Al-Jihad by Stephen Coonts ch 5-1
FIVE Blowing up the fort was an impractical idea and always had been. When Julie Giraud first mentioned destroying the fort with the bad guys inside, back in Van Nuys, I had let her talk. I didn't think she had any idea how much explosives would be necessary to demolish a large stone structure, and she didn't. When I finally asked her how much C-4 she thought it would take, she looked at me blankly.
We had brought a hundred pounds of the stuff, all we could transport efficiently.
I used the binoculars to follow the third plane through the sky until it disappeared behind the ridge. It was some kind of small, twin-engined bizjet.
“How come these folks are early?” I asked her.
“I don't know.” “Your CIA friend didn't tip you off about the time switch?” “No.” The fact these people were arriving a day early bothered me and I considered it from every angle. Life is full of glitches and unexpected twists—who ever has a day that goes as planned? To succeed at anything you must be adaptable and flexible, and smart enough to know when backing off is the right thing to do.
I wondered just how smart I was. Should we back off?
I drove the Humvee toward the cliff where we had the Osprey parked. The land rolled, with here and there gulleys cut by the runoff from rare desert storms. These gulleys had steep sides, loose sand bottoms, and were choked with desert plants. Low places had brush and cacti, but mainly the terrain was dirt with occasional rock outcroppings. One got the impression that at some time in the geologic past the dirt had blown in, covering a stark, highly eroded landscape. I tried to keep off the exposed places as much as possible and drove very slowly to keep from raising dust.
Every so often I stopped the vehicle, got out, and listened for airplanes. Two more jets went over that I heard. That meant there were at least five jets at that desert strip, maybe more.
Julie sat silently, saying nothing as we drove along. When I killed the engine and got out to listen, she stayed in her seat.
I stopped the Humvee in a brushy draw about a mile from the Osprey, reached for the Model 70, then snagged a canteen and hung it over my shoulder.
“May I come with you?” she asked.
“Sure.” We stopped when we got to a low rise where we could see the V-22 and the area around it. I looked everything over with binoculars, then settled down at the base of a green bush that resembled greasewood, trying to get what shade there was. The temperature must have been ninety by that time.
“Aren't we going down to the plane?” “It's safer here.” Julie picked another bush and crawled under. I was silently complimenting her on her ability to accept direction without question or explanation when she said, “You don't take many chances, do you?” “I try not to.” “So you're just going to kill these people, then get on with the rest of your life?” I took a good look at her face. “If you're going to chicken out,” I said, “do it now, so I don't have to lie here sweating the program for the whole damned day.” “I'm not going to chicken out. I just wondered if you were.” “You said these people were terrorists, had blown up airliners. That still true?” “Absolutely.” “Then I won't lose any sleep over them.” I shifted around, got comfortable, kept the rifle just under my hands. She met my eyes, and apparently decided this point needed a little more exploring. “I'm killing them because they killed my parents. You're killing them for money.” I sighed, tossed her the binoculars. “Every few minutes, glass the area around the plane, then up on the ridge,” I told her. “Take your time, look at everything in your field of view, look for movement. Any kind of movement. And don't let the sun glint off the binoculars.” “How are we going to do it?” she asked as she stared through the glasses. “Blowing the fort was a pipe dream, as you well know.” She didn't reply, just scanned with the binoculars. “The best way to do it is to blow up the planes with the people on them.” A grin crossed her face, then disappeared. I rolled over, arranged the rifle just so, and settled down for a nap. I was so tired.
The sun had moved a good bit by the time I awakened. The air was stifling, with no detectable breeze. Julie was stretched out asleep, the binoculars in front of her. I used the barrel of the rifle to hook the strap and lift them, bring them over to me without making noise.
The land was empty, dead. Not a single creature stirred, not even a bird. The magnified images I could see through the binoculars shimmered in the heat.
Finally I put the thing down, sipped at the water in my canteen.
South Africa. Soon. Maybe I'd become a diamond prospector. There was a whole lot of interesting real estate in South Africa, or so I'd heard, and I intended to see it. Get a jeep and some camping gear and head out.
Julie's crack about killing for money rankled, of course. The fact was that these people were terrorists, predators who preyed on the weak and defenseless. They had blown up an airliner. Take money for killing them? Yep. And glad to get it, too.
Julie had awakened and moved off into the brush out of sight to relieve herself when I spotted a man on top of the cliff, a few hundred yards to the right of the Osprey. I picked him up as I swept the top of the cliff with the binoculars.
I turned the focus wheel, tried to sharpen the dancing image. Too much heat.
It was a man, all right. Standing there with a rifle on a sling over his shoulder, surveying the desert with binoculars. Instinctively I backed up a trifle, ensured the binoculars were in shade so there would be no sun reflections off the glass or frame. And I glanced at the airplane.
It should be out of sight of the man due to the way the cliff outcropped between his position and the plane. I hoped. In any event he wasn't looking at it. I gritted my teeth, studied his image, tried by sheer strength of will to make it steadier in the glass. The distance between us was about six hundred yards, I estimated.
I put down the binoculars and slowly brought up the Model 70. I had a variable power scope on it which I habitually kept cranked to maximum magnification. The figure of the man leaped at me through the glass.
I put the crosshairs on his chest, studied him. Even through the shimmering air I could see the cloth he wore on his head and the headband that held it in place. He was wearing light-colored trousers and a shirt. And he was holding binoculars pointed precisely at me.
I heard a rustle behind me.
“Freeze, Julie,” I said, loud enough that she would plainly hear me.
She stopped.
I kept the scope on him, flicked off the safety. I had automatically assumed a shooting position when I raised the rifle. Now I wiggled my left elbow into the hard earth, settled the rifle in tighter against my shoulder.
He just stood there, looking right at us.
