Chapter 30
Turkey/Georgia Border
“That was uneventful,” Ding commented.
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Clark replied.
They had just flown into Georgian airspace, the dimly lit border checkpoint sliding past the port-side window. Wheeler and Ross were monitoring the radios closely. So far, no alarms had been raised.
Clark returned to the cargo hold, where the rest of the team was waiting.
“Here’s the scoop,” he said. “We are now in Georgian airspace. Our external lights are off, the moonlight is minimal, and our transponder is off. That’s about as silent as we can run.”
“The pilots aren’t talking to air traffic control?” Bauer asked.
“They didn’t initiate contact, but they’re monitoring the radios passively.
Wheeler said the controllers might see a primary radar return, a few pings here and there, but this isn’t exactly a hot border.
With any luck, we’ll be in and out before anybody realizes we’re here and has a chance to react.
We’ve got a good track on the GAZ, and right now we’re in a tail chase.
According to the latest intel, odds are high that it’s headed for the Russian border. ”
“Time to intercept?” Ding asked.
“We should overtake it in ten to twelve minutes…which means we need a plan right now.”
Charlie said, “I think we have to ask the question, why did they take Conza to begin with?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Clark. “The most logical answer is that they want to interrogate him—find out who’s hunting them and learn what we know. Aside from that, as a United States naval officer JC would have intelligence value.”
The fact that no one cracked a joke to that setup reflected the tense mood.
“I hate to say it,” Hyori said, “but he is also now acting as a shield.”
“That he is,” Clark agreed. “Which means we’ve got some decisions to make.
We are presently operating illegally in a country that is, in the big strategic scheme of things, marginally hostile toward the United States.
Our objective is to rescue a hostage being held in a heavy moving vehicle, and if we can manage it, recover hardware that has significant intelligence value.
It goes without saying, time on the ground has to be kept to a minimum.
” He checked his watch. “We’ve got eight minutes to come up with a way to pull this off. Ideas?”
Wu, whose calf wound had been cleaned and bandaged by Hyori, said, “We’re out of limpet mines, so that’s not an option.”
Ding said, “That wasn’t exactly a smashing success the first time around. The obvious method would be a replay—land ahead of the GAZ and set up a better ambush.”
“I see one problem with that,” Charlie argued. “Our best chance of stopping it would be to shoot from the front quadrant, aiming for the driver. If I were to guess, they’ve got Conza in the back of the truck. There’s a significant chance he could catch a stray round or a ricochet.”
“I concur,” said Clark. “It would also take a fair amount of time to set up. We’d have to get way out ahead, land the plane, and scout out a good position.”
Ding said, “I have a better idea.” This got everyone’s attention.
“If a sniper could take out the driver from the side, say ninety degrees off, it would minimize the risk to Conza. A truck like this GAZ is as basic as they get—I know because I’ve driven one.
They’re big and unstable. As soon as the driver’s foot comes off the accelerator and he stops steering, the thing will slow down and be in the nearest ditch before anybody else can react. ”
“I’ve driven a GAZ as well,” said Bauer. “You’re right, it’s a battle—the steering is always pulling either left or right.”
Clark said, “I see two problems with that idea. First of all, while I would never be one to cast aspersions on your superior marksmanship, hitting a target from a square ninety that’s moving at sixty-something miles an hour would be a challenge for anybody.
On top of that, I don’t see how it saves any time.
We’d still have to land and set up in multiple positions. ”
Ding grinned broadly. “Who said anything about landing?”
—
“You want to do what?” Wheeler bellowed.
The aircraft commander had so far not balked at any of Clark’s requests.
He had landed on public roads, flown near known SAM threats, and crossed a border without authorization.
At the outset, on the long flight from Bodrum, Clark had chatted Wheeler up, learning that he’d been flying clandestine missions for the best part of six years.
Africa, the Middle East, the Philippines.
He was the real deal, and Ross, his copilot, was also seasoned, her own upgrade to aircraft commander imminent.
When Ding outlined his idea for stopping the GAZ, however, they both looked at him as if he was asking them to dogfight a pterodactyl.
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Ding said. “You can lower the aft ramp during flight, right?”
“Sure,” Wheeler said, “we do it all the time for jumps and airdrops.”
“Then it’s simple. Lower the ramp, I set up to shoot, and you fly past the GAZ as low and slow as possible. Our relative speeds won’t be much different, so I’ll have an easy sight picture.”
“What’s the slowest you can fly?” Clark asked.
“With the flaps all the way out, a little over eighty knots.”
“That would cut the overtake to twenty-something miles an hour.”
“How low do want to be?” Ross inquired. She, too, had been on board with the mission so far, but the hesitancy in her voice was clear.
“The lower, the better,” Ding replied. “I need to get a good look at the driver through the side window.” He explained the benefits of shooting across the cab as opposed to firing from the front. “I might be able to get two shots off, but if you get me close enough one should do it.”
“And what then?” Ross asked.
Clark said, “If we take out the driver, we’re pretty sure this truck will go off the road before anybody can react. You could have us configured for landing as we make the approach, right?”
“Yeah, the flaps and gear would already be out to fly that slow.”
“Then you land immediately and we run over and finish the job.”
Clark could see wheels turning in the skipper’s head. Which was good. He wanted to challenge the plan from every conceivable angle.
“Vicki would have to fly,” Wheeler said. “The driver will be on the truck’s left, so we have to pass on that side. She’ll have a better look out her side window.”
It was a good point, Clark thought, and one he hadn’t considered.
“I’m up for it,” she said.
“Our engines make a lot of noise,” said Ross. “What if they hear us coming?”
“I’ve driven a GAZ,” Ding replied. “It’s like riding in a rock crusher. Noise from the engine and transmission drown out everything. But after one or two shots we will lose the element of surprise. To make them count, I’d need you to keep the airplane as stable as possible.”
“Down that low there’s always a little turbulence.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect, just do your best.”
They began working out details. In principle the plan was simple. In execution it was laden with complications. After two minutes, Clark was satisfied. He liked the plan, perhaps because it came with an edge of unpredictability. More likely, because nobody had a better idea.
“I see them,” Ross said. She was flying now, her night vision optics directed forward. “Three miles. I’ll start slowing.”
Ding turned toward the back. After a few steps, Clark put a hand on his shoulder to corral him. Out of earshot of the others, he asked, “You really think you can do this?”
“Are you asking as my commander or as the grandparent of my son?” It rarely came into play downrange that Ding was married to Clark’s daughter, Patsy.
“Both, I guess.”
Ding gave a big thumbs-up. “I got this, Mr. C.”
“Okay…give it your best shot.”
—
A twenty-millimeter wrench. A half-liter can of oil. A pair of wire strippers. One massive roll of duct tape.
That was what Conza had to work with. He’d spent ten minutes squirming around the greasy floor, searching for anything he could use as a weapon.
Every movement was agony, the beating they’d given him truly settling in.
Swelling reaching its high point, blood pooling, endorphins wearing off.
It forced limitations, but none that were debilitating.
Conza was facing pain, but pain could be endured.
It could also be a motivator.
The cargo area was dark, and that worked in his favor for not drawing attention.
The flip side was that surveying the junk-strewn floor of the truck had been a challenge.
His tactile sense turned out to be the most valuable.
He’d groped around as far as his arms could reach, pushing aside spent food containers, wire fragments, and oily rags.
Conza had little to show for his effort.
The wrench might be useful if he could get close enough to take a swing at somebody’s head.
He’d stuffed that in his hip pocket, the dull steel handle protruding.
The idea of starting a fire with the oil had come and gone quickly.
He had no ignition source and motor oil wasn’t particularly volatile.
It would probably be a self-defeating scheme anyway—setting fire to one’s prison cell was rarely a path to victory.
The only true weapons he’d seen were in front.
There were two assault rifles on the floor near the passenger seat in the cab, and Boss Man was carrying a holstered Glock.
As things stood, there was no way to get close to any of them without someone noticing.
The geometry remained the same. The driver and Boss Man were still up front, with Beanie and Neck Tat sitting on the crate behind them.
Everyone’s attention was directed forward, and he noted no particular tension. All of that was in his favor.
Conza did his best to keep his legs locked together as if they were still bound.
In the darkness it would take a hard look for anyone to notice he’d freed them.
He tried to forward-think what opportunities might arise, but without knowing the intentions of his captors it was hard to figure.
Taking him as a hostage, he was sure, had been purely opportunistic, and he saw only two possible end games.
First was that he would be handed over to the mastermind of this plot when they arrived wherever they were going.
That meant more questioning, more duress.
But any way Conza looked at it, it was better than the other option.
He wondered again about the explosions and gunfire he’d heard earlier.
Who had been behind that? He wondered what Katie was doing right now.
She surely knew that the Black Hawk had gone down, and also that he’d gone missing.
It wasn’t out of the question that someone in D.C. was tracking the GAZ at that moment.
Conza looked up at the metal ceiling and imagined a satellite hundreds of miles overhead. He hoped to hell it wasn’t just wishful thinking.
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