Ghost-ARC

by John Ringo

  The van finally pulled into an industrial complex, closed and dark, and slowed through a series of turns. Mike got a look at a dead end, a parking lot with a few cars, a person standing in the shadows and . . .

  He was off the back of the van, tumbling as quietly as he could into a roadside ditch, before his mind fully processed the MP-5 the sentry was holding. He hadn't seen any phone booths in miles, the buildings around the guarded one were all dark which meant no getting to a phone easily. And a sentry meant that this wasn't just a simple snatch for pussy, this was . . . something else.

  He dropped the jump bag and leopard crawled down the ditch, heading for the building. The sentry was at the front and his brief glimpse hadn't spotted one on the side. But there were some windows. He needed more intel before he figured out how to call in support and the windows might tell him something.

  As soon as he was around the side and out of sight of the front sentry he leopard crawled across to the wall of the brick building and crouched in the shadows at the base. The window was about eight feet up, which was a long damned jump for a guy who was five ten and a bit out of shape, and he knew he didn't dare make much sound. He squatted and then sprung upward, his hands clamping onto the narrow sill, the entire evolution completed in near perfect silence. He waited for a moment to listen for reaction, then slowly chinned himself up to the window.

  The room was mostly open with some metal boxes that looked a bit like coffins lining the walls. The van was parked inside and there was a container vehicle pulled in with its doors open. The blonde, now sans everything but bra and panties, tied hand and foot with fast-strips and with a gag stuffed in her mouth, was on the ground near a table in the middle. One of the boxes was being loaded into the container vehicle and, as he watched, the doors were closed and the vehicle pulled out. It was a red container with "OCCP" on the back and a symbol like a flower. The doors were dented towards the top. The license plate was out of view. He got all of that in one brief glance and then went back to examining the room.

  There were seven subject males of apparent Middle Eastern extraction in view. One was at the table, talking on what appeared to be a satellite phone. Three were standing by the van, between it and the blonde. A fourth sitting in the open side door. There was an additional subject female on a metal table like a surgery or butcher table, naked. She appeared to be unconscious, had had an IV inserted and something like a cloth diaper put on her lower regions. As he watched, two of the subject males lifted her up and lowered her into one of the "coffins." The IV was inserted into a pouch in the top and the top closed and latched from the outside.

  Mike started to lower himself, having seen enough, when he heard a light hiss to his lower right. He closed his eyes, willing his night vision to come back, and then looked down. A man in a light-jacket was pointing an MP-5 at him and gesturing for him to come down.

  Mike, briefly, wondered why the guy hadn't shot him already. In a way the former SEAL wished the target had done so. He was embarrassed. He'd mentally been bitching at the girls on campus about their security and here he'd gone and completely lost situational awareness. It was . . . annoying.

  He nodded at the man in agreement, smiled nervously, dropped down, apparently stumbling on the fall, and rolled into the man's legs. Reaching up, Mike gripped the barrel of the submachine gun and rotated it upwards, ripping the grip out of the man's hands at the same time, then slammed it into the target's stomach before he could cry out. As soon as he had partial control of the weapon, which was attached to the target's body with a friction strap, he rotated it, pressed it into the man's chest, rotated the safety lever to burst and triggered three rounds.

  The entire action had taken no more than three seconds and the whole noise had been a grunt from the target and the sound of the MP-5's action. In the middle of taking down the target Mike had noticed, from the ribbed feel of the barrel shroud, that the weapon was an MP-5 SD, one of the quietest silenced sub-guns in the world. Highly illegal in the U.S. without the appropriate permits and uncommon among terrorists. On the other hand, Mike had spent more time with one in his hands than he had with school books, including high school. He searched the target's body and retrieved three more magazines, checked the level in the one in the weapon, reached up, tugged the collar of his T-shirt down hard, then snugged the weapon into his shoulder and ghosted towards the front of the building.

  There was a sentry at the front and this one was apparently a rover. He knew he'd made two mistakes, one in not checking for the rover and one in losing situational awareness. Part of it was eagerness. He really wanted to kill these sons-of-bitches and he wanted to save the girls. From what he'd seen, they were being transported. Where was a big question. But terrorists, as these clearly were, weren't going to negotiate. If the police tried to handle this like a normal crime, all the girls were going to die. Terrorists of this type would only negotiate so as to get maximum news coverage and then kill the girls in the worst way they could manage.

  He did a mental check and decided that this constituted a mission that he could do with a good conscience, if not legally. "Protect and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic." Kidnapping was a de jure and de facto stripping of civil rights, and local authorities, however much they were the legal group to handle it, were not going to be competent to do so.

  Mike knew it was so much bullshit. But he also knew that if he managed to extract the girls, nobody was going to give a shit how he'd done it. The prosecutor that tried him would get tossed out of office so fast the door would hit him, or more likely her, knowing liberal bitches and their incredible stupidity, in the ass.

  Fuck it. If he went for commo, the sentry would be found, the two girls would die and so, probably, would the others, wherever they were going. Then the whole operation would just up and disappear. It was take-down time.

  With that in mind, he shouldered the MP-5 and ghosted forward along the wall. Nearing the corner he actually let himself make some noise, as if he was the roving sentry coming up to the corner. No reason to startle the guy until he had to.

  When he came to the corner he stepped outward, still at tactical present, and leaned to the left. The target was standing by a personnel door, smoking a cigarette. Marlboro from the drifting smell of the smoke. The cigarette spun out of his lips and into the grass by the side of the entrance pad as the three nine-millimeter rounds impacted with the side of the target's head.

  Twenty-one rounds left but only two spare magazines. Mike stopped at the target and found three more, including the one in the target's weapon, and stuffed them in his back pockets. The night was quiet, still no sound of alarm from the terrorists in the building. There was probably some sort of rotation schedule for the sentries. Time to get inside the decision cycle.

  He gently checked the handle on the door and determined that it was unlocked. Then the decision had to be made, slow or fast. He finally decided on slow and casual. One of the sentries coming in for some reason. He pulled the door open and stepped through looking unconcernedly to either side. The view from the door into the room was blocked by a stack of the "coffins." When he cleared them to either side, he'd be in view of the terrorists. Time to go tactical again. He lifted the MP-5 to his shoulder and stepped to the side quickly.

  Party time.

  Chapter Two

  "Yes, Hamid," Hazzah Bud said, nodding as he talked on the phone. "The delivery has been made on time, on my honor. The shipment will be at your warehouse no later than tomorrow night. We had trouble finding sufficient stock, but at the last moment we found a significant amount and not only have fulfilled the first order but have stock left over to start the second. Yes. Yes, we will ensure that the cargo arrives in good condition. Go with God, Hamid."

  Hazzah had been a member of Hezbollah since the outbreak of the civil war in Lebanon. A member of the Joharra tribe, he had fought the Amal and the Hamas, the Irish and the American Marines. He had been one of five pote
ntial drivers for the attack on the Marine barracks but at the last minute his best friend, Murtaza Batatu, had been chosen for martyrdom instead. Over the years he had waned in his faith in the jihad and these days he was just happy to awake each morning alive. Martyrdom was for the young. But a job was a job and failure in this one would mean martyrdom for sure.

  Bud looked up at Abdul Mohiuddin and shook his head.

  "Halal is unhappy that it took so long to round up the full cargo and he already wants more. In good condition."

  "That means we cannot rape these infidel bitches," Kahf Shishakli said, angrily. Kahf was a youngster among the mujahideen and full of the work of Allah and the chance for martyrdom. A student from the Emirate of Kuwait, majoring in business, his family was fiercely Wahabbist and he had been raised to believe that death in the fight against the Dar Al Harb was the highest of callings. But he was young and the bitch on the floor was pretty. Like all the American whores she went not much more clothed than she was now. All such whores deserved to be raped.

  "Are either of them virgin?" Bud said, grinning at the girl on the floor.

  "The one who is packaged was not," Abdul said, settling into the open door of the van, then gesturing at the blonde. "These are all whores, are they not? None of them have been virgins."

  "He said in good condition," Bud replied, pulling a pistol out of his waistband, and walking over to the blonde. "He didn't say unraped. I think we'll rape this one. If she is in bad condition when we are done, we'll send her soul to Satan and find another."

  "In'sh'allah," Shishakli said, reaching down to grab the girl's hair and twist it. "It is as Allah Wills. Women taken in battle are allowed to be raped and these women are taken in the Great Jihad against the Americans. Let us rape them to the Glory of Allah."

  As Mike stepped to the side he heard males speaking in what he was pretty sure was Arabic and then a muffled scream from the girl. He stepped around the coffin, at present, and targeted a male holding the hair of the girl. Three rounds to the chest put the target down, the silenced 9mm rounds punching into his chest cavity and blasting blood and bone out to cover the cowering girl.

  Hazzah Bud had been fighting one group or another most of his adult life and had the scars to prove it. But it was a long time since he had had to fight for his life and the attack was unexpected. As Kahf's chest erupted in blood, he turned towards the faint "thocks" from the silenced submachine gun, raising his pistol as quickly as he could. In his haste, he actually triggered a round into the floor and he prayed to Allah that it would disturb this djinn who had appeared long enough for he, Hazzah Bud, Allah's servant for most of his life, to live.

  Mike shifted to a male holding a pistol in his hand. The male was rotating to the side to fire and actually triggered a round into the ground in his haste. Mike ignored it and serviced the target with a burst, then shifted to the group by the van.

  Abdul Mohiuddin grabbed his AK and rolled into the body of the van for cover. If this was an American police assault team they would soon find that those who did not fear death were dangerous to battle! Allah would be with them in this battle!

  The one that had been sitting in the doorway was gone, presumably into the cargo area; the other three had reached for weapons that were scattered on the ground. One was raising an AK variant assault rifle and was serviced as was a second reaching for another AK. At that point, an automatic part of his brain told him to cover and reload so he pulled back behind the coffins, ejected his magazine down the front of his shirt, and slapped in another. He wasn't standing still while he did it, but moving counterclockwise behind the cover of the coffins, looking for another shot.

  Murtaza Saqqaf was amazed. He had gotten but one brief view of the assailant and it was not the heavily armored tac team they had expected. Indeed, there appeared to be but one American who had already killed many of his brothers in Allah. It was infuriating!

  "There's only one of them!" he shouted. "We can trap him! Come around the coffins; he is hiding in there!"

  There was shouting from the coffins behind him and he ducked into a space between two stacks, waiting a moment. After shouting the person was trying to move stealthily but it was nearly impossible in this echoing room. Mike followed the cautious movement and then took a coin from his pocket and tossed it over the coffins beyond his present position. The metal coin made a loud bong as it hit, too loud really, but the target sped up, actually passing his position in a quiet trot. Mike waited a moment and then leaned out . . .

  There was a metallic sound, like a magazine being dropped accidentally, well down the south wall, and Murtaza sped up, closing on his quarry. Allah was with him and he smiled.

  "Allahu Akbar!" he shouted as he spun around the corner and emptied his magazine into the space where the sound had occurred. But there was nothing there and as he realized that, over the ringing in his ears from the firing, he heard a faint sound behind him. . . .

  Mike wanted to laugh at the actions of the target but, instead, as the tango turned to check behind him he fired a three-round burst into the "sniper triangle" of the head and upper body, where there were numerous critical blood vessels, then began moving again, heading clockwise to his previous firing position.

  Ahmed Rabah nodded as he heard the shout from Murtaza. There had been no flood of police into the warehouse, which meant it was likely to be only one American, thinking he was Rambo and trying to save the Satan's whores. Well, the mission was probably a failure, they would have to pick up and move elsewhere at the very least. But the purpose of the Warriors of Jihad was to spread fear amongst the infidels of the Great Satan and killing the bitch would do that well enough. So he darted out of the cover of the coffins towards the bitch on the floor. Let the American continue to battle, but even if he was victorious it would be as ashes in his mouth. He had just reached her when he heard the squeak of a tennis shoe from among the coffins and looked up into the barrel of a submachine gun. . . .

  When he reached his firing position he saw one of the terrorists preparing to terminate the hostage and he put two bursts into the man's chest, the blood flying out onto the already blood-soaked girl screaming into her gag. Since there was a significant threat to the hostage, Mike decided to go for a thunder run and see what he could get directed at himself. He moved to a different opening and then darted into the space in the middle of the room.

  Abdul Mohiuddin had considered killing the whore on the floor but even if they moved she could still be smuggled out of the country. So he continued to wait in the concealment of the van, knowing that sooner or later the American would have to come into view. Suddenly a man in jeans and a shirt darted into the open area, moving fast.

  Abdul had been waiting for that and opened up the back door of the van, dropping to the ground in a crouch and placing his AK against his hip, firing off the clip in long burst at the running figure.

  As the door opened on the van to his left Mike turned, then rolled on his right shoulder, coming up in a kneeling position and targeting the muj as 7.62mm bullets cracked the air around him.

  Abdul Mohiuddin felt the 9mm rounds thudding into him as so many punches to the chest and stumbled to his knees. He tried to lift the rifle again but it was far too heavy. He tried to mumble a prayer to Allah, but his lungs were full of liquid and he couldn't get a breath. His vision darkened and all he could feel was fury at this one djinn American who seemed to be invincible. Allah had deserted them. . . .

  Mike didn't even ensure the target was down, just sprung to his feet and sprinted across the area, bullets cracking around him, to dive behind the desk, reloading as he ran.

  Sidi Al-Radi looked at his friend Khalil Medein in fear. Both were students from Pakistan at the University of Georgia. They had met at a student rally in support of the Palestinian cause and been recruited as warriors of the jihad that same day. At the time it had seemed a great cause and they had shouted with the others that they were willing to die for Allah.

  However, now tha
t they faced death, had seen the blood from their fellow warriors staining the floor, knew that death came for them on squeaking feet, all they could do was crouch behind the desk and hope that it would pass them by. . . .

  As he cleared the top of the desk in a one-handed lift, he discovered to his annoyance two of the terrorists crouching down behind it and not even looking for him. They were as surprised as he was, and far, far slower. In a second and a half, two more warriors of Allah had been sent to have a conversation with their God. He suspected that it was not going to be a good one.

  His position, however, was very exposed and he lifted himself up again, sprinting forward. There was an open gap in view and he headed for it like a goal line, ricochets whining off the floor around him. Suddenly most of the shooting stopped and he heard a lot of reloading which caused him to grin even in the middle of the mess he'd started.

  Terrorists, even trained terrorists, used the "spray and pray" technique of combat. Point the gun in the general direction of the enemy, generally held somewhere near the hip, close your eyes, pull the trigger and hope that you hit something. It wasn't just terrorists, everyone in the region except the Israelis tended to use "spray and pray." Which was why, besides body armor and superior training, Western militaries, including the Israelis, didn't tend to take many casualties from rifle fire while, at the same time, racking up kills by direct fire. Westerners could, and would, target their shooting. Arabs didn't. And, at the moment, it was saving his life. He just hoped like hell they wouldn't accidentally, or intentionally, shoot the hostage.

  He paused in the gap and counted on his fingers. Started with nine and the two sentries. Sentries down. One with a gun, one holding the hair. One in the back. One in the van. Two behind the desk. Three to go? No. Two. One trying to kill the hostage makes seven.

  Rouhi Karim was one of the imported mujahideen, another member of Hezbollah. He had not fought as broadly or fiercely as Hazzah Bud, but he was an experienced street fighter and thought that surely he could kill one Allah-damned American. But twice he had seen the infidel djinn cross the open area in the middle of the room and twice tried to shoot him, emptying two full magazines in his anger to no avail. Now he decided that there was a better way. The infidel feared death and always negotiated for hostages. He reloaded again and left his cover, running into the open area and grabbing the blood-covered bitch by her hair to lift her from the floor. She screamed at the pain but he felt nothing but joy at the sound. Soon the American would be dead and he would give her far more pain. . . .