Coleman sympathized with the former Delta operator’s concern because he shared it.
His team was risking their lives because Rapp needed information. Were it not for the requirement to interrogate the Iranians, Coleman could have let Captain Smith drop Hellfires on the convoy and called it a day.
But this was the nature of the intelligence business.
Unlike conventional forces whose charter centered on closing with and destroying the enemy, paramilitary operatives operated in the gray area in which the intelligence gleaned from high-value targets was often more important than taking them off the battlefield. This was why the army’s Delta Force now worked almost exclusively in Iraq. Winning the fight against the insurgency raging across the Arab nation required the ability to both decapitate the heads of terrorist militias and understand their chain of command, funding mechanisms, training regimes, and so much more.
Coleman believed in his team, but he would love to turn over the kinetic portion of this mission to a troop of Delta assaulters right about now. But neither SEAL Team 6 nor Delta Force was here to save the day. If Scott and his band of ruffians didn’t make shit happen, the intelligence held in the minds of his targets would go up in smoke.
“Chaos 7, this is Shock 6. Lead vehicle is ten seconds out, over.”
Captain Smith’s radio call put an end to Coleman’s internal deliberations.
For better or worse, the operation was now in motion.
“Shock 6, this is Chaos 7,” Coleman said. “Roger all. You are cleared hot, over.”
“Shock 6 confirming cleared hot. Stand by.”
Stand by was such an aviator thing to say. Coleman was huddled body-to-body with his team in a rain-filled depression half a length away from a road that was about to become a scene of unmitigated violence. Captain Smith might have been working at an insurance call center for all the tension in the cavalryman’s voice.
But that characterization wasn’t entirely fair.
Smith was also helpless in the sense that he wasn’t taking the shot. Instead, an aviator under his command was about to fire at a target with Americans hunkered well inside the danger-close guidelines. Smith’s life might not be in danger, but Coleman knew that behind the calm radio demeanor the cavalryman must also be feeling pretty helpless. Except Smith’s version of helpless didn’t have him squatting in a hole while praying that a man he’d never met hadn’t skimped on gunnery practice.
Maybe this whole paramilitary gig was overrated.
Putting aside his increasingly pessimistic thoughts, Coleman pressed the transmit button on his second radio. “Zeus, this is Chaos 7. You are weapons-free.”
“Roger that, 7. Zeus is weapons-free.”
Charlie’s voice also seemed absurdly relaxed, but for a different reason. The former SEAL was in the zone, embracing the battlefield Zen practiced by all snipers. Though the distance to target was only two hundred meters, Charlie would still retard his heart rate and respiration. The key to being a great long-distance shooter was to treat each engagement as if it were a kilometer-plus shot. Besides, this wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park even though the distance was minimal. Charlie was charged with shooting accurately through the windshield of a moving car in order to kill the driver.
Not exactly a cakewalk.
Though his teammates could monitor his conversation with the sniper element, Coleman still reached over with his left hand to squeeze Will’s shoulder. Was the gesture unnecessary? Probably. But there were already too many variables in the tactical equation Coleman couldn’t control. He wasn’t going to add his team accidentally missing the execute signal to the mix.
A moment later Coleman felt two squeezes on his left biceps courtesy of Mas.
The assault team was ready to execute.
Now it was up to the aviators.
Even though he was a veteran of countless kinetic operations, Scott wasn’t any less susceptible to the mind tricks that accompanied combat. Tricks like a warped perception of time. As seconds seemed to become minutes, Coleman had to fight the urge to press his radio’s transmit button to ask for an update. The gunship pilots had enough on their plates. The last thing Captain Smith needed was an anxious SEAL crawling into the cockpit with him.
At least that’s what the logical part of Scott’s mind told him.
The lizard portion of his brain wasn’t so sure.
Maybe Smith was trying to call him and couldn’t get through. Coleman was debating whether to conduct a radio check when thunder rent his world. The noise was difficult to describe—a string of detonations that sounded a bit like firecrackers exploding but with much more menace. A mechanical clacking vaguely reminiscent of a jackhammer on speed accompanied by a pop, pop, pop of detonating 30mm rounds. Coleman kept his chest pressed against the muddy ground as a second round of detonations sounded.
Then he peered over the ledge.
The good news was that the Apaches had hit their mark. The lead Corolla was resting on the rims of two blown front tires. The engine was leaking fluid and spewing steam, and the windshield was shattered. Coleman couldn’t speak to the status of the vehicle’s occupants, but that Toyota wasn’t going anywhere.
The bad news was that the same couldn’t be said of the target vehicle. Rather than screeching to a halt behind the stricken lead Corolla, the driver of the Suzuki van decided that it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. The lead vehicle was sprawled across both lanes, blocking traffic. Instead of trying to weave around the totaled sedan, the van had elected to make an off-road escape.
An escape headed straight toward Coleman.
CHAPTER 69
USUALLY, the phrase coming straight at you was something of an exaggeration.
Not today.
The Suzuki hurtled toward Coleman with an unerring accuracy as if it were a heat-seeking missile locked on to a dumpster fire. The front tire snagged a piece of rock as the van tore up the slight incline, sending the hood wobbling to the left.
For an instant.
Then the wheels angled right, and the bumper was once again centered on Coleman’s belly button. Without thought, Coleman brought his rifle to his shoulder, laid his optic’s crimson dot on the driver’s midsection, moved the selector switch to fire, and pressed the trigger. A distant part of his brain registered the rifle’s report as the buttstock slapped his shoulder, but the majority of Coleman’s intellect was focused on just one task.
Hammering through his magazine.
Feeling like a matador staring down a charging bull, Coleman bent his knees and leaned into engagement even as he continued to fire. Running never entered his mind. He simply worked the trigger, bringing the red dot back onto target each time the muzzle climb lifted it toward the van’s roof.
The Suzuki kept coming.
Coleman kept shooting.
