Warning Order (8 page)

The ZPU gunner finally cleared the jam and began blasting away, mercifully oblivious to the firefight unfolding behind him. Zeus stripped a smoke grenade from his kit and pulled the pin a moment before tossing it into the middle of the street. Mason hammered through the remainder of his mag, trying desperately to keep from getting overrun.

“Reloading.” he yelled, snatching a fresh one from his kit. In tandem, Zeus picked up his rate of fire. The Libyan was on his knee, firing at the advancing jihadists, but still they managed to get within ten feet of their position. Mason got his rifle back up, slapped his friend on the shoulder, and pointed out the only cover left on the street, an ancient wagon filled with firewood.

“Moving,” Zeus yelled, as Mason flipped the rifle to full auto, ripping a long burst through the white smoke billowing up from the canister. He fired waist high, forcing the enemy to dive to the ground while Zeus bounded toward the wagon.

The gunner of the ZPU caught sight of the Libyan out of his peripheral and frantically traversed the gun in hopes of nailing him. A line of tracers zipped across the street, and Mason flipped the AK back to semi, braced the smoking-hot barrel against the hood of the car, and pulled the trigger gently. The first round was high, and the American cursed the Kalashnikov as the ZPU cut into the wagon.

“Piece of shit,” he yelled, pulling the AK tight against his shoulder. The rounds hammered the wagon, sending shards of splintered wood over the top of Zeus's head, forcing him to the ground behind it. Zeus knew he couldn't stay behind the wagon, and before Mason could reengage, he got to his feet and darted out into the open.

Mason saw a tracer round snap dangerously close to his friend's head before closing his left eye and gently pulling the trigger to the rear. The shot broke, snapping the muzzle of his AK up as it went off. The round caught the jihadist at the base of the neck, bowling him onto the cab of the pickup.

Mason let out a low whistle and gave the notoriously inaccurate rifle a kiss just as Zeus finally ensconced himself in a recessed door frame on the north side of the target building.

The American could see his chest heaving from the sprint and waited for him to start firing before running across to join him. Together they popped the door to the objective and slipped silently into the dimly lit interior.

Mason's radio squawked as they came to an open door leading down to the basement. “All elements, be advised, the Reaper is cleared hot on the objective.”

“Tomahawk Base, Ronin 6, be advised we are inside the objective,” he whispered into the radio, turning down the volume as they moved down the steps.

“Ronin . . . say . . . again . . .” the radio squelched as they descended underground.

“Tomahawk Base, I say again, we are inside the target building.”

Static hissed through the hand mike, and Mason knew that his transmission hadn't gone through.

“Comms are down,” he whispered as they moved to the base of the rickety stairs.

“That is a clear sign that we need to get the hell out of here,” Zeus replied.

“You're not telling me anything new.”

Mason swept left digging his hard corner, while Zeus took the right. He kept his finger outside the trigger guard, scanning slowly across the room for any imminent threats.

“Moving,” he whispered.

“Move,” Zeus answered.

He stepped deeper into the basement, trying to cover the angles while his teammate covered him. Then he saw a body.

“Shit,” he said, rushing over to see if it was Boland, but as he drew near, it was immediately obvious that this was not his friend. Next to the dead man, he noticed an object lying on the ground, framed by a collection of sharp boot prints that were cut into the dusty floor. He recognized it as a military-grade emergency beacon, and assumed at once that it belonged to Boland.

“They were just here,” he said, squatting down to grab the beacon off the floor.

“We don't have time for this,” the Libyan replied.

Ignoring him, Mason held the beacon in front of his face, taking in the tiny LED light that blinked red to show that it was not tracking. Whoever had led Boland into the basement knew enough about military hardware to realize that the satellite would be unable to track the beacon this far underground. It was becoming increasingly more obvious that there was something much bigger at play than grabbing a high-value target.

After stuffing the beacon into his pocket, he examined the prints, looking for anything that would tell of their owners. Besides their sharp, well-defined edges, Mason could tell that they were fresh by the lack of any dust in the center of the print.

Mason studied the trail, watching it disappear into the depths of the basement, and moved to follow the tracks despite Zeus's warning, “Come on, we don't have time.” If Boland went this way, Mason was going to find him.

Near the far wall, a solitary bulb cast a sallow glow over a jagged hole that had been cut into the building. He panned to the far right of the opening, the AK pressed against his shoulder. Mason tried to get a look inside without silhouetting himself. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to tunnel through the floor of the basement.

Mason was just about to step through when Zeus grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to his ears.

Mason's ears felt like they were full of cotton after the gunfight in the street, and the only thing he heard was the hammering of his own heart. He shook his head to indicate he hadn't heard anything—when suddenly a faint voice drifted up from the tunnel.

It was all he needed.

“They are going to drop a bomb on this place,” Zeus whispered. “We have to get the fuck out of here.”

“You know another way out? 'Cause I'm not going back out there,” Mason replied, jerking his thumb toward the direction they had come.

“Shit,” Zeus hissed. The Libyan was torn, but after a second of contemplation, he nodded his assent. “What a way to go.”

Mason had serious doubts himself as he stepped down into the underground passage. The sound of his boots crunching on the gravel that lined the floor made him wince. He took a few more steps before grabbing a handful of soil from the piles that lined both sides of the tunnel. Instead of crumbling, the dirt compacted when he crushed it between his fingers.

It was fresh—most likely not even two days old.

“Someone just dug this,” he whispered to Zeus.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” his partner said, “but you wouldn't listen. Nooooo, you must always endanger your friend's life.”

Mason rolled his eyes, knowing that Zeus had to be curious about what was at the end of the tunnel.

He tossed the dirt on the ground and brushed his hands against his pants before following the tunnel, which sloped down for ten more feet.

Mason knew that any second the Hellfire missile could slam into the building, burying them alive.

Finally, the ground beneath his feet began to level off, and up ahead he could see a halo of light peeking out of the darkness. He slowed, straining to cushion his footfalls on the gravel as they approached the light. Sweat was beginning to pour down his back, and he wiped his forehead on his sleeve before sliding ever so slowly out into a small open area that had been constructed in the middle of the underground passage.

He glanced up at the wooden braces supporting the ceiling before taking in the excavation equipment nearby. Mason slipped over to a large drilling machine and brushed the dirt of a decal that read Sahid Industrial Group.

He didn't recognize the company name, but before he could take a closer look a shout echoed down the tunnel. Both men froze, their rifles pointed at the opening, their ears straining as they waited.

“Just kill him,” a voice yelled in Arabic, followed by a meaty slap and a grunt of pain.

Mason flashed forward, the machines forgotten as he trotted up the gentle incline in search of the struggle. Ahead of him, the opening appeared dimly at first, and he froze—just as a shadow flittered across it and a man appeared. Luckily, the large Arab had his back to him.

He could see Boland, struggling, and another man raising the butt of his rifle before slamming it down onto Boland's neck. The captured American dropped to his knees, his face bathed in blood, a moment before one of the men kicked him hard in the stomach.

“Do not kill him,” a man ordered as Mason flipped the rifle on to fire.

His finger found the trigger and he began pulling the slack out, when the radio suddenly blared to life.

“All elements, missile away,” the voice said.

Why did he have to get reception back now? Mason's left hand shot to the hand mike, but it was too late.

The Arab who had just slammed his Kalashnikov into the back of Boland's head didn't bother to aim. He simply turned and sent a long burst of 7.62s into the tunnel, forcing Mason to dive flat and Zeus to pin himself against the wall.

“The Americans are coming,” one of the men yelled.

“Hurry. Hurry,” a voice commanded while the shooter hammered through his magazine.

Mason blindly returned fire, but was unable to get a clear shot as his target backed away. Not wanting to lose Boland, he pulled himself over the gravel, low crawling toward the end of the tunnel.

“Seal it.”

Mason somehow managed to yank his last frag from his kit as a bullet pinged off the ground, showering his face with dirt and chips of stone. He prayed that Boland was out of the way while ripping the pin of the grenade. He knew that there was a very real chance that he could bring the tunnel crashing down on himself, but he had no intention of letting them seal the exit. With the Hellfire on the way and no other way out, it was the only play he had left.

“Frag out,” Mason shouted before tossing it as hard as he could down the tight passage.

The grenade bounced once outside of the exit, and one of the Arabs screamed a short warning as Mason leapt to his feet. He grabbed Zeus by the arm, yanking him toward the impending explosion. “Don't take Boland yet,” he prayed.

He was almost out when the Hellfire slammed into the building.

G
eneral Vann watched the hundred-pound missile tear through the roof of the target before detonating inside. The explosion sent a geyser of black smoke and dirt cascading into the sky, totally obscuring the feed.

It took a good ten seconds for the dust to clear, and when it did, he could see flames licking the edge of the massive crater where the roof had just been.

He had witnessed the destructive power of the missile before, but it never got old. The general wished they had something more powerful but he was limited by the president's unwillingness to bring the full force of America's military might to bear.

“Do you see anything?” he asked Captain Brantley, who scanned the building stoically.

“Hit it again,” he said.

Vann didn't hesitate. He ordered the Reaper to reengage.

“Stand by for Hellfire.”

The UAV's video feed shook as the second missile shot from the wing-mounted pylon. It took less than five seconds for it to streak across the sky and slam into the target. Once again Vann was left waiting for the smoke to clear.

“Sir, the strike team is about to be overrun,” the NCO monitoring the firefight exclaimed.

Vann and Brantley ignored the man, never taking their eyes off the building, which was now three walls and a pile of rubble.

“General Vann?” the man said urgently.

“I heard you,” he barked back.

“There is no way to know without someone checking for bodies,” Brantley commented, answering his boss's unasked question.

“Are your bags still packed?”

“They stay packed.”

“Go,” he said simply.

Captain Brantley nodded, before turning to leave the TOC.

“And Chad, I want a clean operation, zero blowback. Call me when you land.”

“Roger that, sir.”

The general turned his attention to the satellite feed, his mind quickly changing gears.

“How much time do we have left?”

“Not long, sir. The satellite is moving out of range. We are going to lose the feed soon.”

“Shift the Reaper over and find me some fast movers,” he ordered.

The jihadists had set up a wide perimeter to keep the strike team from spreading too far from the crash site, and he could already see some of the fighters picking over the first helo.

They were dragging bodies out of the back of the bird, while two blocks to the east, their technicals were laying down a base of fire on Warchild's team, allowing the dismounted soldiers to maneuver on the Americans.

“Put it right in the middle of that formation,” Vann said, pointing at a mass of men flooding in from the north.

“Yes sir, stand by for shot.”

As he waited for the impact, he was left with the stark reality that he only had one missile left. It wasn't going to be enough to get his men out.

The screen blossomed as the missile slammed into the cab of one of the technicals, tossing what was left high in the air. The overpressure from the explosion ripped into the jihadists gathered around the vehicle, knocking them off their feet. Shards of metal began raining down on them from the sky.

He took his encrypted cell phone from his pocket, knowing that sooner or later he was going to have to brief his boss. Pushing the redial button, he brought the phone to his ear, wondering if he should tell National Security Advisor Jacob Simmons that he was sending Brantley over to monitor the situation.

The general was confident that the young captain would insure that any loose ends were tied up neatly, but that was small comfort. The plan had spun so far out of control already, what was there to salvage?

He had advised against sending Boland back out after al Nusra had burned him, but the problem with working for Cage was the fact that the defense secretary always kept his cards tight to his chest. Vann knew something much bigger was in play than just trying to recover some stolen equipment, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what the bigger objective was.