The Templar Cross (18 page)

Holliday headed for the entrance to the tent. Before he could reach it, a man appeared in black combat BDUs, a black balaclava covering his face and a short-barreled MP5 machine gun in his hand. He had an automatic pistol in a quick-release holster on his right thigh, a gigantic combat knife in a Velcro sheath on his left leg and lightweight body armor on his chest. As he burst through the tent flap he raised the MP5. Holliday pretended it was the Army- Navy game and drop-kicked the commando between the legs.

The man screamed and staggered, the machine gun stitching a line of bullet holes across the camel-skin ceiling. Holliday kicked the commando a second time, just as hard, and the man toppled backward. Barely pausing, Holliday dropped with one leg bent, smashing the fallen man with his knee, crushing his nose. Holliday then reached down, swept the commando knife from its breakaway sheath and plunged it between the commando’s chin and the top edge of his body armor, bringing the serrated blade across both carotid arteries and the windpipe. Blood fountained, splashing the front of Holliday’s shirt. The commando made a sound like air being let out of a bicycle tire and died.

Rafi stared at the carnage, mouth gaping open, eyes wide. Holliday grabbed the MP5, then ripped open the quick-release holster on the dead man’s thigh. A brand-new Beretta M9, the military version of their standard 9mm automatic. He pulled back the slide and tossed it to Rafi. The young Israeli looked as though he had a poisonous snake in his hand.

“Point and shoot,” said Holliday. “Safety’s on the left. You know it’s on when you see the little red button, just like now. Flip it down and shoot anyone who looks at you wrong. Understand?”

Rafi nodded mutely.

There was a ripping sound behind them. Holliday and Rafi both turned. Like something out of an old Western film a blade appeared in the side of the tent and ripped downward. Unbidden, Rafi raised the big black automatic pistol and Holliday saw his thumb flip down the safety. A face appeared. Holliday expected to see another balaclava-wearing commando. Instead the face was that of Emil Abdul Tidyman, the traitorous smuggler.

“This way!” he ordered urgently. The knife ripped down to the base of the tent. “Come! Now! The camp is being attacked!”

“Why should we come with you?” Rafi asked, the gun still pointing straight at the man. From where he stood Holliday could see that Rafi’s grip on the weapon was firm and unwavering. The gun wasn’t shaking. Holliday smiled bleakly. The lesson had been learned. It seemed that Rafi had overcome his squeamishness.

“There are five big helicopters out there. More than a hundred heavily armed men.” Tidyman said. “Unless you come with me, you will die.”

“With you we’ll live?” Holliday asked.

“I know a way out of here,” said Tidyman.

“Why should we trust you?” Rafi asked.

“Because I’m the only chance you’ve got.”

Rafi turned and glanced quickly at Holliday, the weapon in his hand still immobile. Holliday gave him a quick nod. He knew Tidyman was right. With nowhere to go a hundred enemies was too many; they’d be slaughtered along with the rest of the Tuaregs. For a moment he considered who the attackers might be and then put the thought out of his mind. There would be time for that kind of analysis later. If they managed to survive, that is.

“Lead the way,” he said to Tidyman.

Rafi lowered the M9. Tidyman’s face withdrew from the floor-to-ceiling slit in the wall. Rafi and Holliday followed the Egyptian out into the cloaking darkness.

Tidyman was dressed in military attire, all black like the commandos but with a beret instead of a balaclava. He carried a holstered pistol but no other arms. Leading the way he crept between the hutlike tents, working his way toward the sheep and goat enclosure on the western side of the camp.

Behind them there were bursts of sporadic gunfire and the choked screams of dying men. Camels shrieked, panicking and tearing at their picket lines, unable to do anything more than stagger into each other with their hobbled legs. Fires sprang up as tracers burst against the tents and rifle grenades found their targets.

Holliday caught a flicker of movement on his left and turned. A figure rose up out of the darkness, an indigo-robed Tuareg—Elhadji. He was carrying a straight sword, four feet long with a simple wooden crosspiece and grip, the nicked blade glinting as it swept down in a deadly arc.

Holliday had a brief flashing memory of a black-turbaned Taliban officer wielding an immense curved pulwar in the ruins of a village just outside Kandahar years before; he did exactly what he’d done then: ducked. He rolled to one side, keeping low to avoid Elhadji’s backstroke, then came up on his knees, tearing the commando knife out of its sheath and sweeping it into the fluttering of the Tuareg’s robes, cutting through the fabric and slicing into the tendons at the back of his legs, crippling him. As Elhadji fell he managed to slide a lethal-looking dagger from his right sleeve, bringing it up toward Holliday’s stomach. Holliday reared back but he knew it was too late; the Tuareg was going to gut him.

A single shot rang out and Elhadji was thrown backward, the right side of his face disintegrating, his turban unraveling in a mess of blood, brains and hair. Holliday looked up. Rafi stood over him, one hand extended, the other holding the smoking pistol.

“Point and shoot, right?” the Israeli archaeologist said, grimacing.

“Point and shoot,” Holliday said, taking Rafi’s extended hand and pulling himself up.

“Come on!” Tidyman hissed.

They reached the sand rampart and struggled upward after Tidyman. Reaching the summit, Holliday looked back. Much of the camp was on fire now, and Holliday could see the silhouettes of the Tuaregs etched against the flames. Lines of tracers marked the attacking commando force, and from the spitting spiderweb of light Holliday could see that the attackers were herding the native force against the far eastern wall.

As Holliday watched he saw a new line of fire from the top of the far rampart. The firing came from at least a score of heavy weapons. It was an ambush; a squad had been lying in wait, catching the Tuaregs in a deadly cross fire.

Holliday turned again. They were in exactly the spot they’d been that morning, except now the area between the rampart and the almost invisible runway was blocked by five hulking helicopters in red and white livery. They were Augusta-Westland Merlins, as Holliday had thought. A Merlin variant had just been tested as a replacement for the president’s
Flight One
. Holliday knew they had just about the longest range of any medium-sized transport chopper on the market.

Tidyman crouched and Holliday followed suit, pulling Rafi down with him. Standing, they’d be perfect targets, silhouetted against the rising flames behind them.

“What now?” Holliday whispered to Tidyman.

“There,” said the Egyptian, pointing along the parapet. “Keep low.”

Tidyman began to run along the sand- pile wall, heading for the northeast corner of the structure. Holliday followed, keeping low as he’d been instructed, checking every few seconds to see if anyone left with the helicopters had seen them. Rafi brought up the rear. The only thing obstructing their run was the body of a Tuareg guard, his throat slit by one of the commandos. They stepped over his body and followed after Tidyman.

They reached the corner of the wall and the Egyptian pointed down to the ditch below them. Waiting on the other side of the dry moat was a Russian jeep, an open version of the old UAZ-469 Goat they’d purchased in Mersa Matruh. There was a big machine gun on a pivot mount in the rear. It looked a lot like the Libyan army vehicle they’d seen patrolling that afternoon, but much older.

“Can you work that?” Tidyman asked, pointing at the big machine gun, his whisper hoarse.

“Probably,” said Holliday, peering down. It looked like an American MP-40 but even bigger, probably a Soviet-era Russian Kord. But a machine gun was a machine gun, and the Russians had always had a knack for making their weapons simple, strong and easy to use. That’s why the AK- 47 was the Coca-Cola of automatic rifles.

“You’d better be able to shoot it,” warned the Egyptian. “Those helicopters are in our way and they’re sure to have left someone back to guard them.”

“Behind you!” Rafi yelled.

Holliday swiveled, bringing up the machine pistol he’d stripped off the dead commando in the tent. A commando was charging up the hill, another man right behind him. As Holliday fired the charging man looked up.

“Cazzo merda!”
the commando whispered, lifting his own weapon.

Holliday squeezed the trigger on the MP5 and blew the man back down the hill in a dead tumbling heap. The second man stopped in his tracks, bringing up his own machine pistol, and Holliday turned the weapon on him, firing until the clip was empty. Behind the dead man at the base of the wall a trio of commandos looked up.

“Go!” Holliday bellowed, turning again and throwing himself over the edge of the sloping sand wall as a hail of fire buzzed up from the squad below. He tumbled down the sand, losing his footing and rolling down toward the shallow ditch at the base of the rampart.

He reached the bottom with a heavy thump that knocked the wind out of him. As he climbed to his feet and clambered up the far side of the moat he felt a searing sting of heat as a bullet plucked at the sleeve of his shirt. More slugs twitched into the sand all around him as the commandos high above him tried to pick him off. He reached the truck, threw himself into the back and grabbed the pistol grip below the heavy machine-gun mechanism and swung the weapon around on its pivot.

As Tidyman started the truck and pulled away, Rafi beside him, Holliday dropped the firing lever, locking the belt feed in place, flipped off the safety and angled the gun upward. He checked that the belt feed was running smoothly down into the big ammunition box on the right-hand side of the heavy weapon, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

The heavy-barreled weapon came alive under his hands, jumping like a pounding jackhammer and sending out a pulsing rhythmic thump of huge .50-caliber shells that chewed up the crest of the sand rampart like paper through a shredder, instantly turning anyone still on the summit into so much raw meat.

The immediate threat removed, Holliday swiveled the big gun around on its mount and faced the helicopters as the truck roared across the stony plain toward the runway. The commandos had landed in a staggered formation that presented a curved line of defense blocking their way. The fat-bellied transports had sliding doors like a minivan and a rear loading ramp. They weren’t usually armed but there were three large windows on each side that could be used as positions for a Gatling Minigun or a .50 caliber like the Kord.

Holliday did a long traverse of the line of choppers moving left to right, aiming for center mass in the middle of the passenger compartments, starting at the cockpit end, firing in short bursts. Even from two hundred yards away Holliday could see the exploding impact of the shells, windshield Plexiglas shattering, metal torn apart, bits of fuselage and chunks of engine flying in all directions. Something flared brightly in one of the center helicopters and then a split second later a huge fireball erupted with an oxygen-eating
whump
of sound. Jet fuel for the big GE turbines.

In the driver’s seat of the truck, Tidyman jerked the wheel, veering away from the light cast by the exploding chopper. Holliday saw figures running in front of the blaze. Tidyman yelled a warning.

“RPG!”

One of the running figures had one of the familiar skinny launchers on his shoulder. An RPG-7, capable of stopping an M1 Abrams, not to mention a tin-can Goat. One round from a weapon like that and they’d be vaporized. Holliday swung left, traversing the gun, then twisted in the opposite direction, reverse-tracking and potshotting the running line of men, dropping them like puppets cut from their strings. The man with the RPG dropped along with the rest.

They were through, the line of helicopters behind them, the one in the middle blazing like a torch. At least two of the others had been badly damaged and probably more. Heavily armed or not, if the commando group was stranded without transport they were as good as dead; Qaddafi, father and son, weren’t known for their compassion. They’d take a flight of old MiG-23 Floggers out of mothballs and blow whatever commandos survived into eternity.

Tidyman pulled up beside the runway. The Skymaster Holliday had seen that morning was tied down under a Mylar awning beside a line of fifty-gallon drums with hand pumps. Both cockpit doors were wide open.

“Where’s the pilot?” Holliday called out as he dropped down from the rear of the truck. The cockpit of the push-pull twin-engined aircraft was empty. He flinched involuntarily as an explosion sounded behind them. He turned. The fire had spread; a second helicopter was burning now. The commandos had almost certainly expected a quick in and out with a minimum of casualties or damage and now it had all turned to crap.

“I’m the pilot,” said Tidyman, climbing out of the truck.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Rafi.

“I got my license in Canada when I was fifteen,” said Tidyman. “I was flying before I could drive a car.” The Egyptian went around to the pilot’s-side door and got in behind the little half wheel. Rafi and Holliday climbed in after him, Holliday taking the copilot’s chair.

Tidyman slammed his door shut and latched it, then started flipping switches. Holliday closed and latched the door on his side as well.

“Egypt had compulsory military service back then,” said Tidyman, continuing his explanation. “I spent two years flying Sadat around in one of these.”

Tidyman set the fuel mixture at Rich, the RPMs at High and held down the ignition switch. The engine coughed and died. He released the ignition and went through the procedures again. This time the engine caught. There was a sharp cracking sound from the tail section of the aircraft and then a second impact.