Siege of Lightning

by R. J. Pineiro

  The soldiers had jumped off the helicopters, rolled twice, gotten to their feet, and raced for the other side of the clearing, disappearing in the thick jungle.

  How did they find us? Ortiz asked himself. He felt confident no one had followed them. The Mambo team had arrived at the clearing before dawn. The chance of someone spotting and following them was small. What if someone had been captured? What if one of Mambo’s missing members had fallen into enemy hands and been tortured to reveal their fallback position? He moved back into the jungle and signaled Zimmer to do the same.

  “You think they know we’re here?” Zimmer asked?

  “Either that or they think we might be coming this way.”

  “There’s too many of ‘em, Tito. How are we gonna get away? They don’t look like amateurs to me.”

  “Nope, they sure don’t look like rookies, but neither do we. Don’t underestimate the training we got under our belts. We’re just as good as or better than them.”

  “Well, maybe now we still are, since we still have our ammo ‘n’ our individual food supplies, but after a few days we’ll get tired and—”

  “You listen to me. We’re playing this one smart. We’ll follow ‘em ‘n’ keep a close eye on ‘em. As long as we know where they are we’ll be all right. The only thing I still don’t get’s how in the hell they managed to get dropped so close to us. Luck? Don’t know, man.”

  The rest of Mambo gathered around them. Ortiz scanned the group. All eyes were on him. All depended on him. He was now their leader.

  “All right, listen up. We gotta assume those men know we’re in the area. They probably got orders to shoot to kill. Our first priority is not to kill ‘em, but stalk ‘em to make sure we know where they are at all times. I wanna follow their every move and determine the type of gear they got.” He noticed several puzzled looks, and smiled. “We only got one goal, guys, and that’s to get outta here alive. We’ve already accomplished our mission. Now we gotta find a way to get outta this place. Main problem is that we ain’t got no means of comunicatin’ with our people, ‘cept for this radio, which transmits an emergency distress signal. In order to get airlifted, we need two-way comm, and the only way I see of getting one’s by stealing the enemy’s. I’m assuming, of course, that they’re carrying radios. All with me now?”

  The puzzled looks disappeared and were replaced by signs of admiration. He had acted like a leader and had earned their respect. Now it was up to all of them to carry through with his plans.

  * * *

  Cameron had heard the helicopters only five minutes after he’d finished untangling his parachute from a nearby tree. He had managed to fold it and stow it away, along with his backpack, in record time, and was now closing in on the troops he’d seen jumping off the helo.

  Cameron frowned at first. He felt too old to be doing this, but the professional soldier in him resurfaced faster than he had anticipated. The jungle surrounded him once more. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the smell of trees. It was a somewhat welcome feeling. Perspiration had soaked his shirt. The temperature was already way into the nineties and the sun had barely loomed over the horizon. A light fog hid the ground. It reached his knees. Cameron cruised through it as he approached a section of the jungle where the group of soldiers had disappeared.

  He moved in a crouch, keeping his head low and scanning the surroundings as he reached the tree line. His weapon was a sound-suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, the preferred weapon of the elite British Special Air Service troopers. He kept his left hand under the sound-suppressed barrel unit and his right on the trigger. The telescopic metal butt was not extended, making it easier to handle.

  Cameron remained some fifty feet behind the last soldier. They’re good, he reflected, but it was obvious to Cameron that they had never seen actual combat before. Their moves were too “textbook,” too systematic. There was no natural rhythm in their advance. Cameron decided to follow them for a few minutes to see where they were headed. He guessed they would lead him to Mambo.

  Cameron checked his wrist-mounted homing unit. It automatically picked up Mambo’s distress signal and indicated its closeness by the frequency with which a small red light blinked. After a few minutes the frequency decreased, which told him he was moving away from the source. Cameron smiled. The soldiers were going in the wrong direction. He stopped and turned around.

  * * *

  Ortiz spotted someone else entering the jungle after the soldiers, someone not dressed like the other soldiers but more like a U.S. Special Forces soldier. The camouflaged fatigues and cap were straight out of the jungle-warfare attire section at Howard Air Force Base. The man had reached the trees, performed a brief scan of the clearing with his weapon, and then gone in among them. The weapon, though, was definitely not a Colt but an MP5 and it was silenced, based on the thick barrel.

  He looked back at his platoon. “Tommy, you come with me. The rest of you spread out along the edge of the clearin’ an’ give us cover. Don’t fire unless you got a specific target, an’ only if that target presents imminent danger. Even then, try to take out the target with a knife. Remember, one shot an’ our concealment’s gone. They’ll know for sure where we are. Everybody got that?”

  He saw them all nod.

  “All right. Give us about fifteen minutes. If we haven’t come out after that, come in. If you hear shootin’ also come in as soon as possible.” He passed the radio strapped to his belt to another soldier. “Hang on to this till I get back. Let’s go, Tommy.”

  * * *

  Cameron smiled when the frequency of the flashing light increased. He was getting closer to the target. It was obvious to him that Mambo—or at least the generator of the distress signal—was on the other side of the clearing, which was still about a hundred feet away. He continued moving toward the edge of the clearing, carefully scanning the trees ahead for signs of sentries. Even though he felt certain that all of the soldiers were moving the other way, there was always the chance of one remaining behind to provide cover for the landing zone.

  The sunlight filtered through the dense trees, creating spots of light in the otherwise murky jungle. Cameron remembered to try to avoid such bright spots since they could temporarily blind him by dilating his pupils. Even with all the care he took walking around them, a beam of sunlight reached his face. He instinctively shut his eyes but it was too late, enough light had entered his eyes to dilate his pupils. He stepped away into the shadows and rapidly blinked to readjust his vision. He scanned the jungle and frowned when he noticed several bright spots in his field of view. Cameron knew it would take about a minute before the spots faded away and he would be able to see clearly again.

  He remained uncomfortably still, hiding behind a thick tree trunk, firmly clutching his MP5. Once more he scanned the terrain ahead and froze. Something didn’t feel right. His ears had heard a sound that didn’t belong in the jungle. Straight ahead. He struggled to see what had caused the light metallic noise. Then he saw the well-camouflaged soldier, the leaf-covered shape of a man lying on his stomach next to a tree. Which way is he facing? Cameron couldn’t tell. His instincts told him that it was toward the clearing.

  That guy’s good, Cameron thought as he moved sideways. Now he had to be extremely careful to disguise his own sounds as he made a wide sweep to position himself behind and to the right of the soldier. If his experience had taught him anything it was that he definitely didn’t want to approach straight from behind; the soldier had probably booby-trapped the area directly behind him to protect himself from exactly this type of attack.

  As he made his approach, Cameron scrutinized the leaf-covered terrain for signs of disturbance. The only type of trap anyone could have set up in such a short period of time was a small antipersonnel mine, easily concealable under the leaves.

  He proceeded in a crouch, carefully feeling the terrain ahead with the tip of his
boot. Most mines required only two to five pounds of pressure to go off. Cameron lightly brushed his foot over the terrain and moved the leaves aside to get a clean view of the hardened soil prior to setting his foot down. The procedure slowed his advance, but the alternative made it worthwhile. The soldier lay less than thirty feet away. The long barrel protruding through the leaves told Cameron the soldier was indeed facing the clearing.

  A gentle breeze swayed the branches of nearby trees. Cameron took advantage of that to move a bit faster since he had the wind to help him mask the sound he made when moving the leaves to the side. Twenty feet. Then sentry remained still. The wind intensified a bit. Fifteen feet. He dropped to a deep crouch and slung the MP5 across his back. He wanted to take him alive. He needed information.

  Cameron curled his fingers around the plastic handle of a black-coated, serrate-edge, hunting knife. He took another step.

  Snap!

  Cameron froze for a brief second. The figure began to emerge from under the blanket of red and brown leaves. Cameron moved swiftly, closing the ten-foot gap in under three seconds. The soldier was about to bring his weapon to bear when Cameron grabbed the barrel with his left hand and pointed it to the sky, dropping the knife in the process. It was an AK-47 assault rifle. The weapon went off once, twice. Both men rolled on the ground. Cameron brought his right knee up, driving it viciously into the man’s testicles. The blow had the desired effect. The soldier let go of the weapon and they both began to roll. They crashed against a tree and separated. Cameron felt the MP5 flying to the side.

  Cameron got to his feet in seconds and noticed the soldier had done the same. The man pulled out a knife from his belt. Cameron realized he had dropped his own knife to grab the AK’s barrel. He saw the soldier’s lip curving upward.

  Cameron assumed a fighting stance—left leg forward, body sideways to the soldier—and waited. He would let the soldier make the first move. The soldier did, starting to walk in a circle. Cameron did the same. The circle got smaller and smaller, until suddenly the soldier slashed the knife out in a semicircle. Cameron stepped back. The soldier slashed again. This time, though, Cameron’s back crashed against the trunk of a tree. He was trapped. The soldier’s face hardened. Cameron knew what that meant.

  The soldier lunged with the knife in front and aimed for Cameron’s breast bone. Cameron reacted swiftly, pivoting on his left leg and rotating his body sideways to the attacker, missing the incoming blade by an inch. The soldier’s arm went past him. The knife plunged itself into the bark. Cameron grabbed the attacking wrist with his right hand and palm-struck the elbow with his left.

  “Aghh!”

  The soldier stepped back and stared in disbelief at his arm, broken at a repulsive angle. Before he could react, Cameron stepped sideways, coiled his left leg, and extended it upward, heel up, toes pointing down. The powerful sidekick landed on the soldier’s gear vest and pushed him down. Cameron jumped on top and sat on the soldier’s chest, pressing his knees against the soldier’s arms.

  “Who are you? Identify yourself!”

  The soldier stared back at him and in a single move, managed to lift both legs and encircle Cameron’s neck, pulling him back. Cameron rolled and easily freed himself from the lock. The soldier broke into a run. Cameron knew he could not let him go alive.

  “Vite! Au secours! Au secours!” Cameron heard him scream.

  Cameron jumped left, landed on his side, and grabbed the MP5. He set the side lever to single-shot, trained it on the departing French soldier, and fired once. The sound suppressor absorbed most of the noise, letting out only a barely audible spitting sound. He noticed his aim with the MP5 had not worsened through the years. The soldier was propelled forward and crashed onto the leaves headfirst. Cameron got up and quickly ran over and checked for a pulse. There was none. The bullet had entered the soldier’s back and exploded as it exited through his chest, leaving a hole large enough for his fist to fit in. Cameron turned him over and quickly checked for documents, but found none. He knew he didn’t have much time left. The rest of the unit was probably on the way after hearing the AK-47’s shots.

  Cameron slung the MP5 across his back, grabbed the soldier’s feet, and dragged him toward a thick cluster of trees. He turned around and froze, staring straight into the black muzzle of a Colt Commando.

  “Hola, cabron. I remember you.”

  Cameron didn’t answer. He had heard a noise to his left and shifted his gaze in that direction. There stood another soldier. The first one scraped some of the mud off his face.

  Cameron raised an eyebrow. “Ortiz?”

  “Yeah, pendejo. What took you guys so long?”

  Cameron exhaled. You shouldn’t have done that, Ortiz. I could have—”

  “I doubt it, man. By the way, name’s Tito, not Ortiz.”

  Cameron smiled. “All right, Tito. I brought some supplies with me. They’re behind that tree. Where’s the rest of Mambo?” Cameron headed for a rosewood tree fifty feet away. Ortiz followed him.

  “On the other side of the clearin’. Where we going?”

  “Home, Tito. We’re going home.”

  U.S.S. BLUE RIDGE

  Crowe bolted up from the bed the moment Davenport stormed in.

  “Up, Kenny! We’ve found them.”

  “Found them? Where? How?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. We don’t have much time. From what we were told, there are seven soldiers and a civilian alive and well.”

  “A civilian?”

  “Well, not exactly. CIA. He’s the one that found them. Anyway, get dressed and see me by the Stallion in five. Let’s go, let’s go!” Davenport left.

  Crowe jumped off his bunk, pulled up his flight suit, put on his boots, and grabbed the flight helmet next to his foot locker. He headed for the deck.

  KOUROU, FRENCH GUIANA

  Vanderhoff stormed into the mission control room of the complex and walked past scientists and technicians working in coordination with cleanup crews by the launchpad. All of the fires had been extinguished, and workers were now shoveling the debris off the launching complex.

  He reached the other side of the room, where a locked door led to another high-security room. Vanderhoff got his magnetic key card out and inserted it in the slot by the door. The red light above the door turned green and he heard the locking mechanism snap. The door then automatically slid into the wall. He stepped into another room as the sliding door closed behind him. There were two technicians there. Both looked in his direction. Vanderhoff addressed the younger of the two.

  “It’s time to get our backup plan in motion.”

  The young operator exhaled. “Sir, do you understand the implications?”

  “I understand. Do it and call me when it’s done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With that, Vanderhoff turned around and left the room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NEW FACES

  MIR SPACE COMPLEX

  For Michael Kessler, the world seemed out of focus. The harder he squinted and blinked to clear his sight, the blurrier things got. He gave up and exhaled as he noticed a figure looking over him. Kessler tried to move but he couldn’t. He was somehow immobilized.

  “Astronaut Kessler? Mikhail Kessler? Can you hear me, yes?”

  Mikhail? What struck Kessler the most was not the questions, but the deep female voice and heavy Slavic accent. It almost sounded as if the woman was trying to fake it.

  “Mikhail Kessler? I’m holding your hand. If you can hear me squeeze it tight.”

  Kessler squeezed her hand.

  “Good, Mikhail, very good. Now listen carefully. You are aboard Space Station Mir. Your government asked our government for help. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Another squeeze.

  “Good. Your friend, Captain Jones, is in critical condition. It appears
that he suffered internal injuries from the accident with your version of the space bicycle. We must get him to Earth as soon as possible.”

  Slowly, her face came into focus. A light olive-skinned woman with short black hair and brown eyes wearing a bright-orange jumpsuit. She smiled.

  “Who…”

  “My name is Valentina Tereshkova. I am the flight engineer for the mission, and lucky for you I also speak English.”

  “How long have I—we been here?”

  “We rescued you over six hours ago. You had depleted the oxygen supply of your space vehicle.”

  “Lightning…where is the orbiter?”

  “About thirty meters below us. You know, you are lucky we found you when we did. A little longer and you and your friend would have died.”

  Kessler scanned the compartment. It was spacious as far as spacecraft were concerned. Definitely much larger than Lightning’s mid-deck compartment.

  “CJ, you said he’s in—”

  “CJ? Are you referring to Captain Jones?”

  Kessler smiled thinly. “Yes.”

  “Yes, we have him temporarily stabilized, but he has suffered serious internal injuries. He must undergo surgery immediately.”

  Kessler shifted his gaze to the Velcro straps that held him down on a horizontal sleeping station, very similar to the ones aboard Lightning. Tereshkova nodded and unstrapped him. He slowly moved his limbs and rolled his neck a few times. “Hmm…much better.”

  Another person entered the compartment, a large-framed man with pronounced high cheekbones and square jaw. He floated next to Tereshkova and stared at Kessler.

  “This is Commander Nikolai Aleksandrovich Strakelov. He speaks very little English.”

  Kessler extended his hand. Strakelov smiled and shook it vigorously.