Direct Action (13 page)

It had been a textbook insertion, brought off without a hitch. Razor Roselli turned the key, and the engine refused to start.

0112 hours

Bekaa Valley

Lebanon

“Come
on
!” Murdock shouted.

Razor tried three more times, and all the engine did was flood itself.

Murdock was gripped by the most overwhelming rage of his life. He was not going to fail, and he was not going to let the helicopter fly back to the ship with that damned armored car inside. It didn’t make much sense; there was plenty of room in the other Mercedes, but that was rage for you.

Razor had the armored flap window on his driver’s door open so he could hear. “Throw it in neutral,” Murdock shouted. “Push it out!” he screamed at the air crew.

Murdock and the crew chief got on each side of the front bumper, and the two gunners pushed from behind. The helicopter was slightly inclined, so it didn’t take too much strength to get the car going.

The car was soon moving under its own momentum, and just before it reached the bottom of the ramp it gave a bouncing lurch forward and the engine roared.

Razor Roselli stuck his head out the door and gave Murdock a thumbs-up.

Murdock’s only reaction was a warm but short-lived rush of relief. There was still too much to do. He gave the crew chief the “clear to take off” hand signal, then got in front of the armored car and guided Razor through the muddy field and out to the hard-packed dirt road. He could hear the other helicopters still on the ground. Two had landed in the fields on each side of the road.

One of the Mercedes, with Professor Higgins at the wheel and Magic Brown beside him, eased out of the brush on the opposite side of the road.

“Where are the others?” Murdock demanded.

“The birds landed back there but I haven’t seen anyone yet,” Magic reported.

“Join up with Razor and secure the road,” Murdock ordered. As he ran up the road, the four Chinooks lifted off, one after the other. Murdock charged through the brush bordering the road and discovered the second Mercedes mired in the muddy field, spinning its wheels uselessly. Jaybird Sterling was out cutting some branches to throw under the wheels. “Sit tight,” Murdock yelled.

The frustration was almost unbearable. He ran back through the brush to the road, just as DeWitt and Kosciuszko in their Shorlands emerged from the other side. Murdock gave them the “follow me” hand signal and guided them over to the Mercedes. He and Jaybird unwrapped the steel tow cable from the front bumper of the armored car and, diving into the mud, attached it to the axle of the Mercedes. The Shorlands skidded around, and they hooked the other end of the cable onto one of the armored car’s rear tow loops.

The rain came down even harder. The armored car, in four-wheel drive, slowly dragged the Mercedes across the field and out to the road. Murdock walked in front to make sure they didn’t hit any stumps or go into a ditch.

So Murdock was the first one out onto the road. His first sight was a pair of headlights coming on very fast.

Murdock held up a hand and brandished his weapon, but the Lebanese evidently felt the same way as American highway drivers about stopping at night for armed men.

The selector switch of the Kalashnikov AKM goes from safe directly to full auto. Which was convenient, as Murdock hit the lever with his left forefinger the same instant as he squeezed the trigger with his right. He emptied the entire thirty-round magazine into the car as it sped past him. The car skidded back and forth as the driver jerked the wheel under the impact of the rounds, but it kept going. Murdock watched helplessly as his mission was compromised before they’d even started.

Then Razor Roselli, at the wheel of the Shorlands, shot out of the darkness and broadsided the car in an explosion of glass and metal. It was no contest. The crumpled car spun off the road and slammed into a tree.

The automatic fire had left the barrel of Murdock’s AKM glowing red. He changed magazines and rushed up. Through the rain he could see two white muzzle flashes flare up as Magic Brown and Higgins raked the car at point-blank range. When they ceased fire Murdock ran his red-lensed flashlight over the car’s interior. It was a mess; he couldn’t even tell how many people had originally been inside.

“Push it all the way off the road and throw some brush on it,” Murdock shouted. “And hurry up, I want to get out of here before someone else shows up.”

He ran back up the road and found the others sitting tight with their weapons ready, having heard the shooting but not knowing what had happened. “Let’s go, let’s go,” Murdock yelled. He was starting to get hoarse.

They got the vehicles onto the road, and then had to unhook the tow cable and re-stow it on the Shorlands. Jaybird and Doc gave the Mercedes a quick once-over, and wiped off as much mud as they could.

To Murdock it seemed the faster they went the slower everything got. Finally the Lebanese car was concealed off the road and they were ready to get started.

Murdock checked out his Shorlands. The impact with the car had barely scratched the paint on the welded steel body. He jumped into the passenger seat, soaking wet, covered with mud, and shivering. His wool beret had sagged down over his ears, and the once-shiny emblem was dirtied by mud. There was hardly any room to move; the entire compartment of the vehicle from the two front seats back was packed solid with blocks of TNAZ explosive linked by detonating cord. “What a goatfuck,” Murdock mumbled.

“The time isn’t good,” said Razor Roselli.

Murdock looked at his watch for the first time since they’d landed. Jesus, they’d used up almost fifty minutes of the precious darkness just getting unscrewed.

Cool down, now, Blake, he told himself. When you’re pissed you don’t think right, and you only make the boys nervous. Murdock took a deep breath. “Let’s get going,” he said evenly. He reached over and turned the vehicle’s heater up to full blast.

With their armored car in the lead, then the two Mercedes, and finally DeWitt and Kos bringing up the rear in the second armored car, the SEALs started down the road into the cold Lebanese night.

0204 hours

Bekaa Valley

Lebanon

“Don’t forget Roselli’s First Rule, Boss,” Razor told Murdock as they sped up the highway. “The more fucked up an operation starts off, the more successful it’s going to end.”

“We’ve got nothing to worry about then,” Murdock replied.

They’d gotten down off the mountain road, which was only slightly more improved than a goat path, without any more problems. The highway into Baalbek was two lanes, paved. There wasn’t much traffic in the Bekaa Valley at one o’clock in the morning. Not many had the guts.

The occasional car they did encounter gave them a wide berth at the first sight of their markings. Syria kept its thumb firmly on Lebanon with the help of a forty-thousand-strong army of occupation. Ever since the civil war of the 1970’s, their methods had been simple, effective, and ruthless. Whenever a faction became too powerful, the Syrians would ally with the faction’s enemies and crush it. These alliances could shift with dizzying speed; friends would become enemies and then make friends again over the course of a week or two.

The Syrians currently had close links with Iran, whom they’d backed in the 1980’s war with Iraq. And the Iranians were the founders, backers, and directors of the Lebanese Shiite Moslem Hezbollah, or Party of God, perpetrators of the Marine barracks bombing in Beirut, kidnappers of numerous Westerners in the 1980’s.

Though Syria liked to protest to the world that the religious fanatics of Hezbollah were uncontrollable, their arms shipments and Revolutionary Guard advisors from Iran had to come into Lebanon through the Damascus airport. This gave Syria notification and veto rights over Hezbollah operations. And Syria used Hezbollah to keep up military pressure on the Israeli Army in southern Lebanon, through car bombs and ambushes. Conveniently, this meshed well with Hezbollah’s stated goal of killing as many Jews as possible.

“Okay,” said Murdock, hunched over his map. “Fork coming up. Right is the dirt road to Ain Bourdai, left is to the Roman ruins. We’re going straight.”

“We should be hitting a checkpoint pretty damn soon too,” said Razor.

As they approached the outskirts of Baalbek, the checkerboard fields changed to tiny villages of low-slung stone buildings, thickets of roadside trees, and the large murals that were the Lebanese equivalent of billboards.

The first one they saw proclaimed, in English:
Hezbollah welcomes you by his pioneer values
.

It provoked some general snickering inside the car.

“Remember that intel report?” said Murdock. “The one about Hezbollah trying to persuade tour groups to come and visit the Roman ruins west of town?”

“The temples used to be a big tourist attraction,” said Razor. Then: “Check this out.”

The next mural was a crude representation of fists punching through American and British flags, and demanded:
Israel must be eliminated
.

“I think the tourism committee needs to sit down and take a meeting with the hate committee and the translation committee,” said Razor.

“Come visit Baalbek,” said Murdock. “We’ll throw you in a cellar and chain you to the wall. You’ll never want to leave.”

“The whole family will love it!” Razor exclaimed. “It’s really too bad their marketing campaign is going to be ruined in about an hour.”

They both chuckled. It was good to release some of the tension.

“Checkpoint ahead,” Razor said calmly.

Murdock shifted the Kalashnikov in his lap, and keyed his radio. “This is One, checkpoint three-hundred meters.”

“Two, roger,” Doc Ellsworth responded from the Mercedes behind them.

“Three, roger,” said Magic Brown from the second limo.

“Four, roger,” replied Ed DeWitt from the Shorlands bringing up the rear.

The transmissions were encrypted, so anyone who might be listening to a scanner was just picking up hums, clicks, hisses, and static.

The rain and the wipers beat against the windshield. The headlights fell upon a concrete shack, and a few figures, attracted by the light, began to emerge from it. Murdock could make out the familiar silhouette of the Kalashnikov in several hands. One of the figures balanced on his shoulder what looked like a piece of pipe with a cone on one end. An RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher, an antitank weapon with enough penetration to punch right through the Shorlands steel armor and probably continue right out the other side.

“No hesitation,” said Murdock. “We’re going right through, one way or the other.”

“Drop the armored visors over the windshield?” Razor asked.

“No,” said Murdock. “We’re just driving along, we’re not
concerned.” He made sure all the external lights were on, and that the large Syrian flag flapping from the aerial hadn’t fallen off. It was still there. A glance in the rearview mirror showed him that the limos had their flashing lights on.

They approached the checkpoint at a bold forty miles per hour, don’t-screw-with-me speed. As they got closer Murdock could see the figures move more urgently and start to bring their weapons up.

0223 hours

Bekaa Valley

“The lieutenant’s going too fucking fast,” Jaybird said to Doc Ellsworth.

“So?” Doc replied calmly. “It’s not like we can do anything about it, so why sweat it?”

Jaybird cocked the big Russian. PKM machine gun lying across his lap and slid the barrel into the door gun port of the Mercedes. “I only see one RPG. When the lieutenant and Razor catch that rocket, try to go around them so they screen us from the checkpoint. I’ll hose ’em down, and if we’re lucky we’ll all get through before they get the launcher reloaded.”

“Hey,” Doc said sharply, “enough of the bad karma, all right? Those motherfuckers pick up any negative energy from this car and I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Okay, okay,” Jaybird relented. “I’ll start thinking positively, I swear.” Nothing else you could do, he thought, if the nuttiest one around was your medical corpsman. They should never have let Doc near California; he was way too cosmic to begin with.

Pleased, Doc smiled. “Good. Now put that weapon back on safe and shoot some warm and fuzzy thoughts at those ragheaded bastards.”

0224 hours

Bekaa Valley

As they sped closer to the checkpoint, the silhouetted figures slowly changed into men. Murdock saw the rifles ready on
their shoulders, the RPG gunner tracking them through his sight. They were about twenty yards away now. Murdock reached down and flicked the siren switch, just one quick arrogant blast.

They passed through the checkpoint, and Murdock waited for the rocket’s impact. He looked again in the rearview mirror. Everyone was talking with their hands, gesturing wildly. He could almost hear them yelling at each other as the limos passed. Then the armored car. They were all through.

In retrospect, at least, it was clear that the psychology was perfect. Now matter how suspicious, paranoid, or dedicated the men at the checkpoint had been, they were much like the highway patrolmen watching the car of the governor’s wife weaving down the road late at night. They knew they ought to do their job, but they also know just how sorry they could end up being.

“We’re in,” said Razor. “The Lebanese might fuck with each other, but no one fucks with the Syrians. And even the Syrians don’t fuck with Syrian big shots.”

“Let’s get a move on anyway,” said Murdock. “Before someone picks up the phone and calls down the line to see if any visitors are expected.”

They sped through two more checkpoints, the men manning them exhibiting the same indecision. Then they were inside Baalbek. It was a town of a little more than sixteen thousand people. Green banners hung from houses. A huge mural of a woman in a full-body
chador
exhorted the ladies of the town to maintain Islamic modesty in their dress. If they knew what was good for them, Murdock thought. Iranian flags flew in the streets. Around Baalbek lay the remains of the fallen empires. The Phoenicians; the Romans, who had called Baalbek Heliopolis, the city of the sun; the Crusaders, whose forts littered the landscape; and in the 20th century the French. Now the Syrians, and Iranians far from home spreading a Revolution
that hadn’t managed to make it past a few poor towns in the Bekaa Valley.