“Pam and Alex, once we’ve cleared the barricade, we need you and Mike to fire out the back keeping the defenders pinned down as long as possible. Hopefully, our momentum will carry us past the ambush and we’ll still have enough juice to be able to make the border,” Ron directed.
No one replied. Everyone prepared for what they hoped would be the final gauntlet to run. As Ron had anticipated, the Brigade was waiting for them. They had placed five burned out cars across the roadway with dozens of men lined up behind them and off to the sides of the road. Several dozen more were taking shelter at the crest of the low hills surrounding this point in the road. As soon as the SUV began pulling out of the curve, the Brigade members opened fire. The RPG gunners waited for the big SUV to get closer, though.
“I guess we’re about to find out if the beast is as tough as a tank,” Tom shouted over the din.
“I’m praying to God the engineers were right in their calculations,” Ron shared.
“We better all pray,” Pam hollered.
Lead rained down on the SUV along with the first salvo of RPGs. The noise was deafening, but the gunners’ aim was off. The team’s professionally directed fire was thinning the opponent’s troops but not quickly enough, forcing the team to slide as low as possible behind the armored door panels. Thankfully, the barricade defenders were using the ‘spray and pray’ method of firing on the team. They were simply spraying the bullets in the direction of the SUV and praying they hit something.
Tom pumped the gas twice and jammed the accelerator down trying to build up more speed before ramming the barricade. Another five kilometers an hour would be extremely helpful.
“Sorry I’m late,” Nate the chopper pilot called over the comlink. I’ll poke another hole in the center of the barricade.”
“Good to see you’re still with us,” Tom responded.
“You bet ya! Have I ever let you down?” Nate teased as he flew past. Then just moments before the SUV reached the optimum range of the RPG gunners, the chopper let loose with his last two rockets. They plowed into the road a few meters short of the barricade, throwing concrete and asphalt shrapnel into it. He managed to kill several defenders, but the impact only moved the burnt-out car shells a few feet apart. Nate had made a targeting error, and he hadn’t verified the range in his hurry to provide a clear path for the SUV. The gap between the two craters appeared to be just wide enough for the SUV to pass between them. Tom pressed on, though he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to. Ron had leaned over and was pressing Tom’s foot down on the accelerator with his hand.
In unison, the team ducked below the armor plating. Pam made sure Ashrawl was down on the floor. It would be a shame to have gotten the prize this far, only to have it ruined. Tom took final aim at the gap between the craters and the car shells and then ducked down himself.
The interior above the armor plated doors was filled with what sounded like a thousand angry bees. Most of the shells passed right through the open windows, but a couple bounced about the interior doing damage as they went. Pam shrieked as she was struck in the shoulder by a ricochet. Tom let out a loud groan as he also was hit in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his MP10. A moment later, Tom was grazed by a second round; it shaved a thin trail across the back of his head.
Despite the chaos of the situation, Tom managed to punch the buttons for the Gatling as the SUV closed on the barricade. It did a remarkable job shredding what was left of the two car bodies in the center of the group and driving back any Brigade members who thought about standing their ground. Those who didn’t flee, died.
After what seemed like an eternity, the SUV crashed into and through the car bodies, sending them spinning sideways into the fleeing Brigade members. Several small explosions occurred as the SUV sliced through the trip wires weaved throughout the barricade.
Although the SUV bounced like a wild stallion, it kept going forward. The SUV’s entire undercarriage was built of armor plating with Kevlar screening under it. Although the frame was twisted slightly and the floor was permanently pockmarked and dented by the Brigade’s IEDs, the team remained alive.
After crashing through the barricade, the SUV slowly accelerated away as the Brigade members on the hills continued firing, unabated. Several RPGs thankfully missed their mark as the distance between them and their attackers grew.
The chopper pilot made one last pass strafing the hillsides before swinging away from the scene and flying off to the northwest at barely a hundred feet off the ground.
“Sorry, Archangel. I’m out of ammo and I’ve got to go. Good luck and godspeed.”
“Roger that,” Ron replied and then turned to Tom. “There’s not much further to go. Hold it together, and keep that foot on the gas.”
After a couple hundred meters, the Brigade stopped firing, and the SUV limped the last five hundred meters up to the border crossing with Israel.
Alex and Pam quickly pulled Ashrawl off the floor and removed the sack from his head. Ashrawl’s face was bruised and had several small cuts that were bleeding. Alex cut the flexi-cuffs off Ashrawl’s arms, while Pam leaned over and cut the ankle cuffs off. They then let Ashrawl slump back in the seat, looking, for all intents, to be dead. Only the occasional moan told them he was alive. Pam took the sack and placed it over Ashrawl’s bleeding shoulder, trying to hide it. She shouldn’t have bothered. So much blood had already run down his arm that it was dripping off his fingers in plain sight. They then gathered everyone’s weapons and chucked them on the floor under their feet.
Black smoke continued to pour out from under the SUV’s engine compartment. The right rear tire was on fire. A small yet bright red flame danced and flickered as the wheel spun around and around. It had been set on fire by the last rocket propelled grenade that had hit right next to the SUV.
The Israeli border guards, having heard and seen the action in the distance, took up defensive positions and immediately surrounded the vehicle when it arrived at the border crossing. They stared wide eyed at the bedraggled group and their rolling scrap heap, which was shaking violently and rattling loudly as it came to a stop at the border gate.
“Smile everyone,” Ron stated as they rolled to a stop at the gate. Everyone but Ashrawl did their best to smile at the guards, though all of them appeared to be grimacing more than smiling.
Tom sat perfectly still wondering what would happen next. Would they be allowed to enter Israel? Would they be arrested?
Ron slid from the front seat, carrying a small fire extinguisher that had been stashed there. He walked slowly, along the side of the SUV toward the rear tire that was on fire, leaning heavily on the SUV for support. Upon reaching the burning tire, he discharged the extinguisher putting the fire out. He then turned to the guards and began talking as fast as he could.
“Hello, boys. I’m Ron. I’m with Kilauea Corp. We were in Jordan giving a demonstration of our latest products over the last few days, and I don’t really know what to tell you,” Ron grinned widely and shrugged his shoulders, which clearly required a great deal of effort. “On the way back through the West Bank, we were attacked by… well, I don’t really know who they were, but as you can see they weren’t very friendly. You know, we refused to supply al-Aqsa and Hamas with our encryption program a while back and they got really pissed. We get death threats from them every day and twice on Sundays.” Ron reached up and gently touched his head and added, “I guess we should have flown, huh?” He concluded by flashing the guards a dumb grin which caused them to chuckle, although their guns never left the group. After struggling back to the front of the SUV, Ron leaned over the hood and sprayed the last of extinguisher foam at the fire. It was a very short burst and did little to put out the small fire there. This caused the guards to chuckle once more.
“Papers!” a huge man wearing a captain’s uniform bellowed as he exited the guard shack. The captain stood more than a foot taller than Ron, and he stood staring menacingly at him. Ron just stood there grinning back at him, looking
like an idiot in his field dressing turban. Ron tossed the extinguisher on the front seat and opened the glove box, pulling the papers out and handing them to the man without another word.
“Wait here,” the captain ordered. He then turned and walked back to the guard shack. “Put that fire out,” he shouted over his shoulder as he went and two of the guards quickly ran to the guard shack, grabbed a big extinguisher and then extinguished the fire under the hood. Several minutes passed before the captain returned and looked sternly at the team, now slouched down in their seats. Most of the team appeared to be barely conscious.
“Do you require any assistance?” he asked Ron.
“No, thank you. We have some help waiting for us just on the other side,” Ron replied as he continued to lean heavily on the bent and twisted front fender.
The captain walked slowly around the vehicle inspecting the damage, while the guards relaxed a bit and began talking among themselves. Every so often there would be a stifled chuckle between them. Finally, the captain shook his head, after once more looking over the bedraggled passengers and their scrap heap.
“Let them pass!” the captain yelled as he returned the papers to Ron. “I’d suggest that you fly next time,” he said, then he winked at Ron before walking off to the guard shack. Ron slipped back into the SUV as the large steel gate slid to the side, and the SUV limped into Israel. Less than a kilometer down the road were three unmarked vans on the side of the road with their flashers on.
“They’re for us,” Ron stated flatly. “Pull over.”
Tom pulled over behind the vans. Several men and women jumped out and immediately began moving the team to the waiting vehicles. The vans were equipped with the latest in mobile emergency medical equipment and staffed with top notch EMTs, experienced in extreme trauma. Without delay they went to work treating the team’s wounds. In less than two minutes, after loading everyone up, the vans pulled away and were lost in the night.
Five minutes later, a tow truck arrived at the scene and removed the virtually destroyed SUV to an undisclosed location, where it would be stripped and sold for scrap within a day. The team was taken to a private hospital run by one of Kilauea Corporation’s subsidiaries located on the Mediterranean Sea in Haifa. After a week in Haifa, Ron checked himself out without saying goodbye, leaving the team to recuperate without him.
Despite having a major concussion and a serious shoulder wound, David Ashrawl didn’t get to take a rest at the facility in Haifa. Instead, he was spirited away to a small island off the west coast of Panama. There, an old friend of the boss’s took his time asking Ashrawl about his friends. The team at Kilauea could have handled the interrogation, but the boss wanted it done fast and professionally, leaving Ashrawl with the lasting impression that the Iranians had been the ones to kidnap him, not Americans.
By the time the interrogation was over, Ashrawl’s spirit was completely broken. He had shared everything he knew about the people he worked with and for. The only human contact Ashrawl had during this time spoke with a heavy Iranian accent leaving him with the misconception that he had been kidnapped by the Iranians. When finished with him, the boss had him removed to Baghdad where the CIA received an anonymous tip providing them with his location. When taken into custody, he agreed to tell them whatever they wanted to know as long as they didn’t release him anywhere near the Middle East. He begged for witness protection or at the very least, isolation in a prison in America. He got his wish. He would be in prison for twenty-five years to life—the majority of it in solitary confinement—but first he would tell them everything he knew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
During the short time Ron spent recovering in Haifa, he wondered how the Brigade had known they were coming. He kept coming back to one conclusion: someone had tipped off the Brigade to their plans. The problem was that anyone who knew their plans was either one of their superiors, part of the team or a highly placed Israeli. Any of those people sharing information with the enemy didn’t make any sense. They all had too much to lose—except for one.
Everyone who was part of the Kilauea team he knew was above reproach. That left the Israelis as the source of the leak. That didn’t really make any sense because an Israeli wouldn’t cut his own throat by spying for the enemy. Then he remembered Emil Bergerstein. He wasn’t born an Israeli—he was a Russian. It was his job to record every conversation anyone had with prisoner 64. He made tapes and passed them on to Mossad. How hard would it be to make a second tape?
According to the official records, the intelligence gisters at Mossad hadn’t reviewed the tape of his interview with prisoner 64 until two days after the team had grabbed Ashrawl. He was able to confirm that because he had total access to Israeli records through the Kilauea computers. They could have faked the entries to throw off whoever might be able to hack in, but they had Kilauea’s Mauna Loa system, and being hacked would probably not have crossed their minds. The system was as close to perfect as you could get. There was no reason to hide what no one without the right access codes would ever see.
The longer he pondered the situation, the more convinced he became that there was only one possible conclusion. Emil had made two copies of the tape. He sent one to Mossad and one to…who? Armed with that knowledge, Ron knew he had to do next.
Ron left Haifa the next day against doctor’s orders and got right down to business. He checked work schedules for the prison and prepared his interrogation site. Then he waited for two days for the start of the warden’s next scheduled forty-eight hour leave.
Ron drove to the edge of a small ridge, where he waited in the shadow of a large rock outcropping a quarter kilometer past the road that led to the Moshe Dayan Detention Facility. If Emil’s work schedule hadn’t changed, he would soon be on his way home. Normally, he spent his time off hanging around the house with his wife before returning to work for another forty-eight hour shift. Today, he wasn’t going to make it that far.
An hour later, Emil’s Volvo pulled up to the intersection with the main road and turned right toward Beer Sheva. Ron waited until he was just about out of sight, then followed. He hung back until other traffic started crowding in around them giving him the chance to move up, safe from discovery in the traffic, until he was only a few car lengths behind Emil.
Emil stopped at a small market not far from his home where he picked up a few grocery items. Emil was almost back to his car with his groceries when a familiar voice spoke up behind him.
“Emil, fancy running into you here. Do you shop here often?” Ron asked as he grabbed Emil’s service weapon and then stepped between him and his car, keeping his backpack between them. The look on Emil’s face told Ron that he had been right. Emil was extremely surprised to see him and his demeanor was that of a caged rat, his eyes darting every which way as if searching for an escape route.
“I… ah… Ron, my friend. I, ah…” Emil stumbled over the words as his eyes continued to dart about looking for something. Mossad agents, maybe?
“Shut up, asshole. Give me your car keys. I’ll drive,” Ron snarled as he grabbed the keys from Emil’s hand. “Get in the passenger seat,” Ron commanded, flashing his gun for emphasis which had been hidden by the backpack.
Emil sat down hard in the passenger seat, still holding the bag of groceries. His eyes continued to search the parking lot but nothing seemed to present itself. Ron continued to keep his gun trained on Emil while he slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car. Ron quickly pulled out of the parking lot at a leisurely pace, taking his time as he drove away from the market and headed back in the direction of the prison.
“What’s this all about, my friend? Why the practical joke?” Emil asked casually, trying to gain some control over the situation though his eyes were wild with fear.
“It’s no joke, my friend,” Ron snapped. “As for ‘what’s it all about’? I suspect you’ll tell me. What’s in the bag?” Ron inquired.
“Just a few things for dinner, some lamb chops and
a bottle of wine. It’s Israel, of course,” Emil replied.
“Really? Israeli wine? I would have thought you’d have preferred a West Bank vintage.”
“Oh, no, they are much too dry, and the bouquet is not as fragrant,” Emil pretended Ron was making conversation and not being flippant.
“I’m not much of a wine drinker. I prefer a nice cold beer and shot of Jack Daniels now and then,” Ron continued the small talk.
“Where are we going?” Emil asked. “I really need to get these groceries home to my wife.”
“Someplace where we can talk and no one will bother us,” Ron answered. Emil then shifted in his seat, and Ron shoved the gun towards him and spat, “Move again, my friend, and you’ll need a new kidney.”
Emil slumped back into his seat once again. “I hope we are not going too far. The lamb chops shouldn’t be allowed to go unrefrigerated for too long.”
“That is the least of your worries,” Ron stated coldly. They drove for over an hour, taking one back road after another, until they were on what could only be considered a goat track taking them deep into the Sinai Desert. After half an hour, Ron stopped the car and ordered Emil out.
“You are kidding, right, my old friend? It must be over fifty degrees out there, and I’m an old man,” Emil protested.
“What? Is that Celsius crap? Speak Fahrenheit,” Ron snarled and then shot Emil in his left arm—grazed it, really—and repeated the order to get out. Emil struggled to exit the car while Ron walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle. Seeing that Emil was struggling get out of the car due to the bag of groceries and his wounded left arm, Ron reached out, grabbed Emil by his good right arm, and yanked him out of the car. Emil was dumped face first into the hot desert sand, spilling his bag of groceries in the process. Ron quickly stepped up and patted down Emil’s ankles checking for a backup weapon but found none.
Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Page 19
