Читать книгу Triplecross - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

Jammu, Kashmir

“That’s it,” Hawkins said, peering through a pair of compact field glasses. “The dossier on Jamali says his personal logo is the Pakistani military insignia superimposed on a red field.”

McCarter, crouched next to Hawkins on the ridge overlooking the small encampment of Jamali fighters, nodded.

“That’s how they confuse the issue,” Encizo added. “Gera does the same thing. He uses the Indian military symbology, but next to a series of black slashes to signify territory conquered. If you’re not looking for the differences you’ll just identify their rogue elements as part of the main Pakistani and Indian militaries. It’s a nasty tactic. Sure to put the two countries at each other’s throats, just as it’s done.”

“Well, not for too much longer,” McCarter vowed. “We’re going to put the hurt on them both.” He turned to Encizo. “Is the Farm still tracking that contingent of Gera’s forces?” he asked.

“Yes.” Encizo nodded. “We have real-time satellite surveillance on them. They’re a ways out yet.”

“Text Barb and ask her if we can get some generic chatter spliced into their local airspace,” McCarter directed. “Something that will make Gera’s people wonder what’s going on and give them the itch to investigate. We can do that, can’t we?”

“As long as there’s a way for Bear to reach out through the ether and touch them, yes,” Encizo said. “Why?”

“I want to draw Gera’s people here,” McCarter explained. “Give both contingents a bloody nose at the same time.”

“What happens if we overplay it?” Manning asked. He was crouched alongside James. The MRAP vehicles were parked in the shadow of a tall stone outcropping that was dusted with snow. Rather than gang-bust their way through the camp below in the vehicles, McCarter had opted for an infiltration on foot. The plan was to destroy the Jamali scouting party from within. This would give them a chance to gather any intelligence there was to be had, while putting them up close and personal with Jamali’s forces. Such men operated on the basest of animal levels. They understood fear and they understood strength. McCarter was going to put them on notice by showing them the latter and, in so doing, instilling a healthy dose of the former.

“Concern noted, mate,” McCarter said, nodding again. “And you’re right—if we don’t time this right, we end up caught between the two forces, which nobody wants or needs. So let’s be brisk in dealing with Jamali’s men. Remember—we want to make an impression.”

Manning loaded the grenade launcher of his Tavor.

“Forty mike-mike makes an impression, all right,” James said “So do those RPGs you’re lugging around.” Manning had the heavy rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his back, together with the launcher. He was large enough to be able to carry that load without it inhibiting his mobility. There weren’t a lot of men with his combat time who could boast that, even in circles as elite as the one in which Phoenix Force traveled.

“Let’s move, lads,” McCarter said.

Half crouching, gliding along from heel to toe, the men of Phoenix Force spread out and began descending, traversing the decline and closing on the scouts’ camp. Jamali’s men had a pair of Toyota trucks with machine guns mounted in the beds. They also had a canvas-covered, six-wheeled troop truck. These were parked at three points around the camp, forming a triangle, while the scouts had erected tents in the intervening space. They had set sentries, too, but not enough of them. McCarter had been watching them walk their patterns and had deliberately timed Phoenix Force’s movements to take advantage of a gap in their coverage.

“Grenades, get ready,” McCarter said softly. His words left a trail of frozen vapor that crystallized on his face. He pulled his mottled cold-weather neck wrap tighter around his face. The generic camouflage pattern of his fatigues matched that of his scarflike wrap, which was really just a big square of fabric folded over on itself several times. The gloves McCarter and the rest of the team wore were easily some of the most expensive on the market. They were durable and they insulated the hand but did not add too much bulk, allowing the soldiers of Phoenix Force to fight in cold weather without giving up too much dexterity.

Someone within the perimeter of the camp shouted an alarm. Phoenix Force had been spotted. McCarter had been counting on that. They had done what they needed to do, which was put themselves in the scouts’ midst before the enemy gunmen knew what was happening to them.

“Fire,” McCarter ordered.

His four teammates opened up with their 40 mm grenade launchers. Two grenades each struck the front of the first pickup and the rear of the second. Each vehicle was shoved aside by the explosions. The mounted machine guns were torn and bent and the vehicles themselves were rendered inoperable. The gas tank of one of the trucks exploded in a brief orange fireball.

Phoenix Force broke formation. The veteran counterterrorists ran for cover, threading their way through the tents of the scout camp, firing their Tavors in measured bursts. McCarter no longer felt the cold once the battle started. He stopped feeling anything at all except alert and awake, focused on the battle that now unfolded in front of him.

That was always how combat had been for him: a focusing of his mind to an almost painful acuity, giving him the data he needed to assess the threats before him and deal out force, mete out violence, as was required for the task at hand. Dispassionate, his trainers in the SAS had called it. It was all well and good to be angry, to let anger, even hatred, fuel your battle. But when it came to actually taking a man’s life—or the lives of a hundred men, for that matter—you had to maintain your detachment. You had to see them as what they were: targets, obstacles to be removed. That was why McCarter took no pleasure in removing even men like these, brutal though both Jamali’s and Gera’s rogue forces were reported to be.

It was simply time to remove some obstacles.

“T.J., Gary, left,” McCarter instructed. “Rafe, Calvin, right. Flank them and walk them toward the center. I’ll come straight up the middle.”

A chorus of affirmatives sounded through his transceiver. McCarter used the wreckage of one of the pickups to shield him from enemy gunfire as he took up his position. The flames from the second truck nearby were hot enough that he felt them as he waited on one knee. No time to cozy up to a campfire now, though, he reflected. The smell of gasoline was strong where the closer truck had been wrenched apart.

It was only in the movies that every vehicle was made of flashpaper and nitro, ready to blow up at the first bullet that glanced off its fuel tank. Most of the fuel in McCarter’s cover vehicle was now soaking the snow beneath the pickup’s wreckage. Even if it caught fire, it would just make McCarter’s brief stay that much more comfortable. But even without the risk that his cover would erupt into flying shrapnel without warning, he had plenty of bullets to worry about.

The Pakistanis were fielding Kalashnikovs by the truckload, from what he could see. As he watched, one of the Jamali fighters sprang up from the perforated remains of his tent with an AK in either hand. Screaming what McCarter assumed were bloodthirsty oaths, the fighter blazed away from the hip, bracing the stocks of the AKs between his body and his elbows, letting the muzzle rise carry his twin streams of bullets to hell and gone.

McCarter let his Tavor lie at the end of its single-point sling. He pulled his Browning Hi-Power, thumbed back the hammer and took careful aim.

The dual-wielding soldier was still screaming when McCarter’s carefully aimed 9 mm bullet tunneled through his forehead and blew a hole through the back of his skull.

“Close it up, lads, close it up,” McCarter said, knowing his transceiver would carry his words to the others. He stood, ready to push forward, cutting through the center of the encampment as he’d said he would.

“David,” Calvin James warned, “you’ve got a wild one headed your way.”

“Wilder than dual-wielding assault rifles?”

“On your two o’clock,” James said.

But McCarter already saw the Pakistani soldier coming. The man held what looked like a battered Makarov pistol in one hand and in the other...

“Bloody hell,” said McCarter softly. “Is that a fireman’s ax?”

The other Phoenix Force members began engaging new targets. Automatic weapons fire from the Tavors filled the air, met by diminishing return fire from the scouts.

McCarter hit the snow and rolled as bullets filled the air where he had been standing. His charging attacker emptied the Makarov and actually threw the pistol through the air as McCarter struggled to regain his feet. It was a move the Briton hadn’t seen outside a cowboy movie in a long time.

From his back in the snow, McCarter brought up the Browning and fired three times. He struck the attacking soldier in the chest, but the gunshots weren’t enough to bring the man down. The Phoenix Force leader felt the air being forced from his lungs as the Pakistani shooter collided with him, crushing his ribs and shouting in pain and anger. McCarter shoved the Hi-Power into the man’s torso and pulled the trigger, but the slide was out of battery. He smashed the weapon against the side of the Pakistani’s head and pushed with his off hand, rolling them over just as the enemy soldier tried to bring the fire ax down.

The gunfire all around the two men, cutting through the small encampment, increased in pitch. The Briton had seen some strange weapons carried into battle by men who had their idiosyncratic favorites. A fire ax was not the most unusual one he had seen, but it was a rare thing. It was also long and deadly, with a rear spike as long as his hand.

McCarter pushed until he was on top of the enemy. He smashed the Hi-Power against the man’s face once more and grabbed the ax, twisting it out of the other soldier’s grip. Only then did he see the soldier pulling a combat knife from a sheath at his waist. There was nothing else McCarter could do. If he hesitated, that knife would be in his guts and he would be a dead man.

He brought the heavy blade of the ax down on top of the enemy soldier’s head.

There was a sickening crunch. The packed snow around the two men was suddenly red with blood. McCarter bent, retrieved the Hi-Power he had been forced to release and reloaded it. Adrenaline dump coursed through him, familiar and powerful.

“David,” James said as McCarter checked his six o’clock and saw his teammates closing on his position. The camp was suddenly quiet. The gunfire had ceased. They had neutralized all the opposition.

An engine roared to life.

The covered troop truck was rolling slowly through the snow, the tires digging for traction, the vehicle picking up speed. McCarter turned, spotted the vehicle and ran for it, shoving his Hi-Power in his belt and raising his Tavor as he did so. He wanted to line up the truck for a shot, but it was already out of range.

“David,” Manning warned. “Get down.”

McCarter knew instantly what the stolid Canadian had in mind. He flattened himself into the snow, feeling the chill of the crystals against his clothing. Half a moment later the distinctive sound of a rocket-propelled grenade sailing overhead caused him to put both hands on top of his insulated skull cap.

As if that gesture would save me if the RPG wasn’t precisely on target, he had time to think.

The RPG round struck the rear of the troop truck, blew apart the canvas-covered bed and physically shoved the truck through the snow. It was a very precise shot...but the RPG had detonated against the flimsiest portion of the vehicle, short of the cab. The truck, now a pillar of orange-yellow fire from behind the cab to the rear of its troop area, continued to plow through the snow. The engine raced harder.

“I don’t believe it,” McCarter muttered to himself.

The other four members of Phoenix Force joined him, flanking him as they came up from behind. Manning began to load another RPG round, but the truck was out of range.

“We could let them go,” Encizo said.

“Chances are,” said McCarter, “when Gera’s men home in on this area, they’re going to be drawn straight to that.”

“A flaming troop truck moving through a frozen, desolate wasteland?” James asked. “Who’d notice that?”

McCarter shot James a look. He gestured. “We can go back to where we stashed the MRAPs,” he said, “or we can run them down on foot. So let’s do both. Calvin, you’re with me and Gary. Rafe, T.J., you go get the trucks and bring up the rear. They aren’t moving fast and they’re heavily damaged.”

“Not to mention glow-in-the-dark,” Encizo said.

“That, too,” McCarter said. “We’ll catch up, circle the wagons and make ready to intercept whatever diplomatic overtures Gera’s forces are likely to make.”

“On it,” Encizo said.

“You got it,” Hawkins drawled.

As the two men traced their approach back to the armored vehicles, McCarter, Manning and James set out after the burning truck, trotting through the snow at a brisk pace. McCarter was grateful for the activity. It was damned cold out here, even though the weather was calm at the moment. It felt good to put some blood back in his extremities.

“I don’t know, man,” James said as they moved. “I mean, I’m no Native American tracker or anything. We might lose them.”

Ahead of them, the trail made by the truck through the fresh coating of snow was as clear as a highway. Not that much farther ahead, the still-burning truck was impossible to miss, like the light at the end of a train tunnel.

“Somehow,” Manning said quietly, “I think we’ll manage.”

They had not gone far when the sound of the two MRAPs was audible at their backs. The troop truck was growing larger, too; they were gaining on it.

Something didn’t feel right.

“Slow it up, lads,” McCarter said quietly. The transceivers Phoenix Force wore made it possible for him to issue quiet verbal commands where he might otherwise have used hand signals. He did not have to speak loudly enough to be heard; he only had to speak loud enough that his transceiver picked it up. His amplified voice was then run through the earbuds of the other team members. The transceivers had smart algorithms for screening noise, too, which was why they did not transmit the sounds of gunfire and explosions.

“Yeah, I don’t like it,” James said. “Seems just a little too easy.”

“Let’s get down in the cold white again,” McCarter suggested. “Gary, join me down here. You’re from north of the States. It will be like home.” He looked to James. “Calvin, circle them, low and quiet. Take the right side of the truck. It’s flaming more than the left. Should obscure their vision.”

“Got it.” James loped off across the snow, silent as a panther.

“Somehow,” Manning said, going prone in the snow with his RPG at the ready and his Tavor slung, “it’s just not the same.”

McCarter judged the distance from Manning and gave himself a little more space to stay clear of the backblast from the RPG. He aimed with his Tavor and prepared to fire a targeted burst. Through the futuristic assault weapon’s sights, he watched as men began moving in and around the cab of the flaming truck, first jumping down from it, then climbing back in, then exiting again. A quick survey of the surrounding snowy ground, dotted by rocky outcroppings and scarred by natural trenches carved by the wind, showed him that James was nowhere in sight.

“They spotted something,” Manning said, speculating. “They saw Calvin but they’re not sure. They’re probably arguing among themselves. Trying to figure out if what they saw is what they saw.”

“Get ready, mate,” McCarter said. “I think they were laying for us. Using the vehicle and the fire as cover and distraction. They were hoping we’d walk right into their bullets. When we stopped, it ruined their plans.”

Manning had no response for that. The range was extreme for the RPG, and with James not visible, a shot would be unwise. But there would be no denying the explosive power of the RPG when it came time to light up their foes. McCarter spared Manning’s pack a glance. The big Canadian still had plenty of firepower for the rocket launcher, and there was more loaded in the cargo areas of the MRAPs.

The gunfire McCarter had been waiting for, the gunfire James, too, had sensed was coming, finally exploded from the truck. There were more shooters than McCarter had anticipated. He judged at least half a dozen men, possibly as many as eight. They must have been crammed pretty tightly in the cab and toward the front of the big truck, because there couldn’t have been many survivors of the blast at the back.

A muzzle-flash on their ten o’clock gave away James’s position for just an instant. Silhouetted by the guttering flames of the troop truck, a figure fell into the snow.

Score one for Calvin, thought McCarter. He waited. There was another flash, this time at eleven o’clock. James was on the move, shooting and then changing position. A second body fell from the truck.

That’s two, the Phoenix Force leader thought to himself.

McCarter waited long enough to verify that, when James’s third shot rang out, he was farther away from the vehicle, not closer. It was then that McCarter reached out and tapped Manning on the shoulder.

“Fire in the hole, Gary,” he said.

Manning pulled the trigger of the RPG. The rocket blazed from the tube, made its deceptively lazy way to the target and struck just to the rear of the cab, blowing a hole in the sheet metal and knocking the truck over on its side. A singed door, ripped free of its hinges, flew through the air and landed in the snow between the doomed vehicle and where McCarter and Manning were stationed.

“Rafe, T.J., bring it in. Put yourselves on either side of the truck and get those turrets manned. If the Farm has done its part we won’t be lonely for long. Rafe, what’s the latest satellite tracking update?”

“They’re headed to us, all right,” Encizo said through the transceiver link. “I estimate eight minutes, maybe ten, before we’ve got all the Gera we could ever want.”

“Then let’s make sure we wrap up the party here first,” said McCarter. He got to his feet and offered Manning a hand up. Given Manning’s size, the Briton had to put his weight into it.

“You’re not getting any lighter, mate,” McCarter noted.

“But you’re as charming as ever, David,” Manning retorted with a grin. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” the Phoenix Force leader said. He brought his weapon to his shoulder and stalked toward what was left of the troop truck.

Nothing moved in the wreckage until the two men were practically on top of it. McCarter didn’t see the man who climbed out of the “top” of the truck. With the vehicle on its side, what had been the driver’s window was now the only egress through the hole where the door had been. A single Pakistani gunman, his bloody uniform bearing Jamali’s modified military crest, half jumped, half fell directly on top of McCarter.

The Briton went down under the weight of the other man. Just as quickly, he surged to his feet, carrying the smaller, lighter Pakistani with him, smashing the man against the burned-out hulk of the troop truck.

As McCarter was slamming the butt of his Tavor down on the skull of his enemy, he was aware of the gunfire around him. Manning was engaging a contact at close range, and while McCarter dealt with his own enemy, he saw James appear in his peripheral vision. The lanky James sauntered up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Steam escaped from the neckline of his cold-weather fatigues. He had been pushing hard. His assault rifle was still in his hands.

“You all right, David?” James asked.

McCarter looked down where he knelt. The Pakistani was dead. He checked his rifle for damage, but there was none that he could perceive. He took the time to eject the magazine, check it, seat it and make sure a round was chambered. Then he stood.

“You couldn’t find something a little more unique?” James said.

“What, mate?” McCarter asked, momentarily confused.

“You know, like a garden hoe or maybe a rake.”

“What are you on about, Calvin?”

“Dude, you killed a guy with an ax a little while ago.”

It was then that McCarter realized that, no matter what else happened on this mission, he was never going to live that down.