The Ares Decision (33 page)

J
ON SMITH LOOKED OVER
the edge of the dry moat and studied the tower on the northeastern edge of the fence line, searching for the sniper ensconced there. Hakim’s truck tipping over had been a complete disaster, pinning down Farrokh’s team and potentially turning the entire operation into an unwinnable war of attrition.

Howell was prone on the bridge above, using his freakish marksmanship to cover the men huddled behind the capsized truck. Farrokh was crawling back and forth among them, patting shoulders and delivering words of encouragement, but most still looked like they were about thirty seconds from melting down.

The distance between them and the remaining towers had neutralized the advantage of elevated machine guns, and the men in them had switched to rifles. They were good, but not particularly great shots—with one exception. There was a sniper in the northeastern tower who was a damn prodigy. He’d already taken out three of their men and was throwing an extremely large wrench into what little was left of their machine.

His bearded face appeared over the rim of the tower, and Smith was unable to adjust his aim before the muzzle flash. The round ricocheted off the bridge and he turned to see that it had knocked loose a chunk of concrete near Howell’s shoulder. The Brit remained completely still, eye glued to his scope.

“I’d be much obliged if you’d
kill
that son of a bitch, Jon.”

“Working on it.”

A bullet kicked up some sand two feet from Smith’s head, and Howell fired off a few rounds in the general direction it had come from. Sitting there waiting for the Iranians to find their range and call in reinforcements wasn’t an option. If they broke cover, though, the sniper to the northeast would have a field day.

And so it was a guessing game. On what part of the tower would he appear next? In order to have time to get off an accurate shot, Smith would have to anticipate his position within about a foot.

“I think I’m starting to get a sunburn,” Howell said, making the point that he hadn’t come there to get involved in a deadly stalemate.

“South, east, or west?”

“What?” Howell said.

“Choose one.”

“South.”

“Pick a number between one and ten.”

“Six.”

Smith aimed at the south side of the tower, about six feet from the left, and waited. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. When the dark face appeared again it was almost exactly where Howell had unknowingly predicted.

Smith held his breath and squeezed off a round, waiting the split second it took to travel across the compound before seeing the head jerk back in an explosion of blood.

“You have the luck of the Irish, Peter. Go!”

Farrokh’s men laid down suppressing fire at the line of men Howell had been keeping in check, but their position made it impossible to do anything about the remaining snipers in the towers.

Smith heard the bullets hissing by as he tried to coax a little more speed from his legs in the heavy sand. “Break right!”

Howell did as he was told, diving behind the sandbags that had torn through the truck’s canopy when it tipped. He fired controlled rounds at the towers as Smith jumped over the body of one of their people and slid up next to Farrokh, who was trying to keep his surviving nine-man force from completely depleting their ammunition in one panicked burst.

“We’re safe! Pull back!”

Farrokh shouted for his men to retreat fully behind the truck again. Smith grabbed the youngest of them, swatting away the phone he was inexplicably using to film the battle, and dragging him toward Howell.

“The tower at three o’clock!” Smith said, throwing him down next to the Brit. “Do you understand? Cover the tower at three o’clock!”

He cried out when a round struck a few feet away, but then rolled dutifully onto his stomach and propped his rifle on a sandbag. It was his first time in combat, but he’d grown up hunting with his father and was a better-than-average shot.

Howell reached over and patted him on the back. “That’s a good lad. You’re going to do fine.”

Farrokh and the others had crammed themselves into the now empty bed of the truck while Omidi’s men blasted away at its underside, undoubtedly trying to penetrate the armor protecting the fuel tank.

Finally afforded an unobstructed view, Smith looked toward the rock outcropping that held the entrance to the facility. The heavy doors were blackened and dented, but the breach wasn’t what he’d hoped—no more than a two-foot-by-five-foot gap where the steel plates had been pushed apart. It would be enough, though. That is, if they could get to it. The truck was the only thing keeping them from a cross fire no one could survive. And since there was no way they could abandon it, they’d just have to take it with them.

“Come on!” Smith shouted, digging his fingers into the sand beneath the top of the cab. “Let’s get this thing on its wheels!”

Farrokh and his men came to his aid, and with all ten of them working together, it began to rise.

“Keep going!” Smith yelled over the sound of Howell and his new protégé trading fire with the towers. The man to Smith’s left was hit in the shoulder blade and went down, causing the truck to lurch back toward the sand. “Harder!”

They managed to get it on the edge of its tires, and he walked his hands up the windshield pillar as the load lightened. When gravity finally took over, he dove through the open window, shoving Hakim’s body out of the way and jamming the clutch down with his elbow.

He twisted the ignition key and was surprised to hear the engine fire almost immediately. Maybe their luck was finally changing.

Still stuffed up under the dash, he used his knee to move the shift lever and eased off the clutch, propelling the truck toward the facility’s entrance as bullets rang off the armored door.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute, the truck slammed into something and came to a stop. The motor stalled and Smith kicked the door open, sliding out to see that Howell and his companion had already repositioned themselves and were once again lining up on the towers.

In the distance, he could see a cloud of dust coming toward them and knew it was the convoy of men they’d held back so that they wouldn’t arrive on the bridge looking like the invading army they were. It would be another fifteen minutes before they arrived, though, so no help there.

Keeping tight to the truck, Smith approached the blackened steel doors. He could feel cold air blowing through the gap and see the shimmer of fluorescent light inside. But that was all. There was no sound and nothing that would indicate movement.

He stood motionless for a moment, hearing a round shatter the windshield of the truck behind him. Howell was doing everything humanly possible, but it was just a matter of time before the snipers picked them off.

“What now?” Farrokh said, slipping up next to him. Smith shouldered his rifle and pulled out the .45 he’d been given. It felt heavy and clumsy compared to the one Janani had made, but it would have to do.

He eased forward, but when the gun came even with the gap in the doors, a shot sounded and the pistol was ripped from his hand.

“Damn it!” he said, jerking back and making a quick count of his fingers. All still there.

A few more shots followed, scattering Farrokh’s confused men as Smith tried to decipher what he was hearing. Three, maybe four, separate guns, all trained on the narrow gap that they needed to pass through.

“Do we have any explosives left?”

Farrokh shook his head. “The men coming have a few grenades, but we put everything else we had in the truck.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You didn’t hold any back?”

“If we didn’t get through the door, what would we have done with them?”

It was a valid point, but not what he wanted to hear. They still had the truck. How could they use it? Ramming the doors was unlikely to get them anywhere—they still looked solid. Maybe attach chains and pull?

Great idea, if they
had
chains. And a few hours. And no one trying to kill them.

More shots sounded from inside, and Smith backed away from the opening before he realized that the bullets weren’t coming through. Panicked shouts became audible a moment later, followed by an eerie, echoing screech that sounded strangely like monkeys.

He picked up the charred remains of a fender and waved it in front of the breach. The shooting and shouts continued inside, but none of it seemed to be directed at the fender.

As much as he hated leaping in blind, an opportunity had presented itself and it was impossible to know if there would ever be another.

“Peter!” he shouted. “We’re going!”

Howell slapped the young man next to him on the back and then ran toward Smith, who was barking orders while Farrokh translated.

“You. Take Peter’s place and cover those towers as best you can. You three, use the truck and whatever else you can find to block this entrance after we go in. Nothing comes out. You understand what we’re dealing with, right?”

They all nodded. “All right. Hold tight. Reinforcements are on their way. The rest of you are with us.”

Smith pulled his assault rifle in front of him and took a deep breath before leaping through the gap. He immediately fell to the floor, staying as close to the wall as he could and yelling for anyone following to do the same.

He had been right about there being three men covering the entrance, but now they had so little interest in it, they hadn’t even noticed him come in. They were firing wildly at two small, blood-soaked monkeys darting from wall to ceiling to floor so quickly it was hard to believe they didn’t have wings. Ricochets filled the air as the rounds bounced off stone and steel in search of something more forgiving.

Farrokh came through next and Smith grabbed him, making sure he stayed low as his men followed.

“Hold your—,” he started, but it was too late. The second man through let loose a series of uncontrolled bursts at the red blurs streaking around them, filling the air with even more lead.

“Peter! The monkeys!” he yelled as the Brit came through.

The benefit of Omidi’s guards’ being completely preoccupied with the animals on the ceiling was that it made them easy targets. They crumpled unceremoniously to the floor when Smith put a single round into each of their chests.

“Stop shooting!” Smith yelled as Howell crammed himself into a corner and began tracking a monkey darting across an oblong light fixture hanging on cables. No one seemed to hear, so he threw himself over Farrokh, grabbing the closest man’s rifle and giving it a hard jerk. “Stop!”

A series of bulbs exploded as Smith went for the next man firing out of turn. In the dark, their chances against these little demons went to precisely zero. He managed to yank the gun from him and was trying to get to the last man shooting when one of the monkeys dropped down and did his job for him.

The young man screamed and dropped his rifle, clawing at the animal sinking its fangs into the back of his neck.

It was just the opportunity Howell needed. His bullet shattered the right half of the monkey’s skull and passed through, severing the desperate man’s spinal cord. A quick and humane end for both.

The last monkey was smaller and faster but obviously confused by the shadows created by the swinging of the last light fixture. Farrokh and his men tracked it with their guns but to their credit managed to control their fear and not fire.

The animal leapt for the wall and missed the hole in the concrete it was going for, causing it to somersault to the floor. The impact dazed it, slowing its chaotic movements enough to make it a viable target. Howell’s first shot spun it around and his second tore away most of its chest.

Suddenly, all that was audible in the room was their ragged breathing and the creaking of the light. Smith was the first to stand, feeling a little disoriented in the stillness. He pulled Farrokh to his feet and then held a hand out to the other three men. They just stared blankly at him as Howell started toward a steep ramp leading into the earth.

“Look on the bright side,” the Brit said as he disappeared around the corner. “How much worse could it possibly get?”

By the time they reached the main level, Smith’s heart had slowed to what still felt like twice its normal rate. He was on point as he came around a blind corner, rifle thrust out in front of him.

Nothing.

“Clear!” he said, aware of the cameras looking down at them but unable to do much about it.

Halfway down the passage they came upon three corpses wearing lab coats, each with a neat bullet hole in the back of the head.

“Nobody touch anything.”

When he got no response, he turned back to Farrokh. “Are you going to translate?”

The Iranian gave him a quizzical look and thumbed back at his men. “Do you really think it’s necessary?”

He was right. They were clearly petrified. It was unlikely that there was enough money in the world to get them to come into contact with those bodies.

They continued on, clearing every room in sequence, finding some empty and others strewn with corpses. None had been attacked by the animals they’d run into when they entered, though. They’d been executed.

Smith backed out of a room containing two people slumped over their desks, once again feeling a sense of relief at not finding Sarie. In truth, though, it would be better if he had. His problems were bad enough without her in the hands of Iranian Intelligence.

A dull whine started in the distance, and he froze, listening to it separate into a chorus of shrieks as it closed on them.

“Are you hearing that?” Howell said. “It’s not going to be two of them this time.”

He was right. It was impossible to pick out individual voices in the screams of the approaching animals. If his team got caught in the confined space of the hallway, they wouldn’t last thirty seconds.

“Inside!” Smith said, leaping back into the room with the others close behind. He slammed the door behind them only to find that the deadbolt was extended far enough to prevent it from fully closing.