by Mark Greaney
And the motherfucking helicopter was circling right over them now.
Four’s leg was a mess, bleeding from multiple points. Zack guessed he’d lost well over a liter of blood already. Most men would not have been on their feet, much less still in the fight, but Milo was a former Navy SEAL; he’d been pushed physically further than 99.99 percent of the rest of the American population, so he could shrug off this battle wound for a few minutes more.
But, Zack knew, once he’d lost two liters, he’d be down, unconscious or close to it. He was desperate to find his men some cover, to tend to Four’s wounds, to consolidate ammo, to catch their fucking breath.
They were three blocks from the sea now. Two had used a hatchet to knock a hole through the wall of a small basket shop into the back of a post office. It was only just after seven a.m., so the office was still closed, but there were voices coming from the other side of the shuttered front door and windows. The team moved into the room, low and behind the counter. Five went to the front door, cracked it open, and then quickly closed it. He turned back to Sierra One, who had positioned himself to cover the hole in the wall they’d just crawled through.
“No dice, Zack. GOS out the wazoo. They’re hanging back, thinking it over, but they’ll see us if we break cover.”
“Roger that,” said Hightower. He knew this force against him must at least be entertaining the possibility that the president of their nation was a captive of the men they were shooting at. It should have made them think twice before engaging, giving an advantage to Whiskey Sierra. But this was a chaotic and confused situation, and Zack knew he could not trust the training and reasoning of his enemy to check their fire.
He nodded to a metal circular staircase that rose into a dark hole above them. It looked more like a small storage space than a second floor. “Three, punch out and try and get access to the roof, but watch for that chopper. We want to keep moving southeast, towards the port.”
Dan, the dark-bearded Paramilitary Operations officer, complied. He moved quickly with his French-made FAMAS F1 assault rifle high towards the darkness. When he was gone, Zack looked to Two, then nodded to Four. “We’ve got to stop his bleeding, or they’ll be able to track us.”
Two began limping over to Four before Zack finished the thought. Four guarded the hole in the wall with his machine gun while Two dropped to his kneepads next to him and began pulling medical supplies from his small pouch on his chest rig.
A minute later the helicopter flew by low and slow, trying to get a look inside the windows of the second story.
“Dan.” Zack used his radio to call Three on the roof.
“Yeah, boss?”
“I need you to do something about that Mi-17.”
A pause, and then the reply, “I’d love to, chief, but I left my Stinger missile in my other pants.”
Brad and Milo laughed. Spencer was down a hallway that led to an open room, doing his best to cover a half dozen points of entry by himself. Zack barked, “Three, that chopper has got to go. I don’t give a fuck how you do it, but you don’t come down till that Mi-17 goes down, how copy?”
A hesitation, but the answer was firm. “Good copy, Zack.”
“We’re gonna pass Four’s HK up to you. That’s better than your FAMAS.” Zack looked to Four, who, though prone with his back propped up against the wall and covered in blood from his right knee down, did not seem happy about relinquishing his weapon. He handed it over to Brad who, in turn, passed his F1 to the wounded man. Brad ran up the staircase with the big gun. A few seconds later, he came down with Dan’s weapon around his neck and went back to work on the bloody leg.
Hightower spoke into his headset. “There is no way we can get out of this city with that bird overhead. Once we’re on the open road, there will be nowhere to hide from the air. We defend this building until that chopper is dealt with. If Dan can get the Mi-17 out of the way, we are going to head east, to the waterline. We’re going to swim out of here. Everybody copy that?”
“Four can’t swim, boss,” said Two.
Zack looked at Four, who’s face was whitening with the loss of blood.
Four said, “Fuck that shit. I’ll swim if you tell me to swim.”
Zack looked back to Two. Brad shook his head emphatically. Milo started to protest, but Hightower raised his hand. “You cut that macho man bullshit right now. Nobody is impressed.” Then he transmitted to the team. “Okay, we head to the water anyhow, make ’em chase us, then we disappear. We’ll double back over ground we’ve already covered. If we’re lucky, then they’ll think we went for a swim. We’re going to need to use a little subterfuge.”
To a man they nodded as one. They understood the stakes. They knew no one would be coming for them. They knew they were on their own. They had only themselves to rely on.
And the Gray Man.
Zack reached to the satellite phone on his chest rig and punched the number six on the keypad. He noticed his bloody arm again, wondered how much longer he’d be operational if he could not stop the bleeding. He pushed the concern from his mind as Gentry answered.
Sierra One asked, “Yo, brother, things as fucked-up on your end as they are over here?”
“Oryx and I are clear. It sounded like you guys were engaged pretty heavily.”
“Still are.”
“You got a plan, Charlie?” Gentry’s sarcasm was directed at plan Bravo, which hadn’t turned out so well.
“You know it.”
“I doubt it.”
A pause from the other side. “I’m workin’ on it. Where are you?”
“We’re fifteen klicks northwest. I’ve switched out the wheels I left town with. Nobody followed us.”
“Well, shit, kid, sounds like you’re sitting pretty compared to us. We’re hemmed in, two casualties, ammo short. The army has backed off, hoping this Hip flying overhead can frag us so they don’t have to expose themselves again. I guess they either don’t think we have their president, or else they don’t care.”
“A Hip? I didn’t know the GOS flew Mi-17s.”
“It’s definitely a Hip.”
“Who are the casualties?” Court asked.
“Milo took a round in his leg. We’ve controlled the blood loss, but he ain’t walkin’ out of here on his own power.”
“And the other?”
“Yours truly.”
“You operational?”
“Hell yeah, I’m fraggin’ skinnies like there’s no tomorrow. Just caught a little ding to the forearm of my non-shooting hand, although on a day like today, all hands are shooting.”
“Shit. One casualty here, too.”
“Who?”
“Who the fuck do you think, Zack? You sent me in alone, remember?”
“I know that, dickhead. I didn’t know if you were talking about Oryx.”
“Oryx is fine.”
“You get a boo-boo?”
“Something like that.”
“Where are you hit?”
“Upper back, with an arrow.”
“Uhhh, repeat last?”
“I got shot with a damn arrow. Haven’t taken it out yet. I’m working up to it.”
“So there’s an arrow sticking out of your back? For real?”
“Affirm.”
“What the hell? Ain’t nobody shooting arrows around here.”
“Well, I didn’t fucking back into it, Zack! I never saw the shooter. Beats taking a 7.62 from one of those PKMs the army’s blasting back there.”
“An arrow. I’ll be damned.”
“Look, Zack. I can get to you guys. I’m pulling into my hide right now. I can zip-tie Oryx to a support beam and haul ass back to you. I’ve got my Glock and a mag left, maybe I can—”
“Negative. You stay put and protect the package for now. I don’t need you charging in like Custer and losing the president in the process. We’ll keep trying to wiggle out of this shit on our own.”
“Understood.”
“How you gonna get th
at arrow out?”
“I’m going to ask the president to help me.”
Zack whistled. “He may be disinclined to cooperate.”
“Yeah. I’ll have to persuade him.”
“Well, good luck with that. But while you’re over there playing cowboys and Indians, the grown-ups are shooting real guns in my neck of the woods. So get your principal secure and your shit straightened out and check back with me.”
“Roger that.”
Zack disconnected the call. Just as he looked back up, gunfire from a heavy machine gun hit the north side of the building, scattering plaster and concrete through the dusty air of the room like thick smoke. All three men dropped to their chests and returned fire into the wall. Zack shouted into his mike, “Come on, Dan! Clear my fuckin’ sky already!” But his words were drowned out by the incredible noise.
THIRTY-EIGHT
By eight a.m., Whiskey Sierra was completely pinned down from the west and from above. Spencer had scooted back into the room with the other men. He’d taken a three-round burst from an AK-47 into his big chest plate and was bleeding from several shrapnel injuries to his neck and face.
Dan was still up on the roof. He’d found some concealment from the chopper and was trying to get an opportunity to bring it down, but he would need to expose himself to do so, and the Hip was circling too damn close to try it. The other four team members were flat on the ground of the first floor. The machine gun on the back of the jeep Brad had almost rear-ended earlier had found a crew, and it had been pulverizing the portion of the mall where Whiskey Sierra was hiding. Zack and his team could not even get their heads up to return fire, so withering was the enemy’s attack.
“Dan, can you make it to the side of the roof to get a shot on this machine gun?”
“No fucking way, boss. The Hip is hovering right in front of my position. I stick my head out, and I’m going to lose it. I can’t even engage it till it moves away.” The noise of the helicopter came through the headsets with Sierra Three’s transmission.
“Roger that.”
Brad shouted over the noise from the incoming fire, “They are going to flank us here in a second!”
“Yeah,” agreed Zack. It was his job, as the team leader, to think of a way out of this seemingly impossible predicament.
He looked at the hallway. Other than the windows and front door, it was the only exit to the room. “Spence, think the GOS has taken that next room yet?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Lots of access from the street.”
Hightower nodded. “Okay. All elements, here’s what we’re going to do, break. This ain’t pretty, but it’s all I got. Brad, on my command, you are going to throw all your smoke as far as you can out the window towards the west, try to get it on the road between us and the machine gun. Dan, stay down, but throw your smoke from the roof in the same direction, as far as you fucking can.”
“Roger, boss.”
“Spencer, throw your smoke out the window to the east, into the market between the malls. How copy?”
“Good copy.”
“I’ll pop smoke along with Spence. Then, on my command, Spencer goes out the window to the east, fires at the Hip, and hauls ass. You’re going to try to get the chopper to go after you. As soon as he does—”
Dan finished the transmission. “I’ll dump eighty rounds from the HK up its ass.”
“Good man. Then Spencer continues on to Mall Bravo. Tries to make the GOS think we’ve relocated over there, while the rest of us keep heading south in this complex via the second floor.”
“Roger that,” said Spencer. Going out into the open like that was all but a death sentence, but the man did not show a moment’s hesitation or an ounce of fear.
“We’ll link up as soon as possible,” said Zack.
“Sounds good,” Sierra Five said. Still no indication that he knew he was likely about to die.
“Brad, Milo is your responsibility.”
“I got him, but we’re going to have to shit-can his gear so he can keep moving.”
“Do it.” A pause for Brad to get the assault vest and backpack and utility belt off his injured patient. And then, “All right, guys, let’s make this happen. Go!”
Smoke grenades arced out of the windows and off the roof. Men under direct fire scrambled to their knees. Milo, though injured and weak, rolled to his knees and fired his borrowed weapon, threw a fragmentation grenade to the west.
“Frag out!”
Within seconds opaque red and white smoke had spurted from canisters in the streets on two sides of the building.
Spencer had unhooked much of the gear from his back and hips, and with only his UZI, a pistol, and a few magazines, he leapt out of the window of the shop, began sprinting across forty meters of market stalls and open ground to try and make it to the other strip mall. He was somewhat obscured by thick white and red smoke, but above and behind him the Hip turned on its axis and plunged through the air after him.
The big black operator slowed and turned to fire at it, raised his impotent weapon for a long burst, but the Hip fired first. The chain guns ripped up the wooden stalls to the left and right of him, and Spencer turned and began running again.
The Hip moved closer, creating distance between itself and the roof of the building behind it. Dan, Sierra Three, stepped out of his low concealment and brought the machine gun to his shoulder.
He lined the big rifle’s red dot sight on the tail rotor assembly at the back of the big bird. He opened fire with quick controlled bursts to combat the recoil, and he did not stop, firing eighty rounds and turning the barrel white-hot.
A small puff of black smoke appeared in seconds. The aircraft shuddered and angled to the right, breaking off his chase of the man in the market. He banked harder and harder. Dan thought he was trying to fly back around and engage him, but an explosion at the rotor assembly, much larger than the original puff of smoke, sent the Mi-17 spinning on the vertical midline of its main rotor.
It was eighty feet in the air, completely out of control, and Dan ducked back into the stairwell with a warning to Sierra Five, “Spence! He’s goin’ down hard! Get clear of the market!”
The tail of the Mi-17 slammed into the second story of the mall Zack and the majority of Sierra Five occupied. It dipped forward and hit the ground nose first. It was only a drop of thirty feet or so, but the big machine was moving at speed, and the resulting explosion and fireball ensured there would be no survivors.
Hightower knew exactly what happened to the Hip, though he had not seen it take the hits from Dan’s rifle nor had he watched it auger into the dirt between the two shopping centers. But he heard all the noises and the transmissions from his man on the roof, and when the chopper burst into flames, he and the two men with him were just coming out of the second-floor stairwell and passing a window, and the light and heat off his left shoulder left no doubt as to the fate of the Mi-17 and those aboard.
The three men continued down a short hallway, where they met Dan just as he came down a ladder from the roof. Brad and Dan each took hold of Milo, and Zack led the way as they tried to put some distance between themselves and the last point of contact with the enemy.
“One for Five,” Zack called into his headset as he warily moved through a long sundry store that apparently took quite a bit of heavy machine gun fire. All around papers, woven baskets, ceramic pottery, everything in the room, was shattered or shredded.
“One for Five. How copy, Five?” Nothing. “One for Five. Spence?”
The team’s headsets were silent.
Court entered the thatch-roofed dwelling, cleared it with his Glock in under five seconds. The walls were primarily burlap, and a fifty-five gallon drum had been pounded flat to use as a door. Treads from tires had been worked in with driftwood, plywood, and other refuse material to augment the burlap on the walls.
The inside was dark and sweltering, the air still and thick, an absence of the smells of food and smoke from cooking fires th
at made the American assume the owners had been gone awhile and were not coming back soon. He wiped away some cobwebs, kicked at some trash in the corner to make sure no one was hiding there and nothing dangerous came slithering out, and then used his knife to cut holes in the fabric walls to provide light and draft.
He had lucked into finding this hide. After Hightower’s last transmission, the Gray Man had decided to not go all the way up to the marshland as he’d originally planned. Instead, he wanted to be closer to Suakin in case he needed to get back there to help extract Whiskey Sierra. So he pulled off the main road, wandered aimlessly down a lonely dirt track, passed a few donkey carts and one small village, looking for any place to park the car and find a few minutes’ peace. The abandoned dwelling was surrounded by high grasses and was barely visible from the road, and immediately he knew it would do, although the grasses looked like they would certainly be full of all sorts of poisonous snakes and angry insects.
Gentry holstered his weapon and carefully retraced his steps back to the Skoda to get his human luggage out of the back.
Oryx was awake and alert. His eyes were wide and filled with alternating signs of relief, disdain, and a bit of drug-induced contentment. He’d downed the entire bottle of water and somehow even managed to get his undershirt ripped off of his body. His white shirt was literally clinging to him, soaked with sweat. His large bald head dripped.
The trunk had already begun to smell like death.
“You are not with the American government,” Oryx proclaimed as he was led towards the dwelling. “The way you executed that man. The way you hit me, threw me in the trunk. The talk of money and assassination. These are not the actions of an American serviceman.”
“Nope.”
The president stopped and turned. “You are a soldier of fortune.”
Gentry pushed him forward. “After expenses, I’m really more like a soldier of the middle class.”
“I know who sent you to kill me.”
