Akil stopped firing.
Crocker whispered, “You get hit? What’s wrong?”
“I ran out of ammo. You got an extra mag?”
A moment after he answered no, soldiers opened up behind them with automatic weapons. In front of them and around the corner of the building, the driver of one of the Toyotas gunned its engine and spun it in a half circle so that its.50-caliber machine gun faced them from less than forty feet away. A soldier in the truck’s bed aimed it and started firing-pop! pop! pop!
It tore chunks of concrete from the side and corner of the building, making it almost impossible for Crocker to return fire.
Akil, urgently: “Boss, we’d better circle back!”
“How?”
The soldiers behind them inched closer. Their only protection was a two-foot-high concrete wall that extended from the end of the building; their only options were facing the soldiers in back or making a wild dash for the disabled tank. But the Toyota backed toward them with its.50-cal firing, cutting off that possibility.
Crocker returned fire at the soldiers in back and was about to make a desperate run toward them when his ammo ran out. Now they were really fucked.
“What now?” Akil shouted, prone on the ground.
Crocker shrugged and flashed on an image of Holly getting out of the shower.
They had nothing to defend themselves with. The enemy was closing in on both sides. Bullets were tearing into the concrete from front and back.
He said, “Let’s make a run for the tank!”
Akil nodded, resignation in his eyes. “Why not?”
Crocker took one last glance at the Toyota, which had backed to within twenty-five feet of them, and saw something flicker beyond it and to his right. A small flame moved forward. He made out Davis, running. The gunner in back tried to maneuver the.50-cal so he could train it at him.
Holy shit!
When Davis got within fifteen feet of the Toyota, he threw the Molotov cocktail, twisted, and fell to the ground.
The gunner exploded in flames and screamed.
Crocker to Akiclass="underline" “Let’s run! Now!”
He flew past the burning truck and was looking for Davis when someone hit him and tackled him from behind. Next thing he knew he was grappling with a soldier in the dirt, smelling his putrid breath, grabbing for his neck.
He heard Akil shouting, “Boss, I recovered some weapons! Boss, where the fuck did you go?”
He was about to yell back when something exploded in the back of the truck, blowing dirt and debris into his mouth and eyes. This allowed his attacker to spin on top of him, grab the knife from his belt, and aim it at Crocker’s throat.
He saw the hatred in the man’s eyes, then started choking. As his mind flashed back to Holly, a bolt of energy surged through his body. He reached up, grabbed the arm holding the knife, and twisted his torso sharply right. As soon as the soldier spilled off, Crocker spun and kicked him in the face, then grabbed the knife and thrust the blade into his heart.
Breathless, blood dripping from his hands, he found Akil and Davis standing behind the burning trucks.
“You saved our asses,” he mumbled as the latter handed him an AK with a green flag painted on its wooden stock and extra mags. “Thanks.”
“I’m returning the favor.”
He wasn’t sure what Davis was referring to. He was trying to clear his head, assess the situation-the soldiers with the rocket launcher in back of the building; Lasher and Jabril badly injured; Ritchie and Mancini defending them in the room on the second floor.
Still work to do.
“What now, boss? Wanna set something else on fire?” Akil asked, grinning.
“Let’s take out the fuckers in back first.”
“Works for me,” Davis offered.
Akiclass="underline" “Can’t buy entertainment like this.”
“You guys engage them from behind the tank. I’ll circle around the other side.”
“Now?”
“No, tomorrow!”
He took off at a gallop. Forty seconds later he reached the other side of the building, peeked around, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
Three-quarters of the way down, approximately a hundred feet away, he saw two dark figures hugging the side of the building. One of them knelt and fired an RPG into the side of the tank.
Davis and Akil returned fire.
During the ferocious exchange, Crocker snuck up behind them. When he got within thirty feet, one of the soldiers turned, and Crocker squeezed a volley of bullets into the man’s chest. Watched him fall back and stumble into the second man, who dropped the RPG and reached for his rifle. Crocker cut him down, too. He imagined the bones in his legs shattering. Heard the man mouth a last plea for help.
He watched the two of them bleed out. Then he whistled to his men, gathered the RPG, three unfired rockets, a Russian PKM machine gun, and a pistol, and distributed them to Davis and Akil, who had arrived still out of breath.
“More toys to play with,” Akil wisecracked.
Sucking wind, Crocker said, “Now let’s attack the barracks from the front.”
“No fucking rest?” Akil asked.
Davis: “Hell, no!”
“You feeling better?” Crocker asked Akil.
“Aces, boss. I’m juiced on adrenaline. The hand is numb.”
“Let’s hit the rest of those fuckers. Hard!”
They stepped around some debris in front and entered through the door-Akil with the RPG-2, Davis cradling the heavy PKM, Crocker leading the way with the AK with the green flag painted on it and a 9-millimeter pistol-all of them covered with sweat, dirt, and blood.
They took the steps two at a time to the second floor. From the second-story landing they saw three of the enemy halfway down the hall, trying to fight their way into the room holding the other four men.
Akil loaded a rocket into the RPG and lifted it onto his shoulder. Crocker held up his arm and shook his head no.
He waited for Davis to set up the PKM on the floor and open fire. A tremendous noise filled the narrow hall. Bullets flew and ricocheted off the concrete floor and walls, sending up sparks and dust. Davis kept up the barrage for a full forty seconds, until Crocker held up his hand and crunched it into a fist.
The three SEALs waited for a response from the enemy soldiers. None came. When the dust and smoke cleared, they found them all dead, perforated with bullet holes.
Crocker to Davis: “Nice work.”
Chapter Twelve
They got to live before they can afford to die.
– John Steinbeck
The sun was just starting to rise by the time they limped back to the Sebha airport. Thankfully, the CC-130 was still waiting, along with its Canadian pilot and copilot, who looked at the bloodied, exhausted men and asked, “What the hell happened to you fellows?”
“Get us the fuck out of here,” Crocker answered. “I’ll tell you when we’re in the air.”
Ritchie and Akil stood guard as the others loaded Jabril, Lasher, and the aluminum canister containing the UF6 wrapped in the lead sheet. Crocker didn’t care that it was probably leaking radiation. He said to the pilot, “Radio ahead. Tell them we’re bringing back two badly injured men who are in need of emergency medical care.”
“Got it.”
He buckled in and breathed a sigh of relief as the plane tore into the early morning sky.
“Fuck that hellhole,” Ritchie muttered, setting down the AK and looking down at the city roofs that had turned gold in the sunlight.
Davis crossed himself and said a quick prayer of thanks.
Mancini asked, “Don’t think you’ll be going back, huh? We can rent a couple of camels. Explore the desert.”
“Un-fucking-likely.”
Mancini: “Come on, Ritchie, it’s a fun place. Great scenery. Spirited locals.”
Ritchie: “Hey. Who were those assholes? Where the hell were the NTC and NATO?”