A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [64]
“Novinski, Quinn, IV…how many Irans down there?”
“Fifty, maybe more.”
“They’re still climbing out of the rubble. Seventy-five,” Quinn reckoned.
“I’d say fifty,” IV said.
For the first time since the mission began, Dogbreath blinked. He froze time to get the words out of him…“Dogbreath to Quinn. Fire all cluster bombs.”
The scene below became a horror of Irans being showered with hundreds of thousands of razor bits of steel and exploding ball bearings.
“Dogbreath to Cherokee. Land her as far away from those people as we can and as close to that tower as we can get.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Attention, all hands, this is Dogbreath. We are descending to land. It appears that we have neutralized our primary targets.”
The RAM people were so glad to be getting out of the SCARAB, they forgot fear for the moment. The plane touched down softly, sending up a small billow of dust. Ramp down!
“Let’s go!”
Twenty Marines poured out at high port and split off. Marsh’s squad made for the tower while Grubb set up a perimeter in front of the SCARAB. Meeting no opposition, Grubb moved his men carefully down the courtyard.
They saw the enemy! Survivors crawling out of the rubble—some fell to their knees and pleaded not to be killed while others held up white flags of surrender.
“Grubb to Dogbreath.”
“Yo.”
“I’ve got maybe forty, fifty Irans trying to surrender.”
Dogbreath grunted, about to give an order to kill them. There were no contingency plans for prisoners. Unless we take them down, they might organize for a suicide charge…a couple of lucky shots and the SCARAB could be hit in a vital spot.
“Dogbreath to Grubb. Have your people fire over their heads and advance down yard. Try to herd them back into the far end. If and only if you detect hostile gunfire or they make any gesture toward us, cut them down.”
The Marines moved their perimeter a bit farther, then a bit farther.
The raid had reached its critical moments. It was going too smoothly, Jeremiah thought. Nothing can shoot and maneuver like this! First blip. An Iranian machine-gun squad was creeping atop the west wall. Grubb ordered his night-vision, shoulderfiring TOW gunner to lay one on. He did. Out in the courtyard the Irans seemed to get the RAM communication and backpedaled.
Moment of truth.
“Dogbreath to Ropo. What’s going on?”
“Ropo, can’t talk.”
Dogbreath now tensed from the torture of not knowing if Bandar Barakat had been located and was alive.
Ropo crept up a circular staircase that must have been built for midgets. His team struggled behind him like a toy train taking a sharp curve. Muffle the fucking grunts!
Ropo’s hand reached for the next step. No step there. He patted the floor. He had reached a landing. Ropo wormed himself onto it in a sitting position, back against the wall; he held his gun at the ready and flicked on a flashlight to locate the apartment door. He felt a presence. Ropo looked up to see a fat man standing over him with a pistol a few inches from his head, and caught a glimpse of the man’s face as the flashlight was kicked from his hands. Barakat!
The man said something in Farsi.
“Barakat,” Ropo said loudly, “if you shoot me, you’re dead.”
“Israelis?” asked the fat man.
“We’re from Mars,” Ropo answered, tempted to grab Barakat’s ankles and dump him.
The conversation could be heard over the command network. Those in the SCARAB sweated. The Marine below Ropo had inched to the platform but could see next to nothing. Barakat’s uneven breath became ponderous.
“Where are your guards?” Ropo asked.
“I shot them the instant I heard the bombs.”
“Can I turn on my flashlight and talk?”
The Marine behind Ropo shined a light into Barakat’s face. Ropo slammed his forearm into Barakat’s knee, sending him crashing. He fired.
“Oh, God, no!” Duncan whispered as he heard the report of the bullet.
“We’ve got him! We’ve got him. We’ll be back in seven or eight minutes.”
Jeremiah Duncan allowed himself to decompress for the first time since receiving orders to fly to Washington.