The Fourth War (34 page)

Lyangar Airfield
Southern Tajikistan

Peter Zembeic pulled his thick boots from his feet. The enemy soldiers had taken all of his belongings—his small pack, his belt, his web harness and its gear (all worthless in the situation he was now in anyway). They had emptied his pockets and even taken his hat.

But they hadn't taken his boots, which was a deadly mistake.

Peter held his right boot and twisted the heel forcefully. Bradley heard a dull
snap,
and the heel fell away. Peter dug with his fingers, then pointed to the door with his chin. “Listen for me. This will take a little time,” he said.

Colonel Bradley moved to the door and lowered his head to the floor. He could hear voices above the cellar, somewhere up the stairs.

 

The group of soldiers congregated around their leader. It was cool in the hangar, but, still, sweat stung Angra's eyes. His face was smudged with dark soot. He had been over to the fires, watching what was left of the burning B-2. It looked like the magnesium and composites might burn for a week. The heat was tremendous and the fire had started to spread, catching on the trees and outbuildings, the dry wood of the old hangars nearly exploding in flames. The fires flickered yellow light through the open hangar doors and the smoke hung low and oily as the flames licked the skies. Angra paid no attention to the fires; Lyangar could burn to the ground, it mattered not to him.

His soldiers waited anxiously as he barked his commands. “The main convoy has already left. We are going to have to move quickly to catch up with them. Kill the Americans, get your gear, and let's get out of here.”

Angra peered at his soldiers, about twenty in all. “Any questions?” he asked. No one said anything. “Alright then, let's move!” he cried to his men.

 

Bradley heard the movement of soldiers directly over his head. He listened to the footsteps, then stole a look back to Peter. Peter had his other boot in hand and was snapping off the heel. “Peter,” the colonel pleaded, “we don't have much time!”

Peter ignored him, concentrating on his work. Before him, on the floor, were five pieces of gray plastic and a tiny roll of flesh-colored tape. In the center of the stash were a one-inch razor blade and a couple blasting caps. Bradley studied the equipment. “You hid blasting caps in your boot!” he exclaimed.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Good thing I didn't parachute in, I guess.”

Bradley shook his head as Peter began to snap the plastic pieces together. Seconds later, he held up an Israeli Z-4 Zip Gun. Tiny. Plastic. Easy to conceal. Easy to assemble. Impervious to metal detectors and surprisingly accurate.

Bradley stared at the tiny gun. “Toys 'R' Us?” he said sarcastically.

Peter snapped the last piece, which fell in place with a
click.
“Don't judge a man by the size of his weapon,” he said.

“What about bullets?” Bradley asked. “Or do you have the BBs in your socks?”

Peter grunted as he grabbed the tiny razor and undid his pants. Probing his right thigh with his fingers, he pinched the flesh. He felt the small lumps and squeezed at the skin, then touched the razor to the fleshy part of his inner thigh.

Carefully, slowly, he cut a one-inch incision. He grimaced in pain as the blood soaked his fingers and ran down his wrists. Slicing through the skin and the thin layer of fat underneath, he cut another incision next to the first and more blood seeped through his fingers and began to drip to the floor. Peter squeezed the flesh, forcing the .22-caliber shells from where they had been planted under his skin; then, standing, he held four bullets in his hand.

“Water?” he demanded, speaking through his clenched teeth. He spit out the roll of tape and held both hands to his thigh.

Bradley moved toward him while shaking his head. “I'm sorry, Peter, water's been in real short supply.” He tore at his shirt, tearing a strip he could use for a bandage, then twisted the material inside out and folded it in a small square.

Peter wiped his hands clean as Bradley moved to his side. Peter held the incision together while Bradley applied the makeshift bandage and surgical tape. Peter cinched his pants, took the bullets, and started loading the gun. Grunting in satisfaction, he lifted the Z-4.

Less than four inches long, the zip gun had a tiny handle and a thumb-operated firing pin. It held four shells, a recent upgrade from the single-shot Z-1. Developed by Shin Bet's assassination teams, the gun required the assassin to get close enough to get a shot to the head, but if he was able, the gun could certainly kill.

Bradley stared at the weapon. “Amazing,” he said. He glanced at the other articles and asked, “I don't suppose you crammed a transmitter in somewhere?”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “The ones I had at the base camp were too big and too bulky. There are some special units I could have gotten from D.C. or the field office in London, but I didn't have time to wait for one to be sent out to me.”

There was the thunder of footsteps and Bradley moved to the door. A single guard came down the stairway, stomping on the wooden stairs. Bradley pulled away from the door, a wild look in his eye, as Peter shoved the weapon into his pants and held his finger to his lips. “Not yet,” he mouthed as he stared at the door. The guard ran down the hallway, moving past their cell. Peter pulled on his boots and pushed himself to his feet. There was a slam of closing lockers, then the guard ran back up the stairs.

Bradley took a deep breath and watched as Peter moved his fingers down the hem of his coat. Feeling the plastic, he brought the coat up to his teeth and tugged on a loose thread. The hem gave way and he carefully pulled out the strand of C-4. Powerful, difficult to ignite, sensitive to water, he peeled back the thin layer of protective plastic and exposed the claylike explosive. Working together, the two men positioned the explosive material and firing caps around the rusty hinges of the steel door.

“We won't need it all,” Peter instructed as he tore away half the C-4. “We'd blow out the whole wall if we use everything.” Bradley positioned the last firing pin and the two men stepped back.

Bradley looked at the agent. “What's next?” he asked.

Peter shook his head. “I was kind of hoping you had some ideas,” he replied.

Bradley dropped to his knees. “Where's your team?” he asked.

Peter shook his head. “Don't know for certain. They might be out there or they might not. It depends on how long it took them to hike through the mountains, the number of patrols they had to go around, that kind of thing.”

“You mean we might have to do this alone?” Bradley stammered.

Peter gritted his teeth. “Plan on it,” he said. “If the posse shows up, that's good for us; but don't plan on them, Shane. We need to figure out how to get out of here by ourselves.”

“Okay! Great! Let me get this straight. There are two of us. We have four shells and a gun I could hide inside a dinner roll. We got a little C-4 and that's about it. Against what? Maybe twenty or thirty heavily armed guards?”

Peter pressed his lips sadly. “You don't have to paint such a discouraging picture,” he said.

Bradley swore in frustration.

“Hey,” Peter reacted, “I didn't have much time to put this whole thing together, my friend. It wasn't like I could come in here with a couple Uzis shoved down my britches! And remember, ol' buddy, my main objective was to get to you before it was too late. If I had waited to get my team up here, if we had come in with our guns blazing, we might have eventually found you, but you would already be dead. We needed an inside-out job to gain the element of surprise. But if we keep our heads together, we are going to be fine.”

Bradley scrunched his forehead. “Four shells,” he muttered as he listened to the footsteps gathering over his head.

Peter grabbed his shoulders. “There's something else,” he said.

“What's that?” Bradley asked, keeping his eyes on the rafters.

Peter leaned toward him. “I think the warheads are here!”

Bradley met Peter's eyes and gasped. There was a cold burning there. The two men stared at each other and Bradley lowered his voice. “How do you know that?”

“I don't. Not for certain. But I want to find out.”

“You think the warheads are here at Lyangar!?”

“Here, or somewhere close.”

A mass of heavy boots began to move down the stairs and both of the men lifted their heads.

“But if they're here…,” Bradley muttered.

“Then we've got a few options.”

Bradley shook his head and Peter took a short step toward him. “Are you with me?” he asked him as he rolled down his sleeves.

The colonel didn't hesitate. “I was sent to destroy those warheads! I'd love another chance!”

“Good,” Peter whispered as he moved for the door, “Come on! It's time then. Let's go get in a fight!”

Lyangar Airfield
Southern Tajikistan

Peter checked the C-4 that was pasted in a thin line around the back side of the steel door. The blast cap was embedded deeply into the plastic explosive. A two-inch lanyard, thin as fish wire but rough and easy to grip, extended from the cap and dangled toward the floor. He held the cap firmly, pressing it into the explosive, then looked over his shoulder. “We've got a lot of bang here,” he said. “If we're not careful, it's going to blow us through the other wall.”

Bradley nodded. Outside the cell the enemy gathered, their voices drifting through the crack under the steel door.

“Do you want to fire the blasting cap or the Z4?” Peter asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Bradley shook his head. “I couldn't hit a moose with that thing if it was standing on my chest! You take the gun. I'd just waste the shells.”

Peter moved away from the door and Bradley took up his position with the C4. Outside he heard a deep voice and recognized Angra. He motioned to Peter and hissed under his breath. “There's a general. Five feet eight. Pale eyes. Salt-and-pepper beard. If you want to find the warheads, we need him alive.”

Peter grunted as he examined his gun and checked the four shells.

“How long is this fuse?” Bradley asked.

“Ten seconds.”

Bradley swore. “How am I going to time that?” he asked.

“Luck, baby, luck! Or prayer. You can choose.”

A key was inserted into the cell door. The gentle clang of the ancient metal tumblers turning fell on their ears. Peter whispered his final instruction. “If you can, get them after they have moved through the door!”

Peter took up a position against the far wall, near the corner, where the concussion would be reflected away from him. Bradley hid behind the door, pressing against the wall. The door began to open. He pulled the lanyard and heard a quiet pop as the timer kicked in. Bending over, he moved toward Peter and pressed his body against the wall.

One—two—three
—he counted in his mind as he moved to Peter's side. The door swung violently open with a bone-jarring
clang.
Four guards moved into the cell, black clubs in their hands. Flat Ears stood behind them, his weapon drawn and ready. He sneered anxiously, eager to complete this bloody job.

Four—five
—Bradley continued.

He stared at the blast caps, then glanced over at Peter. The tip of the Z4 protruded from the palm of his hand. Three more guards moved into the room, then Angra followed slowly, glaring at the Americans.

Peter stared at the general. Pale eyes. Ugly teeth. This was the one he would let live.

Six—Seven
—Bradley counted in his mind.

The soldiers bunched at the door. It was perfect, nearly perfect, and he almost smiled. Angra saw his expression, the look of anticipation, the glare of revenge, and realized that something was horribly wrong. His instincts kicked in. He glanced to the other American. What was that in his hand? A dull glint, a dark shadow. It looked like the tip of gun!

“Nine!” Bradley shouted, then turned his head to the wall.

“Kill them!” Angra cried as he lifted his gun and aimed it at Bradley's chest.

The plastic explosive blew at exactly that instant, the blast and overpressure filling the room with an unbearable wall of fire and black smoke. Bradley gasped at the fire and blinding white light. The air was sucked from his chest and replaced with an unbearable heat, suffocating and painful, the hot gas burning his lungs. His eyes bulged from the pressure and his ears and nose bled. The force blew the steel door off its hinges and sent chunks of steel and cement shooting through the air, as timbers fell from the rafters and pieces of brick fell to the floor. The two nearest guards were blown apart in the blast; heads, guts, and limbs spattered against the wall. A huge piece of the steel door hit another guard in the neck and he fell in a heap, his vertebrae smashed at the base of his skull. And the smoke and dust billowed, became a ball of heat that boiled down the hall.

Peter rolled to his knees and lifted the tiny Z4. He aimed the small weapon at Flat Ears and fired one shell. The high velocity bullet impacted the terrorist square in the face and the Arab gurgled, dropped his weapon and fell dead on the floor. Peter fired three times, each shot perfectly aimed, and three more guards went down, each of them shot in the head. Bradley rolled, grabbed Flat Ears' handgun and fired at the last guard, who fell against the wall, his knees buckling as he drifted to the floor, a smear of bright blood following him as he slid down the wall.

Angra was the only Arab left alive in the cell. He lay on the floor, bloody chips of cement embedded in his neck and ears. Both of his hands were now empty, his gun having been blown from his grip. His eyes, dull and lifeless, stared blankly ahead. The room fell eerily still, except for the dying gasps of a few desperate men.

Angra pushed himself up and looked around in a daze. All of his men were down. Bradley pointed a Glock at his head. Angra tried to swallow, but his Adam's apple caught in his throat.

How had this happened? In less than ten seconds, his world had been turned upside down! In his mind, he relived the brief moments since he had walked into the cell—the explosion, the hidden weapon, the pain, the bloody fall of his men.

He watched bitterly as Colonel Bradley took a step toward him. He waited, expecting to be shot in the head. But the American didn't shoot. Instead, he lifted him by his collar and threw him against the wall. Angra whimpered lightly as Peter moved forward, a leather belt in his hand.

“Kill me,” Angra muttered, unable to hide the loathing inside. “Kill me, you whores! I want to die now!”

Bradley stared down at him. “Keep your hopes up, good buddy, and maybe later we will.” He scowled at the man who had tortured Tia to death, then kicked him once, hard, on the side of his ribs. Using the belt, he tied his hands at his back.

Peter moved through the room collecting weapons and ammunition. He draped four belts of shells across the front of his chest, then threw another pistol to Bradley, who tucked it in his pants. They waited and listened to the steps pounding over their heads. Peter moved to the door, then into the hall, taking up a position that faced the stairs. Smoke and dust filled the air, burning his eyes. Three guards ran down the stairs. Peter waited until they were fully exposed, then fired three times, hitting each one in the chest. Bradley stepped into the hallway and looked at the soldiers on the floor.

He cocked his head to Peter. “You seem to be a pretty good shot,” he said.

Peter shrugged, then moved to the soldiers, liberated their AK-47s, and threw one to Bradley. The door at the top of the stairs opened quickly and a young guard glanced down the stairs. Peter shot once, but the guard pulled back and ran.

“You missed!” Bradley mocked.

Peter looked at him, glum. “I know! I can't believe it.” He stared at the muzzle of his gun. “Trade me weapons!” he said as he pointed at Bradley's gun. “This one isn't sighted. I don't miss shots like that!”

Bradley hesitated.

“I'm serious,” Peter said. “I don't miss that shot if my gun is sighted right.”

Shrugging, Bradley tossed him his weapon, then grabbed Peter's gun.

The two men turned and moved carefully up the stairs, which emerged near the back wall of the hangar. A broken window faced them at the top of the stairs, across a narrow hall, and Peter glanced through the window at the darkness outside. To his right he could see barrels of jet fuel and an old Soviet MiG. To his left, enemy soldiers had scattered their gear. A couple of green army trucks had been pulled into the hangar, and smoke drifted through the air now, low and black.

Somewhere off in the distance they heard a single gunshot and looked at each other anxiously. Then the hangar grew quiet. Peter motioned to Bradley, pointing to his right, and Bradley moved into position beside him. Then they heard the crunch of footsteps on the wet gravel outside. Peter looked around desperately. They were trapped on the stairs. A sudden thunder of bullets burst through the air and the wall shattered beside him, exploding from the force of the shells. The shots ended quickly. Peter stared at the bullet holes beside him and nearly choked on his spit. His body fit neatly between the holes on the wall. He dropped to his knees. “We've got to get out of here!”

Bradley only grunted. That was obvious. “I'll provide cover,” he whispered. “If you can get to the back wall—”

Peter suddenly lifted his finger. “Shhh,” he whispered so quietly that Bradley could hardly hear. He peeked around the stairwell and Bradley stood still. Then he heard it—a whistle so silent it barely carried through the air.

Peter cocked his head and smiled as he called out, “Hoss! Is that you?”

One of Peter's Rangers pushed his head above the window sill.

“Hoss, you idiot!” Peter shouted. “You nearly cut me in two!”

The army Ranger smiled sheepishly. “Hey, boss, good to see you. Sorry for the scare.”