The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  Engaging my brothers added dangerous worry. Men would soon die, the action minutes away. God forbid a teammate bought the farm. Marcus had monitored a backdoor strategy, a graceful exit, after I’d completed the tour and interview at Exponent’s site. But Marcus didn’t shy away from a battle. And I suspected Simko and his Spetsnaz henchmen on US turf only buttressed his resolve.

  I glanced downhill, far in the distance, and captured brief glimpses of the enemy. They had parked a thousand yards away, near the amphitheater’s open entrance. There was no doubt they’d watched us climb, so scratch any element of surprise. Not good.

  I wouldn’t lay claim that Catch itched for a fight. For all his bluster and hard-charging attitude, he had a strong live-and-let-live attitude. But if you challenged him or, worse, threatened him or a loved one, then all bets were off. He’d kick your ass in a heartbeat. Or blow you away with a matter-of-fact demeanor most found disturbing. It was a fearsome attitude, and with our current situation, an attitude you’d damn sure want on your side.

  Bo took part because, well, it was another adventure. A death-dealing adventure, for sure, but he didn’t view the world as we did. An understatement for the ages.

  But it all still came back to me. They’d arrived, prepared for the worst, because I was threatened, outnumbered, and—as they each knew—not prone to show my back side at conflict. I didn’t deserve such friends, and I’d bite any bullet for any of them this day or any other. For this reason, more than any other, I flipped the switch.

  The kill switch. I paused my climb for a moment and abandoned all thoughts, ties, and associations with the past or future. The immediate reigned, commitment absolute. It was live or die time, and death wasn’t an option for my friends. Or me. The switch thrown, I became all fight.

  We had each chosen the more gradual forty-five-degree slopes. It was solid footing, little scree, and I wove across the face until reaching a small area with a bush-filled flat spot and a nearby tree-filled ravine. I’d station at the flat spot and, if things got too hot, move into the trees where the ravine’s tight confines offered extra protection. Belly-flat, I scoped the enemy.

  Geared up, eleven Spetsnaz operators moved in our direction. The large boulders hid them, although I’d catch glimpses as they deployed. Best guess—three made their way toward Catch on my right, three toward Marcus on my left, and five down the center. Toward me. At some point, one of the three clusters would run into Bo. Too bad for them.

  Antonov leaned back against a vehicle, arms crossed. A ringside seat for the big fight. The operator who’d tangled with me and left with a dislocated shoulder remained behind, his arm in a sling. He pressed across an SUV’s hood, binoculars against his eyes, scanning. The spotter. If equipped with communication devices like ours, his spotting abilities spelled bad news.

  Bo would tangle up close and personal. Marcus and I were distance-restricted. Three or four hundred yards out, we would have a decent hit ratio, although moving targets lowered the odds. Our best opportunities lay within three hundred yards. Catch wasn’t so hindered. His weapon, combined with his innate ability, pushed the kill zone to eight or nine hundred yards, although such a distance required a stationary target. The vast distance separating us from the vehicles and two men left behind kept them absent from the fray. Although you never knew with Catch.

  I found and rolled two bowling-ball-sized rocks at my front, eight inches apart. The gap would be my firing hole. Shade covered the cirque wall’s highest reaches as the sun lowered. I checked my team’s progress, and Marcus spoke through the earpiece.

  “Positioned?”

  “Roger that. Best estimate, three your way, three toward Catch, five down the center. Antonov at the vehicles. Along with a spotter.”

  “Roger that. Talk to us, Catch.”

  He did. His powerful rifle boomed within our rounded canyon. I watched Antonov’s head flop backward as he slid along the SUV’s side. A bright-red trail smeared against the vehicle’s body as he fell. An amazing shot, and the official kickoff for the battle at China Jim Mountain.

  Chapter 35

  The spotter saw the bullet’s effect before he heard the rifle’s boom and dropped behind his protective vehicle. If he kept moving between vehicles and popped up just long enough to spot for his teammates, even Catch couldn’t take him down while battle raged. The shot also prompted two other actions.

  I glanced toward Catch’s position, unable to see him, but glimpsed a tawny mountain lion hauling it over the canyon’s top, exit stage right. And a rapid scoping for the enemy’s positions showed they were now very aware of Catch’s abilities. The advancing Spetsnaz displayed a tactical change. They no longer loped between large protective boulders. They hauled ass.

  The enemy first focused on Catch, assisted by the spotter who would appear behind a vehicle with binoculars, scope, and drop back down. I had no doubt he radioed intel for his team. Three Spetsnaz advanced using fire and maneuver. One would peek from behind a boulder and rip automatic fire at Catch’s position while the other two advanced toward closer-in boulders. A forward-positioned man would then take over the wall-of-lead firing. Reload, repeat. At four hundred yards, their automatic fire lacked accuracy but kept Catch occupied.

  I attempted mitigation firing, slowing their advance. Until my position attracted the same attack plan. Five men, one blasting lead toward me while four advanced from boulder to boulder. Bullets thwacked rock wall behind me, and more than a few ricochets whined off the large rocks protecting my firing sight. These guys were good, not an unexpected reality. Marcus’s position soon received the same treatment.

  I shifted aim toward the gang focused my way and snapped several shots as they advanced. Without luck. It was whack-a-mole time, and they flew between protective cover, still three hundred yards out. I quit firing and waited for their closer approach.

  “Preserve ammo,” Marcus said. “They’re vulnerable at two hundred yards.”

  “Roger that. How’re you doing, Catch?”

  His voice was tight, focused.

  “It’s active. Waiting for mistakes.”

  He didn’t wait long. The tight distinct rip of Bo’s MK18, a three-shot burst, came from behind the group attacking Catch. One enemy down. I shifted view, focusing on Bo’s position. One of the remaining two Spetsnaz turned and checked what the hell was going on behind him, an act exposing his head. Catch’s rifle boomed, and a pink mist haloed the spot. Two down.

  “You got this, brother bear?” Bo asked, his voice calm and conversational.

  “You’re damn right I’ve got this.”

  “Our favorite goober wins this melee’s popularity contest. I believe I’ll wander over there.”

  The five advancing my way would soon enough discover a deadly ghost stalked their rear. I focused on their advance as they came within two hundred yards. The cirque became darker as the sun, long gone from our battlefield, approached the horizon. My adrenaline meter redlined, breath and aim-points steady. Nothing existed except target acquisition and a trigger squeeze.

  As one dashed between protective boulders, my shot winged him and sent him spinning to the ground. He attempted to rise when a follow-up shot put him down for good. Three down, eight attackers left. Plus the spotter.

  Their advance, fire and maneuver, continued toward Marcus and me. The cirque echoed gunfire as the sound became a rolling series of sharp cracks. Bullets zinged around me, ricochet whines sounding from the two stones at my front and the rock wall at my back. Marcus received the same heat.

  Strangeness entered the scene. Bo’s assault rifle ripped three separate bursts. The team assaulting my position were too spread out to present three targets. A fourth tight burst echoed.

  “A tactical retreat, my brothers,” Bo said a few seconds later. “They sensed my attack. My battle vibe may have been too powerful.”

  “It’s the spotter, Bo,” I said. “He caught your movement.”

  I shot a quick glance toward their parked vehic
les. On the rough road, far behind the enemies’ SUV cluster, a dust cloud approached. Another vehicle.

  “And we’ve got more company headed our way,” I added.

  “Friendlies?” Marcus asked.

  “No telling. You alright, Bo?”

  “One met his maker. My other shots were defensive. It has prolonged matters, but fear not.”

  Seven Spetsnaz attackers remained. A weird battle silence entered the arena. A strange quiet, no shots fired, the confined battle area now holding eleven combatants. They’d lost four, a serious attrition rate. Realization settled in that they had no great hope of success by continuing their current tactics. These were pros. We’d have performed the same assessment. And changed tactics. I had no confidence they’d retreat. Nor did I want them to. This would play out until the bitter end with no quarter asked. Or given.

  Marcus confirmed head count.

  “One,” I said.

  “Same,” Catch growled, disappointed. “Plus one buttwipe.”

  He meant Antonov.

  “Counting coup. I like it. Two for me,” Bo said.

  Marcus, who’d had less opportunity, hadn’t brought one down.

  “You think they’re waiting for darkness?” Catch asked.

  “No,” Marcus said. “They’ll lose the use of their spotter if they do.”

  We had another thirty minutes of fading daylight and thirty of twilight before full darkness set in. Marcus was right. They wouldn’t wait around.

  “The recent addition pulled off the road and into the sagebrush a quarter mile behind the enemy’s vehicles,” Catch said. “I doubt they’re friendlies. But they don’t appear eager to engage.”

  “Keep an eye on them,” Marcus said as several Spetsnaz popped up and cut loose with full-auto blasts our way.

  “Might be a little busy,” Catch replied.

  He and Marcus both fired single shots at the half-second exposed enemy. No hits.

  “They’re on the move, my brothers.”

  Bo’s statement reflected their tactical change. I placed myself in their boots. The frontal assault had paid too high a price. Flanking us within the cirque offered no better odds. We held the high ground. Which left two viable options. Retreat, which wouldn’t happen, or shift position toward either side of the cirque’s mouth. Then climb. Get above us on the mountain. Take the high ground. We were screwed, blued, and tattooed if they went that route. We waited for Bo’s scouting report. It didn’t take long.

  “Three remain in front. One for each unfortunate brother hunkered down on the wall.”

  “Roger that, Bo. What else?” I asked.

  “Brothers pinned as butterflies under glass.”

  I continued pressing my best friend, knowing Marcus seethed at Bo’s communications.

  “Gotcha. Three bogies. Butterflies under glass. Which leaves four bogies unaccounted for.”

  Silence. Bo skirted from boulder to boulder, same as the enemy. He would track and report out when he’d determined their intent. And pop one or two if the opportunity presented. Us three, pinned, knew better than to press for more immediate intel. The automatic fire our way became sporadic and unfocused. The three positioned operators at our front wouldn’t offer us a decent shot at them, exposing themselves long enough for a three- or five-shot burst at our positions. Bullets struck farther away from me, their aim less accurate. They exhibited two clear goals—keep us pinned down while not receiving a bullet. Catch, Marcus, and I held our fire until they clarified their overall strategy. Five minutes later we received the bad news as short gunfire bursts continued coming our way.

  “Two by two they came.”

  Marcus couldn’t contain himself.

  “Dammit, Bo. What the hell is going on?”

  “They move with great rapidity and ill intent, master and commander.”

  “At some point you’d better hope I don’t start shooting at you.”

  “Tell us, Bo,” I said.

  “They exited our playground, split up, and ascend the mountain.”

  Shit. They would keep us pinned down while the other four gained the high ground. We were dead meat if they made the cirque’s rim uncontested. One solution screamed loud. Flip the tactical switch from defense to offense. Go after the bastards.

  “Which two are you taking?” I asked Bo.

  “The eastern contingent.”

  “Roger that.”

  Two climbed with the goal of positioning above Marcus. Bo would track and kill them. I had zero doubts. Marcus would shed his irritation at Bo’s peculiar battlefield communications and also hold utter confidence. We’d both experienced it too many times past.

  “I’ve got the others,” I continued, effectively claiming responsibility for the two working their way up the cirque’s west rim. If I failed to deal with them, Catch was a sitting duck. “There’s a steep ravine alongside me that looks like it makes the top. I could use some cover fire.”

  “You’ve got it,” Marcus said. “Let us know when.”

  “Roger on the cover fire,” Catch said. “I’ll take the one at your front. Watch your butt, bud.”

  The ravine was fifteen paces away from my flat spot. It was only ten yards across and filled with brush and small cedars. Once I had my tail piled in there, it would protect me from the pop-up-and-shoot tactics from the three below us. They’d have a tough time following my ascent through the vegetation with their short sighting time. It was getting there, making the fifteen flying steps, that ratcheted up the pucker factor.

  “Now!”

  Marcus ripped fire from my left, Catch’s rifle boomed, then boomed twice more. I scrambled upright and hauled ass, flinging myself into the greenery. Crashed through a small cedar’s limbs and submerged into the brush. The ear mic was knocked out, and a limb gouged under my left eye. I retrieved the mic and felt for the face wound. It covered my fingers in blood. Gotta go, gotta move. Those two cats to the west would fly uphill. It was a death-dealing race to the top. I started a hands-and-feet scramble upward, the rifle slung across my back. A bullet burst struck behind me, at my landing spot. Then things got ugly.

  The next round of hot lead came from two different directions, both too damn close. Marcus and Catch fired again, covering. Bullets slammed through foliage, whined off nearby rocks. I shrugged off a sharp burning across my right shoulder and kept scrambling, breath harsh. The next burst from below, fifteen seconds later, was again on target. There was no way in hell they could have popped up, taken time sighting either me or brush movement, and fired without catching a bullet from Marcus or Catch. It was the spotter, feeding my location to the three Spetsnaz below as I climbed. Son of a bitch.

  “The spotter is tracking me.”

  “Hang in there,” Catch said. “I’ll send a couple downrange.”

  A desperate ploy, but my teammates knew I was in deep shit. The spotter moved between their SUVs, laid the binoculars on the hood, sighted, and ducked back down. Even if Catch caught him in the act, he had less than a few seconds to acquire the target. A cantaloupe-sized target at a thousand yards. A full-bodied and stationary Antonov was one thing. This was a bridge too far, even for Catch.

  The .300 Win Mag boomed, followed several seconds later with a “Shit!” through the earpiece. A second attempt elicited the same response. I felt the intense graze across my shoulder, the furrow shallow, blood dribbling. I sucked it up and prepped for another uphill scramble knowing movement, when spotted, would bring guided sheets of fire. But the two to the west would fire down on Catch in short order. Gotta go, gotta move. Fingers grabbed small brush, toes dug in. Then weirdness entered the picture.

  “Some dude is working his way toward the spotter’s back,” Catch said. “He’s running boulder to boulder.”

  No time, no distractions, gotta move.

  “Cover me!”

  I blocked out Catch’s news and took off. My hands clawed, feet shoving me upward. Explosive exhales through my nostrils, expecting the next volley to nail me. M
arcus and Catch cut loose again with covering fire, but not before the enemy unleashed accurate rips of close-spaced bullets. A couple whipped past my head, their angry high-pitched buzz inches away. Ricochet whines surrounded me. Twenty yards up the sixty-degree slope I halted, buried under a cedar. I dug in fingers and toes for the next sprint, sucking wind, heart hammering. I considered my targets, the two operators climbing above Catch. Gotta move, gotta scramble.

  “Cover!”

  “That unknown player just delivered the spotter a lead sandwich,” Catch said.

  A pistol’s tight retorts rolled into the cirque as Catch finished speaking. A single shot, followed with three more in succession. What the hell?

  “Terminal?” Marcus asked.

  “I’d say so. He aimed those last three shots at the ground where the dumb bastard fell.”

  No time for consideration, no time for contemplating the big “Who?”

  “Alright. Tactical change. I’m going to head up at a steady pace, no sprint scrambles. Stay in the foliage and under the tree limbs. Make the top on this push.” I continued sucking air and eyeballed upward. “Could use cover fire when needed, but those three below won’t trace me without the spotter.”

  A thunderous crack sounded as I quit speaking.

  “You mean those two below,” Catch said. “The SOB nearest me just peeked when he shouldn’t have.”

  I tapped my earpiece twice as confirmation and started uphill. Hands and feet where the brush was thickest, forearms and knees when it thinned. I made steady progress as Marcus and Catch fired cover shots when opportunity presented. The ravine’s lip, barren rock, became visible. The topside waited, the terrain unknown, two Spetsnaz on the prowl. Two dead men. They just didn’t know it yet.

  Chapter 36

  “Over the top.”