Direct Action

33

“Careful, Jaybird,” Murdock cautioned over the BMP intercom. “We slip off this road and we’ll all be playing harps.” He chuckled to himself and keyed the microphone again. “And Razor’ll be ramming his up your ass for the rest of eternity.”

“I get the picture, sir,” Jaybird replied over the system.

“Thanks.”

The road zigzagged along the sides of the switchback ridges. Fortunately, the steep slope meant that Jaybird couldn’t get the BMP much over twenty-five miles an hour. Murdock was glad that at least nature was able to exert some influence over Jaybird.

Murdock turned around in his hatch and looked out over the valley. Razor had been right. He could almost picture the Syrians down below beating the brush for them. At least the sun was starting to drop into the west. It felt like the longest day of the whole fucking year.

All the SEALs were hanging out of the troop compartment roof hatches. The BMP was not a large vehicle. It was designed to tightly accommodate eight small Russian infantrymen sitting four back-to-back in the troop compartment. To give an idea of the fit, the Russians were in the habit of donning their gas masks and sliding the hoses out the roof hatches in order to get some air. Staring at the steel wall while the BMP bounced up and down was almost guaranteed to induce vomiting.

Now the road was on a long, straight uphill run along the side of the mountain range. The right side of the road sat snug against the sheer side of the mountain. The left side was a long drop into the canyon below. Of course there were no guardrails. Just short of the top, the road made a hard right turn in the opposite direction, still heading up. That put the Mountainside on the left, the drop on the right. It would continue that way right over the top and down the other side of the mountain.

Jaybird made the turn very slowly, jiggling the right-track brake and left-track clutch on and off so the BMP turned a few degrees, stopped, turned a bit more, stopped, and then moved slowly forward. When the turn was accomplished, Murdock reached out and gave Jaybird a complimentary tap atop the helmet.

Then Murdock looked out and saw one of the Gazelle helicopters sweeping up the valley. It seemed the size of a golf ball in the distance. Then Murdock was looking down at fluttering rotor blades as the Gazelle rose toward the mountains, following the road.

The SEALs disappeared into the troop compartment, which was good because the group included a few fair-haired and fair-skinned types who weren’t about to pass for Syrians.

Murdock picked up the microphone. “Jaybird, there’s a helicopter coming up to take a look at us. Just be cool and keep driving at a steady pace, like we’re going someplace we’re supposed to.”

“Roger that, sir.”

The helicopter approached cautiously. Murdock could make out the sand, brown, and blue camouflage, and the red, white, and black Syrian bull’s-eye rounders. He saw the clear bubble front, the skids, the protruding tailpipe, and the finned fan-rotor tail. Murdock took no comfort from the fact that the copter was an antitank variant, armed with six French HOT heavy wire-guided missiles with a four-thousand-meter range; three tubes mounted in-line on each side of the cabin.

Murdock gave a friendly wave. The Gazelle moved up even with the BMP, but far enough off to the side to keep the rotor blades away from the side of the mountain. Murdock could see both the pilot and copilot/gunner looking over at him.

Murdock stood up higher in the hatch and pointed to the BMP’s whip radio aerial mounted on the roof of the vehicle at the left rear. Then he pointed to the earpiece on his crewman’s helmet, shaking his head and stretching his arms out in a gesture of helplessness. As if the reason why he wasn’t talking to them was that his radio was broken.

He could see the helicopter crew talking in their microphones.

It was a cold November day in the mountains, yet Murdock could feel the perspiration trickling down his back. Something tapped his right leg. He looked down, and Razor Roselli’s face was looking up at him.

“Everyone’s got their gear on,” Razor shouted. “You want us to shoot the motherfucker down, just let me know.”

Murdock was still smiling and waving at the helicopter. “No shooting,” he said through his teeth. “Just stay ready and keep out of sight.”

Razor gave him a reassuring tap on the leg and disappeared back into the compartment.

Murdock pretended to speak into his microphone, as if giving it another try, then pointed to it and shook his head sadly. He decided it was time to ignore the Gazelle, so he gave a final wave and shrug of the shoulders and turned back to his front.

After a very long minute the Gazelle began a slow, sweeping turn away from the mountain and back toward the valley. It grew smaller in the distance, but wasn’t losing any altitude. Murdock noticed that the BMP had almost reached the top of the mountain range.

Then, off in the distance, the helicopter made another turn. It was in a stationary hover, and its nose was pointing directly at the BMP.

A small puff of gray smoke appeared in the sky beside the helicopter.

Murdock screamed into the microphone and the troop compartment at the same time. “Stop! Everybody out! Bail out, bail out, bail out!”