Running the Maze (29 page)

“Limo Three-Two. Limo Three-Two. This is Bounty Hunter Bravo.”

During years of controversial development, the Osprey had gained such a bad reputation that Marines assigned to fly on them grimly called themselves death crews. As the bugs were finally worked out, the twin tilt-rotor aircraft became a gem of the fleet and far surpassed the capabilities of the old medium-lift CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters. A pair of them were a minute out from the bridge.

Major Sam Jameson, at the controls of the lead bird, was just popping up over the final crest of hills when he heard the message. He responded immediately. “Bounty Hunter Bravo, this is Limo Three-One. What’s your traffic?”

“Roger, Limo Three-One,” Beth confirmed, trying to control her voice to filter out the excitement and relief that flooded through her. “We’re at the LZ. What is your timeline?”

The Ospreys clawed for a bit more altitude as the high ground unrolled beneath them, then dropped away into a valley, where a huge man-made structure dominated the far end. “We’re one mike out, and I see the LZ.” The friendly Kentucky twang of the Marine aviator made Beth feel more comfortable.
We-uh one mack out, an’ Ah see thuh LZ.

Ledford, kneeling behind a Komatsu lowboy flatbed trailer, smiled when she was finally able to see the pair of planes. “Limo Three-One. Bounty Hunter Bravo. I see you now. Popping yellow smoke.” She threw the grenade as hard as she could. It hit the roadway, bounced and rolled, and belched a spreading cloud of bright color.

“Roger, I see yellow,” confirmed Jameson. “Where are you?”

“Bounty Hunter Bravo and one pax are behind the earthmovers at the west end, next to a blue golf cart.”

Major Jameson altered the angle of approach and set the computers to perform the almost magical transition from airplane to helicopter. The speed fell away from cruising at 277 miles per hour as the nacelles on each wingtip elevated in slow motion up to a sixty-degree elevation, cut to about sixty miles per hour. Then the props were pointing straight up at ninety degrees, and the plane was at a complete hover, hanging in the sky, balanced by multiple computers of the fly-by-wire systems. Jameson nudged the stick to make minor adjustments.

The second Osprey remained in airplane mode to fly cover. Captain Les Richter banked slightly as the bridge came up fast. “Bounty Hunter Bravo, this is Limo Three-Two. Any friendlies down there?” Richter was not worried about small-arms ground fire, which was almost inconsequential to an Osprey, but if he had to make a gun run, he did not want innocent people caught in the .50 caliber shit storm. There was a village several klicks beyond the east end of the bridge, and that was far out of the danger zone.

Beth paused before answering. Better to be honest. “I have no contact with Bounty Hunter Actual,” she said. “I don’t see him topside. Everyone I see on the bridge has a weapon.”

“Good enough,” said Richter, whirling his big plane in closer. “Limo Three-Two will make one recon pass, then cover your extract. If you need help, we’ll hose the place down.”

*   *   *

Kyle heard the transmission. If he could get the Osprey to sweep the bridge, he still might get out of this mess. “Break! Break! This is Bounty Hunter Actual. Consider the entire bridge a free-fire zone!” He was still too far underground for his little radio to transmit properly, and no one heard him. Then another blast of gunfire erupted from down the hall, and he pressed his back into the alcove.

First things first. He had put up with about as much of this being pinned down crap as he cared to endure and was flat out of time. Swanson grabbed his last round M-67 hand grenade, holding it in close to his belly, simultaneously securing the safety lever with his right hand while picking out the pin with his left. He heard the covering Osprey roar by just as he released the safety spoon to activate the four-second fuse.

Instead of stepping out into the line of fire to throw the grenade, Kyle underhanded it across the corridor, where it clipped the opposite wall at a forty-five-degree angle and banked back toward the corner where the gunman was shielded. The metal baseball skittered across the stone and exploded at the man’s feet, blowing him backward, lacerated with metal shards.

Kyle had turned from the blast, but as soon as the concussion passed, he was out of his hideaway, charging for daylight.

*   *   *

A
L
-M
ASRI WAS MOMENTARILY FROZEN
.
At the west terminus of the bridge, a blossom of yellow smoke had flashed on the road and was expanding into a thick cloud that hung like a curtain. Then a plane with propellers like giant windmills dashed overhead, and its prop wash kicked up such a storm of dirt and debris that everyone around him hit the ground, and he turned away, covering his face. Americans! Ayman al-Masri recognized the aircraft as being the futuristic Ospreys, and the Americans were the only ones who had such aircraft. It was not Zionists after all.

“Get up and shoot at them,” he yelled to his small group. “Kill the Americans. Fire at them, damn you. Shoot.” He swatted the nearest one on the head. “Get up and fight or I’ll kill you myself.” The man he slapped got to his feet with his weapon, but his eyes were wide in fright. Al-Masri moved to the next one, screaming over the sound of the aircraft.

A second Osprey had appeared and was gently lowering itself toward the flat surface of the bridge, and he momentarily wondered why the team that he had seen take position down there was not shooting at it. Instead, he watched the two figures emerge from among the heavy equipment and hurry toward the hovering aircraft.

“There they are!” Two of the Americans had somehow gotten into the western column but were finally out in the open. “Kill them now!”

His men were responding, although sluggishly, and a few were snapping off some shots. Al-Masri had a vision of actually destroying an Osprey and watching the Americans burn to death in the wreckage. He pulled his own pistol and ran forward, firing at the big plane. If they could get close enough, there might be a chance.

*   *   *

B
ETH STUMBLED TO THE
rear of the Osprey through the hard wash of the propellers, hauling al-Attas along. The gunner behind the ramp-mounted .50 caliber machine gun jumped down to help her wrestle the prisoner inside. He was used to surprises on these special missions but had never before encountered an operator who was a beautiful, almost petite, woman with short blond hair, and especially one who tossed him the leash to a flex-tied captive whose blue jeans were falling down over his skinny legs.

Ledford gained her footing and ran through the fuselage as fast as she could, feeling the vibration as the Osprey’s rotors turned. Since the machine had never actually touched down, it was already flying, and Major Jameson was just waiting for confirmation from the gunner that the two passengers were safely aboard.

Beth Ledford plunged onto the flight deck and grabbed the pilot’s shoulder. “Don’t lift off yet,” she screamed.

“What?” he yelled back.

“Don’t lift off!”

“We have to. We’ve made our pickup, and now we are getting the hell out of here.”

“You hang right here. Bounty Hunger Actual is coming.”

“Sorry, but he’s on his own.”

“Like hell he is.” She jammed a pistol hard into the ribs of the pilot. “That was not a request. We wait.”

*   *   *

S
WANSON BOLTED FROM THE
tunnel in a full sprint. The attention of everyone was locked on the aircraft, allowing him to run up unseen behind them. Within ten meters, he was in the middle of the group before someone finally noticed him.

Ayman al-Masri saw movement at his side, thinking that it was one of his men, but when he looked, he was staring straight into a face he knew well from studying intelligence photographs: The strong jawline and cheekbones, the hard gray-green eyes, the light brown hair, and the lithe body matched the characteristics of the infamous American operator Kyle Swanson, who had been causing trouble for years. At that moment of recognition, Swanson punched him in the face with the butt of a rifle and sent the New Muslim Order security chief crumpling to the roadway.

Now he was in front of the crowd, and Kyle knew the rest of them would start shooting at him. He dodged into a zigzag to create a moving target and flung a green smoke grenade back over his shoulder. Not far away, the Osprey was still hanging there, waiting for him, against orders and operational practice.

He saw someone leap from the rear of the plane, go to a knee, bring up a rifle, and start firing. A man to his right keeled over into the spreading emerald smoke, his face a mask of blood, and then a second man rolled forward in a somersault, hands grabbing at the bullet wound in his stomach.

He had only thirty more yards to go when he recognized that it was Coastie covering his approach with methodical bursts, and he couldn’t think of anyone he would rather have doing the job. She fired, and another man fell, then he ran past her, patting her shoulder to signal that it was time to leave.

Swanson jumped into the Osprey and pulled Beth up right behind him. Both had big smiles on their dirty faces.

“Everybody’s aboard,” the gunner called to the pilot, who had been balancing the Osprey in a delicate position as he watched the show from the cockpit. The swirling cloud of yellow and green smoke had covered the enemy, but he had seen at least four of them fall, and the only person who had been shooting was the girl who had threatened him. They could talk about that later. He fed the Osprey power, and the machine lifted off in a typhoon of wind, climbed rapidly on the rotors, which were already moving back to airplane mode, and banked away from the bridge.

27

S
WANSON AND
L
EDFORD DROPPED
into canvas-strap seats, side by side, as the Osprey curved away from the bridge that could have been a death trap for both of them. They were filthy and stained, streaked with sweat, but their eyes still glowed with excitement from the action. Beth had a fresh purpling mouse beneath her left eye, and her lower lip was split, seeping blood. Kyle was bruised and scraped from being slammed about by explosions. They smiled, then broke into peals of laughter and slapped their palms together in a high five. They had made it.

“What’s with the kid?” Swanson asked, shedding the now useless combat gear and taking a long drink of water.

Across the aisle, Mohammad al-Attas had been lashed into a seat, his hair matted and tangled, his eyes rolling wide, and his head twisting all around. His nose was bloody, a big bruise colored his left forehead, and his pants were around his knees. Plastic flex-cuffs bound his wrists, and when he kicked at the gunner who fastened the seat harness around him, the gunner spun a few turns of duct tape around the ankles. The belt was still looped around his neck. He tried to bite the gunner and was put to sleep with a strong sedative injected with a syringe in the medical kit.

“He went weird about ten minutes after we left you. We were running along just fine, and the next thing I knew, he was snarling and snapping like a dog, punching and knocking me to the ground. It was like he was flying on some super coke high. I had to slap him about a little bit and hogtie him.”

“Shoulda just shot him.” Kyle shrugged.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “but you said bring him back alive, and his intel might be worth trying to save. Maybe the shrinks can straighten him out.”

“Whatever. Just glad you made it out with the extra luggage.”

Kyle waved to the gunner, who was seated near the engineer, facing them. “Hey, dude, thanks for waiting for me.”

The big man looked out beneath his olive drab helmet and pointed at Beth. “Didn’t have much of a choice,” he yelled over the noise of the churning propellers. “We were ready to haul ass until your friend pulled a gun on Major Jameson, the pilot. He ain’t none too happy about that, neither. You ought to have heard him cussin’.”

Beth leaned back and closed her eyes, lacing her hands behind her head. “Won’t leave my BFF behind.”

“What?”

“Girl talk. Best Friend Forever. I’m probably going to get court-martialed, huh?”

“Naw. They’ll make you stand at attention and gnaw on you for a while, but if you don’t laugh in their faces, you’ll walk away OK. General Middleton protects the Tridents, and you done good. We’re bringing back a hell of a lot of information. We tend to piss off some people, time to time.” Swanson looked at her face. Ten minutes after coming through a major action, she was damned near asleep.

“I’m not in Trident,” she said, somewhat wistfully, lifting her chin in defiance of the fates.

“I am, and I would have been in a world of hurt back there if this bird had left without me. Then you jump back out there and do your Little Sure Shot routine on the guys chasing me? Outstanding, Beth. What was that you just said? BFF?”

“Yeah.”

“BFF it is, then.” He reached over and playfully mussed her dirty hair. “I owe you. Go to sleep.”

KANDAHAR ARMY AIR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

L
IEUTENANT
C
OLONEL
S
YBELLE
S
UMMERS
and Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins led the debriefing of Swanson and Ledford, with a half-dozen specialists from various intelligence agencies making notes and asking questions. The Lizard was patched in from Washington on a secure video link. A large screen on a wall of the room glowed with a map of the region, with the grid location of the bridge painted in red.