Rain of Doom at-16

by Dick Stivers

  * * *

  Long lines of military and civilian vehicles followed the curves of the highway through the mountains. Land Rovers, Japanese scout cars and Mercedes sedans risked head-on oblivion to pass the slow trucks and troop transports.

  The Syrian army and air force had exterminated the last strongholds of the rebellion in the Shael mountains. With the end of the artillery and rocket barrages, the soldiers manning the checkpoints had finally released the hundreds of vehicles stalled by the war.

  The document checks had not found the Americans. Via radio, Zhgenti had checked with the Syrian central command in the Bekaa. None of the officers at the major checkpoints reported the group of Americans. The Americans and their Shia militia allies had not stopped at a checkpoint or encountered a Syrian patrol. If Desmarais had told the truth, they remained somewhere in the Bekaa Valley, concealed by the storm and the chaos of the war.

  Now Zhgenti raced east to Damascus. His unit, reinforced by Syrian soldiers and men from the Syrian intelligence service when political and military conditions allowed their reassignment, would take positions around the Iranian embassy, and there wait for the Americans to appear.

  Despite his doubts, Zhgenti had finally agreed with Desmarais. The situation left him no choice. The Americans had outmaneuvered all the forces at his disposal — Soviet, Palestinian and Lebanese. Somewhere in the Bekaa, the Americans and their Shia allies attacked an Iranian target. Logically, after the strike, they would retreat to the west, where the coast allowed for transportation to Cyprus and their return to the United States.

  But logic did not guide the Americans, not the usual logic of military planners. The American terror team slipped past expected targets, where prepared defenses awaited, to hit where no one had expected. Where concentric lines of defense ensured complete security from attack, they seemed to rise from the earth to kill and destroy.

  This had been their technique throughout the two years of operations. Zhgenti knew their record of successes. When the Egyptian wing of the fanatical Muslim Brotherhood, Soviet financed and armed, struck at a secret U.S. Air Force installation in Cairo, the American team had slashed through the cells of Islamic terror gangs. But they, did not pursue the scattered individuals. Instead, they raced far into the Egyptian desert to martyr an entire garrison of Islamic warriors. In another campaign, they had parachuted into the mountains of Nicaragua and devastated a terror training camp. Then, only a day or two later, they had reappeared in Los Angeles to exterminate a terror unit preparing a binary nerve gas attack on the city.

  With those Americans, Zhgenti could only expect the unexpected. Therefore, he had accepted the suggestion from Desmarais that he anticipate the illogical and establish a watch at the Iranian embassy.

  Actually, when Zhgenti considered it, a certain logic suggested that the Americans would attack the embassy. They had tracked Iranians from Beirut to Mexico, then exterminated them. Now they attacked an Iranian base in the Bekaa.

  So why not attack the Iranian embassy, the source of funding and guidance for the fanatics?

  When the Americans came, Zhgenti would be there, waiting.

  * * *

  As his limousine ascended the ramp to street level, Colonel Dastgerdi saw the man known to his associates in UNESCO as Jean Pierre Giraud stride from the darkness. Dastgerdi pushed the button of his intercom. "Driver, stop! That man comes with me."

  "Yes, Colonel."

  Throwing open the door, Dastgerdi greeted the man in French. But when the elegantly dressed United Nations functionary joined him in the Mercedes, Dastgerdi abandoned French and spoke in their native language, Russian.

  "This is our night of victory, Comrade Suvorov," Dastgerdi announced, using the man's true name. "Another victory for the Special Forces of the Red Army!"

  Suvorov feigned ignorance of Russian. He glanced to the bulletproof glass dividing their seats from the driver and continued in French. Dastgerdi laughed at his associate's concern.

  "He cannot hear. The glass stops bullets and words. I am absolutely positive. Speak — it is a time for celebration." The Colonel opened the built-in bar, removed a bottle of vodka and filled two glasses. "After years, we can speak. We have overcome the technological limitations of our nation's weapons, overcome the ignorance of the Syrians and the stupidity of the Iranians. The American President will receive the reward of our struggles. To the inauguration!"

  They gulped down the Russian alcohol. The limousine passed through the concentric rings of fencing protecting the rocket-development base. Dastgerdi looked out at the landscape of rock and snow. He laughed. "Never again will I see this miserable place. Now I can become an officer again! Forget your French, Suvorov! Speak our language."

  "Is difficult to abandon caution," Suvorov admitted. "Speaking French and English, but never our tongue. Never allowing ourselves even to dream in our language, but... but for victory, it is nothing."

  As the Mercedes powered through the snow and ruts of the road to the highway, Dastgerdi poured two more shots of vodka. "To the defeat of the old men — in Moscow and Washington. After the war, the Soviet army will rule all the world."

  The other Soviet laughed. "But Syria and Iran and Iraq are not the world. We will gain the oil fields and the ports, three more socialist republics."

  "And it will be a victory for the army. Not the old men, not the KGB, not the diplomats. We will gain power over the Central Committee and then nothing can stop us. Nothing!"

  "I do not believe we will push that far. The oil fields and the ports of the Gulf and Mediterranean, that is enough..."

  "No! The world! Nothing less than the world!" Dastgerdi splashed another shot into his glass. "Victory for the Red Army! Victory for the special forces of the Soviet army intelligence service!"

  As they neared the highway, the driver spoke through the intercom. "Colonel Dastgerdi, a checkpoint. A group of our soldiers is blocking the road."

  "Drive past them!" Dastgerdi told him. "They have no authority to stop me."

  "Colonel, they have heavy weapons."

  The two Soviets looked out to see a heavy troop transport. Soldiers aimed a tripod-mounted 12.7mm machine gun at the Mercedes. Another soldier stood with a ready RPG launcher and rocket.

  "I advise we stop," the driver concluded.

  "Present our documents!" Dastgerdi ordered. "But I will not tolerate a delay."

  Slowing to a stop, the driver rolled down his window. A Syrian soldier demanded their papers. Another tapped at the back window. The driver spoke through the intercom.

  "They demand to search the car, Colonel."

  "No! I will not allow it!" Throwing open the door, Dastgerdi attempted to step out. The muzzles of Kalashnikov rifles stopped him. Soldiers looked into the back.

  "Your papers!" one of the Syrians ordered.

  "Where is your officer?" Dastgerdi shouted.

  "My officer is dead, killed by traitors in the uniforms of officers. Perhaps you are another traitor. Show us your papers. If you fight, we execute you."

  With a rifle at his head, the driver walked to the trunk and unlocked it. Then the soldier pushed him back into the front seat.

  Colonel Dastgerdi waited in the Mercedes limousine, raging at the stupidity of common soldiers.

  17

  Standing behind the truck, his pockets full of tools, Gadgets watched the driver open the trunk of the limousine. A Shia in a Syrian army uniform escorted the driver back to the front of the Mercedes. When the driver's door closed, Gadgets crossed the road to the open trunk.

  The raised trunk lid blocked the view of the two men in the back seat. The trunk light illuminating his search, Gadgets opened the top suitcase. Clothes. Slipping his hands into the folded shirts and pants, he found nothing unusual. He put the suitcase aside and opened another.

  Ten black plastic units, each the size of an AM transistor radio, lay cushioned on precut blocks of foam. He had no time to study or test them. He knew the purpose and the function of the un
its. Now he had to modify one.

  Using the point of a watchmaker's screwdriver, he snapped open one of the black plastic cases. He saw circuit boards, components, hundreds of expertly soldered connections. Studying the components, he thumbed the power switch. A tiny red diode light on the side of the case glowed. The homing-impulse transmitter gave no other indication of operation.

  Gadgets poked the screwdriver into the fine wires and separated the two leads to the switch. With micro-cutters, he snipped the wires from the switch, stripped off a few millimeters of insulation, then twisted the wires together. With a bit of black electrical tape he had stuck to his left thumbnail, he covered the twist in the wires.

  Next, he found the two tiny wires leading to the red diode. He snipped the wires to kill the light. A second bit of tape secured the cut wires to the plastic case.

  Closing the plastic case, Gadgets glanced to the nearest Shia, who maintained his impassive expression as his eyes flicked to Gadgets. Gadgets took a few more seconds and slipped a minimicrophone-transmitter into the suitcase of directional transmitters, jamming it deep between the foam padding and the suitcase shell.

  He closed the case of electronics, returned it exactly where he found it, then replaced the suitcase on top. Signaling the Shia, Gadgets walked away without looking back. The Shia slammed the trunk lid closed.

  Spinning its tires on the ice, exhaust clouding in the darkness, the limousine continued away. The taillights swayed as the vehicle bumped over the road, then the red points went over a rise and disappeared.

  "All right!" Gadgets jumped into the air and slapped his hands together. "Did it, dudes! I did it. Fifteen thousand points on the pinball machine of foreign policy for the unknown Mr. Wizard!"

  "Convoy coming!" Powell shouted. "Troop truck first in the line."

  "Wizard!" Lyons ran to Gadgets. "Quit the cheerleader routine. We got the guns in this truck. Come on." Lyons climbed into the back of the troop transport. He reached down to help his partner up. "What did you see in there?"

  "I deserve some cheers! You don't know what I just-did, you don't know the perfect justice of it. Remember what I said in Nicaragua about keeping your technology straight? Well, that Dasto just got his twisted."

  Lyons slapped his gloved hands together in perfunctory applause as he took his place behind the Browning. "I know what you did. Now tell me what you saw."

  "I saw the best electronics and ni-cad batteries that money can buy, that's what."

  Gadgets sat down behind the MK-19 full-auto 40mm machine gun. The headlights of the approaching convoy lit the flakes of falling snow. Though they had their backs to the convoy, both Americans raised their collars to cover their faces.

  "And everything I saw," Gadgets continued, "was stamped, Made in the US A."

  "What?"

  "No shit." Gadgets told him, putting valved hearing protectors into his ears. "Everything I saw I've got in my catalogs at home. I didn't see anything ComBloc, nothing that I didn't know about. So we know where the Syrian got his electronics — the US of A."

  Squeaking and rattling announced the arrival of the Syrian troop transport. Behind the transport, a line of diesel trucks and trailers slowed. Each of the four trucks pulled two flatbed trailers carrying the shipping containers. There were a total of eight containers. Engines revved as the trucks slowed.

  Behind the Browning, Lyons squatted and peered through the slats at the Syrians. He pressed the transmit of his hand-radio. "Pol, you ready?"

  "Loaded and locked," Blancanales answered.

  "Ready here." Lyons pocketed his radio.

  In the road, the Shias checked the transit documents presented by the Syrian officer in command of the platoon.

  Behind the transport, in the clouds of diesel smoke and the glare of the headlights, other Shias moved in step with the plan. They went to the truck and trailer rigs and stepped up on the sides of the cabs. When the drivers opened the doors for the search, the Shias waved flashlights inside. Then the flashlights went out. Lyons did not see the Shias step down from the cabs. The doors closed.

  A Shia ran to the Syrian transport. He saluted his Soviet advisor and the Soviet — Powell — waved the Syrians on. The driver revved the engine and engaged the gears.

  Lyons stood up behind the Browning. Gadgets straightened a link in the belt of 40mm grenades. The Syrian troop transport bumped past the checkpoint and continued to the rise.

  The line of trucks and trailers did not move.

  A hundred meters past the checkpoint, the troop transport stopped. Powell shouted to the three men of Able Team, "Hit them!"

  Heavy weapon reports shattered the night. Lyons held down the firing button of the Browning, firing full-auto .50-caliber into the soldiers crowded into the back of the trailer. The first high-explosive-and-white-phosphorous 40mm grenades hit an instant later. Blancanales scored several perfect shots into the back of the transport. Gadgets's first three grenades hit under the transport.

  The Syrian soldiers died instantly, .50-caliber slugs passing through them without slowing, continuing through the sheet metal of the cab to kill the driver and officer. Exploding grenades slashed the dead and dying with thousands of steel-wire razors, the chemical fire of the white phosphorous igniting their flesh and uniforms, their munitions, the diesel fuel of the truck.

  "Stop! Stop!" Powell shouted. The heavy weapons went silent. Unslinging a Kalashnikov, Powell ran to the burning truck. He circled the wreck, crouching as ammunition popped. One scream came from the cab. Powell sighted into the flames and triggered a quick burst. Then he ran back to the Americans and Shias.

  "That's it, gentlemen," Powell yelled. "The rockets are now ours!"

  Gadgets jumped from behind the grenade launcher, ran back to the trailers. Lyons and Powell followed. Shias opened the doors of the four trucks and threw out the bodies of the Syrian drivers.

  Climbing up on a container in one of the trailers, Gadgets checked the bolts along the roof. Then he worked his way to the front of the container. He saw Lyons and Powell standing below him.

  "Whoever designed all this had his act together. Supersimple. Unscrew the wing nuts on those bolts, then unlatch this thing here and the roof comes off. If you're going, say, sixty miles an hour, you can just eject the roof. They must've spent years working out all the technical details on this hit."

  "You checking the rockets?" Lyons shouted over the noise of the idling diesel engines.

  "I'll check the rockets, you get this convoy ready to move. Faster we move, more chance we'll make our score."

  "What about the base?" Powell asked. "Thought you came here to hit it."

  Lyons laughed. "After this, the Syrians... they'll bomb it. They'll bring bulldozers and bury it. Anything to cover up the evidence."

  * * *

  In a Zil limousine borrowed from the Soviet embassy, Zhgenti and Desmarais watched the Iranian embassy, one short block away. Other vehicles — military trucks, unmarked civilian cars, panel trucks — served as observation posts for his men on other streets. And behind the walls of a vacant mansion in this quarter of French colonial-period estates, two platoons of Syrian commandos waited in reserve.

  The military vehicles would not appear suspicious. On this night of rebellion and chaotic warfare, Syrian security units had taken positions everywhere in the city. No common people braved the streets. Soldiers maintained martial peace in the Syrian capital.

  "If the Americans come," Zhgentisaid, "they die."

  "Whenthey come!" Desmarais countered. "Not if. I am sure."

  "You are so familiar with them that you can foretell their moves?"

  "They are ruthless killers, death-squad goons. They have no restraints. Their government does not control them. They do as they will. If they came to kill Iranians, they will come to the embassy. They care nothing for international law or the rights of diplomats, they will..."

  "The Iranians?" Zhgenti asked, confused by her impassioned diatribe.

  "No! The f
ascists! The Americans! But their own lust for murder will betray them, lead them into the trap we've set."

  "If they come..." Zhgenti commented. "And do you still have your camera? You can record our victory for the newspapers of the world."

  "Yes, here. I hope it still works." She slipped the expensive camera from her shoulder, removed the lens cap, looked through the viewfinder, tested the batteries, turned the focus and f-stop rings. "Somehow, after everything I've gone through tonight, it still operates. But if they come before dawn, it will be useless."

  Zhgenti smiled. "For you, just for you, my little Canadian..."

  "Quebecois!" Desmarais corrected.

  "Oh, yes! As a gesture of socialist comradeship, I will order the Syrians to fire white flares. To light the night for the record of history. The photos will be important for the newspapers. And as Lenin said, 'The press is the greatest weapon of socialism.' Good, yes? He understood the value of stories and photos. But I think we will have long to wait."

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the lights of the Iranian embassy. In response to the political and religious crisis in Syria, the Iranians had assembled all their staff, all the consuls and attaches, on the grounds of the embassy. The Syrian intelligence service had told Zhgenti that the Iranians denied any part in the fundamentalist assault on the Assad regime. But in response to Syrian surveillance, the Iranians put out a call for all the Iranian diplomatic corps to gather within their embassy.

  As Zhgenti and Desmarais watched, vehicles arrived. But none left.

  Bored and tired, knowing his men and the Syrian agents also waited for the Americans, Zhgenti relaxed. He watched the Canadian woman watching for the men she hoped to see die.

  A very pretty woman. Also a traitor to her country and an enemy to all North Americans. When the Soviet Union took the Americas, she would be among the first to die. International socialism needed no whores like her, selling out her country for expense accounts and free airline tickets.