Direct Action

40

The bottom edge of the sun was just touching the western horizon. And not a moment too soon, as far as Murdock was concerned. It had been quite a day, and was not over by any stretch of the imagination.

“Hey, Boss,” said Razor. “Remind me to kiss the Master Chief’s ass for making us bring these long rifles along.”

“You’d better think of another way to express your appreciation,” said Murdock. “Otherwise you’ll never kiss anything again.”

They did owe their survival to Mac. It wasn’t every day that three SEALs took on a ninety-man company and rendered it completely ineffective.

Razor leaned back against his rock. “If I just had a six-pack and a lawn chair, I wouldn’t mind hanging around to see what else these hammerheads have up their sleeves.”

Murdock could recognize false bravado when he heard it. “Okay, you can stay here. Be sure and drop us a postcard.”

“It’s like I said, Boss. I don’t have the lawn chair and the six-pack.”

“Well, these boys aren’t done,” said Murdock. “They’re determined, I’ll give them that.”

“Oh, we pissed them off good,” said Razor. “And we just keep pissing them off. They ain’t going to be happy until they have our heads up on the wall. I’ll really be upset if we don’t get out of here tonight.”

“We don’t get out of here tonight,” Murdock said coldly, “there’s some CIA sons of bitches who better hope I never make it back.”

“The kind of mood I’m in?” Razor growled in agreement. “If they did it again I’d walk all the way to the coast and swim to Cyprus with Higgins on my back just for the pleasure of getting even.”

“Speaking of getting out of here,” said Murdock.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t like the idea of tackling those rocks in the dark, but each time we’ve pulled off a score, the Syrians made me glad we left right afterward.”

A creaking, clanking sound rose up from the valley below. The dusk had deepened, and it was hard to see the road. Murdock removed his night-vision goggle from his jacket pocket. Three tanks were coming up the road. From their shape they looked like T-72’s. Through the NVG Murdock could see the beams of the tanks’ active infrared driving lights and main gun searchlights sweeping the road ahead.

“Man,” said Razor. “They’re going to drive right over their wounded in the dark.”

Murdock slid his MSG-90 back into the drag bag. “All Magic’s.50 could do is scratch the paint on those things. Let’s get saddled up.” He slung the drag bag across his back and carefully made his way across the rocks to where Doc was attending Higgins.

“How’s he doing?” Murdock whispered into Doc Ellsworth’s ear.

“Not good. His vitals are all dropping.”

“Can we move him?” Murdock asked, that familiar sinking feeling returning.

“Only to a helicopter.” Doc paused. “Or only if it’s the difference between everyone else making it.”

Murdock got the Doc’s meaning. If they bounced Higgins around any more he was going to die. Murdock wasn’t prepared to give that order — yet. Only if, as the Doc said, it meant saving the lives of the rest of his men. He hoped it didn’t come down to that. Sacrificing his own wounded was something he never dreamed he’d have to do.

“Everyone else is shivering,” said Doc. “Dehydration’s making it worse. I don’t think we could stay tactical and still live through the night up here. I don’t want to step on any toes, sir, but …”

“You’re doing what I want, Doc,” Murdock assured him. “Your job.”

He made his way back to Razor. “Change of plans. We’re staying.”

“Higgins?” Razor asked.

“Not good. He can’t take another move.”

“Then we stay,” Razor said flatly.

“I was going to move and then get on the radio,” said Murdock. “Now I think I’ll just get on the radio.”

“I’ll rub my nuts for luck,” said Razor.

“You rub your nuts for fun,” Murdock retorted. He’d been carrying Higgins’s radio pack. He took it off and began unfolding the satellite antenna.

Just then there were a series of quick flashes along the valley floor.

“Uh, oh,” said Razor.

Murdock began to count off in his head once again. Just under a minute later there were a string of explosions farther up the mountain range, near the top of the road.

“Mortars,” said Razor. “Big ones, sounded like 120mm.”

“Late in the game,” said Murdock. “I’d rather it be never, but I can live with late.”

“As long as they don’t work the fire down the ridgeline once they get the range,” said Razor.

“Wait a minute,” said Murdock. He thought he heard something.

They were quiet, and during a gap in the explosions the faint sounds of helicopter rotors could be heard.

“Those aren’t Gazelles,” said Razor. “And they sure as shit ain’t ours.”

“Heavy rotors,” said Murdock. “Russian Hips, sounds like about four. Twenty, thirty troops in each. Mortars are firing cover for a landing up north of the road. When the troops don’t find anything they’ll keep sweeping down. You know what that means.”

“Yeah, our bet canceled out.”

“That and it’s time to get the hell out of here.”

“I concur,” said Razor.

Murdock deployed and aligned the antenna, then powered up the radio. The mortar bombs were exploding in a steady rhythm.

“Hope they don’t put up flares,” Razor murmured.

Murdock didn’t like to think about bringing the pickup helicopters in under flare light. He tapped out a message on the keypad, dispensing with code words. He pushed the SEND button.