“You need a shower,” Rapp said.
“No shit.”
Scooping up the AK-47 lying next to Rapp, the man ensured a round was chambered, checked that the magazine was seated, and then adjusted the selector switch. Setting the rifle to the side, the Ranger performed a quick but thorough search of the dead guard. His efforts yielded an additional pair of magazines. He tossed one to Rapp and shoved the second into his pocket.
“We taking this douchebag with us?” the Ranger said, pointing at CYCLONE.
“Yep,” Rapp said.
The Ranger grunted but didn’t argue. Instead he placed his rifle on the stone floor, undid his belt, and worked the thick webbing around the unconscious warlord’s thigh. The Ranger was none too gentle as he cinched the ad hoc tourniquet, but the steady blood flow leaking from the fighter’s leg dwindled to a trickle.
“What now?” the Ranger said as he scooped up his rifle.
“Your name’s Fred, right?” Rapp said.
“To my friends.”
“Well, Fred,” Rapp said, “it’s like this. My job was to find you and mark our position.”
“Who’s extracting us?” Saxton said.
“Your Rangers are providing the outer cordon,” Rapp said, “but a SEAL friend of mine is doing the up-close work.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Saxton said. “Bad enough I get pissed on, but a SEAL? Rangers don’t get rescued by frogmen.”
“They do today,” Rapp said.
Saxton began to answer with what Rapp assumed would be another smart-assed comment when an ominous rumble drowned out the Ranger’s words. The rock beneath Rapp’s feet started to tremble and he stumbled forward, reaching for the wall.
The lights went out.
CHAPTER 32
“WHAT the hell?” Saxton said as the corridor plunged into darkness.
“That’s the cavalry,” Rapp said. “Hopefully.”
“ ‘Hopefully’?”
“This operation was heavy on execution,” Rapp said, feeling for the cave’s wall with his right hand while holding the AK with his left.
“And light on planning,” Saxton said. “I’ve worked with SEALs before.”
“You might want to cut my frogman friend a little slack,” Rapp said. “He volunteered to come after your ass.”
“So he could star in the movie somebody’s gonna make.”
“Quit bellyaching and grab that douchebag’s cell,” Rapp said.
“Why?” Saxton said.
“So I can call my friends,” Rapp said.
“Won’t do any good,” Saxton said. “Never met a SEAL who could read a map.”
“Give it a rest already.”
“You been pissed on today? Thought not. Here’s the phone. I used numbnuts’ finger to unlock it.”
Rapp accepted the device.
As expected, there was no cell coverage inside the cave, but the Wi-Fi icon signified a connection. The routers must be slaved to an emergency power source. In an odd turn of events, Rapp felt grateful for the thoroughness of whatever group of jihadi engineers had set up the cave’s IT network. Shrugging off the strange thought, Rapp punched in a number, glad to have an excuse to end his argument with the cranky Ranger. While Saxton was wrong about SEALs, the man did have a point.
Rapp had not been pissed on today.
The call went through.
“Yes?”
“This is Ironman,” Rapp said. “I authenticate Charlie One Seven Alpha.”
“Authentication accepted, Ironman. This is Home Plate actual. Response is Whiskey Two Fiver Zulu.”
The call sign Home Plate Actual meant that Rapp was speaking directly to the J-Bad chief of base, Steve. Hopefully that meant that Coleman and the Rangers were already on the way.
“Accepted,” Rapp said, peering down the darkened corridor. “SITREP to follow.” He felt more than heard Saxton slide into place next to him. Even carrying CYCLONE’s deadweight, the Ranger moved like a panther.
“Send it, Ironman.”
