West only needed to buy another minute or two. The last thing Captain Rodgers had told him as he climbed down the ladder was that two AH-1W SuperCobra attack helicopters were inbound and would be on station within minutes. If I live that long, he thought as he prepared for the part of his plan that was truly dangerous, not that running in front of an enemy armored personnel carrier wasn’t crazy enough.
He prayed the grenades that Captain Rodgers and Special Agent Benson had dropped on the war machine had created the desired effect inside the cramped compartment—confusion and disorientation. Otherwise, this is going to be a very short gambit.
He pulled the charging handle back on his M4 and ensured a round was still in the chamber, flipping the firing selector up to three-round-burst mode. He wasn’t going to need precision fire. No point in delaying the inevitable. Better ride like the wind, Christopher Cross–style.
Captain Logan West—who years later would race another vehicle of destruction on foot across the top of the Haditha Dam—sprinted from behind cover, spraying the front of the BMP with 5.56mm rounds.
* * *
Farouq’s head was buzzing with the loud, constant ringing in his ears, the voices of his driver and gunner drowned out by the constant siren of sound.
Plink-plink-plink-plink-plink-plink-plink.
Praise be to Allah. The same soldier who’d sprinted across the road moments before the grenades had been dropped was now firing at them from the middle of the road. Was this American trying to martyr himself? Farouq thought instinctively, aware of the cultural irony. It didn’t matter. His instincts told him to remove this bothersome pawn from the battlefield.
“Kill him,” Farouq said, not realizing he was yelling to be heard over both the noise inside his head and the BMP. “Once this American is dead, we’ll level the building.”
This is going to be satisfying, Farouq thought, knowing what the 30mm rounds would do to a human body.
* * *
The M4 magazine emptied, and the bolt locked into the rear position. There was no time to reload. West dashed down the middle of the narrow road, away from the home in which his brothers and friends were now sheltered. He risked a glance back and saw that the BMP’s long autocannon was traversing toward him, a fact that both relieved and terrified him. This might actually work. Just keep running, he thought, a small grin appearing on his dirt- and sweat-stained face. Some pop culture references never die, but you might if you don’t run harder.
He reached his destination, a wider alleyway two homes down from the one they occupied, and broke hard left—just as the BMP’s gunner opened fire with the 30mm autocannon.
* * *
Farouq watched as the barrage of 30mm high-explosive and armor-piercing rounds disintegrated the corner of the building the American had disappeared behind a split second earlier. There’s no way you can survive that. I’ve seen less do much more damage.
Farouq didn’t realize it, but he was smiling the broad grin of a madman on the edge of accomplishing his goal. Even though he knew the first building was the main objective, his hunter’s instinct had full control of his decision making, and he wanted the American’s blood painted across the walls of the Ramadi neighborhood. For Farouq, the running American symbolized all that was wrong in the Middle East—American aggression, oppression, and a callous disregard for human life—and he intended to crush him into a thousand liquid pieces.
* * *
West was sprawled face-forward on the dirt-packed alleyway, which was filled with rubble and a thick cloud of swirling dust. He lifted his head, willing himself to move. Almost bought it there. You’re not going to get that lucky next time. Now get the fuck up and move, Marine! A brief vision of his sergeant instructor from Officer Candidate School screaming at him inches from his face spurred him into action.
He scrambled to all fours, propelling himself forward and deeper into the alleyway. He reached his feet as he felt the ground shake harder from the approaching BMP. His goal was now in sight one hundred feet directly ahead between the two homes—the open space that had served as their killing field.
West ran hard, concentrating on his breath, running not just for his life as more 30mm rounds decimated the corner of the home, but more importantly, for the lives of those in his charge.
* * *
“Go down the alleyway. We’ll fit. For all that is great, kill that man!” Farouq shouted.
The BMP reached the alleyway, and Farouq was disappointed to discover no dead American. This rabbit runs fast.
The vehicle turned into the alleyway—just wide enough to accommodate the machine—and moved forward. The BMP pushed through the cloud of debris, crushing the rubble underneath its heavy tracks.
I have you now, Farouq thought as he spotted the fleeing American at the end of the alleyway. The running figure looked over his shoulder, breached the opening past the front of the homes, and disappeared to the right.
“Catch him!” Farouq shouted, anticipation that the chase was nearing its end. There is nowhere for the American to hide.
The BMP accelerated, speeding recklessly down the alleyway, scraping chunks of concrete from the side of the home on the right as the driver course-corrected. Within seconds, the man-made predator emerged from the confines of the buildings and into the open space.
The BMP turned to the right as the gunner adjusted the autocannon. But Farouq already had his periscope aimed in the direction of his prey, and what he saw added mental alarm bells to the physical ringing inside his head.
Fifty feet in front of him was a small cluster of rocks. Crouching behind those rocks was the American, except his head was sticking up from behind cover. What in Allah’s name is he doing?
Farouq zoomed in with the periscope, the face of the American filling the image and turning his blood cold. It was the face of a warrior—a fearsome one; Farouq knew the look of a fellow fighter—and he was smiling with a sense of righteousness Farouq knew well. What have I done?
The anticipation of victory instantly transformed into a suffocating panic as Farouq realized he’d been lured into a trap. But from where? The Republican Guard’s training reasserted itself, and he sought to identify the threat.
He whirled in his seat and looked through the rear firing port, spotting what the American had known all along would be there. The chase was over, just not in the way Farouq had intended. Realizing he had precious moments to live, he closed his eyes and said a prayer to his wife and son. I’ll see you soon, my loves.
* * *
Kneeling in the front of the yard near the entrance gate, Gunnery Sergeant John Quick lined up the reticle in the optical sight of the RPG-7 on the rear of the BMP. The hammer on the trigger device had already been manually cocked by its deceased insurgent owner, and the weapon was armed and ready. Gunny Quick’s index finger rested along the side of the trigger guard, straight and off the trigger until he was ready to fire.
“Wait until the first one impacts before you fire,” Quick said.
“Roger, Gunny,” Sergeant Ramirez responded, an RPG mounted on his right shoulder.
While Captain West had acted as bait in the urban maze, Gunny Quick and Sergeant Ramirez had a different task—shimmy down the ladder after Captain West, move to the front of the house, and find two RPGs to use to destroy the BMP. It was startlingly simple, which was often how the best plans were designed—the simpler the plan, the less could go wrong.
“Now, let’s really get some,” Quick said, and pulled the single-action trigger.
A tremendous whoosh exploded from the back of the launcher in a cloud of bluish-white smoke as the warhead was propelled out of the tube toward its target. Instantly, the propulsion system in the middle of the warhead ignited, rocketing the grenade into the rear of the BMP and punching a hole in the rear door that also contained diesel fuel tanks. The grenade exploded, sending a wave of overpressure and shrapnel that mortally wounded the crew inside. The fuel that was splashed throughout the interior ignite
d, creating a conflagration that instantly consumed the oxygen inside the BMP and suffocated the dying men.
“Now,” Quick said, and Sergeant Ramirez followed suit, sending the final nail in the BMP’s coffin hurtling toward its target.
Whoosh!
The second RPG tore through the opening the first grenade had created, detonating inside and triggering a series of secondary explosions that devastated the armored personnel carrier.
“Wow,” Ramirez said quietly as the vehicle popped and groaned, smoke billowing from the multiple hatches in the roof and the hole in the back.
“I’ll second that, Sergeant,” Quick said.
A moment later, the jogging figure of Captain West appeared from the left side of the burning hulk and reached them. He had multiple small lacerations on his face, and blood trickled from each.
“It’s about time you earned your keep, Gunny,” West said wryly.
“Just hoping to get a good FITREP, sir. That’s all,” Quick said, referring to the Marine Corps’ evaluation system.
“Suck-up. Noted,” West said, adding in a serious tone, “Nice shooting. Thank God for reliable Russian weapons.”
“I’ll second that,” General Longstreet said from behind them. He and Special Agent Benson had come down from the roof through the inside of the house to notify the Marines inside that the battle was over.
As if on cue, two SuperCobra helicopters appeared from the east, roaring toward them at low altitude.
Captain Rodgers spoke into the handset of his portable backpack radio. “Negative, Warbird One. We have no targets in sight on the objective. I say again. We are clear.”
“Just in the nick of time, huh?” West said.
“Hey, better late than never, especially if your plan hadn’t worked. At least we would have made it,” Rodgers replied with good-natured sarcasm.
“I think he’s got you there, sir,” Quick said.
“Thanks for the support, Gunny. That FITREP’s getting lower by the minute.”
A convoy of Humvees and two amphibious assault vehicle troop carriers appeared on the highway several hundred yards down the road from the direction of Camp Blue Diamond.
“And here comes the cavalry,” Longstreet said. “Captain Rodgers, can you please express our sincere appreciation to the host and his family, apologize for the destruction, and tell him that if he comes to the camp, I will personally ensure that he is either reimbursed for the damage or we’ll have his home repaired and rebuilt.”
“Roger that, sir,” Rodgers said, and disappeared into the front of the house.
“As for you, Captain West, that might have been one of the most reckless, brave acts of pure heroism I’ve witnessed. We’re all in your debt, and it’s an honor to serve by your side,” Longstreet said. “And I might have been wrong. After that display, maybe you really are Atlas and can hold up the heavens.”
The weight of his commanding general’s compliments in the wake of the fight momentarily moved him, and Captain West exhaled quietly to subdue his emotions. “Thank you, sir. But I was just doing my job, just like each of the Marines here, as well as Special Agent Benson.”
West stepped up to the giant FBI agent and extended his hand. “That was a brave thing you did back there, scooping Sergeant Childress up on the run.”
“Like you said, Captain, just doing my job,” Benson replied, gripping the hand firmly, solidifying the bond that had formed between them.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not in the FBI field manual, but I could be wrong,” West said. “I’m not a G-man, just a Marine.”
“There’s always time,” Benson said, grinning.
“I don’t think that’s in the cards, but I’ll take it under consideration if things don’t pan out for me,” West said.
“Fair enough,” Benson said. “But I mean this: anytime you need anything, ever, you let me know, and I’ll be there. No questions. No hesitation.”
“Spoken like a Marine,” Quick noted.
“Negative, Gunny. Spoken like a friend and fellow brother-in-arms,” Benson said. “Oh. And I don’t mean ‘brother’ as in I’m black, in case your sarcastic ass was wondering,” he added, demonstrating the sense of humor they’d get to know well, even if it wasn’t always on display like John Quick’s.
Quick laughed out loud. “It never occurred to me, Special Agent Man. But thanks for opening that door.”
“Now you really did it,” West said. “Gunny’s like a vampire with his humor: once you invite him in, you can never get him to leave.”
“I guess I did, but there are worse fates,” Benson said soberly, as if realizing for the first time they were surrounded by bodies and a burning armored personnel carrier.
“That there are,” General Longstreet said. “But that fate is not for us. Not today. Now let’s get the hell out of here and back to base. I have a feeling this is going to be a very long tour.”
PART IV
TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA
CHAPTER 20
Udvar-Hazy Security Operations Center
Present Day
“One week later, the real fighting and dying began, as the insurgency exponentially grew in strength, organization, and resources. But you already know how that story ends,” Logan said to John, Amira, and Cole, who’d listened raptly.
“It still doesn’t feel like Mike’s gone,” John said, referring to the fallen Mike Benson.
“I know, but he is, and we have a job to do, one that I know he would want us to see through to the end,” Logan said.
“So what now?” John asked.
“You mean now that we know that retired general and former Marine Commandant Jack Longstreet is somehow involved in all of this? That a man that I once respected completely somehow knew about the plan to kill us here today?” Logan’s voice grew stronger. “What does it say that a man, a Marine, a legend that I haven’t seen since he visited my home in Maryland after I left the Marine Corps, suddenly reappears and saves my life?” Logan paused for effect. “Simple. He’s neck-deep in all of this, and obviously knows more than we do. Bottom line—finding Jack Longstreet just became our main priority.”
“How?” Cole said. “If he’s involved in this shadow world, then he’s off the grid.”
“Oh. I know! I know!” John said, mimicking an eager student trying to please the teacher.
“If you raise your hand, I’m going to hit you,” Amira said coldly. “Don’t make me kick your ass more than once today.”
“Ouch,” Cole said. “I wouldn’t test her.”
“Funny,” John said, ignoring Cole’s jab. “You going to make the call, Logan?”
“Already on it,” Logan said as he unlocked his cell phone and scanned through his list of contacts, finding the one that he wanted. He pressed the name, and the phone automatically dialed the number.
“You’re calling Jake, aren’t you?” Amira asked.
“None other,” Logan said as he held the phone to his ear, the earbud no longer necessary. “Remember, we may be a motley crew, but we do have the full weight, authority, and power of the entire US government behind us. I’m pretty sure that Jake can find the general much easier and faster than we can.”
Jake Benson, the director of the FBI, answered on the third ring. “Logan, what’s up? It’s kind of crazy here right now. We’re about to hold a press conference. I’m pretty sure if you turn on a TV—any TV—you’re going to see me give a very vague statement about this attack.”
“Sorry to interrupt you, Jake, but we have a new player on the board. He called to warn me right before I was attacked. He knew this was a trap, but he also gave away his identity, I think intentionally. I think he wants something from me. And I need to know where he is,” Logan finished.
“Where who is?” Jake asked.
“Get ready for this one—retired General Jack Longstreet,” Logan said flatly.
“The one you, Mike, and John fought with and saved in Iraq?” Jake Benson’s voi
ce went quiet. “Jesus. How does this stuff keep haunting us?” he asked in a manner that made it seem like he didn’t want the answer.
“I don’t know, but it does, and unfortunately, we have to deal with it,” Logan said. “I figure you can have the FBI assign some agents, go through some databases, and figure out where he is so that—”
“Got it,” Cole Matthews suddenly interrupted.
“Jake, hold on a second, please,” Logan said, looking at a grinning Cole Matthews doing his best cat-ate-the-canary impersonation. “Seriously?”
“Hey, I’m not just some good-looking operator. I know things,” Cole said seriously.
“Like what?” Logan said, playing into the banter.
“Like Google,” Cole replied, and held up his smartphone, showing a picture of Jack Longstreet in a suit facing Logan. “See?”
Logan didn’t react. Instead, he said, “Jake, I’m going to have to call you back. Better yet, go do the press conference and hit me back when you’re done. I think we’re going to be at the museum a little bit longer.”
“Will do,” Jake responded. “Talk to you shortly.”
“Have fun with the press,” Logan added, his disdain for the media evident.
“They’re not too bad, if you know how to handle them,” Jake said. “And they can serve a purpose if nudged the right way. One of these days, you’ll see that,” Jake finished, and hung up, leaving Logan no time to reply.
“All the power in the world, and we don’t even need it. All we need is fucking Google. Go figure,” John said.
“What do you have?” Logan asked, his patience wearing thin.
“Everything,” Cole said. “Looks like the general has had quite the retirement. It also looks like he can’t stay out of the game.”
“Why do you say that?” Amira asked. “Where is he?”
“He’s chief of security for operations on the East Coast for Kallas Shipping,” Cole said.
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