by John Ringo
"American! We will negotiate now!"
Mike peeked into the open area and shook his head at the sight. A teenage muj was holding the blonde by the hair, an AK pointed in the general direction of, well, the floor. Not at her. He shook his head, targeted the terrorist, who was looking in the wrong direction, and put three rounds through his head.
The blonde was in bad shape, covered in blood and apparently choking. He had a choice of helping her or taking down the last tango. Helping her meant exposing himself, and the hostage, to hostile fire. But . . . choking could kill just as sure as a bullet. The gag was a cloth band with, apparently, cloth in the mouth. He looked at it and clicked out his locking-blade knife. Taking it in his right hand he ran to the girl, slid the razor edge under the gag and cut it off. He hadn't taken any fire doing so but he ghosted over between the coffins again.
Silence. The last target, if he was counting right, seemed to be playing the waiting game. Okay, time to see how stealthy "Ghost" could be. He started to move along the wall, heel rolling to side of the foot and then to the ball, one slow step at a time, checking the gaps between the boxes and occasionally getting a glimpse of the now crying, and still choking a bit, blonde. She at least was keeping quiet and down, other than the crying. She'd probably puked at all the blood and been choking on that, and that sort of choke could take your voice away pretty quick. Whatever the reason, he appreciated her not yelling for help or whatever. It would be distracting.
He smelled him before he saw him, the distinct smell of urine with a hint of shit. There was a fair bit of both in the room, the offal and sulfur smell of battle. But this was close and sharp. As he got closer he could hear the breathing, fast, high panting. Sworn to die or not, this was one muj who was scared as hell.
Karem Majali was an agronomy student who had been born in the mountains of Yemen where his father was a minor sheikh. He had been raised to do battle, showing no fear, a warrior for Allah. But while he had sometimes fired his weapon at other Yemeni, and even participated in one of the numerous kidnappings of foreigners in that land, he had never truly faced death. And he found that his belief in Allah was not as strong as he'd thought. All he could think was that this one American had killed, as far as he could tell, all of the other mujahideen, even Hazzah Bud and Abdul Mohiuddin, who were well-known warriors of Allah. He seemed to not be human, but some desert-formed shedim, an evil demon. Karem tried to lift himself from his hiding place, to rise up and charge forth, screaming God is Great as he should. But his knees would not support him and he realized that he had shit his pants. He could only crouch in his hole, shaking and crying faintly and wishing that he had never left Yemen, had never agreed to join the jihad, had stayed in his dorm instead of going to that Allah-Be-Damned rally. The hell with the Palestinians, anyway, they were filth unto Allah. . . .
Mike peeked around the coffins and tried not to laugh. The tango was huddled by the coffins, AK gripped with white knuckles, shaking like a leaf, looking towards the open area. Mike leaned forward and gently but firmly pressed the warm barrel of the sub-gun into the back of the subject's head.
"Lie on the ground with your hands behind your head," the former SEAL said in his very best Arabic.
The target froze for a second, then the AK slid into the open area and he flattened himself to the ground, legs spread and hands on the back of his head, fingers interlaced.
"Clearly you've been watching Fox," Mike said, trying not to chuckle. He grabbed the tango by the back of his collar and yanked him to his feet, pushing him into the open area with the barrel of the MP-5.
"Oh, God. Oh, God!" The blonde had slid as far away from the bodies as her bonds permitted her and now was bent in a fetal position. But she'd looked up at the steps and now her eyes were wide. "Oh, thank you!"
"You're welcome," Mike said, kneeing the muj into a kneeling position, then lowering him back facedown on the floor.
"Who are you?" the girl managed to gasp between coughs.
"No one of consequence," Mike said, then barked a laugh. "God, I always wanted to use that line. Do me a favor, and be quiet for a second, okay, honey? I need to talk to this young gentleman."
There was a pile of tie-ties, plastic handcuffs derived from cable ties, on the table and Mike used two of them to secure the terrorist.
"Is there any way you could let me go?" the girl asked as he rolled the muj over.
"Not at the moment, I'm in a hurry," Mike said, sliding the barrel of the MP-5 down to point at the tango's balls. "You speak English?"
"Yes!" the kid said, quickly. "I am speaking good English! I am student!"
"Great," Mike said, sliding the barrel down to the terrorist's knee. "Now, here's the deal. The first time I think you're lying to me, I'm going to shoot you in the knee. Now, that really hurts and you'll be permanently crippled. So try very hard not to lie to me. Okay? I'm basically a very bad man and I'd like to hurt you. A lot. But, I'm also an honorable one and if you don't lie to me, if you give me good answers, I won't shoot you. Okay?"
"Okay," the tango said, desperately.
"Where did they take the girls?" Mike asked, mildly.
"I do not know!" the boy said. "All I know is an airport."
"Hmmm . . ." Mike murmured then fired a round through the kid's leg. "Don't believe you."
He waited until the screaming, from both the tango and his erstwhile rapee, died down, then pointed the barrel at the other leg.
"Care to go for two?"
"I don't know!" the kid screamed. "They not tell us, tell us not to ask! Maybe is in papers. Hazzah is handling papers! A file, on the desk!"
"Hmmm . . ." Mike said, going over to the desk. "What's your name, Blondie?"
"Ashley," the girl said, whimpering. "Oh, please tell me you're not going to hurt me!"
"Hell, no," Mike snorted, searching through the papers. "I'm one of the good guys. Sort of. I'd like to, mind you. Girls all tied up and covered in blood are a real turn-on."
"What . . . who are you?" Ashley asked, desperately. "What the hell are you?"
"Nobody you want to remember," Mike replied, picking what looked like a bill of lading out of the pile. "Look, the police are going to be on this like flies on shit. I'd really appreciate it, as the guy who just saved your miserable cheerleader ass, if you'd tell them you have no clue who I am. I'm a short, tall, fat, thin, blond brunet with greenish brown eyes. Got it?"
"You're not with the police?" the girl said, totally confused.
"Oh, come on," Mike scoffed. "I know you're an airhead, but use at least one brain cell. Do the police commonly shoot people through the leg to get information?"
"Well, they beat people up," Ashley said, with relentlessly liberal logic.
"Did those guys beat you?" Mike asked, gesturing at the dead terrorists.
"Yes," Ashley said, sobbing gently.
"Would you like me to shoot you through the knee so you can tell the difference?" Mike asked, puzzling over the load list.
"NO!"
"Then, trust me, police don't kneecap people for information. It's really obvious. It looks like they were taking them to the Atlanta airport," Mike said, dropping the manifest. "Okay, I'm going to cut part of the way through your bonds," he continued, pulling his knife back out. "As soon as you work yourself free, call 911 and report all of this. When they get here, remember . . ."
"Short, fat, thin, tall, blondish brunet?" Ashley said, nodding. "Got it. What about him?" she asked, gesturing with her chin at the gently sobbing and moaning muj.
"What about him?" Mike asked, pulling her upright and applying his knife to the tough plastic. "If he bleeds out or dies of shock, it's no skin off my nose. Let me ask you, do you really care?"
"No," Ashley admitted after a moment's thought.
"Congratulations," Mike said, changing his mind and cutting the bonds on her hands completely free. "You're halfway to conservative already. Remember, Vote Cliff."
"I'm not that far," Ashley said, smiling faintl
y. "Why'd you cut me free?"
"Give me ten minutes," Mike said. "After I'm gone. Then call. And tell them Atlanta airport."
"You're going to get in trouble for this, aren't you?"
"It is not inside my normal mission parameters," Mike admitted without really lying. Let her suggest to the police that he was some sort of spook. "Yeah, if they figure out who it was, I'll be looking at, well, murder one, torture, you name it. They'll probably throw the book at me. So . . . be uncooperative, okay? Just tell them you want to talk to an attorney or, barring that, the news media."
"What's your name, please?" Ashley said, leaning forward to drift a kiss across his cheek as he worked on her ankles.
"Look, killing makes me really horny," Mike said, tightly. "So do tied-up half-naked, damned good-looking blondes. And if you really must know, it's the Dread Pirate Roberts."
"What?" Ashley said, pulling her ankles up to her as soon as they were free and rubbing at the marks from the strips.
"Haven't you ever seen The Princess Bride?" Mike asked, aghast.
"No?"
"Good Lord, woman." He stood up, shaking his head, and headed for the door. "Rent it. You owe me."
"I will," Ashley said.
"Ten minutes," Mike said, then paused. "Crap."
"What now?" Ashley said, looking around wildly.
"Well, two things," Mike admitted. "No wheels and I need to check on the other girl."
The coffin had not been hit and the girl, who was apparently drugged, was fine. Mike checked her pulse and had to really restrain himself from copping a feel. It wasn't like anyone would know. Then he looked at his hands, which were covered in cordite residue and blood, and shook his head. Okay, so they'd know. He was already looking at murder one. No, down.
He left the top propped up and searched the pockets of the terrorist who seemed to be the boss on the basis that he'd be the most likely to have his own vehicle. Sure enough, he turned up a set of keys, with an electronic opener, for a Ford. He hunted around and found a couple more MP-5 mags and came back to find Ashley collapsed into the station chair that had been rolled away from the desk. It had a couple of bullet holes in it but she didn't seem to mind.
"You okay?" he said.
"Now you ask?" she replied. She'd been crying again, but she tried to smile.
"Yeah, now I ask," Mike admitted. "I'm coming off mission-high. You okay?"
"I will be," Ashley said. "I don't want to wait here alone for the police."
"Five minutes," Mike said, noticing for the first time that she had a really distinct cleft in her chin. It just made her cuter than before and he had to force down a wave of lust that was truly overpowering. On a whim he decided to take the satellite phone; there was a land-line she could use. Satellite phones couldn't call 911 anyway, and if she tried she'd get really confused. "At least. I can't stay, you know that?"
"Yeah," she sighed. "I really want to know who you are."
"Well," he said, grinning, "if you ever see me again, for the first time, be overwhelmed by a wave of lust and need to give me a blowjob right then and there, even if it's in public. Okay?"
"Sure," Ashley said, shaking her head. "Men. Maybe not in public, but we'll talk, okay? This has . . ."
"Don't let this put you off of men, God damnit," Mike said, firmly. "I didn't risk my fucking life to have you go lesbo. All men aren't these filth. And if you decide they are, you're spitting on what I did. Because the good guys want to get laid, too. Understand?"
"Understand," Ashley said, nervously. "Christ, you sound like my dad."
"Oh, that's really what I needed to hear!" Mike said, spinning away. "Five minutes. Minimum!"
"I don't have a watch," Ashley said as he disappeared behind the coffins.
"Plenty of them on the bodies."
Chapter Three
The keys turned out to be for a dark green Explorer and he pulled out of the park quickly, stopping only long enough to grab his jump bag where he'd left it. He thought about evidence he'd left behind. Probably enough to convict him. Fingerprints on the back of the van, if they dusted that. Yeah, they would; he'd left footprints on the bumper for sure. And not even Athens PD was going to miss those. He'd kept all his magazines, expended and unexpended, but there were sure to be prints somewhere. On the coffin, too, come to think of it. Damnit, he wasn't a natural criminal type. Well, he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb; he wanted to find the container vehicle and make sure he'd read the documents right.
To get to Atlanta from there the quickest way was to get on the 10 loop and take it to 316. That led to I-85 and a couple of ways to get to the airport. He'd never been to the cargo side of the airport but he wanted to eyeball the damned thing.
He took the bypass fast, pushing the Explorer up to nearly a hundred and weaving in and out of traffic. He was going so fast that he nearly missed the exit for 316 but caught it just in time, the vehicle swaying perilously as he decelerated for the cloverleaf spiral. He'd decided that if he spotted the vehicle he was going to do something to attract police attention. Ever since 9/11 aircraft had been heavily controlled. But if the aircraft was controlled by the muj, as it probably was, if it got off the ground it was a flying bomb filled with hostages. Better to make sure the truck got stopped before much more could be done to them.
He was headed down 316, fighting the light traffic and, more importantly, the traffic lights, when he passed the turn for Ben Epps Airport. He was concentrated on the road ahead of him but out of the corner of his eye, as he blew through the red light, he caught a glimpse of truck lights up the slope to the airport. A fast head check and he cursed luridly.
"Okay, did the fuckers lay a red herring?" he muttered to himself as he pushed the vehicle up to speed, looking for somewhere to do a U-turn. "Or did I read the damned things wrong?" He was sure the truck he'd seen was the same cargo container. It had the logo and in the brief glance he'd gotten he'd thought he saw the bent part in the door.
There was an opening in the median and he pushed the SUV into a tight turn, cutting off a truck that nearly went into the median with a blast of horn, and heading back to the airport.
There was a sign for cargo, which he hadn't even realized went in and out of Ben Epps, and he followed it. However, as he passed around the end of the runway he could see a guard post. He wanted to call the police, wanted to report what was going on and direct the proper guys to the right place. But he also still hoped he could avoid arrest. He could probably walk, even on torturing the kiddie tango. But "probably" versus twenty years, maybe life, maybe even death . . . that "probably" was looking mighty thin.
He took a Y corner to the right and continued past the guard post, headed for an apparent circuit of the airport. He could see the cargo container and this time he got a clear view of the back and the dent. It had stopped by a jet and was already unloading coffins onto a lift-truck.
"Motherfuckers," Mike muttered. Once that plane got into the air, if anyone tried to catch it, it was going to be bad. Fifty dead girls, by his quick estimate. Maybe 9/11 all over again. Muj weren't supposed to be able to get control of aircraft coming into the U.S. And he'd spend forever and a day trying to find a number that he could use with a satellite phone. "Hello, overseas operator? I'm trying to find the emergency number of Athens, Georgia, police department. No, Georgia, not Greece. No, the state in the United States, not the country . . ." No.
He was in a portion of the circle road that was partially screened and he cut his lights and pulled to the side using the parking brake. He put the satellite phone in his jump bag and did a quick mental check of the contents. Besides some notebooks, his laptop and the like, it had an eclectic selection of material. Bottle of water, two power bars, toiletry items, a small thermal survival blanket, small flashlight and a change of underwear and T-shirt.
He opened the door, slipping a toothpick into the stud to keep the interior lights from coming on, and dropped out of the vehicle to the ground, closing the door quiet
ly. He knew what he was planning and he didn't like it. But he couldn't contact the police in time to keep the plane from taking off and once it was out of American airspace, tracking it would be problematic. It wouldn't be headed for anywhere in the Americas, that was pretty certain, so it would have to refuel somewhere. And it was likely that anywhere it refueled, it could get its tail number and transponder changed.
It was pointed basically towards him with most of the activity taking place at the back. There were no lights on in the cockpit so the pilots wouldn't be looking in his direction. There was a perimeter fence, but that was no problem. The guards might see him, the tangos might see him. Either would probably keep the plane on the ground, good, but also put him in prison, bad. But if he could figure out where they were going, he could vector in a rescue op.
He paused just a moment to think about that one as he crawled to the fence. He had trained for rescue ops, but never actually done one. However, in his training, he'd never once done one clean. No matter what, the hostages always ended up shot to shit. It was one of the team mantras: "It sucks to be a hostage."
But that was probably how it had to go down. If the police reacted right now, the plane could probably force its way off the ground. Police didn't think in terms of "it must not take off." And even if they blocked it, the pilots were probably aware that it was a potential "martyrdom operation" and they'd slam the plane, somehow, and kill the girls.
Follow, recon, lead in support. If he could call 911 direct, he would. But as it was, there just wasn't time for anything but . . . stupid heroics.
He'd gotten to the fence and cut the lower section with his knife, then wriggled under, pulling his jump bag and the MP-5 behind him. He was in a dark portion of the field; it was dark most of the way to the plane. Slow or fast? There didn't look to be many more coffins to load and the pilots might turn up, and look out or turn on their landing lights, at any time. Fast.
He sprinted across the open area, staying low, willing no one to see him, until he reached the nose-wheel. No shouts of alarm, no change in the regular action of loading. The plane was a 727 and he'd briefly studied it, and other, aircraft with a view to taking them back from hijackers. Again, not a primary mission but one that they trained on occasionally. If he recalled correctly, there was a hatch behind the nose-wheel assembly that led to the cargo compartment. From the cargo compartment, the plane could be accessed through a small tunnel, and another hatch. If the compartment was pressurized. They'd have to pressurize it to ensure the girls lived; the coffins had not been pressure sealed nor did they have air. Okay, get into the cargo compartment and he'd be golden.
