Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

As he looked out over the dark waters, Jonas remem- bered a time when he had been a bit scared on an operation, not for himself, but for someone else—during a mission that had happened not too far away.

JONAS HELD the shuddering Marisa close. To her credit, she didn’t sob or cry out, but just wept into his shoulder for a minute, then pulled away, clamping down on her emotions with iron control.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s all right. The first time I had to kill a man, I threw up, so you’ve already got me beat.” His attempt at humor was feeble, but it distracted her for the moment. “I’m afraid we’re not done yet. Can you give me a hand?”

She nodded, wiping her hands on the dew-laden grass, then stood. “What do we have to do?”

Jonas grabbed the body of the dead guard and pulled him out of the truck cab, letting him fall to the ground in a limp heap. Marisa grimaced, but didn’t look away as he stripped the man of his pistol, canvas web gear and extra magazines.

“Let’s get him into the bushes.” He helped as much as he could with his ankle, but Marisa proved surprisingly able to haul the body, dragging him into the undergrowth without complaint.

When Jonas commented on her ability, she replied, “I cut and haul sugarcane all day. He’s just floppier.”

They went around to the other side of the truck and disposed of the other guard, as well. Hobbling back to the cab, Jonas took stock of their new weapons, two loaded AK-47s with two extra magazines apiece, the Makarov pistol with two additional magazines, two bayonets and four grenades.

He tried contacting the team again, but got nothing but static.

“Well, now we’ve got a chance to stop them. At the very least, we’ll make enough noise and fire to warn the team off, and meet them at the secondary extraction site. I don’t suppose you’ve ever fired an AK?” Jonas asked.

She shook her head.

“All right, I’m going to give you the basic rundown.” In five minutes he taught her about the safety, single-shot ver-sus automatic fire and how to reload and cock the weapon.

“Don’t worry about aiming—you’ll be supplying what we call suppressive fire.”

“Just trying to keep their heads down?” she asked.

“That’s right. Snug the butt into your shoulder and keep it tight. Don’t forget to lean into the rifle a bit, as the autofire will kick. Fire short bursts, then, when the weapon is empty—” He watched as she removed the banana magazine, inserted another and pulled the charging lever back, readying the rifle for action. “Very good, and don’t forget to move after emptying each magazine. Look for muzzle-flashes from the clearing, and aim in that general direction. If you hit anyone, great. If not, no big deal, they’ll take cover either way.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be on the other side, trying to take out as many as I can.

The exploding truck should draw most of their attention. The key will be to try to make them think they are under attack from an equal or larger force.” He handed her the pouch filled with four magazines, which she slung around her shoulder, and the Makarov in its holster and belt, which she strapped around her waist. “Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be ready to go.”

Jonas knelt at the external side gas tank, took the cap off and wedged a grenade firmly into the hole, making sure the pin faced away from the truck body. He tied a long piece of cord to the pin and got into the cab. “Walk a few paces behind the truck until we get about fifty yards from the clearing, and keep an eye on me. When I jump out, you head into the jungle. Go right—I’ll go left. Shoot and move until you’re out of ammunition, then fall back to the clearing where we found the truck. If anything goes wrong, fall back to the clearing and hide. Wait ten minutes, and if I don’t return or you see soldiers coming, get out of here.”

Marisa took it all in with short, sharp nods, her wide blue eyes fixed on his. Jonas ran through the plan one more time, and couldn’t come up with any other refinements. “Just remember, shoot and move and keep low at all times. Good luck.”

He was about to climb into the cab when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Karl.”

Grimacing at the fake name, Jonas turned around. “Yes?”

“You be careful, okay?” She hesitated, then leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly on the mouth.

She tasted like sweat and hibiscus, and it was a sensation he didn’t want to end.

“We’d better go. Stay behind the truck and watch for my signal.” Jonas didn’t know what else to say, so he turned back to the cab and climbed painfully inside. Once there, he placed his sniper rifle between the seat and the door and tied the cord to his wrist, making sure it snaked between the door and the cab frame. He measured the distance between the gas pedal and the seat, then tied the haft of the bayonet to its scabbard so that the blade protruded from one end, making a rough weapon about eighteen inches long. He set that on the seat beside him, then braced himself for a good deal of pain as he put his injured leg on the clutch.

Gritting his teeth, he started the truck, hearing the rough rumble of the engine as it sparked into life. He depressed the clutch with his left foot, trying to ignore the white flare of pain in his ankle. With a minimum of fumbling, he got his right leg on the gas pedal and jammed the gearshift into first, then eased off the clutch and got the lumbering truck moving, hauling on the wheel to steer it out onto the trail.

Panting with the effort, Jonas checked that Marisa was following him as they started up the path. He could barely see her in the dim red glow of the taillights, but she was following a few yards behind the truck, the AK-47 rifle large in her hands. Jonas steeled himself, then pushed the clutch down again, biting back a growl of pain as he shifted into second.

The radio on the seat next to him crackled into life, a puzzled voice asking in Spanish what he was doing. Jonas pushed harder on the gas pedal, the truck shuddering as it accelerated to twenty miles per hour. He didn’t turn on the headlights, but drove blind, letting the truck find its way down the rutted path.

The tone of the voice on the radio grew more strident, demanding that whoever was in the truck respond immediately.

Jonas could see the clearing, a dark, empty space in the tree line. He switched on the truck’s lights to blind the men who would be looking down the path, making sure to look away from the glare so as not to blind himself. He goosed the gas pedal, then jammed the modified bayonet between the pedal and the seat to keep the truck moving forward.

Opening the door, he grabbed his rifle and stepped out onto the running board, using the door as a shield. Pulling the pin with his teeth, he hurled a grenade in front of the truck, then jumped, trying to use his good foot to at least break his fall so he could tuck and roll away.

Jonas landed hard, but his uninjured foot took the impact, and he rolled away on the ground, tucking his rifle across his chest as he went. He felt the tug of the cord on his wrist, then it went slack, and he hoped that just the pin and not the entire grenade had come free. He came out of the truck in a prone position and kept rolling over and over, his rifle aligned vertically with his body. All the while a small voice in his mind counted down the seconds from five to one.

Jonas came to a stop and covered his head with his arms.

The two grenades exploded almost simultaneously, along with a much louder report as the truck’s gas tank followed suit. The heat and shock wave washed over him, and metal parts hit the ground around Jonas, but none landed on him.