Blaze of Glory (38 page)

The men exchanged glances. Shaq’s could have melted a glacier. Zinsser set his weapon down, put his back to the wall, and linked his fingers to form a stirrup. Rich shook his head. “You first.” Rich slipped his vest back on.

“I can’t pull you up on the roof. You need to go up first.”

It must have made sense, because Rich slipped the strap of his weapon over his shoulder, put his foot in Zinsser’s hand, and used it as a step. Zinsser lifted, trying to give Shaq an extra six inches of height to reach the roof. It was like lifting a car.

The weight disappeared, and Zinsser could hear Rich scrabbling up the wall. Then he heard something else. Someone was approaching. Before he could turn, he felt the muzzle of a gun behind his ear. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t bother weighing his options. Zinsser spun, swatting the weapon aside and drove the heel of his hand into the man’s sternum. The attacker staggered back. Fearful the man could call for help or discharge his weapon, alerting the others to their presence at the side of the building, Zinsser sent his fist into the man’s throat. His eyes widened but then closed a moment later. Zinsser twisted his wrist then removed his knife from the man’s gut.

He dropped.

Zinsser retrieved his weapon and tossed it to Shaq. He took two steps back, then charged the wall, planting his right boot on the wall, and reached for the roof. A vise-like hand seized his wrist and Zinsser felt himself rising skyward.

CHAPTER 40

MOYER’S FEAR MORPHED INTO annoyance. There was no shame in fear. No soldier denied being afraid. Instead they took pride in conquering fear.

“Tell me you got through, Junior.”

“I got through, Boss, but I haven’t heard back. I’m feeling jilted.” Pete had taken Rich’s place at the bullet-riddled window.

Moyer’s mind raced. This had turned into a royal mess. There was nothing they could have done better. They had come up with the best plan possible; they had executed it without fault; but no team, no matter how well trained, could predict the unpredictable.

For the last few minutes they had, in an effort to preserve their limited ammo, been rotating their return fire. If any of the men shooting at them had military backgrounds—and there was a very good chance they did—then they would know the team’s ammo was limited and begin to advance.

“Boss,” Pete said, the satellite phone to his ear, “no joy here. Our extraction helo is out of commission. Something about a fractured rotor.”

“Swell. Just swell.”

“Command has something else working. They will advise.”

“That’s good. Any chance they might get to that soon?”

“They didn’t say, but they’re aware of the problem.”

The crash of breaking glass rolled through the room. Moyer turned in time to see the barrel of an AK-47 come through one of the stained glass windows. He rolled on his back and turned the muzzle of his weapon toward the window. He saw the attacker’s barrel turn his way—then disappear in a spray of red. Standing in the doorway between the sanctuary and the foyer was J. J., his M100 aimed at the broken window.

“I owe you a steak,” Moyer said.

“Two.”

“We’ve lost our advantage, Boss. They’re going to advance on our position soon.”

“Let’s give Shaq and Data a chance.”

“You think Data can do it, Boss?”

“Once a hero, Junior, always a hero . . . I hope.”

A voice pressed through Moyer’s earpiece. “Boss, Data. We’ve taken our positions. That’s the good news.”

“There’s bad news?”

“Roger that, Boss: Three more vans and two trucks are headed up the street. I think they called for reinforcements from the other town.”

“Colina Verde,” Moyer muttered. “Junior, advise Command.”

“Will do.”

As soon as Pete made the call, Moyer said, “Listen up, team: This is about to go Alamo. We have to hold on until we get some support. When Shaq and Data give us the word, we open up. J. J., you got Willie Petes?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“I hate to ask this . . .”

“No sweat, Boss. If it helps, I volunteer.”

Moyer never felt more proud of the young man. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

ZINSSER PEERED OVER THE roof parapet. The image in night vision goggles came through sharp and clear. The rising sun threatened to crawl up the sky and push the dark back like a window shade. Although not yet visible, the red slit along the eastern horizon told of the sun’s imminent return. What Zinsser couldn’t decide was if that was good or bad news. With more light, they would be able to see the enemy better—and the enemy would see them clearer.

Zinsser glanced at Rich and saw him nod. “On my count. Three, two, one—go.”

A burst of gunfire came from the church.

Shaq popped his head over the parapet and let loose a long stream of fire. Zinsser pushed to his feet, pulled the safety, and threw one, then another M84 flash-bang grenade. Most soldiers could toss a grenade thirty-five meters. Zinsser had the advantage of adrenaline and height above ground.

He dropped facedown on the roof and closed his eyes. Two bangs told him the grenades had gone out. The screams told him the bright light had temporarily blinded the shooters.

Rich was on his feet, tapping the trigger of his weapon and firing short bursts at the enemy behind the courtyard wall. Zinsser joined him. He could hear the others below doing the same. Zinsser heard something else: the front doors of the church flying open and slamming the walls hard enough to shake the building. In the dim light, Zinsser saw two objects fly through the air. Again Zinsser dropped facedown to the roof and shielded his eyes.

He heard two explosions.

He heard screams that threatened to melt the marrow in his bones.

Looking over the parapet, Zinsser saw fire burning the vehicles. He also saw burning bodies.

A WILLIE PETE—A WHITE phosphorous grenade—is effective, devastating, and horrible. It had been used by Army personnel for decades to signal, to create smoke, and occasionally to clear an enemy location. What J. J. had done was necessary to save the lives of his team. Still, his stomach burned almost as hot as the phosphorus on the other side of the courtyard wall.

“Shaq, report!”

“Targets hit, Boss. Approaching vehicles have stopped in the middle of the street.”

“We bought time.” Moyer’s tone was still grim. “Question is, how much?”

J. J. had dove back into the church as soon as he threw the WP. He did so to put himself out of the line of fire. He also didn’t want to see what was about to happen.

“Good job, Colt.”

J. J. heard the voice, but the words made no sense.

“You with us, Colt?”

J. J. blinked. “With you? Yes, Boss. I’m with you.” He rose and raised his M110. He had killed men before. He had killed men that day. Somehow the sun-bright phosphorus and fire unnerved him. He took three deep breaths, and the images faded. He could question himself later. Right now his team needed him; two hostages needed him.

MOYER STUDIED J. J. For a few moments he’d expected the young man to crumble, then he saw the fire return to Colt’s eyes. J. J. never complained. In many ways he was the perfect soldier, but he was also a man of sensitivity. Moyer had known soldiers who longed to kill, but most were like J. J.—they did what had to be done. While they loved the adventure, appreciated the danger, and found fulfillment in completing missions that made a difference, few relished taking life. Moyer could always tell J. J. regretted taking a life, even the life of the enemy. Even so, he never hesitated.

Moyer knew he’d be all right.

“Boss—”

Moyer turned to Pete.

“We have incoming friendlies.”

“DATA, IT’S ECHO. I’M down. Repeat . . . I’m hit.”

Zinsser squeezed his eyelids shut so tight spots floated in his eyes.

“We need support. Data, where is our support?” A scream of pain. “Oh dear God. Don’t let me die in this dump.”

Stop it. Stop it, Brian . . . Zinsser pressed his head against the roof, pushing his helmet into the tar that sealed the surface. His lungs burned. It took a moment for him to realize he had stopped breathing.

“Chief is gone! Data, get us that support!”

Zinsser’s heart bounced more than beat.

“Data, do you read me?”

“Data, do you hear me?” A different voice.

Zinsser’s blood thickened and burned his arteries. Every breath was like inhaling gasoline.

Something touched his shoulder. He swatted it away. It touched him again, and again Zinsser knocked it away. This time the touch was not gentle. He was pulled two feet to the left, his body scraping the roof. Zinsser snapped his eyes open and saw another pair of eyes—those of a black man wearing a black mask. Zinsser felt fear. He reached for his knife.

The punch sent pain shooting through his nose, up his eyes, and around his head.

“You will not go loopy on me now. Understand?”

A familiar voice. An angry voice. Zinsser’s nose pulsed with pain. The man was holding Zinsser’s nose and twisting.

“I’m talking to you, Data. You hear me? You pull it together or so help me I will throw you off this roof.”

Roof? Sweat ran down his face. Roof. Church. Mexico.

“I’m here, Shaq.”

“You sure?”

Zinsser shot a hand forward and seized Rich’s nose. “We can play this all night. Really, Shaq, I’m here . . . I’m back.”

“You had better be. Clear?”

“Clear.”

Zinsser released Shaq’s nose. Shaq gave another twist before letting go.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Because you are really starting to irritate me.”

Zinsser heard a roar and looked to the street below. The vans and trucks were starting forward at full speed.

CHAPTER 41

ZINSSER LET LOOSE A burst of bullets into the windshield of the lead van. It jerked right, then left. To his left, Rich was reporting to Moyer: “We see three vans and two pickups. There are men in the beds of the trucks. Best guess: forty men.”

Forty men.
Zinsser knew what that meant.
We’re toast.

He had no doubts about the ability of his fellow soldiers, but they carried limited ammunition. A protracted firefight against forty new guns was bound to end badly. Pinned down with no easy way out made for a bleak future. He didn’t care if he died. He’d longed for death for months. But the others deserved to live. They had family. He had nothing.