He looked around the burning wrecks. There were people still alive, but they were moving in a stunned and feeble manner. Both APCs were burning, and half the enemy force was out of the action. Four grenades, an AK-47 and a few rounds left in a shotgun do not make good odds against two fully armed APCs.
He backed away from the fire, hearing the mounted machine gun popping as they drew closer. There was no time to get several hundred meters away this time. He found a hole less than fifty meters away from the wrecks. It would be over soon, he concluded.
* * * *
Dylan flipped the targeting lens back over his eye and said, “So we simply change the equation. Whoever did that has found himself a hidey-hole for the moment. It won’t do him much good if the bad guys dismount, and they will.”
ThePuma reared up for a strafing run. It dove straight at the western flanking APC. ThePuma’s blades beat at the thinning air as a hint of dawn began to grace the horizon. Dylan found his target and pressed the firing stud. The BTR-60 was put in service in 1961 and retired in 1982. It was never designed to handle modern armor piercing ammunition.
The chain gun punched through the APC’s top armor, and in some cases, exited through the floor. The first pass stitched a line of shells diagonally across the rectangular shape of the APC. The second pass sent a fusillade through the thinnest armor on the rear hatches. The APC spun sideways and stopped.
* * * *
Hayes looked up at the odd sound on the battlefield. The pop of the automatic weapons and the bark of the machine guns had become commonplace, but something new was happening. It sounded like the chain gun from anApache . There were noApache Gunships. They never showed up at the Data Center.
He came to a stop. It was still too dark to see anything. The only machine gun fire he heard came from the east. The western flanker was silent.
“What is it?” asked Stillwell.
“I don’t know. Something else is out here.” He dropped to a knee.
“Good or bad?”
“Not sure.” Even a drowning man clings to hope. Hayes wondered if they dare start hoping again.
* * * *
Where were the flankers? Harper wondered impatiently. He poked his head up and cursed savagely. The flankers had stopped coming, and that could only mean they had another target. He was in no hurry to die, but the mission was to get Stillwell out of here.
He pulled a grenade off the belt he had acquired from the Iraqi. He pulled the pin, and hurtled the fragmentation grenade towards the dazed men next to their burning vehicles. He figured it would land short enough make a big noise, but really do little damage. He grabbed a second grenade and threw it at a thirty-degree angle from the first.
“Come on!” he yelled. What did it take to get someone to shoot at you these days?
After the third grenade exploded, the last BTR-60 roared over a ridge, blasting away with its mounted machine gun. Harper barely had time to drop behind a rock. The heavy machine gun fire found the rocks he was behind. The Iraqi gunner never let up on the trigger. A green tracer round broke the darkness every tenth round as steady fire turned the rocks into powder. The gun barrel was starting to glow a dull red as the heat generated from continuous fire started to burn out the barrels.
Did death have to be so loud?he asked himself.
* * * *
“There, did you see that?” asked Jonas pointing through the windscreen.
“Grenade flash,” explained Dylan.
“It has to be Harper.”
“He’s drawing the other BTR-60 toward his position,” observed Dylan.
“If he’s tossing grenades, he must not have much left.”
“He thinks they found his people!” snapped Dylan. “He’s making himself a great big target.”
ThePuma leaped forward a final time. The chain gun exploded with a heavy burst, ripping a jagged scar along the right side hatches. Brass was strewn around the inside of the passenger area. It was close to over.
* * * *
Duri drove past the battle. From the road, he could see the fireballs and smell the death. He had dispatched the transport drivers to the wreckage between here and Nukhayb. His time was over. Best not linger over a failure and find the chambers in Salman Pak. The last thing he wanted was to become one of Doctor Germ’s subjects.
He continued towards Ash-Shabakah. Dawn was approaching too fast for his comfort.
* * * *
The terrible clatter of guns ceased. The crackling of flames broke the hollow silence, but after the thundering sounds of battle, Harper heard nothing but a painful drumming in his ears. He had nowhere to run. He half lay in a ditch behind a rock that was considerably smaller than when the BTR-60 started shooting at it.
He pulled the AK-47 to his chest and rolled to one side. The BTR-60 was stopped. Smoke drifted from the right side hatches. How did that happen? He crab-crawled sideways to another ditch and looked towards the burning wrecks. A ragged line of soldiers was staggering towards the last BTR-60. Their weapons held at ready.
Where was the last BTR-60? And, what killed this one? He took the last grenade and tossed it towards the center of their line. These soldiers could not have much more fight in them.
A bulletzinged by his head. Harper dropped again to the dirt, wondering where this one came from. He felt the scream before he heard it. Twisting around on his back and pulling the trigger on the AK-47 he cut the soldier diving towards him in two. Blood, bone, and gore splattered everywhere. The dead man landed heavily next to him—not much of a secret where he was now.
He dropped the empty AK-47 and pulled his Glock from its holster. Save the shotgun for a little more distance, he figured, or maybe he just wanted to feel the Glock in his hand one last time.
He steadied his hands on a rock. They were trembling badly now. The day had caught the last of his strength reserves. The sight picture continued to quiver in and out of focus. A bullet slammed into the Kevlar helmet and sent it spinning into the night.
He pulled the trigger on the Glock. Then the night exploded in thunder and fire for a final time. The heavy downdraft from thePuma spun sand and gravel about in a sweeping vortex. His thoughts muddy now as he kept firing the Glock to no effect. The chain gun pulverized the line of soldiers coming toward him, just before thePuma landed.
* * * *
Jonas dropped out of thePuma and ran across the uneven ground towards Harper. He knelt next to the older man and saw blood running down the side of his face. There was blood everywhere, but Jonas was not sure if it all belonged to Harper.
A muddy, bloody hand grabbed Jonas by the side of his shirt and pulled him close. The strength of his grip was surprisingly strong. “You’re not a dream are you?”
Jonas shook his head.
“Where you been?” he asked. His lips cracked. The last of his strength ebbed away.
“Problems Jim—we had problems.”
“Find Hayes and Stillwell—they’re out there.”
“Is that what this is about?” asked Jonas looking at feast for vultures and jackals.
“Yes. They’ve got the tapes.”
“Tapes?”
“Data Center tapes. We got everything.” Then he slipped to unconsciousness.
Jonas grabbed the Glock and pulled Harper over his shoulder. He half carried and half dragged the larger man to thePuma .
“Anyone else?” asked Dylan.
“Hayes and Stillwell,” replied Jonas.
“Okay, we’ll find them.” Dylan looked at the limp form. “Is he dead?”
Jonas shook his head. “He’s out of gas.”
* * * *
Dawn broke across the desert. Colonel Taha Duri drove across the border bouncing every other second and feeling his battered body scream in protest. He left the highway before reaching Rafha on the Iraqi side of the border and pointed the Jeep towards Lawqah on the Saudi side. He would tell them that he was a prisoner who had just escaped a terrible place where nightmares were hatched.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Dulles International Airport
Wednesday, November 19, 1997
10:00 A.M. EST
Jonas Benjamin looked out the window of theGulfstream IV jet as she pulled around the familiar fields and landmarks near Dulles International Airport. He muffled a yawn with his hand and looked at what he had: sets of computer backup tapes and a technical list from Harper explaining how they should be restored. A three-hour videotape debriefing session with Hayes and Stillwell describing what had happened and what went wrong. An additional two hours of tape with Harper explaining his decisions, secret orders, and evidence of an outright sellout.
A Navy Medic had taped his head up. Scalp wounds do not have to be deep to bleed copiously. When Harper lost his helmet the bullet had been deflected enough to tear a three-inch long gash over his left ear. Until his hair grew back, he would look like an extra fromThe Last of the Mohicans .
Jonas also had a report of three American Marines killed in action, bodies not retrieved, a fifty percent casualty rate. Jonas shook his head. Last Saturday the mission seemed so antiseptic. The orders were printed on white bonded paper, the men assembled, and equipment procured. Satellite photographs showed the target’s location, a simple bunker surrounded by rock and sand. There was no evidence of a reaction force, yet according to the survivors, they showed up in helicopters with RAF markings.
A reaction force based on deception and only crippled because the Iraqis were a day behind on their passwords.A day behind —it would certainly get the attention of those responsible for secure communications. He wondered who else might be listening in on encrypted systems.
The world press had dutifully reported the incident involving the American fighter and ground targets earlier this week. No one reported the helicopters were BritishSea Kings , or the missile fired at theHornet was of a type previously unknown to exist in Saddam’s arsenal. The three rifle platoons ferried on those helicopters remained unknown to the Western press, as was the fact that half of them had perished during the brief air battle.
Unrelated reports indicated an unusual fish kill in the Southern Gulf region. No one had associated this with the missingHan Class submarine, except for a limited number of American Officers, enlisted men, and those in the information loop—that underwater battle remained a secret. The possible pollution from the shattered nuclear core would be watched carefully, and probably two additional submarines would be tasked to clean up the mess before anyone investigated the problem.
A much smaller group knew about the intact cask retrieved from the hold of the submarine. The cask was already in a level four biohazard lab at Fort Dietrick, Maryland. The suspicion was that this was an intact sample of theCity Killer VX variation. At present, there are no known protocols to deal with VX Beta.
Sergeant Darby Hayes had spent his time asleep while crossing the desert and ocean. A shower, some chow, and a new set of fatigues gave Darby a new outlook on life. He ate two more meals between naps and drank a great deal of water. He lay with his hands crossed and his head against a folded pillow. The change in engine whine caused his eyes to flutter open and check his surroundings.
Brian Stillwell, the civilian analyst, sudden soldier, and civilian again, gave up trying to stay awake shortly after they left England behind. He slept a troubled and fitful sleep. Twice he had cried out and mumbled to himself. There were things he had seen and done that he found difficult to explain during the debriefing. The one thing that was obvious: he never should have been sent along on the mission.
Jim Harper spent the first part of the trip working on his weapons. He had requested some Shooter’s Choice solvent, cleaning patches, brass brushes, jags, and cleaning rods. He worked the finished metal of the handguns mercilessly until the stainless steel barrel from the Browning gleamed in the subdued light. He seemed to be attempting to eradicate all traces of the desert from anything he held precious. He pulled the Mossberg apart and blasted compressed air in the cracks, driving sand particles out onto the carpet. Next he cleaned his dagger and combat knives. Jonas could not help but notice the flakes of dried blood as he dropped the used cotton patches into a barf bag.
Harper was dressed in a new pair of denim slacks and a dark blue T-shirt with theGeorge Washington’s insignia embroidered on his left breast. The Glock was still holstered along his right hip, and Jonas knew the Browning Hi Power was cocked and locked in a second holster located on the small of his back. The Mossberg lay in a case at his feet. The combat dagger slung inside the upper lip of his new boots.
Jonas felt the wheels touch down on the tarmac. The long ride home was almost over. He flipped the seat belt loose and gathered his videotapes, camera equipment, laptop, and data tapes together. TheGulfstream did not aim for the normal customs area; instead, it followed a ground cart towards a restricted hanger.
Hayes snapped his eyes open and looked across the aisle to Harper. The older man nodded slightly. They stood up one after the other and Darby retrieved his Beretta M9, racking the slide as he slid it into the oversized leg pocket. Harper followed Stillwell and Jonas down the steps and into the larger hanger. The doors were already closing. Harper focused on Louis Edwards.
Louis stood with his feet spread shoulder width and his hands folded at his waist. Mister Smith and Mister Jones were flankers on either side of Louis. There was no pretense here. Each held a Glock 19 with silencers screwed on a threaded barrel in their hands. They wore mirrored glasses effectively hiding their eyes and denying anyone from knowing where they were focused for the moment.
Stillwell noted the weapons as well and stopped. He turned back to Harper as if to ask a question, only to get a shake of the head. Stillwell turned back to Edwards who smiled. “Welcome back, Mister Stillwell.” He glanced at Jonas. “Jonas, I hope all is well with you.”
Jonas nodded and stepped sideways.
Harper came to a halt twenty paces from Louis. A twenty-yard shot from a standing crouch with the Glock 21 was about a one-and-a-half-inch group. Hayes stepped away from Harper and to a steady aim point on Mister Jones who was standing across from him. A twenty-five yard shot with a 9mm. Not as accurate as a .45 ACP, but certainly doable.
Louis looked to Harper. The two men measured each other. Harper waited.
“Jim,” Edwards sighed, “it’s good to see you alive.”
Harper remained silent, wondering if he would kill again today.
Edwards nodded and folded his top lip over his bottom. “Your fight is not with me or my men, Jim.” He pulled a bulky envelope from his suit coat. “The man you want is described in here.”
“It looks like you’ve taken up body armor as a fashion statement, Louis.”
“Jim, I know you lost three men in the desert.”
Harper let his hand come to rest on the Glock’s grip. Smith and Jones tensed. They failed to see Hayes slip his hand inside his pants pockets and get a grip on his Beretta.
“Three men died, Louis. Did you know their names? Captains Burns, Kincaid, and Anderson got shot up, because the Iraqis knew more about our mission orders than we did,” he snarled, examining the concrete. “How’s it possible that an Iraqi Colonel would know the name of my wife and daughters? They knew everything about us. They had to have the orders almost faster than we got them. How’s that possible?” Harper growled.
Louis motioned Jonas to come and get the envelope. “The man detailed in this envelope had access to all information related to this operation and additional information not directly related to your mission.” He handed the envelope to Jonas, before continuing. “He is an aide to the National Security Advisor, and quite likely this mission was compromised before you even left Andrews on Saturday.
“You are correct. They knew everything, Jim. This is
the first time this administration used our organization to perform any mission. In one shot, they managed to compromise this operation and our existence to hostile governments. This is not the sort of thing we’d like appearing in theWashington Post .”
“Meaning?” snapped Harper.
“I’d like you to take care of it.”
Jonas walked across the hanger floor and handed the envelope to Harper. Harper popped the wax seal and pulled out a set of papers. He rifled through them quickly. “Isn’t somebody going to miss this Arthur fellow?”
“There’s a phone number.”
Harper nodded. “An FBI agent?”
“A tame one, Jim. He’ll take care of any messiness left behind. You have to trust me.”
Harper snapped an angry look back to Louis. “Trust?” He pointed the envelope at his bodyguards. “Do you think your two goons can stop me? Three men died and you hand me the answer wrapped up in this tidy little envelope?”
“It was hardly tidy,” explained Louis. “The keys, you will note, are for the Ford Explorer over there.”
“Complete with a homing device?” snarled Harper.
“There’s no need to follow you. I know where you’re going and I know what you’re going to do.” He pointed to the bag of tapes on the floor next to Jonas. “Those tapes hold the answer. I’ll find it. You’ve done your job.”
Harper let the envelope slide back to his side. “If you’ve lied to me this time, Louis—you’d better find a hole and pull it in after you.”
“I understand, Jim.”
Harper turned and gathered his cased shotgun to his hands. Stillwell said quickly, “Was that the same guy that briefed me?”
“Indeed it was, Mister Stillwell,” replied Louis.
“I want to come along,” he said quickly.
Harper stopped and turned, “No, you don’t.”
“I came this far.”
Hayes laid a hand on Stillwell’s shoulder. “Let it go, Lieutenant,” he said softly.
Stillwell turned to Hayes. “But I want—“
PointOfHonor Page 36
