by Mark Greaney
“So . . . what? You just shoot everybody you see to be sure?”
Broz said, “That would suit me. God’ll sort ’em out. Seriously . . . why are you here?”
Court said, “Maybe God sent me to sort you out.”
Court and Broz went for each other simultaneously, locking up and falling to the floor. Court rolled on top of the bigger man, pinning him by his chest, but as Court brought his fist back to deliver a punch to the man’s face, the Croatian shifted his weight onto his right hip, shoved his right elbow inside Court’s knee, and bridged his body up, thrusting hard to the right.
Court knew judo, he knew the move Broz was trying to execute, and he knew how to counter it. He made to slide his left leg away from his body to stabilize himself so he couldn’t get thrown, but as he moved his foot he realized Broz had brought his own left leg over his own body, then hooked it down around Court’s foot, trapping his leg tight.
Court’s weight was on his knees, not back at his feet where he could fight Broz’s new leverage, so the Croatian easily flipped Court off to the side, and Court slammed down onto his back.
Broz didn’t hesitate to exploit his advantage; he rolled onto Court, pinning his shoulders to the dusty concrete floor. He head-butted Court, using his helmet in an attempt to break the pinned man’s nose, but Court’s helmet blocked the brunt of the strike, so the Croatian changed tactics, sitting up to get enough distance to rain punches down on Court’s face with his hard-knuckled combat gloves. But as Broz postured up, Court realized the danger he was in, so he moved with the man above him, shot his arms around Broz’s body armor, and grabbed his own wrists behind the man’s back. He pulled Broz back down close to him. Here Court used his right leg to trap Broz’s left, used his right arm to overhook Broz’s left shoulder, and clamped in tight, so when he pushed off the man wouldn’t be able to catch himself with his left hand on the floor. Court exploded hard up with his left foot and let go of his grip behind Broz’s back, sending the two-hundred-pound man and all his gear rolling to his left, where he slammed onto his back.
Court rolled on top of Broz’s torso, pancaking his shoulders to the floor.
He felt Broz reach for something with his left hand down at his waist, so Court himself used his left hand to reach for his own boot.
Broz brought a fixed-blade knife from its scabbard and pressed its tip under Court’s body armor at his right hip. Simultaneously, Court thumbed the button on his switchblade, springing the four-inch blade like a bullet.
Just as the Croatian began putting pressure on the knife at Court’s hip, Court brought the razor-sharp edge of his switchblade up and against Broz’s carotid artery.
Both men froze in this position.
“I’ll gut you!” Broz said.
“And then you’ll bleed out right where you lay!”
Court turned his head to the sound of movement and saw Saunders leaping up to his feet from where he had been sitting and watching the fight. He charged over, reaching for his pistol on his leg as he moved. Court kept his left hand, and his knife’s blade, right where it was against Broz’s neck, but he untucked his right arm from its clutch around Broz’s head and fired it down to his right hip, over the knife jabbing into his lower back. In less time than Saunders could make two bounding steps towards the fight, Court drew his SIG pistol, whipped it around and over his body, and pointed it at Saunders at a range of ten feet.
The Englishman stopped, raised his hands, and froze in place.
And then Van Wyk stepped back into the room. “What the holy fuck is going on in here?”
Both Broz and Gentry breathed heavily, but neither man moved their edged weapons from their lethal positions. Van Wyk shouted, “Knock it off! Wade! Broz!”
Still neither man moved. Court thought Broz was a psychopathic murderer; he wasn’t about to relax his guard as long as the man had a knife pressing against him.
Van Wyk realized this was a tense situation that had to be untangled the right way. The team leader said, “All right. First . . . Saunders, turn away and walk back over to your kit. Do it slowly, and Wade won’t shoot you. That’s right, isn’t it, Kilo Nine?”
“That’s right,” Court said through labored breath, his pistol still aimed at the Brit’s face.
Saunders lowered his hands, turned slowly away, and returned to where he was sitting.
“Right. Pistol down, Wade. Slide it over to me.”
Court did as instructed but kept the switchblade tight against Broz’s neck.
Van Wyk next said, “Brunetti?”
The Argentine sat on his backpack near the window. “Yeah, boss?”
“You got a dog in this fight?”
“No, boss.”
“Good. Raise your weapon. Shoot the first man who doesn’t do as I tell them.”
The man with the broken nose reached for his AK leaning against the wall. He leveled it at the two men lying together on the floor across the room, then flipped off the safety lever. “Okay.”
Van Wyk said, “On three you will both lower your weapons, unravel, and go back to your kit. One . . . two . . . Brunetti, you good?”
“Yes, boss.”
“And three.”
Court retracted his switchblade with a snap, and Broz dropped his knife to the floor next to him with an audible clang. Both men climbed to their knees without looking at each other, and then stood.
Seconds later their knives were restowed, Van Wyk kicked Court’s pistol back to him, and the men sat down on opposite sides of the room.
The South African team leader said, “That doesn’t happen again or I start killing men for the good of the mission. Now, I came up here to give you a sit rep. Companies Bashar and Chadli are moving into the northern hills; they’ve broken up the opposition lines there. Battalion command can’t get any SAA air online to attack the FSA while they’re on the move, so they are trying to reach out to the Russians.
“Either way, we’ll be heading due east in fifteen mikes, bypassing the hills and staying on the highway. There is a town we have to take by dusk to get us into position for tonight.”
Saunders asked, “What’s tonight?”
Court noticed that Van Wyk glanced his way before saying, “Looks like a raid is in the works. That’s all I know.”
The team leader left the room, but Court climbed to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and followed along into the hall to the stairs there.
“Sir?”
The South African turned around at the top of the stairs. “Don’t call me sir. It’s boss, Van Wyk, or ‘hey, mate.’”
“Right, boss. Look, sorry about that back there.”
Van Wyk put a gloved finger in Court’s face. “I’ve got enough to deal with. Don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t.”
“Klossner told me you were good but didn’t have a lot of experience on the dark side. You’ll learn . . . not to love it, but you’ll learn to do it.”
This guy was as lost as the rest of these cutthroat killers, Court could see. He changed the subject. “You said they were trying to get Russian air to the hills?”
“That’s right.”
“I speak Russian, if they need someone in the operations center.”
Van Wyk seemed surprised by this but said, “SAA has Russians embedded with them, but the Hawks don’t. If the Hawks want Russian air, they’ve had to go through the army.”
“Maybe I can raise them on the radio directly.”
“Come with me,” Van Wyk ordered.
Court went back to collect his gear, then followed Van Wyk without a look or a word to the other men.
CHAPTER 60
After traveling from Damascus up to the interior of the nation, Court finally found himself about twenty-five feet away from where he really wanted to be. This was progress, yes, but he also found it frustrat
ing as hell.
He’d been led into the Desert Hawks battalion command post on the second floor of the refinery control building, but he’d been moved along a wall and taken to a communications station at a long table in the corner. He stood there with Van Wyk and a few Desert Hawks captains and majors, but twenty-five feet off his right shoulder was an open and damaged doorway to another part of the command center, and right inside this room was a detailed map lying flat on a large table. The map appeared to Court to be the size of a twin bed, and militia officers moved around it, talking to one another and on handheld radios.
He was certain the map held the secrets for whatever this security operation was all about, and if, in fact, an Azzam visit to Palmyra was the reason behind the operation, then Court knew he needed to find his way into that room.
Court stole glances over to the table every chance he got, but from his position he couldn’t make out a single feature of the map.
He had been standing here waiting for the radioman seated in front of him to dial in the Russian Air Force frequency that would put him directly in touch with Russian forces. It was weird, he had to admit. He was about to request that the Russians send air support to attack retreating Free Syrian Army forces. The thought made him feel nauseous, but he was in cover, and he’d seen no other way to finagle an invitation down into this room, where he knew he might be able to find the answers he was looking for.
Court was in this mission all the way now. He’d do what he had to do to get the intel for the FSA that could target Azzam personally.
Finally Van Wyk gave Court a long list of instructions relayed from the Syrian officers standing around the radio table, who themselves were in radio contact with the two companies pursuing the enemy forces to the north. When Court had everything written down, he took the radio and actuated the microphone. “Calling Russian air assets on this frequency. This is Desert Hawks Brigade battalion tactical operations center.” Court gave the code name of the Hawks unit commander, as instructed by the Syrian officers standing around.
“Send your traffic, Hawks Brigade,” came the terse reply in Russian.
Court was working off a map in front of him, although it wasn’t the map he wanted to see. On the table where the radio was set up was a laminated map with grease pencil notations, showing this command position in the refinery, the highway to the north, and the hills farther north where the FSA were running from the two regime militia companies. Court glanced at the map and said, “We have enemy in the open, fleeing to the northeast. Request any air assets in the area to prosecute. How copy?”
There was a long wait before any reply, and when it came, it was a different Russian voice.
“Who is broadcasting on this network?” the Russian asked.
Court replied, “I’m a contracted PMC officer for the Desert Hawks Brigade.” Court repeated the code words for the unit commander.
There was a pause. “You’re not an Arab.”
“That is correct. I am Canadian, Klossner Welt Ausbildungs security.”
Another pause from the Russian. “We have a Russian officer who speaks some Arabic. Put a Syrian on the radio.”
Court translated this for Van Wyk, and added, “These Russians have something against Canadians, apparently.”
Van Wyk translated for the Desert Hawks officers, and one of them got on the radio to speak with the Russian air assets.
To Court it looked like he’d just outlived his usefulness. There was a good chance he was going to be sent back to the KWA room upstairs because he wasn’t needed here.
He realized the only way he’d learn anything here in the command center was by walking into the other room and right up to the map, so he decided he needed to risk doing just exactly that.
Van Wyk was engaged with the majors, and none of the other men in the commo room noticed him slip away.
Court walked into the room with the map table like he had every right in the world to be there, and he judged the movement of the group of men around the table to position himself where he could see the most. The men were engaged in their conversation; Court wasn’t picking up the words but it seemed to be something of an argument.
He walked the length of the room and through an open door on the far side. Here was a small empty room with a window, but no way out. It would be awkward to just turn around and retrace his steps, but he was the Gray Man; he knew he could pull it off.
Court turned around and walked right back past the map, again as if he belonged, and headed back to the radio room. He’d spent fewer than ten seconds close to the map, and had only looked at it for two or three.
But he saw what he needed to see. The map clearly displayed the city of Palmyra, and a series of concentric circles. Different unit markings were evident around the maps, although Court didn’t recognize all the units.
To the far east it was easy to decipher, because this part of the map was a much more detailed version of the smaller laminated map Court saw on the radioman’s table. Court couldn’t read the Arabic script, but he had seen the location of the Hawks’ position in the refinery and also north in the hills.
Court could also see that there were two more small towns to the east of the refinery along the highway.
To the west were markings for other units, and from what Court had heard in the bar the night before, the SAA was providing the inner line of defense around the Palmyra area.
Inside of the SAA protective ring, the nucleus of the entire map had not been drawn around the city of Palmyra itself, but instead, it looked like it was about a mile or a mile and a half outside the city. And the nucleus was not a circle . . . it looked like the outline of a dumbbell lying at a 45-degree angle. At the center of the entire map, the nucleus around which the dumbbell emanated, was a spot on the M20 highway just a mile or so east from the eastern edge of the city of Palmyra.
Court had no idea what was at the center of this security cordon, but whatever it was, it involved two locations close to each other, and a protected zone between them. Clearly the focus of the entire security operation lay both north and south of the highway to the east of Palmyra.
This was key. He couldn’t just call Voland and have him tell the FSA that Azzam would be in Palmyra at a certain time. The FSA couldn’t flatten the entire city. But if there was some sort of a Russian base a mile or so to the east of Palmyra, and Azzam was planning on visiting it Tuesday, then that might represent actionable intelligence. The FSA might be able to send rocket crews close enough to attack the base, or set up shoulder-fired surface-to-air crews to target Azzam’s helicopter.
Yes, Court now knew the “where.” As for the “when,” it was sometime between tomorrow, which was Monday and when the security cordon was supposed to be in effect, and Tuesday afternoon, which was when Azzam had told both Bianca and Yasmin that he would return to Damascus.
The “what” was not hardened intel. This was all still speculation that this security operation involved Ahmed Azzam at all, but Court had executed many operations in his career on less solid intel than what he’d managed to acquire that corroborated his theory, so he was confident that the president would be coming to this area.
Court stood back by the radios, behind Van Wyk, and concentrated on committing all the information he had just seen to memory. In the middle of thinking over what it all meant, he looked up and was surprised to see Van Wyk looking directly at him.
“Kilo Nine! Pay attention.”
“Yeah, boss?”
“You’re up.”
“What?”
“The Russian’s Arabic sucks, apparently, so you’re back on the mic.”
Court took the radio and began speaking again with the Russians. He looked up to Van Wyk. “They say they can send a pair of Mi-24s for a couple of runs with rockets, but they are low on gas. After about two passes they will have to leave to refuel, and it will take th
em an hour to return.”
While Van Wyk discussed this with the Syrians, Court thought about this bit of information. Quickly he realized this was intel he needed. He figured the turnaround time to fuel an Mi-24 would be up to a half hour, and certainly not less than fifteen minutes. If the Russian attack helicopters had to fly both ways from the hills north of the refinery to their refueling bladder, and they could make the entire trip, including refueling, in an hour, Court thought there was a significant chance this meant there was a Russian refueling operation set up around Palmyra, and possibly in the “dumbbell” on the map in the other room.
There was nothing scientific about any of this, but all circumstantial evidence continued to point to a Russian base just off the highway east of Palmyra, and less than twenty-five kilometers from Court’s present location.
A Syrian major handed Court a sheet with the latest coordinates for the concentration of enemy forces trying to escape out of the hills. He wanted these exact coordinates relayed to the Russian helicopters.
Court decided to slightly alter the coordinates when he read them out over the radio, with the effect being to send the Russians to a location about two klicks west of the actual position of the Free Syrian Army forces. He wasn’t sure if it would save the guys on the ground or not, but he knew he couldn’t send the helos too far off course, or it would come back that they’d been fed completely incorrect coordinates.
* * *
• • •
Minutes later Court and Van Wyk left the command center, and minutes after that the entire KWA strike force was outside the control building, hustling back to their BMPs to leave the relative safety of the refinery and head out with Ali Company towards the east. As Court surveyed the scene around him, he saw bodies in the distance, slumped forms near some storage tanks. He was too far away to know if the people killed had been combatants or not, but he was well aware of the Hawks’ reputation for barbarism against civilians.
He climbed into his infantry fighting vehicle with the others, then looked up to see that Broz was sitting right in front of him. The Croatian still stared Court down.
