Hostile Fire (34 page)

Prescott tapped Lam on the shoulder and gave him the imager. To the left Murdock saw the white outline of a man standing, probably beside a tree. Then the white ghost vanished. He must have stepped behind the tree. Lam showed Rafii where the figure was and he held up the second imager. The ghost showed on the far side of what Lam figured had
to be a tree. A long line crossed the white figure. The rifle he carried would not show white. Lam pointed to the area, and then to Rafii. The small man moved at once to the left and without a sound worked his way past some brush and to a sturdy tree with a two-foot-thick trunk. He paused and used the scanner again.

Yes, the ghostly white showed, this time moving from the dark spot forward six or eight feet and going prone, head up and probably looking at the spot Rafii had just left. Rafii touched the send button once on his Motorola, the danger signal.

Rafii judged the distance. The ghost figure in his scope was twenty feet away, facing away at a forty-five-degree angle. Too far for a good knife throw. Rafii edged forward, this time on his belly, moving slowly and watching through the scope. When the sentry’s head turned toward him, Rafii stopped and didn’t even breathe. The head turned away and Rafii slid forward.

It took him five minutes to work to within ten feet of the man, who was still prone. Rafii had selected the knife he would throw. It had a four-inch blade and a heavy handle, one of his favorites. He could throw a knife and cut a match in half that was taped to a wall twenty feet away. Now he waited for the head to turn away from him. It did.

Rafii lifted up on his knees, cocked the blade behind his head, and threw. The knife turned once in the air and the razorlike blade drove deeply into the prone figure’s back. It sliced through half of the spinal column, paralyzing the man from the neck down. He croaked out a cry, and the next moment Rafii was on him, a second knife slicing cross the man’s throat, stopping the cry.

Rafii touched his radio button twice. He pulled out his knife and cleaned it on the dead man’s shirt, then rolled him over. He was dressed in civvies and carried a submachine gun Rafii did not recognize. He was a dark Mexican, of Indian ancestry. Lam came up and motioned to the side, where there was more cover. The three SEALs slid behind trees and watched ahead.

Lam touched his radio. “Murdock, move up now.”

He put Prescott twenty yards back along the cleared trail
to meet the rest of the platoon. Lam and Rafii worked silently forward. Lam had held up two fingers, then gave a thumbs-down sign. Then he held up three fingers and pointed ahead. There would be at least one more guard.

The two were ten feet apart, moving slowly, sometimes crawling, sometimes walking. They went twenty yards and stopped. Ahead Lam saw the red glow of a cigarette. He motioned to Rafii, whom he could barely make out. Rafii had seen it as well. The imager showed only a hand beyond a tree or some other cover. They waited. A minute later a white figure left the tree, moved over three steps, and stopped. The legs spread and the man put one hand on his hip. He’s pissing, Lam thought. They were still ten yards from the man. Rafii waved at Lam, stood, and, moving silently through the cover, came to a tree ten feet from the man. He had finished urinating and turned back toward the tree. Rafii threw the same knife he had used before. It turned over once and the blade drove through the man’s shirt, sliced between two ribs, and plunged three inches into the man’s heart. He staggered a step, then fell forward, ramming the blade up to the hilt in his dead chest.

Both SEALs hurried up. Rafii took back his blade, wiped it on the dead man’s cammie shirt, and looked at Lam. The scout whispered, “Go back and meet Prescott and the rest of the platoon and bring them to this spot. Safe country. I’ll work ahead. Thought I heard someone talking a minute ago. Go.”

Rafii turned, jogged back, and worked through the brush as quietly as a spirit. Lam looked forward. He could see the side of the cockpit of the big plane. Most of it was buried deeply into the soft ground just to the side of the small stream. The water chattered softly, and gave Lam enough cover to move forward. He kept the scope up but could find no warm bodies.

He eased up another eight feet and touched the white painted side of the nose of the plane. It had broken off cleanly. The fuselage was behind it. Lam couldn’t remember how far. The camp for the mercenaries would be to the right, away from the stream, slightly up the hill.

The sound of voices came again. Spanish. He couldn’t
catch the words. He frowned, searched the area beside the cockpit, and then back toward where the fuselage should be. No white ghosts on the black screen.

Then he had a thought. Suppose that the mercenaries were sleeping inside the fuselage? It would have doors on both sides, they all probably broke off in the crash. There would be lots of room inside with just one nuclear bomb in there. He slipped back the way he had come, stepping across the three-foot-wide creek and waiting behind a tree.

Rafii led the group down the slope. Lam caught their movement while they were fifty yards away. When they came near him, he stepped out.

“Boo,” he said softly. “You guys are all dead.”

Murdock stifled a chuckle. “So, what did you find?”

“I think these guys are living inside the broken-off section of the fuselage. If so, they’re fish in a barrel.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I can’t find any camp in back of that section of the plane. It’s thirty feet long or more. The whole tail section has broken off; we saw that from the air.”

“Would grenades thrown in there harm the bomb?” Rafii asked.

“Probably not,” Murdock said as softly as the others were talking. He nodded. “How much farther do we have the way cleared?”

“All the way to the cockpit jammed into the ground. About thirty yards.”

“Gardner, move the rest of the platoon up near the cockpit and take cover. Lam and I will do one more recon.”

Murdock took the imager from Rafii and let Lam lead out. They moved cautiously, not making a sound. The jungle floor here was soft and moist, and each step was an adventure to find out if something underfoot would snap or some animal would scream in protest.

At the nose of the plane, they looked around. They could see the faint image of the ragged front of the fuselage where it had broken off. Behind it they saw nothing. Lam motioned up the hill. They moved at a right angle to the plane, working thirty yards into the jungle growth, worming under much of it, stepping over roots and branches and sliding around trees.

At that distance, Lam turned a right angle to the left and worked until he figured they were in front of the middle of the stricken aircraft. He pointed down the slope and they edged that way through the trees and underbrush. Each step they took was only after a quick sweep of the area ahead with the thermal imagers. They spotted no guards. Another rocky place allowed them to move faster, and soon they were with thirty feet of the plane. They stopped. A low murmur of voices came. Then a match flared somewhere inside the dark outline of a door that had been torn off the big aircraft in the crash.

Murdock and Lam looked at each other and nodded. Murdock’s whisper came softly.

“We need four men on the far side of the plane at the other door. They might try to get out the far door. Two men to cover the broken-out front of the tomb and two at the tail section. Bring the rest up here by a shorter route. The quicker the better. We’ll use three beeps on the radio when each unit gets into place. After four of the signals, we’ll be ready. Tell the three off-side units to toss in grenades as soon as they hear five beeps from me. Go now before the mercenaries and their friends miss those three sentries they had out. When everyone is in place, the party will begin.”

Murdock waited twenty minutes, and then he crawled forward inch by inch until the thirty feet from the plane had been cut in half. He had one fragger in his hand and the other hand held the Bull Pup set on the 5.56 barrel. He watched the dark hole in the white-painted airliner fuselage. Now he could hear a soft mumble of voices. No one that he heard inside tried to quiet the men. He wondered how many there were. Twenty? Even thirty? They were probably mostly mercenaries, but they had fired at his men and they were working for a terrorist. That made them fair game, and many of them would die within the hour.

Five minutes after he was in his chosen position to throw two hand grenades into the airliner door, he heard the first three-beep signal on the radio earpiece. The in-ear signal could not be heard by anyone without the Motorola.

That would be the men at the broken-off front of the fuselage. It would take the other two units longer to get in position. Another five minutes crawled past before he heard the next series of three soft beeps in his earpiece. Then two minutes later the last set of three signals came through. All units in place. He dug out the second grenade and laid it beside his rifle. Then he pulled the safety pin on the hand bomb and held down the long thin metal handle that would arm the grenade once it flew off. He touched his radio and sent five beeps. The next second he lobbed the first grenade into the open door. Before the 4.2-second fuse train on the bomb set it off, he threw the second one through the door and ducked behind a fallen log.

Then the night roared with explosions. His bomb in the mid door went off first, followed by two near the front of the fuselage. Then he couldn’t tell from where the blasts
came. He did count nine grenades going off. Two men came screaming out the door in front of him and jumped to the ground. Murdock cut them down with a three-round burst for each one from the 5.56 barrel. He heard screams from inside. He watched but saw no flames; nothing had caught on fire from the explosions. Good.

“I’ve had two jumpers out the side door,” Murdock said in the mike. “Hold your positions. Any more jumpers?”

As he said it, he heard gunfire from the front and from the far side of the dead airliner. Then all went quiet.

“Three in front who jumped their last time,” Gardner said.

“We’ve had two try to get out the back section,” Jaybird said. “They didn’t make it. Count is seven down.”

“Hold your positions. Where is the other thermal?”

“At the nose,” Gardner said.

“See if you can get a man up to the opening without any danger and scope the inside. There have to be some live ones in there.”

A minute later the radio came on. “Fernandez has the imager and is now working up to the opening. We haven’t heard anything from inside. Not a cry or a groan or any screaming.”

“Waiting us out,” Murdock said.

Another burst of gunfire from the rear of the plane.

“One more jumper,” Jaybird said. “It’s four feet to the ground. He’s down and out of the game.”

“Skipper, I’m back down,” Fernandez radioed. “I was shielded by some boxes but I caught two white images. I didn’t take them out.”

“You did good, Fernandez. We might need a live one. Let’s give them another twenty minutes. Then I want you to get up near the same place you were and call into them in Spanish to turn on a flashlight and go to the mid door in the left-hand side and give themselves up. Tell them if they try to run they will be killed.”

“Right, Cap. I could hear a few words but not well enough to understand them. They were Spanish. I’ll go in twenty on your command.”

Ten minutes later, Murdock had moved closer to the open door. He was less than six feet away, behind a tree that had
survived the crash. His head jerked around when he heard a pounding on the plane just inside the door. The three poundings came again. He listened carefully. Bang bang bang. A pause. Bang-bang-bang. A pause. Then bang, bang, bang. Murdock snorted at the poor man’s SOS.

Murdock’s thermal imager lit up with a man standing in the open door.

“Okay. Give up. Okay, no shoot.”

From near the front of the aircraft sharp commands came in Spanish. The man turned and looked forward, then laced his fingers on top of his head and sat down on the edge of the floor in the open door.

“
Salto
,” Fernandez’s voice bellowed from the front. The man jumped off the plane and landed on the brush four feet below. Murdock grabbed him and moved him up and away from the plane.

“Cap, how fast does a body cool off so it won’t show on the imager?” Fernandez asked.

“No idea. They forgot that in our training.”

“I’ve got some faint images, but nothing starkly white. My guess is that there are no more live ones inside the plane. I’m in the front of this section, so no more grenades in here, you guys.”

“Roger that. I’m putting cuffs on this live one, and then I’m coming inside from here. So hold.”

Murdock put a plastic riot cuff on the Mexican’s wrists behind his back and then one around his ankles. The commander looked at the floor level of the big plane four feet off the ground. Just like the OC. He jumped, caught the opening with both arms, and levered himself onto the floor. He brought the imager out and scanned what he could see of the inside.

“I’m in, Fernandez. Check the front. I’ll clear it back here. Use your flashlight after scoping.”

“Aye, aye, Cap.”

Murdock scanned the back twenty feet of the plane, but found no white ghosts on his small screen. Then he turned on his three-cell flashlight and scowled. Four feet behind him sat a large wooden crate six feet wide and probably twice that long.

The nuclear bomb.

He looked around it. He counted eight bodies in that section, and then turned toward the front.

“Cap, I have six bodies, none showing any signs of life on or off the scanner. I’d say we’re clear up here.”

“Clear in the rear. Okay, men, come on board. Fernandez, out the left-side door, up the hill you’ll find our one live one. Have a talk with him. Find out everything you can. Tell him he gets to live if he tells you all he knows: who hired him, why, who any non-Mexican men are.”

“Roger that, Skipper. I’m coming back your way.”

Within three or four minutes the plane held fifteen SEALs. Their first job was to search all the dead, looking for any papers, orders, or instructions.