Blaze of Glory (2 page)

Without a word, Zinsser picked up the AK47s and moved them out of reach of the prisoners. He wasn’t taking chances and didn’t have time to think of a new plan. He moved to Echo.

“How bad is it, Brian?”

“Took one in the hip, just below my armor. Wouldn’t you know it—ahhh!” He took two deep breaths. “Took another in the shoulder. I’m bleeding out.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m the medic. I should know.”

“Well, I say you’re not dying. If you do, then I die alone, and I’m far too admired to go that way. Can you hold a weapon?”

“Maybe a nine.”

Jerry pulled his 9mm pistol from its holster and set it on Echo’s lap. He then pulled Echo’s from its place and set it on the ground by his working arm.

“We got company, pal. It’s about to get noisy. You see that window there?” Zinsser pointed at the southernmost window. “Shoot anything with a face. Got it?”

“Yeah, got it.” Echo paused. “Is help coming?”

“As we speak.”

Echo nodded. “You know we’re going down, don’t you?”

“Maybe, but if we do, we’re going down in a blaze of glory.”

The shouts grew louder. Zinsser stepped to the room with the captives. “Get down. On the floor. Now!” A moment later he stood in the middle of the room, his M4 aimed at the door.

BOOK I

CHAPTER 1

Present day, Fort Jackson

“MARRIED? WHO?” RICH HARBISON rose from his seat in the Special Ops briefing room in the Concrete Palace of Fort Jackson. The master sergeant ran a hand over his black, bald head. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

“Come on, Shaq, you heard me.” J. J. “Colt” Bartley expected to be razzed by his team, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Or tolerate it.

Rich turned to the others in the small group. He was a tall man with the build of a Dodge pickup truck, hence his mission nickname, Shaq. “Did anyone else hear this, or am I the only one hallucinating?”

“I heard it,” Eric Moyer, team leader, said. “But I don’t believe it. Our baby seems so grown up.”

The others who rounded out the five-man team laughed.

“I’m twenty-seven, Boss. I’m nobody’s baby.”

“So if I’m hearing you right, Colt, you’re going to tie the knot.” Shaq furrowed his brow.

“That’s right.”

“Usually marriage means a man weds a woman.”

“That’s what’s happening here.”

“You see,” Rich said, “that’s where I’m having trouble following you. You’re telling me that there is a woman out there who will marry
you?
”

“Of course there is.”

“Tell me the truth. Have you ever been on a real date? You know, where you pick up the girl, do a movie and dinner, kiss on the doorstep, and all that.”

“Of course.”

Moyer grinned. “Of course he has, Shaq. The question is: Has he ever had a second date?”

“Come on, Boss. I expected a
little
support from you.” Despite his protestations, J. J. had to laugh. Moyer, a stout man of thirty-eight years and the most courageous man J. J. had ever met, could be the poster boy for Army leadership.

“You’re right,” Moyer said. “I feel horrible.”

“Thanks.”

“For the girl.”

J. J. did his best to look angry. “Great. Just great. I’ve traveled to half a dozen countries with you guys; been shot at; held prisoner; and done my best to lend a little class to this group, and what do I get? Snide remarks that pass for jokes.”

“Marriage is a big step, son,” Moyer said. “Think you can handle it?”

“After all the danger we’ve faced together, you have to ask?”

Shaq put his big hand on J. J.’s shoulder. “Listen to me. Do you remember that firefight in Afghanistan where the Taliban had us pinned down, outnumbered ten-to-one, and it looked like we were all dead? Do you remember that we had to call for close cover air support to drop bombs all around us?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Marriage is worse.”

The men guffawed.

“So if I repeated that to your wife—”

“I would hunt you down and gut you like a fish.”

J. J. smiled. “Still afraid of the wife, eh?”

Shaq’s faced hardened. “Maybe.”

The door to the briefing room swung open, and Colonel MacGregor swept in, followed by a tall man with Master Sergeant stripes on his uniform. “As you were,” he said before anyone had time to come to attention. “Take your places.”

J. J. and Rich took two of the ten seats available to them. The room was familiar territory. Every mission began here with a briefing from the brass and research conducted on the several computers that lined the back wall. Just to get in the room, J. J. had entered a code on a keypad by the only entrance door in the large, plain, ugly concrete building. Once in the lobby, a sergeant with the military police electronically scanned his fingerprints, relieved him of his cell phone, and checked for any other electronics he might have on his person.

Once the MP was satisfied, J. J. approached a second door, entered another code that granted him entrance to the office corridor, a long hallway bordered by closed doors. In this building, doors always remained closed.

Just like every other time he had entered this building, he made his way to the last room off the corridor. The mission briefing room had no windows and had been designed to keep every word spoken confined to that space.

Colonel “Mac” MacGregor’s expression seldom changed. He looked today as he had since J. J. first met him: constipated.

“Before we begin, Colonel,” Shaq said, “we think you should know our dear J. J. proposed to his girl last night.”

“Don’t tell me she said yes.”

“Roger that, Colonel. We’re thinking of throwing him a bridal shower.”

“Isn’t that usually done for the bride?”

“No one will know the difference.”

The men laughed. Even Mac risked a smile.

“You know,” J. J. said, “someday you’re going to need me to back you up. Don’t be surprised if I hesitate.”

“All right, ladies, can it. We got business to do.” Mac turned to the tall man who entered with him. “Since you guys drove off the last two men I gave you to replace Caraway, I’m going to try one more time, and you
are going to like it.
Is that clear?”

The answer came in a chorus of “Hooah.”

“Good. This is Sergeant First Class Jerry Zinsser. He’s your new surveillance man. He’s also skilled in communications and will help Pete out should he decide to sleep in late.”

“Zinsser?” Moyer’s forehead creased. “Jerry Zinsser. That name rings a bell—” Moyer straightened. “Kismayo? The
Burltown
mission?”

Mac nodded. “I see you’ve heard of him.”

“Who hasn’t.”

“Um, I haven’t,” J. J. said.

“We have a hero on deck,” Moyer explained.

Mac raised a hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run my own meeting.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Zinsser gazed at the beige vinyl floor, clearly uncomfortable with talk of heroism.

“As you know”—Mac cast a hard look at J. J., and he felt it pierce his heart—“or, as you should know, Sergeant Zinsser was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for heroic actions against superior forces and for saving a wounded team member despite receiving several wounds. He’s fully rehabilitated and your new team member.”

J. J. joined the others in a short round of applause. The Distinguished Service Cross was the second highest medal awarded for bravery; second only to the Medal of Honor. J. J. was impressed.

Mac continued. “Moyer, introduce your men. You can leave out their favorite things, like walking in the park and picking flowers.”

Moyer rose. “Yes, sir.” He faced Zinsser. “I’m Eric Moyer, team leader. Like most team leaders, they call me Boss.” He pointed to Rich, who stood. “Rich Harbison, assistant team leader. Goes by Shaq. I’ll let you guess why.”

Zinsser’s eyes widened at Shaq’s size. “I think I can figure that out.”

“Don’t let his size fool you. He hates sports and loves Broadway musicals.”

“What can I say,” Rich retorted. “I’m a Renaissance man.”

Moyer ignored him. “This is Pete Rasor—Junior. As the colonel said, he’s the team’s communication specialists. Next to him is Jose Medina, team medic. He goes by Doc.”

“Not very creative,” Pete said, “but it beats other nicks I’ve heard.”

“On your feet, Colt,” Moyer snapped.

J. J. bolted to his feet.

“Meet J. J. Bartley. Weapons and explosives. Those who like him call him Colt.”

“And if they don’t like him?”

“Everybody likes me,” J. J. said before Moyer could answer. “What do we call you?”

“My previous team . . .” Zinsser cleared his throat. “When on mission they called me Data.”

“Oooh. A Star Trek reference,” J. J. said. “The name fits a surveillance and comm guy.”

“Now that we’re all buddies,” Mac said, “we can get down to business. I hope your social calendars are clear because you’re going on a little trip.”

THE WOMAN LOOKED TEN months pregnant, even beneath her long, black abaya. Dr. Hamid al-Jaburri watched her enter the hospital lobby waddling with each step, steps that seemed to cause her pain. Standing next to her was a young girl. Dr. al-Jaburri guessed her age to be ten, certainly no more than eleven.

“I don’t know how you women do it.”

The nurse standing next to him looked up and saw the object of his attention. “Allah gives us peace.”

“Peace. There hasn’t been much of that in Baghdad over the last few years.” He motioned to the woman. “She looks confused. I wonder how much prenatal care she has received. Get a wheelchair and take her to OB/GYN. From the looks of her, she could deliver any moment.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Dr. al-Jaburri watched as the young nurse moved toward the pregnant woman. Even twenty feet away he could see the woman’s eyes dart from side to side. They were red and he assumed she had been crying. “So much pain in the world—”

A piercing ring stabbed Dr. al-Jaburri’s ears. It took several moments for him to realize he was no longer standing. Plaster from the ceiling fell around his supine body. Dust and acrid, burning smoke filled the air and flooded his lungs. He tried to close his eyes but only one worked. He touched the left side of his face and felt bone where skin should be. There was no pain; he experienced no emotions.

Someone, half buried by debris, screamed. Ululations joined the moans, groans, and weeping. Moments later, the choking air carried the pitiful sounds of damaged and dying humans.

A dozen people cried for Allah’s mercy. Dr. al-Jaburri felt he should do the same, but he couldn’t force a syllable from his throat.

He tried to rise. He was a doctor. People needed him. He managed to sit up, but his legs would not move. Somehow he knew he would never stand again.

The sound in his ears quieted, as if someone had filled his ears with cotton. He glanced down and knew why. Blood pooled in his lap. Soon he would bleed out. Rather than watch his life puddle beneath him, al-Jaburri looked to the side. Three feet away rested an object. He forced his mind to focus, then wished he hadn’t.

A man’s dying eyes should see something beautiful . . . glorious—not, as his did: the severed arm of a child.

CHAPTER 2

J. J. SAT NEXT to his team leader. The briefing was due to start thirty minutes before. Colonel Mac excused himself, stepped from the room, and failed to return. To pass the time, the team members took turns poking fun at J. J. At first he fought back with explanations and cutting quips of his own, but he was outnumbered and outgunned. He did what he knew he must: shut up and take it.

The ribbing was good natured, something he had participated in himself. It was much more fun, however, to poke fun than to be the target.

As the team’s only practicing Christian, J. J. had taken his share of abuse, but none of it cruel. He had worked with these men for several years and trusted them with his life. In fact, he had done that on several occasions. That he was alive to be the butt of their jokes was testament to their skill. The feeling was mutual: he would lay down his life for any man on the team.

“Keep going, guys, I can take the best you have to offer.”

“That a fact?” Rich said. “We haven’t been using our best—”

The door to the briefing room opened and Colonel Mac poured in with someone on his six—a woman. At five-eight, she was just a few inches shorter than Colonel Mac. Auburn hair pulled into a ponytail hung to a spot between her shoulder blades. Her blue eyes danced around the room, fell on J. J., hesitated, then resumed their survey. She was thicker than a supermodel but not by much.

“What—?” J. J. started before his jaw dropped.

“They’re called girls, J. J.,” Moyer said. “Are you sure you’re engaged?”

J. J. leaned close to the man the team called Boss. “I’m sure, all right. In fact,
she’s
the one I’m engaged to.”

Moyer snapped his head around so fast, J. J. expected to hear vertebrae snap. He said nothing.