Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen England

  The ridge

  Al Anbar Governate, Iraq

  Cursing bitterly, Ariel ripped the headset off his head—shoving it into the American’s hands as he shouldered his rifle, ejecting the magazine and hefting it briefly in his hand before shoving it into the pouch on his vest and replacing it with one of the full mags he had taken from Ze’ev’s body.

  “Kit up, they’ll be here before we know it,” he said brusquely, hearing barked orders in Arabic drifting up from the desert below, along with the tormented screams of the dying. The crackle of flames. “We’re not going to have much time.”

  He glanced back up the ridge toward the west, feeling Tzipporah’s eyes on him as he did so, knowing the question which lay unasked and unanswered in their depths. Doing his best to ignore it, focus on what little he could yet change.

  “We fall back on that rise,” he said, indicating the slightly higher ground to the west, near where the ridge began to narrow—reducing their front. “Make our stand there.”

  “Ze’ev, Nadir,” he heard Tzipporah begin, a slight tremor in the words, unable to refrain from asking any longer, “are they. . .?”

  “They’re both dead,” he replied, his voice flat, emotionless. Unable to get the image of Nadir out of his head—the youngest member of his team, an American kid from Brooklyn who’d made his aliyah to the Jewish homeland along with his parents at the age of eleven. Laying there dead in the rocks, a single hole in the middle of his forehead—he’d been dead before he hit the ground.

  “Let’s move,” he said finally, finding no words to further express the emotions roiling within him. “On me.”

  Palmetto Flight

  “. . .you’re not listening to me, Control,” Capano retorted, frustration building within him as he listened to the man’s voice. He didn’t know what was going on down there in the desert below him, suspected he didn’t want to know. He did know the consequences for losing a plane, particularly on a mission that was never officially supposed to have happened. “If I could provide close support, I would—but if I take this plane down low for a pass, I’m not going to make it back to base. I—”

  “Make the run, Palmetto,” came the reply, firm and unequivocal. “Then return to base, here to Incirlik. On my authority.”

  It could just work, the pilot thought, glancing at his gauges once again—the change of base cutting several hundred miles out of the return flight. And perhaps the logistics didn’t matter, in the end.

  He knew an order when he heard one.

  “Solid copy, Control,” he replied finally, pulling the strike fighter into a hard bank as he came back around toward the target area—pitching the nose down as he began to descend toward the desert, twelve thousand feet below. “Dogpatch, Palmetto, come in. Dogpatch, how copy. . .”

  11:57 P.M.

  The ridge

  Fire. Ariel felt the Kalashnikov recoil into his shoulder as he squeezed the trigger, getting off single, aimed shots, out into the darkness in which Ze’ev and Nadir had both given their lives—seeing a dark shadow fall in the night even as a burst of fire tore through the air past his ear. The Iraqis closing in on them, faster than even he had expected.

  Move. And then he was up and running, his boots pounding against the hard earth as he ran back, further west along the ridge, glimpsing the muzzle flash of the American’s weapon ahead of him—blossoming across his night-vision.

  Providing covering fire.

  He slid in beside Black, sheltering behind a boulder as he reloaded the rifle—glancing around him in an effort to get his bearings. Catching sight of Tzipporah, just off to his left—her face like stone as she raised herself up, Ze’ev’s rifle in her hands as she returned fire down-range.

  The ridge narrowed at this point to scarce more than fifteen meters across, defensible, even with just the three of them—if they could drive their attackers to ground, force them to take cover.

  Keep them at a distance.

  For as long as ammunition held out, Ariel thought morosely, only too aware that wasn’t going to be long enough, even with the magazines they’d managed to scavenge from the dead.

  He pushed himself to one knee, leaning out from cover just long enough to get a sight picture, the rifle’s staccato chatter filling the night. Target. Target.

  There—he felt something tug at his arm, a blinding flash of pain exploding across his mind as he fell back into cover, nearly dropping the rifle. Looking down to see the sleeve of his shirt stained with blood, his left arm hanging nearly useless at his side. Had to have hit the bone, or something close to it.

  Out of the fight. He swore viciously at the folly of it all, another round splattering into the rocks just overhead, blood trickling out between his fingers as he clamped his hand tight over the wound, fighting against the pain.

  Reaching down to undo his belt for use as a tourniquet, knowing he only had so long before he went into shock.

  He heard Black call out, his voice faint and indistinct—the words lost in the cacophony of small-arms fire surrounding them.

  “I have the plane!” the American sergeant repeated, closer this time, reaching over to place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s coming in for the run. I’m going to need covering fire so I can set up the designator, I—”

  His voice broke off in that moment as he saw the look on Ariel’s face, saw the wound. “Do you—”

  No. Ariel shook his head angrily, bracing the folding stock of the AK-47 tight against his right shoulder as he struggled to push himself up, his knuckles whitening around the pistol grip as he raised the rifle in one hand, trying to get a sight picture.

  “Just call the plane. Do it now.”

  11:59 P.M.

  Palmetto Flight

  “. . .lasing the target. How copy?”

  “Copy that, Dogpatch,” Capano responded, the SOFLAM’s beam clearly visible on his HUD as the F-15 Eagle swept down over the desert in a steep dive. “We have the spot.”

  His fingers slick with sweat as he clutched the stick, every fiber of his body at full alert, the desolate landscape of the desert looming large in the night. Everything looked different down here. At night. A mission he had never trained for, never expected he would be asked to perform. So much that could go wrong, so quickly, at this altitude. If he failed to pull out in time. . .

  A single movement wrong, a single twitch and they’d be into the ground before he could react—a thirty-one-million-dollar airframe turned into the desert version of a lawn dart.

  Both of them dead.

  Forty-five hundred feet. . .three thousand. . .twenty-one hundred. . .

  His finger wrapping around the trigger as he saw the firing reticle center in the target area, men suddenly visible on the ground beneath him—scattering like ants as the fighter roared in, the aircraft shuddering as the 20mm Gatling beneath the Eagle’s fuselage spat fire into the desert night.

  “Guns, guns, guns!”

  12:00 A.M.

  The ridge

  Pain. Surging through his veins like liquid fire.

  Chaos. Filling the night around him as Ariel lifted the rifle once more in one hand—fighting against the nausea, the weakness that threatened to overwhelm him as he fired, again and again into the darkness. Struggling to stay on his feet, to stay in the fight.

  For as long as he could.

  And then he heard it, a distant sound at first, barely perceptible over the gunfire—building to a throbbing roar, penetrating the darkest recesses of his mind, overpowering all else.

  The American jet sweeping in out of the night, the unearthly sound of the Gatling heralding its arrival, the ridgeline thirty meters in front of their position suddenly churned into a maelstrom of swirling dust, flesh, and earth by the impact of dozens of 20mm shells.

  Men torn apart, dying in agony. Staggering out of the cloud of dust in a frenzied panic. Trying to get away.

  Target. Target.

  Palmetto Flight

  Yeah! Capano struggled to suppress a
cheer of exultation as the F-15 pulled out, climbing nearly straight up into the sky—his heart pounding wildly against his chest—the g-force pushing his shoulders hard back into his seat.

  “Dogpatch, Palmetto,” he began, his voice still trembling with adrenaline and excitement as he toggled the mike, “how copy?”

  It was a long moment before the forward controller came on the net, and when he did, Capano could hear the sound of gunfire—close, very close—as if the man had just fired his own weapon.

  “Good work, Palmetto,” he said then, pausing as if to fire again, the reverberations of a gunshot nearly drowning out his next words. “One more run ought to do it, if you can give us one.”

  One more run. One more breathtakingly low, high-speed pass across the desert.

  The National Guard lieutenant swallowed hard, guiding the big strike fighter into a hard turn back toward the south—willing his heart rate to calm down. “Copy that, Dogpatch. On our way.”

  12:05 A.M., January 9th

  The ridge

  They just kept coming. Inexorable as the tide, broken, ragged—but seemingly unstoppable, driven on by desperation. Another Guardsman falling in the night, crumpling to the dirt even as Ariel fired.

  The AK’s bolt locked back on an empty chamber and he threw it aside—falling to one knee as he struggled to draw his sidearm.

  His fingers moving slowly, as if lost in a dream—feeling like wooden stubs as they closed around the pistol butt. No.

  Pain flooding over him, clouding his brain as everything around him seemed to fade away, sounding so very distant. Far away. He had to keep going—had to stay in the fight as long he could—had to. . .

  The Beretta came out in his hand, but he lacked the strength to raise and aim it—the pistol falling from nerveless fingers as he pitched forward, catching himself on his good hand for a moment before slumping to the earth.

  He felt hands on his shoulders, heard a voice calling his name but he found himself incapable of responding—darkness closing in all around. . .

  And then everything went black.

  12:06 A.M.

  So this is how it ends, Umar Hadi thought, lying there on his back on the hard earth, looking up at the stars in the night sky above him, fading in and out of his vision as he struggled to retain consciousness.

  A military career which had begun so long before in a little village on the banks of the Tigris, come to. . .this, bleeding out here in the desert—his right leg hopelessly mangled below the knee, torn apart by the impact of a shell from the American jet.

  So many wars, so much fighting—all across the years, from Iran to Kuwait to Basra, crushing the revolt of the deserters—all of it ended here. In this moment.

  He heard the steadily growing sound of jet engines in the distance—even over the desultory fire from what remained of his men. Knew what it meant.

  It was coming back.

  Death, coming to claim him. Not to be denied. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his mind wandering—brief snatches of the Qur’an coming to his lips and passing, unspoken as he moaned in agony, fighting to remain silent.

  He had never been a religious man and yet. . .perhaps when the deeds of his life were weighed, it would be enough to face the Questioners. Who is your Lord? What is your religion? Who is your Prophet?

  The roar building louder and louder in his ears as he tried to roll over onto his stomach, the primal desire for survival taking over in the last moments of his life, his lips silently forming the words of his creed as he began to drag himself across the broken ground. There is no God but God. . .and Muhammad is His Prophet. God is—

  And the plane swept in.

  11:14 P.M. Eastern European Time

  Incirlik Airbase

  Adana, Turkey

  “I understand, sergeant,” David Lay said heavily, staring ahead into the blank side of the tent as he listened to Black’s voice on the other end of the comms network.

  He felt no surprise at the soldier’s words, just sadness—the kind of sadness which comes from having every worst fear confirmed. He had known from the moment that the second transport was forced to abort that they wouldn’t be getting everyone back alive. Five men—no, four men and a woman—sent to do the job of ten, when even ten might have proved insufficient.

  “Hold where you are, sergeant,” he said finally, signing off, “and radio in if you encounter further opposition. The helicopters will be with you soon.”

  “Well?” he heard Shoham ask as soon as he removed the headset, a great weight seeming to settle over Lay’s shoulders at the sound of the question.

  “The mission was a success,” he began, choosing his words with painstaking care. “The shipment of weapons was successfully interdicted, with both the primary and secondary targets completely destroyed. The threat to the peace summit has been neutralized.”

  “And?” He looked up, meeting his counterpart’s eyes—seeing in their dark depths recognition of the truth. He already knew.

  That premonition of evil which comes only from having had blood on one’s hands, so very many times before.

  “And two of your men are dead,” Lay announced flatly. No way else but to say it. “Your team lead took a pair of rounds to the left arm in the final skirmish with the Iraqis—lost a lot of blood. My man is working to try to stabilize him as they await extraction.”

  He took a deep breath, watching Shoham stiffen at the first impact of the words—resignation slowly spreading across his face as he came to terms with their reality.

  “I’m sorry, Avi,” he began. “There are no words that can adequately express my—”

  “It’s not necessary, David,” the Israeli replied, cutting him off with a brusque shake of the head. “This is the price my people have always had to pay for a place in this world—a price paid, as ever, in our blood. We—”

  “Sir,” one of the Air Force officers interrupted, gesturing to catch Lay’s eye. “We have Baton-Two-Zero on final approach.”

  The former station chief exchanged a glance with Shoham, swearing underneath his breath as he pushed his way past a female sergeant, emerging into the chill night in his shirtsleeves—not taking time to stop for his jacket as he hurried toward the runway, the Israeli not far behind.

  May we lose no more men this night. . .

  The flashing lights of emergency vehicles lend a macabre cast to the scene as Lay reached the runway, Air Force personnel clad in firefighting gear barking orders—hoses snaking out across the ground toward the tarmac as men prepared for the landing of the crippled transport.

  And then he saw it, the landing lights of the C-130 clearly visible off to the east as it approached, barely a shadow against the darkness of the night.

  So very many things that could yet go wrong, the CIA officer thought, a chill seeming to wash over him as he watched, reduced to a helpless observer in these moments. Glancing over to see Shoham standing beside him, the Israeli’s lips moving as if in silent prayer.

  Perhaps that was all any of them could do now.

  The C-130 came in nose-high, its damaged wing and smoldering, fire-blackened engine readily apparent in the runway lights as it descended, the prop blast from the remaining engines swirling around them as the aircraft passed just overhead.

  The sound of rubber squealing against asphalt filling the night as the battered transport touched down farther down the runway, men all around them tensed—ready to run forward should it burst once more into flame.

  It rolled forward another thirty meters before coming to a stop—and then it was down. Safe.

  Lay let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding, running a hand over his forehead as he turned away. So much remaining to be done this night.

  But they were safe.

  12:27 A.M. Arabian Time

  Al-Anbar Governate, Iraq

  “. . .need to get an IV in, or we’re gonna lose him. He’s still bleeding. . .”

  Lights, flashing in the darkness.
Voices, distant and far away—fading in and out. A dull, throbbing roar—filling every recess of his mind, seeming to drown out all else.

  He could feel hands under his shoulders, his body seeming to lurch to the side as they lifted him roughly—a curious feeling of suspension seeming to overcome him as he was carried. Pain, washing over his body with every halting step.

  “Hear, O Israel. . .”

  Ze’ev. He could still see the shock, the surprise frozen across the older man’s features as the bullets struck home. And then they were falling. Falling, falling, falling down. Into the abyss.

  “The Lord is our God, the Lord. . .”

  And he seemed in that moment to be transported back across time and space, seeing a young man in the fatigues of a soldier, his hair freshly cropped, standing by an old car outside a modest home in West Jerusalem. His hand on the open door of the car, his voice raised in anger.

  Anger directed at the man standing only a few feet away in the doorway of the house—an older man, his hair not yet grey, his clothing marking him as one of the ultra-Orthodox. “. . .how could you? How could you do this to me? To your mother?”

  A bitter curse exploding from the young soldier’s lips as he shook his head, spitting upon the ground. “. . .I want nothing, of any of this. . . .you can have your God. . .”

  Seeing the older man recoil as if he’d been struck at the words, sadness in his own eyes. Sadness mixed with his own anger, now boiling to the surface. “. . .if you do this, David, know that you are no longer my son. You are no longer welcome here. . .”

  And the soldier’s face turned toward him, revealed only then to be. . .his own.

  “The Lord, He is One. . .”

  So much death. So much destruction, Black thought, kneeling beside the corpse of the older Israeli as he worked the body bag up over the man’s shoulders, the rotor wash of the helicopter hovering just up the ridge from where he knelt whipping at his clothes.