He heard the faint movement as the commando neared the house. It was so faint it was nearly lost on the night wind, but it was there, the soft compression of the sand, a crackle of leaf. He quietly pulled the pin on the grenade and then threw it around the corner.
Mike lay flat, taking the impact of the grenade as much as he could on his armor and helmet. Most grenade fragments tended to fly upwards when the device hit the ground, and they did this time. But he could feel some of them ripping into his legs and arms.
It was the latter that caused him to be slow as the figure leaned around the corner, quickly spotting him in the faint starlight and opening fire at the figure on the ground. Mike felt the aimed rounds track across his back, most of them stopped by the armor, and then into his legs. But he stayed in the prone, targeting the figure in return and put a burst into his chest. The figure, though, stayed upright, continuing to fire, and he felt more rounds flail into his legs and a sharp, stabbing, pain in his left arm that caused him to flinch and let go of the weapon with that hand. He pointed the weapon like a pistol and threw three more bursts of 5.56 into the target, sending him staggering backwards to fall on his back.
Allah’s curse on all Westerners and their damned body armor, Bakr thought as he lay on the ground looking at the stars. The bullets had slammed into him like so many punches and while he’d continued to fire, he could feel his life seeping away. Now he could no longer move. He looked at the fading stars and thought of the words of the mullahs in that faraway madrassa. Allah, the Kind, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Allahu Akbar. Allah is Great. There is no God besides Allah. To die in battle…
His left arm was useless; the bullet seemed to have broken the ulnar bone. Mike used his right arm to pull himself forward, trying to get to the open area where he could cover the retreating mujahideen and stop them from departing with the bomb. He couldn’t get to his feet, either, and he was worried that one or more of the bullets might have punched an artery. If so, he might bleed out before he could get back to the battle.
He crawled forward, the pain so great that it was causing an endorphin rush high, dragging his useless legs and arm, each bump making him nearly scream in agony. But he kept his mouth shut until he was at the edge of the sea grape that cloaked the west side of the building.
The remaining mujahideen were wheeling the bomb down to the waterline. He propped himself against a palm tree, compensating for the faint sway, and lined up the one who was doing the most pushing.
Haroun Arif was terrified and elated. Although the apparently lone commando had nearly stopped them from securing the bomb, they were almost to the boats. A few more meters and they would have it in the boat and be gone. Let the Americans try to stop them then. With all the losses the cells had taken, it would be hard to smuggle the weapon all the way into America, but they would persevere. Allah was with them and…
He felt the punch in his back before he processed the faint cracks behind him. Suddenly, his legs were not working as well and his vision was going black. His hands slipped from the handle of the bomb carrier and he slipped to his knees.
“Allah is Merciful,” he whispered. “Great is Allah…”
Mike started to target the other two, but one of them pushed the bomb carrier over on its side and the two crouched behind it. He couldn’t get a clear shot at them from where he was, so he painfully started crawling to the side, keeping one eye on them and the other on the boats.
Assadolah Shaath had been a physics student at Princeton University when he was recruited to the jihad. He had traveled first to Syria and then to the camps in Afghanistan before the invasion by the infidel. There he had tried to use his skills to create such a bomb as he now touched, but it was beyond his ability given the conditions and what he had to work with. But he knew how they worked. As had Jalal Azhiri, one of the Brethren who had waited in the darkness until the American cowboy came and sent him into Allah’s arms.
But, as he had been told, the bomb had already been rigged for destruction. Setting it off in America would be better than here, but just having it go off near America was surely better than losing it entirely. And with only he and Halim Shahid left, it was more than likely that the American would soon recapture it.
However, while he believed in the Great Jihad, he had no interest in martyrdom. He had many skills the jihad needed. So he opened up the arming panel and keyed in a sequence.
“What are you doing?” Halim asked, nervously.
“Setting the bomb to blow,” Assadolah answered. “When I am done, we will run to the boats and drive away. There will be enough time for us to escape, but not enough for the American to disarm it. This will send a message to the world that Allah is Great.”
Mike could see one of the targets crouched behind the weapon but the other was still covered. He lined him up and fired carefully.
Halim let out a grunt and reared up as something thudded into his body. As he lifted himself, there were more thuds, like thunking a melon, and he collapsed. Assadolah reached up and wiped at a wetness on his cheek, the hand coming away black in the faint light.
“Allah is Great,” Assadolah said, keying the last sequence and closing the box. “Let Allah be Merciful.”
The second terrorist suddenly leapt to his feet and ran for the boats. Mike tracked him but couldn’t quite hit the moving target despite two bursts in his direction. The tango darted behind one of the cigarette boats and then Mike could faintly see him tumbling over the side. Suddenly, the engine coughed to life and the boat started backing up, like the first one dragging its anchor.
This time, though, the terr backed straight up, engine at max, the anchor leaping out of the sand and bounding into the water. Mike tried to target the driver, but with only one arm he could barely keep the boat in his sights. He fired some shots but then the bolt locked back on an empty mag.
Changing out the magazine with only one arm, on his stomach, was a pain not only in the ass but in every wound. And his vision was going funny again. He realized he was bleeding out, but he wanted to get this last damned terrorist. However, before he could even get the magazine changed, the terrorist darted forward, cut the anchor rope, spun the boat around and was moving out of range.
Mike crawled towards the bomb painfully, wondering if there were any remaining tangos and not really caring anymore. He was going to do the same thing as the target, set up by the bomb and use it for cover until he either bled out or the FAST guys showed up.
It took him nearly three minutes to crawl across the sand to the bomb and slide around behind it. When he got there, he pulled out his bag of field-expedient bandages and tried to give himself first aid. Most of the rounds, however, were in places he couldn’t reach anymore. He got a tampon in his arm, nearly screaming at the pain, and another in a big hole in his leg. The holes in his legs were filled with sand, as well, and the tampon wasn’t particularly fun to put in.