“Yes. I do believe you are right.” Abasi shrugged. “Somehow that doesn’t seem to matter right now.”
Abasi watched as blood began to pool beneath the men and thought it a lovely sight.
TESS RAND WOKE EARLY. Dawn was just scratching at the night sky. Something else scratched at her insides—something she couldn’t identify. Her night had been filled with nightmares she could no longer remember, but although the images were gone, the terror remained. For an hour she fought a losing battle with the bed, then gave up. She moved into the kitchen of her apartment and started a pot of coffee, paced the floor, then decided to shower.
The hot water ran over her head, slipped over her shoulders, and ran down her body. In every other area of her life she conserved water, but not showers. The shower was her idea chamber, her retreat, her cocoon . . .
But this morning the cocoon was fractured. Five minutes later she began to weep.
She had no belief in psychic phenomenon and couldn’t explain why she felt such dread. Her search for answers came up empty. Tess lowered herself to the floor of the shower and let the water pound her body. Waves of grief erupted from her.
In the shower, under the constant flow of hot water, in the darkness of fear and dread, Tess began to pray for J. J.
MOYER HAD TAKEN AN ammo survey of his men and didn’t like the answers he received. If they weren’t careful, they’d be down to one bullet per bad guy. The Willie Petes J. J. had thrown had killed or wounded many of the remaining first wave. The others retreated, but Moyer knew they wouldn’t be gone for long, not with a large number of reinforcements arriving. They could wait them out, wait for daylight. What bothered Moyer most was their ability to completely surround the church.
Time was the problem. It was possible the inbound help might arrive too late.
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice—a voice full of tears.
Moyer turned and saw the woman from the basement. Her dirty face was marred by streaks of tears. “Get down!”
“I think he’s dead. I think my husband is dead.”
Moyer started to rise, but Jose was faster. He sprang to his feet, grabbed her, and pushed her to the floor.
She began to weep in earnest. “He’s dead. I know he’s dead.”
“Doc.”
“I’m on it, Boss.” Jose grabbed her arm, helped her to her feet, and pushed her toward the stairs that led to the basement, keeping his body between her and the bullet-riddled wall. Moyer and Pete fired into the darkness just to keep enemy heads down while Jose and the woman moved across the floor.
Five minutes later Jose appeared. “She’s right, Boss. Her husband is dead. Nothing I can do for him.”
Moyer closed his eyes and sighed. No one would be bragging about this mission.
DUTY AND HONOR HAD been powerful words in Zinsser’s life. Now they were annoyances. All he had longed for was death and the courage to do himself in. The courage never came, and he was still alive. He had the perfect opportunity when he helped disarm the bomb on Delaram and another opportunity during the HAHO jump. Each time he chickened out. Even a few minutes ago he could have simply stood up and taken bullets provided by the bad guys. That would have done the job. But no, he spent time doing to others what he hoped they’d do to him.
Now as he worked his way over the church’s side yard wall, he was in the perfect position to put an end to his miserable life, to the haunting visions and the never-ceasing voices. All he had to do was let the enemy see him. That was it. Just step out, say hello, and take a dozen rounds in the head and body—the last member of his previous team to die.
That, however, would leave his current team down one member, one weapon. They already faced impossible odds, and his absence would make things worse. He cursed honor and duty.
He moved from the wall to a drainage ditch that ran alongside the road. Moving quickly he silently slipped into the ditch. It reeked with a familiar and unpleasant odor. He was trekking through a sewage ditch.
He had to move more slowly than he’d like to prevent splashing water and alerting others to his presence.
He heard voices and dropped to the side of the ditch. Several men jogged past, no doubt looking for a way to approach the church without getting cut down in the process. Zinsser’s first temptation was to drop the men as they jogged by, but that would alert their partners and put an end to his plan.
“Data, Boss. Report.”
The last thing Zinsser could do was speak. He keyed his mike twice but said nothing, knowing Moyer would hear two clicks on his side. Nothing further came over the radio.
The men moved on, and Zinsser resumed along the ditch, thankful the human sense that tired easiest was the sense of smell. By his estimation, he had traveled eighty or ninety meters, putting him just past the last vehicle in the recently arrived caravan.
Slowly he crawled from the ditch and surveilled the area. From his vantage point he could see men moving along the courtyard wall. Others were slowly circling around the church. They had left the vans unattended.
Zinsser eased his way to the van at the front, the one with the windshield he had shattered. With his 9mm in his hand, Zinsser approached the driver’s side of the vehicle. The driver leaned against the door, bleeding from his throat and head. The front seat passenger was crumpled in the seat. The van’s airbags had deployed when it hit the low wall that paralleled the ditch.
The engine of the van continued to run, something Zinsser considered an advantage. Starting an engine would draw unwanted attention. He opened the driver’s door, seized the dead man’s bloody shirt and pulled him to the ground, then took his place. Pulling his bloody knife from its holder, Zinsser cut away the expended airbag and tossed it behind him. The wide side door was locked open. Perfect.
He whispered into his mike. “Boss, your limo awaits.”
“Understood, Data, be advised: friendlies overhead in two minutes.”
“They know not to shoot this van?”
“Maybe I should have mentioned that.”
Cute. “Ready to rock on your command.”
“Wait sixty then go.”
“Roger. Wait sixty.”
Zinsser squeezed the steering wheel and waited.
It was the longest minute of his life.
MOYER RAN THROUGH THE next few minutes in his mind. At last he had a reason to hope. Less than three minutes out were three aircraft: two A-10 Thunderbolt II aircraft and a V-22 Osprey. The latter craft used tiltrotor technology, allowing it to fly at very slow speeds and to land or take off vertically. It operated like a helicopter with wings. It was the last item that concerned Moyer. The only place the Osprey had room to land was the marijuana field where they started their mission.
The A-10s were designed for air-to-ground combat and close air support. Unlike most fighter aircraft, the A-10s could come in slower and stay in the general area longer than a high-speed fighter jet.
“Incoming, Boss.”
“Understood.”
The situation was delicate. All the A-10s had to do was disperse the insurgents without cutting off Moyer’s path of egress. They also had to keep from filling Zinsser full of holes.
“Doc, get the woman.”
Jose disappeared, then returned seconds later. “She doesn’t want to leave her husband’s body, Boss.”
Moyer trained his eyes out the window. “Doc, you’re going to have to—” He turned and saw the woman slung over his shoulder.
A roar in the distance grew.
“Pin ’em down, boys.” Moyer raised his weapon and squeezed the trigger. Pete did the same. Overhead he could hear the fire from J. J.’s M110 and Shaq’s M-4.
The church shook.
A hundred explosions sounded from the air overhead, and Moyer saw dirt flying from the 30mm Avenger Gatling gun. At well over 4,000 rounds per minute, the gun could cut down a building like a lumberjack fells a tree. It could place 80 percent of its rounds on target. For a moment Moyer felt bad for the men on th
e other side of the wall.
The moment passed.
The aircraft roared off only to be replaced by the second escort craft, unleashing another ground-shredding burst. The attack aircraft were capable of firing AGM-65 Maverick missiles, but Moyer had concerns about shrapnel injuring his men on the roof and Zinsser in the van.
“Hit it, Data.” Moyer started for the church doors. To the rest of the men he ordered, “Bug out. Repeat, bug out.”
CHAPTER 42
THE VAN’S ENGINE ROARED as Zinsser threw it in reverse and backed away from the garden wall. He dropped the gear into drive and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The heavy vehicle lurched forward then gained speed. Before him were the burning hulks of vehicles and bodies from the first wave of attackers. Zinsser caught a glimpse of a large form flying overhead and heard the thudding of powerful propellers clawing the air. He had watched the A-10s come in and unload. If he had been one of the attackers who survived the attack, he would be on his way to anyplace but here. Zinsser had seen what A-10s could do, but seeing them up close and this deadly made his insides melt.
The early morning air, laden with the acrid smell of spent gunpowder, burning phosphorus, and flaming autos, poured through the large side passenger door. He glanced at the dead man in the front passenger seat.
“Sorry, pal. I didn’t have time to drop you off.”
He heard popping and banging. Something hit the side of the van. It took a moment for him to realize that something was a bullet—a bunch of bullets. How crazy did someone have to be to stay behind after an air attack like that? “Taking fire, Boss.”
“Understood.”
Zinsser pressed on, the van bouncing over debris and other things he didn’t care to think about. He directed the van through the gate to the courtyard. The sides of the arch peeled paint off the sides of the vehicle and struck the sliding door. He couldn’t worry about that. He continued forward, jerking the wheel to the right to avoid the fountain and the priest’s body, then screeched to a halt in front of the church. He popped open his door with his left hand and leveled his M-4 in the direction of the shots that struck the van. He pulled the trigger and sprayed the area.
A loud thud came from behind and above him. Another followed. A glance told him J. J. and Rich had leapt from the roof, using the roof of the van to decrease the distance of their fall. Familiar fire came from behind the van. Rich was following Zinsser’s lead in laying down cover fire.
The A-10s finished their tight turn over the area and strafed the ground on the other side of the wall. It was the most terrible and exhilarating thing Zinsser had seen.
The van wobbled behind him as the rest of the team poured into the back of the vehicle. Zinsser pulled his trigger again but nothing happened. He heard nothing but dry fire. He jumped back in the driver’s seat, tossing his empty weapon onto the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. The door opened and Zinsser saw Moyer freeze for a moment.
“Geez, Data.”
“Sorry, didn’t have time to clean the van before I picked you up.”
Moyer pulled the corpse from the seat and crawled in. “That’s your problem, Data, no pride of ownership.”
Zinsser looked over his shoulder. “Where’s our other guest?”
“Dead,” Doc said. “Let’s go.”
Zinsser slammed the accelerator again and turned the wheel to direct the van around the fountain and toward the gate.
More popping.
A scream. Zinsser let go of the wheel for a second but took hold again.
“I’m hit, Boss!”
Zinsser didn’t have to look to know it was J. J. who screamed.
MOYER TURNED. “DOC!”
Jose had already crawled forward from the backseat. “I need room, Shaq.”
With a grace Moyer couldn’t image, Rich found a way to crawl over the middle seat to give Jose access to J. J.
“Where?” Jose asked.
More popping. Windows shattered. Moyer was sick of being shot at. “Pete, tell the A-10s they missed a few.”
“Will do.”
“Talk to me, J. J. Where are you hit?”
The fact that Jose didn’t use J. J.’s mission name told Moyer how concerned he was.
“Leg. Thigh. Man, this hurts. Nobody told me being shot hurt.”
Moyer turned in the seat, removed his flashlight, and shone the beam on J. J.’s leg. His beam fell on a growing wet spot halfway up the man’s left thigh. Jose pulled his knife from its sheath and cut open J. J.’s pant leg. A stream of blood hit him in the face.
“Arterial bleed.” Jose stuck his finger in the hole. J. J.’s scream almost liquefied Moyer’s brain.
“Shaq!” Jose kept his tone even. “Open my kit. I need a tourniquet.”
Shaq didn’t waste a moment. Moments passed like hours and Moyer could do nothing but watch. The only sounds were J. J.’s groans and the weeping of Delaram’s mother. Jose cinched the tourniquet and J. J. writhed.
“In and out.” Jose placed one hand just above the knee and one just below J. J.’s hip. “Sorry, pal, but this is gonna hurt real bad.” He pressed the top of the leg down while lifting the lower an inch. The whole leg moved. This time J. J. didn’t make a sound. “Missed the bone. That’s good.”
“I’m one lucky fella.”
J. J.’s grim humor almost made Moyer smile. Almost. “You just hang in there, son. If you check out on us, your girl is gonna kick our butts.”
“You got . . . that . . . right . . .”
Moyer met Jose’s eyes. Doc understood the question. “He’s loss a fair amount of blood. I can’t be sure how much.”
“Should you give him something for the pain, Doc?” Pete asked.
“No. I’ll give him morphine once we’re airborne. Until then, we need to keep him conscious.”
“Uh oh.”
Moyer turned at Zinsser’s soft warning. He followed Zinsser’s nod.
Ahead of them a farm tractor towed a trailer in front of the street, blocking their path. A man leapt from the rig and took a position behind the engine. He had a weapon of some sort.
“Can you get around him, Data?” Moyer asked.
“I doubt it, but I can try. If he doesn’t shoot us first.”
“Junior, get on the horn with the A-10—”
A narrow object trailing fire streaked from the sky. The tractor, the trailer, and the man flew into the air, spinning to the side. One of the A-10s had sent a Maverick missile into the roadblock.
“Never mind,” Moyer said.
“Ya gotta admit, that’s pretty impressive,” Rich said.
Zinsser slowed as they reached the end of the road, steering around tractor debris and the crater the Maverick left behind. It was like driving through a Hollywood’s vision of hell. Fuel and oil from the tractor burned in the streets. Moyer could only guess what people who lived in the village thought. He doubted they would sleep again any time soon.
Zinsser coughed. It sounded wet.
“You okay, Data?”
“Peachy. Our ride is here.”
Moyer looked and spotted a large, dark object slowly settling in the field. The van’s headlights skimmed the tops of the plants. Moyer held his breath, hoping the craft wouldn’t settle on a booby-trap. It settled safely.
Zinsser directed the vehicle forward and into the field. A few meters in, it bogged down in the soft dirt. “I think . . . that’s . . . it.”
“Data.”
“Go. Get Colt on board.” Zinsser opened his door and stepped out.
Moyer slipped from his seat and took up a defensive position at the back of the van. “Go, go, go.”
He heard the team and woman leave the van and caught a glimpse of Doc and Junior helping J. J. to the aircraft and up the ramp at the craft’s rear. Moyer took two steps back, turned and started for the Osprey, its tiltrotors aimed skyward, beating down the surrounding plants. He began to sprint toward the craft when something caught his eye. Zinsser lay facedown in the
dirt. A movement to his right made Moyer turn.
“I got him.” Rich lifted Zinsser as if he weighed no more that a bag of dog food then started for the Osprey, racing up the ramp and into the guts of the craft.
A moment later the roar of the engines increased and the V-22 began to rise.
ABASI STUDIED THE TWO men bleeding to death before him. He waited patiently and it finally arrived. Michael begged for help.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t personal. It was business. We’ve got money. We can pay you more than you . . . can dream of.”
“I have no need of your money.”
“Then what do you want?” Hernando screamed.
“I told you. Revenge.”
Abasi picked up the plunger switch and fingered the button.
“DOC, WE NEED YOU,” Moyer said as Rich set Zinsser on the deck.
Jose moved from J. J. to Zinsser. As Rich pulled away, Moyer saw blood on his arms.
“I need more light, Boss.”
Again, Moyer pulled his flashlight. Rich did the same. Their beams traced Zinsser’s body and settled on his abdomen.
“Gut shot.”
The grim words needed no clarification. Everyone knows how bad such an injury can be.
Jose pulled his med kit close and opened it, retrieving a large gauze pad. He also pulled out a pair of surgical scissors and cut open Zinsser’s shirt. Zinsser didn’t move. There was a small hole an inch above and two inches to the right of his navel. “Help me roll him.”
Before Moyer could act, Rich was kneeling by Zinsser’s side. He rolled the man to his side. Moyer saw a gaping, ragged hole in the back. The exit wound was far worse than the entry.
Jose placed the sterile pad on the back wound and another on the entry wound. “He needs a hospital and needs one fast. I’m not seeing extreme bleeding so I think the bullet missed major vessels, but I’m sure it’s done a job on his internal organs. I’m pretty sure it missed his liver and stomach. His intestines—that’s another matter.”
Blaze of Glory Page 27