"How did you get out here?"
"I followed you."
"Alone! You came into this insane war alone?"
"No."
Staring at the floor, the young woman did not speak for a moment. In the silence, they heard the droning of the diesel engine and the endless sound of tires on asphalt. Then she looked up, her eyes studying Blancanales. She spoke again.
"I have many documents from the Syrians. I persuaded some soldiers to take me to Damascus. And then in the shelling, they all died. I jumped out to take photos and then a shell hit the truck and they all died. It was so terrible. Only boys..."
Her voice died away.
"Thank you," Blancanales said. "For the information. I hope we can help you. At least we can help you get safely out of the war." He crossed the trailer and sat on the floor. Aware that Desmarais heard what he said, he spoke softly into his hand-radio. "Ironman, Powell, I've questioned her. None of it really helps. Except one thing. Remember what our pilot friend told us about where the courier went? Said it was an interesting detail?"
Blancanales put the radio against his ear to muffle his partner's voice, so that only he could hear. "Yeah, about Iraq. You got info on that?"
Blancanales plugged in the earphone attachment. Now the prisoner could hear only his words. "Yeah, about that. Indirectly. The KGB has no idea about what's going on with the rockets."
"She says. She says all kinds of things. Anything else she said?"
"Nothing we couldn't have guessed."
"So what do we do with her now?"
"She goes with us, then we take her out."
Powell's voice joined them. Shouting over the wind rush in the open Rover, he told them. "I got a solution for our Soviet problem. Let her walk out."
"This isn't Mexico," Blancanales countered. "She'll die out there."
"She's Canadian," Powell countered. "She can handle the snow."
"She set you up for execution," Lyons reminded Blancanales.
Speaking slightly louder so that his prisoner overheard, Blancanales stated, "I told her we would help her get out of this insanity. My word is my word."
Powell laughed, the sound a mad cackle in the road noise. "Think she'd keep her word to you?"
"I gave my word. Period."
In the back of the troop transport, Lyons jammed his hand-radio back into the pocket of his Soviet army greatcoat. He clutched the blanket tight around his face and shoulders and stood up. Squinting against the freezing wind, he peered into the darkness.
Snow swirled in the headlights of the Land Rover and the Mercedes troop transport. But beyond the wide asphalt band of the modern highway, the night and storm reclaimed the Bekaa. They passed dark houses and villages, no lights showing from windows or shops, even the streetlights dark. Fighting continued in the distance, sparks of light marking fights where soldiers and fanatics and innocent Lebanese died for the incomprehensible politics of Syria.
Other headlights appeared behind them, and a Syrian troop convoy passed the American convoy. The Syrian drivers, disregarding the falling snow and slick roads, swerved into the opposing lanes and passed at a suicidal 120 kilometers per hour. Lyons waved to the soldiers in the backs of the trucks. They did not return the waves. Crouched in the transports, wrapped in plastic, they stared at him, their faces sullen. The Syrian convoy continued into the distance, the red points of the taillights finally lost in the night.
A scene of recent combat appeared. None of the Shia drivers even slowed. Ahead, Lyons saw Powell swivel the MK-19 grenade launcher to cover the village and burning vehicles. But no firing came from the defeated.
Soviet armored personnel carriers had assaulted a cluster of houses. Only broken stone and the stink of smoldering fires remained of the village. The gutted hulks of three APCs indicated the victors had suffered heavy casualties in the attack. A light frosting of snow covered the wild circles and zigzagging ruts left by the maneuvering vehicles. The snow also covered the anonymous dead sprawled where they fell. Nothing moved now.
A few kilometers farther, the Rover slowed. Lyons reached for his hand-radio and Powell explained, "No problem, tourists. Just a detour. The Syrians are putting out a call for their forces to assemble. According to our maps, the coordinates are a major highway intersection up ahead. So we're taking a side road. It'll cost only a few minutes."
"How's the war going?" Lyons asked.
"Which one? Syria versus Syria? Syria versus the Brotherhood? Or Syria versus the Iranians and Libyans?"
"The Iranians and Libyans are in it now?"
"Doesn't affect us. The Iranians and Libyans are up by Baalbek. A radio station came on and announced a rising of the Islamic masses. Announced the creation of an Islamic republic in alliance with Khaddafi and the Ayatollah. And the Syrians seem to be stomping the shit out of them. There's artillery officers up there calling down fire-for-effect you cannot believe. I don't think Baalbek will be there tomorrow."
Lyons laughed. "Why should I care what's there? What about in the area of the village?"
"Continuing artillery exchanges. And on the highway to Damascus, Syrian units loyal to the president report conflict with both rebel units and the Brotherhood. In short, free-fire politics all the way to Damascus."
At a side road, the Rover and trucks left the highway and drove south. They maintained a steady, safe speed. Undisturbed snow on the asphalt indicated no other vehicles had used the road in the previous hour or more.
Dark, lifeless farms and fields lay on both sides of the road. But no one had fought there. They drove on through the deserted but peaceful area. Lyons watched the quiet houses, his hands holding the blanket, not the grips of the Browning .50-caliber. The Shia militiamen kept watch also, but they kept their hands on their machine guns.
The peace ended with a roar like a thousand freight trains screaming through the night. Lyons grabbed the Browning. But the Able Team convoy was not the target.
Above, rockets arched through the clouds, then streaked down somewhere to the north. The overhanging storm clouds reflected flashes, the black clouds suddenly a somber red. A rolling, resounding thunder came.
"Katyushas," one of the Shias told Lyons. Then his hand-radio buzzed.
"You cowboys ever seen a rocket barrage before?" Powell asked. "That's what's happening. Guess the opposition monitors the Syrian radios, too."
Gadgets spoke next. "So glad you made that detour."
"And we're going to make another one," Powell emphasized. "Put some distance between us and them."
Another wave of rockets screamed through the night. Seconds later came the sheet thunder of the explosions.
Approaching another intersection, the Rover turned south. Headlights appeared. Lyons saw Powell salute. A clanking line of Soviet BMT armored personnel carriers escorted by T-62 tanks passed. Playing the role of a Soviet, Lyons also saluted the passing armored column. A blond tank commander, standing in the turret hatch, returned Lyons's salute.
The Rover continued south. They passed farms and walled orchards. Looking back, Lyons saw a horizon of orange flame. A mass of black smoke rose into the clouds. Exploding munitions shot the smoke with dashes of color.
Destruction far away had a strange beauty...
Then the war came to them, the MK-19 of the Rover firing, high-explosive grenades popping, white phosphorous splashing chemical fire at three running figures. In the instant the three died, Lyons saw mismatched fatigues and street clothes. The figures carried Kalashnikov rifles and an RPG launcher. Shrapnel tore their bodies, throwing them back. The searing white points of phosphorous illuminated the rocky ditch where they fell.
Rifles flashed from an orchard wall. As the transport accelerated, Lyons swung the Browning around and hammered the wall, not sighting on the muzzle-flashes, but at the midpoint of the wall. Stone and packed earth flew as the steel-cored slugs broke the wall apart to kill the riflemen crouched behind it.