Turk’s explanation that the mines were placed as part of a pre-positioned defense scheme made sense. Logically, Dixon knew that if that were true, the road itself wouldn’t be booby-trapped or mined. But twice his foot slipped in the dirt and he felt an electric jolt in his muscles, sure he was about to be blown up.
The door was metal, twice as wide as the front door to a house and about half again as high. A truck probably wouldn’t quite fit through, though Dixon wasn’t necessarily sure. The locking mechanism had both a mechanical key and the combination — as well what seemed to be a trip wire that Turk pulled Dixon back from.
He pulled out a small penlight flashlight to look it over carefully. “This doesn’t look like anything I’ve worked on,” said the demolition expert. “But my guess is that you cut it or fiddle with the key and it sets off a charge. Maybe under there.” He pointed the flashlight at rocks just above them. “Drop a little avalanche on you. Or there could be a charge beneath us.”
Dixon put his hand on the steel door, feeling the surface as if his fingers could somehow tell how thick the metal was behind it. There were no straps, no bolts, just smooth metal.
“Safest thing to do is get back to the road there, shoot up the lock and see what happens,” said Turk.
“You think that’ll do anything besides telling the Iraqis we’re here?” Dixon said.
Turk thought about it. “Probably not. We might be able to get through it with our C-4. Depends on how thick the door is.”
“Riyadh will probably want to bomb the site,” Dixon told him. “I think we’re better off talking to them first. If we do anything, the Iraqis will know we’re here. Maybe they empty the site before the bombing, maybe they find us.”
“I ain’t arguing with you.”
Dixon took a step back. Turk caught him.
“Listen,” he said, pointing back in the direction of the highway.
A low cough rasped against the hills. Dixon and Turk sprinted up the road back into the rocks. They climbed a few yards up the hillside, taking cover as a truck approached. Dixon watched from his crouch, expecting it to speed past like the others.
But it didn’t. It stopped dead in the middle of the highway, not ten yards from them.
It was a Mercedes truck, a simple cab in front of a boxy back; nothing remarkable. A million similar trucks were driving in a million similar places at that very moment, delivering a multitude of things to a multitude of places.
But this one was here. Dixon had a clear line of sight, and took the NOD from Turk.
The driver and his passenger were debating something. Then the passenger got out of the truck. The two Americans hunkered against the rocks as the man shone a flashlight across the darkened landscape to find the path to the mountain entrance. Once he found it, he waved at the truck, which followed slowly as he began walking toward the rock face.
When he reached the door, he bent over the lock. He worked it very slowly. His back blocked Dixon’s view, but he could make out a second panel behind the electronic lock; that one took even longer to deal with. Finally the Iraqi bent over and pushed something with his foot; some sort of metal lever had risen from the dirt.
But not even this opened the door. The man returned to the panel and punched more keys before the door finally popped free. Gripping the edge, the man pushed it open. A dull red light turned on inside.
“You get all that?” asked Turk.
“Oh yeah, I got it memorized,” whispered Dixon.
“Fuckers spent half their defense budget on locks. Cheaper just to post guards.”
“Maybe they’re inside.”
“Yeah. Could be,” said Turk.
The man walked slowly to the back of the truck. He came out with what looked to be a large suitcase.
“Door’s damn thick,” said Turk, examining it through the NOD. “I don’t think we got enough C-4, unless I can figure out the weak spot.”
After the soldier had been inside for quite a while, Dixon realized he ought to time his disappearance; it might tell them how large the facility was.
Or maybe not. He noted the time on his watch, then took the NOD and looked at the driver, who was shifting nervously around in the cab.
Most likely the man had only a pistol, if that. They could take him out easily; Dixon could, simply by lifting the MP-5 and firing. He was ten yards away.
But were there others inside the truck or the mountain?
The Iraqi reappeared from the bunker and trotted to the back of the truck. He took an identical-looking suitcase from the back before returning to the mountain.
“Boxes of candy,” said Turk. “For Sugar Mountain.”
“Yeah, Sugar Mountain,” said Dixon. “A big candy store.”
“We can take out the guy in the truck,” said Turk. He lifted his silenced MP-5. “You think we should?”
The truck driver sat upright in the truck as if he had heard them. He turned on the truck lights and a moveable spotlight mounted on the doorway, playing it over the rocks. The two Americans ducked as the spotlight swung in their direction.
Should they rush him? They could easily ambush his companion when he came out.
If he spoke English, they could find out what or who was inside.
Maybe. More than likely, he didn’t speak English.
Hell, they could just go in and see for themselves. Assuming it wasn’t booby-trapped.
Or that there wasn’t a guard below. The suitcases could have been dinner.
Even if he did speak English and talk to them, what could they believe? They could force him to walk ahead if they went inside, force him to reveal any booby traps— but perhaps the people who had designed the structure had anticipated that. Given the elaborate mechanism to open it, surely they had.
Better to call in a bombing raid.
But what if they were bombing a gold mine?
Or a NBC, nuclear-biological-chemical storage site?
What if Saddam himself were inside? Now that would be the kicker to end all kickers.
“Let’s get him,” said Dixon, rising as the light snapped off.
“Hold on,” said Turk. “Here’s our candy man.”
The Iraqi shouted— it sounded like a curse— at the driver as the two Americans ducked back behind the rocks. By the time they realized the shout hadn’t been meant for them, the thick door had been swung back into place. The truck was already backing onto the highway.
The Iraqi who’d gone inside ran to the cab, pulling himself in as he continued to berate the driver— probably for turning on his headlights. The driver slapped them off and hit the gas as soon as all four wheels were on the hard pavement.
CHAPTER 32
They were louder than hell, at least as far as Sergeant Kevin Hawkins was concerned. But the two dark shadows growing in the southern corner of the gray-black haze before him were the prettiest damn things he’d ever seen.
Not quite, but damn Hawkins felt good about the AH-6G Scouts as they came into the base. Fort Apache was open for business with its own air force, to boot.
No slam on the Hogs. But they had to keep running south to get ammo and gas. The Little Birds were his.
The lead AH-6G blinked. One of Hawkins’s men answered with a recognition code, assuring the chopper crews that they had not been overrun. The lead bird flew forward toward the strip.