by Patrick Dent
“Ms. Hernandez, I'm John Drake with the US Government. I'm here to take you home,” Drake shouted above the ringing in his ears. Lupe closed the gap between them and gave him a hug that turned his snapped ribs into a meat grinder in his chest.
“Oh, thank God! I was afraid he'd never be able to find me.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“I'm here with another man. We're here to take you all home.”
“Just two of you? That's all?” She asked, her tone petulant.
“Ma'am, there's no time for this. We've got to go. Where are the other girls?” Drake spoke and behaved like a machine.
“They sent just two men for me?”
“They sent two men for all of you, and if you want the opportunity to complain to your father personally, I suggest we get moving.”
“This way,” Lupe said, leading Drake west toward the row of cells. Drake stopped to grab Shahid's keys before they hurried along.
* * *
Gip carefully molded the C-4 putty around the perimeter of the south entrance. For good measure, he stuck the leftover C-4 in a large lump in the center of the door. He guessed he had about ten times more explosive than he needed. God help anyone on the other side of that door when it blew. Gip sprinted back up the hill and took position behind a large outcropping of rock. He attached the wires to the switch and, after bracing himself for the shock wave, pushed the button.
Nothing happened.
* * *
Tartus was furious. He was down to four men inside, and he still had no idea how many enemy soldiers were waiting for him outside. Since the southern entrance was obviously under attack, he moved north. He ran through the maze of stone corridors for a tedious five minutes. By the time he reached the north entrance, he was winded and sweaty.
“Halt!” One of the guards pointed his rifle at Tartus.
“It's me, you idiots! Is there any activity outside?”
“None that we can hear, Tartus.”
“Then get that door open, now!”
The guards unlatched the two heavy bolts that ran the entire width of the door. One took several steps back and leveled his AK-47 at the doorway. Tartus took cover behind a stone wall. The other guard cautiously poked his head out, having no idea whether he would lose it for the effort. The northern compound was clear.
* * *
Lupe unlocked the last of the doors while Drake constantly panned east and west, alert for any activity. Most of the girls did not speak English, but they responded to sign language. Drake was concerned they would be panicky, but he was surprised by their silence.
After what they had been through in the last three weeks, they were shocked numb by the rescue. Most had given up hope long ago. Drake kept them single file along the southern wall of the corridor. If any gunplay should erupt, their chances of being hit were minimized. Of course, the walls and ceiling were stone, so ricochets would be an uncontrollable factor. Drake did not want to face the decision he would have to make if one of the girls were hit. He knew he didn't have the resources to get many wounded out of the citadel.
Where were Tartus' men? Surely Tartus had alerted them to his location. How many were left? Drake guessed about six. Once he had opened the last cell, he led the long line of girls toward the south entrance.
* * *
“Shit!” Gip screamed. He was running out of time, and something was wrong with either the wiring or the primer. He fired another burst at the citadel to perpetuate the illusion of a contingent of troops outside. He ran back towards the door.
* * *
Salam, one of the interior guards at the south entrance, heard it first – the sound of many footsteps approaching. This is it, he thought, the troops must have taken the north entrance. He signaled the other guard and they turned their attention away from the south entrance and toward the great hall.
* * *
When they arrived at the entrance to the great hall, Drake signaled the girls to stop. They responded well to his signals – almost like experienced soldiers. Drake figured we all become soldiers when we have to. With his back against the wall, he peeked over his left shoulder around the doorway.
Rock and mortar sprayed as steel encased lead ate into the doorway, inches from his face. The barrage of bullets chopped the doorway and the wall in front of Drake's face to pieces.
Drake didn't get a good look, but he saw at least two men. They had been ready for him, and he knew they would advance on him, one laying cover fire while the other moved. By taking turns in this fashion, they would be on top of Drake in less than thirty seconds. Gip obviously had not blown the door. Several of the girls screamed out in surprise when the shooting began.
* * *
Salam heard the screams of women. So, the troops already had the girls. He wondered how many of the footsteps he had heard belonged to soldiers. Regardless, with no appreciable cover, they had no choice but to storm the archway. He raised his arm to signal the charge. It was promptly taken off at the shoulder by the exterior door as it passed him at over two hundred miles per hour.
* * *
The explosion shook the foundation of the massive citadel. Drake was reminded of the scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Butch, in an attempt to access the safe on a train, had blown the entire rail car to smithereens. Sundance had asked, 'Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?'
The south door, now a massive projectile, traveled the entire width of the great hall, through the archway where Drake took cover, and struck the wall beside Drake with such force that for an instant Drake thought the wall would collapse. It held.
The corridor was filled with the sounds of screaming women. Projectiles of rock sprayed them, tearing delicate flesh. Drake's eyes were caked with dust. His clothes, still wet from his swim, were encrusted with a paste of wet dust and mortar. He clawed at his eyes, knowing that at any second, those guards could round the corner. When he had some semblance of vision, he ventured a glance around the doorway just in time to lose his head – almost.
While one guard lay on the ground screaming and bleeding, the other was advancing on Drake's position. Drake heard another barrage of shots. Even though his ears rang in pain from all the concussions, he recognized the familiar sound of an M-16, as opposed to the guard's AK-47. Silence ensued.
“All clear,” Gip shouted.
Drake looked again and saw Gip standing there with a grin on his face. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Glad you could make it,” Drake called out.
“Man, the last thing I expected to see was your white ass. 'Though you aren't exactly white anymore.”
“It's camouflage. I'm disguised as a wall.”
They both laughed, releasing nervous tension. Drake signaled for the girls to follow him. When they were all in the southern courtyard, Drake said, “Any survivors out here?”
“Possibly on the roof,” Gip replied. He cocked the M203 and lobbed another grenade toward the center of the roof to make sure nobody got brave. “Man, we better get moving. We've got a long walk back to the truck and who knows who else might be roaming around out here.”
“Good news,” Drake said, “I saw two jeeps and a deuce-and-a-quarter around on the north side. It'll save us one hell of a hike.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Gip asked.
“Nothing. Just be aware that door will be guarded, if only from the interior. Let's move out.”
The girls were covered in dust and some of them were bleeding; but for the most part they seemed miraculously intact. They moved as swiftly as possible along the east wall. When they arrived at the corner, Gip peeked around. Two men stood just outside the open door. He thumbed his M-16 to fully auto and swept around the corner, all but cutting the two guards in half.
As they loaded the girls into the truck, Gip said, “Drake, I thought you said there were two jeeps.”
“Ah shit,” Drake spat. He told Gip about the man who had gotten away.
“He was as far away from the fighting as possible, and he used the Hernandez girl as cover. Sounds like a natural born leader to me. Besides, when he had the opportunity to shoot me, he chose to run and save his own hide. That's not a desirable quality in a security guard.”
“Well, there's nothing we can do about it now.”
“Yes there is. I'm going back inside. You drive the girls three klicks, switch trucks, and proceed to our rendezvous spot. If I'm not there by dawn, take the girls to the US Embassy in Rabat. It's about a three hundred mile drive, so you can be there by nightfall.”
“You're the boss. If you want to commit suicide, that's your choice.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Drake said, starting northward, making his way through the rubble covering the great hall. He retraced the steps he had taken with the girls just a few minutes ago.
According to the drawings they had studied, the living quarters were just east of the great hall. If Drake could find Tartus' bedroom, there would certainly be photographs. It took him less than ten minutes to find the most lavish bedroom. There was a picture on the dresser of a man in military fatigues with his arm around two men. They had machine guns slung around their necks. Drake didn't recognize the man on the left. The one on the right was Falon. The man in the middle was the coward he had encountered in the catacombs – Tartus. In the nightstand, he found what appeared to be a day planner, but he could not make out the Arabic. He pocketed the picture and the book and ran to the northern compound.
* * *
At twenty minutes past dawn, Gip was facing a difficult decision – one he didn't want to make. His instincts told him to go back for Drake, but he had the lives of thirty-eight girls in his hands. Damn him for leaving me in this position, he thought. As he reached into his pocket for a coin to flip, he saw dust on the horizon. Either that's Drake, or this is about to get interesting.
Minutes later, Drake sped over the hill in a jeep. As the tires screeched to a halt against the packed sand, Drake jumped out.
“Find anything?”
“Yea, his picture. Tartus is the one who got away. I also have some sort of notebook, but we'll need help reading it.”
“What about the girls?”
“We've got to get them to the US Embassy in Rabat before we deal with Tartus. Briggs made that crystal clear.”
Gip had moved the girls to the other truck because of the special modifications he had installed. Gip put the pedal to the floor and they sped toward Rabat.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shaqra
Shaqra was crowded for five in the morning. The men were dreary eyed from a night of drinking. Tartus was well known and respected among Shaqra's clientele, so when he burst in they made no fuss. He was dressed in silk pajamas stained with sweat, dust and flecks of blood. His feet were bare. He walked to the center of the bar, stood on a chair and proclaimed, “I need men! I'm paying cash!”
* * *
Gip had been driving the truck full of girls for a little over two hours before he encountered the barricade.
“What the hell is that?” Gip said, rousting Drake from his catnap.
“Looks like a road block. It's probably just routine, but just in case, have your hand on that switch.”
“You got it.”
Gip braked gradually, taking as much time as possible so he could think. Even if this were a routine roadblock, wouldn't the men inspect their cargo? Plus, his special modifications were camouflaged only to pass a cursory glance, not an up-close inspection. Still, Tartus' men must have to contend with the same issues. Gip's experience in Morocco suggested that anything could be bought with hard cash.
He came to a stop twenty feet shy of the barricade. A man approached the driver's side window and spat something in Arabic.
“Do you speak English?” Gip asked.
“Yes. Your papers, please. I need your shipping manifest.”
Gip pretended to look through his pockets. “I'm sure I have them in here somewhere.” As he searched, men began to encircle the truck.
As they spoke, men moved to encircle the vehicle.
“Quit stalling. Your papers now, please.”
“Here they are,” Gip said, producing a wad of American hundred dollar bills. The guard was not receptive.
“Please step out of the truck.”
* * *
While this conversation took place, Drake surveyed the situation. He counted nine armed men on either side of the truck and three in front. There were three trucks parked fifty meters ahead. Drake could not see whether they were occupied. He casually lowered his right hand, searching for the makeshift device Gip had prepared for just such an occasion. If Gip had made the slightest mistake in design or construction, everyone in the truck would be killed instantly. Well, it was a little late to worry about that.
Beyond the barricade stood a lone man. Unlike his compatriots, he did not have an AK-47. His only apparent weapon was a sidearm, and it was not drawn. Drake squinted into the glare, trying to discern the man's facial features. Since he had been napping, his eyes had not yet adjusted to the brightness. Although he couldn't distinguish the man's face, he did recognize the pajamas. It was Tartus!
Drake pushed the button activating the claymores planted along either side of the truck. The truck shook from the concussion. The back blast partially imploded the cab, but the small steel plates did their job of directing the blast outward. Both doors buckled inward. There was a sound like clumps of wet cement splattering onto the dirt. Their ears, still recovering from the torture of the blast, once again began ringing. Shit, Drake thought, If I do survive this, I'll be deaf.
As shredded body parts rained down outside, Drake was already retrieving his M-16 from beneath the seat. He flicked it over to fully auto and pulled the trigger in one smooth motion. The three men in front of the truck raised their Ak-47s, but Drake beat them by a split second. He dispatched all three, shattering the windshield in the process. Fragments of glass filled the front seat. Drake looked to either side and saw that all the men were dead or dying. He tried to open the door, but it was jammed. Tartus was nowhere in sight. Damn, he's a slippery bastard.
Men began to pour out of two of the trucks ahead. The girls were screaming frantically.
“Go! Go! Go!” Drake shouted.
Gip floored the pedal and broke through the barricade. He maneuvered off the road to bypass the trucks. He and Drake heard the crackling of the AK-47's as they passed. They kept their heads as low as possible. The girls lay as flat as they could, covering the bottom of the truck bed as Drake had instructed them to do should trouble arise.
Tartus' new recruits ran into the center of the road and fired behind the badly dented truck. Since the side view mirrors were shattered, Drake had to stick his head out the window to see behind them.
“They're coming! Two trucks. Hand me the M-203.”
Gip instantly produced his M-16 with the M-203 attachment from beneath his seat. Drake chambered a round and leaned as far out the window as he could. He estimated the range to be one hundred meters and adjusted the sight accordingly. When he fired, the barrel was pointing up at a thirty-degree angle. His first shot hit the ground about ten meters ahead of the lead truck and exploded harmlessly.
“Another round!”
Gip slapped the cylindrical grenade into Drake's hand. Drake opened the chamber and dropped it in. The truck then appeared to be eighty meters back and they were firing. Drake's second shot hit the lead truck in the windshield. The resulting explosion billowed out of the cab of the truck. The truck took a sharp left and flipped on its side, sliding thirty meters before coming to a stop. Just as men began to scramble out the back of the truck, there was a secondary explosion as the gas tank ignited. Most were killed in the explosion, but the few who had escaped were doused in burning gasoline. Some ran. Some rolled. All screamed. The second truck broke off pursuit, screeching to a halt. Typical m
ercenaries. Men who worshipped the almighty dollar promptly lost their interest when they realized they were unlikely to be around to spend it.
Gip kept the pedal to the floor as they sped toward Rabat. Drake and Gip had no idea of the condition of the girls, and they couldn't afford to stop and find out. They were fairly certain that they had suffered casualties. Statistics dictated that.
* * *
Drake was surprised at how foreboding The US Embassy in Rabat appeared. A fourteen-foot brick wall surrounded it, with razor wire angled outward. The gates were wrought iron. Two guards were posted inside the gates, wearing Marine dress uniforms. Gip pulled the truck up to the gates, honking madly. The guards gave no indication that they possessed the sense of hearing. Their eyes were fixed ahead, their spines rigid.
Gip shouted out the window. “Open the gates! We are Americans being pursued by hostile enemy forces.”
* * *
Although his head did not move, one guard's eyes shifted focus to their pitiful remnant of a truck. The men he saw were in civilian clothes. Their skin was so thickly pasted with dirt, he couldn't tell their race. He had to assume they were natives, possibly terrorists. He unshouldered his M-16 and pointed it at the truck from hip level. He partner did the same.
“Move away from the gate. Now!”
* * *
Drake climbed out the window and approached the guards. He was tired, hungry, thirsty, injured and generally pissed off. He winced in pain with each step he took. The guards responded by chambering a round in each of their weapons.
“Sir, get back in the truck and move away from the gate or we'll be forced to open fire!”
Drake recognized the rank of the Marines as E-5, the equivalent of a buck sergeant in the Army. “Sergeant, I am Sergeant First Class John Drake of the United States Army. My partner and I are on a mission for the US Government. I order you to open these gates right now.”
“Sir, I'll need to see some identification,” the guard replied. His weapon was trained on the center of Drake's chest. The other guard's weapon was trained on Gip, still in the truck.