by Don Mann
As Crocker watched, the armed men led Mancini and Jabril to two more white pickup trucks, pushed them into the back, then piled in themselves and drove off, leaving behind a cloud of dust. The canister was gone.
“Who the hell are they?” Davis asked.
“I didn’t see any patches or insignia. Did you?”
“No, but there was a green flag painted on the door of the truck.”
“Fuck.”
The two SEALs ran along the back of the three hills and arrived at the fence surrounding the military base. Seeing parked pickups on the other side, they hid behind some rocks and waited almost an hour, until the sky started to turn dark, so they could enter the base with a diminished risk of being discovered.
“What do we do now?” Davis asked.
“First we climb the fence. Then we try to find our guys.”
Chapter Eleven
Pain is weakness leaving the body.
—Tom Sobal
Climbing the chain-link fence was the easy part, the only danger being the razor wire on top. Once Crocker and Davis got over that, they scrambled down the other side, crouched on the lid of a dumpster, then eased themselves down to the ground. They were completely unarmed and had no comms.
A wild animal howled in the distance. Otherwise, the landscape around them was eerily still. Abandoned tanks and vehicles in front of them, the shooting range to their left. Most of the camp, including the barracks, storage shed, and water tower, stood to their right. Beyond that rose the front gate.
“You wait here near the dumpster,” Crocker said. “I’ll go surveil the base.”
“Careful, boss.”
“Let’s hope our guys are still here.”
“What do we do if they’re not?”
“We’ll figure that out later.”
His excitement grew as he moved alone in the dark, hiding behind the wheels of an abandoned transport truck, checking to see if the coast was clear. He felt like he was a kid back in the town he’d grown up in, playing with stolen cars. Canvas flapped in the breeze that arrived as the sky turned black. A window on one of the storage sheds banged open and closed.
The four white pickups were parked thirty feet in front of him, the barrels of their .50-cals pointed at the stars.
Seeing no one near the vehicles, he ran toward them in a crouch, then heard someone cough and spit to his right. He ducked behind a barrel that reeked of urine, his heart pounding.
There was an armed man at two o’clock. Another farther to Crocker’s right, smoking a cigarette. They stood at the entrance to one of the barracks, talking in low voices, cradling AK-47s, recognizable by their long, curved magazines. A chill ran up his spine as he remembered the dozens of them that had been fired at him in places like Pakistan, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iran.
Here I go again.
He waited for the soldier to toss his cigarette butt to the ground and enter the barracks with his colleague behind him. Then Crocker continued to the trucks, hoping to find a weapon of some kind. When he looked into the cab of the nearest Toyota, he saw a man sleeping on the front seat clutching what looked to be a brand-new Soviet-design PPSh-41 submachine gun.
Crocker thought for a second of wrestling it away but decided the noise might attract attention. He needed to assess the layout of the base first.
So he made a wide arc to the water tower, pausing to hide behind its legs, then continued to the far end of the two-hundred-foot-long concrete barracks. This part of the structure was badly in need of repair. Windows were missing on both floors, and so were many of the tiles on the roof. Dozens of bats darted in and out.
No sign of the van or the men. Desperation started to creep under his skin.
Someone screamed near the other end of the barracks, causing his hair to stand on end.
He saw a light on the second floor, then heard the man screaming again. This time it sounded like Jabril.
He ran along the front of the barracks and abruptly stopped when he saw two soldiers sitting out front. One of them tossed a rock toward the trucks. Crocker held his breath, turned on his toes, and hurried back.
This time he circled around the back of the barracks, which seemed deserted. What appeared to have been an exercise yard was now littered with garbage and pieces of rusting metal. The long building had been constructed in three forty-foot-wide sections, each with its own entrance in front and back. Each section had its own metal fire escape that ran the length of the six second-story windows and led to a ladder in the middle.
He hurried past barrels, broken bicycle parts, and rats scurrying through the trash to the ladder at the first section. Dim lights shone from the windows above. He heard someone talking in a loud voice.
The bottom of the ladder was beyond Crocker’s reach, so he jumped, held on to the bottom rung, and pulled himself up. As the ladder extended, it made a screeching metal sound.
The man who was speaking stopped. But no way was Crocker turning back, now that he’d come this far. He climbed to the second floor, lay facedown on the metal slats, and waited, feeling his chest rising, adrenaline rushing through his body.
One minute passed, then another, then three. No sound from inside. He looked along the length of the barracks.
Seeing no soldiers, he pulled himself up onto his knees and walked in a crouch to the window with the light. Eased his head up so that his eyes barely reached the bottom of the window. Saw shadows against the wall and ceiling, but his view was blocked by the backs of several men in mismatched camouflage.
The same male voice he had heard before was scolding someone. Crocker heard the sound of something hitting flesh, then a muffled yelp.
When one of the men blocking the window stepped aside, he saw the terrified eyes of Ritchie, Lasher, and Mancini, who were squatting along the opposite wall. Their mouths were covered with tape and their hands were tied behind their backs.
A light of some sort beamed from the back of the room. Everyone’s attention seemed to be directed to the front. When the man standing with his back to Crocker shifted, he saw that they were all looking at Jabril.
He’d been tied naked to a chair so that his arms were behind him and his genitals exposed. A soldier stepped into view and hit the doctor across the face with a stick. His head snapped back, splashing blood across the wall and floor.
Crocker had to restrain himself from busting through the window right then. He was shocked, offended, and knew he had to move fast—before Jabril was beaten to death, or his men executed or moved somewhere else.
A peal of automatic-weapons fire went off in the distance. Crocker ducked below the window. He heard the squealing cry of an animal, followed by more gunshots, men shouting.
Hearing steps approaching along the back of the building, he hurried to the ladder and slid down, his hands wet with sweat. The steps were coming fast. On reaching the ground he turned to face the sound. An animal lunged at him, claws first. It was big, quick, and black—a dog? a hyena? He pivoted left and ducked so that it sailed past his shoulder and hit the ground, losing its footing and skidding on its side. It gathered its feet under it and turned, reared onto its back legs, and bared its teeth as if it was about to charge.
Crocker grabbed a chunk of concrete off the ground and faced it.
I dare you! I fucking dare you! his eyes blazed.
Hearing something behind it, the animal turned to look, and tore off.
Crocker took a deep breath, then hurried to the end of the barracks and circled back, retracing his steps. He found Davis hiding behind the dumpster, holding a four-foot length of lead pipe.
“I heard shots,” Davis whispered. “I thought they got you!”
“I’m fine,” he said, his chest heaving.
“Then what the fuck was that?”
“Hyenas, I think.”
“They must have crawled through the fence.”
“Maybe,” Crocker whispered, catching his breath. “I saw our guys. I know where they’re holding them.”
“Who? Where?”
“Ritchie, Mancini, Lasher, Jabril.”
“What about Akil?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Where are they?”
Crocker pointed. “Second floor of the barracks. But I didn’t see the van.”
“I did. It’s behind that shed.”
“Which shed?”
Davis pointed to his left. “That one over there. But the doors are locked.”
“Shit.”
Davis unwrapped a rag he held in his hand. “Look what I found.”
In the light of the half moon Crocker saw a rusted jigsaw blade, a plastic lighter, a section of metal wire, an empty bottle, and several large rocks.
“The lighter works?”
“Yeah.”
Crocker’s mind was processing fast. “You see any more bottles?”
Davis pointed to the dumpster. “I think there are more inside.”
“Grab a few extras.”
“Now?”
Crocker nodded as he formulated a plan.
Davis hoisted himself up into the dumpster, handed Crocker two soda bottles, and climbed out.
“Good.”
“What now?”
“They don’t know we exist. We’ve got one chance to surprise them. Show me the van.”
“Now?”
“Go!”
They ran in a crouch, Davis first, Crocker right behind him. Around the back of the warehouse, past a broken-down tank painted with graffiti to where the van was parked under sheets of tin rattling in the breeze.
The canister of UF6 lay in back, but their weapons and gear were missing. And, as Davis had said, the doors were locked. So was the lid to the gas tank.
Crocker grabbed the container of extra fuel strapped to the rear door.
“Help me get this down,” he whispered.
They undid the latch, set the container down, untwisted the cap.
Crocker said, “Now set down the bottles.”
He lifted the container, filled the bottles with gasoline, then ripped the rag Davis was carrying and stuffed the pieces into the necks of the bottles as fuses.
Davis grinned at the three Molotov cocktails. “Nice.”
“Now,” Crocker whispered, “we need a gun.”
“Unlikely we’ll find one lying around.”
“Follow me,” he said.
Again they made a wide arc past three trashed transport trucks and the edge of the shooting range to avoid the barracks and the other soldiers.
Crocker stopped behind a concrete structure with a flagpole in the center that stood thirty feet from the four white pickups. On the other side of the trucks was the middle entrance to the barracks.
They huddled together, clutching the bottles. Crocker whispered, “See that Toyota facing us?”
Davis nodded.
“There’s a soldier sleeping on the front seat. I’ll circle around the other side. When you hear me jump the bastard and smash him with this rock, you come up from this side and grab his weapon.”
“What about the bottles?”
“Leave ’em here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Crocker ran like a Mohawk—on his toes, as close as possible to the ground. Reaching the front of the Toyota, he ducked below the grille and slowly slithered around the bumper to the passenger side. But when he peeked in the window, the soldier was gone.
Fuck!
Standing halfway up, he signaled to Davis to go back and was about to leave when he heard someone mumbling behind him. He froze, took a deep breath, and pivoted slowly. Looking past his shoulder into the trapezoidal space created by the parked trucks, he saw a soldier with his back to him, kneeling on a blanket, praying. An old submachine gun with a perforated barrel lay beside him.
Without a moment’s hesitation he crossed the four feet between them on his toes, reached over the soldier’s head with both hands, and covered his mouth. He pushed the soldier’s head down and then, pressing his knees against his shoulders, pulled the man’s head back with all his might until he heard vertebrae snap. Instant death.
“Go with God,” he whispered as the soldier’s body twitched one last time and relaxed. Crocker set him down gently, then grabbed the submachine gun.
He ran back to Davis, who asked, “What happened?”
“No time to explain.”
“Where’d you find the weapon?”
“This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to give me two minutes to run around back and climb up the fire escape.”
“Two minutes.”
“We’ll both count off our watches. When you reach two minutes, you’re going to light two of the Molotov cocktails and throw them at the pickups in front of us. Set those babies on fire.”
“Got it.”
“Then you’re going to follow my route, but stop at the front side of the barracks, over there. Wait at the corner. If you hear firing on the second floor of the farthest section, that’s me.”
“You’re taking the weapon with you?”
“That’s correct.”
“It looks ancient. What is it?”
“I believe it’s a PPSh-41. The Soviets manufactured millions of these suckers during World War Two.”
“Will it fire?”
“I hope so.”
“Boss—”
“Listen! If you get an opportunity to surprise a soldier and grab a weapon, do it. Then enter through the front door of the section on our right. You’ll find me on the second floor. When you get close, shout ‘Delta Bravo’ so I know it’s you.”
“And if I’m not able to get a weapon?”
“Wait at the corner of the building, like I told you before. You’ll still have one more cocktail. Use it at your discretion.”
“Roger.”
“Improvise, but figure that there are at least a dozen enemy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“One other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m gonna need that saw blade.”
Davis reached into his back pocket and handed it over. “Good luck.”
“Two minutes. Start your timer…”
“It’s engaged.”
“See ya in a few.”
He was running.
Looking up, Crocker saw a shooting star flash across the sky. His mother had told him they were good luck. He hoped so.
Glancing at the timer of his watch, he saw that fifty seconds had passed. At sixty, he was rounding the end of the barracks. At seventy-nine, he reached for the ladder. Ninety, he was on the metal fire escape. At a hundred and five, he knelt under the second-floor window.
Light spilled out. Looking down at the PPSh-41 and its drum magazine, he took a deep breath. Inside, the same man was still shouting questions. His voice sounded angrier this time.
At 119 seconds, Crocker took the weapon off safety, checked to be sure that a round was chambered, put it on full auto, and got ready to throw himself through the window.
He heard an explosion. Soldiers shouted in Arabic from the front of the building. A gun discharged.
He waited ten more seconds, praying that Davis was safe, then threw himself through the window back first. Hitting the floor, he somersaulted and started looking for targets. Two soldiers near the back wall were reaching for their weapons. He squeezed the trigger and ripped them with one long stream of bullets. Tore one soldier’s leg in half at the knee. Caught the other in the groin. The PPSh-41 made a loud clanging sound and felt like it was going to come apart in his hands.
The bearded guy who had been doing all the shouting threw his stick at Crocker and reached for the pistol in his holster, but before he could remove it, Crocker peppered him with bullets from his chest to his head—a modified Mozambique, in SEAL lingo.
The little man stumbled back, hit the far wall next to where Ritchie was seated, and slumped to the floor. Crocker blasted another couple of ro
unds into his head just to be sure.
Ritchie started squirming and tried to talk through the tape plastered across his mouth. He wanted to be cut free. Crocker turned to his right to exchange the ancient PPSh-41 for one of the more modern AKs the soldiers had been carrying. But just as he started to pivot, two more soldiers came rushing into the room. Seeing Crocker with the Soviet submachine gun pointed at them, one of them jumped behind the door. The other raised his AK.
Crocker squeezed off three bullets before the Soviet submachine gun jammed. The bullets tore into the soldier’s right arm. But instead of giving up, the young man with a thick black beard tried to shift the AK-47 to his left. It was a valiant effort that ended when Crocker, wielding the submachine gun like a club, took his right knee out, then finished him off with a blow to the head.
Crocker heard more automatic-weapons fire down the hallway and below.
He grabbed one of the AKs and pulled the tape off Ritchie’s mouth.
“Motherfucker!” Ritchie shouted. “You took off half my lip.”
“You don’t need it anyway. Hold still.”
He removed the rusted saw blade from his pocket and used it to cut through the tape around Ritchie’s ankles and wrists. Then he handed him the blade.
“Cut the others free. I’ll watch the door.”
“Ten-four.”
The room was a mess of blood and smoke. A bleeding, bruised, naked Jabril lay in the fetal position in a corner. His eyes were closed, but Crocker noticed the skin near his sternum was rising and falling. John Lasher sat slumped in a chair, long red slash marks over his chest and face. He too looked unconscious. Crocker would attend to them later. He had to deal with the enemy first.
It sounded like all-out war downstairs. Made him feel proud of Davis.
When he stuck his head out to look, bullets tore into the concrete wall, spitting dust into his mouth and eyes.
He dropped to the floor and fired back. The AK felt smooth and light in his hands, producing half the noise and recoil of the PPSh-41. But the hallway was dark, and he couldn’t see anything except a dark object coming toward him that landed with a thud on the floor and rolled.