76 |
76 |Ghardabiya Airbase, Libya
“Zero-One in position.”
Dawson stared through his night vision goggles at the Libyan airbase in front of him as Atlas cut the wires of the fence. The team had just HALO jumped from thirty thousand feet, and were now deployed in three teams with Niner and his spotter Sergeant Gerry “Jimmy Olsen” Hudson, as a sniper team providing them with cover from a nearby hilltop.
The sheik’s plane was a couple of hundred yards away, its engines winding down, as crews rushed from a nearby hangar, crews that, judging by their equipment, intended to offload the cargo.
“Why would he leave it here?” asked Atlas as they pushed through the new opening in the fence.
Dawson shook his head. “I’m guessing he thinks this is the last place we’d look.”
Atlas grunted. “He’s right. A failed state is hardly where I’d expect to find a priceless art collection.”
Dawson activated his comm. “Okay, gentlemen, that’s our ride, and we want the cargo, so let’s hit them before they get a chance to unload. Everyone in position?”
“Team Two in position,” replied Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme, from the north end of the field.
“Team Three in position,” echoed Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman from the southern end.
Dawson surveyed the area once again for any surprises, then signaled the attack. “Execute-Execute-Execute!” He jumped to his feet, surging forward, hunched over, his team on his heels as they advanced as silently as they could, suppressed MP5s at the ready. Dawson glanced to his left then right, spotting both teams, when his eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that?”
Atlas caught up. “What?”
“Check north.”
Atlas looked and cursed. “I think it’s the hand of God.”
Dawson activated his comm, not breaking stride. “Control, Zero-One. Care to let us in on what’s coming in from the north, over?”
“Zero-One, Control. You’ve got a sandstorm coming in.”
Dawson cursed. “ETA?”
“Less than ten minutes.”
Dawson shook his head, glancing at Atlas. “Might have been nice to know.”
Atlas grinned. “I’m sure they just didn’t want us worrying.”
Dawson raised his weapon, taking aim at the cluster of hostiles when one of them shouted. “We’ve been made.” He squeezed the trigger, his weapon set to single shot, and made quick work of those in his arc as the rest of his team did the same. Red’s team to the north was taking heavier fire, but Dawson let his best friend and second-in-command deal with it rather than interrupt him with a status update request. Gunfire from the south had him more concerned, the distinct sound of a .50 caliber opening up on Spock’s team, now dominating the field.
He pointed toward Team Three’s position. “Jagger, Mickey, give them a hand.”
Jagger and Mickey split off, rushing the defenders’ position from behind, as Dawson, Atlas, and their pilot extraordinaire, Sergeant Zack “Wings” Hauser, continued toward the massive transport aircraft.
An aircraft whose engines were now powering up once again.
“He’s going to try and make a break for it.” Wings poured on the speed as Dawson opened fire on a new set of guards emerging from the hangar. The aircraft’s lowered ramp slowly rose, and once closed, there’d be no Tom Cruise style entrance through the side door, because Scotty wasn’t on the next ridge miraculously hacking into the plane’s automated systems to open it.
It would be another failed mission to recover the half-billion dollar historical treasure.
“Bullshit.”
Dawson sprinted as hard as he could, switching over to fully automatic, spraying the area with lead as Atlas and Wings did the same. It kept their enemies’ heads down, and their returned fire unaimed.
Dawson leaped, grabbing the lip of the cargo ramp, then flipped over the edge, rolling hard to the deck. Somebody yelled as they charged at him, always a stupid thing to do, giving him enough warning to unload two rounds into the man’s stomach, then advance, using him as a meat shield as he advanced through the hold, eliminating the three men still inside.
He tossed the bullet-ridden corpse to the side and checked behind him to see he was alone, the others too slow. He smacked the button to lower the ramp, then made for the cockpit. It was locked, and the plane was still picking up speed despite the ramp lowering.
He placed a small charge on the lock and blew it as Atlas and Wings reached him. Atlas hauled the door off its hinges then Dawson and Wings stepped into the cockpit, both with weapons aimed at the crews’ heads.
“How about we stop this thing?”
The pilot powered down and they unbuckled themselves. Dawson and Atlas hauled them out of the cockpit and toward the rear ramp, Wings once again lowering it, the crew having overridden it from their position.
Dawson tossed the pilot down the ramp as the rest of his team sprinted inside. “Everybody good?”
Red nodded. “All present and accounted for, but I spotted three technicals on their way. We better book.”
Dawson did a headcount as the rest got on board, then activated his comm. “Overseer, time to fly.”
Niner responded. “Way ahead of you, Zero-One.”
Dawson turned back toward the cockpit. “Let’s pick up Niner and get the hell out of here!”
The wind was beginning to howl, sand whipping past them as Dawson raised the ramp. He pointed toward the side door. “Open that.” Spock and Jagger immediately opened it, taking up position on either side to retrieve Niner and Jimmy, as Dawson headed for the cockpit, taking the copilot’s position. He took a look through the window and his eyes bulged. “Holy shit!”
Wings grunted. “No shit holy shit! We’ve got maybe two minutes.”
Dawson scanned the end of the runway, visibility already poor, then pointed. “That’s them.”
Wings nodded, guiding the plane toward their remaining two team members, Niner waving with a shit eating grin, shouting something at them that he thought was funny.
Wings shook his head. “That guy really does need to get laid.”
His two team members disappeared and Dawson turned to watch the retrieval through the cockpit door. A sniper rifle appeared, tossed through the side door, then Jimmy stumbled inside, and finally Niner, rolling onto his back, still laughing. The side door closed, and Wings turned the plane hard, aligning them for takeoff.
“Everybody hang on, this ain’t gonna be pretty!”
Dawson strapped in as the others in the rear searched for something to hold on to, the stolen art collection taking up most of the hold. Wings shoved the throttle forward and the plane surged as the wind and sand whipped around them. The runway ahead was shrouded in a writhing cloud of unforgiving sand, and Dawson found himself checking over his shoulder to make sure the engines were okay.
“Hang on!”
Wings pulled back on the stick and the nose lifted, then the rear wheels, cheers erupting from the back of the plane. Dawson breathed a sigh of relief as Wings continued to focus, struggling with the controls.
Suddenly the storm cleared and there was nothing but pristine night sky ahead of them, Wings visibly relaxing, banking them to port.
Jimmy appeared in the hatch. “Everything good?”
Wings nodded. “Yup.”
Dawson looked back at the others. “What was Niner laughing about?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Oh, something about how this is what happens when Atlas farts in the desert. You know how he gets with fart jokes.”
Dawson chuckled. “He really does need to get laid.” He slapped Wings on the shoulder. “Good flying. Next stop, Poland.”
Wings tapped the fuel gauge. “Umm, we might want to hit a Texaco. We’re kind of low on gas.”