by Mark Greaney
Court had no targets on his right, but he’d told himself he would fire if he saw anyone armed. Yes, there could be FSA men up there shooting at him, but he wasn’t just going to sit back and let them kill him.
Court was firmly engaged on the side of the bad guys now. He’d feel bad about it later, but for the moment he was going to concentrate on survival.
Just then an explosion on the highway fifty yards ahead of the pickup sent a fireball into the sky; an instant later the Russian GAZ truck that was second in the convoy slammed on its brakes. The next Russian truck locked its brakes as well, and behind it, the Syrian Mukhabarat Land Rover swerved to try to avoid the stopped vehicles in front of it.
The Land Rover slammed into the rear of the Russian GAZ.
Saunders shouted out a curse as he slowed, steering his pickup to the left, into the opposite lane, to avoid hitting the scrum himself.
Court could see what had happened now. A massive IED had been placed in the drainage culvert under the highway and detonated just in front of the first Syrian vehicle. It appeared that the explosion had gone off just a couple seconds too early, so the lead vehicle had avoided outright destruction, and it had also avoided crashing down into the crater, but now the Syrian ZIL truck lay on its left side to the left of the crater, and it blocked the westbound lane.
There was no room to continue on the road to the east because of the massive crater and the debris around it; the only way forward was to leave the highway and slowly move over brush, down through the sloped drainage ditch, and up on the other side.
Court knew this would take a minute at least, and attempting this while under fire from the hills would be madness if there was any other option.
Syrian soldiers who had survived the rollover began crawling out of the downed truck, and small bits of rock, dirt, and highway asphalt rained down on Court’s pickup.
Saunders yelled into the radio. “Reverse! Reverse!”
Court’s head was on a swivel now. He didn’t believe the objective of the attackers had been only to fire a few rounds, take out the lead vehicle with an explosive, and then melt away. No, knocking out the front of the convoy was the enemy’s way of trying to block or slow the others in the convoy so they could be picked off.
Court leaned out his window and waved frantically to the Syrian truck behind him, trying to motion them back so the surviving vehicles could all egress out of the kill zone to the west, but to his horror he saw that the truck had stopped, and the occupants were dismounting.
“They’re bailing!” he shouted to Saunders.
By now gunfire was outgoing as well as incoming. The men in the Russian trucks and in the Desert Hawk technicals were firing at faint puffs of smoke on the hillside to both the north and south.
A voice came over the walkie-talkie in Arabic, and Saunders said, “The tail vehicle is disabled! Fuck it! I’m going around them!”
Saunders tried to back around the Syrians jumping from the damaged truck, but as he accelerated in reverse, machine-gun fire raked the hood of his white pickup. The noise in the cab where Court sat was cataclysmic. Heavy chunks of lead traveling well above the sound barrier tore through the hood and engine. Oil, radiator fluid, and steam sprayed the windshield.
The pickup jolted to a halt. Saunders ground the gears for just a second before shouting, “It’s dead! Bail out!”
CHAPTER 30
Court Gentry opened his door, fell out onto the highway, and then hustled in a low crouch with his rifle in his hand to the back of the pickup. Here he knelt behind the right rear tire for a moment, just long enough to wait for Saunders to join him. The Brit might not have been any kind of real ally, but in this fight Saunders was Court’s battle buddy, and both men knew that they needed each other to increase their chances of survival.
In battle Court played second fiddle to no one, but he had the presence of mind to maintain his cover. He was a merc in the field working with a more senior employee of his company, so he’d operate as the second man in a two-man team.
Saunders appeared at the back of the truck, then he peered over it to the east, scanning the hills to both the north and the south. He shouted over the ungodly fire, “We’ve got shooters on both sides of the highway!”
Court popped his own head over the concealment of the truck bed. He saw gun smoke in the trees to both the north and the south, and most of the fire seemed to be at least forty yards to the east of where he knelt. Off to his right, he noticed a small rocky depression just off the highway, almost hidden because it was overgrown with weeds. He looked back at the puffs of smoke. “They’re set up wrong! The ambush is centered on where the IED went off, so it’s still to our east. If we can get in this runoff ditch on the south side we might find a little cover from both hillsides!”
Saunders couldn’t see what Court was talking about from his position at the opposite end of the tailgate, but he apparently didn’t have any other options near him. “Go!” Saunders ordered, and Court took off across the wide-open highway, across the shoulder, and towards the low brush and grass.
All the while the roar of gunfire continued in all directions.
He covered fifty feet of open ground, a few bullet strikes tore through asphalt and dirt around him, and then he dropped and rolled onto his chest in low brush and rocks in the slight depression by the side of the road. Stones cut into his knees and forearms as he slammed into the ground. Here he shouldered his rifle again, scanned the hill above him, and called out to Saunders, still at the truck. “Move!”
Court kept his cheek tight on the stock of his AK, searching for targets through the old iron sights. Saunders tumbled on top of him a few seconds later, rolled into a prone firing position, then immediately began scanning up the hill right next to Court.
Court looked back to the highway now. The Desert Hawks were still on their technical, but no one was on the machine gun, and one of the four militiamen hung halfway out of the truck bed behind the weapon. In front of the Desert Hawks’ technical, the sedan with the Mukhabarat officers was burning and smoking, smashed against the back of the second Russian vehicle. The first Russian truck had turned around on the highway and was in the process of moving back to the west, but the driver seemed to be waiting for orders before taking off. Court was glad they were still around, because the half dozen soldiers in the open back were all firing their weapons up towards the wooded hills.
But there still seemed to be more fire coming in than going out. From the bullet strikes on the highway, Court estimated that more than a dozen weapons were raking the convoy from high ground.
Saunders rose and fired a burst up the hill, more to Court’s right and less to the east. “They’re tryin’ to flank us to the south!” he said as his weapon emptied.
Court himself saw movement in the trees almost directly in line with their position, and he knew they’d be exposed here in the gully once the enemy repositioned on the hill above them.
He realized the entire convoy was in danger of being wiped out, himself included.
And back to the west, from the direction the small loyalist cavalcade had come from, civilian cars began rolling up the highway, unaware of the gun battle happening around the turn. Some tried to reverse out of danger, and others tried to race on past the fight, a disastrous decision because through the smoke and chaos the civilian drivers found that the road was blocked by a blown-out bridge. As Court watched, two civilian vehicles slammed on their brakes at the IED crater and got caught behind the indecisive Russian soldier behind the wheel of the GAZ.
Court scanned back up to the southeast and saw his first enemy now, as the smoke trail from an RPG revealed a man a hundred yards up the hill. He lined up his rifle’s front post on the bearded man, who immediately began reloading the weapon.
Court shot the man through the chest, with absolutely no consideration as to what side of the civil war he fought on.
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Three Syrians from the truck that had been disabled just behind the white pickup made a run for the gully where the two mercenaries lay. They ran too close together, and they left no one behind to cover for them. Court saw their mistake when they were almost to the shoulder of the highway, and he shouted to Saunders, “Covering fire!”
Court sent bursts from his AK to the northern hillside, while next to him Saunders emptied a magazine into the trees on the southern hillside. When Court’s weapon emptied he reloaded with blinding speed, using his fresh magazine to flip out the spent mag before snapping the fresh mag into the magazine well. While he did this he looked back to the Syrian soldiers in the road.
None of the three had made it into the gully. One lay dead on the shoulder; a second rolled around wounded in the tall grasses by the highway, lying in plain view of all the shooters on the hill. And the third man had turned around and run back to the poor cover of the unarmored Syrian ZIL truck in the center of the road.
When Saunders stopped firing to reload, Court could hear that he’d taken his handheld radio with him, because excited Arabic transmissions crackled from inside a pocket in the British mercenary’s load-bearing vest.
As Court dumped rounds into the trees at puffs of smoke, the shouting through the radio switched from Arabic to Russian.
Court translated the broadcasts for Saunders. “Two enemy technicals inbound from the east.”
Saunders looked over to Court. “You speak Russian?”
Normally he wouldn’t have let on about the languages he spoke while adopting a cover legend, but there was no denying this. “Just enough to know to pull my head down.”
Saunders leveled his weapon on the north side of the hill and fired off a short burst. “Well, I bloody well knew that without an interpreter!”
A torrent of rifle fire tore up brush just a few feet from where Court and Saunders lay. “Shit!” Court said, firing at a flash deep in the trees to the southeast.
Men in Arabic spoke over the net now. Saunders was occupied with a target, but Court asked, “Anyone saying who these assholes are?” So far none of the Russians had identified the adversary over the radio.
Saunders fired again. “Nobody around here gives a toss but you, Wade!”
Court squinted into the distance through smoke to the east, and he could just make out the approaching pickup trucks now. They weren’t on the highway but moving along thick brush on the steep hillside just below the tree line. They advanced on the wrecked convoy at a reckless clip. To his horror, Court saw what looked like two long and fat barrels protruding from the beds of each of them, larger and thicker than the barrel of a machine gun.
He had a feeling he knew what he was looking at. To Saunders he said, “ZU-23s on those technicals!”
“Bloody hell,” Saunders muttered, and then he scanned to the east with his scoped rifle to confirm.
The ZU-23 was a 23-millimeter Russian twin-barrel antiaircraft cannon, but many insurgent groups around the world mounted them on technicals to make an extremely powerful and effective weapon that could be used for both air and ground targets. A couple of hits from a ZU-23 into a heavy truck could easily destroy it and all inside.
Saunders confirmed Court’s suspicion. He used the three-power scope on his rifle for a better view, ignoring supersonic rounds that cracked over his head and struck the rocks just feet behind him while he looked. He ducked back down to relative cover. “You’re right. We have to take those out before they rip us all to shreds.”
The trucks were still some six hundred yards distant, a long shot with a rifle, but this was all but point-blank range for the ZU-23.
The gunfire all around was unreal. It seemed that all the other regime forces in the fight were engaging individual fighters on the northern and southern hills, and even though a Russian had been the one to call out the approaching technicals, the fire was too heavy at closer distances for anyone to be able to take the time to engage the new threats effectively.
But Court had enough cover to pick his targets, so he rose to his knees again, aimed the simple blade sight of his weapon, and tried to get a bead on the operator sitting behind the closest gun. Through the smoke in the air from the rockets and the massive IED that had gone off a minute and a half earlier, and aiming at such a small target picture that was on the move, it was an impossible shot.
“I can’t get the gunners from here.”
Saunders spun to engage something up the hill to the south. His rifle fired three fully automatic bursts.
Court remained focused on the pickups; he shifted his aim to the windshield of the closest one. The vehicle moved in and out of thick brush now, so he could only see it an instant at a time. He gave up and resighted on the gun and the gunner behind it. Saunders sprayed another long volley of automatic fire on Court’s right, but Court maintained his concentration.
He squeezed off a single round, and it pinged off the firing mechanism of the ZU-23. His round showered the weapon with a spray of sparks, inches from the gunner’s head.
Saunders stopped firing and tracked over with his rifle just as Court fired again. Again Court hit the antiaircraft gun within inches of the operator. “Bloody close!” Saunders said, and then, “Right! Take mine!” He unslung his weapon, knowing the enhanced optic would give Court a better chance of making a shot that Saunders himself knew he had no chance of making. Court traded rifles, didn’t even bother slinging the SA80, and lined up the holographic red dot above the tiny exposed spot at the top of the ZU-23 operator’s head.
With a three-power scope the operator’s head was still one hell of a difficult target. Court fired a round, and the man tumbled backwards out of the pickup.
“He’s down,” Court said calmly.
“Fuck me!” Saunders shouted over the gunfire of the battle. “Shoot the other one!”
Just then, the second ZU-23 opened up. The twin cannons each flashed two times, and almost instantly the crashing sounds of cannon fire and shell impacts made it to Court and Saunders’s position. Four shells exploded right in front of the first Russian truck, sending fragments through the vehicle and knocking men down all over the length of the convoy.
Court fired at the second gunner, missed, then fired once more. This time he hit the man in the neck, spinning him from his seat, but he also drew an ungodly amount of fire from several directions. The entire weedy and rocky area in front of and behind him and Saunders began kicking up as bullets struck, so the two of them flattened in the depression next to each other.
The men made eye contact while they lay there, inches away from the line of fire. Saunders shouted over the noise, “I told ya!” He laughed maniacally and handed Court a fresh magazine for his rifle. “We’re gonna burn through all our ammo!”
Freak, Court thought. Saunders reloaded the AK from a magazine he pulled off Court’s vest, then held the weapon up over the side of the ditch and fired the entire thirty rounds blindly up the hill. Court reached up himself with the SA80, held it over the side of the depression in the direction of a cluster of distant attackers he’d spotted just as he’d dropped, and fired the entire magazine in short bursts.
He lowered the weapon and turned to Saunders to grab more ammo, and he was just reaching to the man’s load-bearing vest to pull out a magazine when he saw movement close in the ditch, just fifty feet away. Two figures stepped through the trees and onto the rocks higher on the hill. They wore black beards, carried wire-stocked Kalashnikovs, and approached the highway cautiously with their guns raised. Court could tell they were trying to flank whoever had managed to find a fighting position down here, and the only reason they hadn’t pinpointed his and Saunders’s location was that both he and Saunders had flattened lower and paused in their firing to reload.
Court knew he’d be spotted in a second, so his hand let go of the magazine on his battle buddy’s chest and slid down to the HK pistol
holstered on Saunders’s belt. Court drew the weapon as he shot forward on his knees, flinging himself on top of Saunders to use him as a firing platform. He extended the pistol out in front of him as both gunmen ahead reacted to the movement, swinging their rifles in his direction.
Court opened fire. Two quick shots at the first man, two at the second, two more at the first, and another at the second. Both men crumpled as they fell back into the trees, ending up one on top of the other.
Neither of the two managed to squeeze off a single round from their AKs.
Saunders looked back over his right shoulder just in time to see the two men disappear in the brush as they fell.
The Brit said nothing; he just finished his reload, rose up a bit, and opened fire up the hillside.
The sound of one of the ZU-23s firing another four-round burst told both men a new gunner had taken position behind one of the big weapons, and Court dropped the pistol and reloaded the SA80 quickly with one of Saunders’s magazines, ready to try another long shot.
But just then he heard a new sound through the persistent gunfire.
Saunders heard it, too. “Helo inbound!”
“One of ours?” Court asked.
“This is Russian and Syrian airspace. The rebels and the jihadists don’t have any air.” He pulled his rifle away from Court, handed the AK back, and pointed to a spot in the sky to the west. There, a Russian Mi-28 attack helicopter bore down on the highway from fifteen hundred feet away. Almost as soon as Court noticed the aircraft, black streaks emanated from its pylons, racing towards the site of the ambush.
“Get down!” Court shouted, but Saunders was firing up the hill again and did not hear. Court reached out and grabbed the man by his body armor, then pulled him down flat in the gully, just as rockets streaked over the two men.
The Russian rockets exploded well clear of the depression, midway between Court’s position and the technical. The helo fired again, and this time Court could hear explosions farther to the east.
