by Peter Nealen
“Oh, horseshit,” Flanagan retorted. “You didn’t know you were going to even touch a machinegun again until a week ago. They’re beach muscles, that’s it.”
“I’ll have you know, Joseph,” Curtis said, “that I am always ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice to go on a top-secret commando raid on Val Verde. Don’t you doubt me.”
“That, or a raid on Macho Grande,” Flanagan whispered sarcastically. “Sure.” He paused suddenly, throwing up a silencing hand with a sharp, “Shh!” before Curtis could retort. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” Curtis asked. “There’s still some shooting going on out in town.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Flanagan said. “It’s dying down.”
Curtis cocked his head to listen. “You think our diversion’s ending?” he asked.
“Either that, or the Iranians are recalling their forces to come back here and deal with us,” Flanagan said ominously. “Whatever it is, we don’t have a lot of time. If you’re going to be my Semtex mule, then let’s go.”
“I am nobody’s mule!” Curtis hissed. “I am volunteering to help your ungrateful ass out from the goodness of my heart.”
Flanagan didn’t bother to reply, but got up and headed for the far missile carrier, his rifle at the ready. They hadn’t seen any movement in that direction in a few minutes, but that could change at any time.
He could almost hear Curtis fuming behind him at his silence. He allowed himself a quick, tight smile of satisfaction, just for a moment.
There was still quite a bit of gunfire crackling through the night, out by the barbican gate, but at least for the moment, there weren’t any Iranian shooters pushing into the outer courtyard. They reached the last missile without being spotted, or even seeing any of the enemy, and Flanagan ducked under the camo netting while Curtis got back down in the dirt with his PKP, aiming it toward the narrow part of the courtyard that led toward the barbican. There were a couple of stairways lining the wall that lead up to the battlements, and he kept glancing up at them, too, but the barbican was the most likely place the bad guys would come from, so that was where he was keeping his weapon pointed.
Flanagan crouched next to the hulking missile carrier, pulling his pack off his back and rummaging around in it for his explosives, fuse, and primers. Flanagan would never style himself an “explosives expert,” but the truth was, he knew how to blow some stuff up, using just enough boom to get the desired effect.
Hastily stripping the wrapper off a block of Semtex, he carved it in half with his knife, shoving one half back in the wrapper, then mashing the other against the body of the missile, just above the engines. He hoped that the missiles were fueled, but even if they weren’t, blowing a hole in the fuel tanks was going to ground them permanently anyway.
He grabbed his time fuse and hesitated. Set it too long, and somebody could cut it and keep the charges from going off. Set it too short, and they would probably all die before they could get out of the outer courtyard. If the missiles really were fueled, the fireball in that relatively confined space was going to be truly impressive.
And if there were CBRN warheads on the missiles, then blowing them up while the mercenaries and the hostages were still inside the Citadel was probably going to be fatal to all of them, anyway.
He finally figured out what should be a decent balance, cut the fuse based on the test burn he’d done on the dhow, and quickly primed the charge with blasting cap, fuse, and igniter. He thought for a second, then shoved the entire priming system under the missile body. He’d get the rest of the charges set before he pulled the igniter on any of them.
“Joe, you might want to hurry up,” Curtis hissed. “I think we’ve got company coming.”
“One’s done,” Flanagan replied. “Back to the next.”
“Did you initiate already?” Curtis sounded like he wasn’t sure if he should hope that Flanagan had, or be horrified that he’d pulled already, with the two of them still that close.
“No, not yet,” Flanagan answered. “Move!”
Ducking under the camo netting, he dashed back toward the second missile, dragging his pack in one hand instead of trying to sling it over his shoulder again. Time was pressing. He thought he could hear shooting from somewhere up in the Citadel, though it was muffled. Not only were the returning Iranians a problem, but if the rest of the team came tearing back down from the keep with the hostages in tow, they were going to need to get moving with a quickness, and he wanted all of the missiles ready to go by then.
He quickly repeated the process with the second missile, while Curtis dropped to the dirt with a thud, training his PKP back toward the barbican. A moment later, Flanagan flinched involuntarily as the night was torn apart by a long, stuttering burst of machinegun fire, flame strobing from the muzzle of the Pecheneg. “We’ve got company!” Curtis yelled.
Flanagan dropped to the ground, unslinging his AK and scrambling to get it pointed toward the barbican. He couldn’t see any targets; whoever had been trying to push into the outer courtyard had been forced back by Curtis’ machinegun fire.
It wasn’t going to last, though, and he was all too aware of the presence of the hulking APC with its 20mm cannon parked against the wall. Where there was one, there were more, and he suspected that the rest were somewhere out in the Old City, and probably on their way back.
And the RPGs were still stacked back at the breach. If those AFVs came rumbling back through the gate, it was going to be a long, long sprint back to get them. But hauling them along with his pack, ammo, and rifle hadn’t seemed like a good idea, if they wanted to stay stealthy.
There was movement in the gap. Muzzle flashes strobed in the darkness, and bullets snapped overhead. They didn’t seem to be getting very close, though. Flanagan realized that the Iranians were trying not to hit the missiles. Smart of ‘em.
He fired a burst in reply, his own muzzle blast kicking up dust and grit in front of him. Curtis’ machinegun roared again, the blast spattering him with sand. At least one of the dim shapes by the wall crumpled.
Hurry up, guys. We are not going to be able to hold this for long.
***
Stealth was now out. That was why Brannigan came off the stairs and ran down the hall. He wasn’t quite sprinting; he didn’t want to barrel straight into an Iranian shooter that happened to pop out of a room. But he wasn’t being slow and smooth, either. They had to get to that top hall before the Iranians killed all the hostages.
He came around the corner, facing a set of double doors nearly identical to the ones a floor below. If these were of a slightly different shade of green, it hardly mattered. The layout of the portal was the same.
Hancock sprinted up alongside Brannigan, and they hit the doors at the same time. Boots hammered against the central latch, and the doors slammed open with a bang.
They were up on their sights as soon as they each got both feet back on the floor, pushing in and spreading out from the doorway. Brannigan shot an Iranian in the side of the head before the man could fire the rifle he had trained on the hostages huddled against the pillars. The man’s head snapped to one side and he collapsed, blood pouring from the paired holes in his skull.
Hancock sidestepped out of the doorway and farther from Brannigan’s line of fire before taking the longer shot across the length of the room at the guard stationed by the far door. It was a hasty shot, and the two-round burst blew a good-sized chunk of meat out of the Iranian’s shoulder. The man slumped back against the wall, dropping his rifle and grabbing his mangled shoulder, and slid to the floor with a scream, leaving a long red smear on the stone and tile behind him. Hancock shot him a second time, unwilling to take the chance that he’d get over his shock and pain long enough to grab for his weapon again. They’d already seen enough evidence that the Iranians were fanatics. The first round shattered the man’s forearm before burying itself in the bottom of his lung. The second ripped through his chest, shattering his ster
num before yawing to blast out the side of his armpit. He slid the rest of the way to the floor, groaning and dying.
Brannigan hadn’t missed a stride as he’d gunned down his target. A quick clear of the corner was enough to assure him that the two Iranians had been the only ones stationed in the room with the hostages, and he moved quickly to the far door, looking for something to use as a barricade. Conveniently enough, there was a crate set against the wall, with a pile of filthy, battered tin plates on it. It looked like it had been used to serve the hostages their meals.
It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Letting his AK dangle on its sling, he put a hand to the crate, set his feet, and shoved. It scraped across the floor slowly; he had no idea what might be in it, but it was heavy enough that it just might do the trick. It took a moment to get it positioned across the double doors.
He got it in place not a moment too soon. The doors banged partway open, hitting the crate after the first few inches, and he heard what sounded like a loud oath in Farsi from the other side. Flipping his selector to full auto, Brannigan brought his AK to his shoulder and hammered a long burst through the doors, bullets chewing holes in the wood, along with any flesh that might be on the other side. There were yells and screams on the other side, and he followed up by dumping the rest of the mag through the doors as he moved out of the line of fire.
Hancock was already at work behind him. “Who’s in charge here?” he bellowed. It was a voice that demanded immediate attention and an immediate answer. Roger had been a good Staff NCO, and a good platoon sergeant, and he had the voice to go along with it.
“I guess I am,” a stout older man with a mustache replied after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m Captain Ortiz, skipper of the Oceana Metropolis.”
“We’re here to get you out, Captain,” Hancock said. “Can any of you shoot?”
“Are you Navy SEALs?” a middle-aged woman asked.
Brannigan couldn’t help but laugh as he reloaded, taking up a position that offered some cover from one of the columns, where he could still cover the door with his rifle, and keep himself and his gun between the door and the hostages.
“Just answer the damned question!” Hancock barked. “We don’t have time. If anyone knows how to run a gun, grab those Type 03s and some spare mags.”
“The Iranians killed all of our security contractors,” Ortiz said, as he heaved himself to his feet.
“Then you’re going to have to fight for yourselves,” Hancock said, ripping the Chinese rifle away from the Iranian that Brannigan had killed and shoving it at the ship captain. “There are still too many of them, and not enough of us. Just try not to shoot any of us.” He pointed to another man and said, “You! Go grab that other rifle. You ever fired a gun before?”
“Grew up with one,” the sailor replied, as he ducked across the room, at least having the good sense to cross the danger area from the doors as fast as he could. He jogged over to the second corpse, where he hesitated for a moment, as if afraid to touch the dead body, then gingerly retrieved the Iranian’s rifle. “Never used one of these before, though.”
“Figure it out quick,” Hancock told him.
Brannigan was frowning as he kept his eyes and his muzzle on the door. The enemy hadn’t tried to enter again, and it was making him nervous. “Doc!” he shouted. “You’ve got thirty seconds to make sure nobody’s hurt bad enough that they can’t run or climb, then we’ve got to go.”
Villareal hadn’t needed the prompting. He had been right behind Brannigan and Hancock as they’d made entry, and had immediately started checking each of the hostages, even before the shooting stopped. “They’re malnourished and dehydrated, but none of them appear to be seriously injured,” he reported, shortly after Brannigan had finished speaking. “I think we’re good to go.”
Brannigan nodded without looking back. Villareal might have had some hangups when it came to killing, but he was still no coward. “All right. Captain Ortiz? Come here a second.”
The portly merchant skipper stepped closer, and Brannigan spared him a glance. The man’s face was drawn and gray, with dark circles under haunted eyes. He’d seen several men he had considered members of his own crew, and at least one fellow hostage, murdered before his eyes. But he was holding it together, and the hands holding the blood-spattered Chinese rifle didn’t shake. He’d do, at least for long enough.
“We’ve got boats at the base of the cliff,” Brannigan explained hastily. “I need you and your people to stick close and move fast, and I need you and your crewman to be ready to fight. Can you do that?”
“If it means getting out of here, we can do whatever we need to,” Ortiz replied.
“But where are the helicopters?” the middle-aged woman asked. “Aren’t the rest of the terrorists dead?”
“Ma’am, we had to come in quietly to do this,” Brannigan explained quickly, before Hancock could respond rather more acerbically. “There are only a few of us, and there are a lot more of them.” When she opened her mouth to protest in disbelief, he cut her off. “Look, ma’am, it is what it is, all right? We can’t change the situation by thinking that it should be different. Just stick close, move fast, and we’ll get you out of here alive.” Hopefully, he didn’t add. The continuing quiet from the other side of the door was starting to bother him. He was getting that hackle-raising feeling that the Iranians had decided to change tactics, and were about to spring a nasty surprise on them.
“Ready when you are, Mr…” Ortiz said.
“Brannigan,” was the reply. “Roger, lead out!” he called. “Back the way we came!” He was pretty sure that going through the barricaded door was going to lead them into an Iranian ambush.
“Come on, on me!” Hancock barked, turning toward the open door. “You, with the rifle! What’s your name?”
“Thomas,” was the shaky response. The kid was sandy-haired and beefy, with a corn-fed Midwestern look to him that matched his accent.
“Thomas, stick close to me, and be careful where you point that thing,” Hancock said. “If we run into trouble, it’s you and me, all right?” The veteran probably wasn’t all that comfortable with having such an unknown quantity as backup, but necessity was the mother of sucking it up and making do. “Let’s go.” With a shuffle of confusion, the hostages started to follow, clumping together behind Hancock and Thomas.
“Stick with me, Captain,” Brannigan said. “We’ll cover the rear.” Keeping his muzzle trained on the blocked door, Brannigan started to side-step after Hancock and the retreating hostages.
***
Esfandiari took a long step back and flattened himself against the wall as the rattling burst of gunfire punched through the doors and ripped into Ghorbani’s chest. The man was smashed back into the hall, blood gouting from a dozen wounds as he flopped to the floor, twitching the last few pain-wracked seconds of his life away.
Abbasi started to move forward, but Esfandiari put a hand out to forestall him, just before another burst tore through the wood of the door. To enter that doorway was going to be instant death, and Esfandiari knew it. Especially if the door was barricaded, they’d never manage to force their way through with the four men he had left.
He'd been paying attention to the radio as they had ascended. There were more enemy fighters in the courtyard, near the Saudi Dongfeng 3 ballistic missiles. Losing the missiles was even more of a threat to the operation than the potential loss of the hostages.
Just before Esfandiari had reached the top floor, Farroukhshad had reported that the bulk of the apostate fighters in the Old City had been driven off. Esfandiari had recalled the rest of his forces back to the Citadel immediately. The enemy in their midst was far more of a threat than the poorly-trained apostates outside.
“We must return to the gate and regroup with Farroukhshad,” Esfandiari said, coming to a decision. “If we can secure the outer grounds, the infidel commandos and the hostages will have nowhere to go. And we can drive them away from the missiles with
the APCs.” He turned and started back toward the stairs. “But we must hurry.”
CHAPTER 16
“Cover me!” Flanagan snapped. “I’m going to have to do this the hard way.”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Curtis replied, between long, hammering bursts of machinegun fire. More Iranian troops were moving around near the barbican, visible as little more than dark shadows occasionally lit by muzzle flashes as they fired at the two mercenaries, though their reticence to shoot too close to the missiles was hampering their efforts. They weren’t getting close enough to hit either man. The bullets were either going high, or skipping off the ground off to the right.
Curtis didn’t have any such compunctions. Another long burst ripped through the darkness and smashed an Iranian who had stepped out into the courtyard off his feet. The stream of lead, copper, and steel hit right about at knee-level, chopping the man’s legs out from under him before slamming into his chest and head as he fell.
Flanagan dug into his pack, pulling all of his demo supplies out and shoving them behind the tire of the nearest missile carrier. He was acutely aware of the nearness of the gigantic bomb over his head; if a stray round were to hit that seven-and-a-half-foot diameter tank of rocket fuel, he was probably going to be instantly vaporized.
Working as fast as he could, getting thumped by the muzzle blast from the PKP, since Curtis had shimmied closer to the missiles as he’d figured out that the Iranians didn’t want to shoot too close to them, he started building his charges. If he had to run down the line under fire, slapping charges in place as he went, that was what it would take. But he’d have them prepped first; building each charge as they went didn’t seem like a good idea anymore.
He had four more charges ready go when he heard an ominous rattle in the night, and Curtis yelled, “Oh, shit!”