Dawn’s light gave an eerie glow to the whitewashed buildings to his left. Abboud’s entourage, some twenty or more men, closed on his position.
“One, this is Three. What we doin’, boss?” Court’s earpiece was alive with Whiskey Sierra’s traffic, though he was under orders to not transmit himself.
Court whispered to himself in the cool, dark atrium, willing with every ounce of imagined magic projection he could muster. “Abort. Abort.” He stayed at the window, but he was ready to run down the stairs and out the back door of the building. He could get away, not to the car left for him, but to the water. There were little boats tied up all around the harbor; he could grab one and go.
Hightower’s voice came over the net. Court knew each inflection of the man, to where he could hear the stress concealed between the words. “Say number of tangos, over.”
“One, Three. Could be about thirty. Three-oh, break. One long flatbed. Small arms and RPGs sighted, break. Might be some PKMs in there too, boss, over.” PKMs were big Russian belt-fed machine guns.
“Roger that,” said Zack flatly.
“Five to One. I’ve got about the same number over here. They are patrolling in columns, doesn’t look like they’re too jacked up for trouble.”
When Zack said nothing else for a few seconds, the net crackled to life again. “One, this is Three. I can engage right now. Once they disperse it’s going to be hard—”
“Understood, Three. Wait one,” said Zack.
“Abort,” whispered Gentry again. And then, again under his breath, he said over and over and over a line that he’d used many times in the past when life and death was all up to Sierra One, and Court was on the tip of the spear awaiting the decision. “Be cool, Zack. Be cool, Zack. Be cool, Zack.”
Court knew everything, literally his very life, likely depended on Sierra One’s next transmission; a safe, quiet exfiltration, and then an investigation into how Nocturne Sapphire fell apart so completely.
Or the alternative.
World War
“Be cool, Zack.”
Then it came. “Sierra One to all elements.”
A long hesitation. “Let’s knock it off. Everybody stand down. Hold positions until Oryx’s entourage gets in the mosque; then I want a quiet egress back out of the area—”
Court let out one of the longest sighs of relief of his life.
Each member of Whiskey Sierra came on the net, in turn, and confirmed that they understood the order to stand down. These men were consummate professionals; they betrayed no emotion, neither relief nor disappointment, that the mission had been scrubbed at the very last second.
Gentry took one last look at President Abboud, walking briskly through the square with his entourage towards his position. Disappointing to be so close and yet so far, but Gentry was a pro as well. He’d been here before, a second or two before the point of no return but unable or unwilling to proceed. Court wasted no time turning away from the window and moving back towards the stairs from the atrium to the front door entrance to the bank. He walked down the dark colonnaded hall. He’d almost reached the back door when his headset came alive once again with Whiskey Sierra’s radio traffic.
Zack Hightower rested his rifle between his knees and leaned his head back against the headrest of the passenger seat in frustration as Brad/Sierra Two put the dirty beige cargo van in gear. Behind them, in the very back of the van, was Milo, Sierra Four. He sat facing the closed back door of the vehicle, with a big HK21 between his legs. The shoulder-wielded machine gun carried the same powerful cartridge as many hunting and sniper rifles, but it fired them faster and from a 100-round box magazine. Milo was the designated “trunk monkey,” the man ready to shoot out the back doors to keep opposition off of their tail. He was low-profile now, with the doors closed and no targets to fire at, but if the operation had gone ahead, it was likely Sierra Four would have been the man sending the most hate downrange.
The van had been waiting in the deep shadows of an alley a few blocks from the square, far from where the government of Sudan infantry had been reported. Other than chickens and goats in the road, they’d seen no movement at all, so they pulled out of their hide and began moving south. This was in the direction of the square, so Brad made his first turn to the left, which would take him closer to the port and allow him to avoid Abboud’s guard force.
But the alleyway turned into a dead end at a camel corral. It was a large circular structure crafted out of driftwood and scrap metal, with a few hulking animals kneeling in the dirt, and there was no way around it.
Brad began backing up the truck. Both he and Sierra One looked into their rearview mirrors.
Zack saw them first and shouted to the van and over his radio to the team.
“Troops!”
Sierra Two slammed on the brakes. Twenty meters behind them, at the mouth of the alleyway they had just entered, stood half a dozen green-clad soldiers, their Chinese-made Type 81 rifles raised in front of them and pointing at the van. One of the soldiers shouted a command.
“What do we do, boss?” asked Brad from the driver’s seat.
The delay from Zack was brief. When he spoke, he transmitted to the entire team.
“All elements. Belay my last command. We are a
In the back of the van, Milo kicked open the rear doors with his boots. They locked open wide. He lifted his machine gun and fired spurting bursts at the six soldiers at the mouth of the alleyway.
Three soldiers died where they stood. The rest dove to the ground and returned fire.
Behind Milo, Zack unbuckled himself and spun between the seats, lifting his Israeli Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle and firing over Sierra Four’s left shoulder. Brad shoved the gearshift knob forward, from reverse to drive, stomped on the gas, and the big Ford van crashed through the fencing of the corral, sending massive brown camels clambering out of the way.
The Gray Man’s shoulders dropped in resignation.
His fingertips were a foot from the latch to the back door of the bank. On the other side of the door would be a dark alleyway. Beyond that a few quiet twists and turns, and he’d be at the port, in the water of the lagoon or on a small boat. He’d be out of danger in minutes.
But Zack’s transmission and the gunfire to the north changed everything.
Now Three was on the net. “Three’s going loud.” and then the explosion of an RPG, close to Gentry’s position.
And now Spencer was joining the action. “Five’s on the trigger.” Submachine gun fire emanated from the Suakin Palace.
It was on. Abboud would be storming through the doorway behind Court in seconds.
The Gray Man turned, reached for the suppressed Glock 19 holstered on his hip.
Just outside, the square cracked to life with return pistol fire from Abboud’s men. Court sucked in the musty air of the old bank building, brought his shoulders back, and clenched his jaw before saying, “Here we go.”
He ran up the stairs and got into position.
Seconds later the double doors in the lobby below him burst open.
Welcome to World War
THIRTY-FOUR
The men below Gentry shouted and screamed, but not in panic. No, these were trained bodyguards. Their commands were to their principal, the president of the Republic of Sudan. Court knew the drill. They would hustle into the room in a tight cordon, with Oryx in the center. Once inside they would secure the door and then lead him
