Angels of Wrath (45 page)

“Got movement at the door of the station,” said Grumpy, who was acting as lookout. “Four guys coming in your direction.”

Rankin crawled behind the truck, then, deciding to take no chances, he climbed up over the four-foot fence and lay on the ground as the men approached. It was a good thing, too; the men were the drivers of the vehicles. They checked for bombs, but when making sure the tailpipes weren’t obstructed used their eyes rather than their fingers and didn’t see the black probe jammed deep inside.

“Tell Ferg they’re on their way,” Rankin told Grumpy. “I’ll meet you at the bikes.”

~ * ~

verhead surveillance was being performed by both the U-2 and Global Hawk, giving them backup as well as lengthening the scope of their coverage area. There was also an EC-130H Commando Solo aircraft orbiting at much lower altitude offshore. Its equipment could pick up a variety of radio signals, eavesdropping on Syrian military channels as well as any longer-range radios or phone systems Khazaal and the others used. The aircraft could also jam radios and other devices if things got hairy. For tonight’s mission, equipment had been added to tie an operator aboard the aircraft into the command network used by the First Team. The man and his relief had real-time displays from the Global Hawk and U-2 so they could relay information to the ground ops.

“Subject ears are en route,” said the operator in a Texas twang.

“You have to be from south Dallas,” said Thera, drawing out her Houston accent. She and Monsoon had disabled the boat at the rear of the mosque and were now in the van, monitoring the feed a few blocks away.

“Ma’am, you have me dead to rights.”

Thera switched back and forth between the feeds. Ferguson had to know which car Khazaal got into, which meant watching the video bugs. But with the two SUVs about ten minutes away, a truck pulled up and blocked the bug with the best view. Thera switched to the backup, but the shadows from the light obscured the street, and she couldn’t be absolutely sure she would see it.

“Time for plan B,” she told Monsoon, adjusting a headset beneath her scarf. “You hear me, Dallas?” she asked the operator aboard the EC-130.

“Loud and clear, ma’am.”

Thera and Monsoon got out of the van and began walking down the block. They waited until the trucks were about thirty seconds from the mosque. Thera nodded at Monsoon and began to run, turning the corner just as the first vehicle came down the street. There were armed men near the wall of the mosque compound. Two turned to challenge her.

“Help me, help me,” she cried in Arabic, her Houston twang subverted into the hysterical scream of a Syrian woman wronged by a stranger. “My husband has beat me. He’s a monster.”

The guards had been interested if not sympathetic until the mention of her husband; as modern as Syria might be, women were still expected to do as they were told in marriage. The man nearest Thera flung her aside; she managed to keep her balance long enough to see Khazaal get into the lead SUV.

Just as he had the other day, another man carried a briefcase and got into the second vehicle. The men left Thera in a heap against the wall as the trucks backed down the road. She got up quickly, making sure she was positive which SUV had Khazaal and which had the briefcase.

“They’re on their way,” she said. “Khazaal is in the lead car. The target is in truck two. Ferg, you got that?”

“Thanks, darlin’,” he said. “Remind me to beat the daylights out of your husband when I see him.”

~ * ~

he SUVs currying Khazaal and his bodyguards turned off their head lights after they reached the highway, making it difficult for the lead vehicle to keep track of the trail car as they started to separate. The muffler restrictor’s effect was difficult to calibrate, and the vehicle didn’t fall behind significantly until the dial on the device reached fifty percent. Ferguson, sitting below the ridge a half mile from the castle, followed the trucks’ progress on the team’s backup laptop, retrieved from the goodie box.

“Move that up to about sixty percent,” he told Guns, taking the remote-controlled airplane in his hand. Powered by a two-stroke gasoline engine, the small plane took several tries to start, and when it finally did, the propeller nipped Ferguson’s finger. He threw the plane aloft and then grabbed the controls, steadying it into a stable though light flight pattern.

The toy plane had a range of about 2,500 feet but with easy-to-fly controls designed specifically for rich parents who wanted to impress their offspring for the weekend. Even so, Ferguson struggled to get it to go exactly where he wanted, using the tiny running lights as a visual guide. He wanted the people on the ground to think that a UAV was spying on them. The trick was to get it close enough to be noticed, but not so close that it could be seen as a toy. From a distance, the plane’s small size would be interpreted as meaning it was higher than it actually was.

“Sixty percent,” said Guns.

“Check the second SUV,” Ferguson asked, still getting the hang of the remote airplane. “How far behind?”

“Two hundred yards. Lead vehicle is just a mile away from us.”

Ferguson nudged his right wing down and took the plane into a bank, turning northwestward and flying back toward his position. Then he slid around back to the south, confident now that he had control of the craft, or at least enough control to accomplish his goal. As the airplane came back over the road, the LED lights flickered and went out. Grumbling, though he could still see the aircraft, Ferguson flew it toward the lead SUV as it came around the turn, then headed toward the castle.

“Somebody in the lead car saw the aircraft,” reported the controller aboard the EC-130E. “They just broadcast a heads-up.”

Ferguson piloted the plane directly over the castle wall. He issued the commands to make it bank back, but the box had been wildly optimistic about the controller’s range; the airplane was now on its own and continued out to sea.

“We have a half mile between the cars,” said Guns. “Truck two is almost in position alpha.”

Ferguson threw down the control. “Go to one hundred percent. Stop the truck.” He put his hand over the earpiece. “Jam the radios,” he told the crew on the Commando Solo. “Let the party begin.”

While the gear aboard the electronics aircraft obstructed the frequencies Khazaal and pals had just used to communicate, Ferguson dropped to the ground next to the 82mm M2 Carl Gustav antitank gun. The recoilless rifle had a short forward bipod that helped steady it as he sighted for the road.

“Truck’s still moving, Ferg,” said Guns. “Slow. I can’t get it to stop.”

“Not a problem,” said Ferguson, zeroing in on the road. “Truck one?”

“Around the bend, turning down the road to the castle. They’re out of sight.”

“Hang on.” Ferguson fired at the SUV. As the missile whizzed away, he realized he’d blown it. Worried about the tendency of the rocket to fly high, he’d overcompensated and fired into the ground a good fifty yards from the road. He tossed aside the launcher in disgust and picked up the backup weapon.

“Stand back,” he told Guns. He peered through the telescope at the side and let loose from a standing position. This round scored a bull’s-eye: the three-pound, twelve-ounce shell hit the base of the hood and windshield, one of the weak spots in the armor treatment. The rocket obliterated the front half of the vehicle.

“Let’s ride, boys,” said Ferguson. “Skippy, cue the light show.”

~ * ~

ankin had hoped to wait until the SUV was inside the castle to begin his simulated attack, but the truck stopped about a hundred yards from the entrance and began backing up the access road, probably concerned about the trail vehicle.

“Mortar,” he told Grumpy, adjusting the focus on his night optical device to see if he could make out who was in the truck.

Grumpy dropped the first shell into the British weapon. The round whipped into the air with a hoarse
whu-thumpppp
and fell just outside the walls of the castle, where it exploded with a more satisfying
thrappp.
He followed up with two dummy shells, which landed in the same general area, and then another live round close enough to a minefield on the northern flank of the access road to set off several mines.

Rankin, watching the shells hit through his night optics glasses, had Grumpy adjust to the south; the Delta sergeant got the white phosphorous shell precisely in the middle of the roadway about twenty yards behind the SUV.

“They’re taking cover,” said the controller in the EC-130K, interpreting the images from the Global Hawk.

“Start the tape,” said Rankin.

A crewman aboard the aircraft turned off the jamming gear. In its place, he began broadcasting a prerecorded set of radio signals that made it sound as if a platoon-sized group was maneuvering outside the walls. The voices were in Arabic, and the frequency was the same as that used by the Syrian army. “Commander Suhab” was mentioned several times in the brief conversation, just distinct enough for anyone recording to make out.

“Ready on the machine guns,” Rankin told Grumpy. Two men with automatic rifles had come out, crouching near the entrance.

“Sure I can’t hit them?” asked Grumpy, hunching over the weapon’s tripod.

“No,” said Rankin.

“Shame,” said the marine, firing at the road.

~ * ~

erguson and Guns rolled off the hill on the sturdiest bikes he’d bought.

Even thirty yards away they could feel the heat.

“How long is it going to burn for?” Guns asked.

“Not sure. Guess I should’ve brought a fire extinguisher, huh?”

The flames settled for a moment but then flared into a fireball. Ferguson got off the bike and reached into the oversized knapsack he’d taken with him for their small chain saw.

“Going to be hot as hell, Ferg,” said Guns as the flames died down.

“Yeah. But I’m kind of in a hurry.” Ferguson walked around the truck, trying to figure out where the briefcase would be.

A flare shot up from the castle, illuminating the night. The gunfire there intensified.

Ferguson triggered the saw blade and started in on the roof and then the door. Rather than pulling it out he was able to kick it to the side and down, singeing but not burning his boot. The scent of burned flesh hung over the car, overpowering all of the other smells, even the exhaust from the buzz saw.

The briefcase was right near the rear door, attached by a handcuff to the guard’s charred wrist. Guns grit his teeth together and grabbed hold of the briefcase, pulling on the chain hard enough to snap several bones in the dead man’s hand and free the case. He dropped it on the ground and spun to his knees, his stomach suddenly queasy.

The briefcase was barely a foot and a half wide and less high, no thicker than a large paperback book, Ferguson picked it up, examined the lock, and look out his picks. The lock took some work—forty-five seconds— and Ferguson had to balance the small case upright on his knee. When the clasp snapped open it fell, spilling most of its contents to the ground.

A jumble of gold chains, watch bands, necklaces, and loose jewels spilled out. There were sapphires, a number of small diamonds, emeralds. Most were fairly small, but that would only make them easier to sell. There were some gold rings and chains as well. Ferguson guessed conservatively that they must be worth close to three million dollars, maybe considerably more.

It was also a lot more than Khazaal would need to travel in Syria or to hire Vassenka.

Ferguson scooped them back into the case, then took a quick snapshot with his digital camera. Guns got his stomach settled and came back.