Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen England

  The rendezvous

  “You wished to speak with me, Major Kazim?” Umar Hadi demanded, glancing back at Thamir as he picked up the radio. His own concern mirrored in the captain’s eyes.

  It only made sense for an American fighter to be dispatched to the area following the targeting of coalition aircraft, and if the planes Kazim’s unit had fired upon earlier hadn’t been aimed at interdicting the weapons shipment—if he had brought American attention down upon the area this night due to his rash action—Hadi swore softly. He would find a way to put the man on report, no matter the consequences.

  It was a few seconds before the Army officer’s voice came through the static, and when it did, it sounded breathless—as though he had just been running. And from the first words out of his lips, it was clear that a solitary American fighter was no longer chief among his concerns.

  “Sir, we have multiple contacts inbound on our location—still a hundred kilometers out, but they’re closing fast. Heading straight for us.”

  Hadi was caught speechless for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer stupidity of it all—and then the words came pouring out, like waters through a broken dam. “Get your radars powered down. Do it now!”

  11:31 P.M.

  Fifty miles to the southeast

  “Magnum away.”

  An AGM-88 HARM missile dropped from beneath the Prowler’s wing, disappearing in a blinding flash of fire across the night sky as its rocket motor ignited, boosting the missile to speeds close to Mach 2.

  Homing in on the electronic transmissions emitted from the Iraqi radar systems even as the Navy plane pulled up, the distinctive cougar insignia of VAQ-139 visible on the Prowler’s tail as his wingman moved into position, the second pilot’s voice coming clear through the radio.

  “Magnum away. . .”

  The rendezvous

  Hadi could hear the Army officer barking orders in rough, panicked Arabic over the open radio, his own breath caught in his throat as he listened. Paralyzed—helpless to intervene, to alter what had been set in motion.

  And then he heard it, the force of a massive explosion buffeting his ear for the space of a half-second before the transmission dissolved into white noise, only static filling the line.

  The lieutenant colonel swore loudly, throwing the radio onto the seat of the truck as he pushed past Thamir, hurrying back toward the trucks—anger distorting his features.

  Kazim’s men may have died due to their commander’s stupidity, but he had no intention of joining them.

  “Get the lockers loaded onto the trucks,” he bellowed, shoving the Palestinian major to one side as he addressed his own startled soldiers. “Now. Yalla, yalla!”

  The words had barely left Hadi’s lips before he felt the Palestinian flinch at his side, the crackle of small-arms fire breaking out through the night. His head snapping up and to the left, just in time to catch sight of muzzle flashes flickering along the ridge to the north.

  His every fear confirmed in that moment. They were here.

  11:32 P.M.

  The ridge

  Ariel pressed his back against the rock shelf, his rifle in his hands, taking cover as bullets whined in overhead—smashing into surrounding rocks, pieces of rock spraying around him.

  The Iraqis had been clustered too closely together on the ridgeline to have allowed for them to all be taken quietly. They’d halved their number, at the very least, in the opening fire—but those who remained were fighting back with more tenacity than he might have expected.

  And if they could pin them down here—on the northern slope of the ridge—long enough for reinforcements to move into position, then their mission was going to be in major trouble.

  Like it wasn’t already.

  He raised himself up over the rock, muzzle flashes seeming to blossom in slow-motion before his eyes through the night-vision goggles as he brought the Kalashnikov to bear, getting off a controlled burst at a cluster of shadows moving perhaps forty meters away. Seeing the dark form of a Guardsman pitch forward, a body sprawling in the dirt. Catching sight of Nadir, perhaps ten meters to his right, engaging the enemy.

  He ducked down and to the side as return fire came his way, bullets hammering into the rocks. His breath coming quick as he clutched the rifle, glancing over to see Sergeant Black crouched behind another rock perhaps five meters away. Across open ground.

  Bent over his radio as Tzipporah stood over him, her SV-98 still slung over her back—the American’s Kalashnikov in her hands as she fired.

  Another building crescendo of fire struck Ariel’s ears even as he felt someone slide into position behind him, scrabbling across the rocks.

  “These fools—they can’t shoot to save their lives,” Ze’ev laughed grimly, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of gunfire as he ejected a mag from his rifle, replacing it with another from a pouch on his belt.

  The older man was bleeding, a deep scar across his right cheek as if hit by a flying shard of rock, the blood mixing with the stubble of his beard. Something in his voice belying the forced levity. They needed to break the deadlock. And do it soon.

  Ariel pushed himself up on one knee, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Going to make a run for it—need you to give me covering fire.”

  A nod and then he was off, crouched low—the death rattle of Ze’ev’s rifle sounding behind him as he ran—the whine of bullets in the air over his head. Move. . .

  10:34 P.M. Eastern European Time

  Incirlik Airbase

  Adana, Turkey

  “Anything?” Lay asked for what had to be the third time in the last five minutes, running a hand across his chin as he turned, beginning to pace back across the tent toward the radar screens.

  The Air Force sergeant shook his head mutely, his face mirroring the anxiety written on Lay’s own. No word from the fighter or the field team.

  No confirmation that the mission was even still on-track, let alone close to being accomplished.

  He swore in helpless frustration, glancing once more at his watch.

  Ten minutes. That was how long they had until the F-15 ran low enough on fuel to be forced to turn back to Prince Sultan.

  After that. . .they’d have to cut their losses and abort the mission. Pull their people out.

  As best they could.

  11:35 P.M. Arabian Time

  The ridge

  Al-Anbar Governate

  Ariel threw himself into cover as he reached the rocks, landing beside the American, his knees scraping against the hard ground.

  “Where are we at with the radio?” he demanded, heedless of the pain as he pushed himself up, staying crouched in the shadow of the rock.

  Black shook his head, a curse escaping his lips as hot brass from Tzipporah’s rifle showered over both men—his face lit briefly in the muzzle flash.

  “Nothing yet—haven’t been able to raise the fighter. And,” he began, glancing over his shoulder to the south—toward the rendezvous point, “I don’t even have line of sight on the target.”

  Thirty meters. That was probably all it was, he thought, the topographic map of the ridgeline displayed in his mind’s eye as he followed the sergeant’s glance.

  Thirty meters and they’d reach the southern face of the ridge—the sheer drop-off eighty feet to the desert below. A direct vantage point on the rendezvous point less than half a kilometer away.

  If they could make it.

  “All right,” he said, ejecting the half-empty magazine from his rifle and tucking it into a pouch on his vest as Tzipporah dropped down on one knee beside him, “both of you on me. We move out together, cover to cover—lay down fire as we go.”

  Ze’ev and Nadir would have to bring up the rear, as best they could.

  Tzipporah nodded wordlessly, leaning back against the rock as she braced herself for the charge. Determination in the set of her jaw, her face flushed with the heat of battle.

  He caught a nearly imperceptible nod of assent from Bla
ck as the American drew his sidearm, briefly press-checking the weapon to confirm a round in the chamber. Ready.

  He retrieved a magazine from his own belt, taking a deep breath as he rocked it into the mag well. Time to do this.

  And then he was up and on his feet, the Kalashnikov already raised to his shoulder as he came out into the open, a bellow escaping his lips as he fired again and again.

  Move.

  11:36 P.M.

  The rendezvous point

  “We need to be leaving, Colonel Hadi—we need to be leaving at once.”

  There. The lieutenant colonel heard the tailgate of the old Soviet military truck slam shut behind him, his eyes still fixed on the northern ridge—the gunfire seeming to swell in intensity even as he watched, ignoring the entreaties of the Palestinian officer at his side. The rest of his men spread out in a skirmish line twenty meters in front of him, weapons trained to the north, protecting the trucks.

  “Sir,” a Guardsman announced, coming up behind him—the man still breathing heavily from his exertion with the footlockers, “the shells—the shells are loaded as you ordered, sir.”

  Good. And not a moment too soon.

  “We have to get out of here,” Major Halawa repeated, his voice rising higher as panic seemed to overwhelm him—the jowls of his face quivering as he stared at Hadi, his eyes wide with fear. “Now.”

  “Yes, you do,” Umar Hadi replied contemptuously as one of his soldiers handed him a rifle, unable to conceal his disgust for the Palestinian. “Go. My men and I will provide security to the border—do not fear, we will protect you.”

  Because the consequences of your worthless carcass being found here on Iraqi soil are too great for us all, he thought but didn’t add. He would have shot the coward himself if he could have gotten away with it.

  Halawa nodded quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a ball on a string as he swallowed, seeming too preoccupied with the prospect of his own safety to notice the insult.

  Another moment and he was gone, disappearing on the far side of the trucks—followed by the sound of engines roaring to life a few moments later, the first of the trucks beginning to roll out across the desert sand back toward the border road.

  Hadi turned to his old friend, shouldering his weapon. A grim smile passing across his face in the darkness. “Let’s go finish this. We’ll be back in Baghdad by sunrise.”

  11:38 PM

  The ridge

  Target. Target. Ariel squeezed the Kalashnikov’s trigger once more, a three-round burst ripping from the barrel as the rifle recoiled into his shoulder, firing as he moved. A dark shape sprawling across the ground like a broken doll. Target down.

  Another burst, and the rifle’s bolt locked back on an empty magazine, his weapon useless for the moment as he ejected the mag, his support hand flying toward his belt to retrieve another. The night-vision goggles restricting his peripheral vision.

  “Get down!” he heard the American bellow, briefly glimpsing a figure emerging from the rocks in his blind spot not even ten meters distant—near the cliff itself—before Black shoved him roughly down and to the side, his pistol coming up in his hands.

  A pair of shots resounded as one, the figure staggering backward from the impact of the double-tap before Black put another shot into him and he toppled from the cliff, an anguished scream filling the night as he fell. The Iraqi line on the ridge faltering, on the verge of crumbling under the weight of their losses—the ferocity of the Israeli assault.

  Almost there. Ariel slammed another mag into his rifle, bringing it up to engage another threat as he saw Ze’ev move in from the side, firing as he came. As dependable as the morning sun.

  Another five meters, and they’d be above the southern face of the ridge. The Guardsmen’s attempt to cut them off thwarted.

  He glimpsed a line of men in the darkness below, advancing on the ridge—falling to one knee as he fired several short suppressive bursts, not even taking the time to aim carefully. Just enough to keep their heads down.

  And then he saw it. The trucks. Moving out onto the road, easily four hundred meters away already and farther with every passing moment. Picking up speed. Rolling westward, back toward the Jordanian border.

  The last few grains of desert sand trickling through their hourglass.

  He looked back, finding Black still engaging the enemy on the ridge with his pistol—the laser range-finder secured to his pack. No way he could get it deployed in time, even assuming they were able to make contact with the plane. They had to. . .

  Flame blossomed from the muzzle of his Kalashnikov as he triggered another burst, falling back until he found himself beside Tzipporah, placing his hand on her shoulder as he gestured out through the darkness toward the receding taillights of the trucks. “Can you take them?”

  A nod was her only response, bullets cracking around them as she coolly unslung the SV-98—going prone on the hard rock. Her gloved hand reaching forward to deploy the rifle’s bipod, steadying the buttstock against her shoulder.

  Cover her, Ariel thought, raising himself up from behind the boulder—heedless of his own danger as he emptied the rifle down-range, seeing muzzle flashes flicker in the night below him.

  If she failed to make the shot—if those trucks made it back across the border into Jordan—none of this was going to matter.

  All the bloodshed, the risks they had run this night. None of it mattered. Only this shot.

  The empty magazine clattered against the rocks as he ejected it, his hand moving to his belt to retrieve another—realizing only as he brought the fresh magazine up in his hand that it was his last. Almost out.

  He hesitated only a moment before rocking it into the mag well, his gloved hand finding the Kalashnikov’s charging handle and pulling it back. There. Now to—

  The single powerful crack of a rifle bullet splitting the night shattered his train of thought, his head coming up just in time to see the Russian-made sniper rifle recoil into Tzipporah’s shoulder as she fired, her hand already up and moving to work the bolt, chambering another round.

  His gaze shifted out over the desert, just as the first of the Palestinian trucks lurched drunkenly before swerving sideways out into the middle of the road—the truck behind it trying and failing to stop fast enough, the metal shriek of grinding brakes audible even over the distance as it slammed into the side of the lead vehicle.

  11:40 P.M.

  The rendezvous point

  A sniper. That was Hadi’s first thought, the solitary sharp crack so distinctive—so familiar—rising above the chaos of the battle. The sound of death.

  And then he heard the crash, swearing loudly as he turned to watch the military trucks collide—the lead vehicle spilling over on its side, the third truck managing to avoid the collision by a hair’s-breadth, grinding to a halt behind its fellows.

  Leave it to the Palestinians, he thought bitterly, rising from his crouch and moving to Thamir’s side—heedless of the incoming fire from the ridgeline as he placed a hand on his subordinate’s shoulder.

  “Captain,” he began, almost shouting in the man’s ears to be heard over the small arms fire, “take a dozen men and go help right those trucks. Move!”

  Somehow, perhaps, they could yet salvage something out of this situation.

  11:41 P.M.

  The ridge

  Yes, Ariel thought, suppressing a cheer at the sight. Victory—or something close enough to it, their fortunes reversed in the space of a moment even if their danger was far from past.

  He rose from his crouch even as Tzipporah fired again, taking on the rear vehicle as he sprinted across the ridge, bent over at the waist.

  “Sergeant Black!” he bellowed, sliding into position beside the American, his hand on the man’s shoulder. “The convoy has been stopped—get on the horn to your planes. Do it now!”

  Black nodded his understanding, turning back toward the cliff—toward Tzipporah and their targets beyond.

  Call the pl
ane, Ariel thought, breathing heavily as he rose up to follow him. That was all they needed now.

  Call the plane, light up the target—then begin extricating themselves from this mess. Simple enough. Nothing they hadn’t done a score of times before.

  Ze’ev materialized at his side in that moment, the older man’s face drawn and grim in the darkness. “He’s down.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ariel demanded, a cold chill seeming to trickle like ice water down his spine—scarce able to process the words, raising his voice to be heard over the staccato crack of the rifles—the whine of incoming rounds.

  “Nadir’s down,” Ze’ev repeated flatly. “I saw him fall, couldn’t get to him. He’s—”

  Another burst of fire from somewhere close by—very close by—assaulted Ariel’s ears, followed almost immediately by the sickeningly wet sound of a bullet striking flesh.

  Time itself seeming to slow down as Ze’ev’s knees buckled, the former Shayetet-13 operator staggering into him, dropping his weapon. No.

  It wasn’t possible.

  His own rifle clattering to the rock as he wrapped his right arm around his friend’s back, struggling to keep him from falling. An Iraqi soldier coming into view over Ze’ev’s shoulder—no more than seven meters away.

  Only seconds before he opened fire once again, fire blossoming from the muzzle of his weapon. Blood spraying over the fingers of Ariel’s right hand as more bullets tore into Ze’ev’s back—hammer blows seeming to strike his own Kevlar plate—and then they were both falling, the air driven from his lungs as he went down hard on his back, Ze’ev landing on top of him.

  A dead weight. The two of them locked in a macabre embrace, Ze’ev’s mouth open, his face blurred in the haze of the night-vision goggles. His breathing heavy and labored, his blood still staining Ariel’s hands.

  Half of his team taken out of the fight, just like that. And when they had been so close. . .