“I had a disagreement with one of the mercs. He was beating up on a woman in the next room.”
“Yeah. I saw her before I came in here. Young teenager. He really worked her over before she died.” Swanson shoved the remainder of the roll back into his pack. “You need help getting the clothes on?”
The general cursed Logan. “I figured he had killed her. Poor kid.”
Swanson did not want Middleton to dwell on anything but their escape, so he held out the baggy pants and the general worked his legs in and tied them off with a loose belt, and they pulled the long shirt down over his torso. He found a pair of sandals and the general put them on. “Okay. Let’s get you out to the front room.”
Middleton took a shuffling step, and the next one came easier. By the time he reached a chair beside the table in the outer room, he was feeling stronger, and he sat down while Swanson gathered his gear. Jimbo Collins lay dead nearby, blood caking his face and chest. “The other guy, name of Vic Logan, will be back soon,” he said.
“We’ll be gone by then, sir. He headed out to the crash site with a bunch of Syrian Army types. We have a small cushion of time, but not much. Do you think you can fire a weapon?”
“Sure. Give me some more water, will you?”
Swanson handed him another bottle, then put some pita bread, orange juice, figs, and a Mars bar on the table. “Eat up, sir. We’ve got to wait a few more minutes before we take off.”
The general did not question why. He gulped down the food and liquid, feeling strength surging back to him. “What did you do, Gunny, stop by Wal-Mart on the way over?”
Kyle had spotted the AK-47 on pegs above the front door when he searched the house, and took it down. Loaded and clean. He laid it on the table. “Something like that. Now here’s what is going to happen. I planted bricks of C-4 around a house near here where a bunch of raghead fighters are sleeping. It’s timed to go off in about sixty seconds. Right after that, you and I are through the front door and into a white Toyota pickup waiting outside, you in the shotgun seat with the AK. The moving will hurt, but you have to force yourself to get in quickly.”
He rummaged through the room as he spoke, and ripped a good map off the wall and rolled it up. With the butt of his pistol, he smashed the satellite telephone, but when he started to wreck the two laptop computers, the general stopped him. “Wait! Take them along,” said Middleton. “They are probably loaded with intel and e-mails about this whole operation.”
Swanson stuffed the map and the laptops into his bulging pack and put it on. “Okay, here we go. Stand with your back against the wall beside the door. Keep the AK ready. I’ll do the same thing over here.”
Middleton hesitated, but got to his feet. “Watch your tone, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“General Middleton, let’s get this straight right now. Until we get out of this shithole, I’m in charge. You’re my passenger and you do what you are told. Now get your fucking back up against that wall!”
Middleton moved, but with a frown. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands and no longer be helpless. He thought about the poor dead girl in the other room, and about the Marine and Saudi guards and his aide who were murdered in the ambush. He wished Vic Logan would walk through the door right now.
The explosion came with unexpected violence, and the concussion rocked the area. Swanson and Middleton felt the wall shake with the pounding stress, and the falling debris sounded like a hailstorm as the blast wave rolled over the village.
“NOW!” Swanson barked. “Go, go, go!” He led the way out with his M-16 ready and ran to the driver’s side of the truck, throwing his big pack and Excalibur into the bed as he jumped inside. Middleton limped behind him and clawed into the passenger seat. The night had changed to bright, dancing light and shadows as fire mushroomed upward from the destroyed structure, where secondary explosions from ammunition stored inside the house joined the carnage.
Kyle propped the M-16 beside him and turned the key, and the little truck’s engine roared to life as people rushed out of their homes and into the streets. “You in?” he called over to the general as he pulled his night-vision goggles into place.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” replied Middleton. “Floor it.”
The figure of a man with a weapon appeared in the road ahead and Swanson knocked him down, gaining speed, heading out of town. Middleton fired several bursts at other figures running toward the truck.
Swanson jammed the transmission into second gear, the four big tires dug hard, and the truck lurched ahead as if it was a racehorse. Kyle blessed the care the Frenchman had lavished on the vehicle, keeping it unremarkable on the outside but with powerful mechanical guts. He could feel the strength of the machine through the steering wheel. This was no standard Toyota engine. As he shifted into third as they swung past the big Zeus, they spotted a man climbing into the gunner’s seat. With the accelerator on the floor, he sped away into the world painted green by the NVGs.
“Somebody’s on the Zeus!” shouted Middleton, raking the area with an automatic burst.
“He’s not a problem. I rigged it to blow up when the trigger is pulled.”
Middleton pulled his AK-47 back inside and took some deep breaths. He was free! Goddam! “ So what’s the escape plan, Gunny?” he asked.
“We just did it, General,” said Swanson. “From here, I got no fucking idea.”
CHAPTER 42
MAJOR YOUSIF AL-SHOUM walked slowly around the remains of the crashed helicopters saying nothing, his eyes taking inventory. He was a small, quiet man whose frail physique belied his importance. It was his brain, not his physical strength, that had won him attention and respect within the Security Directorate in Damascus. He had graduated at the top of his class from the Military Academy at Homs, had advanced training in the old Soviet Union, and won both the Medal of Military Honor and the Order of Umayyads during his extended work in Lebanon and Iraq. Later, as military attaché at Syrian embassies in London and at the United Nations, he developed flawless English. Al-Shoum was a loner with a secret passion for American mystery stories. He conducted his investigations like a slow, plodding, methodical Los Angeles private detective.
He had been assigned to head a special investigation into the American raid and recommend what his government should do with the captive American general. Damascus had known about the abduction from the start, but never officially sanctioned the kidnapping. By turning a blind eye toward the operation, they gained a favor from the Rebel Sheikh down in Basra and several hundred thousand U.S. dollars in military credits from Gates Global. Now the abduction had become a diplomatic problem and Yousif Al-Shoum was to gather the facts and make a recommendation.
He originally planned to drive over to Sa’ahn on his own, but when word came that the Iraqi hotheads were planning to decapitate the American, Al-Shoum decided to bring the extra guns. He got them without difficulty because he was not really a major, but a general, and head of operations for the Security Directorate. Al-Shoum had chosen to use a lower rank because ordinary people became nervous around generals, and he might want to ask some important questions of the citizens. His security team knew his true identity because it was made up exclusively of soldiers chosen because they were loyal to him. After examining the attack area, he would take custody of the American Marine general. His country was not willing to get sucked into a war over this incident, which had not gone as smoothly as promised.