorses placed across the road as a barricade.
The men dressed in black manning the barricades pulled them aside for the HumVee, and let it pull ahead a few yards so the Lincoln could pull up to the barrier.
As the Lincoln rolled forward, Sharif leaned up and stared out the window at the black-clad guards, who were wearing baseball caps pulled down low hiding their faces. They all appeared somewhat small, he thought. Perhaps that was why they’d turned traitor, because of their small stature.
The guard at the barricade stepped to the side of the Lincoln and gestured for Sharif to roll down his window.
“What is the meaning of this delay?” Sharif asked in his most demanding tone as he lowered the window. “I am Achmed Sharif and I am here to take over command from Mr. Wesson. Now let us through!”
Coop leaned down and peered in the window at the four men riding in the car with Sharif. He shook his head, an apologetic look on his face.
“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to see some ID,” he said, reaching down to open the back door.
“You want to step out of the car, Mr. Sharif?” Coop asked humbly, swinging the door open.
“This is an outrage!” Sharif almost yelled as he climbed out of the car. “I will have you shot for this, you . . .” he began, until Coop backhanded him across the face with his Uzi.
As Sharif tumbled back into the ditch alongside the road, Coop dropped his Uzi and grabbed two fragmentation grenades from his belt, popped the pins in one continuous motion, and flipped them in the open window of the Lincoln.
He dove into the ditch, rolling up against the steep bank and using it as cover.
Seconds later the Lincoln exploded, blowing all four doors off their hinges and turning the four men in the car into hamburger meat.
Almost simultaneously, the HumVee up ahead lifted off its tires and came apart at the seams as four grenades from Beth and Corrie and Jersey went off inside the confines of the vehicle.
After bits of twisted, smoking metal quit raining down, Coop and the women climbed out of the ditches they’d been lying in and shook their heads. They were still almost deaf from the loudness of the explosions.
Coop glanced back down into the ditch. Sharif was still unconscious, a long gash on his right cheek still oozing blood from where the Uzi had hit him.
Coop motioned to the women. “Come on, maybe we can still get to the airport in time to help with the airplanes,” he called, unable to hear the sound of his own voice over the ringing in his ears.
Mehmet Kececi, pilot of the lead C-130, radioed the Boise Airport on the frequency he’d been given on takeoff from Vancouver Island.
“Boise Airport, this is C76A2 Heavy calling.”
“Come in, C76A2 Heavy, this is Boise. You are cleared to land on Runway A-2.”
Kececi waited for the all-clear signal.
After a moment’s hesitation, the radio squawked again. “And the weather is good. Visibility is seven miles, with winds out of the Northwest at five knots, thanks be to Allah,” the voice said.
Kececi smiled and switched frequencies to inter-ship communication. “As you heard, we’ve been given the all-clear. We will land in tandem on my lead.”
As he pushed the wheel forward, Kececi glanced through the windscreen at the field below. He noticed the landing strip looked wet, as if they’d had some recent showers.
“Glad we missed the weather,” he said to his copilot, who nodded his agreement.
The three large planes began their descent, gliding in like a row of ducks coming in to land on a pond....
The first plane, commanded by Mehmet Kececi, reached the end of the runway, and was making its turn toward the terminal as the second plane hit the midpoint of the runway and the third plane was just touching down at the far end.
Kececi wrinkled his nose and turned to his copilot. “You smell that, Farouk?” he asked.
Farouk Kaddoumi glanced at the pilot, nodding. “It smells like we’re leaking fuel,” he answered, cutting his eyes back to the instrument board to check the gauges.
As Kececi’s eyes roamed over the instrument panel, he said, “I see nothing wrong, but I swear I can smell—”
At that moment, the wheels of the C-130 Kececi was piloting broke a line connecting two Bouncing Betty mines on either side of the runway.
Twin canisters containing explosives and shrapnel shot into the air, tumbling end over end until they reached a height of about six feet. They exploded almost under the cargo compartment of the big plane, sending thousands of razor-sharp shards through the metal skin of the plane, wounding and killing dozens of the men inside the aircraft.
The explosion of the mines also ignited the two inches of diesel fuel Harley and Anna had poured onto the runway, sending oily flames shooting three blocks into the night sky and surrounding the C-130 on all sides.
Kececi and Kaddoumi covered their faces and screamed as the tanks of the C-130, ruptured by the Bouncing Bettys’ shrapnel, ignited and exploded, blowing the airplane into four tons of twisted, melting scrap metal and killing every soul on board instantly.
When the pilot of the second plane in line saw the conflagration up ahead, he slammed both feet down on the brake pedals of his C-130, locking the wheels until the rubber shredded off the tires and the rims screeched along the concrete, sending up showers of sparks.
The sparks ignited the fuel on the runway under the second plane and the fuel that had splashed up on the fuselage of the aircraft itself.
The plane roared down the runway, flames covering it and raising the temperature inside the cargo area to two hundred degrees within less than a minute.
The fuel tanks, still intact, took another minute to catch on fire and explode. The C-130 disintegrated in less than a second, flaming bodies and pieces of metal and seats flying through the air like so many Roman candles on a July Fourth holiday celebration.
When the pilot of the third plane saw the first two go up in flames and disappear, lighting up the early morning sky, he pushed his throttle levers all the way forward and tried to gain enough speed to take off again before he reached the flaming wreckage ahead on the runway.
The plane and the flaming fuel on the runway raced toward each other, the pilot screaming oaths at Allah to let him make it safely airborne again.
He took off just as the flames kissed the undercarriage of his craft, his wheels burning as they passed inches over the flames of the other planes.
He looked at his copilot and grinned in relief, until the flames on the underside of his plane ate through the cargo doors and billowed up the cargo compartment and into the cockpit.
The pilot had time to scream once before the rubber mask on his face melted in the intense heat and his eyeballs burst.
He flopped forward, pushing the wheel of
the plane down and aiming the nose at the ground.
The plane hit nose-first five hundred yards past the end of Runway A-2, tumbling in a pinwheel of flames and smoke and debris.
The pilot and copilot were already dead when the tanks and light trucks and other equipment in the cargo hold landed on top of them, crushing them into the soft Idaho soil.
Thirty-three
Ben Raines’s team was quietly jubilant as they watched through the plate-glass windows of the main terminal at the Boise Airport as the flames consuming the three C-130 aircraft slowly burned themselves out in the hot morning sun.
Jersey shook her head at the sight. “Those poor bastards,” she said softly. “They never knew what hit them.”
Coop, standing next to her, shrugged, phlegmatic as always. “Hell, sometimes I think it’s better that way. One minute you’re thinking about your next meal or your next liberty, and the next you’re with whatever god or devil you subscribe to.”
Jersey looked at him, an expression of surprise on her face. “Why, Coop. That almost sounds poetic.”
He grinned. “Yeah, it does, don’t it?”
She slugged him in the shoulder and turned to walk away. “I said almost, jerk-off,” she told him in her usual taunting voice.
Coop followed her into the office where Hammer lay, snoring softly with a sheen of sweat on his pale face.
Harley looked up from the chair next to the couch. He hadn’t left Hammer’s side since the affair with the airplanes was over.
“I don’t much like the way he looks,” he said, a worried look on his face.
“Corrie was just on the cell phones to base,” Jersey said. “She said Ben was sending the Osprey back for us, and Dr. Buck would be on board to start any treatment Hammer might need until the plane could get him back to Indianapolis and the base hospital there.”
Harley nodded, somewhat relieved.
Destiny in the Ashes Page 20
