She seemed confused, even intimidated by so many kids, not much younger than her, yelling and laughing and carrying on. She slowly began making her way down the aisle. The driver closed the door, checked his mirrors, and began pulling away from the curb. Two more miles, and he'd have peace and quiet all the way back to the bus compound.
"You hear that, Colonel?"
Daoud Juma was finally asleep. After two days and hundreds of miles on the run, he was bone tired and desperate for rest. But someone was calling him. Someone was asking him a question. Why? Couldn't they see he wanted to be left alone?
"Colonel? Colonel Juma? Sir, can you hear that? Something's approaching?"
It was Arabic. Daoud could hear the words. He knew someone was talking, But he struggled to understand the words. He was fighting his way out of REM sleep, and he wasn't happy. He tried to open his eyes. They were covered over in film. The infection was coming back. He angrily wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and cursed the driver he now could see and hear all to well, even in the darkness.
"Sir — Colonel — I'm sorry to wake you…" Sure you are, thought Daoud.
"… but I think that's the sound of a chopper echoing through the canyon."
The night was as black as he'd ever seen it. But for their headlights and the internal lights of the dashboard, there'd be no light at all. He looked out the side windows, but all he could see was his own reflection. He'd have to take this kid's word for it. They were in a canyon of some kind, probably still winding along the Euphrates River. They couldn't be far from the border now. Or had they crossed over already and he hadn't been told. No, that was impossible. They wouldn't dare fail to keep him apprised. Even if he was sleeping. And there'd be border guards. Passport checks. Officials to confer with. Money to change hands.
A chopper? Is that what he'd just said? No one had helicopters out here— not coming from behind them. The Iraqis certainly didn't. Not anymore. That would have to be American. Daoud's eyes widened.
The junior officer's radio crackled to life. The men in the minivan behind him were also reporting what sounded like a helicopter several miles behind them. For a few moments, there was a lot of cross-chatter. Then came the question from one of the fedayeen commanders. What did Colonel Juma want to do?
"Any of you geniuses have a Stinger missile?" he barked over the walkie-talkie sitting on the backseat beside him. He was fully awake now.
"Yes, sir. We've got one left."
"Then in the name of Allah, use it," he shouted.
Surely he'd trained these men better than this. The convoy sped up now, hugging the dirt road through hairpin turns. On straightaways, they were pushing at least ninety miles an hour. The problem was none of them knew the road well and were having trouble anticipating upcoming twists and turns. On top of that, the dust and sand they were kicking up was cutting visibility — already minimal — to just a few dozen yards, at least for the second and third drivers in the convoy.
Someone from the Range Rover came over the radio asking if they should all cut their lights. Daoud put an end to such nonsense. If this was really an American helicopter, it was an Apache or a Cobra gunship, perhaps a Black-hawk. Either way, all of the Americans had night-vision systems and state-of-the-art FLIR technology — forward-looking infrared thermal imaging systems that could pick up the heat signatures of their bodies and engines. Shutting off their headlights wouldn't trick the infidels, he stormed. It would only cause the three of them to crash into the canyon walls or into the river. Just floor it, he told them, and get that Stinger ready to fly.
The minivan driver was on the radio. His eyes were glued on the road ahead, but several of his men could see the lights of the chopper behind them. It was coming in fast and low. It couldn't be flying more than thirty or forty feet above the ground and was coming in at upward of a hundred eighty knots.
The Stinger operator raced through his procedures. He hadn't even had the thing out of the box until a few seconds ago. He was having trouble getting everything together in the dark, in the back of a packed minivan.
But he'd have to do it fast. The chopper was bearing down on them and he was running out of time.
OK, he was almost ready. He needed to power up the battery, and estab lish the range to target. Just a few more seconds, that's all he needed.
"What the — we're getting painted. "
"Mongoose One Six, this is Sky Ranch, say again — I repeat, say again." "Sky Ranch, I said we're getting painted. Probably a Stinger." "One Six, do you have a visual on the convoy?"
"Roger that, sir. We can see the convoy. Three cars. The last one just shot out their windows and they're painting us up. Do we have permission to fire, sir?" "How many people in the last vehicle, One Six?" "Looks like five or six, sir — they're on the run. " "Roger that, Mongoose One Six, you have authorization to fire." The canyon narrowed. The convoy was moving at nearly a hundred miles an hour. It was a wonder the Renault could keep pace. But it wasn't the Renault they were after. "I've got lock."
The Apache was closing in, but the pilot could also see the mountain walls narrowing still further. He might have time for one clean shot. After that, he'd have to pull up and reacquire the convoy on the other side of the pass. "I've got tone."
The Apache pilot could see someone leaning out of the back of the min ivan. The Stinger was ready to fire. He flipped a switch and took his weapons system off safety. "Fox one, fox one. "
The Hellfire missile exploded from the side of the chopper. It sizzled through the cold night air and devoured its prey. The fireball filled the canyon. The Apache pilot pulled up immediately and narrowly cleared the mountain pass ahead of him. The Renault lost control. It skidded from side to side, then careened off the right side of the road, down toward the banks of the Euphrates and barely coming to a stop before plunging into the fast-moving river.
The Range Rover kept moving. Its driver and crew didn't have time to worry about the fate of the men behind them, even Colonel Juma. They blew through the narrow mountain pass and figured they had the Americans beat. Until they came around the next bend. That's when they saw Mongoose One Five. The other Apache. It was a half mile down the road, hovering no more than twenty feet off the road and exploding from its side was a Hellfire missile with their names on it. Every man's eyes went wide with fear. And for good reason. It was the last image they'd ever see.
The driver glanced back at some of the rowdies.
They were throwing paper airplanes and singing "Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall" in English and Hebrew. These kids were in college? It was pathetic. They were like a bunch of five-year-olds. The Americans should put all their high school graduates into the military for a few years, he decided. All of them. Put them through basic training. Make the guys serve at least three or four years. Make the women serve at least two. Just like in Israel. Teach them some discipline. Teach them some manners, if nothing else. It had worked for his kids — zapped the childish arrogance right out of them.
It had worked for him, too. He'd loved the army — and his annual reserve duty. It had forced him to get in shape, and stay in shape. And driving a Merkava tank sure beat driving a bus. He wished he was mobilizing right now. He'd love to bulldoze his way into Gaza. He'd love to blow Mohammed Dahlan's headquarters to kingdom come. Too bad he was too old.