He swam down the line of boats, keeping his eyes open in the salt water, until he was up to the third boat, again letting himself surface by the hull. Suddenly the boat burst into life and he lifted himself quickly over the side, targeting the terrorist in the boat, who was hunkered down by the controls and yelling to his fellows on the shore.
Fire started to come from the land and Mike dove over the side, chased by fire from the land and boats. He felt a searing pain in his right leg when he hit the water and realized that he must have taken a round on the way out.
He used the boats for cover, breathing in their shadow, and made his way back to the mangroves. Once there he passed through them fast, ignoring the pain in his leg and reloading. The entire engagement on the boats hadn’t used up a full magazine.
He heard shouting from the east end of the island and realized that the terrorists must have found the nuke. That simply wasn’t on, so he made his way back to the edge of the open area and scanned around with the NOD on the M-4.
Three terrorists had gotten the cart from the building and were manhandling it towards the path. He got two, but the third dove into the concealment of the sea grape. However, the bomb was on the other side of the open area and to get to the boats they’d have to pass his line of fire.
Mike suddenly heard a rustle behind him and rolled over, triggering a burst into the terrorist that had been trying to sneak up on him. The guy had a buddy, though, and even on spray and pray at less than five yards it was hard to entirely miss. He felt a familiar punch in his side, like being hit by a baseball bat, and another in his chest. He was pretty sure the one in his chest had been stopped by the armor, but the other one started to sting like hell from the salt water even before he put another burst in the remaining terrorist.
The brief firefight had attracted attention, though, and more were moving across the open area towards his position. He serviced two of those but had to roll deeper into the grape as the scrub around him started to be flailed by bullets. He took another round in the back of his armor, knocking him forward, before he got out of the beaten area.
He circled to the right, crawling under the sea grape as fast as he could, and got another look at the open area. The cart was gone, probably up the path to pick up the bomb, and he decided it was time for serious action. However, he was bleeding like a pig and the pain in his leg was starting to slow him down.
He pulled out the packet of tampons and pads and explored the wound in his leg. That was a through-and-through in the calf that was bleeding freely, but it wasn’t pumping, so no major vessels had been hit. First he pulled out a small foil packet and tore it open, dumping the contents in the wound. The material was a combination of antibiotics and a new blood coagulant made from shrimp shells, of all things. It was supposed to be the cat’s pajamas in stopping hemorrhaging and he could use that at the moment. When he’d gotten the stuff in the wound he plugged it with a tampon, then injected the area with novocaine. The one on his side was a through-and-through as well, basically through his love-handles, as if he didn’t have enough reasons to go on a diet. More shrimp, another tampon, and a shot of novocaine and it was good to go.
He checked the open area and nothing was moving. But he could hear Arabic voices on the far side, presumably wrestling with the bomb. He wasn’t sure how many were left on the boats, but they could wait.
He continued circling right, getting all the way up to the building, before he heard the group struggling with the bomb. From the sound of it they were right by where the path reached the open area. Mike decided that bold was the only course open to him and simply stepped out of the seagrapes and headed for the path.
There were four of the terrorists in the group manhandling the cart down the path. Two were actually handling the cart with another giving orders while the fourth was sweeping his AK around nervously.
The night was dark, still overcast, and the terrorists didn’t have night-vision devices. They were as plain as day to Mike, but apparently they hadn’t seen him. Oh, well. He shot the one with the AK, then the two manhandling the bomb. By the time he’d taken them down, the one giving the orders had fled down the path. The fucker had been armed; Mike had anticipated taking rounds. But usually “martyrdom” meant for the lowly and not the guys giving orders. Nine times out of ten with muj, the leadership ran like rabbits and let the brainwashed teenage muj take the heat.
He suddenly started taking fire from the direction of the boats and cursed. He was getting really tired of those guys. He moved down the path, out of sight of the boats, then crawled under the sea grape to a position where he could keep an eye on the bomb and still be out of sight.
He didn’t know how many terrorists were still on the island. He’d never gotten an accurate count and hadn’t been able to keep up with how many he’d taken down. He figured it was somewhere between three and seven with about three on the boats.
One of the boat drivers called out in a questioning tone. At first there was no answer, then a voice yelled from somewhere nearby, high and fast in Arabic. Mike stayed still, anticipating that the leader would move after yelling. Three men got off of one of the boats and started moving towards the bomb, cautiously, their weapons swinging back and forth. Suddenly, one of them ripped off a whole magazine towards the building and there was a shout of pain in that direction, followed by cursing in Arabic.
Mike took the opportunity to move back into the sea grape, shifting his position towards where the leader had been. It put him out of sight of the bomb, but he wanted to take the leader out while he could.
The sea grape gave way to a narrow path and he figured the leader type had used that. There were no apparent footprints, so he didn’t know if the guy had gone left or right. He slid out of the sea grape cautiously and stepped carefully down the path to the east.
The path terminated behind the building and he paused at the edge, his spidey-sense tingling. There was somebody nearby. He could hear the target getting to the bomb and cursed to himself. Keeping the bomb secure was his primary mission and he needed to get back to it.
He stepped to the side of the building, then paused and threw himself flat as he heard a hissing sound passing through the air. Frickin’ grenade.
Chapter Thirteen
Bakr Majali had been a street child in Jordan until he joined the madrassa. There he was fed and trained in the Word of God. The madrassas were supposed to teach things other than just the Koran, but for most that was enough. He had been filled with the words of Mohammed, living on the sufferance of the good Islamics who contributed to the support of the madrassa, and growing day by day in his hatred of the infidel. He was a Palestinian, one of the millions that made up the bulk of the population of Jordan. And besides the Word of God he was filled with the stories of the suffering of his people, both at the hands of the Jews and at the hands of the Hashemites who ruled Jordan.
He had planted his first bomb when he was barely twelve and had lived his life as a mujahideen, first as a street fighter, then as a leader. Over the years his fervor had died, but he still fought for the only cause he had ever known. He had no other skills than those of a terrorist.
He had been sent on this mission because of his knowledge of English and his loyalty to the cause. And he intended to both survive and succeed, despite this infidel who stood in their way.
The man was very good, as good as an Israeli commando, but he was but one man. And he had never fought the likes of Bakr Majali. Bakr had learned long ago that standing in the middle of the street and firing off a whole magazine, like Rambo in some action movie, was never going to kill the enemies of Allah. Silence was required, and aiming and hiding. But a good grenade never hurt.