by Robert Gandt
“When did you record this?”
“Night before last,” said Carson. “During the late shift. Lieutenant DiLorenzo and I were in the QA space.”
“Anyone else with you?”
“No, sir.”
Alexander stared in wonder at the recorder. “May I ask why you’re giving me this?”
Carson looked at him. “I guess it was because of something you said. That you were counting on me. It got me to thinking about what was most important—my getting promoted, or having another of our jets go down, maybe taking one of the pilots with it. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
“Which aircraft were given the bogus corrosion inspections?”
“Number 306, 307, and 309.”
“Number 306 was the bird I jumped out of.”
“Lieutenant DiLorenzo backdated the inspection record. He did it after your jet had already crashed.”
Alexander’s eyes blazed. “Could that aircraft have been affected by corrosion?”
Carson winced. “Knowing what we know now, probably. From the wreckage there was way to prove it.”
For a moment Alexander let his mind drift back to the cockpit of his doomed jet. He could see the runway of Al Jaber rising up to meet him, the jet wobbling out of control, the sudden violence of the ejection. The taste of desert sand in his mouth as he hit the ground.
Those sons of bitches.
He picked up a clipboard on his desk. “307 is airborne now. Looks like CAG is flying it. Do you think that jet has airframe corrosion too?”
A glum look passed over Carson’s face. “If we’d inspected like it we were supposed to, I could answer that.”
Alexander glowered at the recorder. “And you’re sure that both Lieutenant DiLorenzo and Commander Manson are in on this?”
“You heard the recording, sir.”
“Yeah, I sure did.” Alexander stood and rubbed his chin for a moment, still looking at the recorder. “Are you willing to testify against them?”
Carson nodded.
“Even if it means having charges brought against you?”
Carson swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Alexander picked up the recorder and slipped it into the pocket of his leather flight jacket. “You’re relieved of your duties for now. Stay away from the maintenance offices and don’t talk to anyone until I call for you.”
“Yes, sir. What’s going to happen to me?”
“That’s up to the skipper. But I promise you one thing. I’m going to nail those other two sons of bitches.”
< >
Haw Umm Qasr, Iran
Al-Fasr’s nerves were resonating like high tension wires. In his career as a soldier he had been exposed to many threats, but he had always managed to control the circumstances. He had chosen his battles, calculated his chances, steered the outcome.
This was different. Never had he felt so vulnerable.
He took careful steps, moving deliberately toward the voice across the courtyard. His right leg was aching again, sending sharp pains up his thigh. On the far side he could see only vague forms. How many? Three? One would be the American prisoner.
He had recognized Abu’s voice. His faithful lieutenant. His second-in-command. Abu was there to bring him back from captivity.
Or was he?
Al-Fasr’s instincts were screaming at him. Something—an inflection in Abu’s voice, the peculiar venue of this exchange, an old, nagging suspicion—was sending him a warning signal.
Something wasn’t right. But he was powerless, at least at the moment. His hands were still bound with the tie wraps. He knew that Bronson’s pistol was aimed squarely at the middle of his back. Across the courtyard waited Abu. With another pistol.
Abu is your comrade. Your fellow warrior. He is here to rescue you.
He had to believe. He had no choice.
In the gloom of the unlighted courtyard, he saw a shadow coming toward him. Shambling, moving with stiff-legged steps, like a man who’d lived for a long time in confinement.
Rasmussen.
His judgment had been vindicated. Accepting the prisoner as a gift from Saddam Hussein, using him as a bargaining chip—it had been a shrewd investment. Now it would purchase freedom for them both.
It was strange, he thought. He could feel a sense of camaraderie with the prisoner. He remembered the long talks with the American. Rasmussen had been an honorable and intelligent companion.
The dark form of the American materialized out of the gloom, shuffling toward him. Yes, it was definitely Rasmussen. Al-Fasr wondered whether he understood what was happening.
“Good luck, Navy,” said Al-Fasr when they were three feet apart. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
The prisoner’s face seemed to come alive. For a moment he stopped and looked at Al-Fasr. “I don’t think so, Colonel.”
Rasmussen shuffled past him, toward the waiting Americans. Ahead of Al-Fasr were the dark forms of Abu and someone else.
Who?
Then he recognized him. Omar Al-Iryani was an Afghan who had been at Abu’s side since the Mujahedeen days. Al-Fasr suspected that it was Omar who carried out the executions of the Sherji who were not loyal to Abu Mahmed.
A silence lay over the courtyard. Al-Fasr could hear Rasmussen’s shuffling footsteps behind him. Over the rim of the low buildings, the sky was pinkening. Dawn was less than half an hour away.
Twenty yards to the edge of the courtyard. The ache in Al-Fasr’s leg was sharper now. The hike from the helicopter had been pure agony for him.
In the thin light, he could see Abu and Omar watching.
Something was wrong. What?
Omar’s eyes. The Afghan’s eyes were darting from Al-Fasr to something else. Something off to the side, behind Al-Fasr.
Al-Fasr turned to look behind him. Rasmussen was still walking toward the far edge of the courtyard. Maxwell and Bronson hadn’t moved.
He heard the soft clack of metal on metal. A rifle bolt sliding home. He turned toward the sound.
Then he saw it. Something dark, moving on the roof of the building across the courtyard. Out of the view of the Americans.
Al-Fasr had sensed treachery since he climbed out of the helicopter. That was why Abu had set this up. He wanted Al-Fasr as a martyr, not a commander.
“Sniper!” he yelled. He spun around, looking for Rasmussen. He ran toward the American as fast as his crippled leg would move him. The sound of gunfire split the morning stillness.
He saw Rasmussen go down. In a low crouch Al-Fasr scuttled toward him. More shots rang out. He was almost there when a bullet thudded into his body.
Chapter 24 — Hunches
Haw Umm Qasr, Iran
0520, Wednesday, 24 March
Maxwell was caught off guard. In the sudden chaos, he saw muzzle flashes, Rasmussen falling, heard Bronson’s SMG rattle off a burst.
He dropped to one knee, snatching the .45 from its holster.
Across the clearing he saw a flash. In the next instant he felt the whir of the bullet sizzle past his right ear.
Holding the heavy pistol in both hands, he leveled the sights on the larger of the two forms and snapped off a round. The Colt sounded like a Howitzer going off in his hands. In the greenish light of the NVG, he saw plaster fly off the wall of the building behind his target.
Shit.
Another flash from across the courtyard. Another bullet whizzing past, smacking plaster.
Steady. He aimed again, sucked in a breath. Just like the practice range. The problem was, he hadn’t practiced with these damned clunky NVG strapped on his head.
He held his breath, keeping the sights level on the silhouette across the courtyard. Squeeze.
Again the Howitzer boomed in his hands.
This time he saw the taller man lurch backwards, falling on his back. He lay writhing on the ground.
Maxwell swung his head, scanning with the goggles, looking for the second shooter.
Nothing. He was gone.
A rifle slid off the roof and landed with a clunk in the courtyard. Two seconds later, the body of the sniper slid down, thudding into the dirt like a bag of laundry heaved from a balcony.
Bronson dropped back to the wall, scanning from left to right, sweeping the rooftops.
“Advantage America,” he said. “We have the goggles, they don’t.”
“How many are there?”
“I killed two snipers on the roof,” said Bronson. “How about the two across the courtyard?”
“One down. The other’s gone.”
“There’ll be more on the way. We have to get the hell out of here.”
Maxwell looked at the dark shape lying in the courtyard. “We’ve gotta get Raz—”
Bronson’s portable transceiver crackled. “Raven, this is Gracie. What’s going on there? Are you guys taking fire?”
“Affirmative, but we’ve got it stabilized,” answered Bronson. “We’re coming out. We need to leave as soon as we get there. Do you copy that?”
“We copy. Understand Basher. We’re on the way.”
“Negative, negative. Just be ready to pull out when we get there.”
“Roger, Raven. We’re standing by.”
Bronson turned to Maxwell. “I want you to clear out of the village. Go to the river and wait for me. I’ll be a minute behind you to cover our exit.”
“What about Raz?”
“I’ll get him. Now you go!”
Maxwell glanced once again at the inert form in the courtyard, then rose and headed into the darkness outside the village.
< >
It was all a deception.
That was the only conclusion Mustafa Ashbar could draw, watching the scene from his vantage point behind the low wall.
With the NVGs that Tyrwhitt had given him, he could see the shooters and the angle of the gunfire. How many? Two Sherji on the roof, plus Abu and Omar in the courtyard. Two Americans, both wearing NVGs.
He kept his own submachine gun firmly in his grasp, his finger crooked around the trigger guard. It was an Uzi, his favorite, donated by a grateful Mossad agent whose life he had saved one night in Damascus.
For a moment Mustafa considered interfering in the gun duel, but he quickly rejected the idea. It would just betray his presence to the other Sherji in the area. The truth was, he didn’t have any vested interest in the outcome. The Americans were his current employers, but this mission was a private one. His only purpose here was to observe the event, then return to Bahrain and report the details to Tyrwhitt.
Tyrwhitt, the crazy one.
Mustafa felt no loyalty to the Americans, certainly no more than he felt to the Israelis or the Kurds or the Russians. He was a stateless person whose fealty was to himself and, in rare instances, to trusted comrades. Like Tyrwhitt.
He and Tyrwhitt were from the same mold, Mustafa reflected. They spied and informed and killed for money, nothing more. Certainly not for allegiance to a country. But they had risked their lives to save each other, which was the reason Mustafa had agreed to perform this mission.
He watched, remaining motionless, as the second American departed the courtyard. He saw the first one—Bronson, the American chief in Bahrain—move toward the two downed prisoners.
With a growing certainty, Mustafa knew what would happen next. And he could guess why.
Maybe he should use the Uzi.
No, he decided. Stay out of it. You are an observer, not a participant. Let it happen.
< >
Nothing made sense anymore.
Rasmussen lay face down on the cobbled courtyard. It was possible, he supposed, that he was dreaming. None of this was really happening. Or he was dead already and this was some version of hell.
Who was shooting at whom? Why?
Al-Fasr, who he thought was dead, had appeared in the darkness, passing him in the courtyard. Good luck, Navy. What did he mean?
He hadn’t understood why they brought him to the village at night until he heard the voices. American voices. Then he had done as Abu told him. He began walking toward the voices.
Toward freedom. For an incredible moment, he had let himself believe he was going home.
He should have known better. It was better to believe in nothing. Better no hope at all than to have his dreams dashed like cheap glass.
The gunfire had stopped. He sensed someone crawling toward him. He heard panting, the labored sound of deep breathing.
“Get out of here,” said a raspy voice. “Run for it. It’s a trap.”
Rasmussen stared at the shadowy figure. It was Al-Fasr. He appeared to be wounded.
“You’ve been hit,” said Rasmussen. “Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Al-Fasr. “This is where I belong, but not you. You have to get out of this place.”
Rasmussen rose to his knees to help Al-Fasr. He could see that he was bleeding. The bullet seemed to have penetrated his shoulder. Rasmussen bent over him, trying to locate the wound.
“For God’s sake, run,” Al-Fasr croaked. “It’s your only chance.”
Rasmussen couldn’t make himself move. Run from whom? Where? His only chance for what?
He saw a dark silhouette coming toward him. The man looked like a predator, a black apparatus protruding from his face. He was dressed in camouflage BDUs. In one hand he carried a submachine gun.
“Who are you?” said Rasmussen.
The man didn’t answer. He removed the device from his face, and in the greenish glow from the detached device, Rasmussen glimpsed the features of his face. He was not an Arab. He had cold, penetrating eyes and a hard set to his mouth.
“He’s your worst enemy,” said Al-Fasr.
The man peered down at Al-Fasr, studying him for a moment. He pulled a semiautomatic pistol from his belt and aimed it squarely at Al-Fasr’s head.
“Noooooo!” yelled Rasmussen.
He flinched at the sharp crack of the shot.
Disbelieving, he stared at the body of Jamal Al-Fasr. He lay face down, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.
The man turned his attention to Rasmussen. He swung the pistol and aimed it at his head.
< >
Maxwell followed Bronson’s instructions. Leaving the courtyard, he went as far as the crumbling old wall that bordered the far edge of the village. In the greenish light of the NVGs, he could see the path that ran along the river. The path to the helicopter and safety.
Then he turned around.
As a fighter pilot, Maxwell had learned to trust his intuition. More than once a hunch had kept him alive, hinted to him that something—the airplane, the weather, the enemy—was about to turn on him.
Something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, only that he was getting one of those subliminal warnings. It was wrong to leave their backup behind at the LZ. It was wrong to leave Raz in the courtyard.
He started running back toward the village.
An old dictum from test pilot school came to him: Remember your first impression. It is almost always the right one. It applied to people as well as airplanes. He remembered his first impression of Bronson—a cynical, ambitious man with a secret agenda. Except that in the last few hours Maxwell had been persuaded to change his first impression of Bronson.
Bronson is not what you think.
He ran faster. He was rounding the corner into the courtyard when he heard the pistol shot. The muzzle flash was amplified in the NVG, but from thirty feet away he could see everything.
“Hold it!” he called. He stopped in the shadow of the low building.
On the ground lay a body. He saw Bronson, pistol in his hand, aiming at a kneeling man’s head. The man on his knees wore a dejected, resigned expression.
A man awaiting execution.
“Don’t shoot him, Ted
.”
Bronson lowered the gun, but he didn’t turn around. “I told you to get out of here. Now do it.”
“Drop the gun, Ted.”
Bronson didn’t move.
Maxwell fired a round from the .45 over his head. Bronson dropped the pistol. He still had the SMG slung over his left shoulder.
“This isn’t your business,” Bronson said. “Go to the helicopter.”
“Not without Raz.”
A deathly stillness fell over the courtyard. Bronson kept his back turned. Maxwell could see that he wasn’t wearing the NVG. From the east, a pale light had begun to insert itself into the darkness.
Bronson whirled, catching Maxwell by surprise. The first burst from the SMG was wild, kicking up dirt ten yards away. Bronson was trying to find his target in the darkness beneath the building.
Maxwell forced himself to take his time. Breathe in, hold it. . .
He superimposed the sights over the greenish shape of the man with the SMG.
Another burst from the SMG. Plaster shattered from the wall behind him. Maxwell saw Bronson’s eyes over the barrel of the submachine gun, looking for him.
Finding him. The muzzle of the SMG swung toward him.
Squeeze.
The Colt recoiled in Maxwell’s grip. He forced himself to keep his eye open, ready to fire again.
It wasn’t necessary. Through the goggles he could see Bronson. He was down, lying on his back, legs still kicking. The submachine gun lay beside him.
Maxwell walked to him, keeping the Colt trained on the spread-eagled body. He ejected the clip and rammed a fresh one home.
Maxwell removed the NVG and looked down at Bronson’s body. He had a purplish cavity in the middle of his forehead. His sightless eyes stared up into the pinkening sky.
Rasmussen rose to his feet, wearing a stunned expression. “You called me ‘Raz,’” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Brick Maxwell.”
“Maxwell?” Rasmussen stared in disbelief. “You were my best friend.”
Maxwell grinned at him. “I still am, Raz.”
< >
