Warning Order (25 page)

“I'm going to leave them a little surprise.”

“Well, you better hurry your ass up—they're getting close.”

“Don't worry about it. Zeus, no matter what happens, get them on the bird,” he said before moving back to the truck.

The broken-down deuce-and-a-half was parked perpendicular to the wadi, and Mason quickly opened the claymore's scissor legs and slammed them into the hard-packed sand near the back tire. He screwed the blasting cap into the mine, but after looking at the firing wire, he knew it wasn't long enough to stretch back to the wadi.

The only place for him to hide was in the cab, and after covering the wire with a long pile of sand, he began walking backward, paying it out. Then he climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

“Mason, what the hell are you doing?” Grinch asked over the radio.

“I don't have enough wire. Just cover my ass.”

“You can't fucking stay there.”

“It's the only way. Shut up and get ready.”

“Forget the claymore—” he said, but Mason turned down the radio's volume, and silence filled the cab.

He had set up a lot of ambushes, and Mason knew that the first deadly surprise would be the most crucial. All he had to do was hold out long enough for the cavalry to arrive. If he could do that, he might just make it out alive.

Kane tried to get himself set in the passenger seat. He plugged the wire into the firing device and jammed a fresh magazine into his rifle. He could hear the trucks getting closer, and he nudged his head up to look through the back window.

Approaching were two Ford F-250 pickups with their Iraqi markings painted over and a Humvee with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted to the top. Mason ducked back down and focused on slowing his heart rate.

He knew that if he didn't take out the machine gun, it was going to be a short fight.

The Humvee's supercharged engine whined as it struggled to keep up with the lighter Fords. He guessed that there would be at least twenty fighters in all and clicked the transmit button attached to his vest.

“Grinch, you have the fifty cal.”

“Time to make the grass grow,” the sniper whispered back.

Mason wiped the sweat from his palms, making sure he had a good grip on the detonator.

The lead vehicle began to slow as the driver spotted the stranded cargo truck. Instead of stopping short, the vehicles kept coming until they were just ten feet away.

Mason realized that he hadn't considered what to do if the trucks flanked him. He felt a whisper of panic creep up his spine. It was too late to move.

“Time to roll the dice,” he muttered, gripping the olive-green firing device firmly.

At the last minute, the heavily armored lead vehicle slammed on its brakes and the tires skidded across the rocky desert floor before finally coming to a stop. A cloud of dust washed over the area, obscuring Mason's vision of the kill zone.

He felt the sweat dripping down his back as the smell of exhaust drifted up to his position, and the heavy diesel engines rumbled behind the dust cloud. There was a metallic
thump
as one of the armored doors was unlatched, followed by the sound of voices.

The dust cloud began to dissipate, revealing a knot of men walking up to the truck, clutching American M4s.

“Check the truck!” one of the men shouted in Arabic.

“Shit, c'mon, I need more than one,” Mason murmured as the fighter moved forward cautiously.

He knew that if the first man saw the claymore, the ambush was fucked before it started. Luckily for him, the fighters were undisciplined, and instead of checking the area and setting up a base of fire, they began milling around.

The range of the antipersonnel mine was about 110 yards. At that distance, the 680 grams of C4 plastic explosive would send the ball bearings out in a 60 degree killing arc. He flipped the safety bale off the M57 firing device. All he had to do now was squeeze the top and bottom halves together to detonate the mine.

It was hot inside the cab of the truck, and his neck was beginning to hurt from craning backward. He wanted to see what was going on but knew he couldn't risk exposing himself. Mason could hear the fighters' boots crunching on the gravel, and he tried to visualize where they were.

“Is it empty?” one of the men demanded.

“Are you going to give me time to check?” another one asked, his voice no more than a foot away.

Mason switched the detonator to his left hand and placed his right hand on the pistol grip of the HK416. Using his thumb, he snapped the selector switch to fire. The tiny
click
sounded incredibly loud in the tight confines of the cab, and he felt the truck sway as his target climbed up on the running boards and turned the door handle on the driver's side.

The door swung open with a groan, and then a head appeared. It took a second for the fighter's eyes to adjust to the dim interior, but when he finally saw the barrel of Mason's rifle, it was too late.

The suppressor coughed as the round shot out of the barrel and plowed through the man's forehead. Mason didn't wait for him to fall. He gave the detonator a hard squeeze and ducked his head.

The claymore went off with a flash of angry orange and a thump that jarred Mason's teeth. He had aimed the antipersonnel mine about waist height, and the ball bearings sliced through the air at almost four thousand feet per second, but he didn't have time to admire his handiwork. He climbed up to his knees and slammed the muzzle through the back window just as the gunner's head erupted and his body dropped into the Humvee.

Mason had to use the fixed sight, mounted atop the ACOG, due to the distance between him and his targets, and as soon as he got a decent sight picture, he began firing. He hit his target with a tight pair to the chest, but instead of going down, the man leveled his AK and began spraying the deuce-and-a–half.

The rounds cut easily through the thin aluminum skin, blasting out the rest of the window and showering Mason with glass. He ducked behind the seats, flipping the selector to full auto, and fired back through the truck while trying to turtle down into the floorboard.

A shard of glass sliced into his palm as he shifted to grab a fresh mag, and the rest of the fighters opened up on the cab of the truck.

“Little help!” he yelled into the radio.

Suddenly he smelled fuel drifting up into the cab. Then an RPG screamed from the back end of the truck. The warhead hit one of the cross beams that spanned the troop compartment and exploded in a cloud of shrapnel and black smoke.

Mason kicked the passenger side door open and turned his body so he could see out. Fire from the RPG crept slowly toward the cab. His only option was to throw himself to the ground.

Glass cut through his battle shirt as he pulled himself toward the opening. He was just about to throw himself to the ground when the .50 caliber opened up.

The heavy machine gun ate lazily through the belt of ammo, sending its large-caliber rounds blasting through the cab. One of the rounds hit the open door, ripping it from the hinges, and Mason lifted himself up just as a fighter came into view.

He was so close that Mason could see the muscles in his forearm as he worked the trigger, sending brass arcing from the AK. The first shots were high, and they shredded the dashboard, filling the interior with chunks of yellow padding. The suppressor of his HK got caught on the seat, and he tried to jerk it free when a round slammed into his chest.

The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and he saw blood splatter up from the wound a second before the fighter crumbled to the ground. Mason felt a dull throbbing, and then a sharp pain cut through his collarbone.

“Fuck,” he said, grabbing at the wound. His fingers came back bloody, but it was the intense heat from under the floorboards that really concerned him.

Ripping a frag from its pouch, he tried to pull the pin with his right hand, but he found his arm wouldn't work. He switched the grenade and grimaced as he pulled the pin with his left.

The flames had made it to the cab, and they licked at his pants as he pushed himself toward the open door. He tossed the frag through the back window before heaving his upper body over the jamb. Mason used his left hand to pull himself to the point of no return, and then he was falling.

Mason tumbled out of the truck, contorting his body so he wouldn't land on his head. Suddenly his rifle sling snagged on something, jerking him upright and crushing his wounded shoulder.

He was hanging awkwardly from the sling, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grinch running from the wadi.

“No,” he yelled, waving his good arm to stop him.

The frag exploded behind the truck, and Mason struggled to get to his knife while Grinch ran toward him. He got out the blade and managed to slice through the sling just as his sniper got hit.

Mason hit the ground like a bag of rocks, his HK clattering down beside him. He grabbed for the rifle as the .50 caliber traversed away from the deuce-and-a-half and began engaging another target. His finger found the pistol grip, and he swept the rifle low across the ground, firing under the truck.

The bolt locked back with a snap, and he was forced to let go to grab a fresh mag. Holding the HK between his legs, he ripped the empty mag out and awkwardly shoved a fresh one in. He engaged the bolt release with the flat of his hand, and got shakily to his feet, keeping low as he moved to the front of the truck.

Grinch's body lay still ten feet from his position, and he knew from the amount of blood already pooling around his teammate's body that he wasn't going to make it.

Mason was just about to step into the open when an explosion slammed into the ground, knocking him off his feet.

He lay flat on his back, ears ringing, and the smell of burning flesh filling his nose. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of an A-10 tank buster leveling off, flame spitting from its 30 mm cannons. The pilot brought the Warthog so close to the ground that he could see it shudder as it fired.

W
uuuummmppp.

Empty casings rained down all around him as the pilot punched the throttle, yanking the A-10 upward into a slow arc. Soon he flipped it over and rolled back on target.

Mason used his rifle to push himself to his feet and staggered to where Grinch lay bleeding on the ground. Pushing the pain out of his mind, he focused on his motionless teammate, ignoring the rounds snapping past his head.

“I'm here,” he yelled over the hateful roar of the A-10's GAU-8 cannon.

Grinch's face was pale with a tinge of blue, and Mason knew right away that he wasn't getting enough oxygen. He shoved his hands beneath the man's kit and immediately felt blood pouring from the exit wound five inches below his shoulder blade. Mason pulled his hands from under the sniper's body armor. With his fingers covered in blood, he yanked the man's knife from its scabbard.

As he began cutting Grinch's kit free, he screamed for Blaine, hoping his voice carried over the firefight. He stabbed the knife into the ground and began fumbling to unzip the trauma kit attached to the man's vest.

His bloody fingers kept slipping off the zipper. “Goddamn it,” he muttered over the rounds cracking over his head. Finally, he threw his body on top of Grinch's, shielding him from the fire.

“Fucking shit,” he yelled as a round hit the sniper's rifle with a metallic slap before ricocheting into the air.

The A-10 whirled around for another pass, but instead of running, the fighters were holding their ground, still trying to kill the American who was stuck out in the open.

In the distance, he could hear the deep
thump, thump, thump
of rotors beating the air. Blaine came sprinting out of the wadi, but Mason knew the bird wasn't going to make it in time to save his friend's life.

Mason could feel Grinch gasping beneath him as he began CPR. He had lost too much blood.

“Move,” Blaine yelled, diving to the ground, his chest heaving from the short sprint.

Mason finally got the sniper's trauma kit open and dumped it on the ground. He snatched the Asherman chest seal from the pile of medical supplies, tearing at the plastic with his teeth, while Blaine cut the bloodstained shirt away from the wound.

“Hurry the fuck up,” the medic shouted, grabbing the chest seal from Mason.

The seal was a flat disk about the size of a coffee can lid, with a gray valve sticking out of the center. Blaine stripped the plastic cover off the seal, exposing the medical-grade adhesive, before pushing the valve through the wound, flattening the clear pad flush against his chest.

“Fuck,” Blaine cursed as Grinch convulsed violently beneath him. “Stay with me.”

The bird was getting closer, and Mason awkwardly stripped the pin off a smoke canister.

The pain in his shoulder caused his vision to swim, making it hard to focus on the radio as he switched to the air-to-ground net.

“Any station this net, this is Ronin 6. I have an urgent surgical patient and need extract now.”

“Roger, Ronin 6, let us clear the area,” came the reply.

“Negative, put the bird on the ground now, or he's going to die,” he yelled back.

“Ronin 6, this is Road Dog 1. This next one is going to be danger close. I need you guys to get to cover.”

“Road Dog, Ronin 6, drop it. I've marked my position with red smoke. You are cleared to engage danger close,” he replied, looking up at Blaine.

The medic bent down to shield his patient as the A-10 lined up for its final run.

“Uhh, roger that, Ronin. Coming in hot.”

“Easy day, brother,” Mason said to Blaine with a grim smile.

“Wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

M
osul was vital to the control of northern Iraq, and the American forces that had been stationed there during the war had learned the hard way that the city was always on the verge of chaos.