As far as explosions went, this was one of the louder ones Harwood had experienced despite the earplugs. The tight acoustics and his presence in the same room were perfect for a concussion grenade, but the entire premise was that the grenade was meant to be deployed without the thrower in the same room.
He pressed his advantage by powering up the IVAS quickly and securing it to his face, then removed his earplugs. He bolted down the steps again and spun to his left, looking beneath the stairway. A covered and concealed position beneath the steps had been built into the original construction, a hollowed-out storage area where a man had been lying in wait but was now on the floor moaning and writhing. The aroma of burned flesh singed Harwood’s nostrils. A pistol was lying next to the man’s hand. Harwood kicked it to the side and covered the twenty meters to the far wall in record speed.
Gunfire erupted from the opposite end of the long hallway. The bullets chipped at the block in front of his face. He pressed his back into the wall and breathed deeply. If he had cleared everything from the top of the compound to this point in the basement, the only enemy that remained was whatever might be at the end of the hallway that began a foot to his right.
If was the operational word. He was confident he had killed everyone he had seen. What else remained upstairs, he didn’t know. But he did believe that he was in the right place. His experience had always been that the closer he got to an objective, whether it be military or personal, the intenser the enemy fire. It was pushing through that fire that won the day.
Bullets continued to chip away at the block. Harwood watched the steps. No action. The wounded man on the floor had been hit by at least three shots. No worries there. Harwood knelt and laid his SR-25 on the concrete floor as he switched to the around-the-corner sight function again. In his IVAS, the weapon’s crosshairs moved wherever the muzzle was aiming. Thanks to the enhanced sensors and technology that Harwood thought existed only in Hollywood, the IVAS brought the dark hallway into reasonable viewing relief.
Along the opposite wall, there were five doors that looked exactly like the detention facility in Kandahar where he had delivered too many detainees to count. While the near wall was more difficult to discern, what little he could see made him believe that it was a facsimile of the other.
Two men were prone at the end of the hallway, weapons aimed at his position. A third man disappeared out of sight behind the prone shooter at the near wall. He appeared to be carrying something large over his shoulder.
Three men left to kill, maybe more, but three he knew of and could engage. The sight of the cells reinforced Harwood’s belief that Clutch was being held captive here. The crash. The Suburban. The heavily armed guards. The prison cells. What else could it mean?
More confident than ever that he was in the right spot, Harwood assessed the distance to the end of the hallway. Maybe thirty meters, max. The IVAS gave him a better view of the situation than his opponents had of him.
He could use the IVAS around-the-corner function or he could toss another flash-bang grenade into the hall, but the light and burst emitted by the grenade were only temporary. Once the men recovered from the initial shock, even poorly aimed fire would funnel along the narrow hallway, ricocheting off the concrete block and inevitably finding anything moving in the funnel.
The concrete was cool to his touch when he lay down and put his finger through the trigger. He had practiced these shots several times at the range but had never fired using the IVAS connection in combat. His line of sight was perpendicular to the direction of the muzzle, which was aimed in the general vicinity of the gunmen at the end of the hallway.
The crosshairs were on the chin of the man on his left. The trigger gave twice with Harwood skipping two shots just above the floor. The man bucked and dropped his weapon. Return fire was immediate and fierce, causing him to retract his weapon as bullets sparked off the walls and along the floor. While grateful for the technology, Harwood knew that from a normal firing position, he would have shot both men in less than a second.
He reached into his pocket, grabbed the flash-bang grenade, yanked the pin, and risked his left arm as he flipped the canister maybe fifteen meters down the hallway. He repeated the same maneuver as before, where he’d powered down his IVAS and turned away. However, this time he also secured his weapon and prepared for detonation.
The concussive blast shook the walls with a thunderous boom. Harwood powered up the IVAS, spun into the hallway, weapon raised, and fired rapidly, squeezing off single shots as he gained clarity through the smoke.
Backing away and standing, the gunman turned his back to Harwood, who fired three more times, striking him. Harwood dashed along the hallway, making a mental note of the doors, some of which had locking bars over U-bolts and others that were open. He didn’t discount the fact that someone could be hiding inside the cells with open doors, but he had a legit, known target hobbling away from him in the same direction the third man had been moving seconds ago.
The limping man was fumbling with a door similar to the one Harwood had breached. It was evidently locked as Harwood barreled into him and then backed away and used his rifle to butt-stroke the man, knocking him out.
He stepped over the man and tried the door. Just like the one above, the handle didn’t budge. He would deal with that shortly, but for right now, he had two missions: save Clutch and interrogate this gunman, in that order.
The gunman was heavyset, making him a challenge to move. Harwood finally decided on dragging him by his outer tactical vest. He tugged the man into the first room he reached. It was a standard torture cell. Manacles hung from the walls. The two latrine buckets in the corner were probably the source of the urine smell that permeated the cell. A metal bed with a neatly folded wool blanket was up against the wall. A Beretta pistol and knife sat on the empty bunk, out of place.
Harwood dropped his unconscious prisoner on the floor, thought about how he had happened upon the downed Sabrewing aircraft and followed the intelligence wherever it led him. He had been on the outside looking in at multiple defenders, and he had worked his way through the outer perimeter into the house and now into the basement, where he was dropping another defender. How many more were there?
The chain scraped against its hold as he locked the man’s hands in the steel cuffs. He briefly frisked him for other weapons and came away with a cell phone, pistol, and a small knife, all of which he pocketed. Snapped onto the man’s belt was a cord that led to a tablet that was pocketed in a Velcro pouch on his outer tactical vest. The tablet showed images of terrain, a highway, and some buildings. Drones. They had been looking for him. Was this the same drone operator that had fired on him and Clutch?
He turned and looked to the bunk, where he saw the small Beretta pistol and knife, which he pocketed as well.
Exiting the cell, he closed the door and lowered the locking bar in place. It was secure.
Now to find Clutch.
First, he cleared each of the open cells, just now realizing that all but one were empty. Each cell was a replica of the others. Bed, piss buckets, manacles, and blankets. It registered with Harwood that there was an unfolded blanket in one of the cells, as if one of the guards had been resting. Perhaps this was where they did shift change and stored their weapons? The middle cell on the right had its locking bar firmly in place.
Clutch was banging on the door. It had to be Clutch. His entire purpose for being here was to find and rescue his spotter.
He moved to the door where he had confined his captive and checked the handle again. Nothing doing. That was only coming open with some C-4.
Next, he went back to the stairwell. All quiet on that front.
Now he approached the door, carrying his rifle with his rucksack on his back. He was ready to snatch Clutch and exit the house. He would take Clutch back up the steps and find one of the Suburban SUVs, provided everything remained quiet.
The locking bar had a Master lock securing it in place. Harwood removed his ru
cksack, fished around for his bolt cutters, and made quick work of the lock.
The fist continued to pound on the door.
“Quiet, Clutch,” he whispered.
He lifted the locking bar from the U-joints, then set it down and noticed there was an interior door that opened inward. This had another set of U-brackets with a two-by-four piece of wood holding it snugly in place. He retrieved his weapon, which had been leaning against the wall, and then lifted the two-by-four, freeing the door.
He shouted, “Reaper coming in, Clutch!”
In case Clutch had fashioned a shiv out of a toothbrush or something else, he didn’t want him surprised as he entered the cell. The last thing he wanted was to have come all this way to save his spotter and have lack of communication cause an unnecessary struggle.
Harwood threw his shoulder into the door. It scraped against the floor with a loud screech. A dim light bulb cast a pale glow in the dank cell. The bed to the left had a rumpled blanket on it. The door opened inward and to the right, making him clear to the left first. Nothing there.
He spun around the door and came face-to-face with a screaming banshee who leaped at him.
CHAPTER 17
Sassi Cavezza
Sassi shuddered, covered her ears, and bolted into the corner as men were running in the corridor and yelling in Arabic.
“Quick, get the soldier,” one had said. A door had opened. A chain had rattled. Mumbling and heavy groans followed.
Sassi removed from her boot the small Beretta Bascula knife that her captors had overlooked. They’d retrieved from her Beretta’s personally delivered pistol that she carried for self-preservation and which had preserved her this morning, and her Beretta dagger. At least she was still alive.
After the second explosion, Sassi figured they were coming for her. Everything was happening so fast, she figured that rival gangs or even the Russians were here to take whatever they wanted, including her. There was a faint sliver of hope that the UN had dispatched a rescue operation, but she wouldn’t let her mind go there only to get her hopes dashed. The UN couldn’t make decisions quickly enough to have a force on the ground and executing within twenty-four days, much less twenty-four hours. The leadership would debate which nations would contribute forces, who would be in command, what risks were acceptable, and so on, until she was dead or wished she were. The violence happening outside her door reminded her of a basement she’d been locked in when Zarqawi had been executing so many civilians and nongovernmental organization employees.
She remembered in Fallujah she had huddled in the corner, waiting for Zarqawi to barge in and film her beheading. Just as she was now, she had been holding this very same knife, prepared to fight to the death. Then, U.S. Marines had come storming in, led by the village elder, and she was almost insulted that they had come instead of Zarqawi. Sassi had of course been ultimately thankful that the Marines had saved her. It was a completely irrational thought that she could have defended herself against Zarqawi and his thugs, but nonetheless, she was a proud woman and believed in her abilities.
Sassi also believed that lightning would never strike twice. There was no way that this was some rescue attempt meant to save her from the clutches of this band of pirates. While she had no idea where she was, the voices she had been listening to possessed the Lebanese dialect of Arabic, rich with its Mediterranean influences. Softer words and hushed tones, almost sounding apologetic. Bartering tones, where give-and-take is expected, as opposed to the harsher inflections of Iraq and Saudi Arabia, where demands ruled the day.
Convinced that she was about to duel with someone meaning her harm, Sassi backed into the corner to the right of the door. She had studied the hinges, welded in place, and noticed the door opened inward. When the intruder came in, she would have a brief advantage. She knew where he was entering, and he had no clue where in the room she would be. It was her best shot. After that, the odds were that he would be heavily armed and able to quickly subdue her.
“Reaper coming in, Clutch!” a voice called out. It was muffled but sounded distinctly American.
Now was not the time for indecision. She could either fully commit or back away and bet on the best possible course of action. She had never been a big believer in blind luck, though she was sure that sometimes it happened. But this did not appear to be her lucky day. Kidnapped at daybreak and in combat before midnight.
The door screeched open, wrestling against the tight hinges and concrete floor. The muzzle of a rifle poked to the left as Sassi lunged against the door and swiped down at the arm that followed the rifle into the cell. The knife blade sliced through the uniform and bit into muscle.
Her attacker darted to the far corner of the room, placing his back into the 90-degree angle. He was wearing a rucksack and some type of night-vision device she had never seen before. It looked more like a virtual reality headset, only smaller. He aimed the weapon at her as she charged him.
“I am friendly! Not foe! American soldier!” the man shouted.
She stopped directly in front of the muzzle of the weapon. The man’s arm was bleeding. Was he trying to trick her into stopping her momentum? Once you lost momentum, it was so hard to regain, if not impossible.
Nonetheless, she stopped when she realized that no one was coming in after him. He was just one soldier. When it had been the Marines, an entire platoon of them came into the corridor, several into her cell, and some even started taking pictures for the inevitable, “Hey, look at me; I saved this woman” photo. None of that ensued here. Even though there had been maybe five seconds of action, it appeared to be just this one soldier.
“Where’s Clutch? And who are you?”
She eyed the door. Could she escape? What if she didn’t have what this guy wanted? She edged to her left.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. He wasn’t a terribly big man, maybe five foot ten, she thought. She was nearly as tall as he was, but he looked monstrous in his gear. A modern-day warrior kitted out to create all the conditions that would eventually require her services.
As if he could read her mind, he started moving toward the door, his foot kicking the manacle chains on the floor. She was still holding the knife up in a protective posture.
“Tell me,” the soldier said.
Her throat was dry. She was dehydrated and struggled to speak but finally said, “I’m a United Nations employee.”
“How long have you been in here?”
“Just today,” she said.
The standoff was filled with tension. She was continuing to edge to the left, toward the door. Could freedom be just five feet away? She’d escaped from tougher spots in the past. The man’s arm continued to bleed where she’d cut it. She inched another step toward the door.
A loud bang resonated from above. Voices followed. Short commands in Arabic. “Move. Downstairs. Now!”
“Follow me.”
The man clasped the top of her biceps with his left hand. It was covered in a glove cut off at the middle knuckles so that his fingertips were exposed. He had a firm grip and was moving through the door. She had no clue what was happening, much less who Clutch might be, but she determined that this devil she had tugging on her arm just might well be better than the ones above her, heading toward the stairwell.
They ran into the hallway to their left. Footsteps thundered down the stairs, with men screaming “Tankian!”
Her rapid breaths and pounding heart gave away the anxiety she felt. She didn’t like giving control to anyone else, but she relented. Her only weapon was a knife, leaving her nearly defenseless against the high-powered weapons in play here.
They ran past open doors on their left and right, leaving her thankful there were no other captives—but hadn’t she heard someone else during the day? The pounding on the door. A man screaming, though muffled and nearly unintelligible.
Then it hit her. Clutch.
My name is Nolte! Corporal Ian A. Nolte! They call me Clutch! I’m from South Ben
d, Indiana!
They made a right turn as she shook her arm loose yet still followed the soldier. He seemed to have one goal in mind, to exit this compound as quickly and safely as possible.
He turned toward her, baring his teeth, and said, “I need you to shoot this rifle. Can you?”
She nodded and said, “Yes.”
“Here. The magazine is fresh, and you’ve got twenty shots. Use them wisely. I’m going to put some explosives on this door.”
The man removed his rucksack as he handed Sassi the rifle. She studied it briefly with footsteps pounding on the concrete at the other end of the corridor. He reached into a medical pouch and tied a quick bandage around the cut she had inflicted.
“Lie down next to this guy and shoot in that direction,” he said.
At her feet was a dead man with a rifle lying next to him on the concrete. The floor was slick with blood. She knelt and lay down in the blood, using the man as a shield as she peered above the weapon’s sights.
The feet and lower legs of two men running down the steps were barely visible in the dim light that shone in an opening at the end of the corridor. They were moving too quickly for any kind of shot, and she was too unfamiliar with how this particular weapon functioned to be confident of any accuracy.
As if reading her mind, the soldier said, “If you see anything, just pull the trigger. Keep them at that end of the basement.”
She stared along the iron sights. Nylon scraped against metal behind her. Hands made wet smacking sounds. Feet shuffled.
Two men turned around the corner simultaneously. She squeezed the trigger once. The weapon erupted. Squeezed again. Erupted again. The attackers were black forms moving through the darkness. They scurried to protective cover behind the wall and out of her sight. She continued to fire.
“Slow down. Only when you see them,” the man said. It was as if he were visualizing what she was seeing. Perhaps he had experienced the ebb and flow of close-quarters combat many times before? He was a soldier, and that would make sense.
Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel Page 15