by Joshua Hood
He could hear the men in the back of the truck yelling. He looked out the back window to see the extent of the damage. The truck was about four hundred meters from the blast, but the men were still being pelted with debris and shrapnel. A dark brown cloud rose above the buildings and expanded outward from the overpressure. Orange flames were visible along the outer edge of the huge crater. Thick black smoke billowed up into the dust cloud as a deep rumble tore through the city block.
Abdul was chattering angrily on the phone, while Mason took a pressure bandage and wrapped it tightly over the gauze.
“What’s he saying?” he asked.
“He’s on the phone,” Zeus slurred.
“Well, you’re good as new,” Mason replied as he retook his seat.
“I can’t believe I got shot.” The Libyan’s head lolled to the side. He looked at Mason with dilated pupils, slightly slurring his words. The morphine had hit him quickly, leaving him pain-free.
“Hey, welcome to the club,” Mason joked.
“They are all dead,” he said seriously.
“I know.”
“So many more will die now.”
The narcotic had put him in a somber mood, and a single tear collected at the corner of his eye. Mason placed his hand on his friend’s head and tried to block out the pain welling up inside him.
“No, my friend, they won’t,” Mason said.
He’d totally forgotten about the metal cylinder in his pocket. Frantically he pulled it out of his pocket.
“Oh shit,” he said as he pulled it out and began looking for a bottle of water. He found one in the almost empty assault pack and quickly unscrewed the top. Ignoring Zeus’s questioning look, he slowly poured the water over the gouge in the casing and watched for any bubbles. After repeating the process two more times without seeing any signs of leaks, he let out a huge sigh and smiled at his friend.
“How did you . . . ?” Renee asked, a wave of relief flooding her face.
CHAPTER 34
* * *
Midan, Syria
Mason’s adrenaline was long gone. He was drained and slumped in the back of one of Hezbollah’s Toyotas being driven away from the battle zone.
Tarek’s death sat like a burning ember in his chest. The man had been so young and full of life, and Mason felt responsible for everything. It seemed that everywhere he went, people died. The only change was that lately they were people he actually cared about. There was no one else to blame for his failures. Despite his good intentions, he was even more of a liability than he had been before. At least when he was on his own, he was only hurting himself. And Barnes was still alive.
The truck slowed and pulled into a neighborhood adorned with yellow Hezbollah flags. It was their base of operations in the city. After the commander passed through a checkpoint, manned by young men hardened by the war, he pulled the truck into a bombed-out building.
“Where are we?” Mason yelled into the cab.
“Our stronghold,” said a soldier as he cut the engine.
Mason nudged the prone Zeus awake. He had to drag the groggy and injured Libyan out of the truck. Blood had seeped through the bandage, and he needed to find a place to change it. As he and Renee steadied Zeus between them, Mason cast a longing glance back at the city before following the soldiers into the building.
It was a wreck, even by the standards of war. Sandbags were stacked against the walls and jagged sections of rebar jutted out at acute angles. All around them, Hezbollah men and women moved with a sense of purpose. They were filling sandbags, cleaning weapons, or preparing rations in a makeshift kitchen. Maps of the city hung on the walls, and ancient-looking radios were stacked on a low table in the corner.
The sun would be going down soon, and burn barrels were being set up in preparation for night operations.
The Americans propped Zeus on an ammo can and while a medic was looking at the wound, they were all surprised to hear a familiar voice greet them.
It was Ahmed.
“Looks like you are still alive, my friends.”
Mason smiled, embraced his old friend, and said, “Tarek didn’t make it.”
Ahmed placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “He was a soldier, just like you. Allah set his fate long ago, my friend.”
“I managed to get this.” He handed the silver tube to Ahmed, who looked at it with a frown. “I checked it for leaks. I think it’s still secure.”
Ahmed held the tube up to the light and inspected the shallow gouge in the smooth metal tube. Running his thumb over the jagged crease, he shook his head while judging the weight in his hand.
“It is amazing that such a thing could kill so many people. There is still much to do,” he said as Renee went to look for ammo.
“What else is there to do? Barnes is gone.”
Ahmed’s laugh bounced off the walls as he closed his hand around the silver tube. “Gone? Where is he going to go? Does he have wings that would allow him to fly away? No, my friend, he is most definitely not gone.” An icy tone entered Ahmed’s voice, and Mason felt a surge of hope.
“What do you mean? He got away. I couldn’t stop him.”
“Abdul, the commander here, is a crafty man. It is amazing how fear motivates.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come with me. There isn’t much time.”
Fifteen minutes later Mason was sitting in the bed of a pickup heading back to the blast site. The sun was slowly dipping below the horizon. The street was eerily quiet as the call to prayer spread out over the battlefield. The fighting had stopped as the faithful prepared to pray for the dead and for those who would die.
Mason was thinking about the conversation he had just finished with Ahmed. The old spy had told Abdul that whoever aided his friends aided him. Finding the Lebanese commander had been a blessing, and Ahmed had made sure to take advantage of the chance encounter. He had offered Abdul half a million dollars if he found Barnes but advised him that if the American got away, his family would pay the price. It was a terrible bargain for a terrible time, but when Ahmed wanted something, he made sure to offer proper motivation.
Mason had lightly kissed Zeus on the head as his friend lay asleep on a cot. The medics had treated his wound and given him another shot for the pain. Abdul had a doctor en route under heavy guard. Zeus didn’t even move when Mason bid him farewell. He knew that if he said good-bye to Renee, she would demand to come with him, and he wasn’t ready to tempt fate with her life.
“Look after Renee for me,” he told Ahmed as he stepped through the broken arch that led to the courtyard.
A truck sat idling in the open, and after a final farewell, he had jumped into the bed of the pickup. Now they were headed back out into the city.
Abdul’s men moved into the area, motivated by their commander’s sudden zeal. Since the Syrian army was busy trying to regain al-Hajar al-Aswad, Hezbollah had free rein to do as they pleased. The fighters had blocked off an entire mile northeast of the mosque and reported that Barnes was trapped somewhere inside the perimeter.
• • •
The truck slowed to a halt near the site of the explosion. All that was left of the battle was a huge crater and piles of concrete and twisted metal from the vehicles. Mason walked past the blackened hole and reverently approached the spot where Tarek had died. The explosion had erased all but the memory of his friend.
The bodies of Barnes’s men had been stripped naked and propped along the wall of one of the buildings. After their gear and clothing had been removed the corpses were riddled with rifle fire, leaving them almost unrecognizable, except for the paleness of their skin.
Mason was by himself again, and it was a fitting end to the journey. He walked solemnly to the corner where Harden had shot Zeus. Running his hand over the pockmarked wall, he was barely able to make out the faint trace of blood before he crept up the alley in search of his prey.
Very soon the evening prayer would be
over and the fighting would continue. He knew that Barnes would wait until darkness before moving out. There was no way he would risk certain death by moving in the daylight. As the sun dipped out of sight, Mason heard scattered small-arms fire rising up around the city.
Staying in the shadows, Mason placed his night vision over his head and waited for Abdul’s men to begin. It was quiet and still in the street. Emaciated dogs ambled from alleyways in search of food.
A breeze came out of the east, carrying with it the distinctive clink of a mortar round being lowered into the tube. Seconds later he heard the light thump of the round leaving the tube, and then silence. The eighty-two-millimeter high-explosive mortar blasted with a resounding crummmmmp, and a burst of orange light lit up the stillness.
More mortars were fired into the area. He imagined there were two or three mortar teams working off in the shadows. If they knew what they were doing, the plan would work. But if they were off target, things would go to shit fast. The plan was simple: The mortar crews would beat the bushes while the rest of Abdul’s men waited for anyone to come running out. Those who stayed in the maelstrom belonged to Mason.
It wasn’t the most cutting-edge plan, but as long as everyone stuck to the script, it should work. However, with the first shriek of an inbound 107-millimeter rocket, Mason realized that someone had decided to take it up a notch.
The Type 63 rocket launcher is nothing more than twelve metal tubes mounted to a launch platform. Hezbollah had learned the hard way that stationary rocket sites had an extremely low survivability rate and had begun mounting them to trucks during the last war with Israel. The rockets were a cheap but effective way to blanket a wide area with an indiscriminate number of high-explosive rounds. The Soviet design philosophy of “more bang for the buck” was appealing as long as you weren’t on the receiving end of the deal.
Mason had given explicit instructions to Abdul on how the “fire missions” should be prosecuted. He had even taken time to mark a “no-fire area” where he planned on setting up an overwatch position. Apparently no one had bothered to listen to that part of the briefing, because as he approached the chosen building, it took a direct hit from a rocket.
As he ducked to avoid debris from the shattered building, he knew he needed a basement or at the least some overhead cover. He could see a shop across the street that was unscathed by the recent fighting. Scrambling away from the flying debris, he kicked open the door and dove inside.
The shopwindow shattered as a mortar round exploded in the street. Mason quickly scanned the interior of the building through the noxious dust and smoke. Staying low, he glimpsed a metal ice cooler next to an equally ancient cash register. Old steel coolers were lead lined and would hopefully withstand an indirect hit.
Another rocket came screaming into the impact area. The high-pitched wail of the mortar was unforgettable. There was no way to tell where it was headed. He managed to dive into the metal cooler as the rocket slammed into the shop and pulverized the brick wall. Mason felt the cooler shift violently as debris bounced off the steel exterior and slapped it across the floor. The impact sloshed the stagnant water that filled the bottom two inches of his makeshift bunker up to the top of the lid and down into his face.
Mason felt his clothes soaking up the nasty liquid as he tried to spit the brackish water out of his mouth. It felt like he was in a metal trash can and someone was beating on it with a bat. He prayed that the cooler wouldn’t become his casket.
When he heard the explosions starting to move more to the south, he tried to push the lid open, but something heavy was holding it down. Managing to contort himself inside the claustrophobic confines of the metal box, he got his legs up and began pushing on the lid. The weight on top of the cooler combined with the worn rubber seal around the edge made it airtight. He struggled to breathe. He could feel his spine grinding against the metal floor and his thighs were quivering as he tried to get some air. Finally the lid budged open about an inch, and Mason greedily sucked in a lungful of air.
“C’mon, biiiitch,” he yelled as the sweat began rolling off his forehead and into his eyes. The more he pushed, the more carbon dioxide settled near the bottom of the cooler. The angle of his body was putting pressure on his diaphragm. Mason could hear concrete beginning to slide off the lid as he summoned a final burst of strength and forced the box open. His legs were shaking as he lay soaking wet in the bottom of the box and sucked gulps of air into his lungs. Looking up, Mason could see a huge hole above his head and the dark sky peeking into the shattered shop.
After a few moments, he shakily climbed out of the cooler and tentatively swung his leg over the edge. Huge blocks of stone and brick fragments were scattered everywhere. The cash drawer of the vintage register stood open. Smelling like a wet bum, he took a few small steps and tried to shake the lactic acid out of his muscles. It had seemed like such a good plan an hour ago.
From inside the destroyed shop, Mason could see muzzle flashes erupting in the night as a firefight broke out along the eastern perimeter. Rifles cracked in the distance, followed by the heavier chatter of the crew-served weapons. Creeping out into the street, he was greeted by a veritable wasteland. Through his night vision, the city block was now just an abstract collection of right angles and the skeletal frames of shattered buildings.
Moving to one of the only freestanding buildings in the area, he slipped inside and “dirty-cleared” the bottom floor. If there had been more time, he could have afforded to be more thorough. But right now, time was just as powerful an enemy as Barnes. Once he found the staircase, he ascended to the second floor and crept over to a shattered casement.
Waiting was the hardest part of an operation, and patience definitely was not one of his strong suits. Digging in his assault pack, he grabbed a bottle of water and took a small sip. Swishing it around in his mouth, he spat it onto the floor before taking a deep gulp. It was very still outside his makeshift hide site, except for the distant rifle fire. Doubt began to creep in like an uninvited guest as he stared out of the detritus and his mind began to play tricks on him. Objects began appearing more human the longer he waited. He had to force himself to focus. Cursing, he wished he had brought a thermal scope with him.
At first Mason wasn’t sure if he had heard anything, the sound was so imperceptible. His breathing seemed impossibly loud as he strained to pick up the scratch of stone on metal. Trying to hold his breath only made his heart pump louder in his ears, but then he heard it again. The trickle of pebbles over stone was unmistakable. Something was definitely moving. Mason’s boots scuffed the floor as he shifted closer to the wall to get a better look.
Mason prayed. He begged God for a miracle. Ever so slowly the moonlight washed over the street. In the shadows Mason saw a figure crouched low to the ground. His fingers began to ache as they involuntarily throttled the hand guard of his rifle. He forced himself to loosen his grip, and his night vision picked up the unmistakable glow of light emanating from an optic. That was all he needed. He knew he had a target, but now he couldn’t decide if he should take the shot. Mason was conflicted. Did he move or stay? Shoot or wait? It was an easy shot, but there was only one target. He didn’t want to blow the element of surprise.
“Shit.” He brought the rifle up and paused. In his mind the debate raged until he pulled the rifle down and moved for the stairs. He came out onto the street and quickly got his bearings before breaking into a trot. Every second he didn’t have eyes on his target, there was a chance the figure could slip away.
Mason knew he needed to move south but couldn’t find a cut-through and was forced to keep moving east.
Finally, he pushed through the opening of an alley. He stayed on the balls of his feet to muffle his footfalls while straining his eyes for any debris that would give him away. At last he came to the end of the alley and stopped before stepping out into the road.
The rising moon amplified his night vision, and the surrounding details appeared clear and crisp. His
heart was beating in his ears, and he struggled to control his breathing. Mason judged that he was fifty meters from where he had seen the man, but there was no longer any sign of him.
Panic trickled down his spine like a drop of cold water. Where the hell did he go? A low hiss drifted from his left. He turned his head very slowly and peered down the street until he made out an arm in a doorway. The figure had moved across the street. Now he didn’t have a shot. A rustle came from his right, and suddenly another figure emerged from the shadows.
Mason had two targets now. There was no way to engage both. On top of that, he couldn’t positively identify his targets. They could have been Barnes and Harden, or they could have been two hapless locals looking for something to steal. Either way he needed to be ready. Mason had to decide if he was going to wait until they met up or try to catch one in the open and hope he had time to pin the other man down.
He slipped his left hand into his kit, felt the metal pin of a frag, and slowly pulled it from the pouch. Mason moved it into his palm and waited for someone to make a move while keeping his right hand on the rifle, in case he needed to fire. Mason watched the second figure as he began inching his way down the low wall. Clamping the rifle against his leg with his bicep, he eased the pin out of the grenade while still holding on to the spoon.
The figure bounced up from the crouch and sprinted for the road. Mason released the spoon, which cartwheeled into the darkness. Suddenly he realized he couldn’t make the throw with his left hand. Quickly switching hands, he took a tiny step forward and released his hold on the rifle. The weapon clattered against the brick opening of the alley as the frag arced toward the street.
Holding the trigger down, one of the men sprayed Mason’s position, forcing him to duck back into the alley as the frag exploded, followed by a cry of pain. Mason picked up his rifle and shifted his angle as he moved out into the street and snapped off four quick shots. A body lay motionless in the street, but another burst of rifle fire sent him ducking back to cover. From his knees he prepped his last frag. Even though he didn’t have a target, he tossed it out and hoped the shrapnel would find some meat.
