Al-Jihad by Stephen Coonts ch 4-2
I found a road and a gate, which wasn't locked. After all, how many people are running around out here in this wasteland?
Taking my time, I sneaked in. I had the rifle off my shoulder and leveled, with my thumb on the safety and my finger on the trigger.
A Land Rover was parked in the courtyard. It had a couple five-gallon cans strapped to the back of it and was caked with dirt and dust. The tires were relatively new, sporting plenty of tread.
When I was satisfied no one was in the courtyard, I stepped over to the Land Rover. The keys were in the ignition.
I slipped into a doorway and stood there listening.
Back when I was young, I was small and wiry and stupid enough to crawl through Viet Cong tunnels looking for bad guys. I had nightmares about that experience for years.
Somewhere in this pile of rock was at least one person, perhaps more. But where?
The old fort was quiet as a tomb. Just when I thought there was nothing to hear, I heard something … a scratching … I examined the courtyard again. There, on a second-story window ledge, a bird.
It flew.
I hung the rifle over my shoulder on its sling and got out my knife. With the knife in my right hand, cutting edge up, I began exploring.
The old fort had some modern sleeping quarters, cooking facilities, and meeting rooms. There were electric lights plugged into wall sockets. In one of the lower rooms I found a gasoline-powered generator. Forty gallons of gasoline in plastic five-gallon cans sat in the next room.
In a tower on the top floor, in a room with a magnificent view through glass windows, sat a first-class, state-of-the-art shortwave radio. I had seen the antenna as I walked toward the fort: It was on the roof above this room. I was examining the radio, wondering if I should try to disable it, when I heard a nearby door slam.
Scurrying to the door of the room, I stood frozen, listening with my ear close to the wall.
The other person in the fort was making no attempt to be quiet, which made me feel better. He obviously thought he was very much alone. And it was just one person, close, right down the hallway.
Try as I might, I could only hear the one person, a man, opening and closing drawers, scooting something—a chair probably—across a stone floor, now slamming another door shut.
Even as I watched he came out of one of the doors and walked away from me to the stairs I had used coming up. Good thing I didn't open the door to look into his room! I got a glimpse of him crossing the courtyard, going toward the gasoline generator.
Unwilling to move, I stood there until I heard the generator start. The hum of the gasoline engine settled into a steady drone. A lightbulb above the table upon which the radio sat illuminated.
I trotted down the hallway to the room the man had come out of. I eased the door open and glanced in. Empty.
The next room was also a bedroom, also empty, so I went in and closed the door.
I was standing back from the window, watching, fifteen minutes later when the man walked out of a doorway to the courtyard almost directly opposite the room I was in, got into the Land Rover, and started it.
He drove out through the open gate trailing a wispy plume of dust. I went to another window, an outside one, and waited. In a moment I got a glimpse of the Land Rover on the road to the airport.
In the courtyard against one wall stood a water tank on legs, with plastic lines leading away to the kitchen area. I opened the fill cap and looked in. I estimated the tank contained fifty gallons of water. Apparently people using this facility brought water with them, poured it into this tank, then used it sparingly.
I stood in the courtyard looking at the water tank, cursing under my breath. The best way to kill these people would be to poison their water with some kind of delayed-action poison that would take twenty-four hours to work, so everyone would have an opportunity to ingest some. Julie Giraud could have fucked a chemist and got us some poison. I should have thought of the water tank.
Too late now.
Damn!
Before I had a chance to cuss very much, I heard a jet. The engine noise was rapidly getting louder. I dived for cover.
Seconds later a jet airplane went right over the fort, less than a hundred feet above the radio antenna.
Staying low, I scurried up the staircase to the top of the ramparts and took a look. A small passenger jet was circling to land at the airport.
I double-timed down the staircase and hotfooted it out the gate and along the trail leading to the path down to the oasis, keeping my eye on the sky in case another jet should appear.
It took me about half an hour to get back to the oasis, and another fifteen minutes to reach the place where Julie was waiting in the Humvee. Of course I didn't just charge right up to the Humvee. Still well out of sight of the vehicle, I stopped, lay down, and caught my breath.
When I quit blowing, I circled the area where the Humvee should have been, came at it from the east. At first I didn't see her. I could see the vehicle, but she wasn't in sight. I settled down to wait.
Another jet went over, apparently slowing to land on the other side of the ridge.
A half hour passed, then another. The temperature was rising quickly, the sun climbing the sky.
Finally, Julie moved.
She was lying at the base of a bush a hundred feet from the vehicle and she had an M-16 in her hands.
Okay.
Julie Giraud was a competent pilot and acted like she had all her shit in one sock when we were planning this mission, but I wanted to see how she handled herself on the ground. If we made a mistake in Europe, we might wind up in prison. A mistake here would cost us our lives.
I crawled forward on my stomach, taking my time, just sifting along.
It took me fifteen minutes to crawl up behind her. Finally I reached out with the barrel of the Model 70, touched her foot. She spun around as if she had been stung.
I grinned at her.
“You bastard,” Julie Giraud said.
“Don't you forget it, lady.”
