Direct Action (28 page)

Razor held his fire. The Syrian exposed himself some more. Razor settled the laser dot on the Syrian’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

The Syrian must have unhooked himself from the rope. Razor could hear the body falling down the slope. Well, now they know we’re here, he thought.

It didn’t take the Syrians long to react. Murdock heard a series of hollow metallic pops on the other side of the dome. He forced himself not to duck for cover. He needed to watch to make sure the Syrians didn’t come around the side of the dome. But he did hunker down a little lower in the rocks.

Five or six grenades exploded loudly behind the SEALs. BG-15’s, Murdock thought. A Russian 40mm grenade launcher that mounted beneath the AK series of rifles much the same as the U.S. M203 attached to the M-16. Except the Russian grenade launcher was muzzle-loaded, lighter, and more compact and reliable.

The Syrians kept up a steady fire of grenades, but they were shooting blind and their range was too long; about a hundred yards past the SEALs.

Even so, Murdock was worried. Now they couldn’t leave
even if they wanted to. Falling back meant having to pass through the grenade barrage.

Razor was his usual psychic self. “I guess we’re stuck here for now,” he said over the net.

A Syrian poked his AKM around the edge of the dome and hosed off an unaimed burst. Murdock and Razor treated that with the silent contempt it deserved.

The barrel came around again, and there was another wild burst. Then the Syrian stuck his head around the corner. Razor’s aiming dot raced over. A single shot rang out, and the Syrian fell with a bullet in his head.

While Razor kept the Syrians pinned down, Murdock scanned the rest of the dome to forestall any nasty surprises.

He thought he saw the tiniest bit of movement near the very top of the dome. He kept his eyes on it and waited. The muzzle of a rifle barrel became visible. Murdock was impressed. It must have been a mother of a climb to get up there. The muzzle didn’t look like a machine gun. Probably a sniper rifle with a starlight scope. The Syrian snipers had a good reputation. They used the excellent Austrian Steyr instead of the cruder Russian Dragunov.

“Sniper on top of the dome,” Murdock reported into his microphone. “I’ve got him.”

“Roger,” Razor replied.

Murdock quickly weighed tossing a grenade. No, the way the dome was shaped the Syrian was going to have to lean farther out to get a shot. Murdock clicked on his laser light and placed the dot on the muzzle of the rifle above.

Laser sights were no panacea. If you failed to follow all the rules of good shooting, you could miss just as easily with a laser as a set of old-fashioned iron sights. Murdock had the AKM’s stock locked into his shoulder. When the scope atop the Syrian’s rifle appeared, he held his breath. When he could seé the top of a head, he began his trigger squeeze.

He fired, and the rifle clattered over the top of the dome. Murdock kept watch, but there was no more movement up there.

The
BG-15
gunners began to get the idea. They reduced their range with each barrage, and the grenades began falling closer to the SEALs.

“We’ve got to break contact,” Murdock radioed. “One grenade each over the dome, at my command, then leapfrog. You first.”

“Understood,” Razor replied.

Murdock dug an M75 frag out of his pocket. He pulled the pin and kept the spoon pressed against his palm.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Hang on,” said Razor. “I want to get rid of my PDM first.”

Murdock saw their last Pursuit Deterrent Munition leave Razor’s hand and drop in front of them. It would be in the Syrians’ path once they made it around the dome.

“Ready,” Razor said.

“Now!” Murdock released the spoon, let the fuse cook for two seconds, and lobbed the grenade high over the dome. He quickly picked up his AKM and got the laser dot back on the edge of the rock.

The grenades exploded. The BG-15’s fell silent, but Murdock knew it would not be for long. Razor ran by him, and kept going past the spot where the grenades had been impacting. Murdock squeezed off a few rounds at the edge of the dome to keep the Syrians back.

The BG-15’s began firing again, and the grenades began closing in on Murdock. He got out another M75.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

“Now.” Murdock lobbed the grenade over the dome.

When the grenades exploded he turned tail and ran. But the BG-15’s started up too soon. Murdock made a split-second decision not to take cover. If the grenades pinned him down he might never get out.

Murdock leaped from rock to rock. The grenades exploded all around him. Loud, very loud. A grenade went off right behind him and knocked him onto the ground.

1952 hours

North central Lebanese mountains

Murdock pitched face-first onto the rocks. He knew he was hurt; it felt like hot needles sticking into him all the way down his legs. But sometimes blind terror was a help, not a hindrance. Murdock pushed himself up off the ground. If his legs worked he was going to move.

His legs worked. He got on his feet, but his ears were ringing and he was disoriented; he didn’t know which way to run. Then he saw Razor’s muzzle flash. More grenades exploded around him. They spurred Murdock into a loping, limping run across the rocks toward Razor.

“Razor!” Murdock spoke into his microphone. He got no reply. He kept running, but it didn’t seem to him as if he was gaining much ground.

Suddenly rounds began cracking past him. Some Syrians must have finally made it around the dome.

Murdock threw himself over the rocks, almost into Razor Roselli’s lap. Considering the expression on Razor’s face, Murdock didn’t think he was in such good shape. Razor was yelling into his radio. Murdock couldn’t hear a thing in his own
earpiece, and the ringing in his ears didn’t allow him to hear Razor. In that kind of situation there was only one thing for a SEAL to do. Murdock leaned over the rocks and brought his weapon to bear. His NVG was smashed, so he ripped it off his face. The Russians had designed the AKM with handy luminous night dots on the front and rear sights. Murdock lined the dots up one on top of the other and began firing at the Syrian muzzle flashes in front of him.

Razor Roselli had to shout in his microphone to reach above the noise of the firefight. “Jaybird, you got anything going on down there?”

“Negative, Chief.”

“Then you and Magic get your asses up here. The lieutenant’s hit and we could use some help.”

“On the way,” said Jaybird.

“You need me?” Doc Ellsworth broke in.

“Negative, the lieutenant’s still shooting,” Razor said proudly. “I want you on the 117. You’re the primary radio now. Stand by to bring those birds in.”

“Roger,” Doc replied.

There was an explosion among the Syrians in front of the dome. Razor knew it had to be his PDM. The Syrian fire slackened, so Razor stepped up his rate of fire. Between shots he kept sneaking glances over at Murdock. The lieutenant’s face was bloody; it looked like blood down the back of his legs, but the game bastard was putting out rounds like he was back on the Chocolate Mountain range. Razor spoke to his Old Testament SEAL God like a chief—no sniveling. “Don’t let me lose this one, sir, he’s something special.”

“Razor!” came a shout from behind them.

“Over here!” Roselli bellowed. “Come up!”

Jaybird and Magic crawled the last stretch on their bellies. The Syrian fire was getting hot.

“Put some rounds out!” Razor shouted.

Jaybird and Magic paused only for a second to look over at
Murdock, who was doggedly changing magazines. Then they began firing.

Razor had one grenade left. He crawled over to Jaybird and rummaged in his pouches. He found two frags and, holy shit, a smoke grenade! Just what the doctor ordered.

“I could kiss you, you sweet little shit,” Razor shouted in Jaybird’s ear.

Jaybird gave Razor a funny look and continued firing.

Razor took another frag off Magic. “Okay,” he shouted over the sounds of the firing. “I’ll throw two frags. Jaybird, you leapfrog back with the lieutenant. Two more frags and Magic and I’ll go.”

Everyone nodded. Razor whipped the grenades at the dome.

Jaybird went to put Murdock in a wounded-man carry, but was surprised to hear, “Stop grabbing at me. I can walk, goddammit!”

“Sorry, sir,” was all Jaybird could think to say.

The grenades blew, and the incoming fire slowed again. Jaybird and Murdock set off. First they crawled, because they were still exposed to Syrian fire. Then they made the cover of a dip in the ground and got to their feet. Murdock’s limp was more pronounced.

They ran until they reached the next bit of higher ground where they could get a good field of fire. A rising mound of rocks. Once safely behind it, they began putting down cover fire for Razor and Magic.

Razor pitched out two more frags, then dropped the white smoke grenade right in front of them.

The grenades exploded, the white smoke billowed up, and Razor and Magic were off to the races.

Razor heard rounds cracking past him as he ran. Then, just before they reached the rock mound, a stream of green tracers passed right across the gap between him and Magic.

An impact took Magic in the hip and spun him right around in the air. He fell forward over the mound.

Jaybird was on him instantly.

“Where am I hit?” Magic demanded. Nothing hurt. That was all right.

“A round hit the magazine pouch on your hip, you lucky fuck!” Jaybird shouted.

“Wish that’d happened to me,” Murdock called from across the mound.

That reminded Razor Roselli that his lieutenant had been wounded, and now that they had a little cover and distance from the Syrians, he ought to be checking it out.

“Magic, if you ain’t hurt get off your ass,” Razor ordered. “You and Jaybird put out enough fire to keep ’em from charging us.” He scrambled over to Murdock. “Hold on a second, Boss, I want to look you over.”

Most of Murdock’s hearing had returned. His legs felt stiff, but the burning was less if he didn’t move. The pain wasn’t that bad, but he had a headache and was sick to his stomach. “I’m okay, Chief, don’t worry about it.”

“No problem, Boss, just roll over on your stomach for me.”

The lieutenant’s radio pack looked like Swiss cheese. Razor cut the straps off his shoulders. There weren’t any holes in the lieutenant’s back. Small grenade fragment wounds were peppered across his ass and down the backs to his legs all the way to his boots. The holes were all oozing blood, but there was no serious bleeding going on. “Roll over on your back, Boss.”

There were no wounds on Murdock’s front. He had some shrapnel cuts on the face and forehead, but nothing near the eyes. “Boss, you got about a million little holes in your ass and legs. I’d like to wrap them up, but we ain’t got enough battle dressings.”

“Oh, fuck it,” said Murdock. “Let ’em bleed.”

Razor held up the radio pack. “This took most of the blast.”

“I know you,” said Murdock. “You’re just trying to con me into carrying the radio from now on. You done?”

“You want a shot of morphine?”

“Hell, no. It doesn’t hurt that bad, and I don’t need to get any more slowed down.”

“Then I’m done,” said Razor.

Murdock felt the chest pocket of his jacket. “Would you believe I fell on my fucking Motorola? I was wondering why it wasn’t working.”

“I’ll make sure you know what’s going on,” said Razor.

2002 hours

North central Lebanese mountains

The Syrians kept up a heavy fire, but showed no signs of advancing. The four SEALs lay spread across the rock mound and wondered why they weren’t being treated to a classic infantry assault. The Syrians could certainly tell that there were only four rifles shooting at them. Granted, the ridgeline wasn’t wide enough to get more than ten to fifteen men on line abreast, but that ought to be more than enough to do the job.

The answer, Murdock thought, might be that in such a tight space it was easier for
him
to maneuver four men than the Syrian commander his much larger unit. Maybe the grenades they’d thrown over the dome had taken out some of the leadership.

Then the flashes and bangs started up again down in the valley. Murdock and Razor reached the identical conclusion at the exact same time.

“Run!” they shouted.

Each time they stopped, Murdock’s legs got stiffer. And whenever they moved, the burning needles began jabbing him again. He tried twisting his back in order to throw his legs
forward faster. Razor grabbed him under one armpit, Jaybird the other, in order to speed him along.

Murdock realized he’d forgotten to count. Damn.

The mortars landed, and the SEALs dove into the rocks.

The Syrians had fired without the benefit of a spotting round to try to catch their foes unaware. A good idea. The barrage of 120mm mortar bombs straddled the area where the SEALs had been. But the SEALs had had a good fifty-second head start to get out of the impact area. They had, but just barely.

The blasts were close enough to bounce them up and down on the ground like rubber balls. The shock waves pounded them, and the shrapnel screamed overhead and bounced off the rocks. The harsh high-explosive smoke made it hard to breathe.

“Don’t nobody fire a round!” Razor screamed. “They’ll adjust it onto us!”

None of the SEALs would have fired, even if they had been able to hear him over the din of the explosions.

In the midst of it all, Doc Ellsworth’s voice came over the radio net. “Everybody still there?”

Razor only heard him because the earphone was stuck in his ear and his hands were clasped over his ears. “We’re still here, Doc,” he screamed.

“Great,” said the Doc. “I’ve got the birds on the line.”

The helicopters had announced themselves first. It was etiquette, done so the SEALs wouldn’t have to keep calling on the radio and risk compromise while the helicopters were still out of range.