Blood Diamonds, page 20
“I know! But the rain is washing it all out!”
Kisantu crossed to the tailgate and regarded the men huddled beneath the tarpaulin. “Get the planks and rope!”
Two men leapt from the flatbed, while two more handed them long wooden planks already scored by rubber and used to help free the tires from muddy holes.
“Faster!” Kisantu cried, his voice cracking in frustration. “Attach the rope!”
With good timing, a little luck, and a sufficient supply of alcohol, most plans could survive at least their first moments of life. After that, you’d need better timing, a shitload of luck, and top shelf merely to make things happen.
Mad Dog was 0 for 3.
What he did have, however, was a burning desire to prove to himself that even a job as screwed up as the current one was still salvageable. He had to play it out; he owed that to Jack and to Rookie.
He tried calling back to his security chief in Cebu, but he couldn’t get the call through. Interference from the storm, who knew? The maps hadn’t helped locate a low-water crossing, but Mad Dog figured that now Delta team would help them find it. Mr. Bibby was doing a damned fine job keeping them out of the mud, though he was blinking hard behind his narrow-rimmed glasses. Twice Mad Dog asked if he was all right, and twice he had snapped, “Yes, damn it!”
Wolfgang had finally ceased firing, and while Mad Dog was glad for that, he couldn’t deny that having a monster like Wolfgang on his team was necessary, even important. He’d cut the guy’s leash when the time came.
And he was one werewolf who laughed at silver bullets.
In the meantime, they kept the Delta operators within their sights. Mad Dog leaned forward, gleaning what he could from his binoculars. There were a few guys inside the covered flatbed, whose rear flaps occasionally swung open. Two of the men Mad Dog assumed were Delta Force; the other two were definitely locals, and yet a closer inspection revealed that one guy was, in fact, Jaga, his hands bound behind his back, just like the other guy, whom Mad Dog did not recognize.
All right, where were the diamonds? They could very well be with one of the two Delta operators sitting in the back. Sapper had said they were inside a leather pouch. So how were they supposed to “recover” the gems from some of the most highly trained, lethal men in the world? Appeal to their greed? Mad Dog doubted that would work.
God, it was hard to concentrate when his thoughts were torn between the moment and what was happening back on Cebu. Too many questions. But old Dan…he just had to hang in there. And the commandoes…they just couldn’t fuck up. God, please, no, don’t let them do something stupid.
A tremendous boom resounded ahead, hurling mud and debris across their windshield—
And Mr. Bibby swore and cut the wheel hard, even as shrapnel drummed across the truck’s side.
“What the fuck was that? Grenade?” cried Mad Dog.
“I think so!”
Bender hadn’t seen Dzoba pull the grenade from his vest, but he’d heard it, all right. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Don’t worry! Just slowing them down!”
“Dude, you’re already on my shit list.”
“We can’t let ’em catch up to us. What’re we going to do? Tell ’em, hi, we’re SpecOps, sorry to bother you?” Dzoba tugged free another grenade. “Don’t worry, I’ll force ’em off the road, get ’em stuck.”
“Hey, Bender,” cried Thorn over the radio. “Our guy says the crossing’s coming up!”
“He’s going to toss another grenade!” hollered Mad Dog.
Mr. Bibby was already anticipating big boom number two. He steered them off the path and between a few rows of bushes as the grenade exploded harmlessly in their dissipating exhaust fumes. Then he rolled right, the truck bouncing hard until they got back onto the path, spun out, then straightened.
But now they were bound for a massive puddle spanning the entire path and growing by the second. Waves to the left revealed where the Delta guys had passed through, so Bibby followed their lead.
Water rushed up into door cracks and began leaking into the cab as they plowed on through, Bibby shouting that the engine could stall at any second.
The engine coughed, shook hard, and then…fuckin’ A it didn’t stall! Bibby revved up, guided them up and onto the path.
And there, only fifty or so yards ahead, were the Delta guys, sweeping closer to the trees dotting the riverbank, rain bands partially obscuring their truck and shaking the tarpaulin over their flatbed. The driver was veering madly between puddles and ruts, then he suddenly cut the wheel right, as though turning a ninety-degree corner.
“The crossing has to be down there,” said Mr. Bibby—
Just as a brilliant flash shone ahead, followed by a crack and boom.
Mr. Bibby tugged the steering wheel, and the truck suddenly lurched to the left, breaking into a three-sixty spin, even as the explosion continued to rise.
And then they began slipping down an embankment that washed out toward the riverbank. Bibby had lost all control of the truck.
They were carried along by torrents of rainwater and mud, swept down the embankment sideways, the truck coming up on two tires for a second, coming down, hitting a rut, coming up again, just as Pope and Wolfgang screamed for everyone to bail out.
A pair of seconds later, the truck rolled onto its side, the window nearest Mad Dog smashing loudly, safety glass blasting into his face.
Mr. Bibby was still swearing, and the truck was still sliding, waves of mud now washing over Mad Dog as he reached up, grabbed the rearview mirror for support. It broke off in his hand, but then, without warning, the truck crashed into something, a tree probably, and came to a jarring halt.
The first thing that occurred to Mad Dog was that there was mud in his mouth. The second was that the engine was still idling. And the third was that Mr. Bibby was, yes, still swearing.
Mad Dog coughed and spat, then craned his head at the Brit, who hung suspended by his seatbelt like a mud-caked marionette, his glasses hanging crooked.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hertzog?”
Mad Dog slowly lifted an arm, wiped his mouth, and said, “Nice fucking driving.”
Voices sounded from outside, Pope and Wolfgang. They were coming to help free them.
And out of nowhere, Mad Dog began chuckling, his gaze going distant. “You think you got me, Murphy? Huh? Fuck you. We’re still in the game!”
Chapter 13
Low Water Crossing
Jungle North of Tongaso
Near Congo Border, Angola
0948 Hours Local Time
Kisantu and his men had just freed the truck when they heard the explosions in the distance.
Immediately after, one of his scouts called on the radio to report two vehicles headed their way: a pickup truck pursuing a much larger, Russian-made utility truck, the one that belonged to the second team.
Suddenly, the fact that his men had failed to communicate was unimportant. They were coming home—but for their sake, they had best have the diamonds.
Kisantu had taken his cue from his friends in al Qaeda, who routinely beheaded prisoners and incompetent members alike.
Yes, he was in the business of increasing his numbers and firepower, but each failure was treated swiftly and brutally. There were no exceptions.
He hustled back to his truck. A second radio report indicated that the pickup had slid off the road and tumbled down an embankment near the river. His scouts reported seeing men in the back but lost them. They weren’t sure if there were any survivors.
“Take us down to the crossing,” he ordered Jonas. “We can meet them there.”
After peering at the rearview mirror, Jonas threw the truck in gear, just as the second truck came up beside them. Together they set out, leaving deep trenches behind. The rain now came down in sheets, the wind buffeting them.
Kisantu resisted the temptation to call back his friends to report the good news. He would wait until the diamonds were in his hands.
“The weather is getting worse,” groaned Jonas. “No trucks will pass here today.”
“But we’re so close. Just beyond the hills. We can pass here and reach the river. We can do it!”
Jonas shrugged, took them down another small hill and onto a path spanned here and there by huge puddles whose depths remained unknown. He braked hard.
Kisantu glared at him. “What are you doing? Find us a path!”
After a long breath, Jonas applied a bit more gas, then guided them along the edge of the first puddle. “So why didn’t they call?” he asked.
Kisantu saw through the man. He was trying to make conversation, trying to take Kisantu’s mind off the road. He was an expert at keeping Kisantu levelheaded, at reminding him of his responsibilities to the men.
Kisantu threw up his hands. “Maybe they couldn’t get through.”
“There were three of them, all with phones and a radio. The scouts have no problems…”
Yes, that was odd. He frowned and nodded.
“We must be careful, my friend.” Jonas pursed his lips in thought. “Very careful.”
Bibby seized the door handle before unbuckling his seat belt, then he set one boot on Mad Dog’s hip, the other on part of the seat. He unclasped the buckle and began rolling down the window. Before he finished, Pope was there, latching onto his wrists and hauling him out.
Next came Mad Dog, who resembled some strange, muddy bush creature, all eyes and cusswords. That they were alive was a small miracle. Sure, the bruises would reveal themselves later, but they’d walk away from it all. Even Bibby’s computer was still running.
The truck, however, was a definite casualty.
“We all okay?” asked Mad Dog.
“Beat-up to shit,” said Boo Boo, blinking rain from his eyes. “But we’re all here. Even him.” The medic turned a sour look on Judas, who stood nearby rubbing his chest in the spot where Mad Dog said he had struck him. The old wound had been aggravated. Good. Just then, the black clouds rumbled, as though announcing Lucifer himself.
“That’s the problem with you Brits,” said Judas. “You can’t stay on the road, and even when you are, you’re driving on the wrong side.”
Before Bibby could retort, Doolittle intervened to say that Rookie’s body had been ejected from the truck and was lying on the side of the hill. Mad Dog ordered him and Boo Boo to bring it back, then join them.
“What the fuck? We’re still going after them?” asked Judas.
“The fuck we are,” answered Mad Dog. “We ain’t working CIA hours here. But if you want to stay, that’s fine. I’ll cuff you to Rookie.”
“The corpse?”
“Yeah, don’t want you to skip off without keeping up your end of the bargain.”
“I’m going.”
“Then you’re with me, never out of my sight. Never. Do you read me?”
“Roger that, asshole. I want my weapon back.”
“That piece of shit? Here, use this,” said Sapper, who came forward carrying the pistol Mad Dog had given to Jaga, the one with the “special” firing pin. Sapper winked at Mad Dog and said, “I’ve been meaning to get it back to you, sorry.”
“No, that’s all right,” Mad Dog said.
Judas examined the pistol. “Very nice piece.” He slipped the weapon into his empty hip holster. “We’re all still Americans. And you need me alive. You should really remember that.”
Bibby’s satellite phone rang. He shifted over to the pickup and leaned down, away from the blowing rain. It was their security chief back in Cebu. He wanted to speak directly with Mad Dog. “Mr. Hertzog! Cebu’s calling!”
Mad Dog made a face, then jogged over. “More good news?” he asked. “I don’t know if I can stand any more.”
He put his back to Judas, then took the call. “Tell me you found him.”
Abu Sayyaf Safe House
Cebu, the Philippines
1655 Hours Local Time
Dan had been kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf terrorists and holed up in some godforsaken rat hole while they blackmailed the kid.
However, he was still alive, and he would use whatever he had left, namely his mouth, to fight them until the end.
Artfag turned away from the window and lit up another cigarette.
“Hey, dickhead? Can you at least open the window?” asked Dan.
“Shut up, old man!”
Dan glanced longingly at the glass. Holy shit! Was he seeing things? He blinked. No, he wasn’t.
A man wearing a black balaclava, only his eyes exposed, lifted his head, took a peek inside the window, saw Dan, and put an index finger to his lips. Then he sank back into nothingness, a ghost who still might be a product of Dan’s imagination. He wanted so badly to be rescued that anything was possible.
No, goddamn it, he had seen the man. He had!
He glanced at Artfag, who whirled to face the window. Had he seen something? Or had he been looking at Dan and seen Dan’s reaction to something outside?
Shitforbrains was back on the computer, a second window just behind him.
The front door lay opposite Dan’s chair, not more than twenty feet away.
He took a deep breath.
Was he too old for this shit? Hell no! He was as excited as the day he had sweet-talked his nurse into bed. Would his heart explode? It could.
He set his feet firmly on the floor, pushed up on the chair, testing his weight. Any second now.
Any second.
Five excruciating minutes passed. At least five, Dan thought. Maybe ten! Christ, what were they waiting for?
Maybe they had decided it was too dangerous. Nah, that wasn’t like them. They were cocky enough to believe they could rescue one little old man.
And then, just as he was hanging his head, his eyes involuntarily closing from the wear and tear of waiting, the front door smashed off its hinges, hit the floor with a considerable thud—
While two men came crashing through the windows, pieces of wooden frame and glass were hurtling end over end and clattering everywhere.
Shouts from inside. From outside. From inside Dan’s own head: holy fuck! Total chaos.
Beautiful.
Old or not, cuffed or not, Dan could still take a cue. He gave himself a huge shove backward, knocking the chair up onto two legs.
And, boom, he collapsed onto his back, then he gave another shove, forcing himself onto his side, figuring he should be out of the line of fire.
He gasped as the AK–47s popped, answered immediately by the ear-shattering report of carbines fired at close range.
Reflexively, he pulled at his cuffs, feeling totally useless. The gunfire had triggered his marine’s instincts, the training, all of it ingrained, coursing through his body like blood. In his head he drew his sidearm and returned fire, found the next target, and fired.
The most dangerous thing in the world is a marine and his rifle…
Threat, respond. Threat, respond. No sorting through the bullshit. He was a jarhead, goddamn it! Squared away, cradle to rack to grave.
But all he could do was lie there, reminding himself of the obvious crap and trembling with the desire to attack.
More boots shuffled. More glass flew. Men shouted, their voices muffled by their masks. Artfag barked something in Tagolog. Three pops.
A carbine answered. An AK posed another question, and two carbines answered it.
Yet another shout—
Dan turned his head, locked gazes with Shitforbrains, who was just turning with his AK, the weapon aimed directly at Dan.
Even as the asshole fired, bullets tore through his chest, sending him back, crashing across his computer desk, the monitor and keyboard plummeting to the floor.
Artfag’s scream to his buddy was cut off by two sharp rounds from a carbine.
As those shots echoed, a sharp pain tore through Dan’s chest, a pain so cutting that he could hardly breathe.
Cocksucker got me, he thought before the pain finally overcame him…and then…nothing.
Low Water Crossing
Jungle North of Tongaso
Near Congo Border, Angola
1001 Hours Local Time
Mad Dog and his men followed the riverbank toward the crossing, keeping tight to the dense brush about twenty yards back. The river at that place wove through much thicker jungle, which made the trek a bit unnerving, not that any of them would reveal that. Between the rain and the heavy brush, everyone had good cover—bad guys included.
Pope and Sapper took point, while Wolfgang, Boo Boo, and Drac headed west, seeing if they could hook around to establish positions on the north side of the crossing. Mad Dog, Bibby, Doolittle, and Judas would draw up on the crossing and establish positions on the east side as they continued their advance.
Mad Dog wished doom on the Delta team, willing their truck to get stuck, and in that regard, the weather was truly welcome. Perhaps that low water wouldn’t be so low after all. They might sink as they attempted to ford the river, and their engine would become flooded.
However, that truck would need to sink at least three feet, maybe more, since the Russkies had designed the thing for rough terrain. Better to wish for a long, muddy furrow crossing their path, one that would trap them like quicksand, their wheels spinning them into a deeper pit.
“Blackhound One, this is Four,” called Pope. “I have the Delta truck in sight, but get this: we got two more trucks coming down on the opposite bank. Could be the homeys from the Congo, over.”
Mad Dog was about to respond, when Bibby, who was still jogging behind Judas but had just answered his satellite phone, interrupted, his voice low: “One, this is Two. Report from Cebu. They have Dan. But he’s been shot. They’re rushing him to the hospital, over. Repeat, we have Dan, but he has been shot, over.”
It was hard not to choke up. It was hard not to stop right there, say, “Fuck this!” and abandon the whole goddamned job.
It was hard just to breathe.
