Task Force Desperate (15 page)

As we moved, I carefully keyed my radio, which was set as quiet as I could get it, and sub-vocalized into my throat mic, “One, clear.”

Bob and I got to opposite sides of the door leading into the foyer, or whatever it was. Bob reached for the door handle, and I drew my pistol. I leveled it at the crack in the door, and nodded to Bob, who eased the door open with a barely audible
click
.

Nothing. The foyer was empty. I moved in, buttonhooking through the doorway to make sure. Dust and a couple of folding chairs. Nothing else. On to the next door.

There was a gomer just inside the gymnasium. He was sitting in a chair, the front legs off the floor, tipped back against the wall. His AK was leaning against the wall beside him. He was fast asleep. A moment later he was dead, unaware that he would never wake up. A suppressed .45 makes little more noise than the action cycling, especially with a good suppressor, which I had.

I continued clearing the big room, moving to the right, while Bob took the left. There was a lantern at the far end, but it was too dim to reach us. The crowd in the middle of the room showed up fine on thermal, though.

There were about twenty people in the middle of the room, sitting in an attitude that suggested they were bound. Probably why there was only one other guard there, whom Bob dispatched with a quick pair of shots.

There were low sounds from the prisoners, but no questions, or even loud reactions. I could see several of them flinch at the sounds, though. Neither Bob nor I had said a word, and the second guard had been as alert as the first. The prisoners knew something was happening, but not what. I suspected that by this time they had been brutalized into making as little sound as possible. That could come in handy, or it could be a liability. We’d have to see.

I switched on the IR flashlight under my pistol. I don’t usually like having extraneous crap hooked to my weapon, but right at the moment, I was glad I’d brought it along, especially as Bob crept over to the lantern and doused it.

These were our hostages, all right, or at least some of them. They were sitting back to back, with sacks over their heads and their hands and feet tied. They were dressed in their shorts and T-shirts, with no socks or boots. Fuck. That could be a problem getting them out.

I padded over to one who seemed to be sitting up straighter than the others, and put my hand on his shoulder. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. “Listen to me very carefully,” I whispered. “We are Americans, and we’re here to get you out. Do you understand?”

He nodded, slowly. He probably suspected it was some kind of trick. Being in captivity can fuck with your sense of reality after a while. “Good,” I whispered. “Do you know where the rest of the hostages are?”

He shook his head, and from his posture, looked like he was about to say something. I squeezed his shoulder. “Never mind. I’m going to take your hood off. You’re still not going to see shit; there aren’t any lights on in here. When I cut you loose, I need you to start helping me get the rest untied and up. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “What about the guards?”

“Taken care of for the moment,” I told him. “But we need to keep quiet. We don’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood.” He nodded, as I pulled his hood off.

He was young, maybe mid-twenties. His haircut suggested regular Army or Marine Corps, though it had gone a little shaggy, along with a couple weeks’ worth of beard. He looked like he’d been beaten, though not so badly that he couldn’t function.

He had been tied with baling wire, and it was a simple matter to get it unwound from his hands and feet. He rubbed his hands when he brought them in front of him, then went to work on the hostage next to him, whispering that the Americans were here.

Unfortunately, it was too much to ask that all of them would be as level-headed about their situation as the young man I had initially freed. As I turned to covering the door we had come in, some damned POG burst out crying when told that the Americans were here to rescue them.

“Shut that motherfucker up!” Bob and I hissed almost simultaneously.

There was a scuffle as several of the newly freed hostages, who were a little more aware of their situation, piled on the guy to keep him quiet. I listened carefully at the door. Nothing. Everything was still quiet. I keyed the comm. “Coconut, Hillbilly,” I murmured. “Found some twenty hostages in Building Two. Getting them sorted out now.”

“Roger,” came the faint reply. “Nothing else so far. I’ll get Schultz moving.” We had taken to nicknaming Kohl “Sgt. Schultz.” He had needed it explained to him, and wasn’t terribly amused when he got it. This only ensured we’d use it more.

The last of the hostages was getting cut loose. The weeper had been gagged by his fellows, using the sack that had been over his head. I approved. We did
not
want anyone knowing we were here until the sun came up and we were long gone.

The sudden sound of shouting in Arabic and the rattle of AK fire dashed those hopes.

Alek’s voice crackled over the radio. “Go loud, we’re made. Push to Building Two and strongpoint until the trucks arrive.”

I looked at the guy I’d freed first. “Can you shoot?” I asked, grabbing him by the shoulder. I hoped he could, but I knew a lot of training requirements in the military had gone to shit lately; some, especially in the Air Force or Navy, never even touched a weapon after basic.

“Yes,” he replied. “Where do you want me?”

I steered him toward the door. “Cover right here, and check your targets before you shoot at anything,” I said, as I picked up the AK that the gomer wasn’t going to need anymore, and handed it to him. “There are friendlies on their way here.”

“Roger,” he replied, taking a barricade stance on the door, the rifle held in a firm alert carry. Good, he did know what he was doing.

“Bob,” I called, as quietly as I could, “Give somebody with their head screwed on straight that other gomer’s rifle. I think we’re going to need it.” I opened the duffel, which I‘d left just inside the foyer, and shucked out my rifle, rocking a mag into the well and racking it as quietly as I could. The suppressor was already on the barrel. I handed the three spare AK magazines the dead gomer had in a chest harness to the kid I’d armed, and he tucked them into the elastic of his shorts.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked, over the growing sound of shouting and sporadic shooting outside. I didn’t know what they were shooting at, as all of our shooters should have been inside, but odds were, they didn’t know, either.

“Sack,” he replied. “Sgt John Sack, USMC.” He must have been part of the advisor group with TF Horn of Africa. “Who are you guys?”

“I’m Jeff,” I replied. “As for who the lot of us are, let’s just say we’re some pissed-off old gunfighters who got hired to find you, and deal with the rest of the pleasantries when we’re somewhere more secure than here.” I finished speaking as a gomer came slamming through the gateway into the courtyard in front of us. I shouldered my rifle, and drilled him in the chest with a tight pair of shots.

There was a flurry of shots from further down the complex. It sounded like people were coming awake, and Alek, Larry, Colton, and Tim were having to fight their way through as they cleared. My little reverie was cut short as four more yelling gomers tried to come through the gate, and Sack and I cut them down.

There was another fusillade from the left, and then an IR light flashed from Building One. “Hillbilly, Coconut. We’re in Building One.”

“Roger,” I replied. “I have eyes-on. How far out is Schultz?”

“Five mikes,” was the reply, as all hell broke loose.

There was a roar of engines, and more shooting. Fires were starting to flare up, and in the flickering light, I could see movement outside the gate. The shouting was turning into a cacophony now, and there was more small arms fire aimed toward the buildings, and up in the air. We’d stirred up a hornet’s nest.

I tapped Sack on the shoulder, and indicated that I was moving to the gate. I wanted a better view of what was going on, as well as a better shot at anybody coming.

“Hillbilly, Coconut, this is Kemosabe,” Jim called. “I don’t know what just happened, but the whole goddamned neighborhood is awake, and coming out of the woodwork. There are burning tires in the intersection, and at least three technicals on the street. I’m counting at least a hundred fighters, and that’s just on the streets. Watch how much you expose yourselves; I’m seeing shooters in the upper stories of the buildings to the north.”

“Roger,” Alek replied. I hunkered down a little lower at the gate, while glancing over my shoulder at the three-story buildings across the street. I was covered, barely, by the wall, and I was in the shadows, so unless they had night vision scopes, they’d have a hard time seeing me. I still felt as exposed as hell, though.

I could just see down the street toward the south. It was a narrow sight window, but it actually gave me a pretty decent field of fire, at least insofar as the buildings allowed. And I immediately saw four militiamen running toward us, AK-47s held at waist level. I opened fire, the suppressor keeping any muzzle flash to a minimum. It would have blinded me otherwise. The two lead fighters dropped in the street, while the other two scrambled out of my line of fire.

I shrank back as my hiding place was suddenly hammered with a barrage of 7.62 fire. More small flames stabbed from the open door of Building One, as one of the other guys opened up in reply, but was soon silenced, as the volume of fire increased. Rounds smacked against the wall next to me, and snapped through the gateway, hammering against the building. I heard a sharp yell of pain, cut off as quickly as it came, from the doorway.

“Everybody all right?” I yelled, as I ripped the mag out of my M1A and rocked in a fresh one.

“Caught a bullet fragment,” Colton called back from the doorway. “I’ll be fine, just stings like hell.”

I picked up the nearly empty mag where it had dropped, and stuffed it into a cargo pocket. “Where is Schultz? We’re going to get overrun here if we stay much longer!” I yelled.

“He’s circling the area,” Alek yelled from the window, over the roar of shooting and shouting. “He’s in unarmored trucks; they can’t get close without getting shot to ribbons.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Can we get out to the south?”

Another burst of firing from the other side of Building One answered that question. “Negative, they’re coming in that way, too.”

The fire from the street had slackened somewhat, so I risked reaching out into the gateway to snag one of the dropped rifles, but quickly ducked back, as a fresh storm of shots blasted dust and chips of concrete in my face. I racked my brain to remember the layout of the exits from the recon. There had to be a way out of here, preferably out into the desert to the south, where there were fewer hiding places for gomers to pop out of.

The fire slackened some more as they lost me as a target, so I ducked back out and ripped a handful of shots off. I was rewarded with one high-pitched wail of pain as I took cover again. The return fire was, if anything, fiercer than before. But I’d gotten another AK. I tossed it back toward the door, where Sack caught it and passed it to another hostage who could fight.

Another group of gomers tried rushing the gatehouse, and were met with gunfire from the house. One got past, and actually made it inside the wall, before I blew his head off from two feet away. Blood and brains splashed messily, and he crumpled to the ground.

“Jeff!” Sack yelled from the door. “What’s going on?”

“We’re fucking surrounded, is what’s going on!” I bellowed. “Now either shut up, or get out here and fight!”

I should have known better. The crazy bastard, barefoot and in his skivvies, dashed out to join me at the wall, his AK held in a tactical carry. There was a
crack
, and a bullet smacked into the wall of Building One as he passed, probably aimed at him.

“Crazy fucker,” I snarled at him, shoving him back against the wall. “Can the rest of them move?”

“Some are going to need help,” he replied, “but yeah, I think so.”

“Go get ‘em ready,” I said, shoving him back toward the gym. “And keep your damned head down!” I laid another suppressive burst down the street, and then ducked back into cover. “Alek!” I yelled.

“I hear you, brother,” came the shouted reply. “Plan B, let’s do it!”

“Shiny, get ‘em moving,” I called over the radio, slinging my rifle across my chest. I dipped into the duffel at my feet.

Colton yelled, “Coming out!” and ducked through the door to take up security on the gate, facing north, as I came up with two of the concussion charges we’d put together. They consisted of two one-pound blocks of TNT taped together, with a tubular nylon handle about two feet long and a ten-second time fuse. I had about a dozen HC smoke grenades in the bag, as well.

Colton was shooting, engaging any shooters he could see on the street. The rest of the team came out of the house, while Tim still held security on the window, in case anyone tried to come at us through the house. Tim was also, I noticed, keeping a prisoner; the guy was on his face on the ground, with Tim’s knee in his back. Alek came to me, and grabbed one of the concussion charges. I had placed one next to me, and immediately grabbed a smoke, pulling the pin and lofting it over the wall to the north. Let those fuckers in the buildings across the street see us through that.

“Bob!” Alek yelled through the open door of the gym. “Let’s go, get ‘em moving!”

No sooner had he finished speaking, over the storm of gunfire outside, and the snapping reports of Larry and Colton shooting back through the gate, than Sack yelled, “Coming out!” and led a line of hostages out of the gym’s foyer.

“Coconut, Kemosabe,” Jim called over the radio. “Goldwings and I are keeping them off the crew-serves, but you need to get out of there. It looks like half of Balbala is headed in your direction.” His statement was punctuated by another
crack
, as either he or Hank shot another gomer trying to get on a machine gun mounted on one of the technicals out on the street.