EndWar: The Missing

by Tom Clancy

  Not two seconds after the explosions rattled the building and smoke clouds rushed through the hallway, Lex raced at full tilt down the hall on the right, firing at two more men who dared peek out from a doorway. He caught one in the leg, the other in the shoulder, and they retreated back into the room before he could finish them. They wailed as he jogged by—

  But then he stopped, did a double take.

  Beyond the bleeding men was a pair of surgical tables draped in sterile sheets, with a collection of medical equipment forming a semicircle around them. He couldn’t believe it, but this was a modern and fully equipped operating room lying beneath a trio of powerful lights attached to a boom positioned over the beds. Smaller carts near the beds contained rectangular sealed packages that Lex guessed were sterile surgical tools. The sub crew hadn’t brought this here; the room had been waiting for them. Was the room meant for Ragland or someone else?

  The wounded men looked at him, and one said in an accent that sounded British or Australian, “We’re just sailors and hired guns, mate.”

  Lex smirked. “POWs now—mate. So long as you keep your hands in the air.”

  At the sound of more gunfire from outside, Lex broke away and sprinted for the last door.

  His hackles rose. Instincts told him to twist and fire.

  A heavyset oaf who’d thought he’d ambush Lex stumbled back as his parka dented with bullets.

  At the far end of the hall, beyond the big guy, came two more, and Lex pitched an L12-7 heat-seeking grenade at them, the rocket whooshing up the hall to detonate in one man’s face. The flash and boom sent Lex to the wall for cover—

  Just as the door beside Ragland’s swung open. A hand appeared. A grenade hit the floor and rolled toward Lex.

  He spun back toward Ragland’s door, screaming into his mike, “Borya, fire now!”

  * * *

  Ragland jerked back as the old wooden door smashed open, with pieces of doorjamb flying.

  A soldier in Arctic white camouflage appeared like an angel haloed in smoke, his eyes covered by a tinted visor.

  At the same time, the window shattered and Werner’s head exploded, showering her in blood.

  The other guard was about to fire at the soldier when Ragland shoved herself in the chair, knocking his aim wide. As his gun went off, a second crack from outside echoed, and the man fell across Ragland, slumping to the floor. The back of his head was gone.

  Meanwhile, the soldier who’d burst inside threw himself on top of her—just as an explosion tore through the wall behind. The floor shook, the smoke and dust were suffocating, and now the icy wind was roaring inside. The smell of something terrible blew over as pieces of Sheetrock and two-by-fours slammed into them, the soldier shielding her from the debris.

  She couldn’t hear a thing, save for the ringing repetition of the explosion, her face dripping with more blood, the soldier drawing himself up and mouthing something. She couldn’t understand him, but her gaze lowered to the American flag patch Velcroed on his shoulder. Through the dust and blood and utter shock, she nodded.

  * * *

  Lex’s earpiece had protected his left ear from the blast, but his right ear buzzed like a bitch. He realized Ragland couldn’t hear him, but she understood enough. No time to get her out of the cuffs. He rose and helped her to her feet.

  Strommen arrived in the shattered doorway, looking stunned as he took one of Ragland’s arms and they steered her forward over the tattered wires and boards and beams while from another part of the building more automatic fire cracked hard and fast.

  “Guys from the third Zodiac are trying to move up, boss,” said McAllen. “Delta’s got them pinned down, but you’d better use the back door, over.”

  “Borya, can you target some of those men on the beach?”

  “Uh, boss, I can but you’d better get out here—quick.”

  Video captured by Borya’s helmet camera appeared in Lex’s HUD:

  The four Mi-8s were on final approach to the airfield, their noses pitched up as they prepared to land exactly where the Seahawks had dropped off Lex’s team. Thundering down behind them like starving vultures were the two Ka-65 Howler gunships whose pilots unleashed streams of tracer-lit, thirty-millimeter suppressing fire on the Marines in the mountains.

  “Okay, okay, we’re bringing her out now,” Lex responded, beginning to lose his breath. “Call Guardian. We need the choppers to pick us up on the south side of the station, right on that ridge back there near that giant tree stump. Pull up those coordinates and send a drone for combat control.”

  “I’m on it.”

  One of their UAVs would now fly over to the new landing zone and laser-designate it for the Seahawk pilots, performing the task of an air force combat controller.

  Moving more slowly than they would’ve preferred, Lex and Strommen guided Ragland through what was once the back door, now a gaping and tattered maw that had Marine Corps Was Here written all over it. They kept tight to the building, with Ragland shaking hard against the cold. They paused at the corner, where Lex tore off his gloves and told her to put them on. As she did, something odd flashed from the corner of Lex’s eye, and he craned his neck skyward.

  Up there, through all the swirling smoke and snow, came an improbable sight: a manta-shaped aircraft diving silently toward the Russian choppers.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Strommen.

  Lex swore unconsciously and got on the radio: “Siren, this is Alpha Team Actual, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Actual, this is Siren, get to your rally point.”

  The Wraith banked hard, its belly passing directly overhead as Halverson leveled off, then dove again—heading straight for the Mi-8s as they touched down.

  “Come on, Major, don’t do it,” cried Lex.

  “Get out of there,” Halverson shouted. “Just go, go, go!”

  * * *

  Halverson had been able to evade those Howler pilots and their high-frequency radars via the Wraith’s contouring design and radar-absorbent coatings, as well as by maintaining a consistent angle of approach until the very last second. While she was certain they were receiving faint or fleeting radar contacts and were aware that a stealth aircraft was present, interception couldn’t be reliably vectored to attack her, which of course was pilot-speak for sneaking up behind them with cold engines.

  By now General Mitchell knew what she was doing, and he’d tried repeatedly to reach her over the command net. She turned off the radio and triggered the laser, opening fire on the gunships simultaneously, striking both choppers head-on.

  One Howler banked suddenly to the left as explosions lit beneath the twin main rotors. This was part of the Howler’s complicated ejection system. The rotors flung away like boomerangs, and a second later, the chopper’s canopy blew off and the pilot ejected as though he were flying a fixed-wing aircraft. The system was rare in gunships, and Halverson found herself observing the pilot’s escape in awe.

  The second gunship pilot lost control of his bird, tried to eject, but the rotors failed to release. When his canopy blew off, it struck the rotors and was shredded, sending a hailstorm of pieces into him, even as his seat blew and he was catapulted into the slicing blades. The impact sent the gunship rolling onto its back and plunging into the sea. A shimmering white fountain veiled the helo before the rotors snapped.

  Now she’d finish the job. The Mi-8s were on the ground, the troops spreading out as she jerked the stick once more and checked her altitude: 200 meters, 190, the Wraith gliding to glory in a magnificent kamikaze run, as Lex began hollering again: “Get out, Siren! Come on!”

  More Spetsnaz troops hopped down from their choppers and stopped, fingers lifting in her direction as she opened fire with her cannon, intent on emptying the gun.

  She was their angel of death—

  With just five seconds until impact.

>   FIFTY-ONE

  Marine Raider Team

  Jan Mayen Island

  LORAN-C Station

  Lex’s eyes burned.

  Halverson was going to sacrifice herself and her aircraft to take out that Russian ground force. She wouldn’t kill them all, but she’d buy them time enough to escape.

  She was the bravest son of a bitch he’d ever seen.

  He stared at the Wraith, rapt, as Strommen hollered for them to go. They had to go.

  She was just a breath away from impact now.

  And then he saw it.

  He had to blink to be sure. Yes, it was there—a bright orange glow rising in the sky. An ejection seat. Drogue chute. Three, two, one—

  A parachute.

  Good opening. It was her. She’d made it!

  A rumbling thunder followed, along with a nails-on-chalkboard screeching as the Wraith collided with the choppers and fleeing troops.

  A series of discordant explosions—like a munitions factory going up in flames—brought them to their knees. Multiple whooshes of air and fireballs of varying size and shape mushroomed into the night and cast an eerie glow over the station. While the beating of rotors died, it was replaced by a sudden hammering, and then, in the next breath, rotor blades cut through the sky in all directions like thrown machetes, their surfaces gleaming with reflected fire.

  As the detonations continued, Lex told Strommen to wait as he raced back to the edge of the building. From there he could see the entire airfield.

  Three of the Mi-8s lay in twisted, burning heaps cordoned off by still-rising flames that swelled toward the only undamaged chopper. That pilot began to take off—just as another explosion from the nearest chopper tore into his canopy. The helo pitched forward, the rotors chewing into the snow before snapping off in what seemed like a thousand pieces, the bird hitting nose first and then flipping onto its back, tossing up a cloud of snow and pieces of fuselage, the air thick with the stench of spilling fuel.

  And somewhere within all that twisted glass, rubber, metal, and plastic, was the Wraith, jagged black sections of the wings appearing now, jutting up like dorsal fins between flaming corpses—

  While above it all Halverson floated soundlessly on the wind, heading toward the mountains behind the base.

  The remaining Spetsnaz—twenty or thirty, Lex estimated—saw the chute as well. Six troops broke off in pursuit.

  * * *

  Despite the dizziness and nausea from the ejection, Halverson smiled so hard that it hurt. She fully appreciated the irony here. Another aircraft had bit the dust. Crash and burn. Maybe Becerra was right. She should become a politician. The government couldn’t afford her piloting skills anymore. She actually laughed aloud as she steered herself toward the snow-covered peaks that formed a bulwark around the base, trying to aim for the pickup zone but finding herself forced back by the crosswind.

  Her smile faded as she spotted the troops below running in her direction. At the station, the Marines were breaking off and heading away, taking a few prisoners with them. It’d probably be a good idea for her to contact Lex and see if she could bum a ride. Yeah, a good idea.

  “Alpha Team Actual, this is Siren, over.”

  He sounded out of breath, “Jesus God, Siren, really? How ’bout a heads-up next time!”

  “Sorry, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I owe the government a lot of money.”

  “I think your credit’s still good.”

  “Need you to return a favor.”

  “I figured. By the way, in case you didn’t hear, we have the package. We’re getting her back to the rally point now. My team’s breaking off to get you. Just hang on.”

  She clutched her steering lines a little tighter. “No pun intended, right?”

  “Hell, yeah. We’ll be right up. Actual, out.”

  * * *

  Bravo and Delta teams linked up with Strommen’s men, and together they escorted Ragland to the southern part of the base where the Seahawks were now landing.

  Lex got word a few minutes later that Ragland was safely on board one of the choppers and was being flown off to the refueling point in Iceland.

  At the same time, the remaining Spetsnaz were charging into the station and Lex’s men were watching them from the mountain above, scaling their way along the ridge toward the cliff where Halverson had just set down.

  “I can see your chute on the side of the mountain,” Lex told her.

  “I’m just above. You better hurry. That squad’s coming up fast.”

  * * *

  Halverson pushed up on her elbows and chambered a round in her Beretta. She placed the extra fifteen-round clip on the snow near her chin. She got back down on her stomach, listening as the Russians approached. She couldn’t see them from her angle, the cliff too steep. If she broke and ran along the ridge, she’d be in plain sight from below, and they’d easily cut her down.

  She kept reminding herself that she had the high ground, the advantage, but if they came up at her from the left, they’d spot her. There was no cover, not one stinking rock.

  The wind began to howl, the snow falling much heavier and blowing sideways. That would help a little. Above that din, like faint static from an old TV, she heard the ice crunching beneath the Russians’ boots.

  Oh my God. Here they come.

  “Actual, where are you?” she whispered.

  “A minute out.”

  “Hurry.”

  “When I tell you, you get up and run,” Lex said.

  She didn’t answer because the first troop emerged at the far end of the ridge, picking his way up onto the cliff, his Arctic camouflage flashing like disembodied spots against the mountain.

  Halverson resisted the urge to fire and whispered into the boom mike, “They’re right here.”

  “Wait for the chopper,” he said.

  The helicopters were lifting off from the rally point, but their engines had been growing distant. Now, suddenly, one helo was much closer, rising over the top of the mountain, spotlights wiping across the snow, door gunners already opening fire with their M240s, rounds creating a wall between the Spetsnaz troops and Halverson.

  “Go!” Lex cried.

  She took a deep breath—

  Then sprang up, turned back, and sprinted along the ridge, her boots sliding over the ice beneath the snow, her balance nearly lost as she spotted the four-man Raider Team just twenty meters ahead, jogging toward her.

  The helicopter’s engines changed pitch, the gunners broke off, and for a second, Halverson stole a look back.

  One Spetsnaz troop had broken off from the group and was storming toward her, his rifle tucked into his chest.

  She was torn between stopping and firing and just racing on, the Marines shouting for her to go.

  Pouring everything she had into her legs, she faced forward and lunged away.

  The troop’s gun went off, sending a bolt of panic up her spine, followed by needling pains in her back, at least two. The pain vanished—then returned with a vengeance as her torso began to feel damp.

  She kept running, but the effort doubled, as though she were pushing through water, and when she took her next breath, nothing came. She coughed and tasted blood.

  The Marines ahead opened up on targets behind her, their rifles rattling and winking in the darkness.

  She hit the snow before ever realizing she’d tripped, and the pistol was gone from her hand.

  More gunfire. Shouts of “Down!” and “Secure!”

  They were on her, rolling her over, a flashlight in her face, a familiar and oh-so-comforting voice, “Stephie, baby, I’m here. I’m here. We got you.”

  It was Ray, her Ray, Sergeant Raymond McAllen, and all she could do was lift her arms and whisper, “Hold me.”

  * * *

  Lex was unaware of McAllen’s relationship with Ha
lverson, and while it wouldn’t have changed his opinion of them, some prior notice would’ve been nice. Obviously, Halverson had a problem with that. Yes, Lex thought he might’ve had a chance with her. A lot of guys probably thought the same. Well, that idea was summarily nixed. He shuddered off the petty thoughts and ripped off his pack to retrieve his medical supplies.

  Borya hunkered down and did likewise. They rolled Halverson onto her side and began cutting off the back of her flight suit to inspect the gunshot wounds.

  There were two: one near her left shoulder with a clean exit wound, and one at her waist on the right side. That round had no exit and might’ve lodged in her kidney. Thankfully, they’d missed her spine, but she was already losing a lot of blood, though, and that shot to her shoulder might’ve already punctured her lung and caused it to collapse.

  Borya got a line started so they could administer fluids while the chopper landed on a broader ridge just below them. Lex placed QuikClot 4×4s on her wounds to control her bleeding, and McAllen joined him in applying pressure to the bandages.

  Vlad ran off to fetch a long backboard they kept stowed on the Seahawk. McAllen held Halverson’s hand and continued to reassure her that she’d be all right, but by the time they transferred her to the backboard and had immobilized her head, her pulse was weak and thready, the 4×4s soaked with blood.

  They got down to the helo and took off, leaving the remaining Spetsnaz stranded on the island while just off the coast, the submarine was beginning to sink.

  Lex looked at Halverson lying on her backboard. McAllen was holding her hand and looking grim. Vlad and Borya had changed her bandages and were holding them tightly, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. They faced Lex, and Vlad shook his head.

  Lex shifted in beside them and lowered his head toward Halverson’s, speaking directly into her ear. “Major, Dr. Ragland is safe and we’re on our way back.”

  Her eyes flicked open. He put his ear to her mouth. “Good,” she managed.