Under Siege (28 page)

“Too damn much cover in there,” Prescott said. He dropped to the ground, watching the darkness ahead. Lots of trees and some brush. The terr leaned round a tree and fired six rounds at the dark blobs of his pursuers.

Prescott yelped in surprise and returned fire. He saw the shape jolt from behind the tree and crash into the brush.

“Damn close,” he said. He looked over at Doyle. “Hey, man, you okay?”

“No, caught one. Right shoulder. Broke it I think. Can’t move my arm.”

Prescott rolled over and checked the wound in the half light. Blood all over the place. Nothing he could do. He hit his Motorola. “Doyle is hit, we need a medic in the north end of this little park.”

“Roger that, Prescott,” DeWitt said. “We’re coming up on the park now. I’ll patch him up.”

“Hang in there Doyle, DeWitt is coming. I’m after this sombitch.”

Prescott ran to the edge of the heavy growth and listened. He could hear someone crashing through brush ahead. He ran forward, stopped, and listened again. He changed directions, then stopped again. No sound. The runner had stopped. Now all Prescott had to do was find him.

In the brush ahead, Ahmed Badri stifled a groan. His left arm hung uselessly at his side. He’d been hit with two rounds, one in and out, the next one into his shoulder joint somewhere and it was killing him. The pain came in waves and wouldn’t stop. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and lifted the submachine gun. He didn’t know what kind it was. He’d jerked it out of Fathi’s guard’s hands when the shooting began downstairs. He’d killed the guard with two good butt strokes, then got out the window and down the roof and ran. Who were these guys chasing him? They had to be U.S. military. They were good. Flash-bang grenades. He’d heard about them but never used any.

He’d have to get some.

The damn money was gone. First Fathi had found it in the trunk of the car and then the attack. At least the gunfire downstairs had kept the guard from killing him. Now all he
had to do was keep running. He had put down one of the chasers behind him. He heard the talk and the groaning. One to go. How could he kill the man quickly and then find some friends in town who could help him? He heard the stalker coming after him. Then the sounds stopped. Smart. Watch and wait. He could play that game, too.

He tried to stop the bleeding from his shoulder, but he had no bandages. When he tried to tear his shirt to make strips, the fabric wouldn’t give. He rubbed his face with his hand and realized too late that it was smeared with blood. Where in hell had he gone wrong? Everything had seemed to be going his way. Now there would be no ten million, which he had once had right in the palm of his hand. He should have faded away right then and called it quits. He got greedy. He was afraid that he might, but with such a valuable hostage, who wouldn’t want a little bit more? They would have paid, he was sure, if he had held out the twenty-four hours.

He looked at the weapon. He wasn’t sure how many rounds he had left. It held thirty. How many had he fired? He should have brought a second magazine with him. But that was a grab-and-run time. He heard the stalker move closer but had no clue where he was. Just a general direction. The cat-and-mouse game continued. He would not move a muscle until he saw the American plainly for a good shot. He had to make every round count now. He moved the selector lever to single shot, rested the weapon on his bent-up knees, and waited with his finger on the trigger.

It had been a good run. He had won time and time again. Why hadn’t he taken the ten million and got lost in the wilderness somewhere? He could surface later in Rio de Janeiro, or the south of France, or even Las Vegas. Too damn late now. His arm pounded again with pain and he felt his vision flutter for just a moment.

No, no, he would not pass out. He wouldn’t make it easy
for them. No, he would kill this one and get away. Find a doctor who would help him. He still had a few thousand dollars in his money belt. The fools had forgotten to check him for that after finding all the U.S. dollars in the car. Grenades and automatic weapons: that must have been U.S. military. One of the Special Forces groups that was so damn efficient.

Not efficient enough. He had escaped. Now all he had to do was kill this one last pursuer and he would be ready to find a doctor. Just one to go.

His eyes widened, his nerves twanged and surged as he sensed someone near. In the thick brush to the left? He squinted to see better, but he could detect no motion of the brush, could hear nothing. He was aware that his heart had surged—beating, wildly. Probably pumping more blood out of his shoulder. He could feel the warm red stuff running down his arm.

There. To the right?

No, nothing there.

He felt a wave of dizziness, then it passed. He wasn’t that badly shot. He’d been hit lots worse than this in the war. What the hell was happening?

Then he couldn’t help but move. A groan seeped out of his tight lips and he shifted his knees down and let go of the weapon to shift his useless arm more in front of him. His fingers flexed involuntarily, as if saying that they couldn’t help him.

The sudden blast of a shot came at the same time a round hit the submachine gun resting on his legs and blasted it three feet away from him. He rolled and dove to the left, away from the sound. Another round clipped him in the leg but inflicted no big damage. He found a log, dropped behind it, and panted. His left arm throbbed and dragged in the dirt as he dove.

He had lost the weapon. He had no revolver or pistol. Not even a knife.

Enough. He was a soldier. He wouldn’t die groveling in the dirt of some backward African country. He would face his tormentor. Yes, that was the way to go out. Not like some sniveling coward. Like a man. Like a soldier. He pushed up with his right arm to his knees, then stood slowly.

“Come and get me, you dirty American,” he bellowed. He saw brush move ahead and slightly to the left.

Badri ran straight at where he knew the American must be. It was time. He had run out the clock. The game was over. His charge was slow and ponderous, but went forward. He had lost a lot of blood, and his body showed it. He stumbled once, and then caught himself. His left arm dangled at his side.

From six feet away, the MP-5 stuttered out twelve rounds. Six of them drove deeply into Ahmed Badri’s chest stopping his forward motion. He hung there for a moment as if trying to decide what to do. Then he sank to his knees and fell forward on his face, never to move again.

Derek Prescott lowered the MP-5 and felt sweat run down his forehead. He stood from where he had been behind a foot-thick tree and went forward cautiously. He turned the body over with his boot and stared at the Arab face. It had to be Badri. He noted the area, and walked back to the edge of the park. There he called on the Motorola and asked Gardner to come and confirm the kill. After making the call he sat down on the curb and vomited.

Stroh drove the First Lady back to their hotel. He knew there were no official U.S. diplomats in Durban. He put the First Lady in a suite where she could have a shower or a bath and order some new clothes. Then he set up the SATCOM.

“Yeah, that’s right. We have Mrs. Hardesty safe and well and delighted to be free. Right now she’s probably
taking a bath in her suite. The ambassador is in town, but I don’t know where. I’m sure he’ll find us. Badri is dead. Confirmed by two SEALs. The local police will take over and we’re out of it. We took down an al Qaeda cell in the process. Badri was holed up there but we got a tip.”

“Outstanding,” the CIA voice that Stroh didn’t recognize said. “I’ll tell the president at once, and the director. They said to call them at any time. Do you have any casualties?”

“Two wounded. We’ll get some local hospital help on that. Nobody dead. The men will take a breather for the rest of the night and tomorrow. Then I’ll arrange transportation. We still have the biz jet here on standby.”

“Right, let me get off here and make some calls. If we have any further instructions, we’ll call. Oh, what about the ten million?”

“We have most of it. Might be ten or twenty thousand missing that Badri spent or lost. The rest of it is in-hand.”

“Bring it back with you on the plane. Good work. I’m out of here.”

Stroh hung up the mike but left the set on RECEIVE. He gathered up Murdock and Doyle and headed to a hospital he had seen on their travels. It had an emergency room. He phoned the chief of police to send a detective there to explain that they were special deputies of the force and the bullet wounds were okay to treat.

An hour later Murdock came out with a slight limp and a bandage on his right thigh covering the entry and exit wounds. Doyle was in worse shape. They operated to take out bullet fragments. Two rounds had hit him and one had broken a shoulder bone. It would be set in the morning after they were sure they had taken out all of the chunks of lead.

Doyle was angry when they told him. “What the hell you mean a cast? Just bandage it up so I can get back to work.”

“You’re on the shelf for at least two months, Doyle,” Murdock told him. “More likely three. You’ll be going
back to the States and into Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego as soon as we can get you there.”

“So, you’re washing me out of the team?”

“Absolutely not. We’ll get in a temporary to replace you, but the slot is yours just as soon as you can convince the medics that you’re fit for SEAL duty.”

Doyle’s frown faded. “Like a three-month liberty?”

“Something like that. Pretty nurses over there.”

Doyle grinned. “Yeah. Okay. I guess I can take that for a while. Just remember to hold my slot.”

“I just got you broken in, Doyle,” DeWitt said. “You do good work, so you’re a keeper. Now take it easy. We’ll see you soon in one of those breezy hospital gowns.”

By the time they got back to the hotel, the place was buzzing. The press had found out about the First Lady being recovered and three TV transmitter trucks and about thirty reporters immediately crowded around Stroh, who seemed to be enjoying it.

“Nothing much tonight. Yes, the wife of the president of the United States, Mrs. Eleanor Hardesty, was rescued tonight from an al Qaeda cell here in Durban. Yes, there was a gun battle and several of the terrorists were killed. Your police spokesman can fill you in on that.

“The First Lady will hold a short press conference tomorrow morning. Right now she’s enjoying her privacy, and a long, hot bath. We’ll see you in the morning, about ten
A.M.
”

He ignored shouted questions and hurried into the hotel. Uniformed police guards at the door held up Murdock and DeWitt for a moment until Stroh vouched for them.

In their room, Stroh was ecstatic.

“Yes, we did it, and the First Lady has no more worries.”

“And she still has both hands,” Murdock said.

“What about her little finger?” Gardner asked.

“Nothing we can do about that. It’s been off too long to
reattach. The police doctor is going to come in about a half hour to treat her finger and make sure there’s no infection. She’ll be showing off a nice new bandage to the TV cameras in the morning. After her bath, she wants to talk to her husband. I’m trying to arrange it.”

The SATCOM came on.

“Stroh, are you still receiving? This is the director.”

“Right, ready when you are.”

“Good. Hate to step on your moment of glory here, but the CNO and our boss and the president have a new mission for First Platoon. You are to get them organized and use the biz jet to fly them up to Qatar, our military enclave on the Persian Gulf. Don’t worry about equipment. They can get anything they need for the mission there. As for the First Lady, Air Force Two has been repaired and refitted and has remained at the airport in North Namibia. It will fly into Durban in a day or two, as soon as all arrangements can be made. A skeleton staff has remained with the plane, including four of the First Lady’s people, so she will be well taken care of.

“With that in mind, it might be good for you, Stroh, to go with the SEALs. Oh, and send the ten million back with the First Lady.”

“I can arrange that, Mr. Director. Can we leave sometime tomorrow afternoon?”

“That would be good. They said they want you up there as soon as possible.”

“We’ll do it. The First Lady said she wanted to talk to the president. Is he available?”

“I’m sure he is. Let me call you back.”

Stroh hung up the mike and looked at Murdock.

“Get your traveling clothes on, big guy; we’re heading to a serious international hot spot. The war up there is about over, but the president has another little job he wants us to take care of.”

“Glad for that ‘us’ Stroh. I’ve got a parachute and an
MP-5 with your name written all over them. Oh. you’ll see that Doyle gets to fly back to the States in the First Lady’s big plane?”

“I’m sure that will work out.”

“Good. Let me go tell the guys to get some sleep. Looks like we’re going to need it quicker than we expected.”

Al-Udeid Air Base, Qatar

Recent consolidations of U.S. military power in the gulf region had turned this air base some twenty miles from the capital city of Doha into the most formidable collection of military power anywhere outside the U.S. Murdock knew this, but coming in on the business jet into the giant base with its 15,000-foot-long hard runway made him feel extremely small.

The plane landed and taxied to a special hangar.

“Look at the size of this place,” DeWitt said. “Bet they didn’t have to tear down a single house to make it. We’re in the middle of a humongous desert out here.”

“Didn’t have to go far to get sand for the concrete,” Jaybird said.

A Jeep with a red flag on it met them and led them to another hangar.

“That red flag Jeep is usually for generals and admirals,” Don Stroh said. “You guys are getting the fast red carpet treatment.”

They had changed into their cammies in Durban. Their combat vests and weapons were carefully stowed under seats and in the small cargo area. The ship stopped and the crew chief let down the stairs. Stroh was the first out the door. He held the others up as he talked to a bird colonel who met them. A moment later a small bus rolled up and Stroh motioned for the men to come down the steps.