“Yeah,” Boykin replied, his voice already heavy with exertion.
“How’s it look?”
“The rebels are streaming in through the main security entrance like a bunch of cockroaches. The guard is sprawled out, apparently dead, alongside a second body. Western civilian. A pack of SUVs, pickup trucks, and cars are parked outside the gate and men are hiding behind them to fire into the compound. The shitty part? A pair of blue and white police cars are out there, too. Uniformed cops are working with those assholes.”
“Any organized resistance yet?”
“Bits and pieces. We’re working on it. I sent two guys to round up everybody they can find and Jamal and I have set up a cross-fire from a couple of buildings overlooking the main breach area. That should stop the ground assault. One surprise is that quiet Chinese dude who came in on the plane with you: He knows how to shoot.”
“Not surprised at all. I’ll let you know if I spot any rescue force rolling your way.”
“Are you sure about where you’re going?” asked Boykin.
“I can see the Saudi army base from here. It’s all lit up, and there is a lot of movement. Out.” He made a final check around his hiding place and saw two shadows doing a fast creep toward the military camp. He flipped down the Cyclops night vision goggles for a better look and found they were an ambush team carrying rocket propelled grenades. Swanson darted from his hide and swung in behind them.
FATEHI AWWAD, A FORMER Egyptian soldier and drug smuggler, hugged the ditch as he stalked toward the site he had picked for a blocking position. A film of sweat and dirt covered his face. He was nervous. Salid, the young fighter carrying an AK-47, was trailing behind. The boy was supposed to be protecting them but had been caught up by excitement. He was anxious to become a martyr, and Awwad was constantly reminding him that their job was to stay alive and stop any attempt by the Saudi soldiers to rescue the foreigners who were under attack in Khobz. The young Salid disregarded the lectures and was falling far off the pace.
“Keep up!” Awwad demanded. “Forget the other fight!”
“I should be back there, helping our brothers slay the infidels.”
“Be quiet, boy. Carry out your assignment!”
The 40 mm rocket launcher rested easily on Awwad’s right shoulder as he moved toward the illuminated missile base. He had scouted the area and found a large concrete culvert that ran beneath the road to connect the drainage canals. He dropped into the crossing ditch and slithered into the culvert. “Now we wait,” he said.
There was no response, no hurrying footsteps. Awwad took a deep breath, listened, then cursed. Salid had given into the craving for action, the lust for blood and glory that could override good sense. Son of a pig!
Awwad adjusted. Children should not be trusted with important assignments. He would have to carry out the ambush on his own and would fire his RPG when the first vehicle, most likely a Humvee or a small truck, came out of the base camp. That would block the road, idle the rest of the rescue convoy, and force a delay while officers assessed the danger. While they were doing that, Awwad would disappear, for there could be no follow-up shot. Salid had taken the only other RPG round with him.
SWANSON WATCHED THE MAN in the rear hesitate, then stop instead of following the leader who carried the RPG. For some reason, this one was not advancing, but just standing there with an AK hanging around his shoulders. A wolfish grin spread over Swanson’s face.
He moved with a quiet grace, soft and low to the ground, invisible to the hesitating fighter who was blind to the darkness. Swanson found a crumpled depression in the side of the ditch, slipped into it, and lay on his belly in the dry sand. The night vision goggles clearly painted the fighter who was only five steps away and standing, undecided.
The fighter looked back toward the RPG man, who hissed, “Keep up! Forget the other fight!”
The loud whisper of a younger voice responded: “I should be back there, helping our brothers slay the infidels.”
“Be quiet, Salid. Carry out your assignment!” Then the RPG carrier continued forward.
The rifleman was concentrating his attention back the way he had come, looking past the prone Swanson, attracted by the sounds and flashes of distant gunfire. He took one more step forward to follow his leader, then decided to go back to the guns. He started running back down the ditch, out of breath, panting with anticipation.
KYLE ROSE LIKE A specter as the young man passed, and threw an anaconda on him. Swanson’s right forearm wrapped around the front of the neck to crush the windpipe, while his left hand grabbed his right to increase the leverage. Immediately, all air was cut off to the boy’s brain and Swanson snatched him from his feet with the rear naked choke hold. Swanson knelt down, taking his opponent with him, then lay on his back and flattened out, clamping both legs around the victim for a full body lock, steadily squeezing harder the entire time. Salid was out cold within fifteen seconds without having uttered a sound.
When the body went limp, Kyle rolled out, stood, slung the prisoner across his shoulder and returned to his secluded hide behind the garbage bags.
In seconds, he had the kid blindfolded and gagged, with his arms tied behind him, but the legs left free. Swanson looped the sling of the AK-47 around the young fighter’s throat, twisted it once and let the weapon dangle down the back. If the prisoner tried to run, Kyle could just yank on the AK and choke him back into submission.
Swanson roughly awakened the youngster, jerked him to his feet and gave him a push. Sticking to the darker patches, Kyle soon found the service road that looped around the edge of the city to a side gate of the base. He slowed, moving cautiously until he closed to within a kilometer of the mesh steel fence that was topped with concertina wire. Despite being able to hear the gunfire back at the foreign compound and knowing an ambush was waiting at the front gate, Swanson did not hurry, adhering firmly to his own prime rule: Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. He shoved the prisoner to the ground, sat on the young man’s back and took time to study the target through the Cyclops. Careful surveillance was seldom time wasted.
On its surface, the base had the primary purpose of supplying a guard force of several hundred men to protect the oil production, storage and shipment apparatus in the area. As part of that assignment, it supposedly maintained a contingent of antiaircraft missiles that could spread the protective umbrella out beyond the rigs. It was reasonable to assume that it was all part of the same package, but Swanson tried never to assume anything.
Remembering the map in the Boykin Group basement, he knew the base was sliced into four equal parts. A perimeter road followed all the way around inside the fence line. A north-south road ran from the main gate to the far side of the camp, dead-ending at the fence. It was bisected in the middle by an east-west route which emptied onto the supply road where Swanson waited. The headquarters building was in the middle: a standard military layout, there was genius in its simplicity. Everyone could get anywhere smoothly.
Soldiers and vehicles were surging toward the front of the compound, with troops running from the living quarters located in the uppermost left hand corner. Several Humvees tore out of the motor pool and equipment area in the lower left quadrant and gunners were already standing in the vehicles behind machine guns. Officers coming from smaller buildings in the upper right hand quarter were marrying up the troops and vehicles, putting together a rescue mission for the besieged foreigners. Swanson heard the orders being shouted and the motors revving.