by Larry Bond
Guns began to follow, stepping as lightly as he could. When he was no more than twenty feet away the guard stopped. Guns froze, standing so silently he could hear a rasp in the man’s chest as he breathed.
The Iraqi turned toward him anyway. Rankin took him down with a burst that caught him in the side of the head.
Guns cursed, then leapt toward the fence. Rankin ran and grabbed the gun the Iraqi had dropped, then joined Guns as the marine put his rifle to the lock on the twelve-foot-high gate where the train entered the yard and blew it off.
The gate didn’t budge when they pushed. Rankin reared back and threw himself against it. When it still didn’t move, he began to climb. He had just reached the top when a guard appeared from the area of the building. The man yelled something, then dropped to one knee and fired his Ml6.
Losing his grip, Rankin slid down the fence to the ground inside the lumberyard. He crumpled to the ground, safe behind a pile of lumber. Guns managed to pry enough of the gate away from the fence to get in without exposing himself to the gunfire.
Rankin pushed up and fired a burst from his Uzi. As he ducked back under a hail of bullets, he saw a long hose that ran from the building out toward the gate they had just climbed. “Guns, you remember that hose?”
Guns looked over. The hose, a little thicker than a standard garden hose and red, sat in the middle of the aisle he had walked down the day before.
“I don’t think so. You smell that? There’s kerosene all over the place. Worse than the other day.”
Rankin wasn’t sure about that, but he did know this had to be the place.
“Call in support,” he told Guns. “Get an attack plane or an Apache up here to take out that building. The rocket has to be in there. Get them up here fast.”
A heavy machine gun drowned out the last of his words.
29
THE RED SEA
Ravid checked his watch. The American satellite was just now passing overhead. They would begin to assemble the missile as soon as it was gone.
According to his calculations, it would take a bit over two hours to get the missile ready for launch. They would be vulnerable to detection during that time, of course, but it was unlikely anyone would be watching too closely. Certainly the Americans would have every available resource focused on Baghdad. And the Israelis would not bother to protect Islam.
Two hours, and revenge would be his.
Revenge and so much more.
30
BAGHDAD
By the time they got to the hospital, the man Corrine had tried to save had bled to death. She realized it a few blocks away, but refused to let go of him, as if admitting the obvious was some sort of sacrilege. Only when the doctor started to reach into the Humvee for him at the emergency entrance did she remove her hand and shake her head.
“You better look at the others,” she said.
Inside the building, a nurse steered Corrine to a gurney.
“No, I have to get to the airport,” Corrine told her. The woman started to argue, but Corrine just walked away. She saw a female doctor working on one of the men who had come in with her. His arm had caught some shrapnel, but the wounds weren’t serious.
“Do you have a shirt I could borrow?” Corrine asked. “I’m not wounded; this isn’t my blood.”
The woman’s shirt was a size too big, but it was clean. Corrine found a pair of fatigues in a nearby locker and pulled them on as well. Then she went over to the administration desk, where a major told her that the city was being locked down and all the roads were now closed.
“Well, Major, you’d better open them for me,” Corrine told him. “I’m the president’s counsel, and if I’m not there when Air Force One touches down, you and everybody you know will never get another promotion.”
The major told her she could stuff her threats and turned to walk away.
She grabbed his shirtsleeve. “Look, I was out of line and I apologize. But I need to be there.”
He still wasn’t happy, but a few minutes later an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter put down in the parking area outside the building.
“Airport,” Corrine yelled as she got inside.
“I know,” yelled the pilot.
Corrine held on as the helo picked up its tail and skittered toward the airport. Two Black hawk helicopters skimmed over the roadway nearby, running a patrol. An AC-130 Spectre gunship orbited over the outskirts of the airport, its black hulk prominent against the blue sky.
From the air, it looked as if there were a full division of American soldiers on the ground at and around the facility. Vehicles of all descriptions guarded the perimeters and surrounding roads. Even though their aircraft had been cleared in, and even though everyone on the field knew who its passenger was, a pair of armed guards met Corrine and escorted her to an area on the infield where her ID was checked. Corrine knew the Secret Service agent supervising the checkpoint, but the woman searched her anyway.
As she started to walk toward the terminal, one of the soldiers nearby craned his head up. The president’s plane had just appeared overhead. The earlier reports that said it was behind schedule were part of a disinformation campaign to keep potential enemies off guard. The blue-and-white 747 turned tightly and nearly dropped straight down on the runway, the pilot using all of his skills as well as every ounce of the aircraft’s aerodynamic qualities to lessen the chance of a surface-to-air strike. The plane raced to the end of the concrete before stopping. Then, rather than taking the ramp, it turned at the very edge of the runway and taxied back toward the middle of the strip. A military honor guard double-timed out of the terminal, and Corrine headed toward the reception area, where the ambassador was already waiting.
He did a double take when he saw her. “You all right?”
“I am now.”
Four men rolled a ladder out to the plane. It was a bare metal model, not because of economy but because the Secret Service wanted to be absolutely sure there was no possibility of unseen explosives being planted on it.
Two helicopters hovered overhead as a Secret Serviceman popped his head out of the hatchway. President McCarthy emerged a moment later, strolling down the steps as casually as if they were back in Washington. Ambassador Bellows and several members of the CentCom command in Iraq stepped forward to meet him. Corrine felt her shoulders sag. She wanted to relax, but she knew it was far too early for that.
“Miss Alston, there you are,” he told Corrine when he spotted her. “You lead an interesting life, young lady. Very interesting.” He took her hand, squeezed it, and leaned close. “I am glad to see that you are all right.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Now tell me all about it,” he said a little louder. “Stay at my side, deah. I must say, there is nothing that makes an ol’ Georgia stallion look more handsome than to have a fresh young filly by his side.”
Ambassador Bellows beamed at her from behind the president, then stepped up to introduce members of his staff. A Secret Service agent came up and gave Corrine a cap and pin similar to the president’s and the chief of staff’s so they’d know her at a glance. When the president finally finished shaking everyone’s hand, they were shown to a line of limos that had just come up. The president, Corrine, and chief of staff got into the lead limo. The cars drove across the complex toward a hangar for a ceremony with the troops. As they approached, the president’s limo turned off into a building next to the one where the ceremony was planned. Rather than walking there, the trio and the Secret Service bodyguards hopped into a pair of SUVs and drove to a second hangar. McCarthy strolled to the back of the building, where an AH-6 similar to the aircraft Corrine had taken here was wailing.
“We’re getting into that?” Corrine asked.
“Don’t fret, Miss Alston. These are fine aircraft,” said McCarthy. “I flew one of these when I was in the National Guard and you were nothing but a gleam in your daddy’s eye.”
“I’m not fretting. I don’t want you to fall ou
t.”
McCarthy gave her one of his best down-home grins and climbed into the bird. “If it’ll make you feel any better. I’ll set myself back here. Someone else can drive.”
Within a minute, the helicopter took off, joining a formation flanking two larger, slower aircraft over Baghdad. Five minutes later, they set down outside the new Parliament building.
The Secret Service people tried to hurry McCarthy inside, but the president was not one to be rushed. He greeted the servicemen nearby, shaking each man’s hand as calmly as if he were on a campaign swing back home.
“Now, Miss Alston,” he said, taking her by the arm as they entered the building. “Y’all have been here and I’d appreciate a nice homey tour. First hand, as it were.”
“Anything you say, sir.”
When they were in the hall, the president stopped her and leaned his lanky frame toward her. “We won’t get another chance to talk, so tell me, deah: Is Peter the man to carry water for me between the Israelis and the Palestinians, or should I find another horse for that plow?”
“You told me it wasn’t up to me.”
“It is not, Counselor. I am looking, however, for an unvarnished opinion. Yea or nay.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” she protested.
“Would you trust him?”
Corrine took a breath. Her responsibility was to the president, not to Bellows, and the answer to his question was clear.
“I’m afraid he won’t tell you what’s really going on,” she said. “I don’t know that he would even realize he was lying. You said you wanted someone who would tell you what you didn’t want to hear. If that’s your criterion, I would say absolutely not.”
McCarthy’s eye narrowed ever so slightly. Then he smiled and continued walking.
31
NEAR AL FATTAH, IRAQ
The machine gun seemed to drain the air around him, as if it were a vacuum trying to suck all the life away. Rankin hugged the ground, the bullets so close he didn’t even dare squeeze his hand beneath his body for one of his two grenades.
Whoever was working the gun began walking the bullets toward the railroad track. Rankin squirreled around, reaching for one of the grenades. He reared back and tossed it, but felt it go off his fingers awkwardly, flying to the left of where he intended. He cursed loudly and hit the dirt as the machine-gunner began firing in his direction again; the grenade exploded harmlessly behind a pile of cement bags.
Guns wasn’t under direct fire and managed to move forward on his elbows and knees, trying to find an angle where he could see what was going on. He reached the end of the row and saw the machine gun in the distance, but not the gunman, who had found a spot between two large stacks of cement blocks. He pulled out one of the two small grenades he had and tossed it in a high arc; the grenade hit the ground a yard behind the man and exploded.
By then Guns had pulled out his sat phone. “Corrigan. We’re in the lumberyard. We’re taking heavy fire. This has to be the place.”
“There’s an AC-130 gunship en route, no more than ten minutes away,” said the desk man. “Van’s right behind them. Get out of there now!”
“Tell the president not to land.”
“He’s on the ground already and in the city. Get out of there!”
“Rankin!” yelled Guns. “We have to stall them. AC-130’s on the way.”
“Let’s circle. You go wide right. Once that gunship shows up, get the hell away.”
“No shit,” mumbled Guns. He dashed between the rows of wood, expecting bullets to start spraying again. He could hear machinery working in the direction of the building and a truck or something headed in his direction. It was a forklift with a load of cement bricks at the front and four or five men behind it.
Guns ducked as they began to fire. He took his last grenade and threw it in their direction. As it blew up he dove across the open alley, rolling behind a pile of sand. He ran to the side, hoping to flank anyone who’d survived his grenade.
Meanwhile, Rankin worked his way to the fence on the opposite side of the yard. The building sat about fifty yards away, beyond a hodgepodge of lumber and building materials. He caught sight of three or four Iraqis bunkering down, going in Guns’s direction. He hesitated but let them go; his first responsibility was preventing a launch before the gunship arrived.
Moving mostly on his hands and knees, he managed to work parallel to the rear of the building, where he could see through the open wall. The tractor of a large truck sat at the edge there, its motor running.
The missile sat on a trailer with a girderlike gantry, fully erect, behind it. The cylindrical finger sat below the blue tarp of the roof, a simple but effective menace.
He was fifty yards away. Two spotlights sat across from him inside the building, facing the ground beyond the rocket. Their beams were overpowered by the daylight. Rankin realized that they must have been turned on hours before; the Scud must be ready to fire.
Rankin rose to throw his grenade. As he did, a burst of gunfire caught his side and leg, sending him pirouetting to the ground. The grenade, its pin gone, flew up from his hand. He watched it hover there, unsure where it would go. He couldn’t move.
He’d been paralyzed two years ago as well, but then not by a bullet but by fear. More than fear: by the certainty that he was going to die.
They all saw it. And they all felt the same thing, except James.
James, the guy who was just there to write about them, just along for the ride. He jumped up, bounded onto it, saved them all.
And it didn’t explode.
This one did, but it fell on the other side of a huge pile of sand Rankin had fallen behind. As dirt flew everywhere, Rankin pulled up the Uzi and fired back in the direction of the man who’d shot at him. The man tumbled to the ground.
Rankin struggled to get up. His vest had protected him against the bullets that hit his side, but two bullets had hit his leg, both in his calf, and it collapsed under him. He rolled against the dirt, off balance and dazed.
On the other side of the yard, Guns worked to get behind the forklift. The driver was slumped against the wheel, and there were other bodies on the ground near it. Two Iraqis turned the corner behind it, moving cautiously forward, unaware that he was behind them. He waited until he had good shots on both, then fired, cutting them down. The marine climbed up on a stack of bricks, peering around to make sure no one was hiding in ambush. Not seeing anyone, he jumped and ran to it, throwing the dead driver to the side and jumping on. Climbing in behind the wheel he accidentally got his foot on the accelerator and the truck jerked forward. He let it go, steadying his speed — the engine didn’t move very quickly — and wheeled down the next aisle. The wall of cement blocks on the front provided good cover, but it was impossible to see without peering to the side. He turned again, heading in the direction of the sideless building where the missile was being readied.
The front of the vehicle began to shake. Guns realized he was being fired at and jumped off the back as the fusillade intensified. A machine gun — an M60 set on a bipod — joined the four Iraqis firing M16s from near the building, chewing the bricks into dust.
Guns got to the next aisle, ducking behind a pile of bagged stone. As the gunfire continued, he climbed up and burned a box of bullets before the machine gunner managed to return fire. As he slid down to the ground he heard a rumble and thought it was the AC-130 approaching.
It wasn’t: the missile had been ignited and was building pressure to launch.
32
THE RED SEA
Thera took a swig from the water bottle, letting the cold liquid run down the sides of her mouth. The heat was already building; it was going to be a hot, muggy day.
“How much farther?” she asked Ferguson. He was up at the how, listening over the phone as an aide hack in the Cube told him what they saw on the new satellite photos.
“Ten more minutes,” he told her, taking his glasses and studying the horizon.
The
y’d passed two medium-sized oil tankers and a host of small dhows. The interpreter had spotted a boat that looked somewhat like the Sharia; he couldn’t tell because it had a tarp covering the rear deck.
Not a good sign.
Ferguson was just about to put his phone back in his pocket when it began to ring. He saw an odd string of numbers on the face and opened it carefully, as if it might explode.
“Ferguson.”
“Hey, Ferg.”
“Michael. How’d you get the number?”
“I persuaded an old friend that it was important.”
“OK.” The only old friend it could be, Ferguson knew, was the general. “What’s up?”
“Aaron Ravid’s wife and son were killed by Islamic extremists eighteen months ago by a suicide bomber. He was taken out of service, but for some reason they called him back.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid that you would have to take that up with someone else.”
Ferg could guess: it must have had to do with Meles. The Israelis didn’t have too many agents with good access in Syria. New faces were one thing; a deeply planted, well-experienced agent was something else. They’d weighed the risks and called him back.
“Michael, thank you,” said Ferg, ending the transmission.
33
NEAR AL FATTAH
Rankin began shooting at the building, pouring the rest of the Uzi’s 9mm slugs at the steaming cylinder. He fired until the magazine was empty, fired even as the missile began to lift off the pad.
Then a sharp crack split the air, and he heard the sound of metal being torn apart. A ball of flames shot across the ground to his left. Before Rankin could do or think anything else, he felt himself being pushed backward as the building exploded. A fireball shot up from the truck that had been used as a launcher, the flames catching the tail of the modified Scud. Even as the missile pulled away from the ground through the hole in the roof, it had begun to veer off course.