Protect And Defend

36

Rapp watched Ashani’s entourage move out in a hurry. These militia guys didn’t mess around. He moved to a second set of windows to get a better view as they accelerated toward the police checkpoint. This was the moment he’d feared. He half expected the cops to unload on the three vehicles in a modern-day Iraqi version of the climactic scene in Bonnie and Clyde where their getaway car gets shredded by a fusillade of bullets. To his relief, the cops cleared the way and the three sedans sped down the open street, toward the Tigris River and their waiting helicopter.

Rapp returned to the other window. “The hard part should be over now that the Hatfields have left town.”

“I agree.” Stilwell tapped a few keys and changed the camera angles on the main monitor. “This was a hell of an idea you had, Mitch. Could be one for the history books.”

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, Don Juan. They’re plenty of crazy-ass mullahs back in Tehran who are going to hate this. “

“Even if they don’t take us up on the aid package, you’ve managed to deflect attention away from us and Israel.”

“We’ll see.” Rapp watched Kennedy climb into her armored Suburban. The security guys all hustled back to their vehicles and mounted up. The lead Toyota 4Runner started to move. It was all much slower than Ashani’s motorcade. One by one the other vehicles followed leisurely down the street. The two police cruisers slid into reverse and provided a gap. The lead vehicle entered the intersection and took a hard left. Next came the first armored Suburban. Rapp had seen Kennedy get in the second Suburban. The other three vehicles were all white Toyota 4Runners that looked like they were on loan from a United Nations convoy. As Kennedy’s Suburban started its turn, Rapp noticed something strange. The police on the left side of the street started running in Rapp’s direction. Rapp pushed the sliding glass door open and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked to the sidewalk beneath to find out what was going on. There was nothing. No pedestrians. No vehicles. Nothing. He looked back at the running officers and noted that several were looking back over their shoulders. They weren’t running toward something, they were running away from something. Rapp redirected his gaze to the intersection just as the last vehicle was making its turn.

A flurry of motion just beyond the white SUV caught his attention. Rapp watched as the two police officers manning the.50-caliber machine guns swung them around. Other officers began jumping behind vehicles and taking cover behind buildings. Rapp’s body started to tense, his eyes narrowed, and his right hand reached for the safety on his M-4 rifle. Every survival instinct in his body was suddenly screaming that something was wrong. He leaned over the balcony to see if there was some hidden threat that he had yet to identify. As he was doing so, he reached under his shirt and keyed his secure radio so he could hear Kennedy’s security detail.

The thunderous report of one of the.50-caliber machine guns caused Rapp to flinch. In this urban setting of hard asphalt and concrete surfaces the concussion of the weapon boomed like a cannon. Rapp watched in horror as two of the big fifties opened up with sustained bursts. The last white SUV was torn to shreds.

There was a loud explosion and then Rapp heard McDonald’s voice in his ear. “Shit! We’re under attack. Don’t stop! Move, move, move!”

The first explosion was followed by two more. Rapp’s weapon snapped into the firing position and he screamed back into the apartment, “Get that quick reaction force here ASAP!”

Rapp saw the rear driver’s side door of the last SUV open. An obviously wounded security contractor fell out of the vehicle and attempted to seek cover behind the rear wheel. A group of cops hiding behind the trunk of their cruiser opened fire on the man, mercilessly pounding him with dozens of rounds. Rapp took in a deep breath and denied himself the immediate gratification of killing policemen first. They could wait.

The dull, black suppressor on the end of his weapon only added to its accuracy. The L-3 EOTech sight consisted of a squarish viewfinder with a red dot in the middle. It was an amazing advance in battlefield technology that allowed the shooter to keep both eyes open while zeroing in on a target. Rapp centered the red dot on the head of the.50-caliber gunner on the far right, leaned forward ever so slightly, and squeezed the trigger. The light kick of the M-4 rifle threw the muzzle skyward less than an inch. Rapp’s countless hours of training kicked in. He brought the muzzle back on line and swept it to the left in search of the next target. He placed the dot on the open mouth of the gunner who was screaming while he unloaded his heavy-bore weapon on the other vehicles. Rapp squeezed his trigger, the sight jumped and then fell back into place in time to show a cloud of blood silhouetted against the man’s black hood as the.223 round blew out a large chunk of his skull. The masked cop continued to clutch the handles of the.50-caliber machine gun for another second, and then his entire body fell backwards over the side of the truck.

“Grab a gun and get out here,” Rapp yelled to Stilwell. He was tracking his weapon in search of the other.50-caliber gun, when he saw one of the police officers taking aim with an RPG. Rapp brought the red dot back, centered it on the man’s head and fired. The bullet struck the cop in the side of the head just as he was firing his grenade launcher. The force of the bullet sent the grenade off course and into a building where it exploded, taking out three cops. Rapp found the third.50-caliber gun and missed the man on his first shot. He quickly reacquired the target and sent him spiraling out of the truck bed. Rapp began moving from one target to the next in a steady, methodical, unrushed pace, counting each expelled cartridge as he went.

“Mac,” Rapp said as calmly as he could. “Give me a status report.” He continued to shoot, and count, as he waited to hear from Kennedy’s security chief. He squeezed the trigger for the thirtieth time and then dropped to his right knee, ejecting the magazine and reaching for a fresh one. He looked back into the apartment at Stilwell and saw him loading the squad automatic weapon. As Rapp slammed a fresh magazine into his M-4 he tried to visualize the battlefield and what was happening around the corner to the rest of Kennedy’s motorcade. Rapp fought back a sense of doom. There was no time for that now. He needed to stay focused and try his best to hold them off until reinforcements arrived from the base.

He chambered a round, stood, found a new martyr trying to man one of the.50-caliber machine guns, and hit him in the side of his head. Rapp heard moaning over his earpiece.

“Mac, is that you? Are you all right?” Rapp searched for a new target, which wasn’t easy. The cops had started to figure out that a good way to get killed was to try and man one of the.50-caliber guns. “Mac,” Rapp called out again. He watched as two of the cops pointed down the street and then jumped in one of the squads and peeled out. Rapp’s spirits soared for a second. He didn’t think the Stryker column could have gotten here that fast, but it had to be why the cops were running.

As quickly as his spirits had soared, they sank like a rock in a pond when he saw a beat-up sedan race through the intersection toward Kennedy’s motorcade. The vehicle was followed by two more, and then two vans and a truck that stopped in the middle of the intersection. Some of the cops took off while others stayed and began stripping off their uniforms. Rapp stopped shooting for a moment, not sure who he should target.

Stilwell joined Rapp on the balcony, and said, “We got some bad news. The quick reaction force has a problem.”

Before Rapp could ask what the problem was, the Kurds entered the room just then and began shouting at their boss. Rapp noticed that several of them were wearing black balaclava hoods. He looked at all the firepower in the corner of the apartment and then the street that was suddenly crawling with hooded militia types.

Rapp yelled for everyone to be quiet and asked Stilwell, “What kind of problem?”

“I didn’t get an answer out of them. All I was told was the base was under lockdown.”

Rapp let loose with a string of profanity and then looked at one of the hooded Kurds. He stuck out his hand and said, “Give me your balaclava.”

The man didn’t respond quickly enough so Rapp screamed his order like a drill sergeant.

“What are you doing?” Stilwell asked.

“I’m going down there.” Rapp took the black hood from the Kurd.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Open up those crates,” Rapp pointed to the stockpile of weapons, “put half the guys up on the roof and the other half out on the balcony and start pounding the shit out of anything that moves except me.”

Rapp put on the hood and looked at the Kurds. “Don’t shoot me. Black pants, gray shirt, black hood.” He touched each garment. “Everybody except me.”