The Genesis Plague - Michael Byrnes [4]
Jason low-crawled further up the rise. When he peeked up to survey the enemy again, he didn’t like what he saw. Behind a formidable rock pile, three white-turbaned Arabs had unpacked a long polyethylene case they’d hauled out from the Toyota before taking off for the hills on foot. The sand-coloured weapon they were now assembling had a long fat tube with Soviet markings. A fourth man wearing a black keffiyeh was readying its first mortar shell.
‘Damn.’
Jason used his binoculars to scout the airspace above the western plain, until he found the black bird twelve klicks out over the horizon, closing in fast. Two minutes away, he guessed. He’d need to buy some time before the guys with the rocket launcher got busy.
He positioned himself behind a natural V in the rock. Not the best sight line and only the targets’ headscarves were visible … but he’d make it work. With the stock of his SVD sniper rifle nestled comfortably on his right shoulder, Jason stared through the scope and took aim at the black keffiyeh. Then he sprang up slightly until the target’s angular, bearded face panned into view.
Pop-pop-pop.
The rounds hit home and pink mist confirmed the kill.
The mortar fumbled out from the dead man’s hand, rolled out of view. The three white turbans retreated from his crosshairs as they scrambled to recover it. Jason sank back below the ridge. The sat-com vibrated in his vest pocket. He pulled it out and hit the receiver.
‘It’s Candyman. Talk to me, Google.’
‘Three targets remaining in position one … guns and an RPG. Copy.’
‘Roger. And position two?’
‘Five gunmen. Copy.’
‘You’re getting soft on me. I thought we were gonna see some real action.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, Candyman.’
After pocketing the sat-com, Jason took up his rifle and rucksack then kept moving further up the hillock, hoping to get a better angle on the white turbans. But only arms and legs occasionally came into view. With limited rounds to spare, it was headshots or nothing at all. He only hoped the men wouldn’t succeed in loading the RPG-7 before the air strike commenced.
His new vantage point did, however, let him monitor the gunmen who were pinned down in the second position: four men surrounding one tall guy in the centre. Jason swung the rifle in their direction and steadied the crosshairs over a chunky Arab who was all cheeks beneath a patchy grey beard. Patchy made an abrupt move that granted Jason a clear facial on the central figure nestled in the ring’s centre. The sinister portrait Jason captured in the crosshairs made his heart skip a beat.
‘Can’t be,’ he murmured.
That hard dark face, however, and the incredible death toll associated with it, was unmistakable. What the hell was he doing here? The visceral urge to pull the trigger was overwhelming. But if he knowingly took down terrorism’s newest most-wanted man, he’d whip up an unimaginable shit storm. Directives were black and white for a reason, he reminded himself. Not yet. Let it go. He quickly zoomed in on the face with his binoculars and recorded the images.
Snatching up the sat-com, he used the analogue walkie-talkie channel to radio the other unit members: ‘Nobody fire on position two. I repeat: hold your fire on position two.’
The thumping rotors of the AH-64 Apache were getting louder by the second. Dropping back, Jason watched the gunship sweeping in on a direct line.
A second later, the sat-com vibrated on its digital channel and he hit the receiver.
‘That you, Candyman?’
‘Roger, Google. You ready for me?’
‘Yes, but do not, I repeat, do not fire on position two. Over.’
‘Got it. How ‘bout position one?’
Jason peeked up over the rocks, saw one of the white turbans pop up then disappear. Then the rocket tube came in and out of view. No clear shot for Jason.
‘Hydras on position one. Have at it,’ Jason replied urgently.
‘Roger that. Stay low and cover your ears.’
Fifteen seconds later, the Apache was in strike range. The laser sensor on its nosecone locked on the rock pile’s GPS coordinates. An instant later, a pair of Hydra 70 missiles launched from the chopper