The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [3]
While the militants screamed back and forth to one another in Arabic - not Kurdish? - Jason brought out his Vectronix binoculars and scanned the two enemy positions. The device’s laser automatically calculated GPS coordinates while recording live images on to its micro-sized hard drive.
Dipping beneath the hillock, he flipped open a laminated field map to verify the correct kill box on the grid. From his vest pocket he fished a sat-com that looked nearly identical to a civilian cell phone. He placed a call to the airbase at Camp Eagle’s Nest, north of Kirkuk. A barely perceptible delay followed by a tiny digital chirp confirmed that the transmission was being securely encrypted, just before the command operator responded with the first authentication question: ‘Word of the day?’
He pressed the transmitter button. ‘Cadillac.’
Chirp. Delay.
‘Colour?’
Chirp. Delay.
‘Magenta.’
Chirp. Delay.
‘Number?’
Chirp. Delay.
‘One-fifty-two.’
Pause. Chirp.
‘How can I help, Google?’
Even under fire, Jason had to smile. He’d earned his new nickname a few months ago, after joining the boys at the air-base for a drink-while-you-think version of Trivial Pursuit. Jason had circled the game board and filled his pie wheel without ever cracking open a beer. The other players weren’t as fortunate, but maybe that was their intention. Obtuse facts - ‘things no self-respecting 29-year-old should know’ - were Jason’s forte. What he wouldn’t do to have that beer right now …
‘We’re low on ammo. Copy,’ Jason reported loudly over the persistent rat-a-tat-tat-tat in the background. ‘Nine militants pinned down. Some light artillery. Need a gunship ASAP.’ He provided the operator with the kill box and INS coordinates. ‘Have the pilot call me on approach.’
‘Roger. I’ll have Candyman there in four minutes.’
Noting the time on his no-frills wristwatch, he slid the sat-com back into his vest and mopped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve.
He needed to make sure that the others weren’t too close to the intended strike zones.
First he glanced over to Jam, who was now a good fifteen metres further up the slope, curled up in a gulch, cursing at his weapon’s stuck slide bolt. Vulnerable, but he was adequately covered.
Along the roadway at the hill’s base, Camel was still dug in behind a felled, bullet-riddled Arabian one-humper. For the past few months, former marine sniper Tyler Hathcock had shared a strange - at times, disturbing - bond with the beast, which, coupled with his preferred cigarette brand, helped to inspire his nickname. Earlier, Camel had used the beast as a decoy by riding it bareback down the narrow roadway to block the approaching enemy convoy. When the ambush began, he’d been trapped in the open. So he’d dismounted, shot his humped buddy through the ear and used it as a surprisingly effective shield.
Crazy bastard.
Not far from Camel’s position, he spotted Dennis Coombs - dubbed ‘Meat’ for his imposing stature that was pure Oklahoma farm boy muscle - still pinned down behind the severely strafed Toyota pickup that had been the convoy’s lead vehicle. In the driver’s seat was the slumped body of an Arab male, back of the head blown open, brain matter and gore smeared throughout the cabin, compliments of Jason’s opening three rounds delivered from fifty metres to the mark’s left eye.
Behind the Toyota were three more trucks left abandoned by the enemy. Eight dead Arabs littered the ground around them. Bobbing in and out of view over the hood of the second truck was the red turban marking Jason’s last man, Hazo. The 42-year-old Kurd acted as the unit’s eyes and ears: translator, facilitator, go-to man. Hazo was simultaneously their best asset and worst liability, since, like most Kurdish Christians, he refused to handle a weapon. All brain, no brawn - but a helluva a nice guy. Jason guessed that Hazo was in the fetal position reciting a few novenas. If he didn’t move, he’d be perfectly safe.