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The strained but polite voice of Jeremy quickly comes back.
“It seems we have about two dozen hostiles chasing us.”
“Zulu One—”
I hear the rattle of gunfire.
“Chat with you later,” he says. “Quite busy now.”
I turn and Santiago and Jordan stare at me.
“The Brits are in trouble,” I say. “They’ve made contact with about two dozen bad guys.”
“Shit,” Jordan says.
Santiago says, “I thought this place was relatively safe. Boss?”
I motion with my left hand, though something dark and heavy has started growing in my chest. “We keep moving.”
About ten minutes later, Jeremy comes back on. In a louder voice he says, “I’m afraid the buggers have us pinned down at the moment.”
I can hear gunfire in the background.
I swear, trying to remember our location in the mountains and where the Brits might be after leaving their shooting spot. “Hold tight,” I say. “We’re on our way.”
“No, don’t do it,” says Jeremy. “Trust me…you won’t get here in time. Ollie! That bastard over there!”
I hear the loud sound of a three-round burst.
“Good shot,” Jeremy yells. Then his radio cuts out again.
Move along,I think,move along.My mouth is dry and I’m terribly thirsty, but I know that no amount of water will help. I’m thinking of the MI6 crew and how they’re my responsibility, my job to lead, and now they’re in the middle of an ambush.
The rocky trail gets wider, and in my mind’s eye I know what’s about to appear. The CIA does a lot of things wrong but a number of things right, including a detailed briefing of the mission and whatever might be of interest in the area of our operation. The trail is going to curve to the right; then, in a wide portion of a narrow wadi, there will be a stealth helicopter from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Air Regiment, ready to pick us all up.
I have full faith in the crew of famed Night Stalkers to get us out safely.
But there’s one gigantic rub in all this.
Our rendezvous time is 9:00 a.m.—0900, if you prefer—and if we’re not aboard that beautiful, Sikorsky-made escape vehicle by 9:05, it’s going to lift off without us.
I check my watch again.
It’s 8:53 a.m.
We’ve got plenty of time.
These three here, I think. As for the Brits…
“Zulu Lead!” comes the loud voice in my left ear.
I skid to a halt, nearly falling over among the sharp rocks and gravel.
“Zulu One, go,” I say.
I hear his harsh breathing, hear the gunshots growing louder.
Oh, God.
