First Strike (32 page)

After a hundred feet, he stopped the truck and climbed out.

He ran back to the road. He inspected the tire tracks. They weren't deep, but they were clearly visible.

Dewey took off the T-shirt and whipped it down at the tracks, sweeping the lines away from the dusty dirt. He waved the T-shirt left and right, swatting the land, brushing away the evidence of his departure from the dirt road. He walked all the way to the truck, erasing the tracks. When he was done, he scanned the horizon in every direction, seeing nothing. He climbed back into the truck and drove.

After a half mile, he turned off the engine.

The cell phone showed one bar.

He climbed down from the cab of the truck, taking the mask and guns with him. Looking around, Dewey couldn't see anything other than flatland and, far in the distance, a low ridge of hills.

He was thirsty. He searched the truck from the passenger's side door to see if there was anything to drink, coming up empty. He walked toward where, in the distance, the sun was close to setting, always checking the phone to ensure that there was coverage. After more than a mile, he sat down. As thirsty as he was, his mind flashed to the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of the dead gunman in the basement of the hospital.

He lay down and put his left arm beneath his head, the rifle next to him, the handgun tucked inside his belt in front.

Soon the sun was gone and the orange sky turned purple and deep blue. He relaxed as a wall of clouds swept in from the west, darkening the sky. His eyelids were heavy and he let them fall shut. He fell into a deep sleep, lying there in the middle of nowhere.

*   *   *

He awoke and sat up quickly, grabbing the gun.

He'd been dreaming.

Much of the time, his dreams were vague and terrible. Images from his past he couldn't remember. Feelings of terror as he ran from something, or unbelievable guilt because of what he'd done. But now he felt only warmth as he sat there in the cold dark. It had been a dream about someone, and he tried to claw his way back into the dream to find out who she was. But he couldn't find it. Nevertheless, he let the warmth inhabit him for a little while.

And then he saw what had stirred him.

Far in the distance, headlights twinkled across the blackness. Dewey watched as the vehicle moved right to left. It was obviously on the dirt road. More than likely, it was just some random Syrian, out for a drive, yet he couldn't help feeling anxious.

They couldn't have tracked him. It was impossible. The route he'd chosen was in the opposite direction of what Garotin would expect. His exit onto the dirt road was random, not to mention his cut into the open plain.

Still, he watched with a sense of foreboding. As the vehicle continued to move, its lights grew larger and more defined. It was still on the dirt road and coming closer. For the first time, he noticed bright lights separate from the headlights.

Searchlights.

Dewey was grateful that he'd wiped away the tire tracks. But what if they had night optics? They would be able to see the truck.

He looked up at the sky. There were no stars. It meant the detection range of the optics would be limited.

“Keep driving,” he whispered.

Where the hell is Kohl?

He listened for the sound of helicopters.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he hit the cell.

He dialed Meir. The signal went from one bar to none and back again. For more than a minute, the phone tried to dial … but it didn't go through. A moment later, the cell shut off, its battery dead.

In the light, he could see his footprints.

Dewey cursed himself, recalling the tracking abilities of various groups indigenous to the Middle East, including Syrians. He'd fucked up. Dusting the tracks was irrelevant if they could see the truck and his footprints. He should've dusted the ground between the truck and where he was now.

The truck stopped.

Dewey dropped to his hands and knees and started frantically to dig. The earth was gravelly and his fingertips were soon raw. He stopped after less than a minute, realizing that he wouldn't have time. The headlights were now aimed in his direction and getting bigger.

He should've kept going. He could've made it to Turkey.

Stop thinking about what you should've done. It's irrelevant. What are you
going
to do?

The oncoming vehicle went dark as they killed the lights.

Dewey took the handgun from his waist and put it on the ground. He got down on his stomach, placing the AK-47 in front of him. The moon-shaped magazine was the lowest point to the earth and it made the gun, in this firing position, unstable and hard to keep still. He dug a small hole that allowed him to stick a few inches of the mag down into it, then got comfortable, putting his cheek against the buttstock. With his right index finger, he moved the fire selector to semiautomatic. He reached for the muzzle, feeling for the sight. A small piece of the sight flipped up. This was a luminous dot for improved night fighting.

The rifle had a thirty-round mag, but Dewey had already fired off several rounds. More important, he didn't know how many rounds the terrorist he took it from had already spent. The biggest problem was the gun's range. At most, it was effective to around four hundred yards. In the dark, with no night optics or scope, Dewey assumed his effective range would be half of that at most.

Dewey remained on the ground, waiting, his finger on the trigger. He couldn't see or hear anything. He would get few opportunities to target the killers—and perhaps none.

If they opened the cab door of his truck, or the door to their vehicle, he would be able to target around the light. In addition, once they reached his truck, they would need to find his foot tracks, something that likely required a light source, unless they could do it with night optics. But that would be hard for the trackers to do. The one thing he was sure of was that he would have their muzzle flash to aim at.

After several minutes, he heard the squeak of a door opening. He scanned for the light of a vehicle but saw nothing.

Then a light went on. A flashlight. It went on and off briefly. He swept the rifle left, trying to put the luminous dot of the sight where he thought he'd seen the light. But he needed another flash. A few seconds later, it came again. It was just a fraction of an inch off the sight. He moved it and locked on just as the light went off. Then he triggered the gun, holding the trigger down. Three loud explosions cracked the air as slugs ripped through the darkness. He heard the clang of a cartridge hitting steel of the truck. He fired again and heard a sharp groan. Then the terrorists started firing.

Dewey focused on the orange-red flashes, trying not to think about the incoming bullets. He ducked low against the ground, trying to ignore the noise, listening for the helicopter. Every few moments, he raised up and fired in single rounds, trying to conserve what ammo he had left. He hit another man, who screamed and continued to moan.

He waited for what seemed like forever, listening and watching. Suddenly, the gunfire started again. It was coming from two different points. He found the red flash and fired, hitting steel. Gunfire started once more and he triggered the gun, only to hear his bullets hit his truck. The gunmen were using it as cover, firing intermittently. He waited and aimed again. When he triggered the gun, all he heard was the dull thwack of an empty round. He was out of ammo.

He ducked low and twisted the AK-47 sideways, rotating the mag in the dirt, creating a little cover. He felt the ground for the pistol and took aim but didn't fire. He waited. He was sweating and breathing fast. More shots rang out. One of the slugs hit the rifle, making a loud
ding
. Dewey let out a sharp cry, hoping they heard it. He rolled left just as both gunmen focused everything on the area surrounding the rifle. He rolled several times, clutching the handgun and trying to stay as low as he could. He stopped. Propped low on his elbows, he gripped the pistol with both hands and waited as bullets peppered the ground to his right. Then the shooting stopped.

For more than a minute, Dewey waited, gun out. Then he heard an engine.

They were coming to make sure he was dead. But they kept the lights off. It meant they weren't sure. He knew they were scanning with the night optic. If he tried to run, they'd mow him down with ease. Yet it was clear that the detection range of the optic was poor.

If he was going to move, now was the time.

They'll see you.

It was an impossible situation.

You need to run.

The vehicle's lights shot on. He was illuminated in one of the floodlights. It was a pickup truck, moving quickly. The headlights were aimed to his right. He fired. All he heard was a
click
. The chamber was empty.

He lay his head on the dirt, left cheek against the ground, and remained still. There were two men—the driver and a black-clad gunman in the back, a carbine in his hands, searching for him.

Dewey's mind traced the dozen things he should've done. He felt self-loathing for his laziness.

Why didn't you switch vehicles? Hide in an abandoned shack?

Worse, the thought struck him that whatever he'd gone to Damascus to retrieve had been worthless. A ruse by al-Jaheishi. He had so many things to live for. The thought that it had all been a waste was a bitter tonic; he felt anger and regret. The lights came closer and the gunman searched …

*   *   *

Peltz watched the video on the screen in front of him as Walls piloted the chopper. The screen showed a video feed, taken by satellite somewhere in the sky above. Beneath thin digital grid lines was a black-and-gray landscape, a holographic view of a remote area in Syria called Irhab—location of the last captured signal of Andreas's cell phone. But cloud cover made the feed grainy and illegible.

The chopper's lights were off as it moved north along the Mediterranean coast.

“Get ready, guys,” said Walls over his headset. His voice went over the intercom in back. “We have a safe corridor inland. Swinging right.”

Peltz typed into a keyboard, trying to adjust the screen and get a sharper view. Andreas's location was locked into the chopper's NAV system, but that was all.

Another voice came over Peltz and Walls's headsets. It was Abramowitz in operations command back at Ramat David Airbase.

“South clearing in five, four, three, two, one,” said Abramowitz. “Zebra Ninety, you have a vector inland to the target zone.”

“Roger, mission leader,” said Peltz, swinging the Panther AS565 MA sharply right. “Heading southeast at one-three-zero, over.”

Walls looked at Peltz. “Ten minutes out.”

Peltz didn't look up or acknowledge Walls. His eyes were glued to the screen. A break in the clouds had allowed him to focus in on Andreas. He saw the ghostlike holograph a few yards from the point where the cell phone had been locked. But there were two other figures and a vehicle on the screen. Then the telltale bright white sparks of gunfire.

“
Oh,
shit!
”

“What is it?” asked Walls.

“Trouble.”

Peltz turned to the cabin and made eye contact with Meir, nodding, telling him he wanted to show him something. He hit a button on the chopper dash and pulled down a black digital screen from the top of his helmet, then grabbed the joystick in front of him. This controlled the weapons aboard the Panther, which included Nexter M621 20mm guns and AS-15TT antisurface missiles.

“What?” asked Kohl Meir.

“The clouds broke.” Peltz pointed at the screen with his left hand as, with his right, he adjusted the joystick. On the screen, a red square target box appeared imposed over the holographic feed of the ground. Then the screen went black again as clouds covered the view. Peltz dialed in the ordnance, preparing to fire one of the AS-15TTs. He heard the electronic hum of the targeting architecture beneath the chopper.

“Jonathan,” said Meir. “Tell me.”

“He's in trouble.”

Meir, dressed in black tactical gear, face painted black as well, leaned toward the screen to get a better view.

“How close are they?”

“Twenty meters. If I miss—”

“Fire!” barked Meir. “If you don't it won't matter!”

*   *   *

As the pickup came closer, Dewey felt the light on him. He shut his eyes. He heard shouting in Arabic. The truck stopped. Squinting, he saw the gunman in back move to the side of the truck and point at him. Dewey didn't move.

A loud noise came from the sky—electric, high-pitched, something moving blisteringly fast. The shriek of an incoming missile, too fast to react to. In a fraction of a second, as the noise became unbearable, there was a deafening explosion. The pickup burst into a cloud of smoke and fire. The sky lit up in a massive fireball and the ground shook. Dewey was catapulted up, pummeled backward, where he landed several feet away and tumbled, his face scraping dirt, until finally he came to rest. All he could hear was a high-pitched ringing noise in his ears. A few moments later came the sound of smoldering metal. Dewey lay still, eyes shut, waiting for the shock to dissipate so that he could determine if he was injured. He didn't move for several minutes. He felt numb.

At some point he heard helicopter rotors above the din of the flaming truck. Slowly, he sat up, shielding his eyes as the wind picked up and sent dirt and sand flying over him. He didn't see or hear the chopper land.

He felt hands on both sides of him, lifting him up by his arms.

It was Meir who awakened him from his shock. “You okay, Dewey?”

Meir was standing beside him, holding one of his arms. Dewey stumbled, wrapping his arms around Meir and another commando. They moved to the open door of the dark chopper, its rotors slashing the air.

“What took you so fucking long?” groaned Dewey.