The only option was to move forward, David concluded. Aiming the MP5 ahead of him, he moved around the cab. Following the trail of blood, he hoped to find Crenshaw at the other end, but now he could hear a full-blown shoot-out under way on the other side of the semi.
David quickly glanced around the front end of the cab. To his relief, he saw Crenshaw. The man was covered in blood and clearly in great pain, but he was holding his own. He was crouched behind a pickup truck and using an AK-47 to try to hold back a half-dozen Syrian police officers moving toward him. Never surrender.
David’s first instinct was to run to Crenshaw’s side and fight it out with him to the bitter end. But just as he was about to sprint for the pickup truck, he had another thought. A better one. Rather than rush forward, he pivoted and began to work his way through the flames and searing heat and blinding smoke down the “safe” side of the semi — or what was left of it. Most of the truck had been consumed by the raging fire and had essentially melted in place. But for now, at least, the leaping, licking flames were creating a shield between him and the six Syrian officers.
Above the roar of the flames he could hear more sirens. He knew reinforcements were coming. But he had to save Crenshaw. If he could, then together they could get back to the warhead, and he could dismantle it while Crenshaw gave him covering fire. Otherwise, David would be completely exposed while working on the warhead and wouldn’t last two minutes.
David looked down Rue Ash ’Sham It was a snarled traffic jam for a kilometer or more. He could see the flashing lights of police cars trying to weave their way through the mass of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and humanity. He could also see a helicopter gunship. It was about two kilometers out but coming in fast.
Once again he was forced to shift gears. As much as he needed to take out these Syrian officers, he couldn’t leave his team — whatever was left of them — exposed to death from the air. There was no way he could take out the gunship with an MP5 or an AK-47. But seeing the doors of their SUV still open, he had an idea. He made a break for it.
As gunfire erupted all around him, David moved low and fast toward the SUV, zigzagging through the abandoned cars and realizing that this end of the street was completely deserted. Everyone had fled from the war zone it had become. Bullets whizzed over his head, smashing car and store windows and ripping into the brick walls of the apartments around him. Reaching the SUV, he opened the trunk and found the case he needed.
The Russian-built Mi-24 Hind helicopter gunship was closing fast. He could hear the roar of the rotors and knew the Syrian pilot was going to open fire any moment. David ripped open the case with the RPG launcher and started to load it, but there wasn’t time. The helicopter was approaching too quickly. Dropping his weapons, he also dropped to the pavement and did his best to crawl under the hood of the car next to him. And then he heard the gunship’s twin 30mm cannons let loose as the pilot opened fire. The rounds destroyed one car after another as the chopper blazed up the street, barely clearing the rooftops at more than 250 miles an hour. All David could do was press himself to the pavement, cover his head and eyes, and pray.
With a rush of wind that felt and sounded like a tornado, the gunship passed immediately overhead, and in a moment it was gone. David began to breathe again, but he knew he had no time to waste. The pilot would circle around and come back through, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Next time he wouldn’t fire the 30mm cannons, David was certain. He would fire Russian-made antitank missiles, and David would be instantly incinerated.
Quickly scrambling to his feet, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his face, David heard footsteps approaching fast. He raised the MP5 and was about to fire when he realized he was staring into the eyes of Steve Fox.
“Steve? You’re alive.”
David couldn’t believe it. His colleague’s head was bleeding. The man’s hands were bloody and raw. His face was covered with soot. His IRGC uniform was ripped and covered in dirt. He had no machine gun with him. No pistol. No weapon of any kind. But Fox had fire in his eyes.
“I killed them, sir — all of them,” Fox said without emotion.
“Hand to hand?” David asked.
“Eye to eye.”
“You okay?”
“No, but I’m alive, and I need a gun.”
“Good; take this one,” David said, handing him his MP5. “There’s a box of extra magazines in the backseat. But you’d better move fast. That gunship is coming back.”
As they both looked up, they could see the Mi-24 banking hard to the right and preparing to roar back down Rue Ash ’Sham. Fox went for the extra ammo while David went again for the RPG launcher. He screwed a propelling charge on the end of one of the warheads, then began loading the assembled artillery onto the end of the launcher as Fox turned back to him and asked for new orders.
“I’m good — where do you need me?”
“Go help Nick,” David said. “He’s pinned down behind a pickup truck at two o’clock. Last I saw, there were six Syrian hostiles firing at him. Take them out, get Nick, then join me at the ambulance. We need to disable that warhead.”
Though clearly in tremendous pain, Fox smiled and nodded. “Done, boss. See you soon.”
“Good luck, Steve.”
“You too.”
As Fox ran off, David could see the gunship leveling and beginning its strafing run. He quickly mounted the rocket launcher on his shoulder, looked through the sights, and pulled the trigger. Instantly, the RPG exploded away and streaked into the sky. The Syrian pilot must have seen the flash because he suddenly jerked the chopper to the right, but it was too late. The RPG smashed through the glass of the cockpit and detonated. The chopper exploded in midair as David reloaded and raced to catch up with Fox.
As he came around the corner of a pharmacy at the end of the street, he saw a nightmare unfolding before him. Fox was sprawled out on the ground. He wasn’t dead, but he was bleeding profusely, and the air had erupted in gunfire again. David wanted to stay with Fox and assess his wounds, but he was forced to dive behind the pharmacy for cover. The Syrians started shooting through the shop’s plate-glass windows. David could see that Fox had killed two of them, but four remained. And two armored personnel carriers of additional Syrian troops were already pulling up to the scene.
David wasted no time. He hefted the launcher onto his shoulder again, pivoted around the corner, and squeezed the trigger. Once again the grenade exploded from the tube and streaked toward the Syrian police officers, who now dove for cover as well. But again it was too late. The grenade exploded, killing all of them.
That was it, though. David had no more RPGs. The back doors of the APCs were opening. Dozens of Syrian troops were about to emerge, and David had no way to stop them. Nevertheless, he ditched the rocket launcher, took the AK-47 off his shoulder, and raced forward to Fox’s side.
“Go get Nick; I’ll be fine,” Fox groaned.
“Forget it,” David replied. “Where are you hit?”
“My left leg,” said Fox. “I think it’s shattered.”
“All right, listen,” said David. “I’m going to pick you up, fireman’s carry. It’s going to hurt, but stay with me.”
Fox nodded. David first slung both machine guns over his right shoulder. He was lifting Fox and putting him over his left shoulder when he heard an intense, high-pitched whistling sound. He looked up and saw two contrails streaking down from the sky. Assuming they were air-to-ground missiles from a Syrian MiG-29 or equivalent fighter jet, David began to run as fast as he could toward the ambulance and away from the pharmacy. He stumbled twice but finally got to the side of the bullet-strewn vehicle just as the missiles hit their marks. But they did not hit the pharmacy, nor the spot where he and Fox had just been. Instead, the missiles scored direct hits on the two armored personnel carriers, destroying both with a deafening roar and two searing fireballs.