SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(51)
“What’s your gut say? You think Alizadeh’s on the plane?” Crocker asked.
“My gut’s not working.”
He wanted this guy so bad he could feel it in his bones. No fucking way he was going to let him slip away again, even though he wasn’t sure he was on the plane. It was a chance. A shot. That’s all you got. Bold action was always clouded with danger and uncertainty. He said, “Radio DZ and tell him and Hamid to get ready. We’re gonna need them to support us when the guards open fire.”
Akil nodded. “Whatever you say, boss.”
Crocker climbed into the cab and reached under the steering column to locate the starter wires. Access to the ignition switch involved removing the panel and cover around the ignition tumbler, which was directly below the lock. He located the wires and stripped the ends, then looked up as Akil hopped in the passenger-side door.
“What?” Akil asked, reading the uncharacteristic uncertainty on Crocker’s face.
Crocker whispered, “We’d better wait.”
“Wait for what? A miracle? An act of God?”
“That would be nice.”
A fatalistic grin spread across Akil’s wide face. “We launch now, it’s a suicide mission, which I’m okay with if that’s what you choose. But we gotta hope some vestal virgins are waiting for us.”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.…”
“Think hard.”
Crocker twisted the ends of the two red wires together. “When I give the signal, you touch these to the end of this one,” he said, pointing to the brown ignition wire.
“You want me to drive?” Akil asked.
“Yeah, you’re driving. I’m gonna hide on top of the tank.”
“I wish we had a Blackhawk about now, armed with Hellfire missiles,” Akil whispered.
“And I wish I was Superman.”
They sat in the stillness and watched from approximately two hundred yards away as the men continued loading. When the pilot fired up the 737-300’s twin CFM56 turbofan engines, Crocker was jolted to a higher level of readiness.
The loading stopped. Someone inside the fuselage pulled the cargo doors shut. The jet engine revved higher, screaming into the night, burning into Crocker’s head, demanding that he do something fast.
The tension in the cab grew. “Now?’ Akil asked.
“Not yet,” Crocker whispered back.
He wanted to act, but the eight armed guards were still ranged in a perimeter around the trucks. Someone leaned out the cockpit window and was shouting something to one of the men on the ground. He threw him a packet. The man who caught it flashed a thumbs-up to the cockpit and ran to one of the trucks. Four guards jumped in, leaving another four standing around the jet. The trucks backed up and started to leave.
“Let’s go!” Crocker said.
Akil gritted his teeth and nodded. He shifted into the driver’s seat as Crocker opened the door and got out.
“When I slap the top of the cab, that’s the signal to launch.”
“Got it.”
“I want you to drive straight toward the jet. If the guards stop you, talk to them in Farsi. They probably won’t understand, but they might get confused and think you’re with the men flying the plane.”
“Okay.”
“See if you can get all four of the guards to come over to you. Keep your pistol ready on the seat. I’m going to try to take out as many as I can.”
“Then what?”
“Then you take out the rest and we stop the plane.” At the very least it was an illegal flight carrying Iranians holding Venezuelan passports and trying to leave under cover of night.
“Sounds like fun.”
“Start the engine, now!” Crocker said.
He scurried up the ladder and lay belly down on the front of the cylindrical tank. The trucks that had carried the drugs were gone. All that remained was the jeep, the 737, which was in the process of swinging its nose toward the runway, and four AK-47–wielding guards who were backing away from the jet.
Crocker reached out and slapped the cab of the tanker. Akil put it in gear. The truck lurched forward, and Crocker held on.
He was trying to fix the location of the guards, but the powerful wing lights on the 737 blinded him. He thought he heard shots above the noise of the grinding truck engine and the whine of the jet.
Hamid and DZ?
As the truck picked up speed, a hot wind hit his face, causing his eyes to water. The gunfire was coming from his left, somewhere in the high grass, maybe near the road where they had parked. What was transpiring there, he didn’t know.
He had to focus on what was in front of him—the jet, the jeep, and the armed men. The tanker truck was now sixty feet from them. He heard Akil shouting out the window in Farsi and waving. One of the guards fired into the air. Akil slammed on the brakes and the tanker screeched to a stop. Crocker had to hold on with all his strength to prevent being thrown forward over the hood.