The Ares Decision

“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 protege 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.