“They heard our shots. They’ll come in expecting trouble. Odds are too great something happens and we lose the missiles.”
Lachs slapped a muddy missile case on the truck bed. “Let’s fucking use three of these puppies to take out the three jeeps.”
“We sure they gonna light up?” said Ruvo. “They been immersed for a long time.”
Gable looked through the brush again. “They’re slowing down running close to the bank; they don’t know what they’re looking for. You guys take the truck back across the field to the embassy. Bianchi’s waiting at the gate and he’ll open the storeroom. Get those missiles locked down and safe.”
“What the fuck you think you’re gonna do?” said Ruvo.
“I’ll knock out a couple of headlights, crawl into the brush, and keep ’em pinned down. They won’t notice you guys and the truck crossing the field.”
“There’s twelve of those gomers,” said Lachs. “I’ll stay and Ruvo can get those cases back.”
Gable shook his head. “You both get those cases back to the embassy, one drive, one riding shotgun, don’t stop for anything.” The SEALs were pros, and didn’t argue. Ruvo kept his pistol, but handed Gable the shotgun and a pocketful of shells. Lachs handed over his Browning pistol and two spare magazines. Gable stuck the pistol in his belt and stuffed his pockets with ammo.
“We’ll get back with more firepower ASAP,” said Lachs. “Just keep their heads down and stay in the damn brush. Don’t be a hero.”
Gable shook their hands. “Thanks for giving me a hand tonight. You guys made the world secure for another week at least.”
Lachs pointed at Ruvo. “I’m still turning this asshole in to the World Wildlife Federation for killing an endangered species of riverine reptile,” he said.
“If this asshole hadn’t got that croc off you, you wouldn’t have an asshole,” said Ruvo. The sounds of the rattletrap jeeps were coming closer, the beams of the headlights waving in the air as the tires bounced over the dried furrows in the field.
“Back around these weeds and don’t go until I start popping at these gomers. Then steer for the yellow lamp on the corner of the embassy. Get those cases under lock and key.” The SEALs climbed into the truck, backed it up, and sat waiting. Ruvo gave Gable a thumbs-up.
Gable stood behind the little corrugated hut, peeking around the corner at the approaching headlights. They had spread out from a file into a line abreast as the field had widened, yelling across at one another, not paying attention. But they all held their rifles in their hands. This is gonna be tricky, thought Gable. The jeeps slowed and stopped eight meters from the hut—about twenty-five feet, a long pistol shot—but these troops all had rusty AK-47s and the rounds would go through the tin walls of the hut like a hot knife through butter. Gable figured he’d shoot from the direction of the hut, then scurry into the brush and let the gomers have fun demolishing the hut while he dug into the weeds, which would give the SEALs time to get to the embassy back gate. Gable saw the militiaman farthest to the right stand and point at the field. He’d spotted the truck’s hood sticking out from the brush. In the next second, they would swarm in that direction and engage the truck, just what he couldn’t let happen.
Gable stepped from behind the shack into the glare of six headlights, racking the pump so fast the shots sounded simultaneous, and fired three loads of buckshot into the right jeep, whose windshield disintegrated; the two men in the front seat fell out onto the ground, dead. The two in the backseat, one wailing and wounded, bailed out and hid behind their vehicle. Before the dead men had hit the ground, Gable pivoted to put three more rounds into the middle jeep, killing the driver, while the other three jumped out and hid under the jeep. He aimed his last two shots at the far jeep, knocking a rear passenger backward out of his seat. By Gable’s count, four were down and maybe one or more wounded. At least seven left and maybe eight. Militiamen were hiding under the respective vehicles, all of them screaming at one another in what sounded to Gable as, “Ahmed, get up and start shooting,” and more jabbering that sounded like, “Are you crazy? You get up and start shooting.”
Gable jacked four of the dark-green shells into the Remington, his last shells and these were the rifled slugs—tapered solid-lead projectiles as big as marbles, the equivalent of a .50 caliber bullet—and one by one put a slug into the radiator of each jeep, causing a great whooshing explosion of steam, and cascade of water under each vehicle. Those jeeps weren’t going anywhere now, and the SEALs were home free.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gable saw movement along the back wall of the shack; the metal flexed as someone slid along it inside the hut. Gable shot the last slug at the bulging metal, knocking a back-wall panel out and blowing the militiaman through a front-wall panel. Shotgun empty, two fifteen-round pistols left with two spare mags, and maybe seven militiamen left with AKs. Shit odds.
More movement in the bulrushes by the river—where were the crocs when you needed them?—and rifle fire started up from the reeds, too close, and Gable dove into the shed—temporary concealment, but certainly not cover—and slow-crawled behind some broken wooden crates that stunk like fish, and hunkered down as a militiaman stuck his head into the hole in the wall and Gable shot him in the head, but two other gomers were coming through the door shooting from the hip and Gable dropped one of them with a snap shot in the face, and felt a punch in his right shoulder, no pain, just numb down to his hand, so he shot the second gomer with his left hand twice in the chest, feeling another round hit his thigh, this one hurt like a son of a bitch hot knitting needle, and rounds started coming through the flimsy metal, each hole creating a glancing shaft of light from the jeep headlights. Gable wiggled into a corner, putting in a fresh mag one-handed by holding the pistol between his knees with the magazine well pointing up—emergency reload—and he released the slide and started firing at the two gomers coming through the door, but felt two more slugs hit him in the chest, and rounds were still coming through the metal, but Gable was feeling numb and it was like he was breathing through a straw, not enough breath, and he saw Nash in Athens Station, and Dominika in a summer dress, and Moira playing piano barefoot, his only regret, how he screwed up his marriage, and how she died before he had a chance to patch it up. He remembered the happy first month, the honeymoon on Cudjoe Key, and he could smell the salt air.
The two surviving militiamen were leaning against the fender of their hissing jeep shakily lighting cigarettes when both their heads exploded and they dropped like string-cut puppets, the cigarettes still in their mouths. Ruvo and Lachs came out of the darkness and looked at the dead soldiers around the shattered jeeps, then looked inside the shack. Five militiamen lay piled in front of Gable, who was sitting up against the wall, eyes closed, his shirtfront black with blood.
Ruvo checked his pulse. “He’s gone,” he said. “Goddamn it.” They were quiet for a second, fellow gladiators mourning one of their own.
“Let’s get him back,” said Lachs. SEALs never leave their fallen behind.
“We got a little work to do first,” said Ruvo.
* * *
* * *