Clark took a hack on his watch, a seemingly indestructible Victorinox analog. Fortunately, the timers on the mines were digital—a vast improvement from the mechanical egg timers he’d used during his early days as a SEAL, which were wildly unpredictable.
Moments later, Wu and Bauer dove into position beside Clark and Charlie. The graded gravel shoulder provided a two-foot ridge above the surrounding terrain, decent cover as long as they stayed low. Clark looked across the road and couldn’t see Ding and the others. The hardpan earth looked hopelessly flat in the moonlight, but they’d somehow found concealment.
The headlights grew more intense, and soon Clark could distinguish between the three vehicles. He alternated between his NODs and a naked-eye view.
“No other cars in sight,” Charlie said, her SIG poised and her eye scanning through the optic.
“That’s a good thing.”
“Looks like the GAZ is in front,” she added.
“I’d rather it was in the middle so we could box it in, but you get what you get.”
The headlights became brighter, more defined. Clark kept checking his watch. If anything, he had called it too close. If the mines went off after the convoy passed, their only option would be to unleash on the tires and drivers, and hope that was enough to stop them.
“Should have set the timer to a minute forty,” he muttered.
“Maybe so,” she said, checking her own watch.
Half a mile out, Clark heard the engines, the big diesel of the GAZ dominating.
Half a mile, thirty-five seconds to go, Clark thought.Shit!“If the truck gets past the mines,” he called out, “open up!”
“Next time we should put a reference on the mines,” Charlie said. “A stick or something, so we know exactly where they are.”
He glanced over at her. Her eye was locked behind her glass and she was grinning.
“Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Next time.”
Clark shouldered his rifle.
The sound of the big diesel shook the night as it closed in on the IEDs. Clark no longer checked his watch. His attention was absolute. He felt a brush of wind on his left cheek. Instinct advised a minor crosswind correction, but at this range it hardly mattered.
The GAZ reached the mined portion of the road. Nothing happened. Clark’s reticle centered on the truck’s side window. His finger was pressuring the trigger when two explosions rocked the night.
27
Turkey/Georgia Border
2305 Local Time
The blasts came no more than two seconds apart, dual flashes violating the darkness. Chunks of pavement and dirt flew into the sky, and the sound was thunderous.
The big GAZ disappeared momentarily, lost in the brilliant flare and clouds of flying debris. Then it reappeared, its boxlike cab emerging from the maelstrom like a freight car on fire.
It didn’t stop.
Clark shifted aim, locking on the front tires and adding a slight lead for the high rate of movement. He sent ten rounds flying. The others around him instinctively did the same, desperate to stop their primary target—the one that they believed held John Conza. He saw sparks as bullets pinged off the wheel and surrounding fender.
Still the truck kept going.
They’d surely scored hits on the tires, with no effect. That told Clark they were dealing with a military version of the GAZ—run-flat tires with reinforced sidewalls. 7.62-millimeter rounds weren’t going to stop it.
He shifted left and saw better news. The Mercedes SUV and sedan, a Ford as it turned out, screeched to a stop just short of the twin blasts. The drivers could have no idea how badly the road was damaged. Both came to rest amid a swirl of smoke and debris.
That put them squarely in the kill zone.
Clark opened up on the driver’s-side windshield of the Mercedes. Doors flew open and men began pouring out. The hail of gunfire was withering, and half the occupants were cut down before they reached cover behind quarter panels.
