Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (27 page)

"That last burst did something to the airframe. We've lost some of our speed. It means the bastard could catch us before much longer. Let's hope he runs out of ammunition mighty soon."

"How far to the Jordanian border?"

"About thirty kilometers. One hundred kilometers across Jordan, and another hundred and fifty to Tyre. Most of it across Syria."

"Syria! You didn't say anything about Syria."

"It's the only way to cross into Lebanon from Jordan. About an hour’s flying time to our destination."

He didn't reply. All they could do was wait and hope. And then Goldstein shouted across to him.

"The Apache, it's turning away. Wow, they must have run out of fuel."

Zaki nodded. "That's what I was hoping for, but I didn't want to build up anyone's hopes."

Talley grinned. "We all thought we were goners. You did damn well, my friend."

"We're not there yet. We're running low on gas. It's touch and go."

They flew on, and soon they were looking down at the parched desert of Jordan. Their ride across that country was uneventful, and after a half hour, the pilot informed them they were entering Syrian airspace. They flew on, and every man who could get to the window watched the plume of vapor stream out of the port wing. They crossed Syria without incident, too low to attract the attention of the air defenses. And the troops on the ground had plenty on their plates with the civil war. Then they crossed the last border, and Zaki announced they were back inside Lebanese airspace.

The Lebanese pilot sounded relaxed. He was home. And Talley was once again hot on the trail of his quarry.

Hang in there, Nava. We're coming. Soon.

"How long to reach Tyre?" he asked the pilot.

At first, he seemed reluctant to reply. He checked and rechecked the gages, and wrote down some calculations. Then he repeated it.

"It's the fuel leak. I don't know if we can make it. We're a hundred kilometers from Tyre, and according to my figures, we'll run out of fuel in another sixty. I'm sorry."

"What can we do?"

Zaki's face was grave. "I honestly don't know. Since we left the gunship behind, I've done everything to conserve fuel, but there's nothing more I can do. Not if we're going to get there in one piece. Now that we're over friendly territory, I'd normally climb higher to conserve fuel. The problem is there's a trade-off between the amount of fuel needed to get to any useful height, and the distance we have to travel."

"So there's nothing to gain?"

"Not necessarily. There's one other factor. If we climb, it would be possible, theoretically, to keep flying until we run out of fuel. We'd use every ounce of fuel in the tanks, but because we have sufficient height, we'd be able to fly further on a descending glide slope, which would give us more range. The downside is that sooner or later, we do have to land. With an overloaded aircraft like this one, there's only one way to come down. It's what they call a crash landing."

Talley didn't even need to think about it. First of all, he'd relinquished command to Guy, so it wasn't his decision to make. Crash landing a cargo aircraft full of troops was going too far.

"Do it." The voice was firm.

He whipped around. Guy was right behind him.

"You know the risks?"

"We haven't come this far, to fail when we've almost reached the target. Besides," he smiled, "this man is a great pilot. I've been watching him. If anyone can do it, he can."

Talley turned to see what Zaki's reaction would be. The Lebanese had straightened in his seat, and it was clear that Guy's comment had the right effect. He turned around to them.

"Don't worry. I'll do everything I can to get us and aircraft down intact."

He turned back to the controls and eased back on the stick. The nose of the de Havilland tilted upward, and they started to climb, using up the last of their fuel in a desperate effort to reach Tyre. At ten thousand feet, he leveled off.

"This is as high as I can go. Now it's all in the hands of the gods, and the amount of fuel we have left in the tanks."

They were forty kilometers short of Tyre when the port engine started to misfire, running low on fuel. Zaki switched off, and they ran on for a little longer on the single starboard engine. After a few minutes, it coughed and misfired, and he switched it off. Everything inside the aircraft went quiet. There was only the wind noise as the heavy aircraft became a glider and flew on a gentle slope, descending in the direction of Tyre.

"How far?" Talley asked him after they’d been gliding for several minutes.

"Twenty kilometers; give or take."

"Can we do it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. You shouldn't worry about getting there. It's hitting the ground that's the real problem."

They glided on, and with each passing kilometer, the ground came closer; small villages, olive groves, oranges, lemons, and then open stretches of scrubland and desert.

"Ten kilometers," he announced.

They weren't going to make it. That was obvious. The ground was less than two kilometers below, and they were sinking at an alarming rate. Five kilometers outside of the port city, the pilot spotted a road that ran straight as a die into the town, and he began to follow it.

"Three kilometers."

They were only five hundred meters above the dusty tarmac, and the only question now was how far short they'd be of the city?

"Two kilometers."

They could see the tall dock cranes in the distance. But at one hundred meters above the ground, it was rising to meet them too fast. They flew over a truck stop with several small vans and larger semi-trailers parked outside.

"One kilometer. This is as far as we go. Stand by for a crash landing. I'm going to try and land on the tarmac. If I can keep the aircraft rolling forward, it'll lessen the impact."

They hit. As landings went, it was terrible. The aircraft smacked onto the ground and then leapt back up into the air on the rebound. They hit again and rebounded again, and gradually the aircraft neared the tarmac. They were still flying at an alarming speed, and the force of the rebounds had damaged the undercarriage struts. When they hit the road again, it was for the last time. The aircraft at first seemed level, and Talley was about to congratulate the pilot that he'd done it. But there was a loud 'crack' from underneath, and they sank lower, until the underbelly of the fuselage was scraping along. The aircraft started to turn and then spun several times, leaving the road and racing toward a clump of olive trees.

Zaki shouted again, but no one heard what he said. They braced themselves, and then they were in the middle of the trees. The plane smashed through the first few branches, demolishing the plantation as effectively as if they were driving a bulldozer. The starboard wing sheared off, and the aircraft spun to the left. Then the port wing hit an obstacle, and the entire right side of the aircraft reared up, and for a few seconds it seemed as if they were going over. Finally, the momentum ceased, and the fuselage crashed back down. They stopped, and there was silence.

"You'll have to find another way to get into the city," Zaki pronounced solemnly.

They were laughing and cheering with relief. Guy got the cargo doors open, and they streamed out onto the ground.

"That was incredible," Talley said to Zaki, "When we get out of this, I'll make sure you get recognition for what you just did. Your name should be up there with the greats of aviation."

He was pleased but managed to shrug depreciatingly. "It was nothing. I was just lucky. That's all."

"It was more than luck," Goldstein insisted, "As long as we live, we all owe you a debt of gratitude."

"The port is only one kilometer away," Guy shouted as they left the aircraft, "If we hurry, we can be there in a few minutes."

"Except the locals will call the cops when they see troops running through their town," Talley pointed out, "We need transport. Did you see that truck stop? It can't be more than a few hundred meters back."

"That's why they pay you more than me," Guy grinned, "Let's go find ourselves a ride. I'll take Heinrich to help out. The rest of you stay here."

He called the German over, and Buchmann growled about looking after his girl. It wasn't just any girl. She was 'his' girl.

"We'll watch her until you get back," Rovere said cheerfully, "All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show thee me."

The German gave him a doubtful look, and then ran after Guy. Talley checked for any casualties. None of them seemed injured after the crash landing. He looked at Sumaiyah, who was uninjured; all but the damage she'd suffered to her face, long before. Once again, he was surprised and dismayed by what had been done to her.

"You weren't hurt during the landing?"

She shook her head. "Heinie took care of me. He used his body to cushion me when the plane hit."

Heinie?

"That's good to know."

Rovere had already set up a defensive perimeter, and there was nothing for him to do but wait.

What else would there be?
he thought bitterly.

If they got back, there'd be even less to do. He massaged his right arm and felt as if some feeling was coming back. That was good news. Even a few hours’ use of the arm would help when they attacked al Saif's yacht.

The roar of a diesel engine announced the return of Guy and Buchmann. A big delivery truck stopped on the edge of the olive grove, and they made their way through the trees and out to the road. Guy jumped down from the passenger seat, leaving the big German sitting next to a very angry looking driver. Guy gestured to him.

"He wasn't too keen on lending us his truck, so Heinrich persuaded him."

"I can see that."

They were running out of time, so boarded the truck fast for the final leg of their journey. Talley took over from Buchmann, so the big German could ride in back with Sumaiyah. He screwed the barrel of his pistol into the man's side.

"I don't know if you understand English, buddy. But if you know what's good for you, just drive us to the docks, real quick. Or I'll fill you full of holes and drive myself."

"I understand," the man grumbled.

He slammed the lever into gear and drove away at high speed, so fast that the truck rocked from side to side on the springs until he got control.

They reached the outskirts of the city in minutes and drove along dusty streets, past more decay and dereliction; men sitting in cafes, drinking and talking. Women shrouded in robes from head to foot, carrying out a variety of tasks. One cop in a crumpled uniform looked up briefly from his slumber, then ignored them. The driver headed straight for the port area and pulled up next to the wharf.

"We are at the docks. Would you please get out of my truck?"

"Not yet. Guy, we need to get as close to al Saif's yacht as possible."

"Al Saif!" the driver exclaimed, "His yacht is over on the far side of the port. I assume we are talking about the same man. The Saudi billionaire."

"That's him. Take us there."

He jammed his foot on the gas, and the vehicle leapt forward. As he drove, he spoke to them, and this time his anger dripped with contempt.

"You don't know what you're doing, tangling with Sheikh Malik al Saif. You know he has close links with Hezbollah, and their fighters guard his vessel? They will send you back where you came from, in coffins."

He spat out of the window in satisfaction.

Talley and Guy exchanged smiles.

"We're terrified," Guy replied, "I take it he has plenty of men working for him. Guard, fighters, that kind of thing."

"You won't even reach the dock where he keeps his yacht. There is a post permanently manned by ten of his guards to stop anyone approaching. In addition, the Hezbollah barracks is nearby. The moment the guards on the dock sound the alarm, they will rush out to slaughter you. The best thing for you is get out now and go home."

"Keep driving," Guy told him.

When they were only three hundred meters away, they could see that the stone quay stretched out into the harbor. There was only one vessel tied up, and enormous yacht that could only belong to a Saudi billionaire, or a Russian oligarch. There was nothing to choose between them. Their means of acquiring their wealth were broadly similar. The guard post was exactly where he'd said it would be, positioned to prevent anyone from entering the quay without permission. Al Saif was taking no chances, after the debacle at his desert palace. They'd reinforced the guard.

They could see four men, each equipped with RPG7s, as well as two machine gun posts protected by sandbags. The approach to the barrier was littered with stingers, spiked strips laid across the road, designed to shred the tires of any vehicle that crossed them. Obviously, the guards would remove the strips when an authorized vehicle approached. For anyone else, they would hit them with the machine guns and rocket fire.

The Hezbollah guards eyed the truck carefully, their curiosity aroused by the unexpected arrival. The truck had no valid reason to be on the dock at that particular time, so their interest was no surprise. But it meant they were on high alert. An attack would be hard and bloody.