“We’re not done with these guys yet, Richard!” he yelled.
Richard followed his gaze and saw the growing dust trails. He knew what they meant. “How long do you think?” he asked.
“Ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”
“Any place here where we can mount any kind of defense?” asked Richard.
“Doubt it,” Payton replied. He had just lost four of his men, and two more were badly injured. Although he was highly trained, he felt himself to be on the verge of shock. Reinforcements were coming, but for the wrong side. “If we stay in the terminal, they’ll just lob another dozen RPG’s in there until we’re Kentucky Fried Chicken. Or pick us off when we come running out. I think we’re done.”
At that point Richard realized that he still had his Sat-phone. “Maybe we can buy some time,” he suggested. “Let’s see if I can get through to the Theodore Roosevelt on this.” He dialed Baxter, and got through on the first ring.
“Robert, we’ve been attacked. Four of our guys are dead, two wounded. And the locals have reinforcements coming,” he said. “Can you put me through to the Teddy Roosevelt?”
“Jesus,” replied Baxter. “I can switch the call. But I’m going to stay on the line.” He immediately connected the call to the bridge of the huge carrier, and from there to Captain Dick Sebatier, commander of the four Super Hornets already screaming toward Yarim-Dhar at 1,300 miles per hour. “Richard, you’re on,” he shouted, to start the call.
Richard took a deep breath. “This is Richard Lawrence, CIA. We’ve been attacked at the Yarim-Dhar airstrip. We have four dead and two wounded. There are four of us left to fight. The bad guys are sending reinforcements in trucks. It looks like they’re about 15 minutes away.”
“We’re stepping on the gas, up here, Richard. We have four Super Hornets, but we’re 20 minutes out. Maybe a titch more. We’re maxed out at Mach 1.7. You guys have got to hang on.” This came from the commander of the planes.
Richard turned to his colleagues. “The Super Hornets are on their way. Twenty minutes, they said. Maybe a bit more.”
“Dammit, Richard,” said Payton. “Those trucks are only 15 minutes away. We’re deep in the glue here. I don’t think we’re going to make it that long.”
Richard wasn’t so ready to throw in the towel. He didn’t know if they were going to be able to get out of this, but giving up and accepting a fiery death in the middle of the desert wasn’t high on his list of life priorities. “Maybe we can buy another five minutes or so. I have a plan,” he said slowly, still thinking. He laid it out, and it was quickly critiqued and improved by the others. Then they set about putting it into motion.
While the situation was unfolding in Darfur, Baxter patched the DDCI into the telephone link. With the clicking of a few more keys on Admiral Jackson’s phone, the President’s office was connected as well. One ring and the call was picked up; within a matter of seconds, the President himself was given the telephone. It was still early morning in Washington, and he was reviewing the PDB with his senior staff. Thanks to the switching capabilities of the military, Richard’s Sat-phone call now had the attention of the President, his Chief of Staff, the DDCI, Baxter, the bridge of the Theodore Roosevelt, and Captain Sebatier. All were listening with growing trepidation, powerless to do anything but wait.
As the seconds ticked on, Admiral Jackson outlined the situation for the President. “We’ve already encroached on Sudan’s airspace with the two Night Hawks, sir. And we are now moments away from doing the same with the Super Hornets. We should call the Sudanese ambassador and brief him on this.”
“Fuck Sudan,” answered the President. “Those guys have been sending terrorists our way for more than a decade now. This was al-Qaeda’s home turf for years. If they want to take on our F-18’s, they’re welcome to. It’s about time it was a fair fight, I’d say.”
“What should the press release say, sir?” asked Jane van Buren, his principal press secretary. “The world doesn’t know about the missing Semtex yet. They’ll wonder what a bunch of Navy boys are doing in the middle of the Sahara. There are no ships out there.”
“Let’s think about that later. In the meantime, I’m not going to deprive any of our boys of the protection they deserve. Have the Super Hornets go full tilt. Hang in there, Lawrence, my boy,” said the President. “Hang in there.”
The seven vehicles slid to a stop in front of the terminal. To one side, the wreckage of the two helicopters still burned. The fuel dump had been completely obliterated. The dust clouds kicked up by the trucks mingled with the smoke of the dying fires in and around the helicopters. The only sound was that of the desert wind, and the crackling of a few flames from one of the destroyed Night Hawks. Nothing moved for a full 30 seconds. Then the leader barked a sharp command, and crews from four of the vehicles disembarked and entered the terminal.
Richard, McMurray, Clinton, and Payton lay buried under the sand in a small dip approximately 100 feet in front of the terminal. Their four dead comrades were prominently displayed in the vicinity of the ruined helicopters; it was a chore they had all had found repugnant, but necessary. The two wounded men were even further behind them, also hidden by sand, a chore that had been even more disturbing.
Richard had clambered up the little ladder inside the terminal and found that, as he had suspected, there was one RPG left — the accurate return fire provided by Payton and Clinton had prevented its launching. There was also one barrel of fuel that had not exploded, having been knocked away from the conflagration by the force of the explosion. McMurray, with his vast experience in explosives, had instructed the men on just how it was to be positioned. And then they had waited.
Now Payton initiated the silent count. Richard held his breath. This would be the moment of truth. On cue, the four rose as one. McMurray fired the RPG through an open window in the terminal. At the same instant, three rifles cracked. All three of the terrorist gunners fell, their bodies sprawling across the large-caliber machine guns mounted on the truck decks. Richard, whose bullet was meant for the driver, noticed sourly that he was the only one who had missed and hit the wrong man.
The terminal exploded when the RPG hit, propelling a number of bodies outward, one going spectacularly through the terminal wall. The quiet scene turned instantly into pandemonium. All the available AK-47’s started firing in their direction. Richard knew that they had to capitalize on the element of surprise, or all would be lost. Three more of the Bedouin warriors were quickly taken down, but McMurray was nicked by return fire. That left three of them still able to fight. Three against a good seven or eight, with no cover, and no room to maneuver.
The leader barked a series of orders.
“What’s he saying?” asked Payton.
“He told them to get behind the trucks! He says there’s only a couple of us and they can pick us off easy! Wish I could tell you that he was saying ’run,’ but that’d be a lie!” yelled Richard. He had to shout to be heard above the noise of the burning wreckage, gunfire, and explosions, adding stress to an already bad situation. He turned to McMurray. “How’re you doing, Sergeant?” he asked the wounded man.
“Took a shot in my right arm. Just a flesh wound, but it’s my shooting arm. I can’t help you guys right now,” answered McMurray.
“Great. Three of us, and Richard, dammit kid, you need more training,” groaned Payton. All of them were envisioning scenes of American soldiers being dragged through East African village streets.
Richard saw that the leader was loading another RPG into his launcher. The Thuraya telephone was still with him, and still on.