Clear by Fire (34 page)

“You have a good eye,” Ahmed said approvingly.

“Tarek, go get the rag to clean off the grease,” Mason said, looking at Renee.

Tarek gave him the finger, but he ignored him and smiled as Renee twirled the launcher like a child with a new toy.

“I was saving this for a special day, but seeing as how my shop probably won’t be around for long, feel free to take it.” Ahmed knelt below the table and lifted an M249 light machine gun from the floor. He set the machine gun onto the table with the flourish of a magician who has just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

“Where did you get that?” Zeus asked as he walked over to the machine gun.

“Oh, I traded a man two boxes of medicine for this and hadn’t gotten around to selling yet.”

The M249 squad automatic weapon, or SAW, had a cyclic rate of fire of seven hundred rounds per minute. It could effectively hit a man at eight hundred meters, but the max range of thirty-six hundred meters allowed the operator to engage a larger target much farther away. Zeus ran his fingers lovingly over the cool metal before lifting it off the table.

He rotated the weapon toward the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. Carefully placing the muzzle on the concrete floor, he used the barrel and bipod for support. Squatting down, he flipped open the feed tray cover and performed a functions check. Unlike Soviet-designed machine guns, the SAW was not made of stamped metal and had tighter tolerances. If the weapon wasn’t properly maintained and cleaned, it would jam, which was not a good feeling in a firefight.

Ahmed also had the barrel bag that came with the weapon. The green bag held an extra barrel and two hundred-round cloth pouches. Mason lifted three ammo cans of linked 5.56 onto the table and pointed to the ammo pouches.

“Hey, Zeus, you know what we called those in the military?”

The Libyan slammed the feed tray cover closed and lifted the weapon off the floor by its buttstock. “Ammo pouches?”

“Nope, they’re called nut sacks.”

“Don’t be gross,” Renee said as she grabbed an AK-47 and checked the action.

“What? It’s true,” he said, shrugging.

“I think that if your government allowed more women in your army, there would be less . . .” Zeus struggled to find the right word.

“Gayness?” Mason suggested.

“Yes, that is the word I was looking for. Gayness.”

“Boys and their toys,” Renee replied, grabbing a stack of magazines and looking for something to put them in. “Well, look at that, are these real?”

She was holding up a Chinese chest rig, which had been made famous by the Rhodesian army during the bush war. The simple rig
was one of the most effective pieces of kit ever developed, and Mason walked over to have a look.

“Yeah, they look real, and there’s a whole box of them.”

Mason grabbed one for himself before shouldering the assault pack and heading for the stairs. He passed Tarek at the top of the stairs, ignoring the rag he showed him.

“Stop messing around and load up the gear,” Mason said.

Tarek sighed and headed back into the basement, while the rest of them began loading their weapons into the car.

Ahmed tried to persuade Renee to stay with him, but she was busy loading the empty magazines. He turned his scowl on Mason, who stood before him, looking at the ground. The American knew all too well that Ahmed didn’t approve of his obsession with revenge. “Ahmed, I thank you for everything that you have done.”

“It is not too late.”

“If I don’t go, a lot of people are going to die.”

“People begin dying the day they are born, and in our world they die every day. This has always been about you.”

“Maybe, but it’s too late to turn around now.”

Ahmed’s eyes watered as the two men embraced. He kissed both sides of the American’s face and tried to shake the overwhelming sense of guilt that he was feeling. “What about you, Zeus? I believe that you still work for me.” Zeus looked away, unable to meet the man’s gaze. “Are you and your little friend going to defy me after all of this time?”

“I am just doing what you would do.” Zeus towered over the man but looked vulnerable standing there.

“I always knew he was a bad influence on you.” Ahmed smiled and patted the large Libyan on his arm. He was proud of them, but his heart still grieved. “Be careful and watch out for Tarek; he was never good at anything but computers.”

Mason waited as the two men went to the car and began kitting up. Turning to Ahmed, he said, “You told me once that our paths are known only to God. If it is his will, I will see you again.”

“
Inshallah
, if God is willing,” Ahmed said. The two friends embraced a final time before Mason moved to the car and opened the door.

Renee looked at him from the backseat as Mason strapped the chest rig to his body. She reached forward for his hand, and he grabbed it briefly before looking at Tarek.

“You know that you can stay,” Mason said.

Tarek ignored him and began loading the SAW.

Zeus turned the key and looked in the rearview mirror. He watched as Tarek expertly laid the rounds across the bolt face before slamming the feed tray cover closed. Leaving the bolt forward, he looked up and caught Zeus’s eyes in the mirror.

“I cannot let you have all the fun.”

Zeus smiled as he put the car in gear and headed onto the street. Mason had a map out and was trying to determine where they were.

“You might as well put that away and enjoy the ride. I know where we are going.”

“Okay. So, where are we going?”

“We could take the airport road. It will take us to the mosque, but it is not safe. I think it’s best to stay off the main roads and stick to the Shia neighborhoods. If we get stopped, we have a better chance of talking our way out.”

The farther they drove from the center of Damascus, the more the war appeared around them. Traffic was thick heading into the city, and there were black clouds of smoke on the horizon. Bursts of rifle fire echoed throughout the city, and the cars and buses that filled the roads were loaded down with people’s possessions.

“They will close the roads soon. And when they do we are going to be trapped.”

Mason tried to call Mr. David, but the spy didn’t answer. Mason slipped the phone into his pocket, put a magazine into the rifle, and jacked the bolt to the rear.

Where is he?
he wondered.

T
en miles away, Barnes had his own problems. They had left the safe house in the al-Hajar al-Aswad district early and headed north on the M5. The plan was to move away from the target to shake any tails and then loop back south. Having spent the last ten years in the Middle East, Barnes should have been used to traffic, but he wasn’t.

The early-morning traffic was moderate until they reached the southern bypass, where it looked like a parking lot. Scottie must have taken something, because he was too high-strung to sit still and he kept trying to weave through the traffic. When he wasn’t attempting to drive up on the curb, he was cursing at every car that wouldn’t let him over. His constant movement was starting to give Barnes a headache.

“Colonel, I think something’s up,” Harden said from the front seat of the van. Jones came across the radio from the lead vehicle before he could answer.

“Sir, it’s starting to look like these people know something that we don’t.”

A familiar tension electrified the air, and the city felt like it was on edge. No one was panicking yet, but it was only going to take a small nudge to push the people over the edge. The team had been inside
Fallujah before the marines assaulted the city. They had watched the residents flee like rats off a sinking ship.

Barnes had picked Syria because his plan was to destroy the future of radical Islam by attacking the roots. Destroying the mosque would ignite another Shia versus Sunni clash, which would fill the city with fighters. Every major terror organization in the Mideast had representatives in either Damascus or Aleppo, and all he had to do was draw them out. Once they were in the open he could infect and kill them.

Even the suburbs that made up Damascus were filled with Iranians and Iraqis who were either sympathetic to the cause or actively participating in the movement. In his mind there was no such thing as collateral damage in Syria—the whole country was fair game.

Barnes caught a glimmer of light off to the west, and as he turned his head he heard a deep rumbling explosion. He could see a black cloud already drifting up over the buildings as automatic rifle fire chattered sporadically in the distance.

“Boss, the airport road is blocked,” Jones said over the radio.

“Where are you?”

“We are two kilometers away from phase line green, but we won’t be getting through this way. What do you want me to do?”

“What’s your grid?”

“Stand by.” Jones pulled out the GPS unit and read the grid off to Barnes.

Barnes pulled the map out of his kit and marked Jones’s and Hoyt’s location. Checking the coordinates on his wrist GPS, he marked his position. He realized that Jones was only one and a half kilometers in front of them.

“Can you get off the road? There is an intersection that will take you south through Midan. Then we can cross over onto the 110.”

“Roger that.”

Harden was already telling Scottie to turn south on the road that was coming up. He didn’t think it was a good idea, but he nodded
and turned into a suburb. The roads were narrow, but there wasn’t as much traffic. Harden told Scottie to slow down so that the other vehicle could keep up. Behind them Boz and Villa were driving the van that carried the bomb they were going to plant outside the mosque.

“Boss, I made the turn and I’m heading southbound,” Jones said.

“Stand by for rally point grid.” Barnes consulted the map he was using to track their movement through the city. He used a red alcohol marker to trace their route on the laminated map. They were making better time now but were way off the planned route. Once he found a good spot, he called the grid over the radio. Barnes wanted to get back on the main road as soon as possible. He didn’t want his people caught in the middle of whatever was going down.

“Sir, we are going to intersect with you in another five hundred meters. Hoyt, watch that guy . . . ,” Jones said. “Contact front, contact front.”

“Shit,” Scottie said from the driver’s seat.

“Contact at grid 4952/1021. We are in heavy contact—will advise.” Jones was calm over the radio despite taking fire. The colonel located the spot on the map quickly while Harden entered the grid into his GPS.

“Harden, get us there.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Head east for two blocks,” Barnes told Scottie while Harden waited for his GPS to update. The driver pushed the pedal to the floor. He cut east on the first street he came to.

“Okay, I’m tracking. They are two streets over, come in from the south.” Barnes looked back out the rear window to ensure the van was still following. He didn’t want to lose them, but it wasn’t a good idea to bring a bomb into a firefight either.

“Next left, slow down, Scottie,” Harden commanded calmly. Barnes had his window down and his rifle up and ready to fire. The sound of small-arms fire was growing to a crescendo the closer they got.

“Right there.” Barnes popped the door before the vehicle came to a stop. He could see men darting out into the streets with their rifles blazing. A firefight at this range had all the earmarks of a disaster.

“I see them.” The street was crawling with rebels as men streamed out of the alleys and buildings and converged on the intersection.

Harden brought his HK up just as Scottie hit the brakes. The car slid to a stop. Barnes rolled out of the back and fired off a long burst of suppressive fire. Two armed rebels heard the car screeching to a halt and were cut down as they turned to investigate.

Barnes checked quickly for the van, which had stopped short. He caught a glimpse of Boz jumping out of the back with the 240 Bravo and moving up to the edge of an alley. There were men sprinting up the alley, and he could see one of them was armed with an RPG. Firing on the move, he hit the lead man in the chest. As the man went down, he discharged the rocket into the sky.

Boz made it up to Scottie’s position, laid the machine gun across the hood of the car, and ripped a long burst into a mass of men attempting to move on the downed vehicle. The windshield was riddled with bullet holes, but there wasn’t any blood immediately visible.

Barnes turned up the volume on his radio. He continued firing down the alley until the bolt on his AK locked to the rear and he was forced to transition to the pistol. Firing five quick shots with the Glock, he ducked into cover as a squat unshaven Syrian in a black tracksuit fired a burst from the hip.

He heard the rounds whizzing past him as he holstered the pistol and snatched a fresh magazine from his kit. They were within ten meters of his position when he got the rifle back into action and reengaged the men moving toward him.

“Be advised we are in a shop to your nine o’clock,” Jones said over the net.

Harden moved up the left side of the street and posted himself at the edge of the wall. The scene was beyond chaotic, with men firing
everywhere. He needed to get his men out of here. He engaged targets as they presented themselves, but with Barnes busy in the alleyway, he had to step up and control the fight.

Jones and Hoyt were hunkered down in a shop trying not to get shot as the firefight raged in the street. The door they had kicked open was riddled with bullet holes, and fragments of glass littered the floor.

“Frag out,” Jones yelled before tossing a frag out into the street. The two men ducked down under the windowsill and waited for it to detonate. The explosion sent more glass crashing to the floor and peppered them with the fragments. Brushing it out of his hair, Hoyt sank to a knee and returned fire.

Jones got to his feet quickly just as Harden yelled that he was tossing a smoke canister to cover their exfil. He waited for it to start billowing up in the street before moving past his teammate. Jones slapped Hoyt on the ass as he passed, in case he didn’t see him moving, and then retreated farther into the shop. As soon as he located the back door, he set up covering fire so Hoyt could move.