Terry waited long minutes watching the two guards intently. Suddenly, one of them was thrown backwards, arms and weapons flying. A moment later the other one bent double violently before he, too, fell backwards. With the size and weight of the bullets the Russian arms fired, there was little likelihood of either of the victims living, or giving any trouble if they did.
And I never heard the shots, Welch thought. I love all Russian equipment.
The two snipers returned fairly quickly, taking their positions behind Welch.
'Gentlemen, well done,' Terry said. 'Now let's go.'
D-Day, two hundred meters south of
Bandar Qassim Airport, Ophir
Thwupt . . . Thwupt. Buckwheat's .51 caliber rifle gave off barely a whisper. Not only was the bullet subsonic, the bullpup semi-auto rifle mounted a silencer about the size of four Foster's Lager cans, stacked one atop the other. It wasn't the most accurate rifle in the world, perhaps, but it was accurate enough for this.
Downrange, through his spotting scope, Vic saw chunks fly off the fuselage just above where the engine was mounted. Despite the low muzzle velocity of nine hundred and fifty feet per second, the nearly three ounce, solid bronze projectile was more than capable of ripping the guts out of a jet engine.
'I mark that as a kill,' he told Fulton.
'Roger,' the marksman said, adjusting his aim slightly left to the next helicopter in line. Thwupt.
'Kill.'
'Roger.' Thwupt.
'Miss,' Vic said. 'Change mags.'
Buckwheat raised his firing shoulder up, keeping as much of a stock weld as possible, then reached over and dropped the empty magazine. Vic pulled that out of the way while Fulton pushed a fresh one into the well.
Thwupt.
'Miss.'
'Dammit.' Thwupt.
'Don't take it to heart; Russki quality control at the munitions factory is poor . . . Kill.' Vic hesitated a moment, then said, 'Uh, oh.'
'Huh?' Fulton asked.
'I think you . . . '
He didn't quite finish the sentence before Fulton's last target started to burn. The fire began with a small flame. The flame became a jet as it heated the fuel behind it to a high pressure gas. From there, it quickly grew, locally, then began to spread as burning fuel spurted onto the ground.
Fulton keyed his small radio. 'Fletch; Buckwheat. Screw subtlety. Service the targets fast.'
From across the airfield, more than half a mile away, came a chorus of shouts as some scores of armed men began pouring out of a makeshift barracks. From farther away came a sound that, while strange to American ears, was almost certainly the siren of a fire vehicle.
D-Day, one mile north of Buro, Ophir
The engine coughed and shuddered once again before settling back, for the nonce at least, to a steady if anemic thrum.
This bucket won't make better than eight knots, Eeyore fumed, standing at the wheel he'd taken over from Morales once they were out of the harbor. We'll never make rendezvous at this rate.
The town passing to starboard shone a few lights. By the chart and the GPS Antoniewicz made it as being Buro, a nothing-too-much fishing village. It was not on the list of places the contingency plan would have had them hole up at to await a later pickup if everything went to shit.
Which it certainly has, for us, anyway.
Even without the lights of the town, they might have seen it, so far and so bright had the moon arisen.
'Hey, Eeyore,' Morales asked, 'do you remember that movie, The Princess Bride?' He was standing beside Antoniewicz, facing aft with his diving mask on his face and his monocular turned down.
'Sure,' Antoniewicz answered.
'You remember that scene where Inigo Montoya asks, ‘Are you sure nobody's following us?''
Antoniewicz thought for a moment, remembering back to childhood, before answering, 'Yeah, I remember it.'
'Good, 'cause I was just about to ask the same question.'
Antoniewicz didn't have his mask handy. He glanced backwards even so to see if the pursuer could be seen in the moonlight.
'Shit,' he said.
D-Day, five and a half miles north-northeast of Nugaal, Ophir
Terry Welch wasn't the subtle type. Thwuptupt. Two silenced, low velocity shots and the two guards at the gate to the palace grounds were thrown back to the low surrounding wall, bonelessly crumpling to the ground.
Grau and Semmerlin took up the rear as two files passed them, racing for the gate. One of the files, the one on the right, was smaller than the other, consisting of a two-man machine gun team, Graft gunning, one of the translators, Issaq Abay, carrying ammo plus an RPG, and Semmerlin. Issaq had said he could use an RPG and there was no reason to disbelieve him. At the gate, the machine gun team took up a firing position partially protected by the low wall and the mud brick pillar of the gate. Semmerlin cut right. Crouching low to take what cover the wall offered, he ran to the corner, then took up a position to cover any rear entrance to the barracks that might be there.
The rest, eight men with Welch in the lead-Little Joe Venegas having been left behind to guard the packs- charged forward. The rear two of those, Buttle and Grau, cut left to take up security at that corner of the palace. There was presumed to be a roving guard, somewhere on the grounds.
The brace of guards at the door proper to the building weren't as alert as they might have been. This cost them as Welch snapped his silenced submachine gun to his shoulder and fired two quick bursts that spun first one, and then the other, to the floor, spurting blood from violated bodies. As much blood as the men shed, Terry knew as he bounded over the corpses that it was nothing as compared to the damage done inside by the subsonic, but frangible, ammunition he'd used on them.
Terry wasn't subtle, but he wasn't precisely 'Hulk smash' material either. He didn't throw his body against the large wooded double doors that fronted the palace. Instead, like a gentleman, he tried the knob. It was open.
He took in the first floor of the palace with a glance. Long wide corridor, rooms to either side, and a broad staircase that led upstairs.
He made a two-fingered gesture at Pigfucker and Mary-Sue. Here. Guard. Then he led the remaining three, including the last of the translators, up the flight of stairs to the second floor. Then he unscrewed the suppressor from the muzzle of his submachine gun and pointed it at the ceiling.
'Standby to translate,' he told the interpreter. 'Prep stun grenades,' he said to his two Americans.
Then Welch smiled and said, 'Shock is good,' just as he pulled the trigger.
