“I don’t like those nicknames,” Bambi said. “My name’s Britney.”
“You’re fucking joking,” Mike said. “If you had better tits, you could be a dead ringer for her, too. But I don’t really give a rat’s ass if you don’t like your handle, right now, you’re nothing but meat, not even meat. Meat have at least been through BUDS. You’re nobody. I should call you meat one two and three! You have to do something to get a better one. I was Ass-boy for a year after being in 201, so don’t give me shit about handles.”
“Ass-boy?” Amy asked from the door.
“Don’t ask,” Mike said with a sigh. “It’s a long story. I kept trying for Winter born but nobody had a clue what I was talking about. Thumper,” he continued, taking the flares out of his pocket. “If the lights go out, your first job is to light those. Got it?”
“Yes,” Thumper said. “Can I at least be Flower?”
“No. You cannot be Flower. You are Thumper.”
Mike walked out of the room and down the corridor to the doors he’d entered by. He could hold one end of the corridor, but not both. The door had a bolt on the inside but that was not going to hold against even a raghead assault. He knew what would, though, so he opened up the door and tossed the VX grenade through, quickly closing the door and bolting it. There was shouting from the far side, but it quit pretty quick. Then he trotted back to the torture room, cursing his aching knees, and went to the phone.
“Need to make a call?” Amy asked. “And what was that you tossed through the door?”
“You were supposed to be covering the other direction,” Mike said, picking up the phone and dialing a combination. He smiled faintly at the distant explosion. “And it was a VX grenade.”
“A what?” Amy snapped. “You’re joking?”
“Nope, welcome to WMD central,” Mike said, stepping out the door. “Now, the back way is pretty well blocked, what with the VX and the explosives I placed in the production area.” As he said that there was another, louder but deeper explosion. “Secondaries are always nice. But that way,” he said, pointing at the far end of the corridor, “leads, I think, to the surface. And we’re about to get company,” he finished as pounding footsteps were heard on the stairs. “Don’t look at their faces and don’t think of people. They’re just targets. Service the targets.”
“Yes, sir,” Amy said.
“Ghost,” Mike replied as the door opened and he serviced the first guy through the door. He was a muj like the two guards, black T-shirt and camouflage pants, and he dropped like a sack when hit in the chest. But there were more behind.
Mike engaged two tangos in the doorway, one of whom got off some shots, and tracked to service another but he was already down. He heard Amy gagging again and shot one on the landing to stop the first wave.
“Reload!” he snapped, covering the landing. He could hear Amy fumbling the reload but he wasn’t worried about it. “You’ve got rounds left. Toss that one in the room. If it’s dry it goes over your shoulder,” he said, flipping his own out and setting it in the room he was using for cover. “When you’ve got a couple partials, have some of the girls reload them for you. And lay out all your mags where you can reach them,” he added, pulling his own out. “And one frag. No more. Give the rest to Babe.”
“Okay,” Amy said, setting out the magazines. “So, are the SEALs… what? How’d you find us?”
“Like I said, I tracked you,” Mike responded. “I saw one of the snatches and tracked you the whole way. I’m not a current SEAL, I’m medically retired.”
“For medically retired you’re doing pretty well,” Amy said, glancing over at him.
“You should have seen me in my prime,” Mike said with a chuckle. “I would have worn you out.”
“Well, let me get my head together about all this,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder, “and I’ll be the first in line to give you head so good it stops your poor old heart.”
“You’re on, Amy,” Mike said, gesturing with his chin. “Company.”
Chapter Ten
Major Muhammed Tarzi had been looking forward getting off work. The word had gotten around that American bitches were being held in the bunker and that soldiers would be chosen by lot to go down and rape them. As an officer, of course, he had first choice and as soon as he got off duty he was going to head down and get a taste of stuck-up American bitch pussy.
Major Tarzi had visited America several times and had even gone to the strip clubs that were everywhere. But he had never been able to get an American woman to fuck him. They seemed to fuck everyone else, flaunting and teasing in their short skirts and heavy makeup, but not him. He was planning on showing them what teasing got them and enjoying it immensely.
That was until the thud from underground followed by shrilling chemical alarms. His office was in the administrative building, but the sound and vibration carried clearly through the ground.
His first action was to panic as he realized he didn’t know where his gas mask was. So he screamed for his orderly.
“Hasan! Where are you?”
“Major,” the servant shouted, running in the room. “The alarms!”
“I can hear!” he yelled. “Where are the masks?”
“In your quarters, master,” Hasan shrilled, nervously.
The quarters were all the way across the compound and the wind was usually from the northwest, which meant that gas might be drifting between him and the masks.
“Go get them,” he ordered Hasan. “Then get back here with them. If I’m not here, find me.”
“Yes, Major,” the servant said nervously, backing out of the room as Lieutenant El Kheir pushed by him.
“The bunker,” the lieutenant gasped, “the president…”
“What about the president?” the major asked. As the chief of security for the site, anything that happened to President Assad would fall on his shoulders.
“There is firing,” the lieutenant said, finally getting his breath back. “The mujahideen tried to enter and were shot at. Someone is holding the passageway.”
“Wake up the duty platoon,” Tarzi snapped. “Get them over there.” He reached for his phone and called the battalion orderly room. “Call out the battalion!” he screamed. “The president has been captured!”
The second wave was soldiers and Mike engaged them on the landing. The first one stuck his head out to see what was going on and left a red splash on the wall of the landing. This occasioned some shouting and then a group of at least a dozen charged down the stairs, firing as they came.
Mike and Amy engaged with single shots, filling the doorway with bodies, until the group broke and ran.
“Bambi, Thumper!” Mike called. “Ammo run.” He flipped out his magazine, decided that a round or so wasn’t worth it, and tossed it over his shoulder in the corridor as the two girls ran down the corridor to the bodies. Bambi stopped half way and gagged, but then kept going.
“Stay to the left side of the corridor on the way down and back,” Mike called. “And grab some of the grenades. Do not fuck with the pins or you will be two dead ammo grabbers.” He paused, considering the view as Bambi bent over to pull out a magazine from a pouch and sighed happily.
“You okay?” Amy asked nervously.
“Just admiring the view,” Mike admitted. “Dead bad guys and naked girls. It’s like an op in a titty bar. All I need is beer and steak, maybe some heavy metal or Goth music, and this would be perfect.”