Killed in Action Page 19

  In the distance was the sound of the Daesh vehicles revving. The passenger train started up again, moving down the rails toward the Turkish border.

  McCall refolded the maps, put them into the backpack, and recalculated their position on the GPS. “As long as the moonlight doesn’t come back out, we’ve got a chance. But we’ve got to move as fast as we can.”

  “I’m good.”

  McCall nodded. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 25

  They headed due northwest for four miles, then crossed two fields and came to a rural road. McCall consulted the GPS on the chronometer, correcting their course, until out of the murk he saw the silhouettes of the buildings rear up out of the night sky.

  Then the moon came back out from the cloud cover.

  McCall could make out a fence. He took out the pair of Steiner binoculars from his backpack, adjusted the laser range finder, and looked through them. The gray-green sheen made the cluster of buildings look surrealistic, like crouched insects. The six hangars had seen better days. The administration building looked completely deserted. No lights were burning; there was no movement at all. McCall swept the glasses down the field. There was an AN-Coke Soviet Union twin-engine military transport, turboprop-powered with twin engines on high monoplane wings with a single rudder fin fit to the empennage. It didn’t look to McCall as if it had ever left the airfield, much less got airborne. There was a Dassault Falcon 20C, equipped with low-pressure tires for gravel runways, with a reinforced belly, larger wheels, and no main gear doors. McCall remembered that a Falcon 20 was the first civil jet to fly on 100 percent biofuel. No good to him. A half dozen Cessnas were around the hangars, including a Cessna 182 RC, a Cessna 210, a Cessna 205, and a 207, which was an eight-seat model turbo Skywagon. McCall recalled the aircraft’s tail had been moved relative to the main wheel, which made landing without striking the tail skid on the runway a challenge.

  McCall lowered the glasses. Beside him, Josh was feverish. McCall didn’t like the look of his eyes. His skin was the color of wax paper. McCall listened for the sounds of pursuit behind them, but there was nothing now but the mournful wind stirring the tall grass.

  When they reached the chain fence, McCall took out a small multitool from his backpack and cut through the wire. He pulled back a section just wide enough for them to gain access with their backpacks. It took them another minute to reach the first hangar. The doors were wide open, probably housing one of the Cessnas. Another hangar was beside it, with a sixteen-meter span, five-meter-high doors, and two more set back beside the administration building with coarse grass rising ten feet. The hangars were all empty. McCall found a metal folding chair that he dragged out of the first hangar for Josh.

  McCall said, “I’m going to check out the Cessnas, see if they have any fuel on board. If not, I’ll check the hangars. Don’t move from this spot.” McCall rummaged through his backpack and came up with a 12-gauge flare-gun pistol with four 12-gauge aerial flares. He loaded one of them into the pistol and handed it to Josh. “That flare will burn for seven seconds and reach a height of five hundred feet. Don’t fire it if you don’t have to.”

  Josh lay back against the gray metal hangar door where it retracted and waited. McCall ran to where the Cessna airplanes were strung out in front of the hangars. He climbed into the 182 RC, but there were no keys to turn it on. He climbed into the Cessna 210 and rummaged through a side pocket and found a set of spare keys. He slid into the cockpit and turned the key on the front panel.

  The lighted gas gauge hovered at empty.

  McCall nodded. All of the aircraft would have been drained of fuel. An abandoned airfield like this been had left derelict for a reason. The YPG, the People’s Protection Units of the Kurdish militia, had made sure the planes were not operational. It was another ghost town, this one made up of expensive airplane carcasses.

  McCall climbed into the Cessna 207, the eight-seat Skywagon, still hoping for a miracle. He found a spare set of keys in the side pocket and turned the aircraft on. Same story. No fuel. McCall cursed softly. He had to get Captain Josh Coleman to a hospital over the Turkish border before it was too late. He looked through the Cessna window at the long shadows that played in and out of the grounded airplanes. There was no sign of the MiGs that were purported to be stationed at the airfield. McCall suspected they were at Rmeilan Airfield.

  He heard the whine of the pistol and then the burst of the flare overhead. It bathed the Cessna in rainbows as illuminated starbursts soared down to the ground. McCall swung out of the Cessna Skywagon and ran to the first hangar building. Josh was back inside in the shadows. McCall looked out across the chain fence. Shapes were rolling toward them: the bulky UAZ-469 Russian military vehicle, packed with Insurgents, and the small US Army LSV desert patrol vehicle.

  McCall and Josh had been off the radar, swallowed up in the terrain. Two silhouetted figures on the run, with no GPS tracking them, reaching an abandoned airfield with no personnel, no security, no armed patrols.

  So how had the Insurgents found them?

  Josh moved out of the hangar to McCall and handed him the empty flare pistol. He had drawn his Colt .45.

  “No fuel?”

  “No.”

  Josh nodded. There was nowhere else to run.

  This was where they would make their final stand.

  McCall drew the Makarov pistol from his belt and backed into the deeper shadows in the hangar beside the Army captain.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  A steady thrumming had insinuated itself into the night. McCall stepped into the moonlight and saw a helicopter angling over the small airfield. The Soviet Mi-24 gunship, a low-capacity transport, had room for eight passengers. It was a dull gunmetal and was camouflaged with flat glass that surrounded the cockpit that McCall recalled Soviet pilots called drinking glass. A rapid-fire machine gun in the chin turret of the chopper erupted at the oncoming Insurgents. Then the pilot fired a 9K114 Shturm antitank missile. It exploded just behind the UAZ-469 military vehicle, upending it, sending the Jihadists out into the desert. The desert patrol vehicle swerved around the blast, still heading for the airfield.

  McCall knew who was at the controls of the helicopter.

  He ran back to the open hangar to Josh.

  “What’s happening?”

  “The cavalry’s arrived,” McCall said. “Let’s go!”

  They sprinted out into the phosphorescence refracted across the Cessnas. The chopper dropped down toward the tarmac. That’s when McCall saw a third vehicle, a 2007 Hummer H2 from the US Army. It was crammed to capacity with Jihadists. It crashed right through a section of the fence. Behind it came the light strike vehicle, its two-man crew firing from their iron shell.

  The Mi-24 helicopter came in for a landing, its downdraft heavy.

  McCall took aim with the Makarov pistol at the LSV and shot one of the Insurgents, who was leaning so far out that if he hadn’t been shot, he would have fallen out. The second Jihadist fighter overcorrected the light vehicle’s trajectory. McCall fired, sending the Makarov bullets through his head. The light strike vehicle spun around and crashed over onto its steel rib cage. McCall ran past the Cessnas 210 and 205, angling past the Cessna Skywagon to where the Mi-24 chopper had settled on the tarmac. McCall could hear Josh’s breathing as he ran. The Army captain was pushing for the helicopter with every fiber of his being. McCall saw Hayden Vallance firing a borrowed AMD-65 assault rifle.

  They were so close.

  The Hummer served around the parked Cessnas.

  More machine-gun fire.

  Bullets slammed into Josh’s body.

  A cry exploded from McCall’s very being. He practically lifted Josh off the ground as they reached the Mi-24. Vallance emptied the rest of the AMD-65 into the oncoming Hummer. The vehicle spun and slammed into the parked Cessna Skywagon.

  It exploded into a fireball.

  Vallance pulled Josh inside the helicopter. McCall climbed up after him. Vallance was
already at the controls, lifting off. McCall turned in the open door of the chopper, firing at the Hummer, from which more Insurgents had scrambled. He picked off six more of the enemy. The Cessna was blazing brightly, throwing a red glow across the other aircraft. One of the Jihadists ran limping toward the rising helicopter, firing at it, the bullets ricocheting as it peeled off.

  McCall’s Makarov was empty.

  He fell back at a forty-five-degree angle, grabbed the 12-gauge flare-gun pistol that Josh had stuffed into his belt, loaded another flare into it, and fired. The flare slammed right into the Jihadist fighter, blowing him back into the conflagration of the Cessna Skywagon.

  By that time the helicopter was angled over the fence surrounding the small airfield. Josh lay back with his head against one of the chopper’s rear seats, his eyes closed. McCall moved beside him and tore off the overcoat and the parka and examined the bullet wounds. There were three. All of them had entered Josh’s body at the side and had not exited. McCall took off his backpack, took out the med kit, and filled a syringe with morphine. It was the last dose he had. He pulled the Army tunic off Josh’s shoulder and plunged the syringe into his arm.

  “We’re taking you to the Suruҫ Hospital in Turkey.”

  Josh opened his eyes and looked up at McCall with remarkably clear vision. “Need to show you something,” Josh managed through the pain.

  “It’ll wait. Lie still. I’ll find out how far we are from the Turkish border.”

  McCall pulled Josh’s tunic back on his shoulder and climbed into the copilot’s chair. The helicopter was across the terrain with the stars to light its way. Vallance kept close to the ground. McCall understood. Vallance didn’t want to be shot at again by Insurgents carrying antiaircraft weapons.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “We can’t reach Suruҫ Devlet Hastanesi Hospital,” Vallance said. “It has been bombed into the ground. The Özel Pirsus Tip Merkezi Hospital off the Curhuriyet, near Marut Sokah, is our next bet. I’ll be flying right off the radar. They will scramble Turkish fighters to pick us up, but they have to catch us first.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe under an hour.”

  “Where you pick up the Crocodile?”

  “At Aleppo. I had to ditch the Vista. They left the chopper sitting right on one of the far runways.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “I had your GPS tracking intel from your wrist chronometer. I flew over the coordinates you’d shown me, but there was no sign of anyone except a herd of goats. I lost you for a time at the railway, then I picked up the train from Aleppo. I thought you were on your way, but right before I peeled off, the train stopped. I tracked your GPS coordinates to this airfield. I had no idea if you were alone or if you’d found your Army captain. I should have known better.”

  “You came back for me.”

  “I changed my mind. How bad is he?”

  “He’s on me.”

  McCall clambered back into the interior of the chopper and sat beside Josh. “Almost home,” he said softly.

  The Army captain had taken a sheet of folded paper out of his tunic pocket. His voice was barely above a whisper, almost lost entirely in the racket the helicopter was making. He sounded delirious.

  “Nine American names on the list that I made up with Colonel Ralston. But there’s a tenth man. Not on the list. I saw him in Al Tabqah. Standing beside a stolen US Humvee. He’d torn off his balaclava and face covering. I saw him!”

  “Who did you see?”

  Josh gripped McCall’s arm tighter. The delirium was thicker. “The mercenaries are protecting all three of them. Not a part of the Pentagon. They’re being run from a spy organization. One man knew what was happening. Couldn’t stop it. A conspiracy against our country. National security threatened.”

  Josh started coughing, spitting up blood. McCall caught him as he pitched forward, but he was just holding a shell. Josh pressed the piece of folded paper into McCall’s hands. He put his lips up to McCall’s ear and whispered. The words were so faint, but …

  McCall didn’t believe what he had just heard.

  He pushed Josh away and held him rigid. “What was that name?”

  “Tell Helen I’m sorry,” Josh said, rallying. “You came for me. No one else could have done that. We almost made it. Tell her I love her. That I’m sorry about…”

  He faltered again.

  “What was that name you whispered to me?” McCall said, almost shaking him.

  But Josh had slumped back, his eyes finding something in McCall’s face that made him sad. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes and was gone.

  McCall settled him back onto the helicopter seat and, as an afterthought, fastened the seat belt to keep him in place. He unfolded the piece of paper Josh had given him.

  It was the list of American-extremist names.

  McCall looked out at the Syrian landscape. Did he tell Helen Coleman that her son had lived long enough to tell him dangerous secrets? That Helen’s Equalizer had rescued a good man and then let him die in his arms?

  McCall raised his voice. “Can you pick up another jet in Turkey?”

  Vallance said, “I’ll have to explain why I was flying a Soviet attack helicopter, but I’ll do what you would do and improvise. I’ll make for Sabiha Gӧkҫen International Airport in Turkey. I can pick up a Challenger 350 in Malta. You can owe me. Do I bring the captain home?”

  “Yes, to Washington, DC, but before that you have to land in London. I need to meet someone there.”

  “He whispered something to you. Something important?”

  “Why should you care, Vallance? As far as Captain Josh Coleman was concerned, we’re mercenaries, predators preying on the weak. Motivated to take part in whatever hostilities we are confronted with for our own personal gain.”

  “That works for me,” Vallance said quietly. “I don’t think that works for you. We’re close to the Turkish border. Keep your eyes open.”

  Vallance turned his attention back to bringing the attack helicopter under the Turkish radar and out of Syrian airspace. He’d said all he was going to say. More than he should have.

  McCall sat beside the body of Captain Josh Coleman and thought about his last words. It was the name of someone Josh could not have known.

  It was the name of a man who no longer existed.

  Captain Josh Coleman had leaned close to Robert McCall and whispered urgently to him Control’s real name.

  CHAPTER 26

  It had been a grueling class. Only six students were in the dojo, most of them his age, although one kid stood out, he had to be ten years old, whom the sensi called Young Tiger. The Equalizer had worked on his kata, his Kizami-zuki, Thrust Punch; Age-uke, Upper Forearm Block; Migazuki-geri, his Crescent Kick. He had hoped to work on transforming himself into a Snake. He would bend backward, raising his head to strike, stretching out his palm to prepare to push and hack. But his sensi had told him he wasn’t ready for that yet. The sensi called out encouragement to the class: “Tight fist, elbows in, head down, bend your knee.” When the class had finally broken, his sensi had told him he had to work on his discipline. Then he was dismissed. He did not take it personally. He needed to master these martial arts moves for his work.

  The Equalizer picked up the 1 subway at Eighteenth Street and took it to Sixty-Sixth Street and Lincoln Center. From there he walked to the Liberty Belle Hotel. He didn’t have to wait long for Sam Kinney to exit the hotel. The Equalizer followed him back to Lincoln Center. The old man took the 1 subway to Fourteenth Street, walked down until he was at Sixth Avenue, changed to the L train, and got out farther along Fourteenth Street. He turned down Avenue A until he was at Tompkins Square Park, then turned east on Tenth Street until he reached a four-story redbrick apartment building on the corner of Avenue C. Sam ran up the limestone steps, put a key into the apartment door, and entered.

  The Equalizer moved on down to the East Village Tavern on Tenth Street and ordered a coffee
. He waited for Sam Kinney to come out again.

  * * *

  The two college types manhandled Melody into the cavernous warehouse room. Moonlight shafted in, but the windows were high and little of it filtered down to the floor. It was thick with shadows. Melody could make out gleaming steel cages. There were ten of them, fifteen feet by six feet, bolted to the floor. In eight of them were the silhouetted forms of young women, two to a cage, their clothes disheveled, faces pale, blondes and brunettes. They barely moved in their low prisons, most of them lying on the cage floors, a couple with fingers clenched around the bars. In the ninth cage there was only one woman, who sat up against the back bars, her face in shadow. The tenth cage was empty.

  Melody had given up struggling. The young woman in the ninth cage didn’t move as they reached it. College Boy #1 unlocked the padlock on the cage door and thrust Melody inside. She stumbled to the floor. College Boy #2 closed the cage door, snapped the padlock home. Their footfalls echoed to silence.

  Melody shivered violently. Mr. McCall had told her this would be dangerous. But Blake had been such a gentleman during the few days she had been dating him. He had escorted her to her apartment building after another of their expensive lunches. Melody had said she was suffering from a migraine and didn’t know if she would go to Dolls that night. Blake had told her she should lie down in a darkened room and try to feel better. He gave her another Rock Hudson kiss on the lips and hailed a cab. Melody had gone up to her apartment wondering if Mr. McCall had been wrong about this guy. She had gone to bed with two Excedrin migraine tablets with the curtains closed at her bedroom window.

  Six hours later they had come for her. She’d heard a muffled sound, sat up in bed, grabbed her cell phone, but couldn’t remember Mr. McCall’s cell number. She had Tara Langley’s number on speed dial. She’d pressed TEXT, typed in I, as in I think someone is in my apartment, and they’d grabbed her. Her silk teddy was pulled over her head. When she struggled, College Boy #1, a big guy, backhanded her. Her nose started to bleed. College Boy #2 slipped the blue dress over her head. College Boy #1 forced shoes onto her feet. They injected her with some kind of sedative that sent her right out. She had regained consciousness just as they were dragging her into the warehouse room.