Inside the compound they sprinted for the low building on their left, taking sporadic gunfire from the three-story building directly in front of them. The four Kurds following them headed for that building while Carroll and Sindi crossed the open ground leading to the low building. The bark of a machine gun from the rear of the compound was their first warning that the defenders were reacting and in force.
A sharp explosion ended that threat.
Carroll plastered himself to the building’s wall next to a window. At a nod from Sindi he jammed one end of the pipe he was carrying through the glass and raked it around the inner edges of the window frame, clearing away the glass. Sindi shoved the muzzle of his Uzi through the opening and swept the room with a short burst. A guard in the hall had heard the sound of the breaking glass and had come into the room, meeting Sindi’s gunfire. Sindi leaped through the window. Carroll right behind him stepped over the guard’s body, following Sindi into the cell block.
A long row of heavy steel doors stretched down the hall — all closed and locked. Carroll searched the dead guard’s pockets for a key. Nothing. Sindi was running down the hall, yelling at the door of each cell, trying to find out which cells were occupied by Kurds. They only had ribbon charges to blow open two doors. But they wanted to unlock them if possible — the concussion would probably break the eardrums of the prisoner inside.
Carroll headed for the guard room. So far the old man’s diagram of the cell block had been accurate, and according to it two guards should be on duty. One was still unaccounted for. Carroll kicked the door open and crouched. Nothing. He moved through and saw a dim figure huddled in a corner. He fired a short burst, fingered the light switch by the door … and saw what he had done. A young boy in uniform, maybe sixteen years old, lay dead on the floor. A large key ring with one key was on the floor beside him. Carroll shook his head, scooped it up and ran into the hall, trying not to think about teenagers who hid in corners frightened and confused …
Sindi was attaching a ribbon charge to a cell’s door when Carroll jammed the key into the lock and twisted. Inside was Rashid Shaban, unable to walk, the soles of his feet burned with an electric engraving tool. Carroll picked him up in a fireman’s carry and started up the hall while Sindi unlocked the cells. Shaban was the only Kurd being held, but Carroll had told Sindi to let as many prisoners as possible out, adding to the confusion bound to follow the attack.
Outside, the fighting had stopped and only the Kurds whom Carroll had detailed to hide explosive charges with delayed-action fuses were still in the compound. They were nine minutes into the attack and running out of time. Two men grabbed Shaban and carried him to the same dilapidated truck that had carried them into town. But instead of produce the truck was now overflowing with men and weapons. Carroll motioned to Zakia, raising his right hand to his lips. She pulled a police whistle out of a pocket and blew one long blast followed by two short toots. She paused and repeated the signal. Men came running out of the compound, some disappearing into the darkness, others piling into waiting cars and trucks. All had captured weapons and ammo cases.
The last two men out were carrying a wounded comrade and — rushed up to Zakia as the truck’s starter motor ground, the engine finally coughing to life. Damn it, Carroll thought, the driver should have never turned it off. Zakia examined the Kurd lying on the ground while the wounded man spoke to her. She nodded and reached into a pouch on her belt, shaking free a syringe in a black plastic tube. The man spoke again and she gave him a swift injection in his left arm. He pushed his right hand into his coat and rolled over onto his stomach. She stood and ran for the cab of the truck, jumping in and telling the driver to move, and they drove out of the square, leaving the wounded man in the dust behind them.
“Dammit,” Carroll shouted, jumping from the truck, running for the man.
The truck skidded to a halt and Zakia jumped out. “No!” she shouted at his back. “He’s dead.”
Carroll hesitated, then ran back to the truck, the men pulling him into the back as they accelerated away.
“He’s booby-trapped,” a voice said. “If you had moved him, a grenade would have blown your head off.”
Carroll did not look at Zakia as he reminded himself that these people had been fighting for their existence long before the brave American came aboard. Their whole nation was a POW.
CHAPTER 23
“Was this ever meant as an exercise?” the leader of the Romeo Team, Captain Trimler asked. He was pacing the floor in Dewa’s office, obviously upset after spending an hour going over Romeo Team’s objective — taking a prison that held a large number of hostages. He had seen through to the truth.
“Nope,” Stansell told him. “Good chance we might do it.”
“It won’t work,” the captain said, studying the model of the prison. “On any airdrop we’re at most risk when we land. We need an objective rally point to form up, break out our weapons, get organized … takes time. Here”—he pointed at the model—“we’ve got maybe a minute to be inside, knocking the defenders down after the F-111s blow the walls. Any longer than that and they’ll have time to react. Probably start killing the hostages. To get inside fast we’ve got to be on the ground, locked and loaded, ready to go through that wall before the dust of the last bomb settles.”
“Colonel Gregory has seen this,” Dewa said. “Why didn’t he say something?”
Trimler only shook his head.
Stansell knew the reason. Gregory was too gung ho — show him what to do and get out of the way. It was Gregory’s chance, his only chance, to lead a daring history-making operation, and after his shaky start with Stansell he wanted to leave no doubts about who should be the ground commander. Brigadier General “Messy” Eichler’s words about finding an expert on special operations and listening to him came back. Stansell hoped it wasn’t too late. What else had Eichler said that he had forgotten? … “Get Locke and Bryant in here,” Stansell ordered. “Time for a head-knocking session. Captain Trimler, you’re going to be my Siamese twin for the next couple of days.”
Mulla Haqui was pleased. The wizened man who led the Pesh Merga kept walking around the fourteen ZIL- 157 trucks they had taken, waving his arms and talking. A tired Bill Carroll sat on the tailgate of a truck — everyone seemed to talk nonstop at the same time — and watched the Kurds sort and stack the supplies, weapons and ammunition they had captured from the Iraqis.
One of Haqui’s bodyguards came over and said the old man wanted to speak to him. The guards surrounding Haqui split apart, letting Carroll approach, still carefully watching him. “Undamaged,” Haqui said, sweeping the trucks with his hand. “We are moving tonight, these trucks will help. The village must be empty by morning. The Iraqis will search for us with aircraft but we will hide in Iran.” Haqui moved closer and slapped Carroll on the shoulder, “You have helped us.” Carroll was aware of the guard standing close behind him but didn’t see the knife only inches away from his right kidney. When Haqui moved back, the guard relaxed.
“And the way the Iraqis reacted after we attacked the relief column … smart, how did you know they would destroy their own village in retaliation?”
“Insh’ Allah,” Carroll said, hoping he had it right.
Haqui looked at him. “Are you …?”
Carroll shook his head. “I’m of a different faith, the people of the Book.” The tone of Carroll’s voice carried conviction, but doubt lingered in the old man.