by Don Mann
“Why?”
“I’m gonna run ahead. When you get close, flash the headlights and slow down. Whatever happens, don’t let those bastards in the trucks.”
“That’s a stupid idea,” commented Hassan.
“Nobody asked you, Hassan.”
Hassan muttered something under his breath. They were close enough now to see one of the trucks ahead flying a black-and-white ISIS flag.
“Nasty-ass jihadists,” announced Akil.
“This is bad. A very terrible situation,” Hassan warned. “We should get out here and run!”
“Keep your head down.”
“Maybe it’s your buddy al-Kazaz,” said Akil. “You still got that letter?”
“Forget the letter.”
Sarin and young attractive women would be too much temptation to desperate men. Crocker looked through the NVGs but couldn’t find any parked motorcycles. Just SUVs and trucks—one a flatbed with a weapons system mounted on it.
“Even if it’s al-Kazaz, we can’t let him inside the trucks.”
“Copy.”
“Breaker, Romeo, Manny, Rojas, ready weapons,” Crocker said into the mic. “No one gets in the vehicles. No inspection; no bartering. We’re going to slow down, tell them we’re ferrying injured civilians, and blast by. We’re not letting them in. Repeat. Keep them away from the trucks.”
“Copy, Deadwood.”
“Roger.”
“Here we go. Over.”
Crocker readied the 416 in his lap, securing the AAC M4-2000 suppressor and slipping an M576 buckshot grenade into the M320 grenade launcher attached to the rails. He grabbed two more M576s and three high-explosive M441 grenades and stuffed them in the pouches of his combat vest; chambered a round in the SIG Sauer 226 and stuck it in the waistband of his pants; made sure the NVGs were snug around his head and his Dragon Skin armor was strapped on tight. No time even for a quick prayer.
“Ready?” Akil asked.
“Ready. Pull close to the shoulder at that bend up there and slow down.”
Akil braked and Crocker opened the back door, jumped out, rolled into the high grass, and sprung to his feet like the athlete he was. Immediately he broke into a sprint through the grass, pulling ahead of the Sprinter and pickup. Building up speed, he was within one hundred feet of what he made out to be two white Broncos and a Mercedes flatbed truck with what looked like a Russian-made ZU-23-2 antiaircraft gun on it blocking the road ahead. He hadn’t seen a ZU-23-2 since Somalia, back in the nineties, when they were chasing drug-crazed warlords through the streets of Mogadishu.
Noisy fucking weapon, and nasty.
One of the Broncos had its headlights illuminated and engine running. Six bearded men stood in front of the vehicles, holding weapons and wearing assorted camouflage and traditional garb, all with armored vests. They were gesturing at the oncoming vehicles to stop.
Crocker, breathing hard, barked into the head mic: “The two guys on the right are mine. Breaker and Rojas, you take the dudes on the left.”
“Happily.”
“Deadwood, check out the twin 23mms on the truck,” Mancini said.
“Should be in a museum, huh?”
“If they work, they can rip shit up.”
“Copy,” responded Akil. “Don’t want that piece of shit pointed at me.”
“Ain’t happening,” Crocker said. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Okay, Warrant Manslaughter.”
“I have a real bad feeling about this,” Hassan moaned to Akil at the wheel of the pickup.
“Keep your head under the dash before they blow it off.”
“What happens if they hit one of the canisters?”
“We die,” Akil responded.
Davis through the earbuds: “Deadwood?”
“Soon as the bastards level their weapons, open fire.”
As Crocker ran, the tall grass sliced his arms and face. He glanced over his shoulder to check if the jeep was still following them. It was. Another complication. One he couldn’t deal with now.
“Romeo, ease down on the brakes, but don’t stop under any conditions,” he said through the mic to Akil.
“Even if Angelina Jolie jumps in front of us naked?”
“Even if she does a booty dance in your face.”
The jihadists ahead stood in the path of the lead pickup, waving wildly and shouting warnings. One fired volleys from an AK into the sky. Crocker was bearing down on them in the grass on the right, running in a half crouch, the muscles in his calves and legs burning, breathing hard.
Fifty feet, forty, thirty, twenty, ten. His right foot reached ahead, hit the side of a slight depression, slipped, and turned. He lost his balance and fell hard onto the right side of his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. He saw stars, felt pain near his ribs, and struggled to stay conscious, feeling for his weapon, willing himself up.
Meanwhile, Akil was reaching out the F-250 window, pointing to the blue cross on the hood and shouting in Arabic, “Medical emergency! Doctors Without Borders! We have wounded civilians. We’re Canadians. Brakes don’t work! We can’t stop!”
Crocker pulled himself to his knees, his head still throbbing. Through the grass he saw one of the jihadists jump onto the pickup’s running board and heard him scream through the window, “You stop, infidel! Stop or I shoot!”
“I can’t, brother. The brakes don’t work!”
Akil and the jihadist struggled through the window. Two shots went off in succession. The pickup veered left and crashed into the side of one of the Broncos. Immediately the confused jihadists leveled their weapons. Crocker knelt in the grass beside the front wheel of the pickup and opened fire.
He launched the M576 first, then raked right with the 416. Keeping in mind that the targets were wearing armored vests, he aimed for their legs, then finished them off with head shots, a tight burst at each. As soon as they went down, he looked for his next target. One-two-left-right. Through his EOTech sight he saw a jihadist in the back of the flatbed start to swing the ZU-23-2 into position, and caught him with a salvo that practically took off his head.
The flashes through the NVGs blurring his vision, he shoved an M441 round into the M320 launcher, aimed at the flatbed, and fired at the hood. BLAM! The front of the vehicle exploded into flames.
Davis and Suarez directed their fire left. Screams, smoke, confusion, cascading bodies. The encounter was pretty much over before it started, except for one jihadist who tried to launch himself through the Ford’s passenger-side window. He managed to reach in and grab Hassan by the hair.
Crocker ran up and shouted, “I got him. Back away from the Bronco, then accelerate!”
He smacked the jihadist in the back of the head with the butt of his 416 so that the side of his head smashed into the front post near the window. Then jumped, held on with his right hand, and thrust his SOG knife into his throat with his left. He pulled open the door, grabbed the jihadist by his beard, and threw him off.
“Watch out, boss!”
The jihadist’s body smacked the side of the Bronco as they swerved around it. The F-250’s door swung open and hit it, too, sending up a stream of sparks, blowing out the window, and almost taking Crocker’s right leg off. He pulled it back just in time. Hassan screamed. The baby started wailing.
Total chaos. Akil fishtailed the truck left and right, trying to control it, and throwing Crocker all over the backseat.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Having fun! Hoo-yah!”
Akil gunned the F-250 down a straightaway, smoke spilling from beneath the hood, then skidded around the next turn.
“Easy!” Crocker shouted, holding on and looking back. He could see that the Sprinter couldn’t keep up. “Ease the fuck up.”
Hassan was screaming and holding his hands over his eyes. “I’m injured! I’m bleeding!”
Crocker learned over, pulled away his hands, and saw a long scratch across his left cheek, maybe a few millimeters deep. There
was just a trickle of blood. He slapped a hand over Hassan’s mouth and said, “Pull yourself together! You’re fine.”
The young man was practically hyperventilating, and his eyes were popping out of his head.
Crocker spoke into the head mic, “Everyone okay? What’s everyone’s status? Rojas, Breaker, Manny? Report.”
“Rocking and rolling, but intact,” Mancini responded.
“Shit my pants,” joked Davis.
“Praise my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” responded Suarez.
“Nicked in the shoulder,” said Akil from the front seat.
“What now, Deadwood?” Mancini asked.
“Keep burning out.”
He leaned over the seat and saw lots of blood around Akil’s shoulder. Looked like a bullet had passed through the fleshy part up top. He reached into his med kit, found a black tactical tourniquet, wrapped it as high around the shoulder as he could, and pulled it tight.
“Damage assessment to the vehicles?” he asked into the mic.
“We took a couple rounds in the hood and one through the windshield. Lucky shot.”
“Sarin intact?”
“Seems to be, yeah.”
“The women?”
“A little shaken but all good.”
The front right bumper of the Ford F-250 was a crumpled mess, and smoke continued to pour from beneath the hood.
“Engine’s heating up,” Akil reported.
Through the cacophony Crocker made out little Tariq crying and his mother quieting him, which brought him a moment of joy—quickly interrupted by Davis’s voice through the earbuds.
“That asshole is still behind us and bearing down.”
“How the fuck did he get through the roadblock?”
“Maybe he’s one of them,” Davis answered.
“It’s only one man. You sure?”
“Only one head up.”
Crocker had forgotten all about the vehicle tailing them. He craned his neck out the shattered side window to take a look and made out a Mitsubishi J21C jeep with a single driver behind the wheel closing, flashing its headlights and honking.
First he wanted to take a quick look at Akil’s shoulder to see if the tourniquet was working.
He said, “Hassan, take the wheel.”
“But—”
“Take the fucking wheel and maintain current speed!”
Hassan grumbled something as he grabbed the steering wheel. Akil slid closer to him, then they squeezed past each other and changed places, Akil holding his left shoulder.
Crocker shone a light on it and leaned forward to look.
“Bad?” Akil asked.
“Hold the flashlight and keep quiet.”
“As long as my dick is still working.”
Crocker cut away the wet T-shirt, cleaned the wound with an alcohol prep, applied some local anesthetic, smeared in some QuikClot, and covered it with a Battle Wrap compression bandage. Blood was spattered all over the driver’s seat and window. He didn’t know if it was Akil’s or the jihadist’s, or both.
“Ugly mofo,” Akil said, “with stinking breath.”
“Lean back. Drink some water. How do you feel?”
“Like I want to kick ass.”
Crocker grinned, slapped him gently on the side of the head. “You’re just as fucked up as you were before.”
“Lousy doc. I ought to sue.”
“For what? Listening to your BS?”
Through the earbuds he heard: “Deadwood, the jeep in back is within fifty feet of us.”
“Slow down,” Crocker ordered.
“Can you repeat that?”
“Ease up on the accelerator. Slow down.”
“Ill-advised, boss,” Mancini responded. “Could be a suicide bomber.”
“Could be. But I don’t think so.”
“Not a chance we should take.”
Mancini had a point. Crocker into the head mic: “Manny, you still got those portable StunRays?”
“Affirmative.”
“They functional?”
“The lithium batteries are pretty hardy, so should be. Want me to test them?”
“No time. What’s the range on those suckers?”
“They incapacitate at up to one hundred fifty feet.”
“All right. Slow down, then direct ’em behind you and blind the fucker!”
“Like that idea. Will do. Over.”
Crocker craned his neck out the window and looked back as the Mitsubishi pulled within sixty feet of the Sprinter. Suarez, Davis, and Mancini each held one of the XL-2000 handhelds out the window and switched them on at the same time. The intense light turned the road and jeep completely white.
It nearly blinded Crocker, too. He steadied his 416 against the rear windowsill and tried to fix a bead on the driver, just in case.
Whoever it was seemed to be losing control of the jeep, swerving left, then right. The Mitsubishi hit the right shoulder, dipped into a ditch, hit the ground grille-first, and flipped over. One complete turn, then another, and then it stopped roof-down in some shrubs.
“Stop!” Crocker shouted. Akil slammed on the brakes, and Crocker jumped out and ran back, weapon ready. He was joined by Suarez cradling an M5. Together they examined the overturned vehicle through their NVGs but couldn’t find the driver. Suarez pointed into the weeds ahead. Through the smoke Crocker saw a large figure lying on his belly and groaning. He had been thrown and landed chest-first. They couldn’t see his face.
“Yadahu! Yadahu!” (Hands!), Crocker shouted in Arabic. “Let me see your hands.”
The guy wasn’t moving. Still, Crocker remained cautious. “He reaches for anything, waste him.”
Both of the big man’s arms were trapped underneath him and he wasn’t moving. Suarez stepped over him to get a look at his face.
He leaned closer and exclaimed, “Boss! Boss, look. I think it’s Babas!”
“Babas? You mean Zeid’s friend?”
“I think so, yeah. Check it out.”
Crocker knelt down to get a good look and recognized the thick brow and long nose. Also saw that the man’s spine had snapped near his neck.
“Shit,” Crocker said with a groan. “He’s toast.”
They listened to him breathe his last. Watched his body tremble and relax.
Suarez: “What do you think he wanted?”
“Unclear, poor guy,” Crocker answered, shouldering the 416. “Let’s check the jeep.”
Nothing except a loaded AK on the floor, a Glock 9mm in the glove compartment, and an old copy of Penthouse stuffed under the seat, along with a half-eaten falafel. The vehicle itself was unsalvageable, with a broken rear axle.
Suarez: “I think he was trying to help us, boss.”
“Could be. Yeah. If he was…damn shame.”
The light Suarez was holding washed across Crocker’s head. “Hey, boss. What happened to your face?”
Crocker ran his hand along it, finding shallow slashes and coagulating blood. “Grass back there sliced me good. Let’s go.”
Davis, in the Sprinter, was on the phone. Seeing Crocker, he put his hand over the receiver and said, “Ankara’s sats picked up our GPS signal, and they’re mad as hell. Want to know why we’re moving and where.”
“Have they cleared air rescue?”
“Negative. But they informed me that they tried to put up a Predator but were overruled by HQ because of the heavy Syrian air force activity.”
“So nothing’s new.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell ’em they’re fucking useless, and we don’t need their help!”
Chapter Fourteen
If you come to a fork in the road, take it.
—Yogi Berra
There was no room in the trucks for Babas, so they buried him as well as they could, uttered a prayer, took his weapons, and proceeded. A Syrian helicopter passed low overhead. Nerves were fraying. Hassan and the women were almost delirious with fright. Crocker asked Suare
z to sit with the latter and try to keep them calm, and instructed Hassan and Mancini to keep driving in the direction of the border. He kept an eye out for headlights, roadblocks, and anything in the air.
He used gauze and peroxide to wipe the blood off his face and arms. Stung like hell, especially along the side of his mouth. His watch showed that it was approaching midnight. The handheld Garmin GPS indicated that they were less than twenty miles from the border.
All they needed now was a little luck.
Just when it looked like the road ahead was clear, they heard the roar of jet afterburners as three MiG-21s tore past at low altitude. A panicked Hassan almost steered the F-250 off the road.
“What was that?”
“Ignore everything else and drive.”
A minute later the landscape ahead lit up with multiple large explosions. Then the road itself jumped as if it was trying to shake something off.
“You think they saw us?” asked Hassan.
“Likely,” replied Akil.
“Pull off,” ordered Crocker. “Hide the trucks.”
“Here? Again?” Akil said.
“Yeah, again.”
“Where?” Hassan asked. “I can’t see anything.”
“We’ll find a spot.”
“Deadwood, it’s Breaker,” heard Crocker through the earbuds. “Ankara reports that Assad’s jets are pounding an FSA convoy ahead.”
“Great.”
“What do we do now?” Hassan asked.
“Stop asking questions, and keep your eyes on the road.”
They watched the MiG-21s climb high into the clouds, then dive for another pass. The land ahead lit up again and shook.
Akil pointed to the Ford’s heat gauge and said, “We’ve got another problem, boss. This baby’s overheating.”
Crocker leaned forward and saw the thermostat had reached the danger zone.
“What should I do?” Hassan asked.
Crocker saw a dirt road ahead that snaked into some hills. He pointed to it. “Turn off there. Pull into that clump of trees and stop.”
“Then what?”
“Then we try to fix this shitbox.”
Mancini, who knew vehicles and engines, did a quick inspection under the hood and came back with bad news. It wasn’t a hose he could patch. Instead, a round had torn into the radiator and done extensive damage.