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Rapp dropped down next to him, while McGraw went to the fence and began bending back a flap of chain link. When Rapp looked over at the injured man, he saw that he’d given all he had. Now that cover was no longer necessary, his eye had drifted from the glass and his bearded cheek was propped on the butt of his rifle.
Rapp rolled him aside and took over, using the thermal scope to cut through the smoke and scan for threats. The snap of links being severed behind him was comforting, but he’d have liked the rhythm to be a little faster. The sooner he could put Syria in the rearview mirror, the better.
He spotted two shapes that were a little too well defined to beartifacts of the smoke and adjusted his rifle to center them in his scope. A few seconds later, he’d confirmed that he was tracking two shooters moving in front of the building.
“I have two contacts crossing the new section from west to east. Are they members of our team?”
All responses suggested that they weren’t.
“Wick, can you see these guys?”
“Not yet.”
“Roger that. They’re headed toward you and the gate area. Probably just looking for an exit. Don’t engage them unless you have to. There’s no reason to give away your position if they’re just looking to run.”
“Understood.”
A moment later, Bruno appeared and began dragging the unconscious Arab toward the fence. “We’ve got a hole, Mitch.”
“Okay,” Rapp said, keeping his scope trained on the two men. “Get him out of here. I’ll catch up.”
“We’re in position,” Bruno McGraw said over the comm.
“On my way,” came Scott Coleman’s immediate reply.
They had traded off carrying the injured man in order to maximize their speed and it was currently Rapp’s turn. His deteriorating knee felt like it had a hot dagger in it, but they were making good time over the open terrain. The glow of the burning facility was a half mile back and all their men were clear of it. They’d melt into the desert and wait for extraction by locals getting paid enough to do the job and keep their mouths shut. After, it would just be a matter of smuggling them out of the country and putting them on a flight home. That would take a little time, though. Based on his experience in Israel, it made sense to proceed with caution.
The chopper became audible to the south before creating a silhouette against the stars. Dust kicked up with the force of a sandblaster, but Rapp ran straight into it. He deposited the man inside as Bruno and his Arab comrade provided cover against threats that likely weren’t there.The aircraft was on the ground less than ten seconds before they were all loaded and arcing west.
“I have eyes on our people,” Coleman said over their headsets.
Joe Maslick opened the aircraft’s doors as they pulled into hover and descended to within fifteen feet of the Mediterranean. Rapp could see the lights of Cyprus in the distance and the scent of the sea became overwhelming as the rotors kicked up a salty mist. It was a beautiful night that Aleksandr Semenov wasn’t enjoying. He seemed almost catatonic, barely resisting when Rapp unbuckled him from his seat and once again threw him into space. The dark water swallowed him for a few seconds before his life jacket forced him back to the surface.
With no better option, McGraw and Maslick dragged their injured comrade out with them, each holding one of his arms as they fell. Rapp watched as two frogmen took charge of their casualty and then he motioned to the last man in the chopper to jump. A few moments later, everyone but Semenov was swimming toward a cigarette boat rocking in the chop created by the Mi-24’s rotors.
“I’m out,” Rapp said into his headset before sweeping it from his head and jumping. When he was clear, Coleman began sideslipping away from the boat. At about one hundred yards, he backed off the power and put the helicopter into the water. He escaped the cockpit without any problems and started swimming toward the boat.
Rapp climbed into the craft and looked back, spotting Semenov bobbing about thirty feet off the starboard bow.
“Get in!” Rapp shouted.
“I won’t!” the Russian shouted back.
Coleman swam by him, maintaining a solid clip considering the swells. Less than a minute later, he was on board, uninjured and wearing the same toothy grin he always did when he got to crash or blow something up.
“It’s a long way to shore,” Rapp yelled, pointing east. “But if you want to do it, Syria’s that way.”
He signaled to the pilot, who eased the throttle forward.
“Wait!” Semenov shouted, and the engines wound down again.
“Wait for what?”
It didn’t take long for the Russian to reel through his nonexistent alternatives and begin swimming toward the boat.
CHAPTER 47
NEARAGROS
