Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (23 page)

“Two choppers,” Justin shouted. “Nine o’clock.”

Yuliya was looking through her binoculars. “Yemeni government troops?”

“Don’t know. It could be Saudis. Hide, hide, quick,” he shouted.

He gunned the engine. The truck roared and launched forward. Guns and ammunitions clattered in the back. He drove close to the hill, then took a sharp right turn, following a dry riverbed leading him downward. His truck tires slid over loose sand, and he fought with the steering wheel to stay on the path. Shrubs and trees started to rise up on both sides, but not enough to hide the truck from the nearing helicopters.

The path curved, grew wider, then narrowed again and abruptly turned steep. Justin flattened the gas pedal, the truck swinging over the sandy riverbed. The truck growled as it climbed up the hill until a wide vista of the valley opened up to his left. The terrorist camp was visible at the far end of the valley. The tribesmen convoy was snaking downhill at the opposite end of his view.

He drove his truck under a few trees, the only natural cover in that area. The helicopters were much closer. Their heavy thunder filled the air. The dots had grown into the bug-like silhouettes of Apache gunships. Justin was thinking hard trying to remember if Yemen Air Force had such combat helicopters in their arsenal. He knew Saudis did. But if they are Saudis, they’re early.
Very early.

His radio crackled. “Apaches,” Yuliya shouted. “They’re Apaches.”

“Affirmative.”

“What are they doing here?”

Before Justin could answer her question, the Apaches split. One banked to the left, toward the camp. The other one dove in over the convoy.

Justin cursed. “They’re attacking the camp. And the convoy. Set up position.”

He got out of his truck. The machine gun was mounted on a tripod, which was latched to the truck bed. Justin struggled with the latches and finally removed the machine gun. He swung its bullet belts around his neck and grabbed an ammunition box.

Yuliya had parked her truck thirty yards away and was unloading RPGs. She had ditched her niqab, switching back to her desert camouflage fatigues. Daniel had thrown a machine gun over his shoulders and was limping toward the hillside.

“This way,” Justin called at them. “Down here.”

He set up positions behind some thorn bushes. He placed the machine gun on its bipod and straightened out its belts. His eyes found the Apache swooping down over the camp. Yuliya and Daniel had just dropped next to him when the helicopter fired a missile at the terrorist camp. A spark at the left wing and a small trail of smoke. Two seconds later, the missile tore through the front gate of the camp. The ear-splitting explosion followed as a curtain of dust began to rise up. A second missile smashed into the turret by the gate, reducing it to a pile of rubble.

“What the hell?” Yuliya asked.

“Yeah, they’re having all the fun,” Justin replied.

Another explosion came from the other side of the valley. The second Apache blasted the convoy. Flames engulfed the leading truck. The Apache’s 30mm chain gun tore the second and the last two SUVs to shreds. Tribesmen were scrambling to safety, away from the kill zone.

Yuliya blurted, “Who the hell are these troops?”

“I wish I had the answer.”

The first Apache veered to the left over the camp. A couple of RPG rounds whooshed past its tail, missing it by a few feet. Justin moved his binoculars down to the camp. Some of the dust had cleared off. Men in white and gray robes were running around, inside the camp. Another RPG flew in the air, the wild shot landing in the hills, a mile off its target. A group of four or five people rushed toward the third and the fourth turrets at the back of the camp. Other fighters seemed to be responding with light weapons fire from the roofs of the two houses.

Two RPGs screamed toward the first Apache. Its pilot skillfully dipped its nose, dropping a few dozen feet, dodging the warheads. In return, it fired a barrage of small missiles. Most of them slammed into the camp walls. One or two hit the first house.

“The chopper’s not hitting the warehouse,” Justin said.

“Perhaps they know about the missiles inside,” replied Daniel.

Yuliya shook her head. “No, they’re trying to destroy the terrorists’ defenses. No resistance is coming from the warehouse.”

Gunfire echoed from the direction of the convoy. The helicopter was still pouring down a true inferno. A missile struck one of the trucks, pulverizing it in an instant. A mushrooming dust cloud hid it from Justin’s view. He was sure there would be no survivors, if anyone was still inside the truck.

Another explosion blew up a section of the hillside. More missiles hammered the convoy. Clouds of smoke and dust enveloped the area around it. Then the helicopter turned around and disappeared behind the hill.

“Where did it go?” asked Daniel.

“He’ll come back,” Yuliya said.

The first Apache completed a full circle over the camp. RPGs exploded below, but the Apache was well beyond their range. Fighters inside the camp fired machine guns and other weapons as well.

Justin shook his head. “It’s useless. The choppers are too far away.”

Daniel nodded. “Unless they put those birds down, they’ll all be dead.”

“Yes, and we can’t let that happen.” He got up to a crouching position.

“What are you doing?” asked Yuliya.

“You want Hamidi. I want Al-Khaiwani. They’re both there.” He pointed to the camp. “But they’re no use to us dead. At least not to me.”

Yuliya looked at the sky, searching for the Apaches. “The helos will cut you down before you get close enough.”

Justin shrugged. “They have more important targets keeping them busy. You’re in?”

A slight hesitation for a fragment of a second. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“Good. Daniel, you’ll watch our backs, especially if the choppers open fire on us.”

“Got it, sir, chief.”

Justin smiled. “Call me Justin.”

“I’ve got you covered, Justin.”

“Well, Yuliya, it’s our time. Let’s get our AKs and ammo. Lots of ammo.”

Chapter Sixteen

Twenty-five miles northeast of Sa’dah, Yemen

September 27, 4:40 p.m. local time

Carrie saw the Apaches pounding the camp and the convoy as their jeep climbed the dirt path carved around the top of a steep hill. They were approaching the terrorists’ stronghold from the east, the opposite road Justin had taken. They stopped for a moment to observe the firefight. Then Carrie, the driver, floored the engine, pushing the battered jeep to its limits.

“Call McClain,” she told Nathan, riding in the front passenger’s seat. “He needs to tell Mossad we’ve got people on the ground, friendlies.”

Nathan went for the satellite phone in the knapsack by his feet. “Do we know for sure Justin is out there, and those are Mossad’s choppers?”

Carrie gave him a sideways glance. Her first instinct was to shout at Nathan to follow his orders, but she realized he was just bringing a bit of logic to her emotional response of trying to save Justin at all costs. She took a deep breath and said, “The time and the place match McClain’s intel about a Mossad raid on the terrorist camp. Knowing Justin, I’m positive he’s advancing toward the camp right now, if he’s not already inside it.”

Nathan nodded, although his eyes showed he was still uncertain. His hand was holding the phone, but he had yet to press the buttons.

The jeep got too close to the edge of the road. Carrie stared at the fifty-foot sheer drop as she turned the steering wheel. She tapped her brakes, avoiding a few rocks scattered on the right side of the road. She said to Nathan, “Most people would see this attack as an obstacle; Justin sees it as an opportunity. The terrorists are engaging the helos, while Justin slips in undetected.”

“That’s if the Apaches don’t put him in their sights.”

“He’s counting on the choppers going after the camp and the convoy.”

Nathan began to form the number. “You think Mossad will call off their attack?”

“I don’t think so. But at least they won’t target him and us.”

“Us?” Nathan held the phone by his ear. “Our orders are to stop—”

“And that’s what we’re doing. We’re stopping Justin from getting killed. Or killing Mossad agents.”

“We can’t, we shouldn’t engage in this fight.”

Carrie felt her blood boil, but did not say the first thing that crossed her mind. Instead, she gunned the engine. A moment later, she said, “We didn’t come all the way here to sit and watch, did we?”

Nathan avoided her gaze. He said on the phone,“Yes, sir, it’s Smyth. We’ve got visuals on Mossad choppers.”

A moment of pause, then Nathan said, “Correct, sir. They’re attacking the terrorists’ camp. And a convoy of apparently local fighters. Yes, two Apaches.”

Another few seconds of Nathan listening and nodding. Then he passed the phone to Carrie. “McClain wants to speak with you.”

“Speakerphone,” she said.
I’ve got to convince McClain we can’t avoid this fight.

* * *

Running and crouching through the scrub at the bottom of the valley gave Justin another view of the battle. Closer. Harsher. Riskier.

During the first minutes they had not drawn the attention of the pilots or the insurgents. One stray RPG had exploded about two dozen yards away from him and Yuliya, but they had not been hit by any shrapnel. Stray bullets had also spared them so far.

The last few hundred yards were the most dangerous. They could not use the cover of the shrubs and trees, which grew scarcer the closer they got to the camp. The Apache pilots would notice their movements and most likely would consider them as reinforcements for insurgents.

Justin stopped under a small tree and behind a hedge of scraggly shrubs, the last before they got to the road. The main entrance to the camp was about three hundred yards away. Three hundred yards of open space, in plain view of all shooters.

He pointed to the area in front of the blown up gate and the breached wall. Thin dust lingered in the air, and silhouettes of people were visible in the distance, deep inside the camp. Some were firing at the Apaches.

Justin began to run bent at the waist, holding his AK in his right hand. Gunfire burst in front of him. He could not see who was shooting and if he was the target. No bullets zipped past him, so he continued sprinting straight ahead. A missile struck a few yards to his left, and a handful of dirt sprayed his face. He threw himself to the ground, but there was nowhere to hide. Bullets lifted sharp rocks and sand, striking closer and closer.

Justin rolled away, then climbed back to his feet and ran. More bullets struck in front of him. He stopped and dashed to the left, then changed direction to the right. Glancing upwards his eyes caught the Apache banking left and turning. Justin cursed as a heavy barrage of gunfire sent him diving to the ground.

His left arm landed on a sharp rock jutting out of the sand. He winced, glancing at his arm. Blood gushed from a deep cut. He rolled on his stomach and tried to flatten himself to the ground. The barrage continued, bullets screaming very close to his body. One bullet struck next to his AK. A second one bounced off the ground and singed his hair. He felt the wave and caught the smell of burning flesh.

An AK cracked right behind him.

“Justin, Justin, you’re OK?”

Yuliya.

He lifted up his head and looked skywards. The Apache was flying away over the hill.

Yuliya slipped next to him, checking his body for wounds.

“I got a cut on my arm, but I’m fine.”

They glanced at the first helicopter turning around. The second one also appeared in the distance.

“Wonderfuckingful,” Justin cursed. “Now it’s both of them.”

Three RPGs screamed toward the helicopters, splitting the sky with their gray streaks. They all missed their targets, but not by much. Loud reports of heavy machine gun fire came from the camp. The insurgents’ aim was improving. Their firepower was intensifying as the choppers drew nearer.

The Apaches responded by each firing a missile. Orange fireballs exploded at the south side wall and somewhere inside the camp.

“It’s our chance,” Justin said. “Run, run, run.”

They both sprang toward the camp, about fifty yards away. A missile exploded in front of them, pelting them with debris. It was followed by a second one further away. Justin stopped for a moment, then jumped forward. Bullets danced around his feet, as the helicopters flew overhead. He rolled on his back and raised his AK. He emptied his magazine in a long volley. Justin slammed in a fresh one and fired again, this time in short, calculated bursts. Unsure of whether his bullets struck the helicopters, he climbed to his feet and started to run again. Yuliya followed right behind.

The insurgents noticed their arrival when they were a few steps away from the entrance to the camp. Machine gun bullets drilled holes and ripped everything around them to shreds. Justin and Yuliya set their backs against the wall remains. At least they had somewhat of a cover.

“They think we’re with the choppers,” she said.

“And the pilots think we’re with the terrorists,” replied Justin.

The Apaches again swooped over the camp. Their appearance took some of the pressure away from Justin and Yuliya, as most insurgents turned their attention toward the larger threat. Still, sporadic shots came in their direction.

“We’ve got to sneak in now,” Justin said.

A series of missiles landed just inside the camp. As the dust veil enveloped the area, Justin sprayed a long barrage against the insurgents’ positions straight across from him, then climbed over the heap of debris. Once on the other side, he reloaded and fired again, providing a cover for Yuliya.

“Shit,” she cursed while dropping to his left.

Justin glanced at her bloodied leg. “Bullet?”

“In and out.” She cursed again.

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah, I can walk.”

Justin looked toward the closest house to his left, about fifty yards away. Two fighters were blasting a machine gun from the roof. Another man was firing his AK from one of the first-story windows. Three or four people were barricaded behind a couple of pickups by the doors.