So Murdock was the first one out onto the road. His first sight was a pair of headlights coming on very fast.
Murdock held up a hand and brandished his weapon, but the Lebanese evidently felt the same way as American highway drivers about stopping at night for armed men.
The selector switch of the Kalashnikov AKM goes from safe directly to full auto. Which was convenient, as Murdock hit the lever with his left forefinger the same instant as he squeezed the trigger with his right. He emptied the entire thirty-round magazine into the car as it sped past him. The car skidded back and forth as the driver jerked the wheel under the impact of the rounds, but it kept going. Murdock watched helplessly as his mission was compromised before they'd even started.
Then Razor Roselli, at the wheel of the Shorlands, shot out of the darkness and broadsided the car in an explosion of glass and metal. It was no contest. The crumpled car spun off the road and slammed into a tree.
The automatic fire had left the barrel of Murdock's AKM glowing red. He changed magazines and rushed up. Through the rain he could see two white muzzle flashes flare up as Magic Brown and Higgins raked the car at point-blank range. When they ceased fire, Murdock ran his red-lensed flashlight over the car's interior. It was a mess; he couldn't even tell how many people had originally been inside.
"Push it all the way off the road and throw some brush on it," Murdock shouted. "And hurry up, I want to get out of here before someone else shows up."
He ran back up the road and found the others sitting tight with their weapons ready, having heard the shooting but not knowing what had happened. "Let's go, let's go," Murdock yelled. He was starting to get hoarse.
They got the vehicles onto the road, and then had to unhook the tow cable and re-stow it on the Shorlands. Jaybird and Doc gave the Mercedes a quick once-over, and wiped off as much mud as they could.
To Murdock it seemed the faster they went the slower everything got. Finally the Lebanese car was concealed off the road and they were ready to get started.
Murdock checked out his Shorlands. The impact with the car had barely scratched the paint on the welded steel body. He jumped into the passenger seat, soaking wet, covered with mud, and shivering. His wool beret had sagged down over his ears, and the once-shiny emblem was dirtied by mud. There was hardly any room to move; the entire compartment of the vehicle from the two front seats back was packed solid with blocks of TNAZ explosive linked by detonating cord. "What a goatfuck," Murdock mumbled.
"The time isn't good," said Razor Roselli.
Murdock looked at his watch for the first time since they'd landed. Jesus, they'd used up almost fifty minutes of the precious darkness just getting unscrewed.
Cool down, now, Blake, he told himself. When you're pissed you don't think right, and you only make the boys nervous. Murdock took a deep breath. "Let's get going," he said evenly. He reached over and turned the vehicle's heater up to full blast.
With their armored car in the lead, then the two Mercedes, and finally DeWitt and Kos bringing up the rear in the second armored car, the SEALs started down the road into the cold Lebanese night.
16
Saturday, November 11
0204 hours Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
"Don't forget Roselli's First Rule, Boss," Razor told Murdock as they sped up the highway. "The more fucked up an operation starts off, the more successful it's going to end."
"We've got nothing to worry about then," Murdock replied.
They'd gotten down off the mountain road, which was only slightly more improved than a goat path, without any more problems. The highway into Baalbek was two lanes, paved. There wasn't much traffic in the Bekaa Valley at one o'clock in the morning. Not many had the guts.
The occasional car they did encounter gave them a wide berth at the first sight of their markings. Syria kept its thumb firmly on Lebanon with the help of a forty-thousand-strong army of occupation. Ever since the civil war of the 1970's, their methods had been simple, effective, and ruthless. Whenever a faction became too powerful, the Syrians would ally with the faction's enemies and crush it. These alliances could shift with dizzying speed; friends would become enemies and then make friends again over the course of a week or two.
The Syrians currently had close links with Iran, whom they'd backed in the 1980's war with Iraq. And the Iranians were the founders, backers, and directors of the Lebanese Shiite Moslem Hezbollah, or Party of God, perpetrators of the Marine barracks bombing in Beirut, kidnappers of numerous Westerners in the 1980's.
Though Syria liked to protest to the world that the religious fanatics of Hezbollah were uncontrollable, their arms shipments and Revolutionary Guard advisors from Iran had to come into Lebanon through the Damascus airport. This gave Syria notification and veto rights over Hezbollah operations. And Syria used Hezbollah to keep up military pressure on the Israeli Army in southern Lebanon, through car bombs and ambushes. Conveniently, this meshed well with Hezbollah's stated goal of killing as many Jews as possible.
"Okay," said Murdock, hunched over his map. "Fork coming up. Right is the dirt road to Ain Bourdai, left is to the Roman ruins. We're going straight."
"We should be hitting a checkpoint pretty damn soon too," said Razor.
As they approached the outskirts of Baalbek, the checkerboard fields changed to tiny villages of low-slung stone buildings, thickets of roadside trees, and the large murals that were the Lebanese equivalent of billboards.
The first one they saw proclaimed, in English Hezbollah welcomes you by his pioneer values.
It provoked some general snickering inside the car.
"Remember that intel report?" said Murdock. "The one about Hezbollah trying to persuade tour groups to come and visit the Roman ruins west of town?"
"The temples used to be a big tourist attraction," said Razor. Then "Check this out."
The next mural was a crude representation of fists punching through American and British flags, and demanded Israel must be eliminated.
"I think the tourism committee needs to sit down and take a meeting with the hate committee and the translation committee," said Razor.
"Come visit Baalbek," said Murdock. "We'll throw you in a prison, we'll chain you to the wall. You'll never want to leave."
"The whole family will love it!" Razor exclaimed. "It's really too bad their marketing campaign is going to be ruined in about an hour."
They both chuckled. It was good to release some of the tension.
"Checkpoint ahead," Razor said calmly.
Murdock shifted the Kalashnikov in his lap, and keyed his radio. "This is One, checkpoint three-hundred meters."
"Two, roger," Doc Ellsworth responded from the Mercedes behind them.
"Three, roger," said Magic Brown from the second limo.
"Four, roger," replied Ed DeWitt from the Shorlands bringing up the rear.
The transmissions were encrypted, so anyone who might be listening to a scanner was just picking up hums, clicks, hisses, and static.
The rain and the wipers beat against the windshield. The headlights fell upon a concrete shack, and a few figures, attracted by the light, began to emerge from it. Murdock could make out the familiar silhouette of the Kalashnikov in several hands. One of the figures balanced on his shoulder what looked like a piece of pipe with a cone on one end. An RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher, an antitank weapon with enough penetration to punch right through the Shorlands steel armor and probably continue right out the other side.
"No hesitation," said Murdock. "We're going right through, one way or the other."
"Drop the armored visors over the windshield?" Razor asked.
"No," said Murdock. "We're just driving along, we're not concerned. He made sure all the external lights were on, and that the large Syrian flag flapping from the aerial hadn't fallen off. It was still there. A glance in the rearview mirror showed him that the limos had their flashing lights on.
They approached the checkpoint at a bold forty miles per hour
, don't-screw-with-me speed. As they got closer Murdock could see the figures move more urgently and start to bring their weapons up.
0223 hours Bekaa Valley
"The lieutenants going too fucking fast," Jaybird said to Doc Ellsworth.
"So?" Doc replied calmly. "It's not like we can do anything about it, so why sweat it?"
Jaybird cocked the big Russian PKM machine gun lying across his lap and slid the barrel into the door gun port of the Mercedes. "I only see one RPG. When the lieutenant and Razor catch that rocket, try to go around them so they screen us from the checkpoint. I'll hose 'em down, and if we're lucky we'll all get through before they get the launcher reloaded."
"Hey," Doc said sharply, "enough of the bad karma, all right? Those motherfuckers pick up any negative energy from this car and I'll shoot you myself."
"Okay, okay," Jaybird relented. "I'll start thinking positively, I swear." Nothing else you could do, he thought, if the nuttiest one around was your medical corpsman. They should never have let Doc near California; he was way too cosmic to be in with.
Pleased, Doc smiled. "Good. Now put that weapon back on safe and shoot some warm and fuzzy thoughts at those rag-headed bastards."
0224 hours Bekaa Valley
As they sped closer to the checkpoint, the silhouetted figures slowly changed into men. Murdock saw the rifles ready on their shoulders, the RPG gunner tracking them through his sight. They were about twenty yards away now. Murdock reached down and flicked the siren switch, just one quick arrogant blast.
They passed through the checkpoint, and Murdock waited for the rocket's impact. He looked again in the rearview mirror. Everyone was talking with their hands, gesturing wildly. He could almost hear them yelling at each other as the limos passed. Then the armored car. They were all through.
In retrospect, at least, it was clear that the psychology was perfect. No matter how suspicious, paranoid, or dedicated the men at the checkpoint had been, they were much like the highway patrolmen watching the car of the governor's wife weaving down the road late at night. They knew they ought to do their job, but they also know just how sorry they could end up being.
"We're in," said Razor. "The Lebanese might fuck with each other, but no one fucks with the Syrians. And even the Syrians don't fuck with Syrian big shots."
"Let's get a move on anyway," said Murdock. "Before someone picks up the phone and calls down the line to see if any visitors are expected."
They sped through two more checkpoints, the men manning them exhibiting the same indecision. Then they were inside Baalbek. It was a town of a little more than sixteen thousand people. Green banners hung from houses. A huge mural of a woman in a full-body chador exhorted the ladies of the town to maintain Islamic modesty in their dress. If they knew what was good for them, Murdock thought. Iranian flags flew in the streets. Around Baalbek lay the remains of the fallen empires. The Phoenicians; the Romans, who had called Baalbek Heliopolis, the city of the sun; the Crusaders, whose forts littered the landscape; and in the 20th century the French. Now the Syrians, and Iranians far from home spreading a Revolution that hadn't managed to make it past a few poor towns in the Bekaa Valley.
There were occasional sandbagged gun emplacements in front of buildings, but they were unmanned. The streets were narrow and deserted. The rain and the Friday Moslem Sabbath had seen to that. Murdock doubted there was much nightlife in Baalbek anyway.
"Is this the turn?" Razor asked suddenly.
"Yeah, that's it," Murdock replied, counting the streets off in his head. He reached under his seat and took out a Kevlar helmet. He placed it on Razor Roselli's head. Razor tugged the chin strap into place. Murdock put on his own helmet. A hundredth look in the rearview mirror, and the others were still with him.
"There's the warehouse," Razor exclaimed.
They dropped the two steel shutters over the windshield, and now the forward visibility was restricted to two narrow armored glass slits.
Murdock keyed his radio. "This is One. Rattler, over." It was the code word to execute the primary attack plan. None of the contingencies they'd thought up would be necessary. The other three vehicles acknowledged.
The four separate fuses that led back to the explosives were taped to the dashboard in front of Murdock. He peeled off the tape and gathered them all up in a bunch in his left hand. He took a deep breath and let it out.
"Time to earn all that combat pay," said Razor Roselli.
Murdock noticed that the rain had stopped. He didn't believe in omens, but it gave him a little shiver.
17
Saturday, November 11
0249 hours Baalbek, Lebanon
Razor Roselli stomped on the gas pedal and the heavy vehicle lurched forward. Blake Murdock's heart jumped as the wheels skidded on the wet road, but Razor straightened it out.
The chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire, bordered the right side of the road. The warehouse it protected was about twenty feet beyond.
When they were just past the midpoint of the warehouse, Razor twisted the steering wheel to the right and took the armored car off the road.
They hit the fence at a shallow angle; any more of a turn at that speed and they would have flipped over. The chain link snapped off the poles and then separated at its weakest point, but a big strip wrapped around the front of the armored car. It didn't slow them down very much.
Murdock hit a switch on the dash, and there was a hard thump as the four-barrel smoke dischargers on each side of the turret launched eight screening smoke grenades in a circular pattern around the vehicle.
The wall of the warehouse came up fast. Murdock braced himself against the impact, hoping there wasn't something large and solid, like a forklift, sitting up against the wall inside the warehouse.
The seven thousand-odd pounds of armored car going at forty-five miles an hour punched right through the wall in a cracking explosion of lumber and splinters. If Razor hadn't immediately stood on the brake, they would have gone out the other side.
As soon as they skidded to a stop, Murdock hit another switch and the second pair of smoke dischargers went off. Only four smoke grenades were launched this time. The other four barrels were loaded with 66mm Haley and Weller fragmentation grenades. These were designed to be launched the same way as screening smoke, but packed a bursting charge surrounded by several thousand steel ball bearings. Just the thing to take care of any unwanted enemy personnel who might be lurking around an armored vehicle.
Not intended for confined spaces, the grenades hit the ceiling and exploded. It didn't diminish their effect. Murdock and Razor were safe behind the armor, but anyone outside wasn't.
Murdock activated the fuses in his hand and tripped the last toggle on the dashboard. It armed a mercury switch that would fire the charges if anyone tried to drag the vehicle out or if it took a heavy impact--like the other armored car detonating.
"My door's jammed!" Razor yelled.
Murdock wrenched his open. "Follow me out!" He fell out the door with his AKM in his right hand and a box that looked like a full-size VHS camcorder in his left. It was a Marconi HHI-8 hand-held thermal imager. The warehouse was filled with the thick white smoke from the grenades, and the imager was the only way they'd be able to find their way out fast. It weighed about ten pounds, and saw objects on the basis of their heat, in varying shades of black and white. Because of this, it could look right through smoke.
Murdock swept the imager around and saw a line of printing presses, machinery, and wooden crates. At least they'd hit the right spot, a minor miracle in American intelligence terms. He could also see the other armored car Ed and Kos had made it in. The grenades hadn't got everyone; there were people still running around, but Murdock didn't shoot. If he did they would know where he was in the smoke. It didn't fit their public image, but operating in small groups with limited ammunition loads had taught SEALs to avoid firefights whenever possible.
Razor hopped out behind him and paused to lock the door. A small
detail, but by the time someone dug up an acetylene torch to try to cut their way inside the vehicle, it would be too late.
The imager showed Murdock the huge hole they'd made in the wall, and he headed for it. There was just enough visibility for Razor to be able to follow him through the smoke, if he stayed close. Then Murdock heard machine-gun fire start up outside.
0250 hours Baalbek, Lebanon
The Mercedes was parked in the road right in front of the hole Murdock and Razor had left in the fence. Jaybird Sterling had his window down and his PKM machine gun set up on a homemade welded U-mount over the door frame. Another Marconi thermal imager was mounted atop his machine gun feed cover. Doc Ellsworth was still behind the wheel, occasionally tossing beer-can-sized white smoke grenades out his window.
Through his imager Jaybird picked up hot human figures running out from around the far corner of the warehouse. He had his radio set on voice-activated and called out, "Troops, warehouse, north corner," at the same time he opened fire.
Jaybird's first burst took two of the figures down. He'd removed the tracer ammunition from his ammo belts; tracer allowed you to see where your rounds were going, but also let everyone else know exactly where they were coming from. He didn't need it; the imager was so sensitive he could track the hot path of his bullets in the air. As the rounds impacted, the other figures slipped, stumbled, and ran back into cover around the side of the warehouse. The two crumpled forms lay motionless in harsh white contrast against the cooler ground.
Jaybird slowed his rate of fire, but kept shooting at the corner of the warehouse. Imagers couldn't see through solid objects, but it was easy enough to guess where they had taken cover, and the Russian 7.62-x-54mm rimmed rounds were heavy enough to punch right through the wooden wall.
It looked like the bad guys were pretty well pinned down. Doc Ellsworth was keeping an eye on the houses on the other side of the road, but no one was sticking their nose out.
Seal Team Seven 04 - Direct Action Page 10