Page 40 of Enemy of My Enemy

“I fucking hate camels.”

* * *

In the old days,when men and camels moved slower, theDarb el-Arbatook forty days to traverse, from the mouth of the Nile to the edges of the interior in Chad and Niger.

With jeeps and camels, they could make their part of the journey in just a day.

The jeeps took them to the border of Egypt, where they ditched the rusty vehicles and the empty fuel cans and took to the camels through the shifting, sinking sands of the deep Sahara. They rode the camels hard, but the animals were rested and watered, and they traveled the last segment after the hottest part of the day had passed. As the sun lowered in the sky, Adam’s GPS pinged.

They had reached the area around Madigan’s landing zone.

He spread his men out, leaving the camels and their gear and taking only their weapons as they encircled the coordinates. The plane had landed in a wide wadi, a dried, ancient river bed, but it had been a rough landing. Rubber tire pieces lay scattered, and the plane had driven to its final resting place on just steel rims. The pilot, whoever he’d been, had balls of steel.

Huge swatches of desert camo netting covered the transport, and scrub kicked up from the landing had been thrown on the wings. He and his men circled above, peering down into the wadi and the covered plane. Next to Adam, Doc snapped pictures for the director.

Sergeant Coleman radioed back, saying he’d found tracks leading away from the landing zone. Lots of them. A caravan of camels, perhaps, had met the plane. They’d tried to cover their trail, but missed the edges.

Adam ordered his men down into the wadi. They held around the plane, and then his men moved in, taking up breach positions on either side of the open cargo ramp.

He counted down silently, using hand gestures, his men’s eyes fixed on him.

They stormed the cargo hold, sweeping right and left and clearing the shadows.

Nothing moved. Not even a breeze rustled the camo netting. Only their boots scuffing over metal grates and the heavy breathing of his men made any sound at all as they shuffled through the dark cargo hold, scanning the shadows.

Bullets zinged, pinging off the plane’s frame. One punctured the metal skin of the fuselage. Sunlight sliced through the darkness and Adam ducked as he dove for cover. His men whirled, covering low or leaping out of the cargo hold as bullets zipped around their heads.

“The fuck is shooting at us?” Coleman bellowed as he took up position next to Adam, trying to find the source of the gunfire.

“It’s coming from the cockpit!”

Adam’s eyes finally found the shadowy silhouette hiding in the dim reaches of the plane’s forward cabin. The sunlight barely reached the cockpit, and whoever was up there had hidden in the shadows. “Cover me.”

Coleman laid down a burst of gunfire as Adam snaked up the side of the plane’s cargo hold, hugging the metal hull until he slipped into the shadows as well. Ducking, he waited until his eyes adjusted to the near-darkness.

There. Just ahead. A man shuffling into position. Heavy mouth breathing. Whispers, just under the man’s breath that sounded like frantic prayers or pleas.

Adam raised his rifle, a compact M4, and slipped closer.

When the shooter rose to take a pot shot at Adam’s men down at the end of the cargo ramp, his body crossed the open door of the cockpit, and a perfect silhouette appeared. Adam let loose a burst of fire. Three bullets slammed into the shooter’s chest.

Grunting, the shadow fell to the side, losing his grip on his rifle. His weapon clattered to the deck.

Adam ran to him, kicking the rifle down the fuselage to Coleman and training his weapon on the downed shooter. He’d landed on his front, facedown, and Adam used his boot to kick the man over.

When he did, Adam’s eyes blew open. Strapped to the man’s chest was a vest packed with explosives, and duct-taped around that, what looked the junk drawer of a machinist’s shops. Nails, razor blades, screws, and shattered glass.

The shooter looked Adam dead in the eye and raised his hand to his chest. “Almawt li’amrika.”

Death to America.

“Go!” Adam hollered, turning and running for the cargo ramp. He waved to his men, waiting and watching for his all clear. “Go! Get the fuck down! Now!”

As he ran, he heard the first burst of the explosives igniting and felt the shake and tremble of the plane. He dove feet first as he wrapped his hands around his head and slid the last ten feet down the plane’s belly and over the open cargo ramp, where the rest of his team had ducked down in the sand.

Behind him, the top of the plane blew off, the metal hull shattering like confetti. Nails and screws tore through the plane’s body, leaving holes and dots of sunshine streaking through the interior like sunlit strings. Zings sounded, razor blades and nails embedding in the fuselage. All around, fragments of steel, copper, and scorched wiring, the innards of the transport, fell like rain on Adam and his men, dotting the sand with thumps and small craters.

The acrid taste of C4 hung heavy in the air and on the back of Adam’s tongue.