Chapter 28
Turkey/Georgia Border
Wheeler and Ross spotted the signal flare at the same time.
The holding pattern they were flying was little different from the ones Delta Air Lines flew over Atlanta.
They were loitering seven miles south of the area of operations.
That put them beyond the range of shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles, but close enough to return within minutes.
Wheeler banked hard, pushed up the power, and made a beeline back to the road.
The signal had been briefed by Clark. A green flare meant return immediately and land east of the flare.
Red was an order to bug out. The aircraft had no direct voice contact with the team on the ground—the mission had been put together in a rush, and they didn’t have the right hardware—but in a crisis messages could be relayed between their respective command authorities.
So far there had been nothing on the radios, and the green flare was a good sign.
Still, the pilots were cautious. They’d watched raptly as the pyrotechnics of a serious firefight had played out. Now they would see the outcome.
The scene in Wheeler’s night vision optics was exactly what he’d hoped to see.
The team was approaching at double time, seven in all.
In the background were the hulks of two devastated vehicles.
Wheeler kept scanning the area as Ross went aft to lower the boarding ramp, and finally he realized what was missing.
Ross returned, and announced, “Ramp is secure.” She was already flipping switches.
Clark appeared right behind her, filling the opening of the flight deck door.
“Where’s the box truck?” Wheeler asked.
“Slipped past us. We have to chase it down.”
“But we’re only a few miles from the border. Won’t it have crossed into Georgia by now?”
“Probably.”
“We were given strict orders not to cross any borders.”
“And I’m giving you a stricter order to do what it takes to get our man back.”
Wheeler exchanged a cautious look with Ross.
“Look,” Clark bargained, “it’s not like Georgia is going to start shooting missiles and launching interceptors. We’re talking a few miles, tops. We find this truck, stop it, and duck back out.”
Wheeler remained frozen.
“And if that doesn’t work for you,” Clark added, “you can ride in back and I’ll fly this thing.”
Wheeler studied the big operator, wondering if he was serious. There was nothing in his expression to suggest he wasn’t.
“Mind you,” Clark said, “if I end up flying…that would be a risk multiplier for everyone.”
The major nodded slowly…because what else could he do? He reached for the throttles, pushed them forward, and soon the C-41 was back in the night sky.
—
Conza groaned as the truck rounded a bend. Every jolt from the creaky suspension, every bump and vibration brought new adventures in pain.
His ribs were the worst. At least one or two had to be broken.
Nerve pain seared up his right arm into his shoulder.
They had mostly worked him over with a two-by-four, one man battering him while the other held him upright.
The boss had looked on approvingly. He vaguely remembered being asked questions.
Even more vaguely remembered giving bullshit answers.
His head throbbed and his jaw was swollen.
Between the beating and the crash of the Black Hawk, he’d had better days.
Still, Conza couldn’t feel sorry for himself.
As they’d dragged him clear of the wreckage, he remembered seeing the Turkish crew chief splayed in the dirt.
Maybe alive, maybe not. He hadn’t gotten a look at the pilots, but the cockpit had taken the brunt of the impact.
The odds that they’d survived weren’t good.
His abductors were responsible for that crash. And another that had claimed fifteen more lives. Conza was surrounded by the saboteurs.
I’ve got ’em right where I want ’em.
The most pressing question was where they were going.
Roughly half an hour ago, he’d heard two explosions and felt the big GAZ shudder.
That was followed by a short barrage of gunfire—he’d heard the crackle of small arms, and the tap of rounds striking the truck’s chassis.
Conza knew an IED ambush when he heard one.
But it had ended quickly, the GAZ outrunning the attack.
Ever since, the four men up front had been engaged in nonstop conversation.
The optimist in him wanted to believe it had been some kind of rescue attempt.
The pessimist knew that if that was the case, it had failed.
His captors were all in front now, paying him no attention other than an occasional glance.
Beanie and Neck Tat were sitting on a crate, while Boss Man had taken the passenger seat.
The driver was still nothing more than a shoulder in a camo jacket.
Conza knew they were speaking Russian, but it might as well have been ancient Aramaic.
He spoke two languages besides English, Arabic and Farsi, courtesy of the Defense Language Institute in beautiful Monterey. Neither would help him today.
He looked down at his wrists. Since beating him unconscious, the Russians had bound his arms and legs.
He saw two implications in that, and both were positive.
First was that he wasn’t already on the road shoulder with a bullet in his head.
Second was that they were ignoring him. The question of what lay beyond that, in the next hours and days, wasn’t worth dwelling on.
His bindings were heavy-gauge plastic zip ties.
One pair was threaded tightly around his wrists and a second connected his right ankle to the lower shaft of his prosthesis.
They’d made two mistakes. First, his wrists were bound in front of him, giving Conza greater use of his hands than if they were secured behind his back.
As far as his legs went, he could forgive them their incompetence—they’d probably never taken a peg-leg pirate prisoner before.
Conza glanced up front and confirmed that nobody was looking his way.
He used the motion of the truck as cover.
With each sway and bounce he jackknifed his body at the hips, moving an inch at a time.
After three minutes, he was bent at roughly a right angle.
He extended his hands and could almost reach his ankle.
All these movements came at a cost. His ribs screamed in agony and nerve pain bolted through his shoulder. He fought through it.
The large generator-like contraption next to him took up most of the cargo bay.
It had to be the device they’d used to alter GPS signals.
He recalled the SAM launch that had taken down the Black Hawk.
Had the missile been a backup in case the spoofing attack failed?
He pushed the question away. Now wasn’t the time.
The floor creaked loudly through another hard turn. The way the speeding truck was rocking, Conza was thankful the massive device was bolted to the floor. Its sheer size was now working in his favor. It concealed the lower half of his body from the eyes up front.
Conza had recently received a new lightweight prosthesis.
It was more comfortable than the previous models he’d used, with a nice gel liner that attached securely to his upper leg.
More critically in that moment, it could be broken down—the pylon detached easily from the foot for storage.
He reached down with his bound hands, found the release button by feel, and disconnected the foot from the pylon.
He slid the zip tie off the pylon and then reattached everything.
It had all taken no more than ten seconds.
After squirming back into his beginning position, he again checked his captors. They were still talking, the tone and volume suggesting an argument. They had no idea their captive was now mobile.
Conza wasn’t sure how he would leverage that, but being able to move was a step in the right direction. The next task was to find a cutting tool to remove his wrist restraints. Maybe even a weapon. His eyes scoured the grimy floor of the compartment hoping for something.
Hoping for anything.