Strike Force Alpha Read Free

second group of armed men, killing them all instantly.
    Chaos now ensued. The noise was deafening. Explosions, the sound of gunfire, the surviving militiamen trying to shout to one another over the racket. Another dozen gunmen arrived, their large open truck screeching to a halt at the end of the alley. They were armed with rocket-propelled grenades. One fired his weapon at the helicopter retrieving the bombers. The RPG shell missed high, exploding in the street one block over from the alley. Another RPG went off. This one went right through the rear cabin of the helicopter and out the other side, without exploding, an extraordinary piece of luck for those on board.
    A third RPG was fired, this one at the helicopter that had unleashed the rocket barrage. Aimed way too low, the grenade smashed into an empty apartment building a half-block away. The structure went up like a box of matches.
    The two bombers had been reeled into the helicopter by this time and the aircraft began moving away. Still, the remaining militiamen persisted. They were astonished that these were Americans doing this, astonished that it was happening so fast. But no matter. Shooting down one of the U.S. helicopters was now their priority.
    So every man with a gun opened fire on the second helicopter. It took some serious hits along the fuselage and up near the tail. It began to stagger; a trail of smoke appeared. A cheer went up from those below. Suddenly half the neighborhood was shooting at it.
    That’s when the Harrier jump jet arrived.
    It came out of nowhere as jump jets were known to do. It immediately opened up with its cannon, raking the alleyway from one end to the other. The militiamen went scrambling for their lives. Firing at helicopters with rifles was one thing; battling a jet fighter was quite another. The Harrier climbed, turned, and came back down again, cannon blazing once more. Another stream of explosions ran down the alley, tearing up the pavement and covering just about all the fleeing militiamen in concrete and burning rubble. This gave the second chopper enough time to safely move away.
    Only then did the Harrier leave the scene.
    Five hours later
    The Mercedes had been speeding through the streets of East Beirut all afternoon, going in circles, a caravan of SUVs and Toyota trucks trying hard to keep up with it.
    Slumped over in the backseat of the SE500 sedan was Abdul Abu Qatad, brother of the recently departed Muhammad Ayman Qatad. Abdul’s chief bodyguard was lying on top of him, shielding him. After five hours of this, both men were very sweaty.
    Abdul was lucky he was still able to sweat. Arriving late at his niece’s wedding, he’d just climbed out of his SUV when the function hall blew up. Abdul had escaped with just cuts on his hands and face, but his young boyfriend had simply disappeared, caught by the storm of nails. His gore was still splattered on Abdul’s robes. Abdul had served as his brother’s right-hand man for the past 10 years. They had overseen dozens of jihad operations together, using their Algerian moneymen as their workforce. But never had Abdul imagined the horror he’d seen this day. And never had he come so close to being killed himself.
     
    He’d been calling and calling on his cellphone all during this mad trip through the crowded streets, trying to contact anyone still alive in his brother’s security organization. His fingers were numb from punching in the same numbers, over and over again. But no one answered. No one was left.
    He finally ordered his driver to stop in front of a nondescript apartment building on the edge of East Beirut. The escort of SUVs and Toyotas, brimming with private security troops, roared up behind him. The armed men jumped from these trucks and surrounded the Mercedes. It was dark by now. The lights on the narrow street were very dim.
    The chief bodyguard lifted himself off Abdul and opened the door. A mumbled request was translated into a quick order: the security