satisfactory. Maqsad will rely heavily upon him.”
Both men had taken to calling the recruits by their
Kassim asked, “When do you expect them to start showing signs of the virus?”
“Based on the usual dormant period, no more than one week. However, Badlah’s poor health may cause him to break out sooner than that. I would prefer it otherwise, as Maqsad will not function as well without his adopted brother to rely upon.”
“It would be preferable to send them to different destinations, but I understand the need to keep them together.”
“There are several things I would do differently, Kassim. But time is short. The Crusaders are certainly still hunting us. We would know if they had left Quetta. This may be our last opportunity to dispatch biological warriors against the Zionists, so we must do what we can while we can.”
Kassim shifted his weight onto his good leg. “You believe they will find us?”
“Almost certainly. I am mildly surprised that we have not been betrayed from within.’ Ali raised a cautionary hand. “I mean no disrespect to any of your men, but it has always been a risk.”
“Yes, I know.”
Ali stood up. “We should send our couriers on their way with their message. When do you expect to return?”
Kassim had the schedule well in mind. “Probably no later than one in the morning. My contacts in Islamabad will inform me when both fighters have boarded their airplane. With two changes of vehicles and drivers, it should be nearly impossible for anyone to track the boys.”
“Good. Then we only need wait two days before they board their plane.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Then let us send them on their way to Paradise.”
30
Leopole checked his watch: 2317 on a night with a quarter moon. He keyed his mike. “Comm check. Three minutes.”
“Red. Check.”
“White. Check”
“Perimeter. Check.”
With everyone in place, Leopole scanned the target area again. The landscape and buildings glowed crisply green in his night-vision scope. The Litton showed nothing moving except a couple of goats in a nearby pen. Then a movement caught his attention. A dog uncurled itself from a hay bale it had been using as a bed. It rose, lifted a leg… and stopped. Leopole froze. He realized that the wind had shifted; he felt it on the back of his neck.
The dog — a mutt of indeterminate origin — raised its snout and sensed the wind. Leopole made a quick decision. He called White Team’s snipers. “White Scope, take the dog.”
“Roger that.” Furr’s voice was subdued, controlled. Six seconds later Leopole saw the animal drop. The effect of the 190-grain flat-tail bullet was dramatic, as if a switch had been thrown. There was almost no sound as the eight-inch AWC can on the end of the barrel absorbed the violently expanding gases of the.308 round. One hundred thirty meters out, prone behind the Robar SR-90, Robbie Furr ran the bolt and recovered from recoil, his crosshairs on the dog’s inert form. His spotter, Rick Barrkman, called the shot. “Shoulder, a little high.”
Leopole resumed his observation, listening as much as looking. As his illuminated watch flicked over to 2320 he made the call. “Red and White. Go!”
White Team deployed quickly, ghosting along the ground, moving smoothly toward the front door. Red went to the rear. Leopole was mentally congratulating his operators on their efficiency when lights snapped on in the house. A window opened facing Leopole’s overlook. He saw a man silhouetted there.
Gunfire erupted from the front and side of the house. Muzzle flashes competed with blue tracers slashing the darkness.
Things quickly turned to hash.
“Crusaders!”
The sentry would never have a chance to tell, but he had dozed off. However, when White Team’s lead pair stepped through the rough gate in the rail fence, the motion detector betrayed them. Its audible warble awakened the al Qaeda guard from his light slumber, and he shouted the alarm.
Ali had been asleep in the back room. Almost simultaneous with the front warning, the rear approach’s laser beam was broken as an American passed through it. Realizing that the house would be breached in at least two places, Ali rolled off his cot, grabbed his ancient .455 Webley, and dashed to the refrigerator. He took two syringes off the shelf, placing one in each vest pocket.
Silently, Ali gave thanks for the simple anti-intruder devices that Americans sold for less than twenty dollars.
Then he grabbed his cell phone and punched in the two-digit number for Kassim. Marvelous bit of technology — one had to hand it to the Americans. Speed dialing definitely had its advantages. For no particular reason, with gunfire all around him, rounds incoming and outgoing, Ali recalled a philosophical argument he once had with a fundamentalist imam. The holy man eschewed modern inventions, deeming them unworthy of The Prophet’s followers.
But the Muslim priest had never needed reinforcements against hostile ghosts that could see in the dark.
“Don’t stop in the kill zone! Don’t stop!” At the head of White Team, Breezy threw an M8 smoke grenade, knowing it would provide two minutes of screening from enemy view. The inevitable confusion had set in, however. Some men advanced without urging while others waited the order to keep moving. Breezy clapped one operator on the back of the helmet — he couldn’t tell who it was in the dark — as the man was vulnerable in the open, even while prone. Breezy aimed short, crisp bursts at window height, moving his muzzle horizontally in an effort to suppress the fire from the house. He had no idea how he avoided being hit during the dash to the building.
Five meters out he dropped on his side and rolled against the exterior wall, right of the door. He dropped his near-empty magazine, tugged another from his vest, and fumbled the exchange. Finally he forced himself to look at the MP’s mag well and completed the reload. A few feet away somebody was blasting with an AK. The muzzle flash was impressive, the high, sharp bark of the 7.62 rounds pained the ears.
Breezy decided against a three-foot shootout with the AK gunner. Instead, he lifted a cylindrical flash-bang from his harness, pulled the pin and let the spoon go. He counted one-potato, two-potato and made a sidearm toss on the third potato.
The stun grenade cooked inside for 1.5 seconds, then erupted like a miniature volcano. The flash — one million candela mixed with 175 decibels of sonic violence — blinded and stunned anyone within five feet.
The grenade burst with a concussive effect magnified by the building’s walls. Gunfire from the front room immediately slackened. By then Delmore was beside Breezy. He shouted, “Cover!” Breezy hefted his MP, aimed at the window, and responded, “Covering!” Seconds later Delmore slapped the charging handle with a palm-downward motion, chambering the first round off the fresh mag. “Ready!”
Sporadic gunfire resumed from inside the house. Several rounds punched through the wooden wall above their heads. More rounds splintered the boards on either side — additional suppressive fire from Leopole’s perimeter team.
Breezy made the call. “Control, this is White. We’re goin’ in!”
Seconds dribbled past. Then Leopole’s raspy voice was on the air. “Roger that. We’re lifting our fires. Wait my word, over.”
Breezy knew that the perimeter shooters would raise their aim points to reduce chances of friendly fire
