Finally he stopped firing. Then he leaned down and looked inside the tank.
It was empty.
It was as if time stood still for an instant.
Empty? The word rolled around in his mind a few million times inside one heartbeat.
Why would it be empty?
The big Hook roared over, very low, Ricco gunning his engines as he passed above the little scene on the tank. The tanker pilots carried a small but workable radarscope in their cockpit. If any enemy aircraft were coming their way, the plan called for them to send out a flare barrage as a warning. Jazz could see no flares now, thank God. No—Ricco’s loud revving of the big chopper’s engines was meant to be another kind of message: The tanker pilots were telling Norton to get his ass in gear, don’t waste time fucking with a burning tank. Get on with it!
Delaney was down below him now, trying to scream the same thing up at Norton through the din.
“Jeesu! Jazz, get the fuck off there! C’mon!”
Norton finally did jump down, but he was still in a slight daze.
“Empty,” he said aloud. “That tank was empty.”
Delaney stopped for a moment too; he also had to think about it.
“Well, maybe the crew got out, you know, before you nailed it,” was his only explanation.
“Yeah, maybe,” Norton said.
The roar of an explosion going off behind them knocked both pilots back into reality. It sounded like an atom bomb being detonated.
“Gawd! What the fuck was that?” Delaney yelled as they both hit the ground.
They looked towards the Ranch House building to see indeed a small mushroom cloud rising above the front gate. The Marines had just blown the huge metal door leading to the place off its hinges. Now they were surging inside—again, just the way they’d rehearsed. Guns up and firing, flash grenades going off everywhere.
“Damn, these guys don’t fuck around!” Delaney yelled, getting back to his feet. “It’s time to rock and roll!”
Next thing he knew, Norton was running again. Rifle up, helmet clanging against his head, he was running faster than he’d run since he was a kid. Delaney was right in front of him, firing his M-16 into the air, adding to the cacophony of gunfire all around them. Another huge explosion went off, this one on the far side of the prison building. More flash grenades exploded. They were so bright and Norton was getting so close to the objective, they were partially blinding him.
But he was running even faster now. Spit coming from his mouth, a strange guttural laugh coming from his throat.
Damn, this was rock and roll….
He was suddenly aware of two people running right beside him. It was one of the SEAL doctors and Team 66’s videographer. The doctor was carrying his medical bag the way a running back would carry a football. The video guy was hauling his camera as if it was a weapon of some kind.
“Stick close to me, Doc!” Norton yelled out for no reason other than the excitement of the moment.
“Yeah, sure!” the SEAL yelled back.
They all reached the front of the building at the same time. The door was still hot and searing where the Marines had blown it off. The inside of the building was thick with smoke. Marines were swarming all over the place, like an army of ants. Through the haze, Norton could see one huge open room. Many bunks were lined against one wall—just like back at Seven Ghosts Key. A string of flash grenades went off, blinding him again. There seemed to be a lot of trash on the floor, but he could not make out exactly what it all was. One thing looked like a smashed TV—but he was probably mistaken. All this trash had to be something else. He stepped over the debris and kept moving deeper into the building.
More smoke. More fire. A flash grenade still burning in one corner. Gun shots from the far end of the building. Shouting over the din. More flash grenades. More blinding explosions…
And then, suddenly, everything just stopped. All the shooting. All the shouting. The sound of angry footsteps, boots hitting the concrete floor.
Everything stopped….
“Company, hold fast!” Norton heard Chou yell from somewhere inside the cloud of smoke. “Secure positions. Cease firing!”
The calm that settled on the building came so quickly, it was almost frightening. In seconds, all that could be heard was the crackling of flames and the whistle of the wind outside.
Then came the voices. Not yelling. Not the cries of excitement of men in battle.
No—these were gasps, curse words of disbelief. The voices of men in the process of grisly discovery.
“Doc! Up here!” they heard someone shout. The SEAL doctor began moving through the haze, Norton on his tail, Delaney close behind. They reached a small open area about halfway down the length of the barracks. There they saw a very disturbing sight.
Lined up side by side on the barracks’ floor were nine bodies. Facedown, hands at their sides. They were arranged in such an orderly fashion, it was obvious someone took a bit of time to do it properly.
They were Americans. They were all wearing plain gray flight suits that were about ten years out of date. All still had their names sewn on them. One of Chou’s men was doing a quick check, but there was no doubt who these people were. They were the DIA and Special Forces guys assigned to the ArcLight gunship.
Each one had a bullet in the back of his head.
Smitz was hanging out of the side window of Truck Two, out of breath, sweaty, and getting dizzy.
Something was wrong here, he just knew it.
There were circling the ArcLight gunship. The smoke from the battle going on inside the prison compound was obscuring his vision, even though they were just a few hundred feet above the airplane.
The Marines inside the giant Halo were chomping at the bit to land and get on with the mission, but the Army chopper pilots were playing it by the book: They would not land unless they were sure the area was secured. But with the swirling sand and smoke, it was impossible to see if any opposition was waiting for them on the ground. The Hinds would have taken out any AA and the SAMs, but what about the regular grunts that might be guarding this place?
Try as he might, Smitz could not see any potential enemy soldiers anywhere near the runway or the airplane. Of course there were only a few thousand places they could be hiding.
Finally Smitz had to make a decision. He crawled up to the copter’s cockpit and tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
“Bring her down!” he yelled. “We’ve got to go in now.”
“The LZ is not secure,” the pilot said back. “The orders were for us not to…”
Smitz had no time for it. He wasn’t questioning the Army pilot’s courage—the guy was just doing what he was supposed to in these cases. But Smitz was throwing away the book, or at least ripping a few pages out of it.
“Bring her down,” he said again. “I’ll take the heat if anything goes wrong.”
The two Army pilots just looked at each other. It did seem stupid just to keep circling. And they were as anxious to get the show on the road as anyone. So they nodded and told Smitz to tell the Marines to get ready. Then they leaned on the controls and the big chopper began falling out of the sky.
Smitz scrambled to the back and gave the high sign to the Marines, but they already knew they were going in. They were crouched in their ready positions, weapons up, helmet visors down, tension and excitement very thick in the air.
Smitz checked his own weapon; it was a standard-issue rather boring-looking M-16 that he had never fired. His plan for the next half minute was very simple: wait for the chopper to land and then get the hell out of the way as the Marines exited the aircraft and did their thing.