by Patrick Dent
From the east ridge, Drake squeezed off a round, instantly killing one of the guards with a shot below the left armpit, the same area one targets for a deer. As another guard turned to return fire, Gip shot him in the temple, removing most of his forehead. The cross fire was working as planned so far, but that trick wouldn't last for long.
With bullets ricocheting all around him, Gip rolled another ten meters east. During that time, six more guards came scrambling out the southern entrance and took immediate cover. The man in charge, realizing they were being flanked, sent a contingent to the east side. By the time they got there, Drake had low crawled to the south. He flanked them again, this time hitting the leader between the shoulder blades as he shouted orders in Arabic. His body jerked as the three round burst of tumbling jacketed lead ripped effortlessly through bone and organs.
By this time, Gip was in position to the southwest and shot another guard in the back of the head. As Drake and Gip had hoped, these were not professionally trained soldiers. This became obvious when the stick and move diversion tactics repeatedly fooled them.
Tartus' men began firing wildly to the south and east, their AK-47's on full auto. Sand and rock fragments flew harmlessly into the air. The shots echoed off the citadel and rock formations with a staccato effect deafening to anyone near the structure. Drake and Gip remained face down in the sand as their enemies wasted ammunition. As far as they knew, neither of them had been spotted yet. After one more shuffle, Drake and Gip were within sight of each other. Gip raised his left fist and made a pumping motion. This was the signal for the claymores. Drake jerked his hand across his throat, signaling no. They had to draw guards to the windows before setting off the claymores. Drake peeked above the ridge. Tartus' men were getting smarter. They realized they were being attacked from the southern and eastern flanks and were laying heavy cover fire in both directions. Drake hit the sand and low crawled toward the northern entrance.
Gip was no longer able to aim his shots, but that did not matter at this point. He held his weapon above the rocks and fired blindly for a few seconds, then immediately rolled to a new position. They had reduced Tartus' forces by about one third in the first few moments of the battle. Now, with the element of surprise gone, the focus was to draw men to the windows by creating the illusion that Kechla was surrounded.
* * *
“What is happening?” Tartus demanded, kicking the kitchen chair across the room. His silk pajamas were already showing sweat stains. He glared at his head of security, Shahid, who stood stiffly in the archway to the enormous kitchen.
“Tartus, we're under attack,” Shahid said, “I estimate at least twenty men, heavily armed infantry. They've already killed at least six of my men. The phone lines are dead and we have no men in radio range. If we don't stop them soon, they will surely blow the doors.”
Tartus could not bear the thought of NATO soldiers overrunning his home. If Shahid were right, if they blew the doors, Tartus would spend the rest of his life in a Western prison. “This is a military fortress! You're telling me you can't defend it?” Veins stood out on Tartus' neck and temples. His normally squinty look was replaced with a visage of wide-eyed fear and rage. Obviously, Shahid was incompetent and needed direction.
“Tartus,” Shahid began.
“Just shut up and listen!” Tartus interrupted, “Post one man in each window along the southern and northern walls. Have them fire continuously. That will prevent them from storming the doors. Put four men on the roof, one for each corner, to act as snipers. Divide the remaining men between the entrances. If they blow the doors, we can pick them off as they come through.”
“Yes, Tartus,” Shahid said, knowing that whether he succeeded or failed, he would die for this. His best hope was to die with honor.
“And somebody get me a weapon!” Tartus barked.
“Right away, Tartus.” Shahid barked orders to the twenty-four soldiers he had left. Sixteen deployed to the windows, four to the roof, and two inside each entrance.
Tartus paced nervously in the kitchen, drawing heavily on his Pall Mall. Normally, he enjoyed his little American luxuries, savoring each draw he took from the unfiltered cigarettes. Tartus had mastered the art of living in the moment. In a business where torture and death were realistic threats, he could not afford to concern himself with the past or future.
His mind swirled in a maelstrom of angry and frustrated thoughts. Who would have the effrontery to attack him? He had no serious competitors in the area, no dissatisfied customers. He was quite generous to the local law enforcement; so he didn't expect any trouble from them.
Who? Falon had warned him that he suspected American agents had taken an interest in his activities, but he had also assured Tartus that he had dispatched the men efficiently.
Where was Falon, anyway? He hadn't shown up for dinner last night and hadn't checked in today. What if that rat had betrayed him? For months, Tartus had suspected Falon wanted a larger share of the business. Falon had expressed dissatisfaction with some of his more menial duties, but Tartus didn't think he would act on it. Perhaps he had underestimated Falon. But still, something didn't make sense. If Falon wanted to stage a coup, a frontal assault didn't make sense. As Tartus' second in command, he had ample opportunity to kill Tartus and assume leadership. How would Falon benefit by killing all the men who were loyal to him?
No, the Americans were the more likely culprits. Why now? After decades of uninhibited trade, why did the Americans choose to shut him down now? Could it be those American girls? Surely not. But, what if it were? What if he were unwittingly in possession of someone important, someone for whom the US would send a platoon of troops? How did they even know where he was? Stop it, he told himself. He evicted the fear and uncertainty from his mind. His thoughts focused on the task at hand.
“Shahid, come with me!”
“Yes Tartus.”
“And bring the keys to the catacombs.”
* * *
Outside, Drake had moved to the north side. Men occupied all eight windows, their AK-47s at the ready. By his count, there were over twenty men remaining inside the citadel, if Falon had told him the truth. So far, he had found no evidence that Falon had lied about anything. It was time for the claymores.
When Drake hit the button, the result was devastating. The men in the windows on the north side were shredded as thousands of steel balls passed effortlessly through the heavy wooden shutters, then through the soft tissue and bones of their bodies. After the smoke and dust had settled, Drake saw that all the windows were vacant. He shouldered his weapon and sprinted toward the aqueduct grating.
* * *
Gip was back at his original position, flanking the south entrance. He continued to move to and fro, rattling off automatic fire to create the illusion that he was an entire squad. Abruptly, the earth shook with a massive explosion from the north side. He was caught by surprise. His ears rang terribly. He ceased fire and low crawled his way toward the claymore switch.
* * *
Tartus' men were bustling with panic on the south side. After the enormous explosion from the north side, the firing from the rocks had stopped. The northern entrance had obviously been compromised. After much shouting, the men outside stopped their wild firing, eventually realizing they were shooting at no targets.
* * *
Gip peeked out and saw heads or silhouettes occupying all eight windows, rifle barrels waving back and forth across the rock formations. Although he couldn't see them, he guessed there were at least six more men hiding outside among the rocks.
Bracing himself against the sound, he fired the claymores. Again concussion rocked the night. Body parts were strewn about the compound, falling to the ground with a sickening, wet sound. A preternatural silence followed the explosion. No gunshots, no birds, no insects, no voices; merely the ringing in his ears. Everything outside the citadel was dead. Gip estimated about a dozen bodies in the south compound. He didn't know how many Drake had gotten on
the north side, but with luck he had gotten at least the men in the windows. That left the four snipers on the roof, between two and five inside, plus Tartus.
Gip checked his watch. Drake would be in the aqueduct soon. It was time for phase two.
* * *
Drake was right on schedule. The iron grating yielded easily to the torch. Once Drake cut the last bar, the grating screeched loudly and fell into the blackness. Seconds later, he heard the splash. Must be a pretty decent drop, he thought. Careful not to touch the red-hot edges, Drake jumped into a pitch black free fall, hoping the water would be deep enough to break his fall.
* * *
Tartus and Shahid jogged down the catacomb's main corridor. The girls were screaming in panic. Tartus had heard two enormous explosions outside, followed by silence. He knew his men were dead. Who but the Americans would come in with such powerful ordinance?
“Shahid, how many men do we have left?”
Shahid spoke rapidly into his radio for a full minute. “I can contact just the four on the roof and the four inside.” Shahid was visibly rattled. Whether the Americans won or lost, Tartus would kill him before the Sun came up. Tartus did not respond, but simply resumed his trot. He had no intention of sharing his thoughts with Shahid.
When Tartus and Shahid arrived at Lupe's cell, they found she was the only quiet girl among the bunch. She stood calmly, just inside the barred window to her cell. This sent a chill up Tartus' spine.
“Who are you?” Tartus demanded. Spittle flew from his lips. His face was contorted with rage.
“What's the matter? You can dish it out but you can't take it? There's a major surprise.” Her mocking tone suggested confidence - the raid was for her alone. This situation is getting worse all the time, Tartus thought.
“Damn you, answer me or I'll kill you right now!” As he spoke, Tartus drew his pistol and leveled it between her eyes. Lupe believed him.
“I'm the daughter of Juan Hernandez, US Congressman from California. And judging from the ruckus I hear upstairs, I'd say he's come to bring me home.”
Shit, Tartus thought, “A congressman's daughter? What were you doing in Brazil?”
“Ever hear of a vacation, asshole?”
Tartus almost pulled the trigger. It would be so easy to end her life, just a twitch of his finger. But the power of life and death that normally drove his engine held no thrill for him. Something nagged at him on a visceral level. Some intangible force paralyzed his finger long enough for him to get control of his reflexes. Logic prevailed. If she was whom she claimed, she just might buy him his life. He turned to Shahid.
“Open the cell. She's coming with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Kechla Citadel
The aqueduct was completely dark. Drake was in freefall for a fraction of a second before he struck the four-foot deep water coursing down the pipe. Drake struggled to hold his head afloat and keep his weapons. The water was surprisingly cold, and his hands were already beginning to numb. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, making him feel a slight vertigo. There was a definite sensation of speed, but he had no idea how fast he was moving. He managed to get his flashlight out and pointed it ahead.
The aqueduct was a stone cylinder, approximately three meters in diameter. The walls were green and slimy, covered with centuries of growth. Drake was amazed at how usable its condition was after five centuries of neglect. He strained to see ahead. Based on the speed the twelve-inch squares of stone passed by, he estimated he should reach the citadel within the next few seconds.
The drawings in the museum showed the aqueduct turning downward and feeding back into the underground stream shortly after passing through the citadel. This would be a one-act play. If he missed the citadel, he would be rushed deep into the earth where he would drown in complete darkness. He tried to keep that thought out of his head.
He heard it before he saw it. The giant wooden water wheel creaked with each revolution. He heard the paddles splashing loudly. The tunnel curved sharply to the right, forcing him and the water to bank left. The water was shallower and faster moving now. He saw the water wheel just thirty meters ahead, turning slowly in the current; thereby providing electricity to all of Kechla. The wheel was at least ten meters in diameter. Drake wondered if it would rip him to pieces before he could jump to safety.
Propelling toward the wheel feet first, he dropped his flashlight, relying on the lighting of the catacombs. When he struck the first paddle, there was an audible crack as two of his ribs snapped. He gripped with all his strength as he was pulled under. His back scraped the bottom of the aqueduct, freeing centuries of moss and algae, as well as freeing some clothing and flesh from his back. The turbulence forced water up his nose and the pressure forced him to exhale a stream of bubbles. He wondered if his body would wedge between the wheel and the bottom of the pipeline, bringing the wheel to a sudden stop, suffocating him. Without the slime, he probably would have been ripped in half; his fragile body no match for the gigantic forces surrounding him.
The wheel pushed harder into his sternum, forcing out air he didn't even know he had. He was no longer moving with the water. It rushed past him, creating a suction caused by the Bernoulli effect. Bernoulli had discovered that the faster a fluid moved, the lower its pressure. This was the principle that allowed airplanes to fly. It was also the principle that nearly collapsed Drake's lungs. The water was pulling a vacuum on him.
Just when Drake thought the current would suck him inside out, he broke free. Even in his delirium, he knew he had less than a second to react if he ever wanted to refill his lungs with oxygen. He gripped the paddle with all his strength. As the wheel lifted him, he swung toward the side and took a leap of faith at what he hoped was dry land.
The painful thump of the stone floor actually found a remaining pocket of air to expel from his lungs. He struggled to inhale, but couldn't manage more than an impotent wheeze. Purple spots danced erratically in front of his eyes. The world went black.
* * *
Tartus gripped Lupe's arm tightly, jerking her along the corridor. Shahid walked behind them with his AK-47 trained on the center of her back, providing a strong incentive for her to cooperate.
“Unit One, report status,” Shahid spoke into his radio.
“Unit One here. No activity at the north entrance.”
“Unit Two, report status.”
“Unit Two here. We are receiving fire at the south entrance. Sounds like five, maybe ten shooters. The door remains secure.”
“Get me out the north entrance,” Tartus snarled. The three of them picked up the pace. As they rounded the next corner, Tartus stopped in his tracks. “Who the hell is that?”
* * *
Gip had to get those snipers before he could begin phase two. Having seen no men coming from the north side, he assumed the snipers were the only men remaining outside the citadel. He chambered a round in the M203. He would have to arc the shot to drop within fifteen meters of the roof corner. He knew the range to the citadel was twenty meters. Add to that twenty meters of height. He set the sight for 50 meters and drew a bead on the southeast corner of the roof. When he squeezed the trigger, there was a loud thunk as the explosive projectile was sent skyward. Seconds later there was an explosion on the roof. He looked at the ground just in time to see a bloody leg land in the dust. The other sniper threw his weapon over the side and disappeared from sight. Gip immediately grabbed his satchel and double-timed it toward the door.
* * *
When Drake awoke, the first thing he noticed was the absence of air. He tried to inhale, but excruciating pain in his ribcage caused him to grimace. By taking mini breaths, he was able to maintain consciousness. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Luckily, he had disembarked the wheel on the correct side. The area of the catacombs that appeared to have cells lining the walls was about one hundred meters west of him. He pulled back the bolt on his M-16, chambering a round from the fresh banana clip. Thirty
rounds, plus nine in the pistol, he thought, Let's hope that's enough. He had lost his extra clips to the aqueduct.
Drake had taken no more than ten painful steps when he saw three figures round the corner ahead. He hurriedly raised the rifle, but hesitated. He couldn't believe it. One of the three was Lupe Hernandez. The man at her side jerked her in front of him and raised a pistol.
Drake instantly sighted just left of the man and placed a round in the center of Shahid's chest. Dark blood tainted with bile spurted as Shahid's legs collapsed under him. Before Shahid hit the floor, Drake was already on the floor and rolling. With no cover or concealment, the best he could do was become a difficult target.
Tartus fired five shots wildly down the corridor, using Lupe as a shield. She instantly felt a sharp pain in her right ear, swiftly replaced by a loud ringing. The muzzle flash temporarily blinded her. In the confusion of the following seconds, she turned in a circle, pinching Tartus' thumb closed on itself. He howled in pain and yanked himself out of her grip. Before he could raise his pistol, she kicked him in the groin. If his testicles had been a football, Lupe would have easily made a sixty yard field goal.
Drake now had a clear shot at Tartus, but he was disoriented from rolling. He was afraid to chance a shot, so he shouted, “Hold it right there, asshole!”
Tartus disappeared around the corner with catlike quickness. Lupe was left standing in the corridor, her hands covering her face. Drake immediately jumped to his feet. He didn't know how long it would be before someone else appeared around the corner. His ribs felt like rusty swords being thrust into his thorax with each step.
