Angels of Wrath (12 page)

Designed to fly through hostile territory at very low altitude to avoid radar, the MC-130 used a satellite system to show its flight crew precisely where they were. The airplane banked and began to rise over the target area, a desolate curve in the highway the second Mercedes was taking. The men went out quickly, executing an extremely dangerous low-level drop as if they were stepping off an amusement park ride back in the States. By the time the airplane banked north, the troops were on the ground, squaring away their chutes.

Van Buren went back to his post. Modified from a stretched version of the Hercules (officially, the C-130J/J-30), the forward area of the First Team’s MC-130 was equipped with radio surveillance and communication gear similar to those used in the Commando Solo and ABCCC airborne battlefield controller versions of the Hercules, with a few of the links used by JSTARS thrown in for good measure. Van Buren got on the radio to the two Chinooks that had been tasked for the pickup. The aircraft were now airborne over Iraq and were about twenty minutes from the border.

“We can hear a vehicle coming north,” said Melfi when he checked in.

Van Buren checked the image from the Predator.

“That’ll be them. Get ready.”

~ * ~

elfi crouched a few yards from the road as the Mercedes approached the curve. The trick wasn’t stopping the car; it was stopping the car without killing the people inside. The fact that his men had been on the ground for less than ten minutes made things even more interesting.

Two Special Forces sergeants took positions on the right flank of the road, aiming SRAW weapons at the car. SRAW stood for Short Range Assault Weapon. The missile-—known as a “Predator” before the Air Force hogged the nickname for its UAV—was designed to disable tanks as well as light-armor vehicles and built-up positions, replacing the LAW and AT-4. Essentially a modern version of the World War II-era bazooka, the stock weapon typically struck an armored target from the top rather than the side, guided by a laser range finder and a magnetic detector. The warhead normally consisted of two parts, an explosive penetrator and a fragmentation grenade: the warhead would penetrate the outer shell of whatever was being attacked, and the grenade would kill whoever was inside.

Melfi’s men were using a special version of the missile. Its titanium and steel warhead did not contain explosives. The idea was that the slug would destroy the front of the car and its engine, stopping it without killing the people inside.

“Now,” said Melfi, ducking down.

The missile made an unearthly hiss as it leapt from the shoulder of the weapons man. The car veered to the right under the blow, plowing to a halt across the road. As it skidded, a Ranger jumped up with what looked like a mortar in his hands. He sighted a red laser dot on the top of the car and squeezed the wide trigger at the base of the weapon. A large, blimp-shaped missile flew from the throat of the gun. The shell disintegrated in midair; by the time it hit the vehicle it had spread into a wide net. Two dozen miniature flash-bang grenades exploded as it hit, the effect not unlike the finale of a massive Fourth of July fireworks display. As the air ripped with the explosions, two pairs of soldiers ran to the car. One man in each pair wielded a pointed sledgehammer, the other carried CIS grenades. The back window and one of the side windows were walloped and the grenades inserted.

“Team up! Team up!” yelled Melfi as smoke began pouring from the car. Six men in heavy body armor and gas masks came forward, armed with crowbars and chain saws; they were covered at close range by four others with more conventional weapons of war. One of the occupants of the vehicle had managed to open his door before being overcome by the gas. He was pulled down, secured under the netting. The team tore off the roof of the vehicle, cutting through the nylon mesh as well as the metal.

“Go, let’s go!” said Melfi. He pulled up and snugged his gas mask as the fumes surged from the car. “Do it! Get every one of them out.”

By the time Rankin got there, all of the men had been taken out and trussed. Two were unconscious, leaning against each other. One lay on the ground moaning. The last sat a few feet away from the others, staring sullenly into the night.

None of the men looked remotely like Khazaal.

“Any papers?” Rankin asked Melfi.

“Nothing. Nothing in the car.”

“Take their pictures. Let the Iraqi look at them.”

Melfi squinted at him. It was the cross-eyed squint captains reserve for NCOs, even those on special assignments, who give them orders. Nonetheless, he told one of his men to do it.

“How far off are the choppers?” Melfi asked.

“Eighteen minutes,” said Rankin. “We’ll hear them a good way out.”

~ * ~

8

EASTERN SYRIA

Ferguson decided the motorcycles were too far away to walk to, so he hotwired the Land Rover instead. Telling the two Rangers he’d posted on the road to come in and watch the prisoners, he took off with Thera to a spot where he thought he could intercept the third vehicle.

Driving across the open terrain would have been difficult enough in the daytime, since it was pockmarked with boulders and sandpits, but at night without headlamps it was treacherous, which only made it more interesting. Ferguson had Thera pull the satellite photos from his pack as he drove, trying to dodge the worst of the obstructions. They had more than two miles of hardscrabble to get through before reaching a road to the northwest.

“Let me see that sat photo with this grid in it.”

“It’s two satellite photos,” Thera told him, reaching down to get them from the pack on the Land Rover’s floor.

“Point to where we are and where that other road is,” said Ferguson.

“Here and here,” said Thera.

He took the photos and held them on the wheel for a second, then tossed them back.

“All right. Let’s try this,” he said, pulling sharply off the road.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“Friend of mine says that,” Ferg told her. “You Catholic?”

“What are you doing?”

“Shortcut. You Catholic?”

“Greek Orthodox, but I went to parochial school.”

“Good thing that didn’t come up in the job interview,” said Ferguson. “Would’ve disqualified you as a fanatic.”

“I heard you went to Catholic school yourself.”

“That’s what I mean.”

When he finally spotted the highway, Ferguson misjudged the depth of the ditch along the side of the road and nearly rolled the Land Rover trying to veer onto the pavement. Thera flew forward, barely keeping herself from slamming into the dashboard. Belatedly, she began fishing for the seat belts.

The Ford was behind them now, but with the road and terrain fairly open, Ferguson needed a strategic place to lay a trap. He’d spotted an intersection about three miles ahead on the map. He told Thera they would put the truck in the middle of it as if it had broken down, then shoot out the Ford’s tires when it stopped to see what was going on. After that they’d use the crossbow and tear gas routine again.

They were still about two miles from the intersection when a shadow loomed over the empty field to his right. Ferguson jammed on the brakes.

An airplane flying at very low altitude, no more than a few feet off the ground, passed over the roadway ahead.

Ferguson jumped out of the car. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?”

“Look.” He pointed in the distance.

“What?”

“You see that?”

“The airplane? Is it ours?”

“Nah. It’s a little Cessna thing. Or some Russian plane like a Cessna.” The plane continued on a straight line to the west, twelve or so feet above the ground.

“Back in the car,” said Ferguson, deciding they’d take the Ford anyway.

“You really think that was Khazaal?” asked Thera.

“Who else would be flying a plane at low altitude across the Syrian frontier?”

“Dozens of people,” she told him. “Smugglers, drug dealers, some other terrorist scumbags we don’t know about.”

“Nice try, but you’re not going to cheer me up,” said Ferguson. He stepped on the gas, going up over a hill and then down so fast that they went airborne for a moment. That gave him an idea. He hit the brakes and backed up, putting the car off one side of the road.

“All right. Out,” he told her. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“Just to rip the sleeve,” he said, pulling open his pocketknife. “The left sleeve. Driver’s side. You can leave it on if you trust me.”

“I’ll do it myself, thanks,” said Thera, holding out her hand for the knife.

“Come on. We probably have less than two minutes,” Ferguson told her. “Open the door and lean out. When they stop and come over, drop the tear gas canister. I’ll be over there with the shotgun.”

“What if they don’t stop?”

“I’ll take out a tire with your crossbow. If they don’t hear a gun they’ll stop,” he told her. “And if they don’t we can always catch up to them in the Land Rover. But if you rip enough of that shirt off, they’ll stop.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Who’s joking?”

Ferguson trotted down the road. He had one shell with netting and flash-bangs, a large projectile with a very short range. It was tempting, very tempting, to load the grenade launcher with a high-explosive grenade and use it on the car; the Ford wouldn’t be armored. If anyone asked any questions, it would be easy to claim that the vehicle tried to run him down. No one would know any different. But
he
would know, and that was enough.

Ferguson barely had time to get his weapons laid out and set himself before the Ford came over the hill. It moved much slower than the Land Rover had. Ferguson steadied the crossbow then put it down as the vehicle skidded to a stop. Four men, all with small weapons, got out of the car.

Ferguson aimed the grenade launcher point-blank at the tallest of the men and fired. The launcher kicked up as the grenade shot off. He missed the man and hit the side of the truck, igniting the stun grenade and the micromesh net. Ferguson dropped the launcher and thumped two slugs from his shotgun into the men who were still standing, the thick plastic bullets pounding the back of their heads. He had to hit one of the lugs a second time before he fell. By then, tear gas had begun curling out of the Land Rover.

Thera scrambled back through the front of the truck, kicking out of the open passenger-side door. As she reached the ground, one of the men began firing an AK-47 in her direction. She huddled low, grabbing for her own gun. Whirling around, she saw one of the men crawling through the truck. He had a pistol; she fired her own gun point-blank into his forehead.

Ferguson ran to the far side of the Land Rover, grabbing Thera as she staggered backward, coughing from the gas. He pulled her away and gave her a water bottle to irrigate her eyes, then trotted back to the truck. Two of the men were writhing on the ground, one still holding his gun. Ferguson blasted each one in the skull and got the other man for good measure. Then he hit them with the syringes.

“You weren’t kidding about the gas,” said Thera when he got back to her. Tears were streaming from her beet-red face.

“I meant for you to put the mask on before you pulled the grenade,” said Ferguson.

“How?”

He pulled his off, then held it to his face. “You could have run back to the side. It’s all right. Men find it hard to resist a woman’s tears.”