A minute after the two helicopters passed by Court and the Syrian’s building, all was silent in their sniper’s hide. The two Typhoons neared the airport to the southeast, and both men tracked the vehicles with their optics.
Then, from nowhere, Court saw a Russian Mi-24 streak by again at his eye level, within fifty yards of the opening in the apartment’s wall. It passed by from left to right at speed, and Court could see the white helmets and black visors of the two men on the other side of the windshield.
Court tried to get his scope on one of the men, but the helo shot past the hole in the apartment wall too quickly.
The Terp said, “The transports will be on the tarmac in one minute.”
“Right. Tell Yusuf that they need to—”
Without warning an explosion on the floor below him lifted Court into the air. The Syrian flew with him; they crashed into the bathroom on their right and slammed down on the floor there.
Rusty water drained out of a pipe and onto Court’s pants. He looked around and saw the kid lying half in and half out of the bathroom on a floor that was buckled and broken.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think we’ve been spotted.”
“No shit.”
Before Court could move, another explosion hit, this time just above them. Part of the ceiling collapsed, and dust filled the air. Court assumed these were rockets from one of the Mi-24s, and he knew each helo would have dozens more where these came from.
“You have your radio?” he asked the Terp.
“It’s . . . I can’t find it.”
Court pulled his out of his chest rig and handed it over. “Tell Yusuf it’s up to them now. We can’t see the target any longer. Tell him the second vehicle has Azzam in it, but he needs to wait till the vehicle opens its hatch. If men in dark suits climb out, he needs to hit it with his rockets right then!”
The young man made the transmission, told the Carl Gustaf crew that he thought Azzam was in the rear vehicle, then grabbed his rifle.
Court climbed over the smaller man and back into the hall and put the sling of his AK over his head, and he had just started to reach for the McMillan when the dust cleared enough for him to look out into the sky near his sixth-floor room.
A single Mi-24 loomed there, and the rocket pods on its pylons emitted a blast of smoke and fire.
“Incoming!” Court screamed.
The explosion hit below them again, but the floor gave way fully now. They fell an entire story down and crashed into another apartment.
Court landed with the Syrian on top of him; his arm and face hurt, and his ears rang. He fought his way to his feet again and pulled the kid up. “You okay?”
The man was stunned, covered completely in dust, but he gave a weak thumbs-up. Court pushed him towards the exit of the apartment, mostly obscured with dust now. “Just go!” he said.
They made it to the stairwell just as another rocket salvo destroyed the apartment.
A minute later they were down at ground level. Civilians ran through the streets, a few cars raced out of the area, and a Syrian Arab Army patrol vehicle streaked down the street right next to them. Court hid his AK from the passing vehicle, then looked at the interpreter. The kid was covered head to toe in gray dust, and his weapon and backpack were missing.
He had his radio in his pocket, and both men still wore their ammunition on their chest. Court imagined the equipment had been covered by the dust, or else the passing patrol just hadn’t looked their way at all.
Court pulled the Terp back into the building and ripped off the man’s military equipment. He pulled his own chest rig and pistol holster off, but he drew his pistol and crammed it into the small of his back under his T-shirt.
The Terp began trying to raise Yusuf on the radio. After thirty seconds he said, “I think the radio is down.”
Court said, “We’ll have to read in the newspapers about what the hell happened at the Palmyra airfield.”
The Syrian stared at Court. “You . . . you are bleeding.”
Court knew blood was pouring from the cut over his ear and a new gash near his right eye. His legs were bruised from the fall. “I’m fine,” he said.
“What do we do?”
“We go.”
“Go where?”
“We’re going to the north.”
“The north?”
“There are FSA units to the north in the hills, right?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, we can’t make it back to the southeast where your base is. North is the fastest way out of here.”
* * *
? ? ?
Two blocks from the building, Court and the Terp walked as fast as they could, continuing north. The streets were surprisingly alive, even though every building Court saw was either partially or totally destroyed. It was clear civilians had been living among the rubble for some time.
Court began scanning for some sort of a vehicle, and within minutes he saw two Syrian National Defence Forces militiamen sitting on a pair of motorcycles just off the sidewalk. Court continued towards them, though the Terp grabbed him by the arm. Whispering, the Syrian said, “They are government militia.”
Court did not reply; he just pulled his arm away and continued towards them.
At fifteen feet one of the two men stepped off his bike and reached for his AK hanging from his shoulder.
Court pulled the M9 pistol from the small of his back and shot both men twice in the head. Civilians nearby raced away, disappearing back into ruined buildings.
The young man started to pick up one of the dead men’s rifles.
Court said, “Leave the AKs. We take one bike. Ride in tandem.”
The Syrian climbed on behind Court, and the American fired up the engine, racing off to the north.
* * *
? ? ?
The two men made it just two miles before Court decided the checkpoints and SAA patrols were too thick on the roads to chance, so they walked their motorcycle up a gravel driveway in a residential area on the northern side of the city. Court picked the lock of a gate to a small courtyard of a shuttered home, and they hid the bike in a shed. Here the two men waited, deciding against breaking into the house.
A bank of fog rolled into the city in the midafternoon, and Court and the Terp decided they’d attempt to take advantage of the weather. They walked the bike off the property and then rolled out of the residential neighborhood, skirting a single roadblock before leaving the city proper.
Court took the bike off-road to try to avoid further checkpoints, and north of the city he began to hit the hills of the Mazar mountain range. These were rocky, dusty land formations with no trees, a desert formation just as the hills to the south of Palmyra had been. But the tight twists and bends of the road and the high hills and low passes made for good cover from the air.
They drove for over an hour, but the fog grew so thick Court began to worry about stumbling into a roadblock or enemy patrol, so he decided they’d start looking for a place to hide for the rest of the night. In the morning they would hunt for any FSA units in the area, but both Court and the Terp assumed they’d have to travel a lot farther north before leaving the security cordon. From what Court had learned from his time with the Desert Hawks, this entire area was under the security control of the Iranians, but so far he hadn’t seen any military up in these rugged hills.
Court’s motorcycle rounded a tight turn, cresting a rise in the fog that made it impossible to see what was just thirty yards ahead, and when they straightened out and began going down again, Court reached for the brakes.
A technical was in the middle of the road, blocking it off. In back of the vehicle was a .50 caliber machine gun, with a bearded man standing behind it.
And around the vehicle and the big gun, easily another dozen fighters stood with rifles on their shoulders. It was clear they’d heard the bike approaching for some time.
Court stopped the machine totally, just twenty meters from the truck.
Court said, “Tell me these guys are FSA.”
The Terp did not reply.
“Kid? Are they Iranian?”
After several seconds the Terp said, “They’re Daesh.”
Court felt his passenger reaching for the pistol in the small of Court’s back, but Court saw all the guns on him, and he knew the outcome of any resistance.
“No. Don’t do it.”
Both men raised their hands.
* * *
? ? ?
The young Syrian FSA soldier and Court were stripped of their gear, all the way down to their T-shirts and pants; even their shoes were taken off and carted away. The men who did the frisking said little. They moved with efficiency, and as soon as he and the Terp were led off the road, Court saw why.
A long Ural truck stood behind a stone outcropping on the hill, and inside it were over a dozen men. They all looked like FSA to Court, but he wasn’t about to speak to his partner to find out for sure.