Читать книгу Stealth Assassin - Don Pendleton - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe Gulf of AdenNear the southern coast of Yemen
A few hundred feet below, the water looked black, while the night sky was stained a variant shade of ebony. They were coming in low and fast. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, peeled back the Velcro strap covering the face of his watch and checked the time: 0334. They were close to their estimated target time. Everything was proceeding well.
This mission had a bit of déjà vu and also more than a little irony. The man they were on the way to capture had been a prisoner in Guantanamo this time last year. Erroneously released as part of a prisoner exchange, the bureaucratic slip-up was suddenly discovered when Ali Sharif was purportedly observed playing an active role in a planned chemical weapons attack against Saudi Arabia. This sent the State Department scrambling to stop Sharif before the attack against the kingdom could be carried out, thus resulting in another can of worms being popped open in the volatile area. Of course, any open involvement by the United States would result in another round of histrionics at the UN, the standard condemnations of American interference, both in the US and around the world, and so forth. Thus, a key player in the Justice Department, Harold Brognola, was asked by the President to utilize his clandestine resources to make a field adjustment, and hopefully recapture or exterminate Sharif before anyone took real notice that he was back in the arena fighting his jihad.
As far as the mission objectives, recapture or extermination, Bolan was leaning toward the latter since the first attempt at intelligence gathering and reprogramming had been so successful.
Bolan needed a team for this mission, but Able Team and Phoenix Force had their own missions. As well as Jack Grimaldi, five young men, all former blacksuits based at Stony Man Farm, had been tapped to assist the Executioner: Elvan Johnson, Romeo Vargas, Dennis Washington, Frank Doerr and Terry Miller. They all had previous military experience in Iraq and had Ranger training, but not all had seen the brutal door-to-door combat of the early days of the war. And none had been on a special operation of this magnitude and complexity before.
Allegedly, no special ops teams were currently available, or were already encumbered with a crisis of their own in the area, and current intel had indicated that an attack was imminent. That was why Bolan had been called in for this one. But the Executioner had his own doubts. The bureaucratic bungling that had resulted in Ali Sharif’s premature release meant that somebody somewhere down the line would be held accountable. Or so it should be. If, however, a team could quietly recapture the errant jihadist, and he could be surreptitiously returned to his cell at Guantanamo, the whole matter could be put to rest. Like sweeping a pile of dust under the rug and pretending nobody would notice the bump. So this “reapprehension,” as Department of Defense liaison officer Kevin McCarthy had put it in their briefing aboard ship “...has to be a surgical strike conducted with the utmost care and precision due to the exigent circumstances, along with an accompanying plausible deniability factor.”
Plausible deniability, Bolan thought. Every bureaucrat’s trump card.
Failure was not an option because it never happened.
The repetitive noise of the slicing rotor blades and the cool intake of the sea air made conversation inside the Black Hawk impossible, so Bolan adjusted the fit of his ear mic and switched the frequency so he could talk exclusively to Grimaldi.
“How far, Jack?” Bolan asked.
“All the way, Striker,” Grimaldi answered, repeating the old airborne refrain with a chuckle.
Bolan allowed himself a rare smile as he waited.
Seconds later the Stony Man pilot spoke again. “We’re about three minutes out. And the last report from our limited, myopic eye-in-the-sky showed no activity.”
“Roger that,” Bolan said, amused by his partner’s pejorative description of the drone surveillance aircraft. Grimaldi considered himself a top-notch pilot for virtually any type of aircraft, but held a special disdain for the unmanned variety.
Bolan, on the other hand, had developed a healthy respect for the drones and recognized the advantages and capabilities they brought to the battlefield, not the least of which was they could provide a lot of information and firepower without a lot of risk. He’d been in enough combat situations to know that you had to grab every advantage you could get.
He switched back to the team frequency. “Three minutes. Then we’re on the ropes.”
Five heads nodded in unison. Despite the cool sea air rushing in through the open doors, Bolan could smell the adrenaline-laced sweat.
“Approaching drop point,” Grimaldi said over their radios.
Bolan moved to the edge of the door, adjusted his tight-fitting leather gloves and picked up the thick rope. The others did the same. They felt the Black Hawk cant to the left and angle downward. Outside the night sky was still black, but traces of stone buildings dotted the terrain, punctuated by the occasional winking of a light. Other than that, the remnants of the ancient city below were almost totally dark.
When the helicopter’s movement slowed to a stop, Grimaldi’s voice echoed in their earpieces once again.
“Okay, ladies, all ashore who’s going ashore.”
Bolan tossed the coiled rope through the door and followed it down.
He swiveled on the rope to give himself a better view of the target destination. It was an old fort, or rather the remnants of one from the long-lost days of British colonialism in this part of Yemen, set along the sloping embankment of one of the rising hills that overlooked the coast. Not far away, the seaport had once been one of the busiest in the world, but of late had been practically abandoned as the region continued its downward spiral. Bolan hit the uneven, rock-covered ground seconds later and assumed a prone position several feet away. The jutting rocks poked into his torso, making the position uncomfortable, but in combat, comfort was the rarest of luxuries. He heard the grunts of the others as they touched down as well, and heard the faint click of Grimaldi’s mic as the helicopter disappeared into the darkness.
Bolan did a quick equipment verification check, then glanced at his watch again and marked the time. The Stony Man pilot had enough fuel to circle for twenty minutes before heading back to the landing zone to pick them up. That meant they had to get moving. Their pinpoint placement on a slightly higher elevation gave them the initial advantage of the high ground. Taking out his night-vision goggles, he quickly surveyed the area, centering on the stone tower of the old fortress and the missing sections in the deteriorating wall that surrounded it.
The intelligence-gathering drones had provided them with comprehensive and detailed pictures of the area. But the flat, two-dimensional images didn’t provide an exact, three-dimensional perspective. He saw now that the tapering angle was sharper than he’d anticipated. It would slow them down a tad, but at least the heat and humidity had abated due to the darkness. It was still far from pleasant, however, and each of them was wearing level 4 body armor and Kevlar helmets. Bolan could already feel himself starting to sweat from only this mild exertion.
No movement was discernible. Johnson, the highest-ranking team member, crawled up next to Bolan.
“How’s it look, sir?”
Bolan was not in the military anymore and had never been an officer, thus the salutation was inappropriate. He didn’t bother to correct him.
“The decline’s steeper than expected.” He kept his voice at a whisper. “We’ll have to take extra care.”
“Roger that.”
“But it looks pretty quiet so far,” Bolan said, still keeping his tone low. “Hopefully, they didn’t hear the chopper.”
He knew they had to operate on that assumption, but the specter of an ambush was always a possibility.
“Everybody’s good to go,” Johnson said. “Doerr’s setting up as sniper with the Barrett.”
Bolan nodded and motioned for the rest of them to get moving. He regretted not giving Doerr a spotter, but there was no choice. They’d gone through several rehearsals of movement and room-clearing drills aboard the navy ship, but rehearsals, especially in confined area, were no substitute for the real thing.
At least they had the hope that their adversaries didn’t possess much in the way of night-vision capabilities.
Their quick insertion to the area above the fortress meant a downward trek to the long wall, and offered them the best chance of surprise. Bolan rose to a crouch and swung his M4 around so it hung in front of him, ready to go if needed. Indicating with arm signals for the rest of the team to assume the appropriate staggered intervals, they melted into the darkness along the stark rise. The rocky ground made for slow going until they came to a stretch devoid of stubborn shrubbery and errant rocks. Maintaining his forward movement, Bolan lifted his night-vision goggles once more and made another check of the structure. He saw nothing that indicated enemy movement. With a little luck, they would reach the wall in three to four minutes.
They reached the first portion of the crumbing barrier and paused for another perimeter check and a sitrep with Doerr.
“Everything’s looking quiet so far,” Doerr radioed. “There appears to some kind of vehicle parked under the overhang on the north side.”
“What type of vehicle?” Bolan asked.
“Unknown at this time. Possibly a pickup truck.”
Bolan acknowledged, told him to maintain observation and motioned the team forward. He estimated that they were more than a few minutes behind schedule, which meant they had to pick it up. They got to the edge of the wall, and the angular confines of the fortress lay about fifty feet away.
The fort had been constructed of mud and stone, and Bolan thought it had to have once shone a bright yellow in the midday sun. But that had probably been close to a century ago. Years of neglect and sand and wind had etched a pitted surface into the stones and mortar. Several sections of the wall had worn away, leaving piles of jagged and uneven rocks that slowed their progress.
The grinding noise of a vehicle engine starting mixed with another milder, but continuous, droning that pierced the stillness of the night.
Bolan raised his fist, signaling a full stop. He listened. The engine caught and settled into a rough idle. The sound was loud and deep, like a truck.
Voices, speaking in Arabic, were audible among the rumbling piston noise. Twin beams of headlights illuminated the darkness perhaps forty feet away, and Bolan saw the flat, macadamized surface of the winding road he’d seen depicted in the drone photos. The front end of a quarter-ton pickup truck pulled forward from the pillars of an overhang, its headlights washing over the curving dirt road. He raised the night-vision goggles to his eyes and pressed the button to enlarge the image. The bed of the truck was covered by a black tarp, so the contents could not be seen. From the look of it, the vehicle was heavily laden with something. It swung around and began driving away from the fortress. He was unable to tell how many occupants were inside.
Bolan keyed his mic. “Jack, we’ve got a pickup moving away from the target. Possibly moving southeast toward the seaport road.”
“Roger that. Want me to light ’em up?”
“Negative. We’re not sure who it is. See if you can swing back and maintain surveillance.”
Grimaldi answered with a click.
The chopper would use up more fuel, so that meant the time factor had just been diminished. Bolan pointed to the entrance and began a rapid, but cautious trek toward the archway from which the truck had come. What intelligence they’d gotten indicated that Sharif had come into possession of a stockpile of sarin nerve gas, most likely from one of the factions in Syria. If he planned to use it again to launch an attack against the Saudis, some or all of it could be in that pickup. Or it could be unrelated. Bolan was willing to bet on the former rather than the latter, and wasn’t going to take any chances. He’d instruct Grimaldi to take the pickup out as soon as they’d finished the interior work. He had to be certain that Sharif was definitely accounted for, if possible, and the sound of a missile taking out the truck would surely sound the alarm inside the fortress.
He motioned for Johnson and Washington to move down the slope first, angling toward the perpendicular wall of the jutting building that was adjacent to the archway. Bolan then followed with Vargas and Miller behind him. Johnson was at the edge now and took a quick peek. He held up his left hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Bolan stopped behind Washington and patted the man’s shoulder. The ranger repeated the contact on Johnson’s arm and he moved around the corner with Washington taking his place. Once Johnson had secured his position at the next cover point, the others followed, two at a time in rapid, yet stealthy, movements.
Bolan saw the archway extended a good twenty yards or so along the front of the building, then abruptly ended in an immense pile of stones. He could also see a large opening on the right side that led into the building itself. Light shone around the top and bottom of a long, black curtain that was perhaps twenty feet long. The stuttering, whining sound of a portable generator could be heard within the confines of the structure.
Bolan took the lead and went to the curtain, crouching and peeling back the edge. It was made of a black, silky material, almost like a dark parachute, and suspended from a metallic pipe wedged in between the stones. Inside he saw a group of ten men sitting around smoking, and drinking from tin cups. A bronze kettle, tea most likely, was on a nearby stove. The generator sat in the far corner, and three large lights illuminated the room. Beyond them the room narrowed into a corridor perhaps twenty feet wide which extended into darkness. A gray forklift was parked off to the side, and next to it stacks of what appeared to be wooden pallets. Bolan recognized one of the men as Ali Sharif. The man rolled a swath of greenish leaves into a ball and stuck it in his mouth.
Khat, no doubt, Bolan thought.
He knew the drug was omnipresent in Somalia, and frequently used in Yemen, as well. The substance induced an amphetamine-like energy, but also dulled the senses and could make the user both paranoid and jumpy. Each man had an AK-47 across his lap or within easy reach. This wasn’t going to be a simple extraction after all.
Two single wooden pallets sat on the floor to the left of the group. Each one contained a braced, vertical row of white-tipped artillery shells with “GB Gas 105 mm” stenciled across the front. That was the NATO designation for sarin gas. Bolan counted the shells. Twenty on each pallet.
Intel had estimated that Sharif was in possession of between sixty and eighty. This appeared to be half of them. Bolan wondered if the departing truck held the rest, but there was no time to try to verify that. Grimaldi was definitely going to have to knock it out. He moved back and briefed the others on what he’d seen.
“I’m going to instruct the Black Hawk to take out that pickup in two minutes,” he whispered. “It’s most likely loaded with sarin artillery shells. The rest of them appear to be spread out inside on two pallets. We’ve got no time for any more surveillance, or stealth. Sharif’s inside, third man on the left, and he’s got nine buddies with him. They’re all armed with AKs and are chewing on khat.”
The faces of the four men remained grim.
“Ordinarily, I’d flip them a grenade,” Bolan said. “But we can’t afford to set off that nerve gas or we’ll all be facing a very unpleasant end. So you three move to the far end.” He pointed at Johnson, Washington and Miller. “Vargas and I will hit them first. Controlled fire, aim high, avoid hitting those gas shells or it’s all over.”
“Can’t we just back off and call in an airstrike?” Miller asked.
Bolan shook his head. “No time.”
“How about the Black Hawk?” he suggested.
“He’s got enough to do, and I don’t want to take the chance of his rotors stirring up any gas blowback. It’s up to us to take this stuff out. It’s a binary gas delivery system, so unless the rupture plate inside the shell separating the two gases is broken, the gas won’t be lethal.”
Miller grimaced, then nodded quickly.
“What about Sharif?” Johnson whispered.
Bolan considered that. He had a Taser that they hoped to use to stun the terrorist so he could be brought back alive, as ordered, but his first responsibility was to accomplish the mission and bring his men back safely.
“Let’s see how it plays out,” he said. “Chances of taking him alive are slim, and I’m not about to announce ourselves and ask him to surrender. If we can, we’ll recover fingerprints and DNA for identification, but our survival and the destruction of the sarin are our first priorities here.”
The men nodded again and spread out to approach the curtain from either side. Bolan crept back to the right side and adjusted his select lever to full-auto. He waited a few more seconds to give the others a chance to get into position, but then, fate intervened.
The curtain was ripped back just as Johnson was making his way across. The Arab’s face registered initial shock, but then the man shouted something and his comrades sprang for their weapons. One of them, whose weapon was on his lap, reacted swiftly and sent a deadly spray from his rifle. Johnson twisted in the air and crumpled to the ground.
Bolan shot the man firing the AK-47 first, and then the one at the curtain. As the guy dropped to the ground, the Executioner kicked his adversary’s weapon away, then ducked back behind cover and sent a short burst into one of the other gunners. Three of the Arabs crouched behind the forklift, and the others attempted to run for the far side of the room, away from the stockpile of gas-filled artillery shells. Using controlled fire and quick target acquisition, Bolan picked off three more of the fleeing terrorists. That left four more, including Sharif.
Johnson lay in the center of the gravel expanse. Bolan tapped his helmet directing the others to provide cover fire. He then moved toward Johnson, firing his weapon on full-auto as he ran. The others sent a blistering volley toward the jihadists hiding behind the forklift. As Bolan grabbed his Johnson’s vest handle, several rounds zipped by him. He sent a spray of bullets in the enemy’s direction and began dragging his injured comrade toward the protection of the stone archway. Vargas stepped out and grabbed Johnson’s arm and pulled. More bullets bounced around them as they yanked the man to temporary safety.
“See how bad he’s hit,” Bolan told Vargas. His voice sounded distorted and far away, despite the specially designed earplugs that blocked all sudden noise in the dangerous decibel range. The Executioner then reloaded and made another assessment. Two adversaries were still crouched behind the forklift. Two more, one of them Sharif, were running down a long corridor into the darkness going deeper into the building. Bolan concentrated his aim on the farthest man by the forklift and fired. The man ducked back, the rounds generating sparking flashes against the metallic cover. The closest man glanced around, then stood up. He raced forward, shouting in Arabic while turning and firing his weapon at the pallets containing the shells.
“The son of a bitch’s trying to set off the gas!” Miller shouted.
The other Arab’s eyes widened, and he got up and began to run.
The Executioner zeroed in on the shouting terrorist and fired. The man’s head jerked back, then he collapsed to the ground. Miller sighted on the back of the running man and squeezed off a burst, sending him sprawling, face-first to the ground.
Bolan keyed his mic. “Doerr, sitrep.”
“Still at my post, sir. Looks like a hell of a firefight.”
“Keep alert for any reinforcements. Johnson’s down. We’re going inside.” Without waiting for a reply, Bolan motioned for Washington to accompany him, leaving Vargas and Miller at the opening. “Set some charges on these shells. We’ll be back.”
They moved cautiously down the long corridor, cognizant that an ambush most probably awaited them at some point. Bolan took the lead. The residual light from the generator had completely faded, and he flipped down his night-vision goggles again. The area in front of him immediately materialized in a profusion of clear, green luminosity. Scanning the corridor, he saw one man crouching next to a stone abutment on the left aiming his AK-47 at them. Sharif had positioned himself on the other side of the corridor on his partner’s left. He was ensconced behind crumbled sections of large stones. Both men were obviously without night-vision assistance and most likely were relying on sound to locate their next targets.
Bad mistake, Bolan thought.
He fired a quick burst and zippered the first gunner’s chest. As the man fell, the Executioner quickly shifted to his left, flattening against the wall and far from the center of the corridor, anticipating that Sharif would fire at the last muzzle-flashes.
He didn’t disappoint.
A series of bright wisps of flames ignited in Bolan’s green-tinged viewfinder. Seconds later the definitive green world returned to its previous clarity, providing the Executioner with a clear vision of Sharif’s grimly twisted face. Bolan sent another burst into the man’s chest.
Sharif’s body jerked like an errant marionette whose strings had been severed, and he crumpled into a heap. Bolan moved forward at an oblique angle, as Washington moved in from the other side, stepping on the barrel of the first Arab’s weapon then pulling it free.
Bolan rolled Sharif over. Blood poured from the chest wounds.
“You are too late, infidel,” he said, the blood spraying from his lips as he spoke.
Bolan said nothing as he watched the dying man.
Sharif started to say something else, but convulsed several times, and then ceased moving, his eyes no longer focused on anything.
“He dead?” Washington asked.
“Yeah, he is.” Shifting his weapon, the Executioner squatted and tossed the AK-47 aside, then began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing except matches, cigarettes and a wrinkled paper containing more khat. He keyed his mic to call Grimaldi, but got no response.
“No reception in here,” he said to Washington. “We’re too deep. Go back to the others and get Doerr down here. We’re shoving off as soon as we set the charges.”
“What about our target?” Washington indicted the fallen Sharif.
“I’ll get an ID sample,” Bolan said, and took out his KA-BAR.
Washington shouldered the recovered AK-47, then grabbed Sharif’s rifle. “No sense leaving these behind.”
“Put them with the artillery shells,” Bolan said. “They can all go up together.”
Washington looked askance. “I was thinking war souvenirs.”
He shrugged. “As long as you carry them.”
Washington grinned and slung the second rifle.
Bolan straightened the index finger of Sharif’s right hand, flattened it against the stone floor, then adjusted the blade of the KA-BAR.
Bringing Sharif’s body back with them was out of the question. Some blood and a bit of flesh would have to do. He pressed the blade downward.
Standing, he placed the samples in a special packet and placed it in his pants pocket. Another glance at his watch indicated that the numbers were counting down rapidly. He jogged back down the corridor, flipping up the night-vision goggles as he got closer to the light. Miller was finishing up. He looked at Bolan.
“We found a bunch of C-4 and some detonator caps,” he said. “Got everything just about set.”
Bolan nodded and went to check on Johnson. Doerr was standing alongside Washington as Vargas applied pressure to Johnson’s leg.
“He needs a medivac,” Vargas said.
Bolan keyed his mic and called Grimaldi again.
“Back at ya, Striker.”
“You still have that pickup in sight?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Bolan paused to smile at his partner’s levity, despite the situation. But that was Grimaldi. Always ready with a wisecrack.
“Light it up, then come back for us. We’ve got a casualty so we’ll designate with red smoke. Stay clear of this structure. We’re igniting some sarin.”
“Roger that.”
A distant burst of fire flickered in the distance. A rumble of sound drifted by them several seconds later.
Bolan indicated that Doerr and Vargas were to carry Johnson. He checked the wind direction and pointed. “Let’s make sure we stay upwind of the detonation.”
Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.
“We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.
The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.
Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”
Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.
“Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.
The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.
After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.
“Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.
