Angels of Wrath

“Two choppers?” said Guns, coming up next to him.

“Sounds like it.”

“There’s one of them.” The Marine Corps sergeant pointed to the shadow of the first helicopter as it approached. The chopper had rotors fore and aft. The dual power plants made the Chinook among the most powerful helicopters in the world, capable not only of transporting forty-four fully armed soldiers but also of carrying upward of 26,000 pounds beneath her belly. This one had been chosen for just that reason: dangling in a massive sling beneath the chopper was the rear section of a tank truck.

Rankin and Guns watched as the Chinook squatted over the landing area. Several Rangers trotted over to help unhook the truck.

“Hate to be down there,” said Guns.

“How’s that?” asked Rankin. He was still thinking about the possibility of some scumbag popping up with a missile.

“Dirt and crap flying all over the place,” said Guns. “You never get the grit out of your skin.”

Rankin remembered the powdery sand that had clung to his body when he’d been in Iraq during the search for Scuds. Ancient history now.

Relieved of its load, the helicopter seemed to step back in the air before circling off to the right and landing a hundred yards or so down the road and disgorging its passengers. Meanwhile, the second chopper moved into position, the truck’s cab dangling beneath its fuselage.

“That’ll be Ferg,” said Guns, gesturing toward the men coming off the helicopter ramp. “Maybe we ought to go check it out.”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you like him?” Guns asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Ain’t nothin’ to me,” said Guns.

“Good.”

* * *

Ferguson watched as the mechanics fiddled with the engine, trying to get it to start. With the way his luck was running, the stinking thing wouldn’t work, and they’d lose the entire day. Fouad folded his arms next to him, his long face even longer.

“How was Turkey?” asked Thera, who’d come down from the base.

“Dark. How are these guys treating you?” asked Ferg.

“Not bad.”

“Like being the only woman in the desert?”

“I’m used to it,” said Thera. “What I’d like to try some time is being the only woman in a palace.”

The engine coughed. A mass of black smoke emerged from the exhaust.

“Getting there,” said one of the soldiers.

Ferguson wasn’t so sure. He saw Guns coming down the path from the rocks, trailed by Captain Melfi, who’d come east to the base camp with most of his men after the snatch operation the night before.

“Hey, Houston, why don’t we grab the rest of the team and have a little planning session?” Ferguson suggested, taking his rucksack.

“You going to keep up that Houston business instead of using my real name?”

“It’s better than some of the alternatives, don’t you think?”

“I think Thera is fine.”

“You don’t get a vote.” Ferguson smirked at her frown.

Melfi gave Ferguson an update on the traffic, or rather the lack of traffic, as they walked back up to the command tent. They found Rankin sitting at the table that dominated the room, staring at the large map. Ferg helped himself to a cup of coffee, then leaned over the table, orienting himself.

“Couple of things might have happened,” Ferguson told the others. “One is that we missed him. In that case he may be waiting for the folks we grabbed to show up in one of the cities around here. So we check them out.”

“How did he get past us?” asked Rankin.

“Disguised, scooted right through with the rest of the traffic near Aby Kamal,” said Ferguson, pointing at the border city on the Euphrates. “Bribed the guards, tricked the Americans.”

“I don’t see how they could have,” said Melfi.

“Which of course would be how they did it,” said Ferguson. “Or he used one of the tunnels we don’t know about. Or he came over a few days ago. Or our information is completely bad.”

Ferguson outlined the general game plan, telling Melfi that he and his people would continue to watch the border area.

“In the meantime, Fouad, Rankin, and Thera are going to go over to Sukna and then Deir Ex Zur and see if they can catch a whiff of the trail.” Ferguson reached into his rucksack and pulled out a large padded envelope, which contained travel and identity documents, along with a bundle of money. “You go as Egyptians with the milk truck. Everybody knows you’re smugglers looking for business.”

“I don’t look very Egyptian,” said Rankin.

“No one will question it if you don’t talk too much,” said Fouad. “You smear more red tone on your face and keep growing your beard, you look fine.”

“Maybe I ought to dress like a Bedouin,” suggested Rankin.

“That’s overdoing it,” said Ferguson. “Anyone who studies your face is going to know you haven’t spent your life in the desert. You’ll be all right. Just the normal pajamas will do.”

Rankin had a customized salwnr kameez, an oversized shirt and baggy pants, which in his case were bulky enough to hide a lightweight bulletproof vest along with his weapons. He could obscure his face when necessary with a head scarf or shimagh.

Despite its poor relations with the U.S., in many ways Syria was much more liberal than many Middle Eastern countries, and Western-style clothing would be the norm in the larger towns and cities. Fouad was dressed little differently than a man would dress in America.

“The milk truck has a series of fake compartments,” Ferguson told them. “I got it off a genuine smuggler. Actually, the First Airborne got it off a smuggler, and they said I could borrow it.”

He explained how the compartments worked. There was one toward the cab area large enough to fit weapons and a series of smaller ones. “You can chain two of the motorcycles on the back, and another at the side. They may come in handy.”

“Where are you going to be?” Thera asked Ferguson.

“The map those clowns were working with suggest they were going to Tarabulus esh Sham, Tripoli. Long shot but worth checking. It’s north of Beirut.”

“What happened to Syria?” asked Thera.

“Still in the running. It may be that they were going here first, maybe to pick up someone or sell something or even buy something, then heading north. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Won’t know until I get there and maybe not even then.”

“What am I doing, Ferg?” asked Guns.

“For the time being, big guy, winning Melfi’s poker money. Your Arabic isn’t good enough to ride with those guys, and I don’t want to burn you in Lebanon with me in case I need you to come in as a Russian drug dealer or something like that. If you’re seen with me it’ll kill your cover. Just remember, I get half your winnings here.”

Guns smirked. Melfi didn’t.

“Questions? Complaints?” asked Ferguson.

“There’s five thousand Euros here,” said Thera, flipping through the money.

“That’s all they’d let me sign for.”

She stared at him.

Ferguson realized she was thinking about the cash they’d found in the smuggler’s car and laughed. “Don’t forget your sunblock,” he told them.