Even if they were FSA, Crocker wasn’t sure they could be trusted-not with his cargo of sarin and young women. He needed time to think. Donning a pair of NVGs, he spotted a path in the field to his right and said to Akil, “Turn off here and kill the engine.”
They sat on a dirt path with green wheat swaying on both sides, crickets chirping, and the crescent moon playing hide and seek behind the clouds. Percussive bursts of rocket or artillery fire thundered behind them. Altogether, a strange, ominous symphony of sorts.
“I think it’s ISIS with its rockets again,” Hassan said nervously, biting his nails and looking behind them. “It could be them both ahead and behind.”
“Or could be Assad’s forces counterattacking,” responded Akil. “Impossible to tell.”
Crocker wasn’t as concerned about who was behind them as about what lay ahead. “Deadwood, Breaker here,” he heard through the earbuds. “What’s the plan?”
“Headlights!” Hassan shouted, pointing at the side mirror. “More headlights coming in back!”
Sure enough, yellow headlights shone on the road far behind them, creeping closer. The lights in front hadn’t moved and only seemed brighter.
Crocker felt the tension in the cab inflate like a balloon.
“Deadwood? You read me?”
“I’m thinking. Manny, look through the Steiners and see if you can make out the number of vehicles behind us,” he said through the head mic.
Half a minute later Mancini reported, “Looks like a lone wolf.”
“What kind?”
“Maybe a pickup. Hard to tell from this distance.”
What they sat on now was more a path than a road, so he had no confidence that it led anywhere. He was also worried that the taller Sprinter’s roof was visible from the road.
Leaning over the front seat toward Akil, he said, “Let’s move forward, headlights off, and find a better place to turn off.”
“What happens if we don’t find one?”
“We initiate Plan B.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Crocker communicated the only plan he had so far to Mancini at the Sprinter’s wheel behind them. As soon as it moved out of the way, Akil backed the truck up, swung onto the highway, and gunned the engine.
These weren’t ideal fighting conditions-three women, a baby, eight canisters of sarin, five SEALs with limited armaments. But Crocker had decided that they weren’t stopping anymore, for anyone.
The roadblock loomed two hundred yards ahead. Even though they were driving with their lights doused, chances are they’d been spotted already. Akil and Hassan kept craning their necks left and right, but saw no turnoff.
“We’re trapped!” Hassan exclaimed.
“Quiet!”
“Where are the American helicopters? Why haven’t they come to get us?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“What do we do now?” Akil asked.
“Slow down, but don’t stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting out.”
“Why?”
“I’m gonna run ahead. When you get close, flash the headlights and slow down. Whatever happens, don’t let those bastards in the trucks.”
“That’s a stupid idea,” commented Hassan.
“Nobody asked you, Hassan.”
Hassan muttered something under his breath. They were close enough now to see one of the trucks ahead flying a black-and-white ISIS flag.
“Nasty-ass jihadists,” announced Akil.
“This is bad. A very terrible situation,” Hassan warned. “We should get out here and run!”
“Keep your head down.”
“Maybe it’s your buddy al-Kazaz,” said Akil. “You still got that letter?”
“Forget the letter.”
Sarin and young attractive women would be too much temptation to desperate men. Crocker looked through the NVGs but couldn’t find any parked motorcycles. Just SUVs and trucks-one a flatbed with a weapons system mounted on it.
“Even if it’s al-Kazaz, we can’t let him inside the trucks.”
“Copy.”
“Breaker, Romeo, Manny, Rojas, ready weapons,” Crocker said into the mic. “No one gets in the vehicles. No inspection; no bartering. We’re going to slow down, tell them we’re ferrying injured civilians, and blast by. We’re not letting them in. Repeat. Keep them away from the trucks.”
“Copy, Deadwood.”
“Roger.”
“Here we go. Over.”
Crocker readied the 416 in his lap, securing the AAC M4-2000 suppressor and slipping an M576 buckshot grenade into the M320 grenade launcher attached to the rails. He grabbed two more M576s and three high-explosive M441 grenades and stuffed them in the pouches of his combat vest; chambered a round in the SIG Sauer 226 and stuck it in the waistband of his pants; made sure the NVGs were snug around his head and his Dragon Skin armor was strapped on tight. No time even for a quick prayer.
“Ready?” Akil asked.
“Ready. Pull close to the shoulder at that bend up there and slow down.”
Akil braked and Crocker opened the back door, jumped out, rolled into the high grass, and sprung to his feet like the athlete he was. Immediately he broke into a sprint through the grass, pulling ahead of the Sprinter and pickup. Building up speed, he was within one hundred feet of what he made out to be two white Broncos and a Mercedes flatbed truck with what looked like a Russian-made ZU-23-2 antiaircraft gun on it blocking the road ahead. He hadn’t seen a ZU-23-2 since Somalia, back in the nineties, when they were chasing drug-crazed warlords through the streets of Mogadishu.
Noisy fucking weapon, and nasty.
One of the Broncos had its headlights illuminated and engine running. Six bearded men stood in front of the vehicles, holding weapons and wearing assorted camouflage and traditional garb, all with armored vests. They were gesturing at the oncoming vehicles to stop.
Crocker, breathing hard, barked into the head mic: “The two guys on the right are mine. Breaker and Rojas, you take the dudes on the left.”
“Happily.”
“Deadwood, check out the twin 23mms on the truck,” Mancini said.
“Should be in a museum, huh?”
“If they work, they can rip shit up.”
“Copy,” responded Akil. “Don’t want that piece of shit pointed at me.”
“Ain’t happening,” Crocker said. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Okay, Warrant Manslaughter.”
“I have a real bad feeling about this,” Hassan moaned to Akil at the wheel of the pickup.
“Keep your head under the dash before they blow it off.”
“What happens if they hit one of the canisters?”
“We die,” Akil responded.
Davis through the earbuds: “Deadwood?”
“Soon as the bastards level their weapons, open fire.”
As Crocker ran, the tall grass sliced his arms and face. He glanced over his shoulder to check if the jeep was still following them. It was. Another complication. One he couldn’t deal with now.
“Romeo, ease down on the brakes, but don’t stop under any conditions,” he said through the mic to Akil.
“Even if Angelina Jolie jumps in front of us naked?”
“Even if she does a booty dance in your face.”
The jihadists ahead stood in the path of the lead pickup, waving wildly and shouting warnings. One fired volleys from an AK into the sky. Crocker was bearing down on them in the grass on the right, running in a half crouch, the muscles in his calves and legs burning, breathing hard.
Fifty feet, forty, thirty, twenty, ten. His right foot reached ahead, hit the side of a slight depression, slipped, and turned. He lost his balance and fell hard onto the right side of his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. He saw stars, felt pain near his ribs, and struggled to stay conscious, feeling for his weapon, willing himself up.
Meanwhile, Akil was reaching out the F-250 window, pointing to the blue cross on the hood and shouting in Arabic, “Medical emergency! Doctors Without Borders! We have wounded civilians. We’re Canadians. Brakes don’t work! We can’t stop!”