When the soldier in the passenger seat of the Humvee depressed the switch, even before speaking, an electrical circuit closed. A pulse of electricity, amplified by a system of transistors and capacitors, raced from the small box secured to the dashboard, along an insulated coaxial cable, to the rear antenna mount, where it burst into the atmosphere in an invisible lightning bolt.
And like lightning, it would blast anyone unlucky enough to be touching the antenna at that instant.
Two things saved Kismet. Two factors, which by their random and coincidental nature, could only be described as pure luck.
Unaware of the impending radio transmission, and only faintly cognizant that such a surge could erupt from the antenna, Kismet had but one goal: to reach just a little higher. His knees slipped ineffectually against the metal shell of the vehicle in a struggle to find purchase and relieve, if only for a moment, the burning fatigue in his arms. His right elbow was tucked under the UN banner strung across the back end of the Humvee but he didn’t trust the thin fabric to hold his weight. His left arm however, bruised at the elbow during the struggle at the museum and on fire with lactic acid buildup, could hold on no longer. His fingers, though rigid like claws, began to uncurl, involuntarily slipping away from the spring-coil at the base of the antenna. The failure of his grip saved his life.
Though grounded by the glancing contact of his feet with the roadway, his fingers were barely touching the antenna. Had the transmission occurred mere seconds earlier, the fierceness of his grip would have held him locked in place as the current poured through his body, but the severity of the shock was greatly minimized due to the marginal contact between Kismet and the antenna. Even so, the surge slapped his hand like a blow from a baseball bat.
The shock seized every muscle in his body, instantaneously firing all the nerve endings in a numbing jolt. The kinetic release knocked his hand away, and would have easily thrown him aside like a rag doll had his right arm not been entangled in the UN flag. Therein lay the second bit of luck to which Kismet would owe his life: the fabric held up under the sudden weight of his collapse.
Hung up in the banner and stunned by the electrical discharge, Kismet dangled behind the racing Humvee like a fish caught by the gills in a net. His feet trailed helplessly along the roadway as the vehicle pulled onto the Shuhada Bridge.
The call for assistance reached several listening ears. A two-man patrol cruising in the vicinity of the now defunct Baath party headquarters, just north of the city’s transportation hub, immediately turned toward the 14
th
July Highway, racing to intercept the fugitive vehicle. Further away, a Sikorsky UH-60A Black Hawk helicopter was diverted from its landing at the Baghdad International Airport and sent to provide aerial surveillance. Its estimated time to contact was less than three minutes. All over the city, R/T operators began relaying the urgent call for help to their commanding officers, who in turn began weighing Buttrick’s urgent needs against their own respective assignments. More then a few of these hastily dispatched squads of soldiers to the target area, but even the closest contingent had no chance of reaching the bridge before the chase moved beyond, onto the west bank of the Tigris River. Despite their tardiness however, it was reasonable to assume that the crew aboard the Black Hawk would guide the reinforcements, via radio transmissions, through the urban area in order to trap the commandeered Humvee.
In the pandemonium of pursuit, it never occurred to any of them that the assassin was also listening.
Kismet was gradually roused from his stunned condition by the incessant hammering of his feet against the deck of the bridge. The memory of the electrical shock was already fading. The discharge had done no permanent damage. A lingering numbness in his extremities was all that remained. In every other way however, his situation continued to be dire.
Cautiously twisting his torso, he brought his left hand around, gripping the corner of the banner in order to relieve the cutting pressure under his right arm. There was no choice now but to trust the flag to bear his weight. Nevertheless, gaining a more dependable perch remained imperative.
With deliberate slowness, he raised his right leg, hooking his heel under the bungee cord that secured the lower right corner of the banner. The rubber band provided a surprisingly stable foothold, allowing him to wrestle his arm free. After flexing his fingers for a moment to restore circulation, he reached back to his waist pack, fumbling until his fingers closed around the carved wooden grip of his
kukri
.
Kismet drew the heavy blade from its sheath and in a single practiced motion brought it around in an overhand chopping motion. The curved edge of the knife struck true but the blade rebounded from the aluminum shell, nearly twisting out of his fatigued grip. Disheartened by the failure, he braced himself against the anticipated recoil and tried again.
His attack against the vehicle’s metal skin failed to do more than make a few dents, but the incessant hammering alerted the occupants of the vehicle to their unexpected passenger. Kismet, lost in a single-minded effort to chop out a secure handhold, was oblivious to the shouted offers of assistance, originating from the open turret atop the Humvee. When the sergeant’s voice finally broke through, he could only stare dumbly at the outstretched hand.
“Take it!”
Methodically sheathing his knife, Kismet leaned in close and reached up. Surrendering himself to the other man’s grip, he allowed the soldier to draw him up onto the flat roof. Only there did he take note of the pursuit. From this vantage, he could make out the other vehicles in the convoy as they raced single file across the bridge. The Humvee piloted by Aziz’s killer had a lead of only a few seconds, but it was enough. As he watched, the vehicle shot past the end of the span and down the rampart. A few moments later, it made a hard right turn on the banked exit onto a divided highway. The driver made no effort to slow down for the turn, allowing the wheels to drift across the outside lane until they rebounded from the concrete abutment. The large tires left a streak of black, but were otherwise undamaged as the Humvee bounced back into the left-hand lane. The heavy suspension shuddered violently but the driver never lost control.
“You okay?” the sergeant shouted in his ear.
Kismet nodded, gripping the edge of the turret with both hands to show that he was secure.
“Better get inside. This is going to be one rough ride.” With that, the sergeant ducked down into the vehicle, settling into the front passenger seat. Kismet waited until he was clear, then heaved himself headfirst through the opening.
Despite the noise of the diesel engine, he thought that it seemed much quieter in the Humvee’s interior, at least until Buttrick addressed him.
“Kismet!” The urgency of the crisis had evidently superceded their first name basis. “What the fuck is going on?”
He fought to catch his breath. “We were interviewing one of the curators. I guess somebody didn’t want him talking to us.”
“Shit. Who is this guy? Local?”
“I don’t think so.” He mentally reviewed what he did know about the escaping killer. The initial crime had borne the earmarks of a professional hit, but what he had witnessed thereafter suggested the kind of training available only in the world of international espionage. Kismet had one more salient bit of information regarding the assassin, but decided to play his cards close to the vest and refrained from supplementing his claim of ignorance.
“Well whoever he is, he can sure drive. The American people paid good money for that vehicle. I’d hate to have to destroy it, but this guy isn’t giving me much choice.”
“You would also be destroying our only chance to get some answers.” He could sense the colonel’s disapproval in the silence that followed. “I guess if that’s what it takes.”
The Humvee left the bridge, following in the trail blazed by the other three. Kismet gripped the seat in order to keep from being tossed around the interior as the vehicle went off-road. The other two pursuing vehicles were visible, but he could not discern the one that led the chase. Buttrick’s co-pilot maintained communication with the other soldiers in the command, verifying that the quarry was still in sight, and took updates from the other forces moving in to close the trap.
The driver of the captured Humvee did not relent, red-lining the transport’s engine and refusing to yield to pedestrians or other vehicles. In order to prevent the gap between them from widening, Buttrick and the other drivers were forced to implement a similar strategy.
At a major interchange near Tala’a Square, a car driven by a local civilian screeched to a stop, narrowly missing the stolen Humvee as it plowed through heedless of other traffic. The irate driver blasted an angry, sustained note with his horn before applying the accelerator. The soldier in the leading pursuit vehicle—designation D-44—intently focused on his prey, reacted too late. The front end of his Humvee crushed the fender panels of the smaller car and the heavy truck tires rolled up onto its hood, snapping the chassis and demolishing the engine block. The military vehicle scraped over the wreckage, wreaking further ruin on the already devastated vehicle, then bounced down once more onto the pavement. The encounter had lasted only a heartbeat, but it was a moment added to the assassin’s lead.
Other cars, speeding into the intersection from each direction, scattered to avoid becoming caught in a pile-up. Several of these took to the sidewalk in a last-ditch effort to avoid a collision with the wrecked car or the rest of the convoy as it charged past the scene of ruin. Buttrick clenched his teeth in a fierce grimace as he glanced down at the shattered civilian vehicle, but he said nothing.
The chase continued along a main boulevard, known locally as Hayfa Street, heading north and west. To their left, the Tigris followed a meandering path, weaving into view before turning away at a right angle. With the river effectively blocking one avenue of escape, it seemed inevitable that they would eventually trap the fleeing assassin. Buttrick began directing his reinforcements to close in ahead of them and stage a roadblock at the foot of the Al Azamiyah Bridge. On the straight thoroughfare, Kismet had an unobstructed view of the entire progression. Their prey dodged in and out of the moderately heavy civilian traffic, as did the other two vehicles. With nearly half a kilometer between Buttrick’s vehicle and the assassin’s, it was difficult for Kismet to differentiate the almost identical vehicles. Unable to add anything to the pursuit, he resigned himself to the role of spectator.
A voice crackled from the radio speaker. “Delta Four-Six, this is Bravo Two-Five. We are leaving the rail yard and proceeding onto Hayfa Street ahead of you. Do you want us to block the road? Over.”
Buttrick glanced at the map, then shook his head. “We’ll pass them before they can get in position. Have them block the highway leading to the Sarafiya Bridge, just in case. Then they can join us in closing the trap.”
His commands were relayed by the sergeant and a moment later, the Humvee, which had identified itself as B-25, broke across the road in the barely visible distance, crossing the intersection well ahead of the chase and came to a stop in the middle of the cross street.
The stolen Humvee suddenly cut hard to the left, sweeping across both lanes of traffic on a perpendicular approach toward the edge of the road. A collision with the concrete barrier seemed inevitable, but when the front end of the vehicle reached the steeply sloped obstacle, the elevated front end passed over its upper limit, allowing the tires to make contact. The rear wheels continued to supply forward momentum, while the front tires ascended the near vertical hump of cement and stone.
Instantly, the Humvee launched into the air. The rear wheels finished their journey, striking the barricade to give a final burst of impetus as the vehicle leaped skyward and sailed over the highway divider in a short parabolic arc.
The rear tires touched down first, seeming to lightly kiss the pavement, but the contact was enough to snap the front end down violently, creating a ripple of energy that bounced the Humvee across both lanes toward the far edge of the road. Traffic on the highway was light enough that no unlucky souls happened to be in the landing area, but the drivers of several approaching cars instinctively jammed their brakes, skidding out of control to collide with one another. The pile-up began to cascade behind them as the captured Humvee hit the barrier on the far left, lifting once more into the air.
At almost the same moment, the turret gunner on Bravo 25 overcame his disbelief and squeezed the butterfly trigger of his Browning fifty-caliber machine gun. A noisy stream of ammunition began pouring after the renegade vehicle. A few of the rounds found their mark, punching enormous holes in the rear of the stolen truck, but most went wide as evidenced by the tracer rounds that sizzled well past the Humvee and smacked into parked railway freight cars hundreds of meters beyond. The noise and light show was enough to cause the war-weary motorists on the lane ahead of the convoy to stop short and duck their heads.
“Damn it!” Buttrick raged. “Tell them to hold fire. There goes our roadblock.”
Before the sergeant was able to key the message, Delta 44 broke to the left. Inspired by the success of the assassin’s jump and intent on maintaining the pursuit, the young soldier driving the lead chase vehicle drove head-on into the concrete barrier. Buttrick muttered a disbelieving oath as the Humvee lofted over the divider and touched down successfully.
The sergeant sent out a frantic call to the forces deploying near the bridge to abandon that location. Meanwhile, the assassin’s vehicle kicked up a column of dust as it continued across an open field toward an obvious destination, the rail yard, with the daredevil soldier in the lead Humvee close behind.
The driver of the second Humvee—D-43—seemed less enthusiastic about making the airborne transition across the opposite lanes and off of the highway, but he knew what had to be done and did not ease off of the accelerator once committed to the jump. Buttrick began swinging to the far right of the road in order to begin his approach along the same path.