Al-Jihad by Stephen Coonts ch 8-1
EIGHT Dawn took its own sweet time arriving. I was sore, stiff, hungry, and I loathed myself. I was also so exhausted that I was having trouble thinking clearly. What was there about Julie that scared me?
It wasn't that she might kill me or leave me stranded in the desert surrounded by corpses. She didn't strike me as the kind to double-cross anyone: If I was wrong about that I was dead and that was that. There was something else, something that didn't fit, but tired as I was, I couldn't put my finger on it. She stole the V-22, hired me to help her … Well, we would make it or we wouldn't. I sat with my rifle on my lap, finger on the trigger, leaned back against the wall, closed my eyes just for a moment. I was so tired … I awakened with a jerk. Somewhere in the fort a door closed with a minor bang.
The day was here, the sun was shining straight in through the openings in the wall.
Someone was moving around. Another door slammed.
I looked at my watch. The bombs should have gone off twenty minutes ago. I had been asleep over an hour.
I slowly rose from the floor on which I had been sitting, so stiff and sore I could hardly move. I picked up the grenades and pocketed them. Moving as carefully and quietly as I could, I got up on the railing, put my leg up to climb onto the roof.
The rifle slipped off my shoulder. I grabbed for the strap and was so sore I damn near dropped it.
The courtyard was thirty feet below. I teetered on the railing, the rifle hanging by a strap from my right forearm, the rucksack dangling, every muscle I owned screaming in protest.
Then I was safely up, pulling all that damn gear along with me.
Taking my time, I spread out the gear, got out the grenades, and placed them where I could easily reach them.
I took a long drink from my canteen, then screwed the lid back on and put it away.
The radio that controlled the bombs was not large. I set the frequency very carefully, turned the thing on, and let the capacitor charge. When the green light came on, I gingerly set the radio aside.
Three minutes later, a muffled bang from the bomb behind the shortwave radio slapped the air.
I lay down on the roof and gripped the rifle.
Running feet.
Shouts. Shouts in Arabic.
It didn't take them long to zero in on the radio room. I heard running feet, several men, pounding along the corridor.
They didn't spend much time in there looking at the remains of King Kong or the shortwave. More shouts rang through the building.
Julie Giraud and I had argued about what would happen next. I predicted that these guys would panic, would soon decide that the logical, best course of action was a fast plane ride back to civilization. I suspected they were bureaucrats at heart, string-pullers. Julie thought they might be warriors, that their first instinct would be to fight. We would soon see who was right.
I could hear the voices bubbling out of the courtyard, then what sounded like orders given in a clean, calm voice. That would never do. I pulled the pin from a grenade, then threw it at the wall on the other side of the courtyard.
The grenade struck the wall, made a noise that attracted the attention of the people below, then exploded just before it hit the ground.
A scream. Moans.
I tossed a second grenade, enjoyed the explosion, then hustled along the rooftop. I lay down beside a chimney in a place that allowed me to watch the rest of the roof and the area just beyond the main gate.
From here I could also see the planes parked on the airfield, gleaming brightly in the morning sun.
Someone stuck his head over the edge of the roof. He was gone too quick for me to get around, but I figured he would pop up again with a weapon of some kind, so I got the Model 70 pointed and flicked off the safety. Sure enough, fifteen seconds later the head popped back up and I squeezed off a shot. His body hit the pavement thirty feet below with a heavy plop.
The Land Rover could not carry them all, of course. Still, I thought this crowd would go for it as if it were a lifeboat on the Titanic. I was not surprised to hear the engine start even though I had tossed two grenades into the courtyard where the vehicle was parked: The Rover was essentially impervious to shrapnel damage, and should run for a bit, at least, as long as the radiator remained intact.
Angry shouts reached me. Apparently the Rover driver refused to wait for a full load.
I kept my head down, waited until I heard the Rover clear the gate and start down the road. Then I pushed the button on the radio control.
The explosion was quite satisfying. In about half a minute a column of smoke from the wreckage could be seen from where I lay.
I stayed put. I was in a good defensive position, what happened next was up to the crowd below.
The sun climbed higher in the sky and on the roof of that old fort, the temperature soared. I was sweating pretty good by then, was exhausted and hungry … Finally I had had enough. I crawled over to one of the cooking chimneys and stood up.
