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Murdock and Razor rested until they felt themselves cooling down, the body’s signal to get moving again.

The going was easier now. They went a few hundred meters further, and Jaybird came bounding back.

“I found a position with a good view of the road,” he announced.

When they reached the spot Jaybird had picked, Murdock used his GPS set to find out exactly where they were. They’d traveled a whisker over two kilometers.

Jaybird had been right. They had a perfect view of the road, just short of the dogleg where Jaybird had made that very careful turn in the BMP.

When Murdock announced the halt, Doc Ellsworth issued orders. “Everyone drink your IV bag and put your space blankets on.”

All the SEALs carried a bag of intravenous fluids as part of their belt survival kit. It was just as effective swallowed as injected into the veins. They also carried a vacuum-packed foil space blanket. It folded down to the size of a pack of cigarettes and weighed only ounces. The SEALs broke out the blankets and wrapped themselves up.

Murdock already had the vise-grip headache that was one of the warning signs of dehydration. He cut the top off his IV bag and sipped steadily until it was gone. The survival credo said to ration your sweat, not your water. You drank whatever you had; your body would handle the storage and use it as needed.

Murdock immediately had to urinate, which was a good sign. The urine was dark and therefore concentrated, which wasn’t a good sign.

Jaybird, who knew he’d had it the easiest, came around and collected everyone’s canteens. He’d discovered a frozen pool of collected water. He chopped up the ice with his knife and filled the canteens with the ice and slush. The SEALs would keep the canteens under their space blankets. When the ice eventually melted they’d have at least a little water. Murdock joined Razor in the rocks overlooking the road.

A column of BMPs was stacked up at the base of the mountain, but none had started up the road. “I can’t wait to see what happens next,” said Razor.

He said it with a definite lack of enthusiasm, which Murdock shared.

38

Saturday, November 11
1745 hours North central Lebanese mountains

“The bastards are waiting on something,” Murdock said of the BMPs down below.

“What’s your call?” Razor asked.

“Infantry in helicopters,” said Murdock. “Land ‘em further up and down the range and have ‘em sweep together. Couple of rifle companies ought to do it.”

“Nope,” Razor said confidently. “That would be the smart thing, which is why they won’t do it. They don’t want to lose any more expensive helicopters. They’re going to come up that road. They’re just waiting for the tanks to lead the way.”

“That’s your call?” Murdock asked.

“Yup.”

“For ten bucks?”

“You got it, Boss.”

“Wait a minute,” said Murdock. “I might have gotten carried away there. I think betting with subordinates is one of those things they told us not to do at Annapolis.”

“Does that mean you’re pussying out on the bet, sir?”

“No, fuck it.” He paused. “It would be sweet if they came up that road.”

“What about the tanks?”

“Tanks would just clank around on the road. They could shoot their guns all they wanted; they don’t know where we are. They’d run out of ammo before they found our position. I’m worried about infantry, though. Either in helicopters or BMPs.”

The answer didn’t take long in coming. The falling sun illuminated two small dots in the eastern sky. Razor Roselli spotted them right away.

The dots grew larger, and noisier, and turned into two swept-wing Russian MiG-23BN Flogger ground-attack aircraft.

Razor looked at his watch. “It takes two hours to scare up some air support?” he said with professional disgust. He and Murdock stuffed their space blankets under the rocks. They were invisible among the brown boulders in their brown camouflage, completely motionless. The other SEALs were out of sight.

The two MiGs went across the range at very high altitude. It seemed like they were trying to get their bearings while staying out of range of ground fire. Then they came back across the valley, wings fully swept forward and popping flares to confuse shoulder-launched infrared guided missiles.

Murdock thought they were still pretty high up for effective bombing. As it turned out he was right.

Two small dark objects dropped from the belly of the lead MiG. The bombs landed just above the hulk of the burned-out BMP on the road. One hit the side of the mountain. One blew a crater in the road. The ground shook beneath the SEALS.

Razor Roselli shook with silent laughter. “That’s good,” he chortled. “That’s really good. Nothing like creating a fucking antitank obstacle for us. We ought to put these dumb bastards on the payroll.”

“No balls at all,” said Murdock. “Son of a bitch was flying so high it was a wonder he could see the ground.”

The MiG’s wingman screamed in and dropped two bombs of his own. One landed where the road cut across the top of the mountain range. The other just barely missed and sailed over the other side.

“With any luck some Syrians were coming up the other side of that road and it landed in their laps,” said Razor. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh, this is too much. We could have saved ourselves all that trouble and stayed right where we were. These fuckheads would never hit anything they were aiming at. Shit, we’re probably in more danger here out of the line of fire.”

“I think you’re missing the point,” Murdock said dryly. “We don’t want them to be any good.”

Razor’s sharp eyes spotted two more planes in the distance. “Here comes the second team. Let’s see if they can do any better.”

“We don’t want them to do any better,” Murdock insisted.

There were two more MiG-23BN’s. These two didn’t make an orientation pass over the target to advertise their presence. They came in very low across the valley, their camouflage blending well with the ground.

The MiGs made hard banking turns and streaked up the long axis of the mountain range. When the lead MiG was almost over the SEALs’ heads, strings of black smoke belched from its wing roots and underside, and sixty-four 57mm rockets rippled into the rocks where the SEALs had last been.

The second MiG waited just long enough to let the smoke clear away, and then fired its four pods of rockets right onto the target also. The two MiGs made high-G turns and streaked back toward Syria just over the treetops.

Murdock allowed enough time for a good dramatic pause. “You were saying, Chief?”

“All right,” Razor conceded. “So someone threatened to shoot them if they didn’t do better. And maybe it wasn’t too safe staying where we were.”

“They did pretty damn good,” said Murdock. “We would’ve been in a world of hurt.”

“I guess the Syrians are going to decide that we’re either dead or pretty well suppressed,” said Razor. He took a look over the rocks. “Better get your wallet out, Boss. Guess what’s coming up the road.”

39

Saturday, November 11
1785 hours North central Lebanese mountains

“I don’t see any tanks,” said Murdock.

“So they’re even stupider than I thought,” Razor replied.

A Syrian mechanized infantry company was heading up the road. A platoon of three BMPs, in column, was in the lead.

Then a gap, and the second platoon of three BMPs. Then the company commander’s BMP, and the third platoon bringing up the rear. Ten BMPs in all.

“Oh, Magic?” Razor called sweetly.

I see them,” came Magic’s voice from the rocks.