Whiplash d-11

by Dale Brown

  Flash had been in several firefights, first in Iraq, then in Afghanistan. As different as they all were, as different as each one was from this, one thing tied them all together — the sharp pain at the top of his skull, right behind his left eye. A doctor — not in the Army, he worried about being kicked out if he mentioned it — had told him that the pains were related to stress, and either to quit what he was doing or not worry about them. Flash opted for the latter.

  “Whiplash team, check in,” said Danny. “Boston?”

  “We can keep this up all day.”

  “Nuri?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Flash?”

  “I blew the truck. I have the barracks covered. May be empty.”

  “Hera?”

  “I’m taking heavy fire.”

  “Did Tarid get out?”

  “He’s a few feet away. We won’t make it out unless you get this gun off of us.”

  “Flash, can you help her?” asked Danny.

  “On my way.”

  “Hera, as soon as you can, get out of there.”

  “No kidding.”

  Starting along the fence, Flash realized that Danny hadn’t checked in with McGowan. Not a good sign, he thought.

  * * *

  The last flare burned out, leaving the camp bathed in the dull red shadow of a burning fire in the administration building.

  Hera looked east, toward the gas tanks. The soldiers pinning them down were near the tanks, scattered behind the cement mounts for cover. A few fired indiscriminately, but the others were more disciplined, firing only when they had a target. The combination made it impossible to move without being shot.

  Some of the prisoners were crawling slowly toward the rear of the pen, hoping to escape, but most of them were lying nearby, wounded or too paralyzed with fear to move.

  The fiercest gunfire was coming from her right. A pair of soldiers were huddled below one of the gas tanks, taking turns firing into the pen. At first they’d had plenty of targets exposed and framed by the light. As the flare died, however, it became more difficult to aim. Afraid of return fire and confused by the steady rain, they resorted to holding their guns over their heads and firing short bursts, unaimed.

  Hera nudged her way around two prone bodies to the corner of the pen, trying to get an angle on the men. She saw one rise at the edge of the cement pier that held the gas tank. She waited for him to straighten, then fired a single shot, hitting him in the temple.

  The soldier spiraled back against his companion. Hera waited for the other man to turn and fire back, giving her a target. But his friend’s death had paralyzed him, and he stayed low, out of sight.

  Hera grew tired of waiting. She started for the fence, planning to cut through and then flank the whole line of them behind the piers. But before she got very far, someone began firing in her direction. She froze as bullets cascaded overhead.

  The slugs chewed everything up in front of her, including the body of one of the prisoners. She started backing away. Then a tremendous explosion scooped her up and tossed her toward the rear of the pen.

  Flash had blown up one of the gas tanks.

  * * *

  Danny carried McGowan’s limp body to the ramp at the end of the trench. He put him down as gently as he could, tipping his shoulder forward and going to a knee to keep the dead man from flopping down. He winced as McGowan’s head thumped against the dirt.

  “I’ll be back. I promise,” Danny told him.

  He turned and ran to the perimeter fence, not even ducking, though bullets were flying everywhere. Another emotion had overcome fear, or suppressed it: recklessness.

  It was a strange combination, to be scared of dying yet not caring at the same time.

  Danny felt the force of the exploding gas tank even from where he stood. He dropped down to his knees.

  “Hera, where are we?” he barked over the radio.

  There was no answer. Danny ran toward the pen. God, I’ve lost another, he thought.

  “Hera?” he repeated. “Hera.”

  “I’m still in the pen. Still pinned down. One of the gas tanks just blew, but they turned the machine gun around on the southeast corner.”

  Danny was at the fence of the prisoner area. The machine gun was at the corner of the perimeter, ahead to his right. He’d be under direct fire if he approached.

  “Boston, where are you?” he said.

  “Same old, same old,” said Boston. “South of the road.”

  “That machine gun on the southern end in front of you — can you get some grenades in it?”

  “Already trying, boss.”

  “All right. Get their attention. I’ll get them from back here.”

  “Working on it.”

  The roof of the post was thick and sharply angled, designed to deflect grenades and absorb what didn’t bounce off. But its defenses were oriented outward, and Danny reasoned if he could get close enough, he could get his own grenade into it.

  The problem was getting close enough to get a shot without getting killed. Having gone to the trouble of reorienting his machine gun so he could fire into the compound, the gunner wasn’t skimping on bullets.

  Danny pushed his shoulder against the perimeter fence as he ran forward, staying on his feet until he saw the flickering yellow of the machine-gun muzzle as it fired. He put a grenade into the launcher and crawled forward to get a better angle, almost swimming in the mud.

  How long had it been since he’d done something like this? He couldn’t even remember doing it in Dreamland.

  After ten yards he still didn’t have much of a shot. The perimeter fence was in the way — he worried that if the grenade struck it, the shell might bounce back at him.

  His best alternative was to shoot through the fence. The machine gun continued to fire, blasting away at the pen. Danny raised his right knee under his chest, then levered himself into flight. The world blurred into a black swirl as he ran, flames circling in the distance.

  He was almost to the fence when he saw someone on his left.

  One of the Sudanese soldiers crouched on the ground, staring at him with wide eyes, the outline of his body black against the background of the flames of the gas tank near the entrance to the camp.

  The eyes showed surprise, and a question: Are you going to kill me?

  Danny had no choice. The barrel of the man’s gun was already swiveling toward his chest.

  Danny reached for his gun’s trigger, pulling twice. Six bullets flew into the space between the man’s eyes, permanently shutting them.

  The machine gun stuttered on, the gunner oblivious to everything but the dancing shadows in the prisoner pen. From his perspective, that was where all the trouble was; he would kill them all.

  The fence gave way as Danny hit it. He sprawled forward against the chain links, abruptly stopping at a forty-degree angle. He pushed up, toes digging into the spaces in the fence. He surged forward, despite his fear. The links scraped against his knees.

  His recklessness fled. But he was trapped now, unable to do anything but continue his attack.

  The fence tottered forward but didn’t fall. Danny reached the top and stuck his rifle through the gap under the razor wire.

  He could see the machine-gunner’s face, lit by the reflection of the nearby tank fire.

  Not only was the launcher’s trigger heavy, but the rain and exertion had stiffened Danny’s muscles and dulled his sense of touch. The grenade leapt from the gun. The gunner started to duck, but it was far too late; the grenade hit the wall behind him and exploded.

  “Hera! Go!” yelled Danny, pushing to slide back down the fence. “Go! Go! Go!”

  * * *

  Hera poked Tarid to make sure he was still alive. He groaned.

  “Come on,” she said in Arabic. She pushed herself under him, then levered him upward, half dragging and half running toward the back of the pen. The machine gun had stopped, but there was still sporadic gunfire around the compound.


  “Who are you?” muttered Tarid in Farsi as they reached the fence.

  Hera told him in Arabic that she was there to rescue him.

  “Why?” he asked, this time in Arabic.

  “I’m with Kirk.”

  “And who’s he?”

  “A bigger fool than you are,” she said. “He thinks he can make money off of this.”

  She’d practiced the answer; they wanted Tarid to think it was being done for money, the only motive an arms dealer would embrace.

  Hera pulled him from the pen, rushing toward the hole in the perimeter fence. She saw a body at the foot of the trench as she neared the minefield, but didn’t realize it was McGowan.

  There was nothing she could have done if she had.

  Tarid felt his strength and senses returning as they started through the minefield. Adrenaline started pumping again. A bullet had slapped against the fleshy part of his right thigh, burning and causing a great deal of pain but, as bullet wounds went, very little damage.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked Hera.

  “Outta of this crap,” she said.

  “You’re with the American CIA?”

  “There’s a laugh,” she said. She switched to Greek, telling him he was an ignorant jerk. Then she switched over to English.

  “Are you CIA?” she asked. “Is that why Kirk rescues you?”

  “Me?”

  “You are pretending to be Iranian. That’s not true, is it?”

  “I am Colonel Zsar’s lieutenant,” Tarid insisted, going back to Arabic.

  They reached the end of the minefield. Two other prisoners were sitting nearby. Hera let Tarid slip to the ground. The field was littered with prisoners, some wounded, others too scared to move or unsure where to go.

  McGowan was supposed to be out with the prisoners, directing them to run south while waiting for Tarid. They were going to help him get farther away, then play it by ear.

  She couldn’t see the other trooper. She’d been assigned to hold by the perimeter fence in case there was a counterattack. If she wasn’t there, the others would be trapped inside.

  “Mac?” she yelled, turning around. There was no answer. She yelled again and called for him in Greek.

  Tarid collapsed to the ground. With his wounded leg, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Wait here, you,” Hera told him in English. “I return soon.”

  * * *

  Danny made his way back along the perimeter fence.

  “Where’s Tarid?” he asked the Voice.

  “Beyond the minefield.” The computer gave him the GPS coordinates.

  “Flash, Hera, we’re out of here.”

  “I’m coming out,” said Flash.

  “Hera?”

  “I’m at the perimeter fence. I’m holding.”

  “Good. Copy. Boston, get to the rendezvous point.”

  “On it, Chief.”

  “Nuri?”

  “We’ll keep them occupied,” said Nuri. “See you soon.”

  “Copy that,” said Danny.

  Their mission was accomplished, but Danny had one more thing to do. He asked the computer to locate Tilia.

  She was still inside.

  “Is she alive?” he asked the computer.

  “Unknown,” said the Voice.

  The computer could locate people, and make judgments based on their movements, but it didn’t have the power to diagnose life or death. She hadn’t moved in several minutes, adding to its uncertainty.

  “Lead me to her,” Danny told it.

  * * *

  Boston led his three mercenaries back from the rocks and trees where they’d taken shelter. Though the brush had been torn to pulp, no one was hurt. They jogged back to the truck, got in, and drove south and then back west, circling around the camp across the fallow fields before meeting Flash at the rendezvous point on the road west of the camp.

  “Where’s McGowan?” asked Boston. He was supposed to be there, too.

  Flash shrugged. “I don’t know. He should’ve been at the fence when we came out. I got out late and thought I’d find him back here, but I don’t see him. I haven’t heard him on the radio the entire operation.”

  Neither had Boston.

  “Hey, Colonel, you know where McGowan is?” he asked over the radio.

  “He’s with me,” said Danny.

  * * *

  Tarid lay on the ground, trying to will away the pain of the bullet crease on his leg. He saw the vehicle down by the road, perhaps twenty yards away, and knew it must be Kirk’s.

  So Kirk expected to be paid for helping him escape? Was it a reward or a ransom?

  Whatever it was, he wasn’t getting it.

  Tarid turned to the two men sitting nearby. They were staring into the distance, shell-shocked but unhurt.

  “You two — come with me,” he said as he struggled to his feet.

  Neither man moved.

  “There’s a village north of here. Two kilometers,” said Tarid. “Saad Reth. I have a friend there who can help us. Come with me.”

  One of the men blinked. That was the only acknowledgment that they had heard him.

  “If you help me get to Saad Reth,” said Tarid slowly, pacing his Arabic, “I will make sure you are rewarded. One hundred euros apiece.”

  The offer of more money than either man had handled in a lifetime stirred them to action. The man who had blinked was the first to rise. He helped his companion up, and together they started following Tarid, who was limping but moving along quickly.

  “We have to stay away from the people who blew up the camp,” he told them. “Go, before they pay attention to us.”

  “Saad Reth is a long walk from here,” said one of the men, noticing his limp.

  “The distance doesn’t matter.” Tarid pushed himself forward. “The army will be after Kirk, and we’ll be long gone. Come. As fast as you can.”

  * * *

  Danny found Tilia hunched against the fence. Her fists were clenched and propped against the side of her head, arms crossed at the wrists. He knelt down and touched her shoulder.

  “Tilia?”

  Her body heaved but she didn’t raise her head or talk.

  “Come on then,” said Danny. He scooped her up. She was light, incredibly light.

  Nuri was still firing at the machine-gun posts on the north side of the camp, but there was only sporadic return fire. The Sudanese army officers were regrouping their men, mustering for a counterattack. The battle had seemed to last for an eternity, but barely ten minutes had passed since the Catbirds initiated the onslaught.

  Hera was waiting at the fence when Danny arrived.

  “Did you send Tarid through?” Danny asked.

  “Yes. Where’s McGowan?”

  “I know where he is. You think you can carry her?”

  “Is she coming with us?”

  “Yeah. We’ll drop her off along the way.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t care what you think. Take her.”

  Danny deposited Tilia on Hera’s shoulder. Hera didn’t say anything, turning and carrying her from the compound.

  Danny went to the trench. He didn’t see McGowan. His heart leapt: He thought he’d been wrong about him being killed.

  But the only mistake was where he had left him. A moment later Danny spotted him a little farther on in the trench.

  As gently as he could, he picked up the battered body and double-timed it through the disabled portion of the minefield.

  “Skipper, we got problems here,” said Boston over the radio. “Every one of these bastards wants to come with us. And I can’t find Tarid.”

  Danny asked the Voice where Tarid was. It found him moving a quarter mile away, on the road west.

  “It’s OK,” said Danny. “He’s escaping. Better that he gets away on his own.” Much better, he thought. “Hera’s bringing Tilia, Uncle Dpap’s translator.”

  “Yeah, here she comes now.”
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br />   “I’m sixty seconds away.”

  “What do I do with these people?”

  “Tell them to run.”

  Danny saw the small crowd ahead of him. Boston fired another burst, then pushed the prisoners away. They were angry and scared, but they were also depleted from the day spent without food. They began walking away from the camp, some north, some west.

  “Jesus, is that McGowan?” said Boston as Danny put him in the SUV.

  “Let’s go, Boston.”

  “Shit.”

  “I said, go.”

  “Yeah, all right, Cap. I’m sorry.”

  Boston climbed in. The mercenaries squeezed into the back.

  “Go south two miles and stop,” Danny said. “I want to make sure Tarid’s OK.”

  The truck’s rattle settled after a minute, and they rode in relative silence across the empty land. The rain had started to let up.

  “Everybody out,” said Danny when they stopped. He was being crushed by two of the mercenaries, who’d crowded next to him.

  He went around to the back and got a blanket from the wheel well. He wrapped McGowan’s body in it and set him down in the back.

  Tarid, meanwhile, had continued to the northwest. The Voice located him near a village named Saad Reth.

  “Nuri, what’s in Saad Reth?” Danny asked.

  “Not much. Little village.”

  “You think Tarid can find transportation there?”

  “Maybe. If he has friends there. Hard to say.”

  “Colonel, your lady friend wants to talk to you,” said Hera.

  “She’s not my lady friend,” said Danny, annoyed.

  “Whatever. She wants to talk to you.”

  Hera needed a serious attitude adjustment, but now wasn’t the time. Danny walked over to Tilia, who sat cross-legged on the ground.

  “Am I your prisoner now?” she asked.

  “You’re not our prisoner. We just rescued you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Kirk.”

  “They were calling you colonel.”

  “I was once. I was a lot of things.”

  Tilia stared at him. She wanted desperately to believe in something — she wanted to believe in him. But whatever world he belonged to, it was too far removed from hers. And hers had just imploded.