Skimming above the waves, he pleaded with the small airplane to go faster. Painfully, he worked the pedals and got it to turn to the right, pulling back on the stick to gain altitude. That was when he felt the impact of the first .50-caliber bullets striking his small airplane. The exterior skin of the Cessna TTX is a high-tech fiberglass composite material, not metal, and the first fusillade of four or five bullets passed through his left wing without even slowing down. The first thing he saw was the black holes in the wing’s upper surface, after which he saw streams of gasoline pouring out the bottom surface. As he turned to look, several more rounds smashed into the cockpit, narrowly missing him.
Never one to panic, Mergen immediately guessed that the bullets were coming from above and to his right, which meant they must be coming from another airplane! Frantically, he moved the stick back and forth to throw off their aim, while he scanned the bright-blue sky without success to find it. The cabin had excellent visibility to the front, but visibility was poor directly overhead and to the rear.
In what he hoped would be his final maneuver, he brought the nose around and pointed it at the stern of the first aircraft carrier now less than a half mile away. He saw the number 77 on its hull and realized this was the George Bush! Praise be to Allah, how perfect! It was lying on the opposite side of the concrete pier. It was a huge concrete structure almost a quarter-mile long and one hundred and fifty feet wide, rising ten feet above the water with “Pier 14” painted on it at the waterline.
Yes, the George Bush. That would be his target! Let them keep shooting at him, he knew what he must do. He would remain low, then go into a steep climb over the stern, and then suddenly swing back left over the flight deck, and drop his bombs in the middle of the F-18s. The George Bush! It would be Mergen Khan’s proudest moment.
“Get in closer,” Bob screamed at Carmody as they raced across the open water above and to the left of the other Cessna. He and Ace had each fired two full magazines and even caught fleeting glimpses of Mergen Khan sitting in the cockpit; but they were now on their third magazines and the other Cessna was still flying. They were now less than a half mile away from the pier and the incredibly tall six-story port side of the George H. W. Bush loomed in front of them like a tall, gray cliff, getting closer by the second.
Carmody had already squeezed every ounce of speed he could get out of the 310 hp turbocharged engine. The airplanes were identical and he was carrying four people while Mergen Khan was alone in his, and the extra weight was taking its toll.
As a pilot, there were some things that you had to think about, and there were other things you simply knew in your bones, and you did. What High Rider knew were four things — first, no matter how close you got, rifle bullets had their limitations; second, he only had time for one more maneuver; third, if he dove to his right to get closer so the riflemen could get better shots and they still missed, Khan would strike the carrier; and forth he saw no reason to debate the three previous points with people who knew nothing about flying.
“Hang on!” Carmody screamed as he suddenly put the Cessna into a tight barrel roll, flipping it upside down and bringing it down directly over the other airplane. With amazing skill and blind luck, he smashed the nose wheel on his front landing gear onto the engine cowling of the other plane, just in front of the windscreen, forcing it down. His TTX weighed over a ton. With no warning, it was as if an elephant had just sat on the nose of the other plane. There was little that Mergen Khan could do to counter the effect of a heavyweight punch, literally on the top of his head, which suddenly drove his airplane downward into the surface of the water only a few feet below him.
Indeed, Mergen Khan had no idea what hit him. An excellent pilot in his own right, the crunching blow from above suddenly pushed the nose of the Cessna down and wrenched the stick from his hand. He immediately grabbed it and pulled back on it with all his might to counter the small plane’s sudden downward momentum, but the best he could do was to get it to level off, as his own landing gear skipped across the top of the waves and kicked up water. Worse, the tall aircraft carrier and the concrete pier were looming closer and closer in front of him, filling his front windscreen.
But just as Mergen Khan was beginning to regain control, his plane suddenly absorbed a second, hammering blow in the same place. It ripped the stick from his hand again and he completely lost control. Instead of gaining altitude, he looked up through the windscreen one last time as his Cessna went into a nosedive and crashed headlong into the concrete side abutment of the pier.
The crash of the small fiberglass plane slamming into the solid concrete was suddenly overwhelmed by a thunderclap and the roar of a massive orange fireball. The small plane’s gas tank and the two 15-pound charges of C-4 exploded within a second or two of each other, sending pieces of airplane and chunks of concrete flying high above the aircraft carrier’s flight deck still hundreds of feet away. The Cessna itself all but vanished, and what little was left quickly sank to the mud of the Elizabeth River.
Life was barely more comfortable inside the cabin of the other airplane. The barrel roll had sent everything and everyone flying around the cockpit. Worse, just as the airplane’s occupants dropped back into their seats, the two controlled crashes followed like kidney punches. Fortunately, Carmody wasn’t finished yet, or they would all be dead. He used the second bounce as a springboard into a sharp, high-torque turn up and to the right. Engine screaming, he pulled back on the stick as far as it would go and opened the throttle as he tried to clear the six-story side of the George Bush now looming above them, when the explosions from Mergen Khan’s Cessna went off below them. The small plane shook and almost stalled as the flames rose around it. Flying sideways through the debris, it cleared the edge of the flight deck near the bow of the aircraft carrier by no more than twenty feet and roared out into the Elizabeth River. That was when the other three passengers almost lost it.
Bob managed to look down through the Cessna’s side window long enough to see the faces of several dozen sailors who had been working on the flight deck near the bow when the Cessna flew over them. He knew what their expressions looked like, open mouths and all, and he didn’t want to know what they thought of his.
High Rider managed to pull out of the steep climb and level off at five hundred feet with the nose of the airplane pointing north toward the James River, as Ace Randall broke the silence inside the cabin with “Well, that was interesting.”
“Can I open my eyes now?” Sharmayne asked as a pair of huge F-15 Eagles suddenly shot by them, leaving the Cessna bouncing in their wake. “Speaking of too little, too late.”
“Air Force pilots don’t have a sense of humor,” Bob said as he managed to leverage himself back into a sitting position.
“Better not let Dorothy hear you say that,” Ace quickly advised.
“I hate to interrupt this casual release of tension,” Carmody said as he turned to Sharmayne, “but you’d better call your pals at Langley and see if they can clear a runway. They might want to roll the fire trucks, too. We’re probably a little scorched on the underside, and I’m not sure how many parts we’re missing.”
“You want to have one of the F-15s come back and look?” Sharmayne asked.
“No, no.” Carmody vigorously shook his head. “They came close enough last time. Besides, I need to get this thing on the ground as quick as I can.”
“Copy that,” Bob said. “Great job, High Rider. The Old Man would be proud. And sending Mergen Khan off to his ‘thousand virgins’ makes it a clean sweep.”
Ace thought about that for a moment and added, “Almost.”
POSTSCRIPT
Amman, Jordan
Three weeks later, Bob Burke and Ace Randall were lying in two plush lounge chairs on the pool deck of the Sheraton Hotel Amman. It was early morning on the third day, but they weren’t there to work on their tans. No telling how much longer they would remain there. Maybe till noon. Maybe another day, or a week or two.
&nb
sp; “This waiting’s getting hard to take,” Ace said as he raised his glass of Macallan 25-year-old Scotch, neat of course, slowly sniffed the aroma, and took a long sip.
“I can see that,” Bob replied from behind the Middle East edition of the London Times.
They sat quietly for another few minutes until Ace broke the silence again. “Tell me,” he said as he studied his glass. “How come these camel jockeys can’t make a drink with umbrellas? You know, chunks of pineapple on a stick, maraschino cherries, fruit juice, lots of rum? I’m sorry, but you can’t have a good pool bar without an umbrella and pineapple.”
Bob lowered the paper and stared at him. “They fly Macallan in here by the pallet. Why would anyone want an umbrella?”
Ace savored another slow sip. “I guess you have a point,” he replied. “How long are you going to keep waiting for Theo to call you back before we go to plan B?”
“He’ll call.”
“Why? Because it was you who called him and left the message?”
Bob shrugged. “Yeah, he’s probably intrigued by that; and don’t forget, he owes me.”
“We killed his brother and all of his men in Atlantic City, and you think he owes you?”
“That door swings both ways. He never liked his brother, and a guy like him can always replace the hired help.”
“You think he’s worth the wait?”
“What can I say? He’s one of the best in the business, and he knows the territory.”
They were about to have one of the pool girls slather them with lotion again when a prim and proper waiter in a white jacket walked over to Bob with a sterling silver drink tray in his hand. He paused to look at his watch, and counted off another fifteen seconds, and finally presented him with the tray. There were no drinks on it, only a clean white bar towel. The waiter pulled up one corner to reveal a Satellite Phone and presented it to Bob, just as it rang.
“The man’s got style, I’ll give him that much,” Ace laughed.
Bob nodded, pressed Receive, and heard Theo Van Gries’s voice. “I apologize for the delay in returning your call, but I have been away on business.” Pointedly, Theo did not use names.
“I understand, and I’m glad to hear you’re back in business. But why the Sat Phone?”
“Encryption and security. Now what can I do for you?”
“I need some support for a very dangerous Op.”
“With all of your other resources and connections? I am honored, but you are aware that my services are not inexpensive.”
“That won’t be an issue.”
“Thanks to my former employers in New York, I assume. And the location?”
“A current hot-spot to the north of here. The plan is for a long-range shot, maybe two, and I’ll need a fully-equipped tactical squad and two helicopters. Hopefully, we’ll be in and right back out; but budget for four days.”
“Intel?”
“I’ll have more than I need.”
Van Gries paused for a moment. “Access? Political cover? Bribes?”
“All taken care of.”
“I see… So, this must be the shot everyone wants to take, and keeps missing?”
“Something like that.”
“Obviously, they decided to send the very best, this time.”
“Nobody’s sending us, Theo. To be crystal clear, we’re on our own.”
“Ah, the private enterprise solution. Excellent. You know, I had feared you wanted my help for something easy like Putin or Donald Trump, or stealing the Crown Jewels.”
After rendezvousing in Ankara, Turkey, they took a small charter plane southeast to Diyarbakir, and drove the rest of the way to Mardin in three rented Land Rovers. The last leg was a short drive to a small Turkish Army post near the Syrian border, where their helicopters were waiting — two old Russian Mi-24 “Hinds,” which had been built for the Polish Army and “rented” from an Armenian Army unit in Iraq. Theo Van Gries’s men were equally international: former Special Ops men from his own Dutch “Black Devils,” the French Legion, British SAS, German KSK, one Russian Speznaz soldier, and even a former Navy Seal.
Just before sunset the men crammed themselves and their gear into the helicopters, while Bob and Theo met with the Turkish commander. Bob handed him a thick envelope with $50,000 in cash and a small slip of paper, and showed him the second envelope he would get upon their return. The Turk looked at the slip of paper and his eyes went wide.
As they walked away, Theo said, “Personally, I wouldn’t trust a Turkish colonel to cook my lamb. But what was on the paper?”
“The numbers of his bank accounts in Istanbul and Bucharest, and the firm assurance that they would be empty if we experience any problems.”
“You are always a priceless education, my friend.” Theo laughed.
They climbed into the two helicopters and took off to the north, swinging back around to the south and crossing into Syria after they were well out of sight of the Turkish base. The Russians referred to the “Hind” as the “flying tank,” but they were faster than they looked and almost indestructible. That made them the perfect choice for an Op like this. In less than an hour the two big machines settled down in a dry riverbed six miles northwest of Raqqah. Theo’s men quickly dismounted. Half of them set a perimeter defense, while the others helped the pilots string thick, light-brown camouflage netting over the two machines.
A bright half-moon hung in the clear night sky, offering more than enough light to operate by. After a terse map and operational briefing for the men, they split into two columns and set off at a fast pace into the rocky desert to the south. Most carried the new Canadian-Dutch 5.56-millimeter C-8 assault rifles and each column had a FN 7.62 Belgian light machine gun. Bob and Ace each carried a Barrett slung across his back, to which Bob added an M-4 and Ace had added a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun.
By 10:30 p.m., they saw the lights of a cluster of houses in the distance in a small neighborhood on the west side of Raqqah. While Theo’s ten men spread out to the sides and rear to provide covering fire if necessary, Bob, Ace, and the Dutchman crawled forward to a rocky ridge line a half mile from the houses. When they found a good vantage point, the two Americans spread out their equipment and began to study the target.
“This might work better if you had a spotter,” Theo offered.
“Not a bad idea,” Bob whispered as he handed Theo their Leupold tripod-mounted spotter scope and he got back behind his Barrett. “We’re looking at the fourth house from the right. There is a guard on the roof, a two-man foot patrol that comes around every five minutes or so, and a door in the center of the rear wall of the house. We’re told our targets usually come out for a smoke between 11:00 p.m. and midnight.”
“Sounds like someone doesn’t like them,” Theo quipped. “Nice scope by the way. I’ve used this model myself,” he said as he looked at the scale. “I’m coming up with 930 meters, just over half a mile, with negligible wind. A prodigious shot, but well within the capabilities of you two gentlemen, I am told. Will this be a contest?”
“Everything’s a contest,” Ace mumbled as he settled in behind his Barrett and adjusted its scope. “By the way, Ghost, I forgot to tell you I had a call from Koz while you two were schmoozing with the Turk.”
“How’s everything back in God’s country,” Bob answered as he studied the house one more time through his rifle’s Zeiss telescopic sight. “Everything copacetic on the farm?”
“The girls are fine, and I’ve kept the extra security in place for another two weeks.”
“Excellent, Master Sergeant. So, what’s Koz’s news?”
“Seems like your old pal Colonel Adkins ran into a shit-storm of problems yesterday.”
“Did his dentist screw up the new implant?”
“No, he got himself arrested. When his ‘hold baggage’ arrived at Bragg from al-Assad two days ago, in a routine search…”
“A routine search? Of a full colonel’s hold baggage…?” Bob chuckled.
�
��Who am I to argue with Koz’s story?” Ace shrugged. “Anyway, they found fifteen pieces of antique gold jewelry tucked in his underwear — old, like ‘Mesopotamian-old,’ from the ninth century BC. It was part of a hoard stolen from the Baghdad Museum.”
“Not that stuff again?” Bob laughed. “It’s gone around more times than the Daytona 500.”
“Anyway, it went all the way up to the Army Chief of Staff in DC and Adkins was personally arrested by the Bragg Provost Marshall. He has been ‘relieved’ of his command pending court-martial. Of course, he claims it was all a set-up.”
“I’m sure. But you know what it goes to prove?” Bob smiled. “Never piss off a pay clerk, a personnel clerk…”
“Or those transportation guys. In fact, I think I’m the one who told you that.”
“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt your festivities,” Theo said quietly, “but the rear door of your house just opened.”
Aslan Khan stepped out into the dark night with the small figure of Abu Bakr al-Zaeim following close behind. Khan quickly closed the door behind them and pulled out a package of Russian Belomorkanal cigarettes. They were strong, old-fashioned man killers. He offered one to the Caliph, not expecting him to take one, and al-Zaeim declined, as usual. The big man then turned away with a sneer on his lips, cupped his hands, and lit one anyway.
They stood quietly outside the door taking in the night air. Over the past few weeks, since he heard the news from North Carolina and Virginia, Khan had moderated his treatment of the little man and allowed him out of the basement more often. Occasionally, he even allowed him out of the house when Khan stepped outside for a smoke.
Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels) Page 44
