Most of it had been locally acquired, either captured or given to us by the Zubarans. There was a lot of Chinese and Russian hardware. We’d rigged the supply building, where the armory was, with explosives. As soon as we cleared out, we’d blow the rest of it in place so General Al Sabah’s troops couldn’t make use of it.
Sarah was with me. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She’d put on her body armor like I asked. It was soft armor, useless against rifle fire. We couldn’t find any regular armor that would fit her. She carried a Mk. 16 5.56mm carbine in her hands and had her Sig .45 on her hip. Sarah had a serious look on her face as she kept watch over the harbor.
“I’ve got a boat in sight!” someone shouted. He was looking out over the bay with a pair of night-vision binoculars. “It’s a ways out, approaching slowly.”
“Is that our ride?” someone else asked. “Did the colonel talk them into showing up early?”
“Sarah, go tell Colonel Hunter we have a boat in sight,” I said. Most of our radios were packed away, and our network had been dismantled. We had to communicate the old-fashioned way.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Sarah trotted off, disappearing from sight.
The group was smoking and joking, eager to head for home. Holbrook, the only surviving member of Singer’s chalk, was telling everybody that the beers were on him as soon as we got to a non-shitty country. Now I could see the lights of the boat. They were growing quickly.
“Gimme those.” Tailor stole the binocs from the guy using them. He scowled. “Val, that boat looks too small. . . .”
There were several quick flashes from the boat. I could see them clearly without night vision. The sound came an instant later. “Get down!” I screamed, pulling Tailor to the ground. The tracers were high, hitting the fort wall behind us, showering us in dust and debris. But then the gunner adjusted fire and walked the bullets into the dock. Chunks of concrete and wood went flying as heavy rounds punched through walls, equipment, and men. Two streams of tracers zipped from the boat as it hosed our position with twin fifty-caliber machine guns.
“Return fire!” Tailor yelled, trying to make himself heard over the chaos. A fire erupted behind us as the boat’s armor-piercing/incendiary rounds ignited something flammable. “Take that boat out! Somebody grab a Javelin!
The boat was still hundreds of yards out. It gunned its engines and sped up, continuously firing on our position. Several men were able to bring their weapons to bear and return fire, but to no effect.
Through the three-and-a-half power magnification of my ACOG scope our attacker looked like a patrol boat of the Zubaran Coast Guard. Leaning around the barricade of sandbags I was using for cover, I squeezed the trigger, popping off shot after shot at the incoming boat. It strafed the dock again, twin tongues of flame tearing into our position with lethal results.
“Where is that goddamned Javelin?” Tailor screamed again, firing his weapon as he did so. I looked around, trying to figure out what happened to our missile crew. They were on the other side of the entrance to the dock, about twenty-five meters from my position. Fillmore and Chetwood were lying behind a pile of sandbags, blood everywhere. Chetwood had been decapitated. Fillmore was missing an arm and screaming his head off.
“I got it!” Holbrook shouted. He slung his weapon behind his back and ran into the open just as the incoming patrol boat opened fire again. I watched in horror as a heavy .50-caliber round smacked into him, punching through his body armor like it wasn’t there. The bullet exploded out his side in a spray of blood, guts, and bits of shattered ceramic. Holbrook didn’t make a noise as he went down.
If we didn’t get that missile, we were all dead. “Tailor, I’m going,” I said, feeling no fear as
The Javelin achieved missile lock. I pressed the firing stud. The missile’s expelling charge caused it to belch out of the launcher. A fraction of a second later the rocket motors ignited, sending the missile roaring up into the night sky on a column of smoke. It took the missile a few seconds to arc through the sky. It came screaming down, slamming into the boat from above and detonating. The hull was ripped in half in a flash of light.
My comrades on the dock stood up and cheered, holding their weapons in the air while the sinking boat burned. For my part, I simply dropped the Javelin launcher and exhaled heavily, taking stock. Fillmore was already gone. My pant legs were coated in the blood of my dead teammates. The patrol boat’s strafing run had killed several of us, and the screaming told me others were wounded. Thunder rumbled overhead again, and the rain began. Within moments it was pouring.
Seconds later something shrieked overhead and detonated inside the compound. Then there was another, then another. The ground rumbled as mortars struck the armory and the admin building. My heart dropped into my stomach.
“Val, where are you going?” Tailor shouted as I took off at a run.
“I have to find Sarah!” I said, not looking back.
LORENZO
The big lump of meat, Conrad, let go of me, and I sank to the ground, retching. Walker didn’t just snap my finger bones, he broke them slowly, grinding away, joint on joint, until he was sure he’d hit every nerve bundle. He was a fucking
“Two down, three to go,” Walker said. “And I’m just getting warmed up on this one. This is going to be a long night. You really shouldn’t have come here. You’re my bitch now.”
“No shit,” I gasped. I had no weapons. They’d searched me, disarmed me, and I was already hurt and handcuffed to a wall. Options were limited. There was no room for error. I had to kill both of these men. I felt around the wall behind me.
“Ready for the next one, Stan?” Walker asked.
Conrad shrugged and started in. “Sure, but I don’t get off on this like you do.” He grabbed me around the back of the neck and dragged me up the wall, loose brick scraping my back. He slugged me in the stomach again, hammering the tissue that had already been pulverized by a stopped bullet. It hurt so
There was a burst of noise from outside. Walker and Conrad glanced at each other. “Gunfire? Who’s shooting?” Walker queried. My hearing was still all buggered up. I had no idea. “Check it out,” he snapped. Conrad let go of me. This was my chance. I slid to floor, limp, gagging, as if that last punch had leveled me.
“Okay,” Conrad said, jogged toward the exit. I waited until the door closed.
But Walker wasn’t stupid. He’d stepped out of arms’ reach to wait for his backup.
I crawled to my knees. I had to make this count. “Wait? You hear that?” I gasped, looking toward the door.
Unconsciously, he turned. “Wha—” But was cut off as I hurled the brick as hard as I could. His glasses flew off and he stumbled back, hands clutched to his face, screeching in pain, one eye obliterated. I scrambled for him, but the cuff chain snapped tight, just short, just out of arm’s reach.
“Help!” Walker, blinded, was tripping, stumbling, but getting farther away. “Conrad! Help!” he cried.
His aviator shades were at my feet. I snatched them up, ripping them apart, knocking the remaining lens out. I bent the wire spine straight and went to work on the cuffs. Men like me have an instinctive fear of being in handcuffs, so I had practiced this a few hundred times. I could pick a handcuff with a toothpick. “Maybe Big Boss will lend you an eye patch, asshole!”
The door flew open and Conrad ran back in, shouting, “We’re under attack! It’s the army.” Then he collided with his bleeding friend. “What the hell?”
