by Dick Stivers
Trucks and cars burned around them. Shells continued to fall hundreds of meters to the east as the distant artillery unit walked the 130mm shells along the highway, blasting the blazing trucks and screaming wounded again and again. Secondary explosions sent the twisted wreckage of transports spinning through the night.
Others also tried to put the slaughter behind them. Vehicles somehow untouched wove through the hulks scattered along the highway. Crowded with soldiers, a troop transport low-geared around the tangle of metal that had been a private car before a high-explosive shell reduced it to scattered fenders and burning upholstery. Syrian soldiers left the roadside ditches and sprinted after the transport. Three soldiers managed to clutch the side slats and ride away holding on to the outside of the truck.
"We want a truck!" Zhgenti called out to his squad. "One of these, any one that isn't ruined."
But high explosive and shrapnel had destroyed the vehicles they found. Ignoring the flaming trucks, they checked the vans and trucks that had run off the road in the first chaotic minute of the artillery barrage.
One of the Soviets ran to a small Japanese truck with four-wheel drive. The vehicle showed no damage other than shattered windows. But the interior was filled with torn corpses. A blast of shrapnel had turned the opposite side of the truck into a lattice of perforated fenders and doors, the steel cut to shreds by the high-velocity fragments of a bursting shell. Ignoring the gore inside, the Soviet checked the engine and tires and found that the fragments had totaled the truck.
The squad continued checking trucks until they came to what remained of the Syrian unit that had established the checkpoint.
One of the BMP combat vehicles had taken a direct hit. Nothing remained except the track threads and the slab of armor plating that had formed the undercarriage. The wreckage of the armored vehicle — and the blood-clotted shreds of the crew — lay everywhere.
A second BMP nearby had taken the blast of a shell without apparent damage. However, the soldiers inside had not closed the rear hatches. The high-velocity fragments, like supersonic axes, had ricochetted throughout the interior of the vehicle. Blood flowed from the armored troop carrier.
Zhgenti looked down at a Syrian officer gasping on the asphalt. The dying officer clutched at his open gut, his hands lost in a tangle of intestines.
"Fool!" Zhgenti spat into the Syrian's agony-racked face. "You had to delay me. Don't you understand that some people do not have time for your petty politics?"
Leaving the roadblock commander to die, Zhgenti directed his men to spread out. He raised his Uzi above his head and shouted, "The next one that comes through is ours! Take it!"
11
Only a flashlight lit the interior of the sandbag bunker inside the trailer. Desmarais sat on the floor as Blancanales questioned her.
For the first time since the Canadian journalist-cum-Soviet agent had sought out Powell and become involved with the American pursuit of the terrorists, Desmarais spoke truthfully. She no longer pretended to be a journalist. She no longer preached her anti-American politics. She no longer taunted the American antiterrorist fighters.
Chaos and luck had defeated her. The game of deceit had ended. Now she hoped only for survival.
"The assignment to the rocket group came like all the others. My director called and briefed me, and then all the materials and tickets and names of contacts came in the mail. I was surprised when I saw that I would be investigating Soviets, but I did not question the assignment..."
"All the other times," Blancanales interrupted to clarify the point. "The director — the voice on the telephone — sent you against Americans?"
"Yes. Stories about American activities for the Canadian and European newspapers, sometimes for Soviet newspapers. But this time I used my job only for cover. I knew my director would not want a story published about these Iranians and Syrians. But I followed it..."
"Why were you certain?" Blancanales asked.
"Because the Syrians are allies of the Soviet Union. And I saw that they were working together with the Iranian fundamentalists. I did not learn what the project would be, but it involved only terrorist groups. It had to be terrorism. When the Iranians killed the CIA men in Beirut, that could be a story. I investigated that as if I were writing a story. That took me to Powell. I knew Shabakkar — he is the fighter for the creation of the Black Nation of Islam in North America — and Shabakkar said he would speak with Powell, but it was a trap and the Iranians took me..."
"Did they actually rape you? Or was that another..."
"Yes! I wish it had been staged. Oshakkar betrayed me to those animals. They intended to kill me but I killed them."
"And what of the information you claimed to have overheard between the Libyan and the Nicaraguan?"
"That was talk of the rockets, that they would be flown in and then transported in trucks. But I would not have told you Americans that, not until I discussed the information with Illovich."
"You called ahead to Illovich?"
"Of course. I called the Soviet embassy in Mexico, I gave them my code number and they connected me to Illovich. He took over from there."
"What can you tell us about Illovich?"
"He is KGB."
"No shit?" Gadgets laughed. He sat on a box of 40mm grenades, his feet on the MK-19 launcher. "What a revelation. I got to write that one down. Tell us something we don't know."
"Easy, partner," Blancanales cautioned. "Miss, what did he know of the rockets?"
"Nothing."
"What did he know when you arrived? He had two days to consult with Moscow."
"He knew nothing. He said it was very important that the terrorists be destroyed. He sent his men against the Iranians and you killed them all. That was when you captured us."
"What happened after... after you escaped?"
"We returned to Mexico City. We learned that you Americans had destroyed the terrorists. And that was that."
"But then you followed us again. How did that happen?"
"I received a call from my director. Because I knew your team by sight and could identify you, they told me to follow you."
"You spotted us on Cyprus."
Desmarais did not answer.
"We know you followed us to Cyprus. And our boat was attacked. Did you identify us there for a hit squad?"
"Yes."
"And then you came to Lebanon?"
"To find Powell."
"Why is Powell important?"
"He is an American. He is CIA..."
"Wow, he's an American!" Gadgets interrupted again. "What do you got against us? What is your problem?"
"You Americans! You ignore my country, you dominate all the hemisphere — Quebec, Canada, all the nations. You force your corporate fascist culture on us. Of course I oppose you. All the Quebecois hate you. Even the Anglos of Canada. We will someday rise against you."
"How did you get out here?"
"I followed you."
"Alone! You came into this insane war alone?"
"No."
Staring at the floor, the young woman did not speak for a moment. In the silence, they heard the droning of the diesel engine and the endless sound of tires on asphalt. Then she looked up, her eyes studying Blancanales. She spoke again.
"I have many documents from the Syrians. I persuaded some soldiers to take me to Damascus. And then in the shelling, they all died. I jumped out to take photos and then a shell hit the truck and they all died. It was so terrible. Only boys..."
Her voice died away.
"Thank you," Blancanales said. "For the information. I hope we can help you. At least we can help you get safely out of the war." He crossed the trailer and sat on the floor. Aware that Desmarais heard what he said, he spoke softly into his hand-radio. "Ironman, Powell, I've questioned her. None of it really helps. Except one thing. Remember what our pilot friend told us about where the courier went? Said it was an interesting detail?"
Blancanales put the radio against
his ear to muffle his partner's voice, so that only he could hear. "Yeah, about Iraq. You got info on that?"
Blancanales plugged in the earphone attachment. Now the prisoner could hear only his words. "Yeah, about that. Indirectly. The KGB has no idea about what's going on with the rockets."
"She says. She says all kinds of things. Anything else she said?"
"Nothing we couldn't have guessed."
"So what do we do with her now?"
"She goes with us, then we take her out."
Powell's voice joined them. Shouting over the wind rush in the open Rover, he told them. "I got a solution for our Soviet problem. Let her walk out."
"This isn't Mexico," Blancanales countered. "She'll die out there."
"She's Canadian," Powell countered. "She can handle the snow."
"She set you up for execution," Lyons reminded Blancanales.
Speaking slightly louder so that his prisoner overheard, Blancanales stated, "I told her we would help her get out of this insanity. My word is my word."
Powell laughed, the sound a mad cackle in the road noise. "Think she'd keep her word to you?"
"I gave my word. Period."
In the back of the troop transport, Lyons jammed his hand-radio back into the pocket of his Soviet army greatcoat. He clutched the blanket tight around his face and shoulders and stood up. Squinting against the freezing wind, he peered into the darkness.
Snow swirled in the headlights of the Land Rover and the Mercedes troop transport. But beyond the wide asphalt band of the modern highway, the night and storm reclaimed the Bekaa. They passed dark houses and villages, no lights showing from windows or shops, even the streetlights dark. Fighting continued in the distance, sparks of light marking fights where soldiers and fanatics — and innocent Lebanese — died for the incomprehensible politics of Syria.
Other headlights appeared behind them, and a Syrian troop convoy passed the American convoy. The Syrian drivers, disregarding the falling snow and slick roads, swerved into the opposing lanes and passed at a suicidal 120 kilometers per hour. Lyons waved to the soldiers in the backs of the trucks. They did not return the waves. Crouched in the transports, wrapped in plastic, they stared at him, their faces sullen. The Syrian convoy continued into the distance, the red points of the taillights finally lost in the night.
A scene of recent combat appeared. None of the Shia drivers even slowed. Ahead, Lyons saw Powell swivel the MK-19 grenade launcher to cover the village and burning vehicles. But no firing came from the defeated.
Soviet armored personnel carriers had assaulted a cluster of houses. Only broken stone and the stink of smoldering fires remained of the village. The gutted hulks of three APCs indicated the victors had suffered heavy casualties in the attack. A light frosting of snow covered the wild circles and zigzagging ruts left by the maneuvering vehicles. The snow also covered the anonymous dead sprawled where they fell. Nothing moved now.
A few kilometers farther, the Rover slowed. Lyons reached for his hand-radio and Powell explained, "No problem, tourists. Just a detour. The Syrians are putting out a call for their forces to assemble. According to our maps, the coordinates are a major highway intersection up ahead. So we're taking a side road. It'll cost only a few minutes."
"How's the war going?" Lyons asked.
"Which one? Syria versus Syria? Syria versus the Brotherhood? Or Syria versus the Iranians and Libyans?"
"The Iranians and Libyans are in it now?"
"Doesn't affect us. The Iranians and Libyans are up by Baalbek. A radio station came on and announced a rising of the Islamic masses. Announced the creation of an Islamic republic in alliance with Khaddafi and the Ayatollah. And the Syrians seem to be stomping the shit out of them. There's artillery officers up there calling down fire-for-effect you cannot believe. I don't think Baalbek will be there tomorrow."
Lyons laughed. "Why should I care what's there? What about in the area of the village?"
"Continuing artillery exchanges. And on the highway to Damascus, Syrian units loyal to the president report conflict with both rebel units and the Brotherhood. In short, free-fire politics all the way to Damascus."
At a side road, the Rover and trucks left the highway and drove south. They maintained a steady, safe speed. Undisturbed snow on the asphalt indicated no other vehicles had used the road in the previous hour or more.
Dark, lifeless farms and fields lay on both sides of the road. But no one had fought there. They drove on through the deserted but peaceful area. Lyons watched the quiet houses, his hands holding the blanket, not the grips of the Browning .50-caliber. The Shia militiamen kept watch also, but they kept their hands on their machine guns.
The peace ended with a roar like a thousand freight trains screaming through the night. Lyons grabbed the Browning. But the Able Team convoy was not the target.
Above, rockets arched through the clouds, then streaked down somewhere to the north. The overhanging storm clouds reflected flashes, the black clouds suddenly a somber red. A rolling, resounding thunder came.
"Katyushas," one of the Shias told Lyons. Then his hand-radio buzzed.
"You cowboys ever seen a rocket barrage before?" Powell asked. "That's what's happening. Guess the opposition monitors the Syrian radios, too."
Gadgets spoke next. "So glad you made that detour."
"And we're going to make another one," Powell emphasized. "Put some distance between us and them."
Another wave of rockets screamed through the night. Seconds later came the sheet thunder of the explosions.
Approaching another intersection, the Rover turned south. Headlights appeared. Lyons saw Powell salute. A clanking line of Soviet BMT armored personnel carriers escorted by T-62 tanks passed. Playing the role of a Soviet, Lyons also saluted the passing armored column. A blond tank commander, standing in the turret hatch, returned Lyons's salute.
The Rover continued south. They passed farms and walled orchards. Looking back, Lyons saw a horizon of orange flame. A mass of black smoke rose into the clouds. Exploding munitions shot the smoke with dashes of color.
Destruction far away had a strange beauty...
Then the war came to them, the MK-19 of the Rover firing, high-explosive grenades popping, white phosphorous splashing chemical fire at three running figures. In the instant the three died, Lyons saw mismatched fatigues and street clothes. The figures carried Kalashnikov rifles and an RPG launcher. Shrapnel tore their bodies, throwing them back. The searing white points of phosphorous illuminated the rocky ditch where they fell.
Rifles flashed from an orchard wall. As the transport accelerated, Lyons swung the Browning around and hammered the wall, not sighting on the muzzle-flashes, but at the midpoint of the wall. Stone and packed earth flew as the steel-cored slugs broke the wall apart to kill the riflemen crouched behind it.
A rocket launcher sprayed backblast. Lyons saw the RPG warhead end-on as the secondary propellent flashed. But the rocket had been fired too high. The warhead screamed past Lyons as he sighted the Browning and answered the rocketman with armor-piercing slugs.
But another rocketman sighted on the huge target of the truck and semitrailer. At a range of less than a hundred meters, he could not miss.
Lyons looked back as the rocket streaked into the trailer.
12
The blast slammed Gadgets back into the sandbag wall. As the explosion rang in his ears, he felt the trailer lurch, and the floor fall out from under him.
Metal scratched against asphalt, a woman screamed, things crashed in the darkness, the trailer fell sideways on the road. As the trailer's aluminum side scraped against the road's asphalt, Gadgets felt himself falling through space, then hit the sandbags again with a thud. A scraping noise seemed an overwhelming assault on his ears.
Then it stopped.
In the silence, Gadgets heard his heart hammering; the hammering became the sound of auto weapons. Slugs hit the trailer. He found the disposable penlight in his pocket.
Be
prepared, he thought as he shone the light over the now upended mobile bunker.
"Wizard! We're hit! Help me with Desmarais!"
"No shit? We're hit? Think maybe we ought to get a second opinion? Wow, looks like we're hit..."
Ammunition cases lay against the wall. The heavy Browning machine gun and MK-19 now stood horizontal on their pedestals.
All the stacked weapons and equipment had shifted to the one wall that had become the floor. In the clutter, Blancanales struggled to disentangle himself from Desmarais.
Gadgets saw the trapdoor to the bunker far above his head. Before, they had entered by stepping under the trailer then climbing up through the floor. Now they had a problem.
Another flashlight came on. By the glow of Blancanales's flashlight, Gadgets freed a shipping trunk. He made steps by stacking the trunk and ammunition boxes under the trapdoor.
Swinging open the trapdoor, he saw falling snow and darkness. A hundred meters away, autoweapons flashed. The diesel cab lay on its side at the roadside. From behind the shelter of the cab, the Shia drivers returned the fire of ambushers.
A rocket streaked from the darkness. The Shias went flat, and the rocket missed the overturned truck by a hand's width.
"Oh, man. This is serious! Pol! You ready to get out of here?"
Pulling out his belt knife, Blancanales cut the plastic handcuffs linking Desmarais's hands together. He pushed her toward the pile of cases. "Up and out, miss."
Desmarais crawled through and fell with a scream. Autofire hit the trailer. Gadgets ducked.
"They got that exit zeroed!"
"Where's your rifle?" Blancanales searched through the tangled gear to assemble his own equipment.
"Forget the popguns! We got artillery..."
Releasing the clamping lever locking the MK-19 to the pedestal, Gadgets jerked the full-auto grenade launcher free. Groaning with the weight, he had to lower it. He disconnected the box of 40mm grenades. With the linked belt of grenades swinging loose, he picked up the launcher and passed it to Blancanales. Blancanales managed to shove the grenade launcher over the edge of the trapdoor and hook it in place with the swivel-tilt assembly. Gadgets untangled the belt of grenades.
