Soar (26 page)

Rowdy Yates ran the marsh-side group—and controlled the claymore detonators. Ritzik and Mickey D had the road—positioned close enough to be able to engage the first vehicles close-quarters.
Ty
Weaver had the high ground. He lay concealed atop a small dune at an oblique angle to the convoy’s path. The position would afford the sniper a panoramic view and a protected shooting site that allowed him to engage targets anywhere along the convoy. Well behind him, hidden by a dune, Ritzik stashed Wei-Liu,
with instructions not to show herself until he or Weaver came for her.

0006.
The ambushers could hear the tangos coming a long time before they actually saw them—even with the NV. The diesel trucks’ rumbling carried a long way in the still night air. Ritzik snorted. No need to worry about critters and shitters tonight, not with all that racket. He glanced skyward and was relieved to see opaque clouds moving from west to east. That was good, too. It cut back on the possibility of ambient light reflecting off the fire teams.

0008.
The convoy was turning onto the bridge. Ritzik could listen as the drivers downshifted, transmissions whining, motors growling. And now he made out the lead vehicle—the 4x4—as it started across the bridge, moving herky-jerky, only its yellow running lights illuminated. Truck Number One followed six or seven yards behind—close enough so that he could pick up two human silhouettes behind its windshield. The other trucks followed closely, too. Ritzik bit his upper lip. It was textbook. Absofrigging textbook. He glanced to his right. He sensed Ty Weaver’s breathing modulate as the sniper zeroed in on his targets.

0008:24.
Now the lead vehicle passed the rear infrared marker. The countdown was starting. There was a sudden, painful twinge in the lower part of Ritzik’s gut. This was normal: his customary physical reaction to the vacuum before action. All the planning, all the options, all the scenarios had been sucked out of him. He was dry.

0008:40.
The second two 4x4s crossed the bridge. There was nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said, nothing more to be adjusted, fixed, fine-tuned.

0008:49.
The number six truck pulled onto the bridge. Either the plan was going to work, or it wasn’t. But since
wasn’t
wasn’t an option, he would have to make it work. They would
all
have to make it work. This was when everything came down to FIDO. Fuck it—
drive on.

0009.
The first three trucks moved onto the causeway, followed by the two 4x4s. Ritzik could hear the suspensions creak as the vehicles came forward.

0009:38.
The rear trio of trucks crossed the narrow bridge, passed the outer infrared marker, and crowded, pachydermlike, trunk to tail, onto the causeway. He pressed his transmit button.
“I have control.”
And as quickly as it had come over him, the butterflies, the uncertainties, the doubts all vanished.

Indeed, it was now, during these final instants before he attacked his target, that an extraordinary, ethereal calmness washed over Ritzik.
“Execute in ten
…” In the brief hiccup of time before
Execute! Execute!
he became one with all the other Warriors who ever lived.
“Nine … “
One with Joshua, waiting to attack Jericho.
“Eight
… “ One with Odysseus, sitting silent with his Warriors in the huge, hollow wooden horse outside the walls of Troy.
“Seven… “
One with Major Robert Roger and his green-clad Rangers in the French and Indian Wars.
“Six
…” One with Stonewall Jackson at Manassas.
“Five
…” One with the Second Ranger Battalion—the Boys of Pointe du Hoc—on D day.
“Four
…” One with Colonel Henry Mucci at Cabanatuan.
“Three …”
One with the First Division Marines at Chosin Reservoir.
“Two—sniper shoot
…” One with Captain Dick Meadows in Banana One, the lead chopper closing in on Son Tay prison camp.
“One.
One with
Randy Shughart and Gary Gordon in the bloody streets of Mogadishu.

In his split second of
oneness
with history’s men o’ warsmen, Ritzik understood that tonight he would win, overcome, persevere, and ultimately prevail.
“Execute! Execute!”

1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
0009 Hours Local Time.

Minus four seconds. Ty
Weaver’s brain scrolled the sniper’s mental checklist. Correct body position—check. Don’t cant the weapon—check. Good breathing. Rifle butt tight against shoulder with no straps or web gear in the way. Perfect spot weld. Consistent eye relief. Correct sight picture. Trigger control. Precise point of aim. Follow-up shots planned.

Minus two seconds.
Weaver’s first shot slapped the truck driver’s head back against the rear window of the cab. The man was dead by the time he impacted the glass. The sniper swung the scope to the left.
Damn
—the tango riding shotgun had dropped out of sight. But there was no time to worry about it. Fighting adrenaline, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and his heartbeat steady and slow, he panned the long gun to the right, and found his third target: the driver of the number two truck.

Minus two seconds.
Rowdy Yates moved the safety bail on his claymore firing device from the safe to the armed position. The third truck—the one with the prisoners and the device—was almost clear of the mines’ conical killing zone.

Minus one second.
Weaver put the HK’s crosshairs on the man’s upper lip and squeezed the trigger. His ten-power nightscope was sensitive enough that he could make out the fine mist of blood and brain matter as the tango’s head dropped out of sight.

Weaver’s crosshairs found the second man in the cab. The tango was wild-eyed, confused. He was reaching out to help his buddy when Weaver’s third shot in less than two seconds caught him in the left eye. Now the big rifle moved again, Weaver’s crosshairs searching for the driver of the number six truck. As they found the point between his eyebrows, the three claymores went off simultaneously. There was no discernible reaction from the sniper as Weaver’s index finger tightened around the HK’s trigger.

1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
0009 Hours Local Time.

T
HE HUGE EXPLOSIONS
sent them sprawling. Sam Phillips screamed, “Jeezus H. Christ—hit the deck.”

The heavy truck shuddered, staggered as if it had been hit by a wrecking ball. It was the whole goddamn Chinese Army—had to be. Automatic weapons opened up—a deafening, freaking barrage of mayhem. He heard the concussive explosions of grenades or mortars. Sam could see the trucks behind them exploding right through the canvas—the yellow flames were that bright. There was screaming everywhere. He rolled onto his right side, yanking X-Man with him. “Kaz—get X’s knife—now. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here before the sons of bitches kill us along with the rest of them or blow up the goddamn bomb.”

“Yo, Sam.” Kaz snaked across the rough wood. X-Man stretched his leg out. Kaz scrunched around and pulled the
small composite blade out from behind the security man’s boot top. Quickly, he cut Sam’s arms free. Sam grabbed the blade. He cut the bonds that pinioned X-Man’s arms.

But then the truck lurched, and the knife fell out of his grasp and skittered across the rough wood of the bed. “Shit. X—”

X-Man dove after the blade as another explosion shook the truck and rounds smacked dangerously close by.

The truck pitched forward, knocking them ass over teakettle as it—
smack-rear-ended
the vehicle in front of them and stalled out.

“Jeezus—
Sam—”

Sam looked in the direction of Kaz’s voice. “Holy shit.”

The nuke had broken loose from its moorings. It began to totter. Mindless of the gunfire, the three men struggled to their feet and pressed up against the MADM, trying to hold it steady against the cab end of the truck bed before it fell and crushed them all.

“C’mon, goddammit.” Sam thrust his shoulder up against the nuke. Outside, the firing was deafening—long bursts; short bursts; grenades; shouts. Sam could hear rounds
p-p-pinging
off the metal of the vehicles. There were other explosions. And more screams.

They finally wedged the nuke tight against the front bulkhead. Sam could sense the crate was stable. “X,” he shouted over the gunfire, “get the knife. We’ll hold this thing steady.”

1.5 Kilometers West of Yarkant Köl.
0009 Hours Local Time.

R
ITZIK
’
S VOICE
in Rowdy’s earpiece:
“Execute! Execute!”
The sergeant major’s hand closed around the firing
trigger and pressed down evenly, just as the four men spread out beside him opened up on the convoy.

The mines caught the fourth and fifth trucks and the middle 4x4 in a perfect and deadly broadside. Screams erupted as the steel fragments found their targets through the thin sidewalls and canvas.

Rowdy pulled the pin on the grenade in his left hand, let the spoon fly, and then lobbed the device in a long arc at the rear of the sixth truck. The grenade gone, he shouldered his AK and raked the kill zone.

Goose’s RPG caught the third truck dead center. He could see body parts fly as the rocket grenade exploded. The second RPG caught truck number four. Almost immediately, both caught fire. Using AKs and grenades, Rowdy’s shooters took down the tangos as they tried to scramble to safety.

Mike Ritzik didn’t have time to notice Rowdy’s success. He and Mickey D were too busy trying to kill the occupants of the first two vehicles, who were being highly uncooperative.

The 4x4’s driver had obviously dropped onto the floor, because Ritzik couldn’t see anybody in the vehicle but the Toyota was moving straight forward, jouncing on the rutted roadway. Obviously, the tango inside was steering blind. But he was doing a good job of it. He was almost parallel to Ritzik’s position, and gaining speed.

Ritzik came up off the ground to get a better angle, and saw muzzle flash from the vehicle. Bright yelloworange-white death. And then, things slowed down, almost as if time were standing still. He could sense the rounds coming at him in slo-mo. He pancaked. Rolled to his left as sand kicked up all around him. He fired back: one-two-three quick bursts of suppressive fire. Real time resumed. Crawling on hands and knees, he scurried around the berm and put a second series of five-round bursts through the Toyota’s
door. But the goddamn 4x4 took the licking and kept on ticking. Not good. He yelled at Mickey D: “Shoot at the tires—”

Too late. The 4x4 was out of range. Now the big truck loomed into Ritzik’s sight picture, the top of the driver’s head visible. Ritzik fired. Glass shattered. But the truck kept going. Ritzik and Mickey D loosed a series of long bursts as the cab drew even. They could see the profile of the driver, head lolling against the broken window.

Ritzik head-shot the man. But he didn’t move. He just kept driving. He was a goddamn bullet sponge.

And then Ritzik realized what was happening. The driver was dead. Ty had killed the son of a bitch. The second man in the cab was using the corpse as a shield. Where the hell was an RPG when you needed one? Ritzik’s bolt locked back. He dropped the empty mag out, slapped a new one into the mag well, and raked the canvas-covered truck bed.

But the big vehicle kept going forward. Gaining speed. Moving out of range.

“Boss—” Mickey D’s voice in his ear.

Ritzik spun around.

“Third truck.”

Ritzik saw. A knot of hostiles were crawling, shielded by the causeway sidewall, working their way toward the number three truck. The one with the hostages.

His AK came up, front sight on the leader. He put a three-shot burst into the sumbitch. One down.

From Ritzik’s right, Mickey D emptied a full mag at the tangos. The muzzle flash from the AK was blinding. “Fire discipline, Mickey,” Ritzik screamed at the pilot. He blinked, trying to regain any semblance of night vision. Jeezus. He aligned the AK’s front sight and squeezed off a quartet of three-shot bursts at the advancing tangos.

Two of them managed to crawl to the rear of Truck Three. Ritzik saw a grenade. “Ty—your twelve-thirty.”

“Roger.” The sniper brought his muzzle up. Found the target. Squeezed the trigger. The grenade rolled under the truck and exploded.

Ritzik spoke coolly into the throat mike. “Rowdy, Shep—one-two-three-four hostiles—rear of truck three.”

“Roger, Loner. We’ll take the truck and hostages.”

S
AM WAS SCREAMING
,
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—don’t let it tip.”

And then the corner of the rear flap was pulled aside. A bearded face. An arm. A gun. “Jeezus—X,” Sam yelled.

As the gunman’s eyes tunneled on Sam and Kaz, X-Man reached across, grabbed the man’s gun arm, and slammed it down onto the tailgate. The gunman screamed. The revolver went skittering across the truck bed.

X-Man leveraged himself out of his kneeling position and, without letting go the terrorist’s arm, took him by the hair and yanked the man inside the truck.

“Don’t let the bomb fall,” Sam screamed. He let go of the crate and dove for the gun.

X-Man and the terrorist were struggling, arms and legs thrashing. Sam thought he saw the pistol on the truck bed. Then the two men rolled on top of the weapon.

“Sam—” Kaz’s voice. “Jeezus, the bomb.”

Sam launched himself at the nuke.

“Ungghs.”
X-Man sensed the pistol underneath his kidneys. But there was no way to get his hands on it. He was
otherwise engaged. The son of a bitch was strong. Wiry. He stank, too. Urine, feces, sweat, garlic; a whole panoply of Uzbek aromas.

X-Man tried to roll the Uzbek over so he could get on top and strangle the sumbitch. But he couldn’t get any traction, couldn’t get any leverage. The guy was a natural grappler. That made him dangerous.

Shit—from the way they were moving, X was pretty certain the Uzbek had felt where the pistol was, and he was gonna try for it. Not good.