by Shain Carter
Dawson trotted back to the truck, where he explained the situation to Burt and Meredith. Burt listened pensively but did not respond immediately. Instead, he stared ahead, thinking. After a minute he turned to Dawson and spoke quickly. “Turn the truck around, quick. We don’t have much time.”
Dawson pulled the truck around as Burt told to Meredith to guide them back for at least a mile, then find place for them to pull far off the road.
“What’s going on?” Meredith asked him.
“They know we’ve escaped, that’s why they sent the helicopter. But they don’t know for sure that we’re on this road - otherwise the helicopter would have done a slower and more thorough job of searching it. They took out the bridge as a precaution. Their next step would be to send a patrol to sweep the road. They’d trap us against the river. We need to get away from there and to a good hiding place before the patrol gets here.”
A few minutes later Meredith told Dawson to slow down. They were cutting across the side of a hill, with the hilltop to their left and valley below to their right. Meredith guided them to a rough side road on the left. The road climbed steeply for several hundred yards, then leveled. In the dim light Dawson could see the hilltop was flat and open for several hundred yards. He wheeled the truck to the far side of the level area.
Burt looked around approvingly. “We ought to be safe here. Even if they think to shine a light up the hill, they shouldn’t be able to see the truck from the road.”
Meredith pushed the laptop forward and let her breath out slowly. “Now what do we do?”
“We wait,” Burt said. “All of us but Jones.”
“And what do I do?”
Burt had leaned forward and was copying numbers from the laptop screen onto a sheet of paper.
“You take these coordinates to the machine shop. When the Special Forces arrive, have them send us a chopper. They’ll be landing on the far side of the complex - be sure you’re nearby because they won’t be there for long. It’s a little after one now, and they’re not due until 3:15. That gives you plenty of time to get there - just don’t get caught.”
He handed the sheet of paper to Dawson, who folded it carefully and put it in his shirt pocket.
“In the meantime, Meredith needs to play nurse and keep the rest of us going until the chopper gets here.”
Meredith looked out the back glass. “I’d better check on the men in the bed.”
Cindy was asleep again, nestled between Dawson and Meredith. Dawson quietly opened his door and slipped out. Meredith climbed over Cindy and joined him in the open air. The sky had grown even more overcast, and the cool air was still and lifeless. It pressed on them like a weight.
“Think you can make it without getting lost?” Meredith asked lightly.
Dawson shrugged. “If I do, I’ll just find someone and ask directions.”
They laughed quietly, but Dawson could sense a note of underlying anxiety in Meredith’s voice. He, too, was concerned about meeting up with the Special Forces team.
Dawson felt his shirt pocket for the paper Burt had given him, and then checked his watch. He took one last glance up at Meredith. She was climbing into the truck bed, her attention focused on the men inside. Dawson turned and carefully picked his way back down to the main road.
Chapter Twenty-five
Dawson jogged the mile back to the bridge, constantly looking over his shoulder for any sign of other vehicles. He stopped periodically and listened, too, but all he heard was his own heavy breathing and the sound of his heart pounding.
The bank near the bridge was too steep to climb down in the dark. Dawson followed the river upstream for half a mile before he could find a suitable crossing point. Once on the other side, Dawson quickly rejoined the road and followed it up a long incline. He felt more relaxed here, knowing that the Iraqi army would not be able to cross the river to his side. Dawson walked hard, not just because he was anxious to get near the machine shop, but also because he found the effort calming, a good release of the tension that had been building in him since the previous evening.
Dawson came over a rise and stopped abruptly. The machine shop complex loomed about a mile in the distance, glowing yellow from an array of lights within the fences. Intense white search beams swept down from the four towers, illuminating the ground within several hundred yards of the compound. Dawson suddenly felt very exposed, and quickly left the road to hide behind a large rock. There he considered his options, and after several minutes’ deliberation, he rose to a crouch and began a long, circuitous journey around to the backside of the complex.
After what seemed an eternity Dawson arrived at a grouping of large rocks about three hundred yards behind the outer perimeter fence. Open ground lay between him and the complex, and Dawson decided that this was as good a spot as any to wait for the Special Forces unit to arrive. Dawson checked the time - a little after two, leaving just over an hour to wait. He patted his shirt pocket yet again for the paper Burt had given him. Satisfied it was still there, he tried to get as comfortable as he could.
That was all but impossible, and the wait was excruciating. Dawson spent the entire hour straining to hear every distant sound, listening for the helicopters. His mind transformed the minutest, most distant noises into the sounds that he expected for the helicopters, but time and again he was disappointed to discover they were nothing more than the normal night sounds for that part of the world.
When the helicopters finally did arrive, though, there was no mistaking them. They were so swift that, despite Dawson’s intense concentration, they passed directly over him almost before he even knew they were even there. As they swung low overhead, Dawson was briefly plunged into a whirlwind of sand and twigs, an abrasive storm that forced him to bury his face in his hands. The tempest quickly subsided and Dawson looked up again to see three helicopters hovering only a few feet above the open ground between him and the complex. Simultaneously they switched on searchlights, which then scanned the terrain around them. Within seconds the lights were switched off and the helicopters touched down.
Dawson jumped to his feet and sprinted towards the nearest one, some hundred and fifty yards away. As he neared, men spilled from it and began racing towards the complex. Within seconds the sounds of gunfire reverberated above the drone of the helicopter engines. When Dawson was within ten yards of the craft he called out as loudly as he could, “Help me - I’m an American!”
A sharp blow to the back of his head knocked Dawson to his knees. A second blow sent him sprawling face down on the sand. He rolled over to find a U. S. soldier towering over him. The man wore a dark camouflage uniform with a jet black helmet. His entire face was painted black except for the area around his eyes, which by contrast looked bright white. Dawson tried to pull himself to his elbows, but the marine flashed a toothy grin and pushed his foot against Dawson’s chest. He pressed down hard, driving rocks into Dawson’s back and forcing the air from his lungs. Dawson stared mutely as the marine swung his rifle down until the barrel end was within inches of Dawson’s face. After what seemed like an eternity to Dawson, the marine looked over his shoulder and called out in a deep southern drawl.
“Hey, Captain, over here. Guy says he’s ‘merican.”
A second face appeared next to the first. The face seemed closer, and Dawson guessed the second man was several inches shorter than the first. The man chewed menacingly on an unlit cigar that he roughly shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. The features of his face, like the first man’s, were almost hidden by black paint, but Dawson could see distinctly that the man was scowling. Dawson’s gaze shifted from the man’s shoulder, where Dawson could just make out two silver bars - the insignia of a marine captain - on his chest, which bristled with a small radio and several hand grenades. In the dim light Dawson could just make out the nametag above the grenades - Krieger. After a few seconds the captain pulled the cigar from his mouth and turned to the first man.
“O.K., Kasanovich,” he
exploded, “who the hell is he?”
The first man shrugged. “Dunno. Said he’s…”
“I know, I know,” the captain shouted impatiently. “He said he’s an American. You already told me that, you idiot.”
The captain stared down and jabbed his cigar towards Dawson. “Well,” he bellowed, as if asking for the tenth time, “who the hell are you?”
Dawson tried to speak, but no words came out. The marine took his foot off Dawson’s chest, but left the gun pointed at his face. Dawson took several deep breathes, then quickly told them about the interceptor program and their escape from Anjawan.
The captain nodded his head thoughtfully. "Alpha team came back earlier without any of their packages,” he said to no one in particular. Then he shoved the cigar back into his mouth and looked up, past Dawson.
"Well, what the hell are you waiting for?" he shouted. "For me to say ‘pretty please’? Get him up, you morons!"
Strong hands grabbed Dawson’s elbows from behind and hoisted him to a standing position. They held him high in the air, with his feet dangling several inches off the ground. The captain stood in front of him, glaring and chewing on his cigar, while the first marine - Kasanovich - stood mutely to his left. As Dawson had guessed, Kasanovich was several inches taller than his captain.
Two other marines were holding Dawson up, one on each side. They had been standing behind him, out of his sight, when he lay on the ground. With no warning they simultaneously released Dawson's arms, and he dropped to his feet with a jarring thud.
The sound of gunfire was becoming more intense now, and Dawson became aware of confused shouts and screams and an occasional explosion from the Iraqi compound behind him. He turned and gaped at the complex in disbelief. In the forty seconds that the marines had been there, it had become unrecognizable from the peaceful setting it had been only a few moments before. The right half of the compound was bathed in the orange glow of burning buildings. Sporadic flashes from automatic weapons lit the rest of the area like strobe lights. Much of the compound interior was obscured by smoke, but Dawson could see men running to and fro along both sides of the perimeter fence. As he watched the entire compound was briefly lit by the bright flash of an explosion along the fence. When the light subsided there was an intense burst of automatic gunfire from along the outside of the fence, followed by a brief pause during which a dozen men raced through the breach and disappeared into the haze beyond.
Dawson shifted his attention to the guard towers. The search light on each tower had been switched on when the helicopters first arrived, but three were now motionless - two aimed uselessly into the sky and the third pointed nearly straight down. Only the search light closest to him was moving, sweeping the ground directly in front of the main gate.
Without warning, the beam swung towards Dawson and the group of marines standing with him. Dawson quickly turned his head to avoid being blinded by the intense light. He heard a burst of gunfire, distinctive from the rest, followed by the clatter of bullets impacting on the rocks and sand roughly fifteen feet in front of them. The search light moved on, pausing on the nearby helicopter. Dawson turned back and looked to Krieger. With one hand Krieger took the cigar from his mouth; the other he had on a small black box attached to his left shoulder that Dawson had not noticed earlier.
"Heasley!" Krieger shouted, pressing on the object. "What's your status?"
The radio on Krieger’s chest crackled. "In progress, Sir!"
Krieger glanced at his wrist watch, then back towards the still operational tower. He depressed the transmitter on his neck again. "Hurry the hell up, son. We've got two minutes thirty-seven seconds before the moon suits get here, and this place is going to be secured. Got it?"
Dawson followed Krieger's gaze towards the complex. The search light was in motion again, now panning the ground directly in front of the tower. It froze on a position about twenty yards out, illuminating a small group of marines kneeling on the ground. Dawson felt certain that, at that short range, the men would be cut down instantly. But before the gunner in the tower could act, a thin white flame shot out from the group, towards the structure. Almost simultaneously the tower erupted in a deafening explosion. Large pieces of twisted support metal spun away as an orange fireball climbed slowly into the air.
The radio on Krieger’s chest crackled again. “Update, sir. Mission completed.”
Dawson turned back around and saw Krieger smile. The captain was chewing absent-mindedly on his cigar, deep thought. After a moment he withdrew the cigar and jabbed it at Dawson's chest. "Seems like you’ve presented me with a problem,” he scowled. "You said eight of you escaped from this research center, but I only see one of you here." He motioned broadly in the direction from which Dawson had come. "Where are the rest of them hiding?"
Dawson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the slip of paper that Burt had given him. "A few miles away,” he said, handing Krieger the paper. "Here’re the exact coordinates. Latitude followed by longitude."
Krieger pulled a penlight out of his belt and studied the paper. He switched the light off and pointed to Kasanovich. "You,” he said gruffly, then turned to one of the men who had pulled Dawson to his feet, "and you. Take one of the choppers and pick these people up. There’s seven of them. I want you to count them twice so you don’t leave anyone behind. You idiots think you can handle that?"
Kasanovich had a look of disappointment on his face. "Aww, Captain,” he moaned, "I'll miss everything."
"I got news for you, mister,” Krieger replied curtly, pointing back towards the complex, "you’ve already missed everything."
Dawson suddenly realized that the gunshots and shouting had stopped. He turned back to the complex. The smoke had cleared somewhat, allowing Dawson to see the central clearing between the buildings. In it a small group of marines stood guard over a dozen men. The prisoners were kneeling, each with his hands clasped on top of his head. Another group of marines was leading more prisoners into the clearing, their hands held high in the air.
Kasanovich snorted in disgust, then he and the other marine jogged towards the nearest helicopter. A few seconds later the engine whined and the helicopter lifted fifty feet straight up. It slowly spun towards the river, then tilted forward and accelerated.
Dawson watched its blinking red tail light disappear into the blackness of the night. Almost as soon as it was out of sight, two new lights appeared above the distant horizon. The lights rapidly grew larger as Krieger looked down at his watch.
“Right on time,” he said approvingly. He turned to Dawson and the other marine. “Come on,” he barked, and walked briskly towards the complex. Dawson and the other man followed.
Dawson continued to watch the lights as he struggled to keep up with the two men. They drew closer and Dawson realized they were two more helicopters. Within seconds they passed overhead, stirring up the air around the men and nearly choking Dawson on the acrid odor of gunpowder and burning wood.
Several marines in the central clearing lit bright orange flares and threw them to an open area away from the prisoners. The three still operational tower searchlights, which had until then been motionless, swung around and converged on the flares. The two helicopters hovered over the area briefly, then landed, one after the other. Almost immediately, men jumped out of the already open doors.
The first two men from each helicopter were marines, dressed like all the others. They were followed by a total of five men who were, except for bright yellow boots, dressed in white from head to toe. In the bright light of the search beams, the men seemed to glow, and Dawson’s first thought was that they looked like astronauts. Their suits were bulky, making movement look difficult, and they wore helmets that completely covered their heads and attached to their suites. Corrugated hoses ran from just beneath the visors on their helmets to small white tanks that they carried on their backs. Two of the men held metal cases, a little larger than normal briefcases. As one of the men swung around, Dawson c
ould just make out an emblem painted on the side of his case. It was bright yellow rectangle with three small red triangles arranged around a small red circle in the center - the universal symbol for radioactive materials.
A marine from the ground ran up to the five men, pulling one of the prisoners behind him. The group of men huddled for a moment, then the prisoner began motioning wildly to a building just off the central clearing. The entire group, including the four marines from the helicopters and the prisoner, strode to a door in the side of the building and disappeared inside.
Krieger and the other marine arrived at the perimeter fence ahead of Dawson and began searching for the break in the barbed wire. Dawson caught up with them a few seconds later and, breathing hard, leaned over and braced his hands on his knees. Thick smoke swirled around the men, burning Dawson’s eyes. In contrast to the battle din, the area was now eerily silent - Dawson heard nothing except for the sound of his own heavy breathing and the helicopter engines idling. Krieger motioned for Dawson to come closer to him and was about to say something, but before he could speak the radio on his chest crackled. The reception was poor, but Dawson could clearly understand the drawled words over the static. It was Kasanovich.
