Читать книгу Hostile Dawn - Don Pendleton - Страница 14

Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

David McCarter tightened his parachute harness as he stared out at the thick clouds that obscured his view of the tall mountains flanking the Bekaa Valley. The sun had gone down several hours earlier and the Phoenix Force commander knew that the blackened, overcast skies would aid with their insertion into enemy territory. He and the others were in the cargo bay of a converted DC-10 bearing the emblem of a prominent international delivery carrier. In fact, the plane was one of several owned and operated by the CIA throughout the Middle East. Phoenix Force had secured use of the jet care of Albert Fisk, the operations officer they’d delivered hardcopy intel to following their wrap-up of the Hamas kidnapping incident in Damascus.

Fisk’s offer had come with the small price of allowing two Company agents to accompany McCarter’s men on their assignment. With Gary Manning temporarily out of action, McCarter had decided there was little to lose in taking on the extra manpower. After all, according to the most recent satellite camera images reviewed by Stony Man’s cyberteam back in Virginia, there were an estimated two dozen recruits holed up at the Hezbollah training camp Phoenix Force would be targeting.

“Ready, mates?” the London-born warrior called out to his colleagues.

Rafael Encizo and Calvin James both nodded. T. J. Hawkins, who’d just pried open the lid of a tuba-size leather carrying case, glanced up at McCarter and said, “Give me just another minute.”

One of the CIA agents was up in the cockpit. The other, a gaunt, horse-faced Bostonian named Roger Combs, was crouched next to Hawkins. He checked over his thumb-size digital spy camera, then slipped it into the shirt pocket of his camo fatigues as he glanced inside Hawkins’s carrying case, puzzled by the sight of something that looked like a high-tech tool case sandwiched between a garbage can lid and a wide-wheeled skateboard.

“What the hell is that?” Combs wondered.

Hawkins lifted out the contraption, which was far lighter than it appeared. “TCD-100,” he said.

“That doesn’t help me.”

“Tunnel Combat Device,” the youngest Phoenix Force member explained. “It’s a prototype cooked up by our weaponsmith back in the States.”

Combs frowned. “What does it do?”

“Word is a lot of this training camp is underground. With any luck, we’ll be able to give you a demonstration.”

“In other words, you’re not telling me.”

Hawkins shrugged. “Sorry, man. Classified, y’know?”

“Sort of like who you guys really are, right?” Combs countered. “I don’t buy that line about you being just some JD special task force.”

McCarter interjected, telling the CIA agent, “You want to come along for the ride, fine and dandy. Just save the nosing around for the enemy, all right?”

Combs held up his hands. “No problem. Just curious, that’s all.”

Before McCarter could respond further, the door to the cockpit opened and the other CIA agent made his way to the main cabin. Junior Hale was shorter than his colleague, thickset but in a way that suggested the bulk was more muscle than fat.

“Two minutes to Geronimo,” he announced, moving toward the doorway through which the men would be jumping. “After the insert, Paulie’s gonna fly back and refuel, then wait on our word to swoop in for a pickup.”

“Works for me,” McCarter said.

Hale was about to open the door when he spied the TCD. “What the hell is that?” he echoed.

Combs and McCarter exchanged a look. Both men grinned, then Combs told his colleague, “You don’t wanna know.”

T HE TRAINING CAMP’S southernmost sentry tower rose on a sturdy wooden framework just inside a greenbelt of thick, thorn-tipped bramble that infested the otherwise infertile, red-soiled hillside and helped to create a natural, if incomplete, barrier around the facility. Yusra Wahin, a rail-thin twenty-year-old Hezbollah recruit who’d just completed his third week of training, was posted on the upper platform, armed with a Kalashnikov AK-47 manufactured two years before he was born. High-powered field binoculars were slung around his neck, and clipped to the belt holding up his baggy camo pants was a black-market Motorola HT1000 two-way radio. Wahin was halfway through his shift, battling monotony and an urge to drop to the planks and catch some much-needed sleep. Sentry duty, after all, had come on the heels of a day already filled with calisthenics, training exercises and indoctrination seminars.

From his vantage point, Wahin could also see two other observation posts rising up from the bramble’s edge on the far side of the camp. Sentries were posted there, as well, and the guard suspected they were combating the same ennui that weighed on him. He could see smoke trailing upward from one of the silhouetted figures and immediately felt a craving for a cigarette. He fought off the urge, however. Smoking was supposedly forbidden by sentries, and Wahin lacked the impunity of his older counterpart. He would have to wait until dawn, when he was relieved from his post, to indulge himself.

Wahin had completed his twelfth tiresome lap around the railed confines of the platform when he detected movement up in the mountains to his left. He first suspected it was one of the countless wild goats that periodically roamed up from the valley, but a closer look revealed that the figure was moving on two legs, clutching something difficult to mistake for anything but a long-barreled firearm. Wahin immediately stopped his pacing and grabbed his binoculars, the better to confirm his growing fear.

It was an armed intruder, and he wasn’t alone. As Wahin panned with the binoculars, he spotted several more men clearing the ridgeline and fanning out as they began to charge downhill toward the camp.

The sentry anxiously lowered the binoculars and grabbed his two-way radio. He’d raised the device to his lips and was about to relay the alarm when he was struck in the chest by what felt like a white-hot firebrand. The blow threw him off balance and he dropped the walkie-talkie as he veered backward, an intense pain radiating from where he’d been hit. By the time it occurred to him that he’d just been shot, Wahin had careened against the railing behind him. The thin wood splintered under his weight and the recruit instinctively flung his arms outward, clawing at the air as he toppled from the tower. When he struck the half-empty water tank below him, Yusra Wahin’s neck snapped, sending him to his Maker.

W HEN THE GUARD LANDED on the water tank, a dull, gonglike peal echoed across the mountainside. Rafael Encizo scowled as he lowered the high-powered M-110 he’d used to bring the man down.

“So much for the element of surprise,” he muttered to Calvin James. “If this peashooter didn’t get anyone’s attention, that sure as hell did!”

“Not much we can do about it but get a move on,” James said, shifting his grip on three of the hastily gathered parachutes with which Phoenix Force and their CIA counterparts had touched down on the ridgeline. McCarter had already hauled the other three chutes halfway down the mountainside and, with the help of CIA Agent Hale, was pitching them over the nearest row of bramble standing between them and the camp. Hawkins was off to the left, moving at a slower pace, the TCD-100 tucked close to his chest. With him was Roger Combs, the other Company operative.

Encizo nodded tersely and followed close behind as James loped downhill to the right of McCarter and Hale. By the time they’d reached another long-running patch of bramble, sentries posted atop the far towers had spotted them. Volleys of rounds thumped into the dirt around them as they ducked low behind the thorn bush.

“Here, give me a quick hand,” James said, unraveling the parachutes in the dirt. The nylon fabric was thin, but when the canopies were folded and placed on top of one another, sandwiching the suspension lines, they would provide a layer thick enough to partially blunt the stabbing force of the bramble thorns. The two Stony Man commandos, following McCarter and Hale’s lead, draped the parachutes over the coarse shrubbery, then quickly steeled themselves and bounded over. James grunted as he felt several thorns poke through the makeshift barrier as well as his pant legs, drawing blood along his right thigh. Encizo cursed as he took a few barbs of his own. Within seconds they’d cleared the obstacle and were forced to dive in separate directions to avoid the next volley of rifle fire from the sentry towers.

“One down, two to go,” James confirmed, ignoring the blood that had begun to seep through his pants. He waited out another few rounds from the enemy, then crawled back to the parachutes and quickly gathered them up. Encizo, meanwhile, brought his semiautomatic back into play, taking sight through the M-110’s 30 mm KAC scope and triggering a return shot. Far off across the camp, the sentry in the northeast tower slumped to his platform.

“I was talking about the bramble, but that’s okay,” James drawled, stuffing the parachutes under his arm. He glanced down at a thin rivulet of blood trailing from his combat boots into the rust-colored dirt.

“Look on the bright side,” Encizo told him, grinning savagely. “Leave a trail like that and we won’t have any trouble finding our way back.”

M C C ARTER AND H ALE HAD MADE it over their first hurdle, but when they tried to retrieve the parachutes that had shielded them from the briar, the canopies wouldn’t give.

“They must be stuck on a branch,” the CIA agent said after giving the chutes another sharp tug.

McCarter, who was trading shots with the lone remaining sentry, called out to Hale without taking his eyes off his target. “Leave ’em, then,” he said. “We’ll have to try to make an end run around the bushes.”

Hale let go of the parachutes and grabbed his M-16/M-203 combo rifle. He fingered the carbine’s trigger and was unleashing a volley at the distant guard tower when a return round from the sentry clipped him in the ribs.

“Son of a bitch!” he swore, grimacing as he dropped to one knee.

McCarter looked around and spotted a boulder heap twenty yards to his left. He fired a quick autoburst at the sentry, then rushed to Hale’s side, pulling him up to his feet.

“C’mon, mate.”

McCarter helped the wounded agent straggle along the briar line to the rock formation. Once they reached it, the Briton eased Hale to the ground. Bullets sang off the boulders above their heads as McCarter tore open the other man’s shirt to get a better look at the wound.

“Went clean through. How’s your breathing?”

Hale winced as he dragged in air and let it out slowly, then spit into his hand, checking for blood. “Missed the lung, at any rate.”

“You’ll need to hang back and staunch the blood flow.” McCarter set down his M-16 long enough to pull off his shirt and tear off one of the sleeves. “These won’t be exactly sterilized, but they’ll have to do.”

Once he’d torn the sleeve in two, the Phoenix Force Leader handed the makeshift compresses to Hale, who was now reclining against one of the larger boulders. The CIA agent needed both hands to press the cloth against the entry and exit wounds. Blood quickly seeped through, reddening his fingers.

“Go on,” he told McCarter. “If I’m still kicking when the dust settles, I’m Type O and’ll probably be down a few pints.”

McCarter nodded, putting on his now-sleeveless camo shirt. “We’ll take care of you,” he assured Hale, “and when it’s over I’ll buy you a couple pints of Guinness, too.”

“Deal.”

“Mind if we swap popguns?” McCarter asked, reaching for the CIA agent’s combo. “The grenade launcher might come in handy.”

“Be my guest.”

McCarter handed the other man his M-16, then cast his shirt aside and clutched Hale’s over-under. He scrambled halfway up the boulder heap and was forced to duck when sniper fire glanced off the rocks. From the higher vantage point, he was able to see past the briar line. If he could get to the other side and dogleg to his left, there was a dirt access road that he figured would take him to the camp without having to contend with the thorn bushes.

Inching upward, McCarter propped his borrowed carbine in a niche between two rocks and sighted up on the far guard tower through the M-16’s scope. From his position he wasn’t able to get a clear bead on the sentry, but the enemy gunner had shifted his attention to James and Encizo, who were using their parachutes to clear yet another of the bramble clots. Taking advantage of his foe’s distraction, McCarter sprang forward, bounding up over the top of the rock heap and down to the other side. He hit the ground running and dodged left, crouching low as he made his way to the road. By the time he reached it, the remaining sentry had been taken out, courtesy of Encizo’s M-110.

As McCarter jogged down the road leading toward the camp, he saw the first sign of Hezbollah reinforcements rising up from their underground lair. Like ants, they began to emerge from several different openings and fan out in all directions.

“Not good,” McCarter murmured to himself. “C’mon, T.J., get busy with that bloody Gopher Snake already!”