by Jason Kasper
Then he continued, “Bottom line, I’m telling you for a fact he could take down the entire Atlantic grid if he hits the right spot. For all I know, there could be some really strategic substation in Charlottesville that would drop power across the US.”
Cancer found himself nodding slightly. Reilly wasn’t exactly going to split the atom anytime soon, but he had a good working theory if for no other reason than lack of options in that inbred backwater town that David called home.
Nizar said, “I do not think so.”
“You don’t think what?” Reilly asked.
“You say this terrorist is a mastermind,” Nizar pointed out, “so there is no way he would allow his people to inform a mere logistician of his ultimate target.”
Cancer said, “Well, speaking as the only person in this car who was present at the time he leaked that key piece of information, I’ll tell you for a fact the logistician was telling the truth.”
Nizar waved his hand, as if dismissing Cancer’s words as irrelevant.
“I do not doubt what he told you,” he continued. “What I am saying is he was deliberately misinformed. Whatever he told you is a diversion for the real attack. A large city, most likely.”
Reilly sounded skeptical. “Then why wouldn’t BK have given him a better alternative?”
“There is no telling. But no brilliant terrorist would risk giving that information to a man who could share it if captured.”
Cancer intervened, “You forget all the bad guys trying to snatch him at the same time we were? If all he had was false information, they wouldn’t have bothered.”
“I disagree.”
Before Cancer could respond, David’s voice came over the radio.
“Truck Two, be advised we have eyes-on armed men in the road ahead. Looks like a checkpoint.”
Ian braked to a stop behind a civilian vehicle, scanning the single-file row of cars proceeding one at a time through the ISIS checkpoint.
David leaned forward between the seats.
“How many guys can you make out?”
“Looks like five or six total, but”—Ian angrily swatted at the pale cloud drifting in front of his face—“maybe I could see better if the cab wasn’t filled with smoke.”
Elias threw up his hands, offended. “America has the best tobacco in the world. How is that my fault?”
Ian didn’t know who he was more pissed at: Elias for blissfully smoking cigarettes in the passenger seat, blowing smoke in his face and making his eyes sting, or David in the backseat for allowing it.
David seemed almost nonchalant toward Elias since the former intelligence agent executed their prisoner, and Ian found that was perhaps the most troubling thing out of this entire situation. Ian could understand David’s gratitude—sort of—but no matter the alleged target of the terrorist attack, they couldn’t have a foreign national imparting his own agenda on the mission at hand.
Every occupant of the lead truck was assessing the scene, evaluating their options as a single fighter leaned down to the driver’s window of the lead vehicle, scanning and then questioning the occupants before waving the car past.
There were now five vehicles between them and the checkpoint, which in Ian’s mind left precious little time before their cover would be blown.
The checkpoint wasn’t a large affair. There was an ISIS pickup on either side of the road, and the one to the right had a fighter manning a vehicle-mounted medium machinegun.
In addition to the man checking each vehicle, Ian counted another four men spread in a loose semicircle formation, facing the row of vehicles waiting for their turn. The problem wasn’t the men he could see—it was the unknown number that he couldn’t, with his view blocked by the vehicles ahead. Pulling his checkered keffiyeh scarf over his lower face, Ian heard David ask, “Elias, can you talk our way out of this?”
“No,” Ian responded, “Elias can’t. I told you this would happen. As soon as BK learned the logistician was captured, he knew we’d be headed for Sepaya. This isn’t some random checkpoint—it’s a trap to find us.”
“Then let’s leverage that.”
“How?”
“We can discuss that later. First, we’ve got to negotiate this checkpoint. Am I correct in assuming if we turn around, they’ll open fire and pursue?”
Elias blew another cloud of smoke and said, “Yes, that is accurate.”
Then David transmitted, “We’ve got one guy questioning the drivers, another four spread out between two pickups, and a machine gunner on the right-side truck. If they get a radio call out, I think it’s fair to say we’re fucked.”
Cancer replied, “Advise we let the other vehicles clear out. You can wait until that guard comes up to your window, then pop him in the face. Truck One dismounts and provides a base of fire, I’ll bring Truck Two on-line with your left flank and transition to a dismounted maneuver element.”
“Sounds good,” David said. “Worthy will take the machine gunner, everyone else shoot from your flank to center line. Questions?”
“Just one,” Cancer replied. “Is your driver shitting his pants right now?”
David asked, “Ian, Cancer wants to know if you’re shitting your pants right now.”
The lead vehicle was waved past, leaving only four cars between them and the checkpoint. Ian said nothing, releasing the brake to follow the procession toward the enemy fighters.
Then David transmitted, “No, he seems pretty cool about the whole thing.”
Elias offered, “I would love to help, but you took my gun.”
“When I need a stationary target shot at point-blank range, I’ll let you know.”
“What do you mean, ‘when?’ That time is now.” He waved an index finger toward the windshield. “These people are used to a terrorized populace. The man checking the vehicles is sticking his face right in the window.”
The lead car was waved past, and Ian eased the Land Cruiser forward. Only four vehicles to go.
Finally, it was Worthy’s turn to talk. “I’ll take him from the backseat.”
“The hell you will,” Ian blurted. “You’re not putting a rifle barrel across my face and pulling the trigger.”
“No, I’m not. Because this situation has got ‘pistol shot’ written all over it.”
Elias offered, “You give me the pistol, and I can take the shot.”
“You’re not taking the shot, I am. Ian, it’ll behoove you to recline your seat just the slightest bit. Trying to be safe here.”
“You can’t be serious.”
David said, “He sounds pretty serious.”
Ian’s voice assumed a tinge of panic. “Now you can’t be serious, David.”
But David was silent, allowing Worthy to continue. “And one more thing, Ian. I really can’t stress this enough: keep your big-ass brain against the headrest, and don’t move it until your face is covered in ISIS blood.”
“What?!” Ian cried. “Why would you phrase it like that? David, there’s got to be another way to do this.”
Another car was waved through—three to go.
David said coolly, “Worthy’s in the best position to take the shot. I’d listen to what he’s telling you.”
“And what am I supposed to do, just smile and nod at the guy until he gets his face blown off?”
“Pretty much,” Worthy acknowledged. “But don’t forget about reclining your seat. That part’s fairly well critical to my whole process.”
Ian felt for a handle at his side, then pulled it and leaned his seat back.
“Is this good?”
“That’s just fine,” Worthy said. “More than enough for me to take the shot.”
Suddenly there were only two cars remaining, and Ian rolled the Land Cruiser forward with a growing sense of tunnel vision. At least this would occur quickly.
Only, it seemed, it wouldn’t—the driver currently being questioned was driving a covered pickup, and the ISIS fighter made him dismount and walk to the back to uncover
his cargo.
Initially relieved that action was imminent, this new wrinkle sent Ian’s pulse racing as a hundred possible contingencies flooded into his mind.
David took advantage of the pause to chime in, “Hey, Ian, this is your time to shine. Say something really badass to the guy before Worthy puts a bullet through his head. Could boost your team rep. How about, ‘Merry Christmas, motherfucker.’”
Elias offered, “‘Islamic State is for dog-fuckers’ would translate well. Perhaps you should try that.”
“Wait, wait,” Worthy said. “What about you grab your junk, then go, ‘I got my license and registration right here.’ And then I blow him away.”
David sounded excited. “I like that. Let’s go with Worthy’s idea.”
Then the covered pickup search was complete, and the truck rumbled off to allow the final civilian vehicle forward.
The man approached the car to their front, leaning down to stick his face in the open window.
Elias said, “Do not feel bad, Ian. This man is young. He probably has only five or six kids, all by rape of kidnapped young women.”
Ian couldn’t reply, instead pulling his keffiyeh higher atop the bridge of his nose.
The final car was a sedan, and Ian’s assumption that the guard’s questioning wouldn’t take long was correct—before he knew it, there was nothing between him and the ISIS fighters but a few meters of dirt road.
Worthy spoke a calm, quiet reminder.
“Back of your skull against the headrest, Ian, and keep it there.”
Ian complied, driving his head back into the cloth seat behind him with tense pressure. He regretted not reclining his seat any further, and now it was too late—the enemy fighter was pointing to Ian, then waving him forward.
Ian let his foot off the brake, trying for a gentle push on the accelerator but feeling the truck lurch forward uncomfortably before he braked to a stop again.
He was breathing quickly, feeling his pulse soar. He got nervous when pulled over for a traffic stop in the States; this current arrangement was so far outside his comfort zone that he wanted to curl into a ball on the floorboard.
The man approached, examining Ian with a frown, saying something in Arabic and motioning for him to pull down his scarf.
Then he froze as his eyes swept over Elias, and then the backseat, before widening.
Ian felt his breath hitch before blurting the only words that came to mind.
“America says hello.”
The scalding blast of Worthy’s pistol muzzle flared across Ian’s face along with hot blood splatter, and he opened his eyes to see the ISIS man falling toward him, mouth agape, a bullet hole in his upper lip.
The body thumped against Ian’s door, sliding out of view as David and Worthy leapt out of the truck.
Cancer floored the accelerator before the man’s body hit the ground, whipping the second truck to the left of the lead vehicle as he assessed the situation.
Worthy and David were out of their truck and opening fire, and Cancer screeched to a halt beside their white Land Cruiser. Reilly was dismounted and shooting by the time Cancer’s feet hit the sand. Now the far-left flank of this hasty battle formation, he immediately took aim on a man darting sideways, away from the battle.
He could have been maneuvering to a more advantageous firing position, though from the looks of it he was just trying to flee the scene and survive. But his intent made no difference to Cancer, who sent the man sprawling forward with three well-aimed shots before swinging his barrel toward the nearest ISIS truck.
An enemy fighter scrambled behind the bumper before he could open fire. Cancer instinctively dropped to a knee, rolling onto his firing side and spreading his heels flat against the ground. Laying his rifle sideways atop his support hand, he oriented his line of sight between the enemy truck’s tires until he identified the partial figure of a crouching man.
Cancer fired two rounds, ejecting his brass into the ground and sending a stinging cloud of sand around his face. By the time he regained his sight picture, a wounded fighter was crashing to the dirt, and Cancer sent another three bullets sailing inches over the road. Blinking his vision clear from the sand, he saw the man splayed out, motionless, and scissored his legs beneath him as he fought his way back to a standing position.
By then the battle was in full swing, the chattering of unsuppressed enemy weapons barking from the right side of the objective. Seeing no further enemy at the pickup on the left, he took a bounding step toward the engine block, using it for cover as he assessed the locations of the surviving fighters.
Cancer saw first that the machinegun on the right-side pickup was unmanned and pointing upward on its pintle mount. Then he spotted David, Worthy, Ian, and Reilly trading lead with a few remaining fighters who’d entrenched themselves amid a rock formation on the far flank.
Without a clear line of sight, Cancer decided to maneuver to a more advantageous position—namely, the ISIS truck to his front. From there, he could make his way toward the downed machinegun and open up a new flank of the fight as he established a crossfire with the rest of his team.
He shouted a single word at Reilly—“Moving!”—and, not knowing or caring whether his teammate heard, took off at a sprint toward the enemy vehicle.
Granted, there was plenty of risk involved in this, starting with the possibility of surviving fighters engaging him from an unseen position. Cancer moved fast, prepared to slow to a shooting speed and engage any of the prostrate ISIS bodies before him.
But none moved. As he skidded to a halt behind the pickup’s protective cover, he saw the man he’d shot between the tires was still alive, breathing shallowly in what appeared to be the final moments of his life.
Cancer hastened the process considerably, firing two suppressed rounds into the man’s head. Then he executed a quick tactical reload, jamming a fresh magazine into his weapon and stuffing the partially expended one in his pocket.
He was just about to transmit to his team, to notify them that he’d be maneuvering to the next enemy truck with its unmanned machinegun before assisting in the fight against the remaining enemy, when the previously silent machinegun suddenly roared to life.
He tried to angle a line of sight toward the gunner, but the truck was positioned at a disadvantageous angle. And the gunner was being smart, Cancer noted—he was firing with his head and shoulders tucked low, concealed from Cancer’s view and, due to his elevated position in the truck bed, likely from the view of his teammates scrambling for cover behind the team vehicles.
For all his eagerness to oblige enemy fighters willing to die for their cause, Cancer viewed the battlefield like a pro basketball player looked at the court, and this intrepid gunner was almost singlehandedly pinning down a team of five trained men.
Cancer transmitted, “Net call, hold fire on the machinegun—I got him.”
“Copy,” David replied, adding sarcastically, “take your time.”
Cancer took off at a run, carving a semicircle to the left before angling his path toward the remaining ISIS pickup’s open tailgate.
As he did so, the machinegun continued to rip long bursts of automatic fire, and Cancer didn’t have to look right to know that his team’s Land Cruisers were being turned into Swiss cheese.
Judging by the rate of fire, the gunner wasn’t particularly concerned with getting blasted from the front. For all the advantages of suppressors, there was one considerable drawback: the bad guys often didn’t realize they were being shot at. And while that was great for maintaining the element of surprise, it was a massive problem when you were trying to keep the enemy’s collective head down.
Cancer was skidding to a halt behind the truck when the machinegun suddenly went silent, and he ducked beneath the tailgate in anticipation of the gunner spinning around to shoot him.
But the machinegun began firing again, the gunner probably long since deafened by the blasts. So far, so good, Cancer thought as he oriented his weapon and ro
se from a kneeling position to get his first clear glimpse of the gunner—or rather, of his legs.
Cancer took in the tantalizing sight of exposed hamstrings through his sights, and rather than waste precious moments in re-aligning for a kill shot, he stitched a short burst across the enemy fighter’s rear thighs.
He had a momentary view of bloody holes opening through the fatigue pants, and the man was a machine gunner no more. Instead he fell to the truck bed like a puppet with the strings cut, screaming not in agony but anger.
The gunner’s eyes found Cancer, transforming into a hateful glare as he began shouting in Arabic, his body sprawled atop a dead comrade who had initially manned the now-silent machinegun.
Cancer lowered his weapon, savoring this moment.
He had to hand it to the guy—his chosen side in the Syrian Civil War was probably the worst of many bad options, but for all the predatory cowardice with which ISIS operated, this man was fairly well a badass in Cancer’s eyes.
Not that it would matter for much longer, he thought.
Because Cancer was going to end this fight on his own terms, before anyone else arrived on the scene to debate him on it. Reilly, being the delicate liberal snowflake that he was, would probably want to treat the wounded fighter with medical supplies they might need for their own team, then give the guy half his rations and a warm sponge bath.
Cancer, however, had a different plan in mind.
Reaching for the fighter’s shirt with one hand, he dragged him backward out of the truck bed and flung him onto the dirt.
He writhed in agony, grabbing at Cancer’s left leg in an attempt to drag him down. Cancer smiled at the man’s sheer audacity, then responded by planting the tip of his weapon into his neck.
The suppressor was scalding hot, and it seared into the man’s flesh with a sizzle as he cried out in pain. To his credit, he made a panicked reach for the gun—but Cancer’s finger was on the trigger, letting the encounter proceed until its final ragged moment.