Two left, and they were both diving for cover, counting on their SUV to shield them from incoming fire while they regrouped. It might have worked, if Bolan was intent on blowing past their roadblock in a cloud of dust, but he’d already shifted the Ranchero into park and had his door open, pursuing them.
When one of them peeked up to find out what was happening, Bolan obliged him with a round between the shiny lenses of his shades. The fourth man saw his partner die and must have gotten some on him in the process. When he lunged forward, roaring, firing aimlessly, his face was smeared with blood along one side, making him look as if he’d already been shot. Reality caught up with first impressions a half second later, as a double-tap smashed through his snarling face and finished him.
Bolan reversed direction, just in time to see Azmeh’s last adversary fall, clutching his throat with bloody hands. Bolan checked the SUVs, deciding that the Niva was their best bet for continuing their journey over rugged ground. The bonus was a stash of loaded AK magazines, same caliber as their weapons, and six spare cans of gasoline between the two four-wheelers. They quickly transferred their gear from the Ranchero and discarded the dead men’s personal effects.
“Ready?” Bolan asked Azmeh when they were settled in the Niva.
The smaller man nodded, then asked Bolan, “Do you ever weary of it?”
“What?”
“The killing.”
Bolan didn’t have to think about his answer. “Weary or not, it’s part of the job.”
* * *
THE TRAITOR WAS surprised when no one searched him, then thanked Allah for his luck. The Liberator pepperbox felt bulky in the waistband of his trousers, but his shirt hung loosely, and the soldiers did not notice as he climbed into the truck behind the younger of the two Americans. The gun pressed hard into his spine as he sat back against the wooden slats along the side of the truck bed, but he could live with that.
What he could not allow was being driven out of contact with the reinforcements he had been expecting. That would ruin everything—and, if not corrected, it would guarantee his death.
The traitor was prepared to die, if necessary, for his cause, but he preferred to delay that end. Thankfully, he had another option close at hand.
When he’d received his briefing, his superiors anticipated that the diplomats might not remain with their aircraft once it had been shot down. For that reason, to make them trackable, the traitor had been given a tiny homing beacon of his own, for use in the event that he and his companions left the plane in search of help.
The locator was built into his watch, a Timex Easy Reader, small and cheap enough that it should not lure thieves. The traitor turned it on by pressing on the stem, holding it down for three full seconds, then releasing it. The homer made no sound, of course. He simply had to trust that it was working and that his friends would track him down before it was too late.
And if they did not come? His backup orders were the same. Take out as many of the diplomats as possible, at whatever cost.
7
The Niva handled well. Knobby off-road tires and heavy-duty shocks smoothed out the ride that had been getting rocky in the old Ranchero. Now they could make up for lost time.
“We have a second beacon signal,” Azmeh told him, peering at the GPS.
“How’s that?”
“A second signal,” Bolan’s guide repeated. “It’s moving north while the other one stays in place.”
“The reader’s not malfunctioning?”
Azmeh examined it more closely. “Not that I can see,” he said, a moment later.
Bolan thought it through. First, it was clear the aircraft couldn’t move, unless someone had shown up with a crane and flatbed truck to salvage it. That was beyond the realm of plausibility, so he discarded the idea.
More likely: the lost flight’s passengers were on the move, including someone fitted with a homing beacon. Why abandon their best hope of being found, unless they had been threatened somehow? Why go north instead of east, toward Iraq? How many might be on the move?
Bolan could answer none of those questions until he’d reached the plane and checked it out. He considered changing course but let it go. It would be irresponsible to strike off in a new direction until he knew the score.
“What shall we do?” asked Azmeh.
“Head on to the plane,” Bolan replied. “If no one’s there, we’ll track the second beacon.”
“And what if the party has scattered?”
“We’ll pick up whoever we can, find out why the others took off, then decide.”
Azmeh nodded. “What if someone arrived ahead of us and took all of them?”
It was the rock-bottom, worst-case scenario.
“Could be,” Bolan acknowledged. “If we find nobody at the crash site, we still have the second beacon. We’ll run it down and see what’s happening.”
If the UN group had been collected by a search party, Bolan would have to see which side had beat him to the plane—and whether they’d left anyone alive. Supporters of the regime might be hostile to the interlopers, might even decide to bury them and make the problem go away. If they’d been found by rebels, on the other hand…
He couldn’t finish that thought. From what Bolan knew of opposition to the Syrian regime, it was disjointed, with as much infighting as you might find at a drunken family reunion. The diplomat Muhammad Qabbani was closest to the Free Syrian Army wing, which could place him at odds with the Islamic Front, the Ahfad al-Rasul Brigade or other factions itching for a chance to wound the FSA.
Regardless, Bolan was charged with finding six men, protecting them if he could—and failing that, making sure they did no lasting harm.
The game, he understood, could still go either way.
* * *
NASSER AL-KASSAR WAS glum and silent, staring through sunglasses at the endless sprawl of desert all around him. Sergeant Zureiq pushed the UAZ-469 staff car to its limit, shimmying and lurching, but al-Kassar still wished for greater speed to overtake his enemies and claim the crash survivors for himself.
His mission—very possibly his life—depended on it.
It had started as a simple plan: the plane would be shot down, and anyone who managed to survive the crash would be collected by al-Kassar’s team from the FSA. They would be executed, with the shooting videotaped for broadcast worldwide, placing blame on the Syrian army and, by extension, the entire regime.
Al-Kassar was riding in a vehicle appropriated from the army, trailed by a stolen BTR-40 and a Ural-375D utility truck, also liberated from the enemy. He and his men wore regular Syrian army fatigues with the proper insignia. On tape, they would appear legitimate, and the denials from Damascus would ring hollow after so many lies about chemical weapons and the slaughter of unarmed civilians.
It was perfect—until he lost the targets.
Now al-Kassar was playing catch-up, knowing he would likely have to fight a hostile force equal to or larger than his own. There was a world of difference between engaging army regulars and lining up a group of helpless captives for elimination.
Still, he thought they had a decent chance. He had two SGM medium machine guns chambered in 7.62×54 mm R, each capable of firing seven hundred rounds per minute. His twenty-five infantrymen, all battle-tested veterans, carried AK-47 assault rifles or the lighter AKS-74U carbines.
Al-Kassar guessed that when—not if—he overtook his enemies, the fighting would be brisk, up close and personal. The interloping diplomats he had been sent to find and execute might go down in the cross fire, but that posed no problem for al-Kassar. Alive or dead, they served him. Corpses could be passed off as victims of a firing squad. Al-Kassar could strut and pose in front of them, letting the camera linger on his badges and insignia of rank.
The plan would work, if he could pull it off.
Another hour, maybe ninety minutes, and the sun would set. Al-Kassar might have to stop and camp, as nightfall hid the faint trail of his foes and made his convoy’s headlights v
isible for miles. Announcing his approach was suicide, and driving in the desert without lights was not much better.
Al-Kassar preferred surprise if it was feasible—but not if it included crashing into a wadi and breaking his neck, or driving into a bloody ambush.
When the time came, the advantage would be his.
* * *
“WHERE DO YOU think they’re taking us?” Dale Walton muttered.
Segrest considered it and answered quietly, “To someone in authority. Their top man is a captain, three stars on his shoulders, so I’m guessing that we’re on our way to meet a major or a colonel, maybe a brigadier general.”
Walton frowned. “Can’t say I like the sound of that.”
“It beats a bullet in the head back at the crash site. I’m thinking our disposal is above this captain’s pay grade.”
“Disposal? Are you serious?”
“Hey, we knew what we were getting into, right? A flight to Syria, no clearance from the president, prime minister, the military—we were briefed on this, remember? It was meant to be a covert mission.”
“No one mentioned being shot out of the sky,” Walton complained.
“We all lived through it,” Segrest said, then caught himself. “Well, not the crew, God rest their souls.”
The words sounded hollow, even to him.
“So, how do we get out of this?”
“We don’t. It’s down to State now, and the White House. There’ll be protests from Damascus, possibly denials out of Washington and the UN, to start.”
Dale gaped at him. “You’re saying they might cut us loose?”
“Relax. You know the drill. There’s a procedure to be followed in negotiating our release. Face-saving’s necessary on both sides. It could take time.”
“Take time?” Dale echoed. “I’ve got an anniversary next month. Two years.”
“We’ll probably be home by then,” Segrest replied. “If not, Marcie will understand. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“I don’t know about you,” said Walton, “but I haven’t been receiving hazard pay.”
“Imagine the reception when we get back home. Party time at Foggy Bottom.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Walton allowed.
Unless they hang us out to dry—or me, specifically, Segrest thought. It wasn’t his fault that they’d been shot down, but just like with any other bureaucracy, shit tended to roll downhill at the State Department. Someone was always to blame for snafus. In a case like this, Segrest could be the sacrificial goat.
And if he was, so what? He’d put in fifteen years at State, served two administrations. He had a Ph.D. and law license to fall back on, and he was still young enough to stake a claim for himself in the corporate world or academia. Maybe he’d write a book about the bungled jaunt to Syria and do some profitable finger-pointing of his own.
Assuming that he made it home alive.
“You don’t think they’ll lock us up, do you?” Dale asked. “Or…or execute us?”
“Cool it, will you?” Segrest said. “When was the last time anybody executed diplomats? We’ve got immunity.”
“You heard the captain. Sneaking into Syria, we’re spies. They might—”
“Before you piss yourself, relax. Sit back and take a breath. Anything they do will be in public, for the photo ops and sound bytes. They’ve been trying to avoid a US military intervention for the past three years. They won’t be executing anybody.”
Well, he thought, maybe Qabbani and his sidekick. They were probably fair game, but two Americans and a head honcho out of UN headquarters? Not even close.
Now, if Segrest could only make himself believe that, he’d be fine.
* * *
Syrian Arab Army Headquarters, Damascus
BRIGADIER GENERAL FIRAS MOURAD was preparing to leave for the day when he heard the beep of his sat-phone in his desk. He doubled back from the office doorway, unlocked the drawer and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, General Mourad.”
He recognized the voice, of course. Few people had this number, and no stranger had ever dialed it by accident.
“Captain,” Mourad said. “Do you have something to report?”
“Yes, sir. The packages have been collected.”
“Ah. How many?”
“Six, sir. All in good condition.”
“And you are proceeding as agreed?”
“According to your order, sir.”
It was the first good news Mourad had heard today. Elsewhere in Syria, rebels had ambushed and annihilated a patrol outside Al Hasakah, while car bombs had wreaked havoc in Aleppo and Palmyra. Furious, the president himself had raged at the army’s chief of staff, who had then raged against his marshals, who had passed it on down the chain of command.
“This pleases me,” Mourad allowed, the strongest approbation he would offer to a subordinate. Why should his underlings be praised extravagantly for performing as expected?
“Thank you, sir!”
Ignoring him, he asked, “You camp with them tonight?”
“Yes, sir. They are secure.”
“I hope so, Captain. For your sake.”
“Yes, sir. And in the morning, are we still proceeding to Damascus?”
“No. The plan has changed. I will be joining you at your location for the court-martial. A film crew will accompany me.”
“You shall be welcome, sir!” the captain gushed.
“It’s not a social meeting,” Mourad answered. “We will carry on as planned, besides the change of scene.”
Chastened, the captain said, “Yes, sir! All shall be ready for you on arrival.”
“If there’s nothing else, then?”
“No, sir.”
Mourad cut the link.
He had decided, after all, that it would not be wise to try the captives in Damascus. His superiors might attempt to intervene, and through their meddling, hand a gift to the persistent opposition. No, he would conduct the trial himself, pass judgment on the interlopers and observe their execution as spies. The whole proceeding would be filmed, that record locked away until such time as Mourad needed it for his own purposes.
As for the UN flight, it would come down to a simple disappearance. Even if nomads found the plane, the fate of those it carried would remain a mystery. No one from the United States or the UN could complain about the disappearance of a secret group invading Syria with the intent of toppling its elected government. And if they did complain, against all reason, then and only then would General Mourad reveal his evidence to shame them in the world’s eyes, as they so richly deserved.
And in the meantime, further “diplomatic” forays into Syria would be discouraged by the fate of those who went before.
It was a good plan, he believed. He would sleep well tonight, before an early liftoff for the desert east of Deir ez-Zor.
* * *
Deir ez-Zor Governorate
THE TRAITOR ATE THE tabbouleh he had been served. He normally enjoyed the dish, but tonight he barely tasted it, chewing distractedly and pondering the next step he should take.
It was too late to kill his fellow passengers; that much was clear. At least, he could not do it in the way originally envisioned. He had no idea, now, whether his comrades were pursuing him with plans to carry out their mission, or if he had been abandoned to his fate.
The Liberator pepperbox was useless to him now. Four rounds against the twenty soldiers who had captured him and his companions from the aircraft had been a hopeless proposition, even more so when he had found another twenty waiting for them at the desert campsite where they meant to pass the night. The pistol still might help him seize a better weapon—one of the Kalashnikovs, perhaps, or better still, one of the NSV heavy machine guns mounted atop their armored personnel carriers.
He knew that surviving such a last-ditch move would be nearly impossible.
But if he had to sacrifice himself, the traitor
was prepared.
That suicide scenario would not fulfill his mission, obviously. It would not appear to be an army execution of the diplomats who came in search of peace for Syria, but he supposed that headquarters might find a way to spin it, so the goal would be more or less achieved.
The hope of rescue had already faded from his mind, leaving only a grim determination in its place.
* * *
“ALL GONE,” BOLAN SAID.
“All but this one, and the two inside the plane,” Sabah Azmeh observed.
One pilot and a crewman he supposed had been the flight attendant had evidently died in the crash. The passengers had left them as they were, unburied, probably believing that a rescue party would have means of carting off the dead. The other pilot had survived, though badly injured, until someone had put a bullet through his head.
Darkness had already settled on the crash site. Bolan and Azmeh used night-vision goggles to survey the scene, noting the tire tracks that obliterated one another, marking the passage of at least six vehicles. He couldn’t say when they had reached the scene, much less who had been driving, but all signs pointed to two separate groups, one trailing the other.
“Someone took the passengers,” he said. “Then someone else came through and followed them.”
“Northbound,” Azmeh agreed.
Bolan reviewed the map of Syria he’d memorized. From where they stood, the nearest city was Al Hasakah, say, eighty miles due north. Beyond that, another sixty-five miles, the Turkish border would be guarded and patrolled. Without knowing who’d grabbed the diplomats, he found it difficult—make that impossible—to guess what they’d do next.
Bolan had nothing but tracks to guide him. He could only follow, hoping that he overtook the prisoners before it was too late.
He turned back to the Niva SUV, boots crunching on the hardpan. Azmeh followed and climbed into the shotgun seat.
Bolan kept the goggles on and the Niva’s headlights off as he drove, scanning the night for fire, taillights, anything at all that might direct him, but so far, the darkness was complete.
No, wait. There was a light, away to Bolan’s left, sweeping across the desert. Well above it, four hundred feet or so, he saw two smaller, blinking lights, one red and one green.
Syrian Rescue Page 7