Lucifer's Fire

by Richard Turner

  “Or else what, Colonel?” replied Al-Hadi coldly. “Look around. I think it is you who should reconsider your position. As a military man, you of all people should realize that things change.”

  Saleh’s face contorted in rage. “You swine!” screamed Saleh as he reached for his pistol.

  A shot rang out.

  Mitchell turned to look, just as Grigori fired his pistol once more.

  Saleh staggered for second, disbelieving eyes stared back. The pistol in his hand slowly dropped to the ground; a second later, so did Saleh’s dead body.

  To Mitchell, the next couple of seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. A voice called out from the somewhere among the Yemeni soldiers. The air was filled with automatic gunfire. Bullets flew past him in both directions, like a swarm of enraged bees.

  Men started to drop all around him.

  Mitchell knew that to stay where he was, was to invite death. Pivoting on his heel, he dove behind a nearby 45-gallon drum seeking what cover he could from the container. His heart was racing in his chest. He had no desire to die caught in the middle of a deal gone bad.

  The sound of the firefight grew in intensity as more of Al-Hadi’s men rushed out of nearby buildings to join the fight.

  Mitchell rolled over onto his side just as a spray of bullets tore up the ground beside his body. Raising his head slightly, he warily looked around. Several of Al-Hadi’s thugs were dead or badly wounded, lying in the open ground between him and the armored truck. If he were going to make it out of there alive, Mitchell needed a weapon.

  One of Al-Hadi’s men, thinking he was safe, took cover beside Mitchell. In a flash, Mitchell reached over, grabbed the guard’s gun, and then sent his free hand flying straight into the startled man’s nose. With a sickening crunch, the guard’s nose shattered. Blood streamed down the man’s face while tears filled his eyes and blurred his vision. Pulling with all his might, Mitchell yanked the weapon from the stunned guard, brought the weapon around, and fired point-blank into the guard’s chest, killing him.

  On the laptop, Jackson watched as the colonel dropped to the ground. There was no time to wait. “Open fire, engage targets of opportunity at will,” said Jackson, calmly hoping that they could still salvage something good from the debacle unfolding inside the camp.

  Beside him, Cardinal’s .50 cal sniper rifle roared as he targeted Grigori, vaporizing the man’s head into a crimson mist with one deadly shot.

  Jackson ran a hand over his smooth head. “Okay, folks, stay calm now. Make sure you target everyone around Mitchell. I want you to take down your targets as quick as possible,” said Jackson, while he focused the UAV’s cameras onto Mitchell and the area around the armored truck. Jackson saw Mitchell drop a guard. Reaching up he keyed his mic. “Sam, this can’t wait. You have to move now. I need you to secure the girl in thirty seconds or less, or this will all have been for naught.”

  “I’m on it,” replied Samantha Chen, the team’s combat medic, as she lithely crawled through a small hole under the compound’s wire fence. Dressed in a loose-fitting, multi-cam uniform, she made her way into the compound. Although younger and smaller than her male counterparts, Sam was as competent and as deadly as any man on the team. She took a quick look around at her surroundings to get her bearings toward Mitchell and where the hostage was being held. She hugged a wooden building for cover. Sam keyed her mic to let Jackson know she was in, and that she was on the move.

  In the compound, all hell had broken loose. Soldiers and thugs were engaged in a wild melee all over the compound as they tried to exterminate one another.

  Cardinal adjusted his position and then took several long, slow breaths to calm his heart rate before engaging a new target in the compound below. “I have that overly well-dressed bastard in front of the truck square in my sights,” said Cardinal.

  “Go for it, grease him,” calmly ordered Jackson.

  An instant later the Barrett fired, and Al-Hadi was no more.

  Mitchell fired off a quick burst into the chest of the last of Al-Hadi’s still-standing bodyguards and watched him crumple to the dirt. Looking around at the dead and dying littering the ground, Mitchell knew that there couldn’t be too many guards or soldiers left alive in the compound.

  Mitchell needed to get moving. Staying low, he started to crawl over toward the armored truck, hoping to use its armor for cover. Once there, he propped himself up against one of the vehicle’s large tires for support. Mitchell quickly surveyed the carnage that lay all about him. What was left of Al-Hadi and Grigori was on the blood-soaked ground, as were at least a dozen of Al-Hadi’s bodyguards. Warily edging forward, Mitchell looked around the side of the truck at the Yemeni Army trucks and saw several soldiers lying dead. Their fire also slackened. Both sides were now leaderless, so the fight had become less cohesive than it had been barely a minute ago. Mitchell couldn’t see any more targets worth engaging. Everyone must have gotten smart and taken cover.

  Sam heard the distinct sound of the Cardinal’s Barrett letting loose. Taking a deep breath to fill her lungs with oxygen, she quickly pumped her legs a couple of times and then, like an Olympic runner she took off, her M4 Carbine firmly lodged tight into her shoulder as she closed the distance to the truck. Out of an adjacent building, a stunned thug stumbled out and saw Sam. He moved to raise his submachine gun, but was a second too slow. Without hesitation, Sam cut the criminal down with a well-aimed, three-round burst. Not wanting any further surprises, she dropped to one knee and quickly scanned for other targets; seeing none between her and her objective she sprinted forward.

  On the rocky cliff high above the camp, Cardinal adjusted his position slightly, took careful aim, and then fired into the engine blocks of the parked army trucks, blasting apart their engine blocks with a single, well-placed, .50 cal bullet into each vehicle.

  Jackson looked about and saw Mitchell drop another of Al-Hadi’s guards before crawling over beside the truck where the hostage was being held. He moved the UAV cameras out and saw movement. Jackson was relieved to see that it was Sam as she dashed past Mitchell and ran headlong into the truck. He keyed his mic. “Okay, folks, listen up, Sam has arrived at the package. I say again, Sam has arrived at the package.”

  “I got the truck in my sights,” said Cardinal coolly as he swung his rifle back around.

  “Okay, Gordon, good work; now blow away any bastard you see who tries to come within fifty meters of them,” said Jackson as he stood up. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he brought out a small, handheld, multi-band radio and then turned to look up into the cloudless sky above him.

  Mitchell was surprised at how fast Sam had charged past him without even stopping to see what was going on. He knew that she knew her job; getting up on one knee, Mitchell looked for any sign of opposition before moving to join Sam. He felt no remorse for those who had died today. They were criminals, and they had undoubtedly killed countless helpless and innocent people before today. Only from this day forward, there are a few less gangsters in the world to terrorize the people of Yemen, thought Mitchell.

  Inside the van, Sam removed her yellow-tinted combat glasses and focused her warm, almond-brown eyes on Mary Haley. The girl was petrified. She cowered for her life, like an ensnared animal.

  Sam said, “Mary, it’s okay . . . it’s all okay, don’t be afraid. That noise outside is just my friends doing their job. We are going to take you home today. My name is Samantha, Samantha Chen, but since we’re gonna be good friends, you can call me Sam. I’m a medic, and I’m here to help you.” Carefully reaching over, she began to examine Mary. The girl let go of her pent-up emotions and burst into tears.

  “It’s all right, Mary, this will all soon be over. You’ll soon be with your parents,” said Sam soothingly as she stroked the girl’s thick, dirty, matted hair and took her in her arms. Seconds later, Sam keyed her throat-mic and told Jackson that she had the girl and was ready to move when the all clear was given.

  Mitchell looked down at his wat
ch. He guessed that from the time the colonel had drawn his pistol, until now, barely three minutes had lapsed, but it had seemed like a lifetime when he was pinned down in the open. None of the few surviving men on either side bothered to stick their heads around a wall or look through a window to see what was going on anymore, as it was a death sentence from Cardinal.

  Mitchell checked his MP9; three rounds remained. He knew he needed more ammunition if this foolishness were to drag on any longer. Looking around for a fresh magazine, he found one on the nearest dead bodyguard and swiftly replaced the near-empty one on his weapon before moving back over to the truck with Sam and Haley safe inside. Mitchell was about to step inside when he heard an engine start up. Looking over, he saw one of Al-Hadi’s surviving bodyguards behind the wheel of one of the BMW SUVs. Raising his MP9, Mitchell fired a quick burst of 9mm rounds into the windshield of the vehicle. The bullets had almost no effect on the heavily reinforced glass protecting the fleeing man. The driver spun his vehicle around in a tight circle, its tires throwing up dirt and rocks as it sped past Mitchell toward the closed gate of the camp. Mitchell cursed and waved at the vehicle, hoping that Cardinal would see what was happening and engage the car before it got away. The last thing they needed now was someone getting to a phone and calling in the real authorities before they had a chance to leave the country.

  The car was almost at the gate when it disappeared inside a bright red fireball. Thousands of pieces of fragmented metal and glass flew through the air, ripping apart two soldiers who had been hiding behind a nearby truck. The concussion from the blast knocked Mitchell down onto the dirt; winded, but still in one piece, he struggled to rise.

  Like an eagle diving out of the sky to catch its victim in its talons, a Soviet-era MI-8 Hip helicopter flew over the camp throwing an ominous dark shadow across the ground as it flew past. Mitchell was pleased to see that Yuri Uvarov, an ex-Russian Army pilot, had followed his advice and mounted pods of 57mm rockets on either side of the tough old helicopter. The chopper circled the camp a couple of times looking for more targets before disappearing from view behind the nearby hills.

  Pain shot through Mitchell’s leg. He grimaced when he saw that a piece of shrapnel had cut a deep wound into his right leg. He hadn’t even felt the shrapnel when it had hit him. Mitchell knew he needed to get it looked at as soon as he could. Gingerly, Mitchell moved over and opened the door to the truck. Inside, he saw Sam cradling Mary Haley in her arms. The girl sobbed quietly and looked up at Mitchell and gave the briefest hint of a smile of thanks. She looked terrified and Mitchell couldn’t blame her for being so; he still couldn’t believe that they had somehow managed to survive the wild melee outside.

  “Sam, can you let Nate know that we are going to borrow this truck to get the hell out of Dodge?” said Mitchell as he slammed the door behind him. Moving over, he sat down in the driver’s seat.

  His leg screamed at him, but Mitchell tried to focus his mind on getting Mary out alive, and not his wound. With a slight grin on his face, he was relieved to see that the keys had been left in the ignition. “At least something is going my way today,” said Mitchell as he turned the key over. The truck’s powerful engine roared to life.

  “Come on, Mary, let’s all go home,” said Mitchell, as he looked over his shoulder at the girl. Sam had moved to protect Mary with her body armor; reaching over, she grabbed her M4 carbine and held it close to her chest just in case it was still needed. Mitchell turned the armored vehicle away from the compound, revved the four-cylinder, turbo-diesel engine, changed gears, and then spun the tires like a drag racer waiting to race down the track, throwing up a cloud of debris behind them. Like an enraged rhino, he charged at the front gates, ripping them off their hinges and sending them flying onto the dusty ground as he sped away from the smoldering funeral pyre that had once been Mary Haley’s prison.

  Mitchell looked over his shoulder at Sam as she continued to hold Mary in her arms for protection. “Sam, please ask Nate if we are still going to RV at extraction point one,” said Mitchell as he fought to keep the monstrous speeding vehicle on the narrow and dusty road, and not on its side. Seconds later, Sam confirmed that they would be picked up five kilometers away, at their pre-designated rendezvous. Mitchell drove the route from memory. He, like all his team members, had spent days studying satellite images of Al-Hadi’s camp and the surrounding countryside until he could navigate cross-country without a map, something he now found quite useful as he drove the stolen truck like a madman across the bumpy terrain.

  Ten minutes later, they turned a bend and headed down into a narrow canyon. Kneeling in the open with their weapons slung across their chests were Jackson and Cardinal. A second later, Jackson pulled out a smoke grenade from his chest-rig, and then tossed it to the ground; within seconds, a yellow cloud of smoke wafted skyward. Jackson watched the smoke as it danced in the wind, like a genie escaping its bottle. He contacted Yuri on his radio to guide him in.

  The truck came to a smooth stop. Mitchell gingerly stepped out to greet his teammates.

  “Are you all right?” asked Jackson, looking down at Mitchell’s ripped and blood-soaked pant leg.

  “It’s all right. I’m no worse for wear, but the girl is pretty beaten up,” said Mitchell, opening the door to help Sam and Mary out of the armored vehicle.

  Cardinal absentmindedly ran a gloved hand over his thick, black goatee and then stepped forward to give Sam’s arm a quick squeeze. They locked eyes for an instant. No words needed to be exchanged.

  Mitchell and Jackson stood there silently as they waited for Yuri and his helicopter to enter the canyon. They knew how the other one thought and acted. They had worked together almost nonstop for the past half-dozen years; first, on tour in Afghanistan as part of a NATO Special Operations Task Force and now, as members of Polaris Operations, or just Polaris to its employees, most of whom were ex-special forces’ soldiers or police tactical-team members. Polaris was a private organization that specialized in problem solving, training, and consulting services anywhere in the world.

  The monstrously loud noise of the helicopter rotors filled the canyon, echoing off the red-colored sand walls, as Yuri expertly brought the ungainly looking MI-8 down to the ground. Rotor wash from the powerful engines sent sand and debris flying into the air. Everyone bent their heads down to avoid the sharp, biting sand as the helicopter came to rest on the rocky ground. Cardinal helped Sam carry Mary onto the helicopter. A medical stretcher was already set up to receive the girl. Sam wasted no time in gently strapping her down before digging out an IV bag to replace Mary’s lost vital fluids. Mitchell watched with pride as Sam and Cardinal looked after Mary. Mitchell and Jackson, as was their drill, were the last to board the helicopter.

  With everyone safely on board, Yuri took off, deftly missing the edge of the canyon walls by mere meters. Once clear, he banked the helicopter hard over and flew low to avoid radar from a nearby military installation and headed east to the relative safety of neighboring Oman.

  Less than thirty minutes later, the Hip landed on an unguarded dirt runway in the middle of nowhere. As soon as the helicopter’s wheels touched down, Mitchell’s team exited the helicopter on the double and moved straight across onto a waiting Russian-made, AN-32 Turboprop cargo plane with local civilian markings. The plane, like the helicopter, was courtesy of Yuri’s Russian compatriots who plied their marketable trade in this part of the world. Mitchell gave a quick wave to Yuri before boarding the plane. Sam pushed everyone away while she made sure Mary Haley was as comfortable as she could make her. Mitchell watched with admiration as Sam went about the business of ensuring her patient got the expert care that she desperately needed.

  Money could buy many things, and today the local Omani customs’ officials were being well paid to look the other way. As soon as everyone was buckled in, the plane’s engines came to life, and within ten seconds, they were taxiing down the bumpy dirt runway. With a skill born from years of flying in and out of dirt airs
trips in the Middle East, the pilot soon had the plane airborne. The pilot, a short, redheaded friend of Yuri’s, climbed to ten thousand meters and turned toward their next destination—Saudi Arabia, where a privately charted Boeing 777 and Mary Haley’s father would be waiting.

  Jackson unbuckled himself, walked over, and looked down at the bandage wrapped around Mitchell’s leg. “Has Sam given you anything for that?”

  “She gave me a shot before we took off,” replied Mitchell, rubbing his sore leg.

  “Take better cover next time,” chided Jackson.

  “I thought I had.”

  Jackson shook his head at his friend and then deposited his solid frame into a seat across from Mitchell.

  Mitchell looked out of the window at the desert below them. It was like a vast, tan-colored ocean that seemed to stretch far out onto the horizon. Fatigue started to seep into Mitchell’s body, replacing the plentiful adrenaline that had once been pumping through his veins. His eyes soon became as heavy as lead weights and before too long he was in a deep sleep, serenading the rest of his appreciative team with his ear-splitting snoring.

  3

  Campsite

  Weasua, Liberia

  The sun slowly crept below the hills surrounding a small camp nestled against the banks of the rich-brown-colored Lofa River.

  A small family of Pygmy hippos, each standing less than a meter tall, dashed surprisingly fast into the murky water in search of one last meal before seeking shelter for the evening. Long shadows, like fingers from a darkened hand, crept along and soon covered the land as the once-bright world turned to dusk. The jungle, sensing a change, came to life as the animals’ howls and squawks called to one another, filling the air with a cacophony of noise.