Extreme Faction (31 page)

“Shit,” the pilot yelled. “We're taking ground fire.”

The windscreen had shattered with two holes, and the fifty caliber rounds had sunk into the bulkhead above the cockpit.

The helicopter zipped forward and down quickly. Jake held his breath, thinking they were crashing. Then the pilot pulled back and brought the chopper to a halt, and they slowly sunk into a clearing below.

Nelsen and one of the commandos slid the door open.

“We can't set down here,” the pilot yelled over the radio. “It's too rocky. You'll have to jump.”

“What about a rope?” Jake asked.

Nelsen shook his head. “No time. We have to hit the ground and move out before the PKK get us. Drop down to the skid, hang, and drop. Try to miss the boulders.” Nelsen ripped his headset off and slung a backpack over his shoulder. He moved toward the opening.

Nelsen went first. In a moment, he was swallowed up by the black abyss below.

The chopper rocked violently.

Jake was next. He held onto the side of the door for a second and looked down. It could have been three feet or three hundred. He had no way of telling. He stepped out to the skid, swung his hands down to the metal rails like a gymnast on a high bar, and then dropped his feet and body downward, catching himself with a lurch. He looked down, saw nothing, and dropped. In a split second his feet hit the ground, his legs collapsed, and he fell to his right, smashing into a huge rock and rolling onto his side. He lay in pain, having hit his bruised ribs. A hand grasped his collar and dragged him a few feet to one side.

The helicopter hovered above, the rotor wash kicking up dirt. Jake could see the chopper as a backdrop to the sky, which seemed brighter from the ground.

Garcia stepped onto the rail above, reached down for the bar, and then seemed to float headfirst toward the ground in slow motion.

When Garcia hit the ground, his head smashed into a large rock before his hands could stop his descent. He was dead before Jake and Nelsen reached him.

The chopper started rising up toward the treetops.

Nelsen crouched down next to Garcia, checking his pulse. He shook his head.

Jake had his gun out and watched the edge of the woods, which were starting to become more visible, and let his eyes settle on the bundle of a man a few feet away. “Is he?”

“He's dead. Broken neck. God dammit.”

“We've got to get out of here, Steve. What's the plan.”

The helicopter had reached the treetops and started down along the edge of the mountains. It had gone just half a mile when the shooting star seemed to come from nowhere and explode into its side. Then the entire chopper blew up into nothing in a huge ball of flames, followed immediately by a secondary blast.

Nelsen turned quickly and stared in wonder. Jake had seen the whole thing, but couldn't believe what had just happened.

Jake heard the bullet pass by his head before he heard the shots being fired from the woods above them. He returned fire with one quick burst. “Let's go,” he screamed, grabbing Nelsen by the arm and hauling him down the side of the mountain.

The woods below were fifty yards away. Bullets echoed down the mountain, hitting the dirt, hitting the trees in front of them, and probably missing them both by inches.

They reached the woods and pulled up behind a large clump of trees.

“What in the hell is going on?” Nelsen said. “Those fuckers had to know we were coming.”

“I don't have time to argue with you there. Now tell me what in the hell is going on?”

“We needed the commandos,” Nelsen said. “We can't pull this off without them. We're screwed.”

Jake looked into Nelsen's eyes. It was the first time he had seen that face on him. It was fear. Nelsen had always been this tough sonofabitch who everyone thought would screw his mother if given the chance. And now he was breathing heavily, sweating from every pore on his body, and shaking. He was scared.

There were flashes from the woods above, followed by the crackling of gunfire. Jake thought of returning fire, but knew the men were beyond his effective range. And the muzzle flashes would highlight their position.

“We're screwed if we stay put,” Jake said. “Let's go. We've gotta get the hell out of here.”

Listening carefully, Jake could hear the distinct sound of twigs cracking. The shooters were coming around the south side of the clearing. Perfect. They had made their first mistake. Jake remembered the satellite photos, and knew they must head north to reach the Kurdish village. He started running through the thick forest. Nelsen was right on his heels.

They were running laterally along the steep grade of the mountainside. It was starting to get a little lighter, making it somewhat easier to see the ground unfold in front of them. Brush slapped across their faces, Nelsen tripped over a dead fall, crashing to the ground. Jake stopped and helped him up. They were both breathing heavily. It must have been the elevation, Jake thought. At least eight thousand feet. Jake looked behind them and listened. He could hear nothing. Nobody following them. He wondered now if the men had forced them to head in that direction. It they were herding them, much like they would heard their sheep, toward others who were waiting to ambush them ahead.

Nelsen pulled at Jake this time. “We have to move,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Jake whispered. “Maybe that's what they want us to do. If they sent a small group to the south making noise, and another group to the north quietly, they could be just ahead waiting for us.”

Nelsen thought it over. “All right. What do you suggest?”

“I say we head straight up the mountain for high ground. Once we reach the rock massif, we head north again. They'll never guess we'd head uphill. Then we can keep them below us all the way to the village.”

“I thought you were in the Air Force. Not the Army.”

“It's the same way I hunt deer in the Rockies. Mountain Lions do the same thing.”

“Great.”

Jake crept slowly up the mountain, listening for any movement. After about a thousand feet, they reached a rock cliff that stretched all the way around the mountain for a mile in both directions. The satellite photos had shown Sinclair Tucker's helicopter had gone down a half a mile ahead. They had the high ground now, and they paused for a moment to catch their breath.

Nelsen had a confused expression.

“What's the matter?” Jake asked.

“I think you just saved our lives, and I don't like it one bit.”

“Afraid you might have to do the same for me someday?”

Nelsen didn't answer.

“Listen,” Jake said. “If you want me to help you any more, you'll tell me the entire mission. You don't want Garcia's death to go for nothing. And those six commandos, the two pilots...”

Nelsen sat down in the dewy grass, looking out over Lake Van to the northwest, which was sparkling green with the first light of day.

“The government could give a shit about Baskale,” he whispered. “Sure it would have been nice to capture him and bring him to justice in the states, but that's not our main concern.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Number one priority is to take out the laboratory. Three of the commandos were set to do that. The other three were heading for a mosque in the village. They were to take out a man named Carzani. Mesut Carzani.”

“That name sounds familiar,” Jake said.

“It should. He's a Kurdish tribal leader. The one who helped the Iraqi Kurds after the Gulf War. He took over the PKK a few years back, and now he's formed an alliance with Kurdish tribes in Iran, Iraq and Syria. He even controls the vast Kurdish radicals in places like Germany and England.”

“So he ordered the deaths there?”

“Right.”

“How do we know all this?”

Nelsen hesitated. “Human intel. Some from Mossad, I understand. I don't have details. Nobody ever gives us the details. You know that.”

Jake was well aware of that fact. Another of the many reasons he quit. “And what were we supposed to do?”

Nelsen turned away and looked toward the north.

Wait a minute, Jake thought. What else was there? Tvchenko is dead. His assistant, the only other person who knew what he was up to, dead. Only the Kurds had the formula. Tvchenko's secret. Of course.

“That's it then,” Jake said. “You're here to take the formula back to the Agency. So only the U.S. has it.”

Nelsen swished his head back toward Jake. “What did you expect? You think we can let a bunch of goat herders have the most deadly nerve agent in the world?”

Jake had never even considered the fact that his government would want Tvchenko's agent. But of course they would. He had been such a fool in Odessa. All along he had played right into the government's little game again.

“I suppose there's no reward for the terrorist?”

“Is that how the station chief in Odessa lured you here?” Nelsen gave his first human smile.

“That fucker, Tully.” Jake shook his head. It wasn't like Jake wouldn't have come to Kurdistan anyway, considering Sinclair Tucker was still missing. But the money would have been nice to at least cover expenses. Or maybe hospital bills. “So, they know we're here,” Jake said. “What can we expect to accomplish now?”

Flipping the backpack from his shoulders, Nelsen opened the top and pulled out a package.

“C-4? You've got bullets flying at you, and you've got a bomb strapped to your back?”

“Everybody has to die sometime.”

Jake thought about the men who had just died. Had they gone for a righteous cause? Only time would tell.

“That's enough C-4 to take out half the village. We could destroy the lab and still find Sinclair Tucker.”

“We take out the lab, and then get the hell out of Dodge. We don't even know where the Brit is being held.”

“If Carzani is in the mosque, my guess is Tucker isn't far away. You take out the lab, I'll find Tuck.”

Nelsen didn't like it, but he wasn't in any position to argue. “We go everywhere together. But first the lab.”

Mesut Carzani swiveled back in his chair and swung around toward Omri Sherut. He was talking to Baskale on the radio.

“I know that,” Carzani said, smiling. “I saw the helicopter crash from here. Were there any survivors?”

“I'm afraid so,” came a muffled response.

“How many?”

“Two.”

Sherut looked a bit concerned. “Does he know which men survived?”

There was no response.

“It doesn't matter, Omri,” the Kurd said. “There are only two of them. We can handle that. Besides, they would be crazy to try anything. Only two men?”

Omri Sherut wasn't so sure. If one of them was Jake Adams, then crazy was the best way to describe him. He should have killed Adams in Odessa when he had the chance. He would have if it had been his choice.

“I don't think we should take these two men for granted,” Sherut said. “They just might be crazy enough to try something.”

●

The woman crouched in the woods above the old barn, watching people come and go from the front door, yet still able to see the back, where goats and sheep had just been fed and watered by a teenaged boy. The barn looked like every other barn in the village, but she knew this one was different. Her people had found out about the large shipment of isopropyl alcohol to the barn, and she even knew about the two men who had been studying bio-chemistry in America, who she suspected were in there now mixing the compounds. She had learned all of this from her contact in Georgia. She knew she had only one choice, and that was to get what should have been hers in the first place.

The morning had broken. Villagers had started setting up a market on the street. A Saturday ritual. Women carried baskets on their heads. Young girls followed them with buckets. To the casual observer, it seemed like any other Turkish village. But this one was different. All the men were scattered about in small patrols. She had watched them form up an hour ago. Some headed down the mountain in trucks and set up a road block. Others had taken off on foot toward the crash site, searching the helicopter wreckage. She was still not certain of the nationality of that helicopter. The Kurds had been so quiet in the past month, not wanting to make waves, she suspected. Downing the helicopter would surely bring a retaliatory strike. Especially from the Turkish government. How much time would she have?

She sunk lower to the ground and covered herself with leaves and grass. Wait a minute, she thought. The Kurds must have known they could shoot down the chopper without fear of reprisal. Of course.

●

Jake and Steve Nelsen had managed to stay away from all the patrols, keeping as close to the rock cliff as possible. They sat now overlooking the Kurdish village.

Watching the morning activity in the village through binoculars, Jake couldn't help drawing similarities to his trips to the safe havens. The people had been so poor, yet they had this spirit and pride within them that all the money in the world couldn't buy. They could have been starving to death, but still made sure the children were fed and drank enough water. Halabja had been different, of course. Jake had been there secretly, much like now, but by the time he reached the Iraqi village, almost five thousand people had died. He had held the fifteen year old girl in his arms, trying to give her strength and courage to survive. She had lost everything. Her mother. Her father. All of her brothers and sisters. And why? Because she had gone alone to the neighboring village to buy a goat for the family. She had seen the jets fly in. Jets had been flying by for over eight years. It was all she could remember. Jake had learned all of this from her in the three days when she refused to leave his side.

Jake scanned the village from one side to the next. He saw the mosque. He saw the laboratory barn. He noticed where each sentry stood. How vigilant they were, or were not.