Direct Action (25 page)

Razor got off the rock and joined Murdock slumped on the ground. Doc checked Higgins out.

Jaybird clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Okay, Chief, we’re ready to go.”

Razor treated him to a single arched eyebrow. “Then get out there and do some scouting. And work a little goddamned harder on the route selection this time.”

Jaybird nodded happily, as if he would have been disappointed with any other response. “You got it, Chief.”

Murdock and Razor rested until they felt themselves cooling down, the body’s signal to get moving again.

The going was easier now. They went a few hundred meters further, and Jaybird came bounding back.

“I found a position with a good view of the road,” he announced.

When they reached the spot Jaybird had picked, Murdock used his GPS set to find out exactly where they were. They’d traveled a whisker over two kilometers.

Jaybird had been right. They had a perfect view of the road, just short of the dogleg where Jaybird had made that very careful turn in the BMP.

When Murdock announced the halt, Doc Ellsworth issued
orders. “Everyone drink your IV bag and put your space blankets on.”

All the SEALs carried a bag of intravenous fluids as part of their belt survival kit. It was just as effective swallowed as injected into the veins. They also carried a vacuum-packed foil space blanket. It folded down to the size of a pack of cigarettes and weighed only ounces.

The SEALs broke out the blankets and wrapped themselves up.

Murdock already had the vise-grip headache that was one of the warning signs of dehydration. He cut the top off his IV bag and sipped steadily until it was gone. The survival credo said to ration your sweat, not your water. You drank whatever you had; your body would handle the storage and use it as needed.

Murdock immediately had to urinate, which was a good sign. The urine was dark and therefore concentrated, which wasn’t a good sign.

Jaybird, who knew he’d had it the easiest, came around and collected everyone’s canteens. He’d discovered a frozen pool of collected water. He chopped up the ice with his knife and filled the canteens with the ice and slush. The SEALs would keep the canteens under their space blankets. When the ice eventually melted they’d have at least a little water.

Murdock joined Razor in the rocks overlooking the road.

A column of BMPs was stacked up at the base of the mountain, but none had started up the road.

“I can’t wait to see what happens next,” said Razor.

He said it with a definite lack of enthusiasm, which Murdock shared.

1745 hours

North central Lebanese mountains

“The bastards are waiting on something,” Murdock said of the BMPs down below.

“What’s your call?” Razor asked.

“Infantry in helicopters,” said Murdock. “Land ’em further up and down the range and have ’em sweep together. Couple of rifle companies ought to do it.”

“Nope,” Razor said confidently. “That would be the smart thing, which is why they won’t do it. They don’t want to lose any more expensive helicopters. They’re going to come up that road. They’re just waiting for the tanks to lead the way.”

“That’s your call?” Murdock asked.

“Yup.”

“For ten bucks?”

“You got it, Boss.”

“Wait a minute,” said Murdock. “I might have gotten carried away there. I think betting with subordinates is one of those things they told us not to do at Annapolis.”

“Does that mean you’re pussying out on the bet, sir?”

“No, fuck it.” He paused. “It would be sweet if they came up that road.”

“What about the tanks?”

“Tanks would just clank around on the road. They could shoot their guns all they wanted; they don’t know where we are. They’d run out of ammo before they found our position. I’m worried about infantry, though. Either in helicopters or BMPs.”

The answer didn’t take long in coming. The falling sun illuminated two small dots in the eastern sky. Razor Roselli spotted them right away.

The dots grew larger, and noisier, and turned into two swept-wing Russian MiG-23BN Flogger ground-attack aircraft.

Razor looked at his watch. “It takes two hours to scare up some air support?” he said with professional disgust. He and Murdock stuffed their space blankets under the rocks. They were invisible among the brown boulders in their brown camouflage, completely motionless. The other SEALs were out of sight.

The two MiGs went across the range at very high altitude. It seemed like they were trying to get their bearings while staying out of range of ground fire.

Then they came back across the valley, wings swept fully forward and popping flares to confuse shoulder-launched infrared guided missiles.

Murdock thought they were still pretty high up for effective bombing. As it turned out he was right.

Two small dark objects dropped from the belly of the lead MiG. The bombs landed just above the hulk of the burned-out BMP on the road. One hit the side of the mountain. One blew a crater in the road. The ground shook beneath the SEALs.

Razor Roselli shook with silent laughter. “That’s good,” he chortled. “That’s really good. Nothing like creating a fucking antitank obstacle for
us
. We ought to put these dumb bastards on the payroll.”

“No balls at all,” said Murdock. “Son of a bitch was flying so high it was a wonder he could see the ground.”

The MiG’s wingman screamed in and dropped two bombs of his own. One landed where the road cut across the top of the mountain range. The other just barely missed and sailed over the other side.

“With any luck some Syrians were coming up the other side of that road and it landed in their laps,” said Razor. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh, this is too much. We could have saved ourselves all that trouble and stayed right where we were. These fuckheads would never hit anything they were aiming at. Shit, we’re probably in more danger here out of the line of fire.”

“I think you’re missing the point,” Murdock said dryly. “We don’t
want
them to be any good.”

Razor’s sharp eyes spotted two more planes in the distance. “Here comes the second team. Let’s see if they can do any better.”

“We don’t
want
them to do any better,” Murdock insisted.

There were two more MiG-23BN’s. These two didn’t make an orientation pass over the target to advertise their presence. They came in very low across the valley, their camouflage blending well with the ground.

The MiGs made hard banking turns and streaked up the long axis of the mountain range. When the lead MiG was almost over the SEALs’ heads, strings of black smoke belched from its wing roots and underside, and sixty-four 57mm rockets rippled into the rocks where the SEALs had last been.

The second MiG waited just long enough to let the smoke clear away, and then fired its four pods of rockets right onto the target also. The two MiGs made high-G turns and streaked back toward Syria just over the treetops.

Murdock allowed enough time for a good dramatic pause. “You were saying, Chief?”

“All right,” Razor conceded. “So someone threatened to
shoot them if they didn’t do better. And maybe it wasn’t too safe staying where we were.”

“They did pretty damn good,” said Murdock. “We would’ve been in a world of hurt.”

“I guess the Syrians are going to decide that we’re either dead or pretty well suppressed,” said Razor. He took a look over the rocks. “Better get your wallet out, Boss. Guess what’s coming up the road.”

1785 hours

North central Lebanese mountains

“I don’t see any tanks,” said Murdock.

“So they’re even stupider than I thought,” Razor replied.

A Syrian mechanized infantry company was heading up the road. A platoon of three BMPs, in column, was in the lead. Then a gap, and the second platoon of three BMPs. Then the company commander’s BMP, and the third platoon bringing up the rear. Ten BMPs in all.

“Oh, Magic?” Razor called sweetly.

“I see them,” came Magic’s voice from the rocks.

“Let me tell you what I want to do,” said Murdock.

The Syrians weren’t in any hurry to drive up the hill. They must have thought they were just going to clean up what the rockets had left. Another mistake, Murdock thought. He would have rushed the vehicles up while the MiGs were still firing, arriving at the position while the enemy was sucking dirt and bleeding from the ears. But that was him.

Murdock pulled his MiG-90 from the drag bag. It was a substantial weapon, except when compared to Magic’s McMillan M88. Unlike most sniper rifles, which were bolt-action
weapons, the MSG-90 was a gas-operated semiautomatic. It was less accurate than a bolt-action, but faster at engaging multiple targets. The caliber was 7.62-X-51mm NATO. By way of comparison, the 50-caliber round was close to five and a half inches long. The 7.62mm NATO was two and three-quarter inches long.

The MSG-90 weighed fourteen pounds unloaded, and was forty-six inches long with an adjustable bipod, stock, and cheek rest.

Murdock stacked the eight twenty-round magazines filled with Lake City match ammo beside him. There was an opening in the rocks just large enough to accommodate the rifle barrel. Murdock dropped the bipod legs and adjusted them to the correct height. He took a square of camouflage cloth from the drag bag and placed it beneath the muzzle, so when he fired the gas wouldn’t kick up the dirt and dust and give his position away. At any range beyond six hundred yards it was almost impossible for anyone to tell where the bullet had come from. He grabbed cocking handle mounted on the left hand side of the stock, pulled it all the way back, and released it, chambering a round. Then he stuck a set of foam earplugs in his ears. No sense in going deaf.

The lead BMP was approaching the still-smoldering hulk of the SEALs’ hijacked vehicle. It had to ease around very slowly and carefully; there wasn’t much room left on the road.

When the BMP came even with the hulk Murdock heard a boom from Magic’s McMillan.

Designers of armored vehicles have to make trade-offs in where they allocate the protection. Any vehicle equally armored all around, on top, and on the bottom would end up either underprotected, or so heavy it would be immovable under the highest-power engine able to fit inside.

The BMP was designed to be able to defeat up to .50-caliber rounds over its frontal arc. The rear was proof only against
small arms. As in any armored vehicle, the armor was thinnest on the roof and belly.

In the mountains of Afghanistan the Russians quickly discovered how vulnerable the BMP was to fire from above. But these Syrian BMPs did not carry any of the add-on armor panels the Russians had developed.

Magic put his first round right through the roof of the BMP’s engine compartment. It was easily identified by the ventilation and exhaust grills at the right front of the vehicle.

The BMP came to a dead stop and black smoke began pouring out of the grills.

The rest of the BMPs halted and began firing their cannon and machine guns at the rocks near the top of the road.

Magic smoothly worked his bolt, sliding a new cartridge into the chamber. He made a small adjustment to his scope, and his next round punched into the engine of the very last BMP in the column. That BMP lurched forward a few feet and then stopped, also shedding smoke.

Murdock watched in amazement as the BMPs stayed frozen on the road. No one emerged, even from the smoking vehicles; the troops inside weren’t as stupid as their leaders. But none of the other BMPs tried to push their way either up or down the road.

And so they wouldn’t get the idea, Magic put his next round through the vehicle commander’s hatch of the company commander’s BMP.

The other vehicles continued to fire rapidly, but at the wrong place.

Magic’s fourth shot went into the engine of the second vehicle in the column.

His fifth round took out the third vehicle. Scratch one platoon. Not to mention creating a nice set of obstacles for anyone trying to come up the road in the future. Magic paused to reload.

His sixth shot, into the engine of the first BMP of the second platoon, triggered the stampede.

BMPs had the capability of making their own smoke screens by injecting diesel fuel into the exhaust manifold. Billowing white smoke gusted from the BMPs spinning around on the road.

Murdock heard Razor say scornfully, “Of course they’re running away.”

The mountain wind was dissipating the smoke as fast as the BMPs could generate it.

Magic kept working his bolt, firing, reloading, picking his spots through gaps in the smoke.

The rear BMP that Magic had killed was blocking the way of the others. Murdock watched in amazement as two BMPs
of the same platoon
rammed the disabled vehicle off the road so they could escape. Panic was contagious.

The disabled BMP slid sideways down the slope, and then hung up on something and stopped. Murdock was almost glad.

Their way now clear, the BMPs roared down the road a lot faster than they’d come up. Magic didn’t want to waste any of his scarce .50-caliber ammunition.

The smoke cleared and seven BMPs sat immobilized in the road. Three had managed to escape.

Murdock could imagine what was going on inside those immobilized vehicles. But he didn’t want any of the Syrian troops suddenly growing themselves a set of balls and deciding that charging up the road was better than sitting around and waiting to get killed.

“Let’s get it done,” he said.

Magic called out range and windage numbers, then asked, “You all ready?”

Murdock was peering through his scope, the crosshairs settled on the rear of the first BMP. He thumbed off the MSG-90’s safety. “Flush ’em out.”

Magic fired a single round into the troop compartment of the
first BMP. Murdock could imagine it punching through the roof armor and exploding inside.

The rear doors swung open and the troops rushed out. At that range, even with a 10-power scope, the intersection of the crosshairs was as wide as the human figures.