His head sank back and Harper replied quietly, “I promised.”
No one could see the tears, but Harper knew someday that he’d be back. There was a score to settle.Vengeance is mine saith the Lord . Harper chose to ignore those wise words. Harper chose to go his own way. Now on the verge of settling part of the score, things began to unravel. Of course they unraveled on both sides of the equation; Duri’s trap sprung Harper’s surprise.
A tongue of flame licked up and away from one of the side vents. A plume of black smoke replaced the orange flame hanging like the angel of death whispering in the still desert air. Awhump traveled across the desert floor to be swallowed up in its vastness.
Jim was vaguely aware of the blast, however Anderson clicked on the FM radio link they all wore. “Major, I think we’ve got problems.”
Jim stirred from the painful ashes memories can bring. He snapped the Bible closed and replied, “What’s up?”
He took one last glance at Lynn and the girls. Quietly, he slipped the photo into his breast pocket beneath his flack vest. Closing his eyes, he heard the answer.
“One of your surprise packages just went off. If there was an alarm rigged, I’m sure we just told everyone we’re here.”
Harper nodded. He pulled the Glock 21 and racked the slide. A 230 grain Speer Gold Dot rode into the barrel’s throat. He dropped the dull black automatic back into his holster, not bothering to pull the Velcro strap over the back of the gun.
He walked over and kicked the feet of Stillwell, Hayes, and Burns. He pulled the Browning Hi Power from the small of his back holster and racked the slide, sending a 115 Winchester Silvertip from magazine to barrel.
“Show time, gentlemen,” he said without much fanfare.
Hayes and Burns were up immediately, checking their weapons. Stillwell yawned trying to figure out what Harper had just said. The burning yellow ball above certainly did not look like the cover of darkness.
Harper reached over and grabbed his Mossberg. He shucked the three slugs from the magazine and alternately loaded number 4 buckshot and rifled deer slug. Seven rounds later he asked, “Any activity?”
“Negative,” replied Anderson.
“Kincaid, we may have company sooner than we thought.”
“Understood, Major.”
Stillwell focused on Harper, who was busily checked spare magazines, shotgun shells, and grenades on an Alice vest with an impossible number of pockets.
Harper kicked the bottom of Stillwell’s foot again, and turned to Burns. “Take the RPG-7 and blow the front door when I give you the signal. Take whatever else you need to raise holy hell, and keep yourself hidden from everybody.”
“Good guys too?”
Harper fixed him with a look. “Everybody. We’re inside Indian country now. There are no other good guys but us.”
Stillwell sat up and checked his watch. “It’s not time yet.”
Harper nodded as he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and slid a pair of Silenco twenty-nine decimal noise reduction earplugs into his ears.
“Yeah, I know. That’s the trouble with battle plans, they never seem to know about those nagging little details.” He looked over at Hayes.
“You’re with us, Sergeant.”
Hayes nodded and continued gathering grenades, spare magazines, and ugly round magnetic bombs to his person.
“You mean we’re going in?” snapped Stillwell.
Harper nodded and spoke into the throat mike. “Okay, listen up. Something went boom inside. We have to assume the bad guys have figured out there’s a problem. They’ll be coming.
“We are working on plan Bravo. Assume everyone and everything is hostile. Unless you hear the cavalry call sign.”
Burns slung the RPG-7 over his shoulder and started jogging down the wadi. A web belt of procured rockets slapped at his back and hips.
They had not even fired a shot in anger and plan Bravo was in effect. There was no plan Charlie.
Harper tossed a pair of earplugs to Stillwell. “Put those in. It’ll be noisy inside.”
Stillwell caught the earplugs and pealed open the pack.
“Hayes, you got some extra cans of gas?”
Hayes nodded and produced two five-gallon jugs.
“Give one to Stillwell here and kick him in the butt, before he gets himself killed.”
Hayes dropped to one knee and said quietly, “What the Major means, sir, is if you don’t get your stuff together, he may shoot you himself.”
Stillwell peered at Hayes, not believing what was going to happen. “What happened to waiting for night?”
“Murphy!” snapped Hayes.
Harper slid to the top of the wadi and said, “How long since she blew?”
“Two minutes,” replied Anderson.
Harper scanned the surface of the desert. The air quivered with heat, and a painful bite from overhead sunlight gnawed at him already. The old enemy, a waterless ocean, rose to meet them. It seemed like he had been crawling through sand, scorpions, and snakes for more than half his life. In mere seconds, he would be dropping down a hole doing his level best to kill someone’s child, or brother, or husband, or father. He closed his eyes wishing it was not so.
“Kincaid?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Burns.”
“Another half minute.”
“Anderson.”
“Primary targets are antennae and epaulets.”
“Secondary?”
“People with the biggest guns.”
“Hayes.”
“Just finishing up on the Lieutenant, sir.”
“Stillwell.”
“Here.” What else did one say at a time like this?
“Anderson, make sure you’re dug in deep.”
“I am, sir.”
He looked over at Stillwell and Hayes. “Move out.”
Hayes bounded up over the lip of the wadi and started a loping run with both five-gallon gasoline jugs. Stillwell slid a helmet up over his eyes and realized what the chinstrap was for. He managed to buckle it and not shoot himself as he hopped behind Harper and Hayes.
The grillwork on the air vents was crinkled from the blast. Hot air seemed to spill out in jittery heat waves causing the terrain behind them to jiggle uncertainly. The huge fans used to draw air in and out had failed. The blast concussion probably broke something important.
Harper dropped to one knee and pulled a gas mask over his face. He pulled heavy four-ply rubber gloves over his hands and sealed himself into his uniform. No one knew if the nerve gas had erupted yet. He spoke softly. “Stillwell, get your mask on.“ He tapped his own mask.
Hayes came to a stop and tossed two of the round magnetic mines to Harper. Harper planted one on either side of the shaft and punched the ten-second-countdown timer. He rolled back under cover and clamped his hands over his ears.
Stillwell had barely looked up when the blast tore the grillwork apart, spitting shrapnel across the desert. The blast knocked him backward onto his rump. He shook his head and concentrated on getting the mask over his face.
Hayes lobbed a brick of C4 plastic explosive with a pencil fuse into the gaping hole. A third gout of flame belched from the side of the Data Center.
“Stick with the Lieutenant,” muttered Harper as he dropped feet first down the shaft. The Mossberg was cocked and ready as he smashed through the broken fan blades to the floor of the machine room. The smoke from the three explosions hung heavily on the air.
A door leading into the center was missing. The doorframe was mangled and shattered by the successive shocks. He dropped to one knee and flipped the infrared goggles over the top of his gas mask.
Several hot heaps shimmered into view. Either they came to see what all the noise was about or the nerve gas was active. “Moving,” he whispered.
Harper slid out of the machine room to verify seven men, most of them Iraqi regulars, laying in fetal positions. Gas.
Hayes handed both five-gallon jugs to
Stillwell and sent him down the shaft. Stillwell landed more or less on his feet. Hayes came down next to him and said, “You carry and I’ll shoot. Okay, Lieutenant?”
Stillwell nodded.
Harper moved further down the corridor. The smoke was clearing, but the gas had penetrated the interior corridors outside the actual computer room. He looked around two corners and found several more men, a mix of technicians, and soldiers, gasping for air and clawing their faces.
There seemed to be a lot of Iraqi regulars roaming around the corridors. At least they had been roaming until the gas took them down. Harper leaned away from the corner and thought about what he was seeing. The center was too small to successfully house a great many soldiers and technicians, so why were so many regular army types?
The cold feeling in the bottom of his gut rumbled nastily.
He looked at the color coded “You are Here” map on the wall. He was on the top level. Below them was the computer center. Behind him was the machine room and next-door was the electrical room.
“Hayes, the power mains are next to where we came in.”
Hayes tapped Stillwell on the shoulder and sent him towards Harper. He turned back and moved to the power mains. He tried the door, finding it locked. He stood back and shot the lock off with his Berreta.
The door leaned out towards him revealing three breaker panels. He took a magnetic bomb and attached it to the center panel, then pressed the countdown timer, slamming the door shut and diving back into the machine room. The blast ripped the door in half, burying the top half in the side of the corridor wall.
The lights failed immediately, and the huge Uninterruptible Power Supplies switched over below them. The computers trembled and some of the dust that had accumulated on top of the cabinets shook loose, but the disks continued to spin. At least, until the diesel generator could be started.
The battery lights switched on and the internal camera system failed. Harper figured whoever was manning the command center had been blinded by the attack so far.
“Anderson?”
“Nothing so far, Major.”
He leaned over to Stillwell and said, “We’re going down the steps and into the Data Center. I figure we’ll find some live people. If they move, shoot them.”
“What about these?”
Harper looked at the gasoline jugs and produced a short rope from one of his inner pockets. “Tie it around the handles and sling it over your neck.” He motioned to Hayes that they were going to the left and down.
Hayes nodded and brought his M-16 A2 to ready. The trio slid from the corner to the stairwell. Harper glanced through the safety goggles integrated into the gas mask, and found no one. He pulled a grenade and tossed it into the stairwell. Anotherwhump slammed the door towards Harper.
He moved very quickly, taking the steps in quick jumps. Already the door leading into the Data Center level was opening, and someone found out how potent rifled deer slug can be at ten feet. Harper caught the door with his shoulder, sliding to the floor and sending a blast of number 4 buckshot into a crowd. He rolled sideways and fired a third time. This time a slug ripped through two people before leaving a hole the diameter of a two-pound coffee can in the ceiling.
Hayes arrived with a measuredtap-tap from the M-16. Brass spit sideways out of the receiver as the Marine pushed himself forward and down. Stillwell joined in with a set of three-round bursts. It ended with a violent silence. A single empty brass case spun harmlessly against the wall and the thin smoke generated by the attack hung between the attackers and defenders.
A heap of broken bodies lay before them. Obviously, the nerve gas had not penetrated the lower level. Perhaps there was a different air system, or the complex failed to circulate air further since the blast that loosed the nerve gas probably burned some of it up.
Harper leaned on the shotgun and levered himself to a standing position. Sweat ran down his face as he pulled the gas mask down below his chin. The air seemed stale. The emergency lights bathed the corridor in an eerie yellow glow. He wondered idly how long the batteries would last.
He turned to the end of the corridor, and said quickly, “Sergeant, how we doing on your little bombs?”
Hayes hefted the ruff sack holding his invention. “Maybe half dozen left.”
Harper pointed to the telephone exchange boxes at the end of the corridor. “Get rid of that.”
Hayes nodded and loped towards the far end of the corridor.
Harper pulled out some double 00 buckshot and three-inch shells, and calmly recharged the tubular magazine for the Mossberg. He said without checking Stillwell, “Change your magazine with a fresh one. This ain’t the movies. You only got thirty rounds per mag.”
Stillwell nodded dumbly. It was largely due to the earplugs that they could hear anything at all. The back of his neck ached from the explosions. However, the noise reduction had been enough to prevent the terrible drumming that would have resulted had they attacked without ear protection.
Harper pushed the last shell into the magazine and checked the thumb safety. His owner’s manual strongly suggested that you should not mix regular and magnum shells together. But Harper doubted whether the writer had ever been thirty feet below an Iraqi desert.
“Anderson?” he whispered.
“Nothing, Major.”
“Let me know when it changes.” There would be a reaction force.
Harper nodded towards the other end of the corridor. “Data Center’s that way, Lieutenant.”
Stillwell worked the bolt on his M-16 and checked the grenade launcher slung uncomfortably around his middle. He felt very tired as they stepped around the dead soldiers and technicians. His stomach churned as the dead eyes and open mouths convicted him and his actions. If Harper had given him time, he might have been sick. There simply wasn’t time.
“Eh, Lieutenant, we might need one or two of these fellows alive.” Harper glanced at the carnage behind them and continued. “Let’s try to leave someone in a white smock alive.”
Hayes was running towards them waving his hand frantically.
“Party time.” Harper started running to the corridor’s end where it took a sharp turn towards the Data Center entrance. Stillwell scrambled after him and Hayes slid around the corner to clamp his hands over his ears and bury his face against the side of the wall.
Stillwell thought about doing the same thing. Unfortunately, the clatter of an AK-47 distracted him. The heavier and fatter 7.62mm bulletsthunked into the wall beside him. He lifted his M-16 when Hayes’ bombs let loose.
Harper dropped to a prone position and pumped out three blasts—filling the narrow corridor with a lethal barrage of ball bearings each capable of making a hole the size of .38 special. The air seemed to brighten with flame and then disappear with a frightening blast. The shock wave rippled over the top of them and knocked the next line of defenders backwards. The roar thundered like a giant locomotive drowning all thoughts except fervent prayers that they live through this horror.
Hayes recovered first and pulled his grenade launcher to a ready position. He fired two 40mm fragmentation grenades towards the end of this shorter corridor and ducked again. If anyone had survived the buckshot, they were torn apart by the grenades. The heavy glass doors marking the entrance to the Data Center imploded through two layers of security doors. They sent a deadly shower of razor sharp shards into the final three soldiers positioned inside the Data Center.
Harper lifted his head once the air seemed to return. A thicker haze hung ominously in the corridor. Nothing moved. The number of conscious defenders had been reduced to a handful. The entire top level had succumbed to the nerve gas. Only those within the final security layer of the Data Center survived, and they were no longer paying attention to an orderly shutdown of the systems.
They froze like a deer in the headlights as the three predators emerged from the dust and smoke. Harper leveled the still smoking Mossberg at the glass door and nodded towards the entrance. Stillwell st
ared at the dead men laying about their feet. The white floor and clear glass of the third inner wall was pockmarked and blood spattered. No one ever explained in the sparkling briefing rooms over polished wooden tables this part of the operation. They talked about casualties and acceptable losses, force multipliers and power projection. Blood splattered walls and broken, lifeless bodies never came up in polite discussion. The old adage regarding a man with a rifle doing the work no satellite or airplane could ever accomplish ran through Stillwell’s thoughts.
Hayes let the grenade launcher drop and pulled the M-16 to ready. He spat on the floor and said quietly, “Major, I might have had my doubts about you, but you know your stuff.”
One of the white smocked technicians raised his hands over his head and moved slowly to the door release.
Harper shrugged. “Sergeant, getting in was the easy part.”
* * * *
Colonel Duri looked up from his cot. The corpsman handed him a signal. He looked up and checked the clock. “You’re sure that we have lost all contact with the Data Center.”
“Yes, sir. No radio or land line contact.”
“The database?”
“All lines are dead, sir.”
Duri scratched his chin. It was not unusual for Iraq’s communication systems to fail due to the quirkiness of the equipment. He looked at the file folders on the table next to the cot. He assumed Harper would have waited for night. Why attack in the heat of the day and in daylight?
To move through the air in the no-fly zone was dangerous enough, but to do it in daylight raised the level of risk. But the risks of doing nothing in the event of an attack on the Data Center were even more certain than a hyperactive F-16 pilot.
“Very well. Ready the aircraft, we leave immediately.”
* * * *
A Saudi E3A AWACS aircraft recorded the fact that three RAF helicopters blinked into existence over the southern edge of Baghdad. The computer up-linked to a satellite, which down-linked back to a mainframe at Central Command’s headquarters. The systems talked for microseconds before sending back the identification.
PointOfHonor Page 22
