Crocker pointed to the.50 cal and raised the RPG-7 to his shoulder. Then he pointed at Akil and signaled for him to deploy downstairs. Akil nodded and hightailed it, clutching his 416 and pushing a grenade into the M320 launcher on its lower rail.
Crocker knew he’d have only one shot before he gave away their position, so he loaded in a 40mm PG-7VR rocket, aimed carefully, and fired. The round glanced off the roof of the truck and hit the guy manning the.50 cal square in the back. The following explosion had the red aura of a direct hit.
Goner!
The hajis below turned and directed their fire at his window. With bullets tearing up the concrete and brick around him, Crocker quickly reloaded with an OG-7V fragmentation charge and fired again. This round hit the back of the jeep, causing it to lift off its rear axle and flip over. The resulting shrapnel downed most of the terrorists around it like a set of bowling pins.
He wanted this over as soon as possible, so he ran down the stairway as fast as his legs could take him. Through the drifting smoke he found Akil on the street, mopping up.
Pop-pop-pop!
A shot to the head finished off one Hezbollah terrorist. Two in the chest silenced another.
“Nice shot from the window,” Akil said poking him in the chest with his elbow.
“Like picking off ducks in a pond.”
Crocker was fired up to the max, wanting to get out of Idlib as soon as possible. Back at the school, he saw Davis on the radio talking to Ankara Station, his hair matted across his forehead, his eyes bloodshot, his frustration growing.
Because the weather had cleared and Assad’s air force maintained complete control of the airspace, it was deemed impossible to rescue Black Cell and the sarin canisters by helicopter without taking a tremendous risk. A downed U.S. or NATO helo in Syrian territory wasn’t something the White House appeared willing to tolerate. Still, the military maintained that they were looking for a safe LZ while they waited for approvals.
“Where does that leave us, sir?” Davis asked into the transmitter.
“Up the creek without a paddle,” groaned Mancini, who sat near the window reassembling his M7A1 assault gun.
“We’ll inform you of new developments,” Grissom answered over the radio. “You’ll do the same. Over and out.”
Crocker didn’t like the situation at all. It seemed to him that every minute they remained at the school, their risk of being discovered-either by another Hezbollah patrol wondering what happened to their colleagues or other Assad fighters-increased. FIBUA (fighting in built-up areas) was a hairy proposition and one they weren’t equipped for.
“What did Ankara say about moving?” Crocker asked.
“They want us to stay put until dark,” answered Davis.
Not happening, Crocker said to himself as a column of black smoke continued to rise from the burning vehicles on the street.
It wasn’t clear whether Hassan’s pregnant girlfriend, Jamila, had inadvertently tipped off the Hezbollah fighters or they had tracked Hassan’s cell phone. All that mattered was that someone had made their current location. And they were sitting ducks.
“Romeo, what are you looking at?” Crocker asked into his head mic.
“Yo, Deadwood. Nothing moving,” Akil replied from his lookout spot on the third floor. “Clear as far as I can see. Over.”
“Keep looking. Over and out.”
Suarez offered MREs to the schoolteachers huddled in the corner. The meals consisted of bean-and-cheese burritos, cheese spread, crackers, powdered Gatorade, a HOOAH! bar, utensils, an accessory pack containing sugar-free chewing gum, a waterproof matchbook, and seasonings, all individually sealed in plastic, and a water-activated exothermic heater made of finely powdered iron, magnesium, and salt. When mixed with a small amount of water, the solution reached a quick boil that produced readily usable heat.
Before Suarez had a chance to show them how to use it, the women had ripped into the burritos and HOOAH! bars. The latter were an apple-cinnamon variant of Clif energy bars. The food seemed to calm their nerves.
Crocker, meanwhile, had medical duties to attend to, examining the cut on Jamila’s forehead, which was superficial, then cleaning and bandaging it. She had droopy dark eyes, a round, pale face, and shoulder-length straight dark hair. He poured her a cup of water from one of the Camelbaks. As she drank, she clutched her abdomen and moaned.
“What’s going on down there?” Crocker asked gently, checking her pulse, which was more rapid than normal. Little beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead. Her temperature was above normal, too. She didn’t answer, and continued to chew her top lip and hold her stomach. He saw a large wet area near the bottom of her long dark skirt.
Suspecting that she was on the verge of going into labor, he asked, “Your water broke, didn’t it? How long ago?”
He saw a tear slide down her face and land in her lap. He used a wad of clean gauze to dab her eyes.
“I’ll help you, but I need you to tell me what’s going on,” he said gently. “You understand English, don’t you?”
She nodded without looking up.
“When did it break?”
“In…the car,” she muttered with a strong accent.
“I need to touch your stomach. Is that okay?”
She nodded again.
He felt along it, carefully. The muscles were hard and the fetus had dropped, indicating that she was already in the early stages of labor.
“It’s all good,” he said. “The pain has just started?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you feel it?”
“It starts here, in the lower back, and moves to the front.”
“How long does it last?”
“Maybe twenty seconds.”
“The pains occur at regular intervals?”
“Yes.”
“How far apart?”
“Maybe five minutes. Maybe more.”
“Okay. Drink, relax. We’ll take care of everything.”
Before he could make a decision, he had Hassan to attend to, carefully extracting the shrapnel from his forearm, disinfecting the wound and bandaging it. He wanted to scold him for the added complication, but what was the point?
“You’re fine,” Crocker said, “but your girlfriend is going into labor.”
The young man immediately tensed up again. “Not now. No!”
“She’ll be fine, Hassan. But I need you to think. Is there a hospital or clinic nearby?”
“No, nothing.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. Yes.”
He heard combat in the distance, which added to his sense of urgency. Akil, from the third-floor lookout, reported that the fighting seemed to be happening south of them. He also reported the presence of helicopters.
“Romeo, I need you down here,” Crocker said into the head mic. “I’m sending Manny up to relieve you.”
“Semper gumby, boss.” Always flexible.
Crocker asked Amira to sit with Jamila, give her water, and measure the time between contractions. Then he had Davis and Suarez load the trucks while he huddled with Hassan and Akil and looked at the Garmin GPS and available maps. They were of limited utility.
Not wanting to get into a debate with Grissom and waste more time, he called Janice, who was still in Yayladaği, on the secure sat-phone.
“I need you to do something for me and not tell Ankara,” said Crocker. “If you’re uncomfortable with that, let me know now.”
“Fine,” she answered. “What do you want?”
He gave her their current location, then said, “We’re looking for a place to hide for the next four or five hours until it turns dark-hopefully away from the city, which seems to be where most of the action is. Preferably north or northwest.”
“Got it.”
Janice came back five minutes later with the location of an abandoned chicken farm twenty-five kilometers west of Idlib, off Highway 60.
“That work?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“I don’t need to remind you that you should approach it with caution, but I will.”