by Jack Murphy
“Kurt, you're with me. The rest of you get out of here while we lay down suppressive fire.”
Deckard and the German mercenary ran to the contact side of the building and began returning fire at the ten Arab shooters who were trying to surround them. Both triggered rapid bursts of fire at the death squad that was attacking them. Deckard's AK ran out of rounds first.
“I'm black,” he shouted to Kurt who picked up his rate of fire to compensate.
Deckard ducked down behind the lip of the roof and reloaded. He moved laterally to change his position before popping back up and rejoining the fight. By now Kurt was empty and had to reload. Meanwhile, Pat and Aghassi threw their prisoner off the roof before jumping down beside him.
“Let's go, let's go,” Deckard said as he slapped Kurt on the shoulder and fell back, running across the roof. He stumbled as the roof gave way beneath him. Sliding backwards and down into the inferno that had opened up below, he reached for the wreckage of the communications tower to stop his descent. He was still slipping when Kurt circled around the opening and gave him a hand. Yanking him up, the two turned to the edge of the roof and dropped down.
“Get down!” Pat warned as he threw a frag grenade at the chain link fence. Hitting the deck the mercenaries braced themselves as the grenade exploded and tore a small hole in the barrier. One by one, they slipped through the ragged opening.
Out on the flight line, they saw a convoy of headlights heading towards them.
“Shooter-One?”
“I see them,” Nikita informed them. “I count eight vehicles.”
“That's funny,” Pat said dryly. “I count ten.”
In seconds the convoy would blast right down the runway, cutting between them and their sniper in the aircraft graveyard. They would then be trapped between the convoy and the death squad on their opposite flank. Deckard didn't think they had killed any of them as they had been behind a pile of gravel which meant his team was outnumbered two to one on one flank and maybe thirty to one on their other flank.
The only terrain feature that even offered the illusion of cover and concealment from which to fight from was the drainage ditch that Aghassi had made his photographs from earlier. Bounding forward, the mercenaries descended into the waist deep channel and got down in the prone. Pat and Aghassi sat Greg down and dumped their bags of intel taken from the safe down next to him.
If they had continued forward, even at a sprint, they would never make it to the far side of the airfield before they would be overtaken by the convoy and caught out in the open where they would be run down and shot to pieces.
Greg was trembling uncontrollably.
The four combat veterans had seen more than their share of firefights. They had all had their nose bloodied a few times in the past. They knew what was coming. It would be the fight of their lives. It wasn't that they were not afraid as much as their calmness was really a resignation that fear would be not a productive emotion at this point. Their training took over. The terrain and the enemy had made the decision for them and now they had to ride it out, hoping that their asses came along for the ride.
Each man made sure they had a full magazine loaded and a round in the chamber. Several laid an extra magazine or hand grenade next to them for easy access. Pat had the LAW rocker launcher that he had liberated from the weapons shipment that they had intercepted. He pulled the retaining pins out and extended the tube. The former Delta operator readied the LAW, aiming down its sights.
Fingers tightened around triggers.
Behind them, the ruins of a conspiracy burned.
The Arab held his hand out, halting his men.
An injured animal would go to ground and wait in ambush. This what the mercenaries had done. They would not walk into their kill zone. He would wait for the quick reaction team to arrive. The mercenaries would be cut down or forced to retreat, right into his death squad. Then, they would feast on the American's bones. The Iraqis would act as a stopper force and block off their escape.
The convoy was rapidly approaching. Their role as a quick reaction security force was only while in garrison at their training areas in Nevada. They were actually a strike force made up of several platoons of MEK gunmen. While The Arab and his men specialized in sabotage, assassinations, and black propaganda, the strike force's role was one of direct combat.
They were being trained to go into Iran with CIA para-military forces ahead of the planned invasion where they would soften up Iranian military and even civilian targets before coalition forces pushed across the border. Heavily armed, they would make quick work of the feeble mercenary force. They were fools to even attempt to infiltrate Area 14 with such small numbers.
Going from position to position, The Arab set his men down on their bellies in the dirt at even intervals where they would be able to cut off any avenue of escape that the mercenaries might attempt. Finally, he got down on the desert floor himself and shouldered his AK-47 just as the MEK strike force screamed down the runway.
Pat pulled out the safety, aimed, and fired the LAW rocket launcher. The warhead shot down the runway and scored a direct hit on the lead vehicle. Both front doors on the HMMWV blasted open as smoke and fire billowed out. The turret gunner did a Peter Pan impersonation as he launched out into the night. Discarding the empty rocket tube, Pat scooped up his AK and joined his comrades as they fired bursts into each vehicle they could draw a bead on.
On the other side of the airfield, Nikita thinned out their ranks, transitioning from target to target as fast as he could. Hitting moving targets in low light conditions was no easy task, even with night vision but he managed to take out four of the turret gunners before they could even open fire.
One HMMWV driver panicked and drove straight toward their position, not knowing where the gunfire was coming from. Aghassi came up to one knee and fired on fully automatic, walking his gunfire through the windshield. He rolled out of the way a nano-second before the military vehicle crashed into the ditch, bottomed out, and then lost control as it climbed the opposite side and rolled over in a cloud of dirt.
Another HMMWV stopped short, identifying several muzzle flashes. The turret gunner swung his M2HB .50 caliber machine gun on the mercenaries and opened up with a heavy staccato burst that chewed up the ground less than a foot away from Kurt Jager. The machine gunner suddenly pitched forward, a sniper's bullet slapping him in the back of the skull.
The vehicle's doors were flung open as more MEK gunmen spilled out onto the runway. At less than forty feet away, Deckard threw a hand grenade that bounced off the tarmac and rolled right into the middle of their ranks before exploding.
Kurt fired into the next nearest HMMWV. Killing the driver, the truck crashed into the first HMMWV that was now disabled, jolting its passengers.
The firefight was lightning fast and frantic as the enemy had no idea how close they were to the intruders. The Iraqis had been taken by surprise and now they were trying to draw down on their targets but found that each of them already seemed to have giant bulls-eyes painted on their heads.
The Samruk International team had gotten their licks in, but the writing was on the wall. It was a matter of tactical calculus. They were outnumbered and outgunned. Looking over his shoulder, Deckard saw that Greg had already gotten zapped. He lay in a puddle of his own blood, staring up at the purple, black, and blue early morning sky.
“Fuck it,” Deckard said. “I'm dead already.”
Sprinting out from behind cover, he ran straight for the crashed HMMWV. The passengers who had been rattled by the crash were now emerging from the vehicle. Deckard fired on the run, blasting ragged holes into all three of them with stunted bursts of fire that blasted through the unarmored doors.
Gripping the dead driver around the throat, he callously pried him out of the HMMWV and dumped his corpse on the runway. Slipping into the truck he keyed his radio.
“Don't shoot, I'm getting on the gun,” he warned Nikita.
Clawing his way into th
e gun turret, Deckard saw that there was not a machine gun mounted but rather an MK-19 grenade launcher. The MK-19 was jumbo sized machine gun that fired linked 40mm grenades. With the chain of High Explosive rounds already fed into the feed tray, Deckard reached forward and grabbed the charging handles on either side of the weapon. Muscling the massive bolt inside the receiver to the rear, he made the weapon ready to fire and flicked off the safety switch on the sear mechanism.
Ignoring the rear sight and front sight blade, Deckard held down the butterfly trigger and walked the exploding grenade rounds towards an approaching HMMWV. Inside the MK-19 the bolt slammed home, delivering a 40mm grenade down range as the expended shell casing fell out of the bottom of the receiver.
A line of grenades launched from the barrel in a steady but hollow sounding thwunk-thwunk-thwunk until the MEK vehicle was stitched from side to side. Each grenade exploded with a brilliant flash of yellow light, a shower of sparks accompanying each mini-detonation. A cyclic rate of 350 rounds per minute equaled a lot of ordnance going down range.
With the HMMWV reduced to a rolling fireball, Deckard transitioned to the next vehicle. His grenade fire shredded the HMMWV's tires, causing it to skid across the runway before stopping. Deckard's next burst of fire easily punched right through the flimsy metal doors and got inside the vehicle, reducing its occupants to a red vapor mist.
Behind him, Kurt Jager jumped onto the hood of another disabled HMMWV and dropped down into the gun turret, taking control of the .50 caliber machine gun, adding it to the fray. Each bullet was about the size of a finger and was absolutely devastating on the unprotected enemy vehicles.
Another group saw the carnage and attempted to dismount from their vehicle before being torn to shreds. Deckard turned the MK-19 on them as they attempted to run to the cover of the hangars. The grenade launcher spat 40mm rounds into their path, ripping them into red ribbons of flesh. Disembodied arms and legs spun through the air as the MEK terrorists were caught in the open.
For the first time in a long time, The Arab was shocked. Somehow the mercenaries had quickly turned the odds in their favor, to the point that they had captured two of the strike force's crew-served weapons and put them into operation against the other MEK vehicles.
The Americans were not retreating back into their position but were instead charging right into the strike force, killing them, and tearing them limb from limb. As The Arab watched one of the men take command of the MK-19 grenade launcher and rip through a half dozen MEK men, he knew the battle had reached a tipping point.
“Come Abdullah,” he said to his nearby assistant. “Now is our last chance. While they are distracted, we can hit them from behind where they are exposed.”
Motioning to the remaining nine men in his squad, The Arab, along with Abdullah, led them toward the firefight. Moving abreast of each other, they formed a hasty assault line. Two of the mercenaries were in the MEK trucks using the heavy weapons while the other two were using them as cover to fire at what was left of the strike force.
The Arab moved down into the drainage ditch where the infiltrators had taken cover from the initial assault. He found the body of a white devil, but not a soldier. It was the facility manager. Next to him were two bags filled with documents. They were of no concern to The Arab, so he continued to lead his men, closing on the enemy positions.
Once they had the mercenaries in sight, The Arab raised his AK-47 and fired.
Deckard felt something slap his back as he was pushed on top of the MK-19, forcing him to release the trigger. Bullets smacked into the HMMWV like heavy raindrops, each round landing with a thwack. Pulling down on the handle, Deckard rotated the gun ring around as he realized that they were taking fire from behind them. Another bullet punched through the green ammo can holding the linked 40mm grenades, while another shot grazed across the roof of the truck.
In the vehicle beside him, Kurt collapsed and fell from the turret, disappearing from view inside his HMMWV. Aghassi began climbing up and into the gun as Deckard sighted in with the MK-19. The death squad they had encountered earlier had finally decided to engage, probably waiting for them to be weakened by the second MEK element.
Thumbing down the trigger, he let off a single round before another hammer blow struck him in the chest, ripping him off the grenade launcher as he staggered backwards into the edge of the turret. First he had taken a round in the rear trauma plate in his plate carrier and now another round in the front plate.
Aghassi opened up with the .50 cal just as Deckard thumbed down the MK-19's trigger a second time. At close range, the effects were absolutely devastating. The 40mm rounds were tearing off legs below the knees as the grenades bounced off the tarmac before they had a chance to reach minimum safe distance and arm themselves. In one case, a MK-19 grenade struck an advancing MEK terrorist in the face, dropping him.
The .50 cal machine gun was chewing through the enemy as they walked right into Aghassi's stream of Armor Piercing Incendiary rounds. Pat had dropped to the ground and was returning fire with his AK-103 while Deckard and Aghassi shot right over his head. Looking over his shoulder, Pat shouted up to Deckard.
“That guy is getting away!”
Deckard looked to see someone dart behind the first disabled HMMWV, the one Pat had shot with the LAW. He was somewhat more clever than his late comrades, using the vehicle as cover he then ran down the runway making sure to place Aghassi's HMMWV between himself and Deckard so that only one of them could fire at a time. At that moment, Aghassi was still shooting and couldn't hear Pat or Deckard above the chaos.
“Take the gun,” Deckard yelled down to Pat. Deckard suspected he knew who was making a run for it.
“You're going after him?” Pat said as he stepped up onto the hood to take over on the MK-19. They were still taking some more gunfire from what was left of the strike force. “I want to come with you.”
“I saw Kurt go down, Aghassi needs to treat him while you keep up the rate of fire.”
Deckard jumped out of the truck and ran down the runway. Halting, he adjusted the focus ring on his PVS-15 night vision goggles until he spotted the black form of a human being running off in the direction of the aircraft graveyard.
Maybe he could arrange an interception.
“Shooter-One,” he radioed. “Give me a sitrep.”
“I fired through all five magazines for my sniper rifle. Down to just a pistol.”
“Move forward and pick up an enemy's weapon, then coordinate a link up with Pat.”
“Roger.”
Holding his rifle at port arms, Deckard ran across the landing strip, keeping the fleeing terrorist in sight until he disappeared into the shadows of one of the jumbo jets off in the distance. After that, all he could do was vector in on the 747 where he last saw the runner and try to pick up the trail again as he got closer.
The Arab swung around, snarling as he spotted one of the Americans. Somehow, he knew that his pursuer had to be the mercenary commander that he and his squad had been targeting south of the border. It was the only answer that made sense. Amazingly, he had escaped the suicide attack on the island. Later, the executions at the Christian mission had failed to draw him out. Psychological studies drawn up by his employers said that it was almost certain that he would throw his forces into a fray immediately after a massacre of that magnitude.
Finally, there was the IED. The Arab had triggered the explosives with a cell phone detonator, striking the lead vehicle in the Samruk International convoy as they departed Oaxaca. The mercenary commander appeared to like leading from the front. Only later was it discovered that he had been in another vehicle. Since cutting a deal with the United States after the invasion of Iraq, MEK had never been on the defensive like this before. Now their terror cells had been annihilated in the blink of an eye.
Running under the belly of an old jumbo jet, The Arab continued to a mid-sized aircraft and settled down behind the forward landing gear. This was his last chance.
T
he loss of Abdullah and his men did not concern him. He could not feel for them even if he wanted to. His only concern was escape and if he didn't finish off the American mercenary he would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of what would probably be a short life.
Lining up the rear u-shaped notch sight with the front sight post on his AK-47, The Arab didn't have to wait long.
Then the mercenary appeared, looking from side to side as he stood underneath the jumbo jet.
The Kalashnikov bucked up into his shoulder and his target dropped.
Deckard jolted backwards, his body having a sympathetic reaction that dumped him onto his backside as the PVS-15 night vision goggles were torn from his helmet in an explosion of glass and plastic. Thankfully, his clear lens Oakley glasses saved his eyesight.
Rolling away, he found cover behind an old air conditioning unit.
“Shloonkum il-yoom?” a voice called out to him. “Intu laazim ta baaniin.”
Deckard blinked, ignoring the superficial cuts caused by his night vision goggles getting shot off. Using the EO Tech holographic sight mounted on his AK-103, he squeezed off several shots in the direction of the voice.
“La-tutluq in-naar!” The voice said with a laugh.
It took Deckard's mind a few seconds to catch up. He was speaking in Iraqi dialect Arabic, another language that he had a passing familiarity with. The Arab let off a couple shots of his own which rattled into the air conditioning unit he was behind.
Getting of fix on the death squad leader's position, Deckard returned fire before quickly bounding behind the rear landing gear of the 747 he was under.