Goliath

by Richard Turner

A small-horned lizard darted out from under its hiding place and looked into the once quiet night. It sat there with its head raised, wondering what was going on, when it suddenly heard a strange noise approaching quickly out of the dark. A second later, Mitchell’s Jeep turned a bend, barely missing the lizard, which had wisely scrambled back under its rock for safety.

  Mitchell had no idea where he was going. He tried to keep the camp behind him and the cliff they climbed earlier off to his right. The narrow trail they were on bent slightly to the right and then began to meander down off the ridge to the desert floor.

  Both Mitchell and Jackson let out a deep breath when the Jeep finally touched down onto a sandy desert track leading away from the dig site. Looking up at the stars, Mitchell soon found the North Star and guessed that they were now more or less going in the right direction, heading west toward Ouadane.

  The satphone rang, startling both Mitchell and Jackson.

  Fahimah reported that she was on the move, and that Sam and Cardinal were moving to join her, as well. Mitchell was relieved that she at least was safe. Fahimah was his responsibility. Thankfully, she was proving to be more than capable of looking after herself in stressful situations. Mitchell made a mental note to talk to General O’Reilly about making her a permanent member of the team once they got back home.

  “Now what, boss?” said Jackson, as he looked over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit.

  “We’re going to RV with the rest of the team and find out all we can about Dmitry Romanov, and where exactly his oil refinery is, so I can come up with a plan to rescue Jen,” said Mitchell.

  “Well, when you say it…” Jackson’s voice trailed off. “Hard right, now!” he yelled, as he pivoted around in his seat and brought his AK up to his shoulder.

  Mitchell did not hesitate; he cranked the driver’s wheel hard over to the right, and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The vehicle leaped forward, just as a bright-red streak of tracers from a 12.7mm machine gun lanced out of the night sky, chewing up the dirt where the Jeep had been a mere second before.

  Jackson fired up into the darkened belly of the MI-8 as it flew overhead, hunting them.

  The sound of bullets striking the undercarriage of the helicopter sounded like hail bouncing off corrugated iron. With an armor-reinforced belly, there was no way that Jackson’s AK fire had any hope of bringing the flying beast down.

  Chang’s deputy, Kolikov, adjusted his NVGs on his head, and then looked out the side window of the MI-8, hoping to catch a glimpse of his prey. He cursed the door gunner for opening up too early. When he looked down, he could not see Mitchell’s Jeep in the green image of his glasses. He swore and ordered the pilot to turn about and come back over Mitchell’s last position, in hopes of finishing him off with the next pass.

  “These people are starting to piss me off,” said Mitchell, as he spun the wheel, and aimed the Jeep for a dry riverbed. The old vehicle bounced up and down as Mitchell pushed the vehicle’s suspension to the point of breaking, as he tried to find some cover before the helicopter made another pass.

  The sound of rotor blades grew louder, as a dark object sped toward the Jeep, its menacing dark shape silhouetted against the star-filled sky.

  Mitchell struck the steering wheel with his hands, willing the vehicle to go faster.

  Jackson took aim and fired off the remainder of his magazine, hoping to hit the large front windshield and, if he was lucky, kill the pilot of the MI-8.

  Kolikov saw the muzzle flash below, and instantly heard the sound of the bullets striking the front of the helicopter. A lucky round hit the windshield right in front of the pilot, shattering the glass inward. Instinctively, the pilot raised a hand to protect his face and pulled hard on the joystick, banking the helicopter up and away from the bullets striking the craft. A second later, Kolikov heard a long burst of machine-gun fire from the right-side-door gunner’s heavy machine gun letting loose.

  Mitchell felt and heard the sound of bullets hitting the back of the Jeep, ripping anything unlucky to be back there to ribbons. The ground soon angled down, and Mitchell steered the vehicle into a dry riverbed. In the dark, Mitchell saw a large, rocky outcropping about fifty meters away that presented the best place for cover. The instant the vehicle came to a halt; Mitchell and Jackson jumped out of the vehicle and ran for the cover of the outcropping, just as the sound of the helicopter’s rotors filled their ears. A second later, the MI-8 flew right over their hiding spot, firing off a long burst toward the empty vehicle, tearing it to pieces.

  “We can’t stay here forever,” said Jackson, removing his empty magazine and replacing it with a fresh one.

  “Well, we just lost our only mode of transportation,” said Mitchell, looking over at their destroyed Jeep. Peering out from under the rocks, he tried to discern where their attacker was going to come from next.

  “I’m open to ideas,” said Jackson, looking up into the sky for the helicopter.

  “Nate, see if you can find an intact jerry can of gas on the back of the Jeep, and then dump three-quarters of it out.”

  Jackson shook his head. “You can’t be serious. That only worked once before, and that was because copious amounts of alcohol were involved.”

  “Do you have any other ideas?”

  Jackson shook his head, darted over to the smoldering vehicle, and hauled off the only intact jerry can of gasoline. He unscrewed the cap and quickly dumped the gas onto the ground. Jackson then screwed the lid back on tight and sprinted back to Mitchell, just as the helicopter flew overhead. Bullets tore up the sand, missing Jackson’s feet by mere millimeters.

  “Okay, we get one shot and one shot only at this,” said Mitchell, looking along the horizon for the MI-8. “He’s come at us from the west and east on his last two approaches. I suspect he’s figured out by now exactly where we are, so if I were him, I would come at us from north to south, straight down this gully, and try flushing us out.”

  “That makes sense, but your plan doesn’t,” said Jackson. “However, since I don’t have anything better to offer, let’s do it,” he added, holding the jerry can tightly in his hands.

  The sound of rotor blades cutting through the air somewhere in the dark signaled the beginning of another run by the chopper.

  Jackson took a deep breath, stepped out from under the cover of the rocks and into the open and started to rock the jerry can back and forth between his feet, gaining momentum with each swing.

  Mitchell moved to where he could see straight down the gully. He pulled his rifle in tight against his shoulder and took aim about twenty meters into the air above Jackson.

  The helicopter suddenly dove down out of the dark.

  “Wait for it…wait for it…” said Mitchell, trying to judge the right time.

  The helicopter dipped down and raced toward the gully, intending to finish them off.

  Mitchell counted to three and then yelled, “Now!” at the top of his lungs.

  Without looking, Jackson, his arms straining, swung back and threw the jerry can over his shoulder. Like a rock thrown at some Highland Games, the can shot up into the air.

  Jackson instantly dove for cover.

  Mitchell pulled the trigger, sending a sustained burst of 7.62mm rounds into the can. The phosphorous from a burning tracer round struck home, igniting the fuel-and-air mixture built up inside the can. In the blink of an eye, a bright-orange fireball lit up the night, just as the MI-8 flew straight into the expanding explosion.

  Kolikov felt the helicopter vibrate as the twin, side-mounted machine guns fired at their trapped prey. With a crooked grin on his face, he knew that there was no way anyone could survive such firepower. Suddenly, a small, dark object appeared in the air in front of the helicopter. Before his mind could even register what was happening, a blazing fireball engulfed the cockpit. A stream of burning gasoline shot in from a hole in the damaged windshield, straight at the pilot’s face. A terrified scream escaped the pilot’s lips. Letting go of the joystic
k, the pilot panicked, trying to beat out the fire spreading over his face.

  Kolikov felt his stomach drop as the helicopter banked over to the left. They were flying so low there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. A moment later, the helicopter’s rotor blades struck the edge of the dry riverbed’s bank, shattering into hundreds of deadly projectiles that flew back along the side of the chopper, decapitating an unlucky door gunner. With a loud crunch of collapsing metal, the side of the MI-8 struck the rocky ground, causing it to roll over several times before coming to a sudden halt against a massive boulder, splitting the helicopter in two. Anyone not buckled in was pulverized when the chopper tumbled along the ground, sending their battered bodies flying around inside the interior of the cabin.

  For a minute, the destroyed helicopter lay there, covered in a cloud of dust. Inside, Kolikov slowly opened his eyes, and to his dismay, saw that he was hanging upside down, still fastened into the co-pilot’s chair, his arms uselessly dangling down in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he tried raising his arms. Pain shot through his body. Kolikov swore. He had broken both arms when the chopper smashed into the ground. He knew he had to do something. If he stayed hanging upside down, he would surely black out and death would follow. He wiggled back and forth in his chair, trying to escape the restraining device securing him to his chair. Pain racked his body. That’s when he smelled it: volatile aviation fuel was leaking all over the place. A dark, foul-smelling puddle had already formed below his head. Panic crept into his mind as he tried to escape from his seat.

  Behind Kolikov, a spark from the MI-8’s smashed-up radio system caused the fuel-soaked interior to suddenly burst into flames. Screaming in agony, he flailed desperately. Trapped in his seat, Kolikov was roasted alive.

  Mitchell lowered his rifle and watched the crashed MI-8 as it burst into flames.

  “You owe me one hundred dollars for that,” said Jackson, as he watched the helicopter burn.

  “We never bet,” objected Mitchell.

  “Well, I did, and I want my money when we get back home.”

  Mitchell shook his head at his friend. Standing there for a moment, he watched the fire consume the helicopter, when it struck him—he knew exactly how he was going to rescue Jen and her mother.

  “We need another ride,” said Mitchell, looking at the remains of their Jeep, lying all over the dry riverbed.

  “This area will shortly be crawling with bad guys,” said Jackson. “All we need to do is go to ground, and when the time is right, we can borrow another one.”

  “All right then, find us a good spot to lay low, but first you need to salvage what we can from the Jeep while I give Yuri a call,” said Mitchell.

  Ten minutes later, Mitchell finished outlining his requirements to Yuri.

  With an armload of ammunition, food, and water, Jackson led the way to a small copse of brush about five hundred meters away from the burning Hip. In minutes, with their tracks covered, Mitchell and Jackson disappeared from sight and waited for someone to come along the trail that ran past their position.

  Quietly lying under the bushes, Jackson took a long swig of water before handing Mitchell the bottle. He looked over and saw a dogged determination in his friend’s eyes. No matter what Mitchell was planning, he did not doubt that he could pull it off. No matter how foolhardy the scheme may be, Mitchell was not the kind of man to fail.

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