Paul Christopher - Valley of the Templars

Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro stared through the olive drab Steiner binoculars. In the clearing below he could see a low, concrete block building with a shed roof made of corrugated iron. A narrow dirt road wound up the steep slope of the mountain, passing directly in front of the building. A Soviet GAZ-67 jeep knockoff from the good old days sat in a dirt parking lot beside the building, and a couple of rusty bicycles were leaned on the wall beneath the overhanging porch. A Cuban flag hung limply on a pole to the right of the old school, and a roughly made pole barrier blocked the road.

According to his intel, the building had once been a school, but the birthrate had fallen to nothing in the area years before and now the structure was a barracks and checkpoint for the Policia Nacional Revolucionaria, or the PNR, Cuban National Police Force. His intel had also told him that the barracks held an eight-man squad, two men on patrol, two men at the checkpoint barrier and a second shift asleep or simply off duty within the barracks.

Turturro shifted the binoculars slightly. Two blue-uniformed men in baseball caps were seated in white plastic garden chairs on the open verandah of the building. Both men had their chairs tilted back, both were smoking cigarettes and the one closest to the parking lot had a beer bottle nestled between his legs.

“Time,” said Turturro, his voice barely a whisper.

“Fifteen fifty-eight hours,” said Anthony Veccione, the man on his left with the LAW rocket tube cradled in his arms. According to Veccione, his friends called him “The Therapist” because he got rid of people’s anxieties-permanently.

The M72 already had the tube extended, the sights up and the spring-loaded safety pulled out into the “Armed” position. All Tony had to do now was to sit up on his knees, put the tube on his shoulder and squeeze his fingers on the big button-style trigger mechanism on the topside of the tube. The M72 was slow and old, dating back to the Vietnam War, but it could blow through eight inches of tank armor and it would turn the inside of the old school building into a meat grinder. Veccione had a second tube strapped to his back in a special pack.

“Two minutes until the shift change,” said Turturro. He turned to his right. Lying beside him was Nick Cavan, the best of the four senior snipers in Turturro’s company. “You ready, Nick?”

“Yes, sir,” said Cavan. He was using an XM2010 Enhanced Sniper Rifle, which had only been in operational use for a year. This particular version was fitted with a suppressor, a muzzle brake and a Leupold Mark 4 variable-strength telescopic sight that could do virtually anything except iron your laundry. The weapon used Sierra Match King Hollow Point Boat Tail ammunition that could take out a butterfly’s eye at fifteen hundred yards.

“Time?” Turturro asked again.

“Fifteen fifty-nine,” Veccione said.

“Any second now,” said Turturro. He felt the familiar ache in his jaw that came just before an operation began, like grinding your teeth while you were awake. “Remember, Nick first, then Tony.” Turturro pressed his headset button. “Everyone else set?” There was a series of electronic clicks in his ear. In the distance he could hear the grind and rattle as the two-man patrol vehicle struggled up the mountain road. The old Gaz 67 appeared around the corner and the lieutenant colonel held his breath. Showtime, he thought.

And then it all went to hell.

As the Soviet-style jeeps pulled into the parking lot, Turturro heard another engine sound. This one was a struggling whine and then a grinding noise as someone tried to downshift. A few seconds later a white, mud-spattered Gaz minibus appeared around the corner. The lieutenant colonel adjusted the focus on the binoculars, trying to make out who was in the van.

“Shit,” said Turturro.

“What?” Nick Cavan asked, his cheek pressed to the stock of the vicious-looking sniper rifle.

“A bus full of cops. They must be servicing all the checkpoints in the area.”

“What do we do?” Cavan asked. “Abort?”

Turturro thought for a split second. “No,” he said. “Change of plan.” He turned to Veccione. “How long to get the second LAW out and ready to fire?”

“Never timed it,” said Veccione. “Under ten seconds. Seven, eight maybe.”

“Okay, switch targets. As soon as the minibus stops, take it out. We can’t let any of those cops set up or get into the bush. This whole thing depends on wiping them all out. Once you hit the bus, get the second shot ready and hit the building. Tony picks off any strays.” He pressed the button on his earpiece. “Follow my lead. We’ve got company.”

The minibus pulled to a stop in front of the building and the two guards seated on the shaded porch tipped their chairs forward and stood up. The driver’s-side door of the minibus opened and as the driver put one leg out Turturro distinctly heard the sharp clicking sound as Veccione squeezed the trigger mechanism on top of the M72. A sound like a door slamming right beside Turturro’s ear registered and even before the first round hit, Veccione was hauling the second round out of his pack. Simultaneously he fired the virtually soundless sniper rifle, pulled back the bolt and fired a second time.

The first LAW round went through the windshield of the minibus as the two guards on the porch went down, each with a single round through the chest. The LAW round detonated in the minibus, blowing out all the windows and peeling off the roof like a tin of beans exploding in a campfire. As the first men stumbled out of the barracks doorway, Cavan began dropping them with the big boat-tail bullets, managing two center-mass shots and one head shot before the second LAW rocket went smoking through the dark doorway of the barracks, making Cavan and his single shots redundant.

The rocket exploded, lifting the corrugated metal roof a foot off the rafters and enveloping the entire scene in a roiling cloud of dust and smoke. One man, probably the driver of the minibus, staggered out of the choking cloud, his right arm in tatters to the elbow and most of his scalp and face an open, bloody wound. Turturro gripped the binoculars and forced himself to keep on watching. Beside the lieutenant colonel the bolt on Cavan’s rifle gave its lethal, heel-clicking snick . The minibus driver’s head disappeared in a blossoming pinkish cloud and the rest of him sank to the ground.

Turturro waited. The smoke began to dissipate in the wind as the last echoes from the LAWS rockets faded away against the hills. The gas tank on the minibus exploded briefly, bucking the back end of the vehicle into the air. All four tires were burning furiously and Turturro began to smell the raw stink of the melting rubber.

He pressed his finger to his earbud. “Go,” he said. From behind him a dozen men in camo gear with an M-4 carbine in one hand and a cane-cutting machete in the other rose out of the jungle and headed down the hillside to the clearing. Each man had a brown jute sack tucked into his belt.

Turturro stood and followed them, taking a can of red Krylon spray paint from the satchel hanging from his belt. Veccione and Cavan stayed behind, their jobs done. Turturro touched the switch on his earbud and spoke into his throat microphone again. “Get me hands and heads, gentlemen, as many as you can. Remember, we are the wrath and hammer of God come down on Fidel and his devil boys today. Let’s scare the shit out of these bastards!”

Turturro reached the bottom of the hill and crossed the parking lot to the side wall of the barracks. The smell of hot metal and burning rubber fumed like a choking pall. He shook the can of Krylon to mix the paint, then quickly drew a circle with a large Z. Beneath the design he spray-painted the slogan: