They arrived at a small Syrian Arab Army base just after one. Both men climbed out of the pickup, headed into a guard shack, and handed over their embossed KWA badges and travel papers. Still, they were frisked for explosive vests and the pickup was checked over thoroughly for bombs.
Back in the truck they waited for the Desert Hawks traveling behind them to make it through security, and then they all drove to a row of low buildings within sight of the ocean to the west. A group of four light-duty military trucks of various makes and models sat single file in a lot out front. Court saw two trucks with Russian military markings, and two older and larger trucks with the markings of the Syrian Arab Army.
Saunders said, “This ’ere’s our convoy. We don’t leave till thirteen twenty, so we’ve got a little time to find you a weapon.”
Court followed Saunders into a warehouse, where the British contractor spoke with some Syrian Arab Army soldiers. After yet another show of badges and some signing of some forms Court couldn’t read, a squeaky padlock was removed from a squeaky door and they were let into a room full of weaponry: AKs stacked on tables and shelves, along with ammunition, cases of big green helmets, and stacks of steel body armor in chest rigs.
Court could see dust hanging in the air; the smell of gunpowder and gun oil was thick in Court’s nostrils.
The American said, “Let me guess. You want me to take one of these pieces of shit.”
“Like I said, you’ll get a proper weapon when we get down to our base, but we want you ready for today’s run. You can borrow what you need here for the drive down. This is what they hand out to the civilian regime-backed militias.”
The equipment was decidedly low tech, but Court had trained on, and implemented in the field, weapons of all types and quality.
He pulled on a heavy olive-drab vest that held armor plates, and then he stepped over to choose a rifle.
If given any choice for a weapon to take on a mission such as today, he would have chosen an HK416 A6 rifle with an eleven-inch barrel and a Gemtech suppressor and a second, twenty-inch barrel that he could exchange with the eleven-inch if he found himself pinned down by shooters at long range, along with a holographic weapons sight and a quick-detach three-power scope. His rifle would have a laser acquisition device, a high-lumen flashlight with a pressure switch, a six-position adjustable stock with an adjustable cheek weld, and a horizontal forward grip.
Yeah, that would have been his dream choice for a vehicle operation through a high-threat area.
But this grungy and small armory had probably never seen anything like that.
Instead he pulled a worn-out and worm-holed wooden-stocked AK-47 with simple iron sights off a rack. It was virtually identical to the model invented by wounded tank crewman Mikhail Kalashnikov back in 1947, but Court knew AKs, and he could use the weapon with deadly effect out to five hundred yards.
He checked its function and deemed it in proper working order. As he adjusted the weapon’s old nylon sling for his height and preference, Saunders loaded a big canvas satchel with rusty thirty-round magazines. He handed the satchel over to the man he knew as Wade, who immediately put the heavy sack down on a table and began counting the magazines.
“Fourteen mags. Four hundred twenty rounds,” Court said. “That’s more than I’ve ever carried in my life.” Even though he was in character, it was the truth, at least when carrying a weapon that fired a big 7.62 round like the Kalashnikov. He picked up the magazines one at a time, loaded them into his chest rig, locked one into his new rifle, and racked a round into the chamber. He flipped the safety up, then pushed the five remaining magazines away on the table. “I’ll go with two hundred seventy, just in case we get attacked by Godzilla.”
The Brit looked at him like he was an idiot. “Right. So you’ve made the Latakia-Damascus run before, have you now?”
“You know I have not.”
“Well I have, so listen to me. Through the hills east of Latakia, through Masyaf, across Hama, down around Homs, and south through the northern suburbs of Damascus, blown to rubble by the regime but still full of rebels. The entire route could be crawling with roving terrorists and marauders, popping out at every turn. You probably won’t need all this ammo, but if you do, you’ll bloody well wish you had it.”
Court thought the guy was exaggerating, but the voice of his former CIA trainer slipped into his mind again, telling him there was virtually never such a thing as too much ammunition. Court scooped up three of the five mags, crammed them into pockets in his cargo pants, then lumbered for the door.
* * *
? ? ?
The convoy prepping to make the run to Damascus was a multinational affair. Court and Saunders were the only Westerners and the only foreign mercs in the group, but there were two nearly new GAZ light military transport trucks containing a dozen or so armed Russian soldiers, two Russian-made ZIL-131 Syrian Arab Army trucks with what appeared to be about twenty young infantrymen, and the four Desert Hawks Brigade soldiers who’d been caravanning along with Court and Saunders.
There was also a black Land Rover with three Arabs in civilian clothes. Court nodded towards the men and asked Saunders who they were.
Saunders himself gave them a curious eye. “Probably Mook.”
“Mook?” Court asked, although he knew.
“Mukhabarat. Syrian intel. I have a meeting with the Russians and Syrians at the lead vehicle. Maybe I’ll find out, but I’m not gonna ask about them. You stay here with the Hawks.”
Saunders went forward to talk to the leaders of each group represented, and he returned a few minutes later. “Right. Those blokes in suits are definitely Mook; they’ll be riding right in front of us in the middle of the formation. The SAA will take the front and the rear of the convoy. The two Russian trucks will travel together behind the lead vehicle. We leave in five mikes.”
Even though he wasn’t a security contractor, Court knew vehicle operations in high-threat areas better than most. “What’s our plan? If we come upon a downed vehicle, or a firefight going on in the road, do we assist?”
“Negative. You and me are being paid by the Hawks, so our job is to get down to the base in Babbila and do what we’re told. We aren’t being paid to fight it out with rebels along the highway. We’ll let some other poor bugger do that. If the Russians and the SAA don’t stop, we don’t stop. If they do stop . . . well, I will make the decision on whether we keep going or stick with the convoy.”
Court said, “Seven light vehicles, forty-five men, and one mounted machine gun might scare off a small unit of adversaries, but anything larger might see us as an opportunity.”
Saunders rolled his eyes. “Off the bleedin’ bird less than an hour and you’re tellin’ me how to roll, is that it, Wade?”
“Hey,” Court said. “You’re labor, just like me. Remember?”
Saunders spit on the dusty asphalt. “We won’t be the only vehicles on the road, so the trick is just to make ourselves a harder target than the other sons of bitches out there, so the bad guys shoot somebody else.”
“That’s our plan?”
Saunders donned his body armor, pulled his rifle out of the floorboard of the pickup, racked a round into the chamber, then checked to make sure the safety was engaged. “I told you, Wade. We’re gonna get shot at today. Might as well sit back and enjoy the lovely weather till it ’appens.” He headed around to the driver’s seat.
There was nothing Court could do but slip on his sunglasses, climb into the passenger side of the pickup, hold his old Kalashnikov at the ready, and begin scanning his sector.
It was going to be a long afternoon, he could feel it.
CHAPTER 28
French Judicial Police Captain Henri Sauvage drove south out of Paris in an early-afternoon rain shower. He had a lot on his mind, but he pushed it away as much as possible to focus on the task of the moment.