by John Ringo
That was noticed by the next boat, but before the terrorists on that one could react, he had hit one. The other dove out of sight with a scream and he took that as indication that his position was compromised. He took a breath and rolled backwards off the boat and into the water.
He swam down the line of boats, keeping his eyes open in the salt water, until he was up to the third boat, again letting himself surface by the hull. Suddenly the boat burst into life and he lifted himself quickly over the side, targeting the terrorist in the boat, who was hunkered down by the controls and yelling to his fellows on the shore.
Fire started to come from the land and Mike dove over the side, chased by fire from the land and boats. He felt a searing pain in his right leg when he hit the water and realized that he must have taken a round on the way out.
He used the boats for cover, breathing in their shadow, and made his way back to the mangroves. Once there he passed through them fast, ignoring the pain in his leg and reloading. The entire engagement on the boats hadn’t used up a full magazine.
He heard shouting from the east end of the island and realized that the terrorists must have found the nuke. That simply wasn’t on, so he made his way back to the edge of the open area and scanned around with the NOD on the M-4.
Three terrorists had gotten the cart from the building and were manhandling it towards the path. He got two, but the third dove into the concealment of the sea grape. However, the bomb was on the other side of the open area and to get to the boats they’d have to pass his line of fire.
Mike suddenly heard a rustle behind him and rolled over, triggering a burst into the terrorist that had been trying to sneak up on him. The guy had a buddy, though, and even on spray and pray at less than five yards it was hard to entirely miss. He felt a familiar punch in his side, like being hit by a baseball bat, and another in his chest. He was pretty sure the one in his chest had been stopped by the armor, but the other one started to sting like hell from the salt water even before he put another burst in the remaining terrorist.
The brief firefight had attracted attention, though, and more were moving across the open area towards his position. He serviced two of those but had to roll deeper into the grape as the scrub around him started to be flailed by bullets. He took another round in the back of his armor, knocking him forward, before he got out of the beaten area.
He circled to the right, crawling under the sea grape as fast as he could, and got another look at the open area. The cart was gone, probably up the path to pick up the bomb, and he decided it was time for serious action. However, he was bleeding like a pig and the pain in his leg was starting to slow him down.
He pulled out the packet of tampons and pads and explored the wound in his leg. That was a through-and-through in the calf that was bleeding freely, but it wasn’t pumping, so no major vessels had been hit. First he pulled out a small foil packet and tore it open, dumping the contents in the wound. The material was a combination of antibiotics and a new blood coagulant made from shrimp shells, of all things. It was supposed to be the cat’s pajamas in stopping hemorrhaging and he could use that at the moment. When he’d gotten the stuff in the wound he plugged it with a tampon, then injected the area with novocaine. The one on his side was a through-and-through as well, basically through his love-handles, as if he didn’t have enough reasons to go on a diet. More shrimp, another tampon, and a shot of novocaine and it was good to go.
He checked the open area and nothing was moving. But he could hear Arabic voices on the far side, presumably wrestling with the bomb. He wasn’t sure how many were left on the boats, but they could wait.
He continued circling right, getting all the way up to the building, before he heard the group struggling with the bomb. From the sound of it they were right by where the path reached the open area. Mike decided that bold was the only course open to him and simply stepped out of the seagrapes and headed for the path.
There were four of the terrorists in the group manhandling the cart down the path. Two were actually handling the cart with another giving orders while the fourth was sweeping his AK around nervously.
The night was dark, still overcast, and the terrorists didn’t have night-vision devices. They were as plain as day to Mike, but apparently they hadn’t seen him. Oh, well. He shot the one with the AK, then the two manhandling the bomb. By the time he’d taken them down, the one giving the orders had fled down the path. The fucker had been armed; Mike had anticipated taking rounds. But usually “martyrdom” meant for the lowly and not the guys giving orders. Nine times out of ten with muj, the leadership ran like rabbits and let the brainwashed teenage muj take the heat.
He suddenly started taking fire from the direction of the boats and cursed. He was getting really tired of those guys. He moved down the path, out of sight of the boats, then crawled under the sea grape to a position where he could keep an eye on the bomb and still be out of sight.
He didn’t know how many terrorists were still on the island. He’d never gotten an accurate count and hadn’t been able to keep up with how many he’d taken down. He figured it was somewhere between three and seven with about three on the boats.
One of the boat drivers called out in a questioning tone. At first there was no answer, then a voice yelled from somewhere nearby, high and fast in Arabic. Mike stayed still, anticipating that the leader would move after yelling. Three men got off of one of the boats and started moving towards the bomb, cautiously, their weapons swinging back and forth. Suddenly, one of them ripped off a whole magazine towards the building and there was a shout of pain in that direction, followed by cursing in Arabic.
Mike took the opportunity to move back into the sea grape, shifting his position towards where the leader had been. It put him out of sight of the bomb, but he wanted to take the leader out while he could.
The sea grape gave way to a narrow path and he figured the leader type had used that. There were no apparent footprints, so he didn’t know if the guy had gone left or right. He slid out of the sea grape cautiously and stepped carefully down the path to the east.
The path terminated behind the building and he paused at the edge, his spidey-sense tingling. There was somebody nearby. He could hear the target getting to the bomb and cursed to himself. Keeping the bomb secure was his primary mission and he needed to get back to it.
He stepped to the side of the building, then paused and threw himself flat as he heard a hissing sound passing through the air. Frickin’ grenade.
Chapter Thirteen
Bakr Majali had been a street child in Jordan until he joined the madrassa. There he was fed and trained in the Word of God. The madrassas were supposed to teach things other than just the Koran, but for most that was enough. He had been filled with the words of Mohammed, living on the sufferance of the good Islamics who contributed to the support of the madrassa, and growing day by day in his hatred of the infidel. He was a Palestinian, one of the millions that made up the bulk of the population of Jordan. And besides the Word of God he was filled with the stories of the suffering of his people, both at the hands of the Jews and at the hands of the Hashemites who ruled Jordan.
He had planted his first bomb when he was barely twelve and had lived his life as a mujahideen, first as a street fighter, then as a leader. Over the years his fervor had died, but he still fought for the only cause he had ever known. He had no other skills than those of a terrorist.
He had been sent on this mission because of his knowledge of English and his loyalty to the cause. And he intended to both survive and succeed, despite this infidel who stood in their way.
The man was very good, as good as an Israeli commando, but he was but one man. And he had never fought the likes of Bakr Majali. Bakr had learned long ago that standing in the middle of the street and firing off a whole magazine, like Rambo in some action movie, was never going to kill the enemies of Allah. Silence was required, and aiming and hiding. But a good grenade never hurt.
He heard the f
aint movement as the commando neared the house. It was so faint it was nearly lost on the night wind, but it was there, the soft compression of the sand, a crackle of leaf. He quietly pulled the pin on the grenade and then threw it around the corner.
* * *
Mike lay flat, taking the impact of the grenade as much as he could on his armor and helmet. Most grenade fragments tended to fly upwards when the device hit the ground, and they did this time. But he could feel some of them ripping into his legs and arms.
It was the latter that caused him to be slow as the figure leaned around the corner, quickly spotting him in the faint starlight and opening fire at the figure on the ground. Mike felt the aimed rounds track across his back, most of them stopped by the armor, and then into his legs. But he stayed in the prone, targeting the figure in return and put a burst into his chest. The figure, though, stayed upright, continuing to fire, and he felt more rounds flail into his legs and a sharp, stabbing, pain in his left arm that caused him to flinch and let go of the weapon with that hand. He pointed the weapon like a pistol and threw three more bursts of 5.56 into the target, sending him staggering backwards to fall on his back.
* * *
Allah’s curse on all Westerners and their damned body armor, Bakr thought as he lay on the ground looking at the stars. The bullets had slammed into him like so many punches and while he’d continued to fire, he could feel his life seeping away. Now he could no longer move. He looked at the fading stars and thought of the words of the mullahs in that faraway madrassa. Allah, the Kind, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Allahu Akbar. Allah is Great. There is no God besides Allah. To die in battle…
* * *
His left arm was useless; the bullet seemed to have broken the ulnar bone. Mike used his right arm to pull himself forward, trying to get to the open area where he could cover the retreating mujahideen and stop them from departing with the bomb. He couldn’t get to his feet, either, and he was worried that one or more of the bullets might have punched an artery. If so, he might bleed out before he could get back to the battle.
He crawled forward, the pain so great that it was causing an endorphin rush high, dragging his useless legs and arm, each bump making him nearly scream in agony. But he kept his mouth shut until he was at the edge of the sea grape that cloaked the west side of the building.
The remaining mujahideen were wheeling the bomb down to the waterline. He propped himself against a palm tree, compensating for the faint sway, and lined up the one who was doing the most pushing.
* * *
Haroun Arif was terrified and elated. Although the apparently lone commando had nearly stopped them from securing the bomb, they were almost to the boats. A few more meters and they would have it in the boat and be gone. Let the Americans try to stop them then. With all the losses the cells had taken, it would be hard to smuggle the weapon all the way into America, but they would persevere. Allah was with them and…
He felt the punch in his back before he processed the faint cracks behind him. Suddenly, his legs were not working as well and his vision was going black. His hands slipped from the handle of the bomb carrier and he slipped to his knees.
“Allah is Merciful,” he whispered. “Great is Allah…”
* * *
Mike started to target the other two, but one of them pushed the bomb carrier over on its side and the two crouched behind it. He couldn’t get a clear shot at them from where he was, so he painfully started crawling to the side, keeping one eye on them and the other on the boats.
* * *
Assadolah Shaath had been a physics student at Princeton University when he was recruited to the jihad. He had traveled first to Syria and then to the camps in Afghanistan before the invasion by the infidel. There he had tried to use his skills to create such a bomb as he now touched, but it was beyond his ability given the conditions and what he had to work with. But he knew how they worked. As had Jalal Azhiri, one of the Brethren who had waited in the darkness until the American cowboy came and sent him into Allah’s arms.
But, as he had been told, the bomb had already been rigged for destruction. Setting it off in America would be better than here, but just having it go off near America was surely better than losing it entirely. And with only he and Halim Shahid left, it was more than likely that the American would soon recapture it.
However, while he believed in the Great Jihad, he had no interest in martyrdom. He had many skills the jihad needed. So he opened up the arming panel and keyed in a sequence.
“What are you doing?” Halim asked, nervously.
“Setting the bomb to blow,” Assadolah answered. “When I am done, we will run to the boats and drive away. There will be enough time for us to escape, but not enough for the American to disarm it. This will send a message to the world that Allah is Great.”
* * *
Mike could see one of the targets crouched behind the weapon but the other was still covered. He lined him up and fired carefully.
* * *
Halim let out a grunt and reared up as something thudded into his body. As he lifted himself, there were more thuds, like thunking a melon, and he collapsed. Assadolah reached up and wiped at a wetness on his cheek, the hand coming away black in the faint light.
“Allah is Great,” Assadolah said, keying the last sequence and closing the box. “Let Allah be Merciful.”
* * *
The second terrorist suddenly leapt to his feet and ran for the boats. Mike tracked him but couldn’t quite hit the moving target despite two bursts in his direction. The tango darted behind one of the cigarette boats and then Mike could faintly see him tumbling over the side. Suddenly, the engine coughed to life and the boat started backing up, like the first one dragging its anchor.
This time, though, the terr backed straight up, engine at max, the anchor leaping out of the sand and bounding into the water. Mike tried to target the driver, but with only one arm he could barely keep the boat in his sights. He fired some shots but then the bolt locked back on an empty mag.
Changing out the magazine with only one arm, on his stomach, was a pain not only in the ass but in every wound. And his vision was going funny again. He realized he was bleeding out, but he wanted to get this last damned terrorist. However, before he could even get the magazine changed, the terrorist darted forward, cut the anchor rope, spun the boat around and was moving out of range.
Mike crawled towards the bomb painfully, wondering if there were any remaining tangos and not really caring anymore. He was going to do the same thing as the target, set up by the bomb and use it for cover until he either bled out or the FAST guys showed up.
It took him nearly three minutes to crawl across the sand to the bomb and slide around behind it. When he got there, he pulled out his bag of field-expedient bandages and tried to give himself first aid. Most of the rounds, however, were in places he couldn’t reach anymore. He got a tampon in his arm, nearly screaming at the pain, and another in a big hole in his leg. The holes in his legs were filled with sand, as well, and the tampon wasn’t particularly fun to put in.
By the end of getting the bleeding reduced — and he knew it was only reduced, not stopped — he was panting and his vision was going in and out. But he noticed a blue glow from a panel on what would be the top of the bomb. Cautiously, he lifted the panel and then blanched. There was a countdown clock and it was just passing twenty minutes.
He thought about that for a second and then did the only thing he could think of, crawling towards the nearest remaining cigarette boat. He could sort of use his legs, especially the right one, and he used his right arm and that leg to pull himself up with the anchor rope and onto the bow.
He cut the anchor rope and then slid across the front of the boat, around the windscreen and then more or less fell into the driver’s seat, finally crying out at the pain of the impact. There was a dead body on the floor of the cockpit, but he ignored it, taking his weapon off and setting it on the seat beside him.
Th
ere was a glowing GPS on the dash with a track on it. Clearly that was the way the boats had taken in and it was, hopefully, a way out.
He started the boat, reversed it, spun it around much more expertly than the muj, and got the hell out of Dodge.
* * *
“What is he doing?” Colonel Pierson said, watching the take from the satellite. “I’m pretty sure that’s Winter Born.”
“I don’t know,” the guy in civilian clothes said. He was pretty clearly CIA, but one of the “field” hands, a big, burly, bearded guy who looked out of place in the suit he was wearing. “He’s leaving the device.”
“Is he after the remaining terrorist?” Captain Polumbo wondered. The captain was a SEAL currently working in OSOL like Pierson and had been called in for consultation on the waterborne aspects of the op.
“He looked at the device and then immediately went to the boat,” Pierson said. “We don’t have commo with him, yet, do we?”
“Negative,” the technician manning the console replied. “The FAST team is inbound by helicopter,” he added, pointing to an overhead map. “They’re seven minutes out. The range on those radios is only about ten klicks, though. I’m not sure they’re ever going to be in range.”
Pierson thought about Mike’s actions, then blanched. He picked up a phone at his place at the table and punched a button.
“General,” he said. “Request that the FAST divert to close with Agent Winter Born. The nuke may repeat may be armed at this time.”
* * *
Mike could barely keep conscious. He was driving in a pool of blood and his vision kept creeping in and out. But he kept his eye on the GPS and kept driving, going as fast as he could given his condition.
