by John Weisman
Eighty yards ahead, Gene Shepard moved slowly, cautiously, deliberately, his suppressed weapon carried in low ready, his trigger finger indexed alongside the receiver, scanning through his NV as he went. He made his way through a slight depression, then inched up the incline on the far side. As he drew closer to the crest, he slowed his pace even more, lowering his body to keep himself from making a silhouette. Finally, he dropped onto the ground and, with his weapon held in both hands, he proceeded at a crawl.
At the ridgeline, the point man froze. After a half minute he clambered slowly backward, below the crown. There, his right arm extended straight from the shoulder, his gloved hand a fist.
The eight others froze where they were. Now Shepard’s thumb extended from his fist—thumb up—and his hand quickly inverted, thumb pointed at the ground.
It was the silent signal for “enemy seen or suspected.”
Ritzik’s hands told the element to deploy to the left side of the road. There was more cover available to the left than to the right. Moreover, splitting the force could prove hazardous if there was any shooting, with the two groups firing directly at each other.
The men moved quickly, camouflaging their footprints with branches as they backed away from the rutted track. Ritzik kept his head up long enough to make sure they’d all cleared. He slid his pistol out of its thigh holster and attached the suppressor to the threaded barrel. Then he settled down behind a clump of bushes perhaps sixty yards off the road and eased the Sig’s hammer rearward. Ty Weaver lay next to him, the dull muzzle of the sniper rifle’s silencer poking through the thorns.
Ritzik pushed the transmit switch on the radio. “Shep—how many?”
“Uno.” Gene Shepard’s whispered voice came back in his ear. “Half a klik away and approaching on foot.”
“Armed?”
“Affirmative.”
They’d have to wait this one out. Ritzik looked at his watch. It was already past the half hour. If they didn’t start setting the ambush by twenty-three hundred…
He didn’t want to think about the consequences.
2229. The double-clicks in Ritzik’s left ear told him the target was getting close. Ritzik couldn’t see him, not yet. But Shep could. And he signaled by hitting his radio transmit twice.
And then … there he was. A lone figure, cresting the rise. Ritzik focused as he drew closer. He was wearing a PLA uniform top and non-descript pantaloon trousers tucked into some sort of calf-high boots. His head was bare, his face framed by a fierce beard and long, matted, unkempt hair. He strode, oblivious to his surroundings, right in the middle of the road. If he was the point man for the convoy, he wasn’t taking the job seriously. His rifle—it looked to be an AK—was slung over his shoulder. The tip of the cigarette dangling in Mr. Oblivious’s mouth recorded as a hot spot in Ritzik’s NV. A cellular telephone was clutched in his right hand. As he came over the crest, he soccer-kicked a stone. He cursed in Uzbek as the damn thing glanced off his toe and skittered only a couple of feet. Then he took a second shot, which sent it ricocheting past Gene Shepard’s nose.
About ten yards over the ridge, Mr. Oblivious stopped long enough to take a huge double drag on his cigarette. He exhaled smoke audibly through his nose, then pulled the butt from between his lips, stared at it quickly, dropped it on the road, and ground it out with the toe of his boot.
Mr. Oblivious walked another twenty-five paces and stopped again. He looked left, then right, as if to make sure there was no traffic coming. Then he strode over the narrow shoulder and marched away from the road, ten yards onto the hard sand of the desert floor, not twenty-five feet from where Ritzik and Ty Weaver lay. He turned his head and checked the road again. And then the son of a bitch set down the AK and the cell phone, unfastened his pantaloons, dropped into a squatting position, and took an Uzbek dump. A noisy Uzbek dump. A smelly Uzbek dump.
He squatted there for about a minute before cleaning himself off. He appeared to be about half clean when the phone rang, and Mr. Oblivious cursed long and loud. Despite the tense situation, Ritzik nevertheless found himself amused that the universal law that governs the timing of unwelcome phone calls worked equally as well in China as it did back Stateside.
Mr. Oblivious snatched the phone off the ground and barked into it.
Ritzik listened. Mr. Oblivious was indeed Uzbek, and he was the convoy’s point man. From the one side of the conversation he heard, Ritzik confirmed Mr. Oblivious had been sent ahead to make sure there was nothing untoward in the bridge and causeway areas. Moreover, the man was obviously dealing with a superior, because while he’d let loose a string of deletable expletives when the phone rang, he was now being deferential. Dutifully, the man reported that everything was clear and safe, and yes, he’d wait to be picked up in a couple of hours.
The conversation lasted less than half a minute. And then, Mr. Oblivious snapped the phone shut, slid it into a pocket, called his boss a less-than-polite name, and finished wiping himself. Then he rubbed his left hand in the sand to clean it, brushed the sand off on the uniform jacket, cleared his nose, adjusted his pantaloons, took half a dozen steps toward the road, dropped into a sitting position, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a cigarette.
Which is when Ritzik shot him. The suppressed round made a soft thwock as it hit Mr. Oblivious square in the back of the head. The Uzbek fell forward without making a sound.
Ritzik scrambled to his feet, covered the fifteen yards between them in less than two seconds, and—careful to select a firing angle from which ricochets wouldn’t pose a hazard to his own people—put two more silenced rounds in the man’s head.
Killing Mr. Oblivious wasn’t something Ritzik had been especially anxious to do. He took no joy in killing. It was an essential part of his job. And he was proficient at it. But the Selection process for Delta was careful to weed out the rogues, the thrill killers, and the sociopaths, who thought that throat-slitting or double-tapping was fun. Still, Ritzik had no hesitation about killing. And he wasn’t about to compromise his mission by wasting time waiting for the Uzbek to finish his cigarette and move on.
He knelt, checked the man for a pulse, and found none. He rolled the corpse over onto its back, stood astride it, searched for documents or any other intel, and came up dry. Mr. Oblivious wasn’t carrying anything—not even an ID.
Ritzik secured his weapon, extracted the cell phone from the dead man’s jacket, switched it off, and dropped it into a pocket. It would be interesting to discover who paid the bills. “Let’s get moving.”
18
1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
2254 Hours Local Time.
AS THEY REACHED the end of the causeway, Ritzik was pleased to discover that the gap between the concrete surface and the unpaved road was huge—an eight-inch drop from the end of the causeway into an enormous pothole. The literal bump in the road hadn’t shown up on the satellite images. But it was going to force the convoy to slow down precipitously.
Rowdy Yates jogged through the light ground fog the slightly less than half a kilometer to the bridge, carefully paced back, and took Ritzik and Ty Weaver aside. “Change of plans. You initiate on ‘Two—just like always.’ But you hit the lead truck first.” Yates looked at Ritzik. “Time your countdown so Ty can shoot just as Truck One comes off the causeway. It’ll bottleneck the others. They won’t know what’s happening in the back of the column until it’s too late. I’ll set the claymores off and you’ll be picking ‘em off from the rear like Gary Cooper in the old Sergeant York movie.”
The sniper snorted. “Promise it’ll be that easy, Rowdy?” “On my word.” Yates held up his right hand, palm raised. “Oh, by the way, I got some lovely waterfront property to sell you right outside Mazār-e Sharīf.”
“And you’ll respect me in the morning, too, right?” Ty started walking to the rear to search out a shooting position.
Yates gestured toward the causeway. “Setting those claymores is gonna cause us a headache or
two, boss.”
Ritzik nodded. “I saw.” The trouble lay in the narrowness of the causeway. The Chinese claymores had an effective range of roughly two hundred meters. But they were most deadly when the target was within a sixty-meter cone. The problem was that the concrete sides of the causeway were just over three feet high, and the causeway itself was more than ten feet above the marsh. The precise measurements had been impossible to gauge from the satellite images. It was going to be unworkable to position the claymores where he’d wanted to, because the causeway sidewall would mask too much of the blast.
Oh, the situation could be remedied. But it was going to take precious time to camouflage the damn things and hide the firing wire. Ritzik shook his head, disgusted. “Do what you have to. They’re critical.”
2316. The firing positions were going to be problematic, too. The marsh was soft—and much deeper than expected. That was the trouble with technical intelligence: it could give you just partial information. Nothing was as good as an old-fashioned, eyes-on recon. An old-fashioned, eyes-on recon would have shown what Ritzik and his team discovered in a matter of minutes: there were fewer cover and concealment possibilities than they would have liked.
But the downside came with an upside: there was no easy avenue of escape for the bad guys, either. The ambushed tangos would have to try to flee by jumping off the causeway into the marsh—where they’d be killed quickly. Or, they’d try to push forward onto the roadway, where Ritzik’s second element would cut them to pieces. Once the convoy was stopped, it could be decimated. Terrorists seldom practiced vehicular counterambush drills. And at 2340, Ritzik got another piece of good news: Rowdy, Goose, and Shep had solved the claymore situation. They’d camouflaged the devices and set them so the deadly cones of the blasts would broadside directly into the last three trucks in the column, the shaped charges killing most of those inside.
2325. Ritzik called back to the LUP. He’d need Mickey D’s firepower. And he wanted Wei-Liu close by, to work on the MADM as soon as the killing zone was safe.
2345. Now came the hard part: the waiting. The ambushers had laid themselves out in a modified letter L. Rowdy, Shepard, Masland, Curtis, and Goose were strung out in the marsh shallows by the western end of the causeway, concealed by the patchy fog and clumps of saw grass. The other five were split: Ritzik, Ty Weaver, and Mickey D on the right side of the road; Tuzz and Sandman on the left, to deal with any tangos who tried to flank from behind. The element’s fields of fire were marked by IR chem-lights.
Rowdy Yates ran the marsh-side group—and controlled the claymore detonators. Ritzik and Mickey D had the road—positioned close enough to be able to engage the first vehicles close-quarters. Ty Weaver had the high ground. He lay concealed atop a small dune at an oblique angle to the convoy’s path. The position would afford the sniper a panoramic view and a protected shooting site that allowed him to engage targets anywhere along the convoy. Well behind him, hidden by a dune, Ritzik stashed Wei-Liu, with instructions not to show herself until he or Weaver came for her.
0006. The ambushers could hear the tangos coming a long time before they actually saw them—even with the NV. The diesel trucks’ rumbling carried a long way in the still night air. Ritzik snorted. No need to worry about critters and shitters tonight, not with all that racket. He glanced skyward and was relieved to see opaque clouds moving from west to east. That was good, too. It cut back on the possibility of ambient light reflecting off the fire teams.
0008. The convoy was turning onto the bridge. Ritzik could listen as the drivers downshifted, transmissions whining, motors growling. And now he made out the lead vehicle—the 4x4—as it started across the bridge, moving herky-jerky, only its yellow running lights illuminated. Truck Number One followed six or seven yards behind—close enough so that he could pick up two human silhouettes behind its windshield. The other trucks followed closely, too. Ritzik bit his upper lip. It was textbook. Absofrigging textbook. He glanced to his right. He sensed Ty Weaver’s breathing modulate as the sniper zeroed in on his targets.
0008:24. Now the lead vehicle passed the rear infrared marker. The countdown was starting. There was a sudden, painful twinge in the lower part of Ritzik’s gut. This was normal: his customary physical reaction to the vacuum before action. All the planning, all the options, all the scenarios had been sucked out of him. He was dry.
0008:40. The second two 4x4s crossed the bridge. There was nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said, nothing more to be adjusted, fixed, fine-tuned.
0008:49. The number six truck pulled onto the bridge. Either the plan was going to work, or it wasn’t. But since wasn’t wasn’t an option, he would have to make it work. They would all have to make it work. This was when everything came down to FIDO. Fuck it—drive on.
0009. The first three trucks moved onto the causeway, followed by the two 4x4s. Ritzik could hear the suspensions creak as the vehicles came forward.
0009:38. The rear trio of trucks crossed the narrow bridge, passed the outer infrared marker, and crowded, pachydermlike, trunk to tail, onto the causeway. He pressed his transmit button. “I have control.” And as quickly as it had come over him, the butterflies, the uncertainties, the doubts all vanished.
Indeed, it was now, during these final instants before he attacked his target, that an extraordinary, ethereal calmness washed over Ritzik. “Execute in ten …” In the brief hiccup of time before Execute! Execute! he became one with all the other Warriors who ever lived. “Nine … “ One with Joshua, waiting to attack Jericho. “Eight … “ One with Odysseus, sitting silent with his Warriors in the huge, hollow wooden horse outside the walls of Troy. “Seven… “ One with Major Robert Roger and his green-clad Rangers in the French and Indian Wars. “Six …” One with Stonewall Jackson at Manassas. “Five …” One with the Second Ranger Battalion—the Boys of Pointe du Hoc—on D day. “Four …” One with Colonel Henry Mucci at Cabanatuan. “Three …” One with the First Division Marines at Chosin Reservoir. “Two—sniper shoot …” One with Captain Dick Meadows in Banana One, the lead chopper closing in on Son Tay prison camp. “One. One with Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon in the bloody streets of Mogadishu.
In his split second of oneness with history’s men o’ warsmen, Ritzik understood that tonight he would win, overcome, persevere, and ultimately prevail. “Execute! Execute!”
1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
0009 Hours Local Time.
Minus four seconds. Ty Weaver’s brain scrolled the sniper’s mental checklist. Correct body position—check. Don’t cant the weapon—check. Good breathing. Rifle butt tight against shoulder with no straps or web gear in the way. Perfect spot weld. Consistent eye relief. Correct sight picture. Trigger control. Precise point of aim. Follow-up shots planned.
Minus two seconds. Weaver’s first shot slapped the truck driver’s head back against the rear window of the cab. The man was dead by the time he impacted the glass. The sniper swung the scope to the left. Damn—the tango riding shotgun had dropped out of sight. But there was no time to worry about it. Fighting adrenaline, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and his heartbeat steady and slow, he panned the long gun to the right, and found his third target: the driver of the number two truck.
Minus two seconds. Rowdy Yates moved the safety bail on his claymore firing device from the safe to the armed position. The third truck—the one with the prisoners and the device—was almost clear of the mines’ conical killing zone.
Minus one second. Weaver put the HK’s crosshairs on the man’s upper lip and squeezed the trigger. His ten-power nightscope was sensitive enough that he could make out the fine mist of blood and brain matter as the tango’s head dropped out of sight.
Weaver’s crosshairs found the second man in the cab. The tango was wild-eyed, confused. He was reaching out to help his buddy when Weaver’s third shot in less than two seconds caught him in the left eye. Now the big rifle moved again, Weaver’s crosshairs searching for the driver of t
he number six truck. As they found the point between his eyebrows, the three claymores went off simultaneously. There was no discernible reaction from the sniper as Weaver’s index finger tightened around the HK’s trigger.
1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
0009 Hours Local Time.
THE HUGE EXPLOSIONS sent them sprawling. Sam Phillips screamed, “Jeezus H. Christ—hit the deck.”
The heavy truck shuddered, staggered as if it had been hit by a wrecking ball. It was the whole goddamn Chinese Army—had to be. Automatic weapons opened up—a deafening, freaking barrage of mayhem. He heard the concussive explosions of grenades or mortars. Sam could see the trucks behind them exploding right through the canvas—the yellow flames were that bright. There was screaming everywhere. He rolled onto his right side, yanking X-Man with him. “Kaz—get X’s knife—now. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here before the sons of bitches kill us along with the rest of them or blow up the goddamn bomb.”
“Yo, Sam.” Kaz snaked across the rough wood. X-Man stretched his leg out. Kaz scrunched around and pulled the small composite blade out from behind the security man’s boot top. Quickly, he cut Sam’s arms free. Sam grabbed the blade. He cut the bonds that pinioned X-Man’s arms.
But then the truck lurched, and the knife fell out of his grasp and skittered across the rough wood of the bed. “Shit. X—”
X-Man dove after the blade as another explosion shook the truck and rounds smacked dangerously close by.
The truck pitched forward, knocking them ass over teakettle as it—smack-rear-ended the vehicle in front of them and stalled out.
“Jeezus—Sam—”
Sam looked in the direction of Kaz’s voice. “Holy shit.”
