Джанет Моррис - The 40-Minute War

Ashmead had seen men with holes in them a hand’s breadth in diameter play dead and then get off one last shot when their killer got close enough: some guys just had so much guts they could stave off death long enough for a chance at revenge. But Dow was dead, the front of his skull blown off by a round that had entered from the rear.

It was only when Ashmead jumped back down from the panel truck that he realized Slick was calling the roll, but stuck at Zaki’s name.

“Hey, Elint?” came Slick’s voice from Ashmead’s transceiver. “Zaki, you jive cocksucker, don’t do this to me. You alive, then say so.”

Ashmead beat Yael’s jeep to Zaki’s position by only seconds; Jesse reached the spot at the same time.

At first they couldn’t find Zaki, and Yael, bare-headed and eyes blazing, cursed: “Fucking Elint. He never could take direction. Damned operations officers, always have to be in the thick of it.”

But Jesse got the halogen lamp from the jeep and in its light they saw a smear of blood and traces in the sparse new grass as if something wounded had dragged itself to cover.

The cover was a little dry arroyo and in it Zaki was sprawled.

When Jesse’s light fell on Zaki, his limbs sticking out at unlikely angles, the sharpshooter made a grab for Yael so quick she couldn’t twist out of it, though she turned on him and started beating at his chest and kicking at his groin.

“You go on down, Sir,” said Jesse, as if Yael wasn’t struggling to neuter him, “and I’ll bring Saadia along when she’s calmer.”

Yael was Zaki’s cousin.

As Ashmead skidded down the ravine, he spoke into his transceiver: “Thoreau, get over here. Zaki’s down and Yael isn’t Jesse’s problem.”

He heard Slick’s transceiver cut in: “Shit. And for what?”

He didn’t bother to answer; the footing was tricky and he was going to need two good ankles for the arduous days ahead.

Zaki was about bled white, breathing rattlingly, too broken up from his fall to be worth the time of the medic aboard the Israeli bird that Ashmead called for: “What’s the matter, you don’t have any Type A? Get your useless butt down here; this isn’t a vacation.”

Slick was sliding down the ravine without concern for his bones by then, discarded flash hood flapping from his belt.

But Ashmead didn’t say anything, or even look pointedly at the dosimeter wedged between his canteen and a spare clip on his utility belt: they could all spend a few hours in one of Saiyeret’s underground decontamination chambers if they had to, though right then he didn’t care much more than Slick about how many Rems they were taking.

He was sitting on the sandy ground beside Zaki’s ruined body, wiping his operations officer’s lips with a wet cloth from his kit, and the ground around them was dark with the blood it had sopped up. It was the sort of thing he always noticed at a time like this.

Ashmead looked up when Slick stood beside him and saw some of the Israeli commandos standing on the high ground, hands on their hips, staring down; between them, Yael was enfolded in Thoreau’s arms as he started to ease her down the steep slope.

Slick squatted by Ashmead, fingering Zaki’s caved-in chest, then putting his hand on the still throat: “We don’t need the medic, Sir.” Slick was telling him he was overreacting.

Ashmead ignored him; Zaki rattled; Ashmead leaned close, trying to feel his case officer’s breath: “We’re here, Zaki. Don’t worry. Yael’s coming. We got them—every one.”

There was a flicker under Zaki’s lids, then his mouth tried to form a word.

Ashmead put his ear to the lips, then said into an ear from which blood trickled: “You got the serum out and we got Dow—it’s just that we’d like to know where you left it, Zaki. Can you hear me?”

Slick was colder: “If it’s not in Beck’s car, if you’ve been improvising again, better tell us.”

Zaki started to choke, then got out: “One,” and began to convulse weakly.

Ashmead, satisfied, sat back just as Yael broke free of Thoreau and pulled savagely at him: “Get away from him, give him air, give him—”

Then she saw Zaki’s staring eyes and sat back on her haunches. “Right,” she said softly. “Well, he always said a Jew should die in Israel. He wasn’t even going to take his shot.” Viciously, as if her own emotions were her enemy, she swiped at the tears running down her face.

Slick got up with a shake of his head and went to intercept the Israeli medic sliding down the slope, bag in hand.

Ashmead heard him say, “ One , great,” into his transceiver. “One fucking what? Plan One? One case? Even dying, he’s giving me riddles.”

Ashmead let his hand brush Yael’s head as he went after Slick: nothing too comforting, just what he would have done if she’d been one of the guys.

Thoreau, flash goggles up on his forehead and mask down around his throat, gave him an eloquent look, then fell in beside him: “That’s a bitch. Who’s going to run that Patrick broad? Beck can’t, not without a handler in between.”

“You volunteering, Thoreau?”

“Well, maybe…. Yael can’t help but blame her for some of this—” he gestured aimlessly around. “After all, if she’d kept Zaki busy, he wouldn’t have been here. Left field. We didn’t need him.”

“Slick can handle her. You go handle Yael.”

“Yes, Sir, if you say so, but that’s a match made in hell.”

He didn’t answer. He knew that. Right now, he had other things on his mind.

At the top of the arroyo, he pulled the Saiyeret leader aside: “Morse is safe?”

The Israeli unlatched his com-unit/respirator so that they could talk privately, pulled off his hood and ran a hand through his short dark hair, then looked pointedly at Ashmead’s shoulder-borne transceiver.

Ashmead switched it off.

Then the Israeli answered his question: “So far as we know. Netanayhu put him under house arrest, as you suggested.” The team leader’s eyes, in the chopper’s spotlight, were full of unspoken sympathy: nobody knows what it means to lose a man like Zaki but another team leader who’s had to replace one. “There’s an ammo crate in the jeep you might want to look at, and another dead American.”

“Really? Thanks. While you walk me over there, give me the damage report on the lab, Major.”

The Israeli did, telling him that the facilities were essentially unharmed, since all the crucial equipment had been moved out beforehand and replaced with dummies, and the body count was seventeen terrorists, two counterterrorists.

Which meant that the Saiyeret leader had lost someone too, and prompted Ashmead to say, with the rebelliousness of a man who’s trying to put a value on the lost life of a friend, “If that crate contains what I think it does, and you’ll trust me and not ask any questions or tell anyone about it, and you can swear your men to silence, I think you and your team ought to all have a little shot. It won’t take long.”

The Saiyeret leader raised one eyebrow: “You’re the commander, Rafic. If it’s good for us, it would be good for Colonel Netanayhu, though, so I’ll give him mine.”

Ashmead knew he was walking a thin line, but he wanted the Israelis to figure out what the serum was for and, if possible, to continue produc ing enough of it, once Beck’s mission was airborne, to inoculate every man, woman and child in Israel. One of the things he’d learned on his nation’s Covert Action staff was that murder by inaction was just as bad as murder by direct action.

“I’ll take care of Dov Netanayhu. We go back a long way.”

“I’d heard that,” said the fighter pacing him, with a quick grin. “You’re something of a legend in a venue where that sort of distinction doesn’t come easily.”