brain matter and gore smeared throughout the cabin, compliments of Jason’s opening three rounds delivered from fifty metres to the mark’s left eye.
Behind the Toyota were three more trucks left abandoned by the enemy. Eight dead Arabs littered the ground around them. Bobbing in and out of view over the hood of the second truck was the red turban marking Jason’s last man, Hazo. The 42-year-old Kurd acted as the unit’s eyes and ears: translator, facilitator, go-to man. Hazo was simultaneously their best asset and worst liability, since, like most Kurdish Christians, he refused to handle a weapon. All brain, no brawn - but a helluva a nice guy. Jason guessed that Hazo was in the fetal position reciting a few novenas. If he didn’t move, he’d be perfectly safe.
Jason low-crawled further up the rise. When he peeked up to survey the enemy again, he didn’t like what he saw. Behind a formidable rock pile, three white-turbaned Arabs had unpacked a long polyethylene case they’d hauled out from the Toyota before taking off for the hills on foot. The sand-coloured weapon they were now assembling had a long fat tube with Soviet markings. A fourth man wearing a black keffiyeh was readying its first mortar shell.
‘Damn.’
Jason used his binoculars to scout the airspace above the western plain, until he found the black bird twelve klicks out over the horizon, closing in fast. Two minutes away, he guessed. He’d need to buy some time before the guys with the rocket launcher got busy.
He positioned himself behind a natural V in the rock. Not the best sight line and only the targets’ headscarves were visible … but he’d make it work. With the stock of his SVD sniper rifle nestled comfortably on his right shoulder, Jason stared through the scope and took aim at the black keffiyeh. Then he sprang up slightly until the target’s angular, bearded face panned into view.
Pop-pop-pop.
The rounds hit home and pink mist confirmed the kill.
The mortar fumbled out from the dead man’s hand, rolled out of view. The three white turbans retreated from his crosshairs as they scrambled to recover it. Jason sank back below the ridge. The sat-com vibrated in his vest pocket. He pulled it out and hit the receiver.
‘It’s Candyman. Talk to me, Google.’
‘Three targets remaining in position one … guns and an RPG. Copy.’
‘Roger. And position two?’
‘Five gunmen. Copy.’
‘You’re getting soft on me. I thought we were gonna see some real action.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, Candyman.’
After pocketing the sat-com, Jason took up his rifle and rucksack then kept moving further up the hillock, hoping to get a better angle on the white turbans. But only arms and legs occasionally came into view. With limited rounds to spare, it was headshots or nothing at all. He only hoped the men wouldn’t succeed in loading the RPG-7 before the air strike commenced.
His new vantage point did, however, let him monitor the gunmen who were pinned down in the second position: four men surrounding one tall guy in the centre. Jason swung the rifle in their direction and steadied the crosshairs over a chunky Arab who was all cheeks beneath a patchy grey beard. Patchy made an abrupt move that granted Jason a clear facial on the central figure nestled in the ring’s centre. The sinister portrait Jason captured in the crosshairs made his heart skip a beat.
‘Can’t be,’ he murmured.
That hard dark face, however, and the incredible death toll associated with it, was unmistakable. What the hell was
Snatching up the sat-com, he used the analogue walkie-talkie channel to radio the other unit members: ‘Nobody fire on position two. I repeat: hold your fire on position two.’
The thumping rotors of the AH-64 Apache were getting louder by the second. Dropping back, Jason watched the gunship sweeping in on a direct line.
A second later, the sat-com vibrated on its digital channel and he hit the receiver.
‘That you, Candyman?’
‘Roger, Google. You ready for me?’
‘Yes, but do not, I repeat, do not fire on position two. Over.’
‘Got it. How ‘bout position one?’
Jason peeked up over the rocks, saw one of the white turbans pop up then disappear. Then the rocket tube came in and out of view. No clear shot for Jason.
‘Hydras on position one. Have at it,’ Jason replied urgently.
‘Roger that. Stay low and cover your ears.’
Fifteen seconds later, the Apache was in strike range. The laser sensor on its nosecone locked on the rock pile’s GPS coordinates. An instant later, a pair of Hydra 70 missiles launched from the chopper’s stub-wing pylons.
Jason stole a final glimpse of position one. The RPG-7 launch tube jutted out from the rock, this time with a mortar securely affixed to its tip. It was going to be close.
Ducking down, he tossed his rifle to the ground, covered his ears, and pressed his back against the mound. He watched the missiles stream in along sharp trajectories that laced the crystalline blue sky with two crisp lines of exhaust smoke - a fearsome sight.
Then Jason witnessed an equally remarkable sight: as the tandem missiles hissed overhead, the rocket launcher’s mortar sliced upward and glanced one of them - not hard enough to detonate the Hydra’s warhead, but enough to push it off its intended path.
The first Hydra slammed position one and threw a reverberating blast wave over the mound that made Jason’s teeth rattle. A rush of intense heat came right behind it.
A split second later, the second Hydra struck and the ground quaked even harder. The explosion echoed off the mountains.
Jason watched the chopper bank hard to avoid the wobbling mortar, which stayed airborne for five seconds before plummeting into an orchard of date trees and exploding in a tight orange fireball.
As he pulled his hands from his ringing ears, a tattered white turban covered in red splotches came fluttering down from the sky and landed at his feet. With it came the smell of burnt flesh.
Snatching up his rifle, Jason flipped the selector to burst. Then he scrambled down the slope, careful not to let his sandals slip on the gore blanketing the hillside. With the rifle high on his shoulder, he swept the muzzle side to side, waiting for any movement near the decimated rock pile. The smoke and dust made it impossible to see what was happening behind the second position, so he eased back, took cover behind a boulder, and waited. He scanned the area through his gun scope. No activity.
A westerly wind quickly thinned the smoke.
Down below, Camel broke cover and sprinted up the slope. Jason covered him with suppressive fire until he did a home-plate slide through the gravel and came to a stop at Jason’s feet.
‘Safe!’ Camel called out, grinning ear to ear like a school kid out for recess.
Some guys are born for this. Then Jason got a good look at Camel’s face. It appeared as if he’d stuck his head in a bucket of gore. ‘You all right?’
‘
‘Fahim Al-Zahrani is with them.’
‘
‘Intel’s wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘You sure about this?’
‘Show you the pictures later,’ he said, tapping his binoculars. ‘He’s the tall one in the middle. Remember, the Pentagon wants him alive. So try not to shoot him and we’ll get home a lot faster.’
Suddenly, Jam screamed over to Jason: ‘They’re heading uphill!’
