sustain high-calibre rounds and direct hits from light and medium artillery. With the ambush intensifying, the tent was an easy target. How could these morons not figure it out?
The guards stood their ground.
Jason’s adrenaline was pumping hard enough to make him see stars. It was precisely this blind allegiance that he’d come to loathe about the military. Even the most intelligent minds were malleable, so that over time a soldier’s thoughts and core ideals could be deconstructed and craftily reprogrammed. Successful armies relied on this group psyche to bond soldiers under extreme conditions, but he’d also witnessed how ego-driven leadership could easily exploit loyalty for purely self-serving objectives that inevitably led to unnecessary casualties. It happened often, and it was happening right now before his very eyes. Jason clenched his fists and glared at the guards.
‘Sorry. We have our orders,’ the shorter, less malleable one replied.
‘And we have ours!’ a deep voice blasted over the din.
In unison, Jason and the marines turned to the voice.
Meat, Camel and Jam stepped up in a V formation, pointing M-16s at the marines.
‘Let’s keep things friendly, fellas,’ Meat suggested. ‘Let the man inside. You know he’s right. So be smart, will you please? Right now we’ve all got a real battle to fight.’ He tipped his head towards the road where the remaining marines were mobilized, struggling to hold back the advancing enemy convoy now a half klick south.
The marines exchanged glances.
‘You’ve got big balls, pal,’ the taller one said.
‘And I’ve got the dick to match them,’ Meat boasted. ‘So what’s it gonna be?’
The taller man grimaced, lowered his weapon, then tapped his partner on the arm and motioned for him to step aside. ‘Behave yourself in there,’ the marine warned Jason.
Jason nodded to Meat, then swiftly made his way through the door.
Inside the tent, Jason was shocked to see that Al-Zahrani was gone and that the medic had been shot dead. Momentarily sidetracked by the miasma that covered the bed, he registered a tiny blinking red light. It was the tripod-mounted camcorder Crawford had set up to record his interrogation. Jason darted over to it and checked the device’s tiny LCD screen, which flashed ‘DISK FULL.’ How long had the device been offline? With no time to review the footage, he hit the eject button, took out the mini-DVD disk and pocketed it.
Then his eyes caught the splotchy blood trail that began alongside the bed and snaked to the rear door.
He sprinted to the rear door and threw it open. Out back there were no guards and Crawford was nowhere to be found. In the sand, parallel tyre tracks curled around the side of the tent. Dust from a moving vehicle still hung in the air.
Jason dashed around the tent, his eyes tracing where the tyre tracks bent on to the roadway, heading north. Despite the danger from flying bullets, he ran out near the road and ducked behind the confiscated pickup trucks - now three instead of four. Looking north, he found the fourth pickup racing along the winding roadway. The driver was wearing a turban. The passenger’s slumped head - also wrapped in a turban - was barely visible through the blown-out rear cabin window. He had no doubt it was Al-Zahrani.
There was no way a militant could have broken the perimeter, snuck Al-Zahrani out from the tent, and stolen the truck unnoticed. And why hadn’t Crawford had guards posted at the tent’s rear door? Because an insider orchestrated the grab, Jason quickly concluded. ‘Crawford, you motherfucker.’
Where could they be taking Al-Zahrani? Something told him that Crawford wasn’t concerned about protecting the prisoner. So what was his motive?
‘Yaeger, get out of there!’ a distant voice screamed. ‘Grenade!’
Without thought, Jason sprang up and ran for the shallow ravine that cut along the opposite side of the road. On the periphery of his vision, he glimpsed the mortar arcing through the air on a direct line for the trucks, just before he dived for cover.
He was midair when the mortar struck. Amidst a spray of heat and glass, a tyre rim hurtled directly for his head like a frisbee. He was certain he would be decapitated. But the blast wave cartwheeled his body forward and down an instant before that could happen.
He landed on his back at the bottom of the muddy ditch. He slowly opened his eyes and assessed his body, fully expecting to see some missing parts. Amazingly, no shrapnel had touched him - not even a graze. Everything moved fine, nothing felt broken. Just some ringing in his ears.
‘Google!’ a concerned voice yelled.
Jason looked up and saw it was Meat.
‘Dude! I thought you were dead!’ He slung his M-16 over his shoulder and slid down into the ditch. ‘I saw you running out here. What are you, nuts?’
‘They took Al-Zahrani. Moved him out in one of the pickup trucks … heading north.’ Jason pointed.
‘Who?’
‘Pretty sure it was Crawford or one of his men.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Don’t know. But we’ve got to get Al-Zahrani back.’ He raised a hand up, saying, ‘Give me a pull, will ya.’
Meat clasped Jason’s hand and tugged him to his feet.
‘The trucks are toast,’ Meat said. ‘And there’s only one Humvee left … but it’s got two flat tyres.’
‘So we’ll follow them in the MRAP,’ Jason replied hastily.
‘Way too slow. That thing’s not built for speed and it’s a pig on gas. They might have a good head start, but I’ve got a better idea,’ Meat said. ‘Let’s go.’
53
Nestled behind a hill on the camp’s northern limit, the Blackhawk had yet to sustain bombardment. That indicated to Jason that the militants had concentrated on a purely southern incursion, with no artillery fire coming from the expansive western plain, or the mountains to the north and east. Most likely, the enemy scout Jason had spotted earlier had been spooked by the patrolling marines and realized that any attempt to surround the encampment would take too long and prove too risky.
Jason knew that once the hostile RPG gunners were in range, the Blackhawk would become their primary target.
‘Let’s go! Move it!’ Meat yelled towards the camp from the top of the hill. He waved impatiently for Camel and Jam to pick up their pace. Then he ran down the hill towards Jason.
‘You still know how to fly one of these things?’ Jason asked.
Meat gave the chopper a sideways glance. ‘No worries, bro,’ he said, patting Jason on the shoulder.
Meat hurried to the chopper, opened the cockpit door, and hopped in the pilot’s seat.
Camel and Jam crested the hill and scrambled down to Jason.
Seeing them alive gave Jason relief. At the onset of the attack, they’d all been safe inside the cave helping to clear debris.
‘It’s pandemonium back there!’ Jam said.
‘Where’s Hazo?’ Jason asked.
‘He’s fine,’ Camel said. ‘He said he’ll stay here and keep an eye on things.’
With Crawford unaccounted for, Jason wasn’t thrilled about the idea. But there was no time to deliberate. ‘Fine.’
The Blackhawk’s engines fired up. Seconds later, the turbine whined to life and the flopping rotors began turning, gathering momentum.
‘You’ve got to be shitting me,’ Camel said, with frightened eyes on the cockpit window where Meat was putting on his flying helmet. ‘You’re letting
‘We’ve got no choice,’ Jason said. ‘Meat said the pilots were inside the first Humvee that blew.’
‘Mother Mary,’ Jam said.
‘He figured out how to turn the thing on,’ Camel offered with a sigh. ‘It’s a start.’
Jason trotted to the chopper and slid open the fuselage door. He leaped inside, Camel and Jam coming in behind him.
While Jason settled in the copilot’s seat alongside Meat, Camel and Jam each claimed a jumpseat and began
