Unembarrassed, Jonah theatrically saluted the sniperscope glint in the distance as he slipped out of his sarong and tribal shirt. Babyface’s outfit may have fit him better, but the body lay face-up in a pool of blood which had now soaked into most of the clothing. Jonah opted to strip Oneeye instead, taking boots and pants and silently hoping the dead man hadn’t shit himself when he’d expired. Smoothing out the legs to his new pants, Jonah snapped the clasp to the pants shut and reached for the assault rifle.
ZZZZZZZip.
The weapon spun out of his hands, torn away by the snap of an unseen force as Jonah jerked back like he’d been hit with a cattle prod. Jonah stood frozen, allowing his eyes alone to drift to the cast-off rifle. A single smoking bullet hole stood out in the center of the weapon’s receiver, rendering it useless.
No guns allowed, thought Jonah. That was fair enough, they’d only just met. Jonah smiled and raised his hands.
“You got me,” he said to the glint in the far distance, knowing he wouldn’t be heard. “Your rescue, your rules. I’m going to go ahead and find my own way from here, if that’s alright with you.”
Seeing no movement, Jonah slowly leaned down to snag a half-filled canteen from One-Eye’s corpse and took no more than two steps away from the encampment and towards the open desert.
ZZZZZZZip. ZZZZZZZip. ZZZZZZZip.
Jonah stopped cold as three puffs of sand and dust kicked up inches in front of his feet.
“You son of a bitch!” Jonah swore, impotently kicking sand towards the distant glint. Walking into the desert apparently wasn’t allowed either, and the sniper hadn’t made a move to establish contact. The chances of this being a rescue were diminishing rapidly. By all appearances Mr. Sniper had something else entirely in mind. And then it hit him: Jonah was to walk back into the encampment as bait.
Not only was he being set up—probably by the same man who’d called Bettencorps forces on his location in the fishing village—he suspected that the sniper’s plan probably did not require his long-term survival.
Begrudgingly, Jonah realized he admired the plan. The goal must be to draw Bettencourt or Westmoreland out into the open. The sniper was certainly good enough to eliminate both men before anyone could figure out what’d happened.
Approaching the rim of the sand berm, a shirtless Jonah raised his hands and grimaced as he stepped down the hill and into the midst of the encampment. Mercenaries rushed towards him, aiming rifles, shouting conflicting orders. Jonah ignored them and sauntered towards the command tent, just knowing the unknown sniper would put a bullet in him the moment he stopped.
Colonel Westmoreland burst from the tent, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, Bettencourt following close behind.
“What in the mother-fucking-fuck does it take to kill you?” demanded Westmoreland.
“Why is he back?” shouted Bettencourt, gesturing futility around for anyone to answer him. “What is he doing back here?”
“Don’t ask me,” responded Jonah. “Ask your friendly neighborhood sni—”
Westmoreland leapt to the side and tackled his boss to the ground before Jonah could get the entire word sniper out of his mouth, throwing the executive out of the way milliseconds before the zzzzip of a silenced bullet sliced through the empty space and buried itself into the thick dry mud of the empty lake bed.
Bullets rained down on the company as the mercenaries scattered. With two more zips, two men were down, bleeding and rolling and screaming as the sniper attack continued.
The nearest soldier grabbed Jonah by the collar. “Where is the shooter?!” he screamed, shaking Jonah and waving an ugly, squared-off pistol. The man suddenly winced, dropping to the ground with a bullet in his back. Bettencourt’s white helicopter rose from the lakebed with a roar, gaining altitude with every second.
One enterprising fighter threw open the door to the Ford Raptor and dove behind the wheel, using the bulk of the engine block as cover as he started the engine and advanced the massive truck towards the berm and the sniper’s nest. Four mercenaries huddled behind the tailgate, following the truck as it clawed its way up the berm, sand spitting out in a rooster-tail from behind the oversize tires. Sniper shots rang out against the truck, and one sliced through the shin of a soldier, who tumbled from formation to writhe on the ground, screaming.
Jonah felt like the eye of a hurricane, the spindle on a record-player—calm as the chaos of the universe spun around him. And then he slipped the squat, ugly pistol from the still-twitching grasp of the paralyzed mercenary.
Jonah began walking, calm and deliberate at first, slowly picking up the pace to a sprint as he ran up the side of the sand berm towards the hunched mercenaries. The attackers broke off from the truck, spreading out and flanking the sniper’s position, mercilessly pouring fire into the bushes. Jonah caught up with a straggler and fired a single shot into his knee from behind, felling him amidst the din of automatic weapons.
The sniper risked one final shot, catching the leader squarely through the eye but betraying his position in the process. The final soldier drew a bead, only interrupted when Jonah shot him three times through the back. Shocked, the driver of the truck turned to see Jonah just in time to get a pistol butt against the side of his hand and his limp body thrown out of the truck.
Jonah stuck the pistol in his waistband, put his hands up and walked towards the sniper’s nest, pushing aside bushes. Disarming himself had been a useless gesture—the sniper lay shaking under white robes, trying to stanch a neck wound with his turban and slippery, blood-soaked fingers, his Russian Dragunov sniper rifle lying inert beside him.
The white robe fell away, revealing a dark, handsome face and a glinting white smile.
“’Sup?” asked Jonah. The sniper didn’t answer. It’d be a pity to let such a devious bastard bleed out on the sand. Gunshots echoed from the dry lake bed—the mercenaries were regrouping. Jonah grabbed the sniper by his bloody hand and dragged him into the truck, practically throwing the man’s massive body into the passenger seat. He turned the ignition and the engine roared back to life.
I can flee across the desert, thought Jonah through redtinted vision. But the adrenaline in his system had crested the levies that held back the tidal force of nature and Jonah became the God of War, the Lord of Chaos, an invincible force of nature, enslaved to the power of destruction.
He slammed the vehicle into gear and floored the accelerator. The Raptor responded instantly, throwing the truck forward like a cannon, all four wheels off the ground as it did a tight U-turn and launched off the sand berm. Landing in the dry lake bed, the massive shocks absorbed the violent impact. As hiding soldiers fired potshots at the truck, Jonah aimed at the tent, hoping Bettencourt might still be inside.
The lawyer stepped out of the tent, dumbfounded at the chaos. Jonah stared him down and yanked the wheel of the truck towards him, the accelerator pegged against the rubberized floor. The lawyer froze, took one awkward step to his right as the truck hit him square on, his flinching body disappearing underneath the tires with a sickening sound of bone against the metal suspension. The truck bounced, the steering wheel yanking to one side.
“No way I should still be alive,” said Jonah, staring at the eye-level bullet-craters in the glass windshield. No way the truck should have been able to absorb that much fucking gunfire and keep running.
“Armored,” gurgled the sniper dying in the passenger seat. “Hennessy Motors of Texas. Very satisfactory for Somalia.”
“In that case …” Jonah yanked the wheel to the side, throwing the truck into a massive slide back into the heart of the lake bed, nearly up against the command tent. He threw open the door, jumped out, and ran into the tent looking for the radio transmitter. He spied it still sitting on the folding desk, grabbed it, and ran back towards the Raptor.
Jonah threw the massive truck in gear just as two mercenaries appeared, weapons drawn and trained on the vehicle. They paused just long enough for Jonah to speed off, two massive rooster tails
of dirt behind him. The Raptor impacted the berm at the far side of the dry lake and jumped again, all four wheels off the ground, again landing with a massive whump absorbed by the beefed-up suspension. Rifle fire pounded against the truck, rattling the interior like a vicious hailstorm.
Beside him, the wounded man coughed and spit up more blood.
“Shit, man—” said Jonah, reaching over to put pressure on the man’s neck. “Glad you’re still breathing.”
“’Tis but a scratch,” said the sniper. “Only a flesh wound.”
“Are you seriously quoting Monty fucking Python?” demanded Jonah. He was far from sold on taking the sniper with him, but the Monty Python quote didn’t make for a bad start. And the man had saved his life, so he owed him. For now. Besides, he didn’t have any better plan. He wrapped his fingers in the tail end of the turban and redoubled the pressure on the wound.
Using his knee to steer, Jonah pulled up the satellite navigation system. Good—only about ten miles to the shoreline. The Raptor could make that in minutes and could handle the rough trail like a Baja trophy truck. He spotted a small nearby town with a big central avenue that stretched out to what looked like a long dock extending far out to sea.
One hand on the sniper’s neck, Jonah thumbed the redial on the sat phone as he kept the accelerator nearly floored.
The line clicked live again, but no voice came from the other side. He checked the rearview mirrors, the Raptor’s massive dust cloud obscuring any vehicles pursuing them. “This is Jonah,” he shouted over the roar of the truck’s engines and desert passing beneath them. “Scorpion, come in.”
“Scorpion here,” came Dr. Nassiri’s voice.
“Change of plans. I need a rendezvous.”
“Where?” To the point—Jonah liked that.
“City called Dishu. At the end of the long dock.”
“Vitaly is checking it on the map,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Okay, we see where you are. We can be there in less than thirty minutes,” said Dr. Nassiri.
“Not fast enough,” replied Jonah. “Need you there in ten or less.”
Three Land Cruisers rippled in the rearview mirror beyond the dust cloud, struggling to keep up with the more powerful Ford. Only silence came from the other end of the phone.
“We can do it,” said Alexis, her voice tinny and distant. “We’ll have to surface, and run the electrics and diesels simultaneously—”
“Great,” said Jonah. “Don’t care how, just do it.”
“Got it,” said Alexis.
“Oh, and keep a decent distance from the end of the dock,” said Jonah.
“Why?” asked Dr. Nassiri.
“Because I’m going to jump a truck off it.” The Raptor bounced over a brutal set of bumps in the trail and the sniper tried to brace himself, momentarily airborne. “And Doc, prepare your surgical gear. I’ve got a man with a neck wound, and I can’t stop the bleeding.”
Fingers still pressed into the man’s spurting neck, Jonah looked in the rearview windshield. The Land Cruisers were losing ground, but not by much.
“Start talking,” ordered Jonah to the wounded man. “Or you’re out the door.”
“We share an enemy,” said the man with a gurgle.
“That don’t make us friends,” retorted Jonah.
In response, the sniper issued a massive, coughing belly laugh that filled the entire cab of the Raptor. Jonah looked down at the flowing pool of blood—if he didn’t get the sniper to Nassiri, like right now, he was going to bleed out in the passenger’s seat.
Jonah whipped the 4x4 onto a rutted two-lane road, the city coming into view just ahead. Within seconds, the speedometer mashed up against the governor-regulated top speed of a hundred and ten miles an hour. With the smoother road, it wouldn’t take long for the Land Cruisers to start gaining ground.
“Where are we going?” gurgled the sniper.
“Making a run for a long dock in Dishu,” said Jonah. “Our ride will meet us there. Maybe even provide some covering fire so we’re not cut to pieces.”
“Dishu?” the sniper croaked, suddenly perking back to life and struggling against Jonah’s grasp.
“Hold … still!” Jonah yelled. The front cab of the truck looked like a triage center in the aftermath of a train wreck.
“Dishu is not a good place,” hissed the sniper. “One of Bettencourt’s men was kidnapped by their mayor.”
“I’m not stopping at City Hall to ask for a kabob stand permit.”
“Bettencorps’ mercenaries retaliated by driving through Dishu and firing on militia buildings and private residences,” continued Dalmar. “Recently. From this truck.”
Shit.
The outer city gates approached at incredible speed. It was too late to turn around. Even from the distance, Jonah could see the city populace scrambling out of the way and mobilizing arms. Cars and delivery trucks of all types fled the main street, trying to escape the incoming convoy.
The Raptor burst into the city at top speed, engine howling, the three pursuers inches from its rear bumper. At first, all was good—a smooth road and no obstructions between them and the long dock out to sea.
Then the trap snapped shut.
Militiamen popped up on the roofline of every building on main street. They opened up with AK-47 fire, clattering against the armored doors and roof like a tornado-fueled hailstorm. The front windshield clouded with bullet-fragments and broken glass. The armor wouldn’t hold forever, bullets would start finding their way through in moments. Jonah took his bloody hand off the sniper’s neck and held them to his ears, eyes half closed, trying to shut out the incredible noise as the pirate slumped in the seat, unconscious.
Jonah caught just a glimpse of the three pursuers behind him. Shot to pieces, tires blown out, the first Toyota wobbled, lost control, and slammed into a pillar on the side of the road, while the second disintegrated in a barrage of small-arms and RPG fire. Unarmored, the vehicles didn’t stand a chance. The third slowed and rolled to gentle stop, the driver and passengers shot dead.
The Raptor took a three-foot drop from the road and onto the dock. Glinting in the sunlight, the Scorpion plowed through the water at flank speed, racing to intercept. Jonah watched as the end of the dock approached with incredible speed until the Raptor soared off the end, arcing in a balletic leap, then dropping nose down, slamming into the whitecaps hard. Water rushed into the cab through twisted metal and bullet holes.
Jonah kicked the door open against the pressure of the rushing water, grabbed the sniper by the collar and pulled, taking one last breath as the Raptor slipped beneath the waves, sinking to the bottom of the bay. The sniper came free of the cab and Jonah kicked twice, propelling both men to the surface. Swimming backwards, the sniper’s head on his chest, he reached the external boarding ladder for the Scorpion’s conning tower as the submarine slowed to a stop, engines in full reverse.
With one final look towards the city of Dishu, Jonah hefted the sniper’s muscled bulk over one shoulder; the Somali’s mass dwarfing his own. He climbed the ladder, one rung at a time, and then passed the man to Dr. Nassiri and Fatima at the top of the boarding ladder. Between the two, they somehow lowered him down into the command compartment, wrestling the sniper’s limp form to the deck. It was an awkward, chaotic affair leaving streaks of blood throughout the interior boarding ladder as the man’s neck bled unstaunched. Jonah dropped down behind them as soon as they’d moved him out of the way.
“Who is that?” Vitaly said, turning to stare as Dr. Nassiri threw open his triage kit and went to work on his unconscious patient.
“The man who used me as bait to draw out Bettencourt and almost got me killed in the process.”
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Nassiri said without looking up.
“Will he live?” Vitaly asked.
“Vitaly, stop staring!” Jonah ordered. “Reinforcements could show up at any moment—so move your ass and get us out of here!”
Vitaly turned back t
o his control panels, and Jonah put his hand on the doctor’s back. “What’s the prognosis?”
“I don’t know yet,” Dr. Nassiri motioned to his mother to grab the man’s legs. “I’m going to get him into a bunk. He needs a transfusion.”
“Do me a favor, Doc,” Jonah said. “Save his fucking life.”
“Getting contact,” shouted Vitaly, glancing up from his station. Jonah nodded in acknowledgement, climbed back onto the conning tower, and turned seaward. In the distance, Bettencorp’s mercenary mothership, the battleship-grey transport, bore down on them, rapidly closing the gap between the two vessels. Soon mercenaries would be within range to pick off anyone stupid enough to stick their head out of the main hatch. Charles Bettencourt had no intention of letting his submarine slip away again.
CHAPTER 18
Jonah ducked into the interior of the conning tower and closed the hatch behind him, sealing himself and all aboard into the Scorpion.
“Make our course due east,” Jonah barked to Vitaly and anyone else within earshot. “Hard out to sea, full power. We’re being pursued.”
“Set for silent running, Captain?”
Captain, thought Jonah. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“No,” ordered Jonah. “Not yet. We have to get into deeper water first. As soon as the bottom allows, bring us to 300 feet. But if you find a thermocline, hide in it. Bettencourt says the mothership has upgraded antisubmarine warfare capabilities.”
Vitaly nodded, Jonah didn’t need to explain his plan. A thermocline—an invisible oceanic border between waters of different temperature and salinities—would be an ideal place to shelter, capable of masking or reflecting their sonar signature and auditory trail.
“Alexis!” Jonah shouted towards the engine compartment. Alexis popped her head out of the hatchway, one ear of her protective headphones pulled back to hear him.
“Diesels are five by five,” she said, anticipating his request. “But batteries got bled pretty good chasing you down.”
The Wrecking Crew Page 25