Chapter 44
the Control Center...
"Da'reek Raheen!" Yusuf cried aloud, laughing as the older man appeared on one of the monitors. "See!" He pointed. "It is he."
Ginge rolled his chair over to the bank of monitors and smiled at the young man's glee. "Watch the other pictures," he said in Pashtun. "See which one he appears on next."
"I should be with him...." The young Afghan sadly shook his head. "The Rumi-Khan will not be pleased that I have abandoned his friend.... It will shame me."
Upstairs...
Following a cluster of asbestos wrapped pipes, Derek found himself in the kitchen. Its pantry was well stocked with food... canned and dried... spices, cheeses, bags of rice, like those downstairs.... Cooking pans hung on the walls. Dead roaches and rat droppings had been swept into a corner behind the door. Then most welcome discovery of all... a decent First Aid box, equipped with sterile bandages, gauze, some over-the-counter drugs... with instructions in a variety of languages... Arabic, Hindi, Russian, Chinese, even English. "Goot," he muttered to himself. He'd return for this.... Nick and Ginge needed rest.... "They're not up to traveling... and won't be for a while," he cautioned himself. All this would tide them over nicely if they could find a safe place to hole up... until he could contact Ian and tell him to launch his "extraction".
He touched a kettle that sat on a counter. It was warm... very warm... and it wasn't on the burner. He touched the burner as well. It was hot. Someone had recently used it.... A chill settled in the precept's stomach... someone who must be nearby. Please, God, he thought, glancing around, let it be one of those we've already killed.
Working his way along the silent, grey corridor, Hasmit checked each of the rooms. All were empty... nothing but dust bins. A few had windows, all broken that let the cold in. He growled in frustration... nothing... no sign of any enemy.... Had the cowards run?... Or had they never been here?
He felt a brush of air against his cheek... and turned.... A sledgehammer fist slammed into his temple. Sparks exploded through his brain. The barrel of a gun rested against his right eye.... He never heard the explosion or felt the bullet that ended his life.
the Control Center...
A single shot echoed through the complex. Ginge and Nick exchanged uneasy glances. "One of our guys shootin'?" Ginge wondered aloud.
"No... Hasmit!..." Yusuf cried out, as one of the cameras slowly panned across a still figure lying in a growing pool of blood. From the camera's angle and location, only a portion of the head and a hand that still gripped a knife could be seen. Then, as the camera panned back towards the opposite corridor, the body disappeared out of frame.
"Maybe not, laddie," Ginge said hopefully.
"No.... It was Hasmit," the boy insisted, looking at the empty hallway, displayed in black and white. "Go back!" he yelled at the distant camera.
Upstairs...
Derek flattened himself against the wall.... The shot had echoed around the complex. In this maze of concrete corridors and stairways, steel pipes and catwalks, it was impossible to tell where the sound had come from... much less who had fired the gun. He held his knife close and continued to quietly check each door he passed.
Finally, knowing that he should soon meet Hasmit, he edged around the corner. His heart sank, even as his adrenalin surged. There lay the Afghan, face down in a pool of blood. Above him, beside an open door, blood and pink gelatin splattered the wall.
The precept gently pushed the door aside and looked in on another stairwell. All was empty and silent. The air was cold and dank. He then knelt down beside the body, felt for a pulse, but already knew there would be none. With one hand, he pulled Hasmit over onto his back.
"Dear God...," he murmured, looking at what had once been a face, remembering what had been a quick, wry grin... white teeth shining in a black, bushy beard.
Suddenly, Derek's "Sight" screamed a warning. He half-turned to catch a glimpse of a dark figure diving towards him. The man's weight and momentum smashed the precept to the floor, driving the air from his lungs. His head hit the concrete... hard. His knife flew from his hand and skidded across the corridor to clang against the opposite wall.
White light exploded before his eyes, followed by colored speckles bursting in the darkness. In panic, his brain grasped at consciousness, fought to hold on. Through the pain-filled haze, he saw a the glint of metal drive downwards towards his throat. Instinctively, he raised an arm to protect himself, felt the burn of a blade as it sliced his forearm just below the elbow. The white-hot pain brought him back from the abyss.
The man was heavy, strong. He used his weight as a weapon... to pin the precept to the floor, as he still fought to plunge the knife downward. Derek struggled... both hands against the hand that gripped the dagger. The man's other hand grappled for the precept's throat. This was the one-eyed bastard that had hurt Nick. Derek tried to kick out, but couldn't raise his legs. He twisted, turned, trying to break the man's hold... to force him off balance. He raised his head, bared his teeth, and bit into the man's wrist. He let go with one hand and thrust his fingers towards the man's one good eye. It was a move that nearly cost the precept his life. The knife drove downward. A knee smashed into Derek's groin. He gasped as waves of agony rolled through his body. His muscles were no match for this man's ox-like strength.... Never in a million years... even at the peak of his youth... could he have equaled this man. He couldn't win... not this way. Think Rayne!... Think!
Their eyes locked. Derek saw the fiery hatred that lay in that one dark eye. It was a look he knew well. There was the man's weakness... hatred.... He fought with emotion.... How to exploit that?
"Do you know how we sent the Russian bastards home?... We... cut off their hands... for stealing Moslem land... blinded them for looking at our women... castrated them... shoved their pathetic dicks down their throats. When I've finished with you... you'll pray for that end. You're the one I want... old man.... You're here for those boys.... You're the one with the information I need."
Surprised by the English, Derek could think of no retort. His whole mind was focused on holding that knife at bay. "Go to hell!" he spat. Again his "Sight" screamed a warning.... Someone's coming! "Be ready... Rayne!" he told himself. "You'll only get one chance."
His opponent heard the footsteps pounding down the corridor. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at the sight of his own men.
As he twisted his body and shifted his weight to look back, the pressure on Derek's left side was momentarily eased. His blind eye was towards the precept. Derek's hand snaked down to his pocket, found his gun, and pointed the barrel towards the body that pinned him to the floor. He squeezed the trigger. Pain seared along his hip as the bullet exploded towards his enemy's stomach.
The man gasped; his body jerked upwards and back. Derek's fist, clutching the gun, escaped his pocket. He saw a flicker of recognition in the one eye as the man realised that he had lost. Derek once more pulled the trigger and sprayed his enemy's brains out the back of his skull.
The lifeless body jerked backwards, then dropped forward... a "dead weight," pinning the precept. Derek heard the men's shouts. Bullets whistled by, ricocheting off the floor and walls. Rolling, he used the corpse as a shield. He felt the body jump as a bullet thumped into its side. He fired around it, then caught a glimpse of one of the men... and fired at a range of less than ten feet. In slow motion, he saw the man die. Where were the others? How many?
A shadow fell over the precept's face. He turned his head, looked upward, and saw a the muzzle of a gun pointed down at his back. He waited for the agony of the bullet, smashing into his spine.
A shot cracked. Derek flinched, felt something strike the side of his head, then realized he was unhurt. In surprise, he saw the man behind him drop to his knees, clutching his throat as blood welled between his fingers.
Masruq stepped forward, smoking gun in his hand, the customary smirk across his face. "OK!"
Derek took a deep breath, disentangled himself, and allowed the tribesman to pull him shakily to his feet. He looked down at Hasmit, then at the other dead men. It had all happened so fast.
the Control Center...
Another shot echoed, followed by a burst of gunfire that reverberated along the concrete corridors and stairwells. Static replaced the image on the monitor.
"I must go." Yusuf pushed back his chair and bolted for the doorway. "I should be with my friends... with Da'reek Raheen," he said, opening the door, allowing the roar of the turbines in.
"No!" Even though he'd not understood a word other than Derek's name, Nick knew what the young man was thinking. He fought down his own fears. He had to trust in Derek... the Derek Rayne who had made it this far.... He'd be OK.... Please God... let him be OK.
"Derek told you to stay here.... We've got a job to do here.... We do it!" Ginge shouted at the young man.
Yusuf stopped. The Englishman was right.... He had to obey the mystic.... If he left, these two would be helpless... and these two men were why Da'reek Raheen had come from a place so far away.... Why he had risked his life and put himself through such misery. He thumped the door frame in anger and turned back.
A shot whistled by the boy's head and buried itself in the wall.
"Shit!" Ginge grabbed his gun. Ignoring the agony in his feet, he dove forward and dragged the young Afghan to the floor as a spray of bullets thudded above their heads.
Nick shot out the light bulb that dangled from the ceiling, then belly crawled towards the door. "Thank God these walls were plastered," he whispered. "Without all this insulation, we'd have had bullets bouncing off the concrete... round this room like a damned pinball machine."
"See 'em?" Ginge asked.
The SEAL was about to shake his head when a figure darted forward, running a zig-zag pattern from the stacks of crates towards one of the huge, round turbines. He pulled the trigger of his AK-47 and the spray of bullets jerked the man backwards. His body lay twitching, dead before he hit the ground. Nick craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the catwalks above, but could see no movement up there, in the darkness.
At almost the same moment, Ginge spotted another man creeping from the other direction. He fired, but watched his target scuttle back, unharmed. "Bollocks!" he swore. "How many?" he asked, searching the shadows between the great machines.
"They aren't rushing us.... They're staying back.... I'll bet there's only a couple of 'em," Nick reasoned. "Maybe three.... With all that racket out there, they expected to surprise us. I think if there were more... somebody'd be up there...." He nodded his head toward the steel walkways. "...taking potshots down at us."
Unable to follow the conversation, Yusuf took a quick look around the doorjamb. "I can get to that machine... there...." he told Ginge, as he pointed to the turbine on their left. "It will give me cover... to the ladder. Those pipes shield the ladder.... I can try to get up... behind them."
Ginge translated for Nick. "It might work," the SAS man seconded. "We can give him covering fire.... Just spray the place... keep the bullets bouncing. It'll keep their heads down... but first, we gotta be sure where they are."
Nick glanced around their cramped room. "Ginge... see that god-awful hat Derek was wearin'?... Throw it here."
The Brit grinned as he tossed the cap. "Does kinda look like a Scottie's tam.... Hope he's not too fond of it.... Still... considering what he's wantin' us to wear...."
"Yeah.... Ready?..." On the barrel of his rifle, Nick eased the cap towards the open doorway, then flinched back, as slugs tore through the karakuli.
"Mark 'em?" Ginge asked. "My guy's still over there... two o'clock.... Another's firing from dead ahead... twelve o'clock... behind those crates."
"OK...," Nick said with a sigh, not liking the idea of risking the boy's life. "Tell Yusuf... on the count of three... we fire.... You take your guy.... I'll do the other.... Then, while we splatter the place, he runs like crazy. Tell him to stay low and zig-zag."
"One... two... three...." The two soldiers sprayed the target locations with bullets, and watched with satisfaction as Yusuf reached the turbine safely.
"How much ammo you got?" Ginge asked, counting his own clips.
"Not enough...." Nick smiled. "...but we got the boy out.... No point trying to drag this out.... Let's keep 'em busy.... Give him a chance"
The SAS man returned his smile as he loaded his ammo clip. "There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight.... On three?"
"Ooo-yah!" Nick shouted.
Yusuf scurried round the turbine and reached the foot of the ladder. He had no worries about being quiet.... The roar of these machines was deafening... and those mad foreigners were using all their bullets at once, creating a terrible clatter. He jumped, pulled himself up, and slid towards the right rail. Hidden by the vertical pipes, he climbed rapidly. Within moments, he'd found a good vantage point. He clearly saw the first gunman and knew he'd have to shoot him in the back. Young as he was, Yusuf realized that such was war. Honor in face to face combat was one thing... this was another. He took careful aim, squeezed the trigger, and watched the man die.
The second man looked around in panic, searching for the shooter. He failed to spot the youngster high above, but knew his position was vulnerable. After firing a few shots towards the darkened doorway, he called out to a companion, who had remained hidden amongst the oil drums. Then both men ran low, straight paths toward the corridor.
"Ginge!" Nick called out seeing the movement in the shadows. "Ten o'clock!"
"Got 'im," the SAS man confirmed, squeezing the trigger. He saw his man
perform a macabre dance as the bullets struck. "I don't miss twice!" From above,
another single shot caught the second man square in the chest. "And I don't think that
kid misses at all."
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