Frontier Fury. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
did.
Evasive driving might have helped, but they were speeding down a narrow road, poorly maintained, and he was more likely to spoil his ally’s aim than the enemy’s.
Gorshani had anticipated danger when his CIA contact proposed the operation, but he’d thought they would move toward it gradually, conferring and learning to trust one another before they plunged into hot water.
Now, it seemed, he was at war not only with the hidden leaders of al Qaeda, but also with the soldiers of his homeland.
Traitor, said a small voice in his head.
Gorshani had once been a soldier himself, had ridden in a Talha APC through hostile territory in the North-West Frontier Province of his birth. He had never been in battle—though his APC had twice come under sniper fire. It had been strange, sitting in a metal box, listening to bullets ping against the armored sides.
Gorshani wished he had some of that armor now, but knew he’d have to settle for the SUV’s superior acceleration. He knew his vehicle could literally drive rings around the BTR-70—not that it would be a wise thing to attempt—and Gorshani was confident he could outrun the Jeep if his tail gunner failed to disable it.
Unless a bullet found him, first.
The near-miss had unnerved him, driving home the point—if any emphasis was needed—that Hussein Gorshani was a mortal man. He could be killed or mutilated by a bullet in a heartbeat, leaving his comrade adrift as the SUV swerved, stalled and died.
Not yet, he thought, and glanced at his rifle on the passenger’s seat to his right. If need be, he would stop the car and fight, go out with the American in what was sometimes called a blaze of glory.
Checking his rearview mirror, he could see the nearest chase car gaining ground. The tall American rose and blocked Gorshani’s view, squeezed off another burst of automatic fire, then dropped back out of sight.
The Jeep reacted with a wide swing to Gorshani’s left, then roared back into line behind his SUV. It seemed unstoppable, a monster in its own right that could not be killed.
Ridiculous!
It was a man-made object, just as vulnerable as Gorshani’s car to damage caused by road hazards or bullets. Granted, it had probably been built for driving over worse ground than the SUV, and yet…
An idea flashed into Gorshani’s mind. He called out to his crouching passenger, “I want to lead them off the road.”
“What for?” the American asked. “The Jeep and APC are built for it.”
“The vehicles,” Gorshani said, “but maybe not the men.”
“Can this rig take it?”
“We shall see.”
Just as Gorshani spoke, another rifle bullet struck the SUV a glancing blow and whined off into space. The tall American responded with another 3-round burst and shouted to Gorshani, “Go for it!”
Gorshani gripped the steering wheel, swept anxious eyes along the roadside, left and right, then made his choice. If he chose left, the river would eventually block him. But on his right, the open grassland beckoned.
Done.
He cranked the wheel and stood on the accelerator, slumping in his seat to let his slack body absorb the impact of rough ground beneath his tires and shock absorbers. Ten yards into it, his teeth were clacking and he felt a sudden urge to urinate that almost made him laugh aloud.
I should have gone before the chase, he thought, and then he did laugh.
“What’s so funny?” his passenger asked.
“Nothing!” Gorshani answered, as the Bolero slammed into a low ridge of soil and briefly went airborne. Its landing jarred him, nearly making him release the steering wheel. But he hung on and brought the vehicle under control.
A quick glance at the rearview mirror showed the Jeep careening after him, and the APC charging along behind.
SECOND LIEUTENANT Tarik Naseer braced himself—legs rigid, one hand pressed against the Jeep’s dashboard, teeth clenched to keep them from snapping together and chipping.
He had fastened his seat belt when they first struck off in pursuit of their targets, then had unlatched it so that he could stand and fire his AKMS over the Jeep’s windshield frame. But as the Jeep left the pavement and sped across rough open ground, he regretted that choice.
Naseer had ordered his driver to follow the SUV when it left the roadway, but now he was trapped in his seat—or rather at risk of being thrown from it. He needed one hand braced against the dash to keep from pitching forward and striking his head on the windshield, while his other hand clutched the Kalashnikov. He could not reach his seat belt and secure it without losing one grip or the other, and the options were unacceptable.
“Watch out!” the driver cried just as he hit yet another deep rut in the earth. The Jeep bounced twice before settling, each leap unseating the lieutenant. For an instant his heart was in his throat. He was terrified of being thrown completely from the vehicle.
He wondered if Qasim Zohra would even notice, should his passenger be catapulted into space. The driver was completely focused on his target, leaning forward in his seat as if such posture might increase the Jeep’s acceleration.
Naseer considered exactly what could happen if he fell out of the Jeep. Would his neck snap on impact with the ground? If he was pitched over the Jeep’s rear deck, somehow, would he be crushed beneath the APC, or could its driver stop in time?
Another vicious jolt, causing Naseer to mouth a curse. The men he was pursuing would have faced enough trouble, had they simply surrendered on the spot. But now…
The driver barked another warning, ducked low in his seat, just as Naseer saw the rear gunner in the SUV rise to fire another burst. Two of the bullets struck the Jeep’s windshield this time, spraying Naseer with shards of broken glass.
Enough!
Releasing his grip on the dashboard, Naseer raised his rifle and aimed through the gap in the shattered windshield. Just as he squeezed the trigger, Zohra hit another deep hole with the Jeep and nearly spilled Naseer out of his seat. His burst of autofire was wasted, with the last round clanging off the windshield’s upper frame.
A bitter curse escaped his lips, and the second lieutenant swung around toward Zohra, shouting, “At this rate, you will kill us before he does!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Zohra replied. “Shall I slow down?”
Naseer considered it for half a second, glancing back toward the oncoming APC, then said, “Do not slow down. But hold the Jeep steady, so I can aim!”
Even as Naseer spoke the words, they seemed ridiculous to him, a feeling mirrored on his driver’s face. Zohra could not control the contours of the landscape, any more than he could turn the Jeep into a hovercraft and make it fly.
Another short burst from the SUV came in on target, rattling off the Jeep’s curved hood. Naseer ducked, felt a bullet cleave the air beside his face and heard his driver yelp in pain.
“Zohra?”
“It’s nothing, sir. A scratch.”
Naseer saw blood soaking through the short sleeve of Zohra’s summer uniform. It seemed more than a simple scratch to him, but Zohra still clung to the steering wheel with both hands, while his right foot held down the accelerator pedal.
“Nothing, sir, I promise!” he repeated.
At a loss for words of comfort, Naseer barked, “Well, hold us steady, then! I’ll pay them back in kind!”
He raised the AKMS to his shoulder once again, finding his mark, letting his index finger rest against the curved trigger. At the last instant, Naseer hesitated, more than half expecting another jolt to pitch him left or right, forward or back.
When