“I almost was,” Crawler said, thinking how the arrogant prick had tried to grab his ass. Yet Jannat had somehow stopped him. She was discreet. The general had never suspected a thing.
Marksman tilted his head to both sides, cracking his neck. “Then, like all whores, she has to pretend like she enjoys it.”
Crawler blew through tight lips. Right. She’d said it in the way she looked at Marksman from the start. He wasn’t stupid, though he supposed the team thought he was. She enjoyed it. She loved it. How could she not? He mustered the most condescending tone he could. “How sweet.”
Marksman drummed his fingers on the roof. “Ain’t worth my breath. Take the next right.”
At the end of the road stretched an open grass field, then a runway. If the street didn’t turn, it would lead onto the overrun strip. “That it?”
Marksman gave a whoop. “Mehrabad.” He raised a long finger and pointed. “Looks like the small aircraft terminal’s at two o’clock. That’s where we go. Take another right, around to the other side.”
Crawler peered in the side view, then accelerated. He pressed his comm while searching vainly for a safety belt. “Get ready. We’re goin’ Dukes of Hazzard.”
“We’re doing what?”
Crawler gritted his teeth. “Hold on.”
“Go around!” Marksman yelled, gripping the dashboard.
Crawler kept his nose straight at the end of the runway. The street merged ahead with another that circled the airport. If he could jump the drainage ditch, all he’d have to deal with was a chain-link security fence.
Something was going on in the seat next to him. Marksman was yelling, one arm clamped to the underside of the seat, the other braced against the roof. Crawler couldn’t hear him over the roar of the engine and the knocking, coming louder and more rapid. What was Marksman’s problem?
Crawler checked his speed. What the hell? Ninety? He wasn’t going that fast. Speedo’s broke. Going to have to wing it. Drainage ditch didn’t look that wide. He shot across the opposite side of the road, timing himself between oncoming vehicles. There was a culvert with a small upward angle to it, like a ramp. He floored the accelerator when he hit it, remembering how his cousin had taught him to keep his nose up when jumping dirt bikes. Couldn’t be much different. They lifted somewhat, the engine red-lining when the rear wheels left the ground. The landing was smoother than Crawler had anticipated, the front axle slamming against the bump stops on the frame, but no grinding gears. No snap of mutilated shafts.
“The fence!” Marksman yelled, ducking below the dashboard. He must not have found a seatbelt, either. Crawler kept the accelerator down and leaned sideways till his nose touched the shift knob. The security fence ripped over them, taking the side-view mirrors and the top of the windshield frame with it.
He sat back up and gazed at Marksman huddled on the floorboard. The tagline from a motivational poster he’d seen hanging in an office came to mind. Maybe he could teach Marksman something. “That’s the difference between you and me,” Crawler said. “You see an obstacle as something in your way, but I never sees ’em cause I gots my eyes on the goal.”
“Idiot!”
Crawler stuck his head out the shattered window and looked back. Red was still there, but his front bumper was gone and dirt was caked in the grille. The driver side wheel was wobbling, trying to rip itself from the lugs.
“We had company,” Crawler said. “A police car.”
Red’s wheel grabbed a rut and his truck steered sideways enough for Crawler to see behind him. The police car was angled toward the culvert. It launched well, but didn’t have enough speed. The nose plowed into the ditch bank and flipped an endo till it stopped upside down, leaning against a broken patch of chain link.
The truck slowed in a soft spot and Crawler downshifted. “The major did okay,” he said, “but the police didn’t commit. Probably better. We’d have to kill ’em if they made it.” Crawler leaned back, crunching against broken glass. At least Red had learned something. Everyone should know how to handle a truck. Marksman was back on the seat, gripping the dash with both hands. He always had a big head, thinking he was so much smarter. Would he ever listen?
* * *
Red scanned the runway. Not a single plane on it, or the taxiway. “Must’ve locked down the airport,” he commed. “All the planes are at the terminal.” Glancing to Lori, he said, “I don’t see any props out here.” A small white dual-engine prop plane rested on the far side of the runway with several single-engine ones, but it wasn’t nearly large enough for everyone.
“Go for the light blue one in the middle,” Lori said. “The one with the fuel truck next to her. Gulfstream. I think it’s got a built-in auxiliary power unit so we can get her started.”
Crawler cut in front of him as he pointed his truck to it. Red turned the wheel, its spokes shaking so hard he had to keep a loose grip on the rim. “Gulfstream,” he said. “We can squeeze into it. Only a couple hundred miles to the coast. We should try for Al-Asad. No, Balad’s closer.”
“Jim’s working on it,” Lori said. “Right now I just want off the ground. Any chance of getting a pilot?”
“I don’t even see baggage handlers. If they’ve locked down, we won’t find any pilots.”
Crawler slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop, broadside to the aircraft. Red did the same near the tail.
Jim rolled out the back, yelling as he came. “Richards, cover the far side. Lanyard, clear the aircraft. Everyone else, defensive positions.”
The sides of the trucks dropped and the teams rolled out as in a Chinese fire drill. Lanyard drew his sidearm and ran up the stairs. “All clear except a steward in the bathroom,” he called after a quick check.
“Keep him there,” Lori said, running into the plane. “I may need him.”
Red stood next to the front wheel of his truck. The rim was bent inward so badly the tire should have blown. He scanned the perimeter fence. Open ground and runway stretched for at least a half mile to it. Two green jeeps and a few trucks stopped close to where they’d busted through. He ducked and looked under the plane. On that side were other small aircraft and the airport. The best place for the Iranians to attack would be from there, using the terminal and planes as cover.
Lori was yelling something in Farsi inside the aircraft. Then it sounded like French. She ran down the ladder, pointing to the near wing. Her jugular bulged blue from her neck, contrasting with the chalky paleness of her face, making her eyes dark and sinister. “Only one tank’s full. We have to balance, and the steward’s useless. It’d be faster to fill the other tank.”
Crawler slung his weapon and ran to the wing. As he dropped to his knees, his momentum carried him below it, leaning backwards like he was doing the limbo. He slapped the underside like he was swatting flies until a panel dropped. With a grunt and a firm twist he connected the fuel hose.
“How long?” Jim asked.
“Five minutes, maybe, once I figure out how to turn this thing on,” he said.
Jim pointed above his head and made whirlybird swirls. “We need a perimeter for five minutes. They’ll try to block the runway. At this point I don’t give a shit who they are. Police, military, civilian. Shoot anything that gets in the way. Use the trucks to clear the runway if we have to.”
Red scanned the airport perimeter again. “Marksman, what we got?”
Marksman was standing behind the front of Crawler’s truck, M14 resting atop the hood, aimed toward the breach in the fence. His head was forward, peering through the scope. “Three jeeps and three ten-wheelers. Same ones we got. Ambulance just got here and someone’s coming out of the wreck.” He lifted his head, squinting. “The mashed car is in the way. Can’t come across the ditch like we did.”
A flicker of light glimmered from Red’s periphery. Seconds later the distant clatter of rifle fire sounded across the open field. He ducked, though any shot from a half mile away would be luck, unless they already had a sniper on scene.
“Marksman, keep their fire down,” Jim said.
Marksman hugged his stock and spread his legs. Red lifted his gaze, exposing his head over the hood, squinting at the distance. A few stick figures near the road stood between two jeeps. Marksman’s rifle boomed, two beats of a heart passed, and one of the sticks dropped flat backwards. The other men dove behind the jeeps without trying to help him. Seconds later, the rifle’s echo roared back across the expanse like far-off thunder, bouncing off gray-brown office buildings.
“That was a lucky shot,” Marksman said. “This ain’t my 50 cal.”
“Keep them behind cover,” Jim said. “They should know we’ve got hostages. Won’t make any moves till it’s too late. Disable the trucks if you can.”
This place will go to hell when the plane starts rolling, Red thought.
A white sedan with flashing yellow lights screeched around the corner of a Boeing 777 at the next terminal over. Crawler followed it and shot twice. Blue smoke billowed from underneath as the engine self-destructed, metal grinding and snapping in low grumbles. A small piece of it punched through the hood before it died. The sedan slowed and ran off the jetway. The driver threw open his door and dove into the grass. A flame came through the hole in the hood and thick smoke streamed from the wheel wells. The driver stood and sprinted away from their position. Crawler took aim.
“Let him go,” Marksman said. “He’ll be gone by the time we get rolling.”
Something moved near the fence. Red squinted. The larger trucks were pulling away, moving along the perimeter road. Lori leaned out the door of the aircraft. “We’re at a quarter full,” she yelled.
Marksman nuzzled his stock. “There’s an old Jeep Wagoneer, their command car. Looks like—” He lifted his head and squinted, then stared through the scope again. “Your boyfriend got here, Crawler. He’s squatted behind the Wagoneer.”
“How you know it’s him?” Crawler asked.
“I stared at his ugly face through the crack in the door.”
Crawler’s day-old whiskers darkened in the creases of his skin as he smiled. “Bet you can’t hit him.”
Dust blew from the hood as Marksman’s rifle boomed.
Red flinched. “You get him?”
“No . . . But he’ll change his pants before going back to Jannat’s.”
Jannat. Where was she? She’d never have sold them out, Red thought. If she did, VEVAK would kill her anyway. She’d been doing this too long. He glanced at Jim. His gaze was hard, unyielding.
Red drew a line with his arm. “The trucks stopped a half mile down the road.”
“What’s over there?” Jim asked.
“Can’t tell,” Marksman said. “There’s a gate, so there’s a way across.”
“They’re going to rush us,” Jim said. “Pull the trucks closer together. Protect this broadside.” He stooped and called under the plane, “Richards, this could be a diversion. Keep your eyes on the terminal. Red, you and Lanyard stay here but back up Richards if he calls for it.” He turned and yelled in the direction of the cockpit, “How we doing?”
“Almost half,” came Lori’s voice from inside.
Red backed his truck closer, parking it in front of the jet’s engine. There was no way the Iranians could have organized a diversion and an assault in such a short time. The enemy knew they’d be taking off soon. If the Iranians were going to do something, it would be now and it would be desperate.
Chapter 24
No Man’s Land
Red stood behind the front wheel and alternated his attention between the fence and the cockpit. The ambulance was pulling away from the overturned police car. Something moved down the road. The trucks again? He squinted, then dread pitted his stomach.
“Lori! We need to get moving now!” He ran to the end of the truck and pointed down the road. A tall-tracked armored personnel carrier was running toward the trucks waiting outside the gate. “Looks like an M113. We’ve got nothing against that.”
“Crawler!” Jim shouted. “Unhook the fuel truck. Lori, get us airborne.”
“Two-thirds full,” came her reply from the cockpit. A low growling came from under the engine cowling. “I need a few minutes to get wound up.”
“Crawler, grab the steward and get him in front where they can see him,” Jim said.
Red turned his ear toward the engine. Starting a jet wasn’t like a piston aircraft, was it? Were the controls even written in English? Maybe she needed Marksman to read something. The Iranians wouldn’t care about hostages. In two minutes, they’d be overrun. They had to get in the air.
“Marksman, I’ve got an idea that could buy us a couple minutes,” Red said. “Next to the gate. What is it?”
Marksman adjusted his rifle a few degrees. “A fuel station. Little planes over that side. Props.”
“That a fuel truck?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you set it off?”
“Jet fuel don’t work like that,” Crawler said, shoving the barrel of his 9mm into the side of the steward’s neck. “It’s like diesel. You can throw a match into a can and it won’t burn.”
Red pointed to the fuel truck. “We’re not at a military base. You said those are props over there. The truck could have some avgas in it.”
Marksman’s clip clattered onto the hood of the truck. He pulled another from a satchel near the small of his back.
“Incendiaries?” Red asked.
Marksman’s stock pushed up against his cheek. “I wish. Armor piercing. All I’ve got. Maybe it’ll spark on the way through.”
The large green trucks lumbered behind the APC like tired trail horses. Marksman got off a shot. Nothing. Marksman lifted his rifle a little higher. Red wondered, could he even see the truck through the scope at that angle? A large tanker, but at this distance it would still take luck to hit it. The APC pivoted on its tracks, turning off the road, heading to the gate. Marksman’s rifle rang: two, three, four times. The gate blew open and slapped against the fence as the APC hit it center on.
Maybe Red could cripple it if he rammed it with the truck. He was groping in his pocket for the key when a flash of heat hit his face. An orange balloon rose silently, several stories high where the fuel truck used to be. It faded to yellow, supported by a column of black soot. A section of piping shot out from it, flipping like a leaf blown by a passing car. A second explosion, maybe from a divided tank, shot yellow-blue sideways and low, soaking the gate and several small planes in flame.
A crack, then a guttural rumble shook their truck, like hearing distant thunderstorms over the Chesapeake. The blaze stuck to the ground, burning hot like napalm. The APC emerged from the fireball covered in flames. It slowed and three tiki torches stumbled from the back, dancing a short time, silhouetted against the backdrop of black soot, then fell and burned out.
Red’s smile faded as he remembered one of Father Ingram’s sermons on hell. “Separate from God. No one to hear your scream, or even care.” He imagined being one of the tikis, skin scorching, running around with his only consolation being it would be over soon. Or would it? A howl from Crawler shook him from his stupor.
“Beautiful.” Jim slapped Marksman’s shoulder. “Get ready for the rest!” He squatted and yelled under the plane. “Richards, anything on your side?”
“Negative.”
The engines whined and everyone looked at Jim. The ten-wheelers and several jeeps skidded around the edge of the flames, running in the open grass, moving fast.
“Hold your positions,” Jim ordered. He walked to the nose of Red’s truck and pressed his comm. “Can’t have any alive.”
Even a lucky shot from a sidearm could take down a jet. It was good the trucks were coming now instead of when they started down the runway. If Artesh had any sense, they’d wait till the plane was moving, most vulnerable. This might still work out for the better.
Next to Jim, Red laid several clips on the hood. Lanyard knelt at the bumper. Crawler shoved the steward toward
the terminal and the guy ran off, hands skyward. Artesh wouldn’t be stopping for hostages. The trucks spread out when they crossed the runway. One of the jeeps smashed a raised red landing light on a yellow pedestal in its grille.
Marksman shot first, well outside everyone else’s range. Red leaned into his weapon, eyeing the lead jeep. It slowed as its fractured engine block self-destructed. Marksman fired again and the second jeep turned away. The edge of its wheel caught the pavement and the truck rolled onto its side, sparks flying from the grooved runway. At around three hundred meters everyone fired. Get enough bullets flying, someone’s got to get hit. Red took aim at the drivers, or at least where he thought they’d be hunched below the windshields. Men leapt from the stalled trucks and followed their comrades on foot.
At a hundred meters, Crawler got off a well-placed shot with his grenade launcher. The front wheel of the lead truck dug in. Soft earth dragged it to a stop like a plowshare in a field. The driver shifted to a lower gear and it struggled forward, then stopped when Marksman punched a hole below the windshield frame.
The last truck sped forward, accelerating toward the plane. All rifles followed its progress. Driver must be dead, thought Red. The guy’s head was slumped onto the huge steering wheel. It kept coming toward Red’s position as the Gulfstream’s engines wound up behind him. Everyone backed away as the dead driver crashed into Red’s truck, careening off, and just missing the tail of the Gulfstream, resting once it collided with a Jetway.
The plane rolled forward a few inches.
Red ran back to the nose of his truck. Oil was leaking from under the engine, a tinge of carbon adding to the acrid stink of gunpowder. He rested his rifle on the warm, crumpled hood. Soldiers were out in the open field, sprinting from truck to truck as cover, though Marksman still brought several to a halt with rapid, accurate fire. After that they stayed put, occasionally exposing themselves to fire, but scampering back before being hit.
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