Middleton moved, but with a frown. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands and no longer be helpless. He thought about the poor dead girl in the other room, and about the Marine and Saudi guards and his aide who were murdered in the ambush. He wished Vic Logan would walk through the door right now.
The explosion came with unexpected violence, and the concussion rocked the area. Swanson and Middleton felt the wall shake with the pounding stress, and the falling debris sounded like a hailstorm as the blast wave rolled over the village.
“NOW!” Swanson barked. “Go, go, go!” He led the way out with his M-16 ready and ran to the driver’s side of the truck, throwing his big pack and Excalibur into the bed as he jumped inside. Middleton limped behind him and clawed into the passenger seat. The night had changed to bright, dancing light and shadows as fire mushroomed upward from the destroyed structure, where secondary explosions from ammunition stored inside the house joined the carnage.
Kyle propped the M-16 beside him and turned the key, and the little truck’s engine roared to life as people rushed out of their homes and into the streets. “You in?” he called over to the general as he pulled his night-vision goggles into place.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” replied Middleton. “Floor it.”
The figure of a man with a weapon appeared in the road ahead and Swanson knocked him down, gaining speed, heading out of town. Middleton fired several bursts at other figures running toward the truck.
Swanson jammed the transmission into second gear, the four big tires dug hard, and the truck lurched ahead as if it was a racehorse. Kyle blessed the care the Frenchman had lavished on the vehicle, keeping it unremarkable on the outside but with powerful mechanical guts. He could feel the strength of the machine through the steering wheel. This was no standard Toyota engine. As he shifted into third as they swung past the big Zeus, they spotted a man climbing into the gunner’s seat. With the accelerator on the floor, he sped away into the world painted green by the NVGs.
“Somebody’s on the Zeus!” shouted Middleton, raking the area with an automatic burst.
“He’s not a problem. I rigged it to blow up when the trigger is pulled.”
Middleton pulled his AK-47 back inside and took some deep breaths. He was free!
“We just did it, General,” said Swanson. “From here, I got no fucking idea.”
CHAPTER 42
MAJOR YOUSIF AL-SHOUM walked slowly around the remains of the crashed helicopters saying nothing, his eyes taking inventory. He was a small, quiet man whose frail physique belied his importance. It was his brain, not his physical strength, that had won him attention and respect within the Security Directorate in Damascus. He had graduated at the top of his class from the Military Academy at Homs, had advanced training in the old Soviet Union, and won both the Medal of Military Honor and the Order of Umayyads during his extended work in Lebanon and Iraq. Later, as military attache at Syrian embassies in London and at the United Nations, he developed flawless English. Al-Shoum was a loner with a secret passion for American mystery stories. He conducted his investigations like a slow, plodding, methodical Los Angeles private detective.
He had been assigned to head a special investigation into the American raid and recommend what his government should do with the captive American general. Damascus had known about the abduction from the start, but never officially sanctioned the kidnapping. By turning a blind eye toward the operation, they gained a favor from the Rebel Sheikh down in Basra and several hundred thousand U.S. dollars in military credits from Gates Global. Now the abduction had become a diplomatic problem and Yousif Al-Shoum was to gather the facts and make a recommendation.
He originally planned to drive over to Sa’ahn on his own, but when word came that the Iraqi hotheads were planning to decapitate the American, Al-Shoum decided to bring the extra guns. He got them without difficulty because he was not really a major, but a general, and head of operations for the Security Directorate. Al-Shoum had chosen to use a lower rank because ordinary people became nervous around generals, and he might want to ask some important questions of the citizens. His security team knew his true identity because it was made up exclusively of soldiers chosen because they were loyal to him. After examining the attack area, he would take custody of the American Marine general. His country was not willing to get sucked into a war over this incident, which had not gone as smoothly as promised.
“You examined this site carefully, correct? And you determined that someone lived through the crash and escaped on a motorcycle.” He spoke softly to the large American trailing him, who seemed elephantine in both body and mind.
“Yeah,” said Victor Logan, drawing a sharp look for his discourteous manner. “Whoever it was headed west, toward the Israeli border. That’s when he blew through those two idiots at the roadblock.”
The little officer stroked his thick mustache and continued his circular stroll. He knelt and let a handful of dirt trickle through his fingers. Easy to leave tracks in this loose sand.
“Not me, but our people did. Absolutely. Pictures and dog tags. Doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Actually, it can, Mr. Logan. Photographs can lie. Identification tags can be misleading.” Al-Shoum turned to face the big man, rocking on his heels, looking up at him and motioning toward the horizon with a slow sweep of his right arm. “This land is filled with the bones of foreign soldiers who were never properly identified.” He looked up at Logan. “I think you made a mistake.”
“What?” Logan almost laughed in the midget’s face. “This was a no-brainer, major.”
“Suppose we postulate a new theory, Mr. Logan-that whoever got away wanted you to believe that he was someone else. Would he have had time to switch the dog tags?”
“Hell, no! These birds collided, fell down, and everybody died but one. End of story.”
“I understand that. But in the very moments immediately after the accident, time stands still. The normal tendency of spectators to a disaster watching is to freeze where they stand, giving time for brain and body to cooperate, and even more time passed before people approached because the ammunition and fuel were exploding and burning hot. That is the reaction of a normal person, not a highly trained military professional. Several minutes passed, time enough for such a soldier to accomplish any number of things, and smoke and fire covered his escape. Therefore, your conclusion was only an educated guess, not much more than an assumption. Am I correct?”
“Then it was a damned good guess, Major. Sometimes things are exactly as simple as they appear. He was a young guy who took off, looking for safety.”
“I disagree. Our helicopters and trucks have thoroughly combed the area between here and the Israeli border. Beyond the assault at the checkpoint, they have not found a trace of the man, nor of his motorcycle. Not even tracks.”
“So he got lost in the desert. Big deal. He’s dead no matter how you cut it.”
They walked back toward the waiting armored personnel carriers. “I should have wanted more proof before reaching such a conclusion myself.”
“Yeah. Right. So, then, what’s your idea?”
Al-Shoum grimaced. “Bluntly put, Mr. Logan, you fucked up. You were the experienced military advisor on the scene and everything depended on your assessment. I think this Marine wanted everyone to believe he was a youthful radioman so they would consider him rather harmless, just as you have done, and not look too hard for him. I agree that we are facing only one man, but in my judgment, he obviously is a rather formidable opponent who has played you for a fool.”
Logan wanted to pound the little Syrian Army officer on the head, grind the little shrimp beneath his boots. But he did nothing because they were surrounded by armed soldiers who were watching him closely. “Then who is he, and where is he?”
Before Logan could answer, a tremendous detonation rocked the village of Sa’ahn behind them as the house of the jihadists exploded. A column of fire shot into the black sky. The concussion rolled across the desert and shook the heavy BTR carriers on their tires. Everyone turned to watch, fascinated, frozen in place.
Al-Shoum recovered and sighed aloud. “I do not yet know the name of the Marine who escaped this crash, sir,
