Damage Control

by Amy J. Fetzer

  “Christ,” Sam said, peering in. “That’s just unholy.”

  Sebastian agreed as he studied the device, calculating the detonation range, the safe distance from this much blasting material. “Executed guards, no ID, this bomb was meant to erase any trail.”

  “Roger that,” Sam whispered into the PRR so Mills wouldn’t hear. “But why make ransom demands in Greece, then end up here? For a sonar engineer?”

  “I’m hoping he’ll answer that later.”

  A strained sound came from Mills. “Stay calm,” Sebastian said almost absently, examining the bomb he admitted was a work of art. Wires running in five directions and no way to tell if any were dummies. Methodically, he traced each one, marking on his hand where they led and the color. Getting this off without detonation was going to be a bitch. He moved around to face Mills, ducking to meet his gaze. Watery blue eyes stared back.

  “Blink once for yes, two for no. Understand?”

  One blink.

  “It’s motion sensitive.”

  One blink.

  “Blasting material in your mouth?”

  Two blinks. No.

  “The timer?”

  One blink.

  Crap. Disarming when he couldn’t see the timer was a problem. He moved around the stool, inspecting beneath and doing it quickly. Whoever set this wasn’t far away. Trained to ignore the outside world right about now, Sebastian couldn’t ignore Mills. His nose was running, his breathing fast. In below freezing weather, he was sweating. Sebastian could almost smell his terror.

  He leaned in to say, “Don’t give up, Vince. We’ll get you out of this.” He pulled out the stuffed rabbit and wedged it on his lap. Mills seemed to melt right then.

  The device was sensitive to Mills’s movements, yet he didn’t find any liquid motion sensors. If it was in his mouth, they were screwed. He slid behind Mills and with his knife, sliced open the shirt. Well, that’s a mess, he thought, removing his pack to pull out a small battery with wire leads and some tools. He searched the device for a secondary rig and power source. When he found it, he realized it had a double pull. With the phone, one detonation would set off the first layer, another the second. He stripped the wires with tender care and clamped them, rerouting the circuit so the secondary device wouldn’t trigger. Then from the first charge, he removed the plunge detonator. There were four. The process was slow enough that Mills passed out. Sam whispered him back awake. Any quick motion and it was curtains for the good guys.

  Then Mills screamed behind the tape, trembling.

  Sebastian lurched to look. Red lights shined though the guy’s teeth. Oh shit. Quickly, Sebastian removed another lead, working to his mouth where he could see the red glow. Someone liked theatrics, he decided as he clamped off power to the wires near the mouth, then pulled at the duct tape. Mills fought him and Sebastian grabbed his shoulders, shouting to be still. The timer was still going. He sprayed canned Freon, freezing the tape, and it lifted off. Out of Mills’s mouth came a bar timer, blinking.

  Twenty-seven seconds. The numbers ticked off fast.

  “Christ, Christ,” Mills muttered, spat, and Sam kept spraying Freon, freezing the leveling charge and delaying detonation a few seconds while Sebastian rerouted, shifted clamps, then carefully pulled the last metal rod from the C-4. Five…four…oh hell. He grabbed his cutters and severed the blue wire.

  The clock stopped. He let out a tight breath, was still for a moment, then worked the C-4 vest off Mills. He’d passed out again.

  “Stand down, bomb disarmed.”

  “That’s good, because we have headlights,” Riley said. “A convoy on the road, moving fast.”

  That bomb was supposed to go off minutes ago. The bad guys were coming to learn why it hadn’t. “Roger that.” He inclined his head to Sam. “Secure the exit.” Sam spun and went topside.

  Sebastian disassembled the device. Transporting a rig this big wasn’t possible. He reworked the detonator, then grabbed the bunny and jammed it in his leg pocket before he helped Mills to his feet. He was lethargic and Sebastian shook him, turning his face so he’d look him in the eye. “Vince? Focus, friend.”

  Mills blinked several times before his eyes quit rolling.

  “You’re going home.” Mills’s strained expression softened. “It’s going to be a fast ride. Are you injured?”

  Mills cleared his throat a couple times. “I can walk.” He took a step and his knees gave. “Just can’t feel my feet so much.”

  Sebastian helped him through the tunnel to the stairs. “Outlaw, my twenty, A-sap!” Rapid footsteps, and Sam appeared at the top of the staircase, sidling down to reach Mills.

  Sam threw a dirty jacket over him. “I know it stinks, but it’s warm.” Glossy blood coated the back.

  “Can’t smell any worse…th-than me,” Mills said as they helped him up the staircase. The guy winced with each step and he’d bet his feet were frostbitten. No telling how long he was in the basement sitting in icy water. Some impressive willpower not to shiver and set the bomb off.

  “Finn, report.” No answer. “Finn!”

  “I’m on the ground.” Harsh breathing as Riley said, “Bug out. The Russians are coming.”

  “Rendezvous secondary LZ. We have the package. Drac?”

  “Mills wasn’t the only hostage,” Max said.

  “A regular party here. Finn, Outlaw is coming your way with the package.” Then to Sam he said, “Get him to the LZ, he’s the priority.”

  “Roger that. Just don’t go all heroic,” Sam said and the tall Texan hefted Mills, nearly dragging him along as Sebastian turned in the opposite direction.

  He heard a single gunshot and found Max in front of the metal door, the lock smoking. The body of a guard blocked the door, and he grabbed the collar and waistband, moving it aside. The corpse still gripped a smoke. He took low position, kneeling, and Max swung the door open. The suction of air swished in dirt and leaves. Max and Sebastian flanked the door as they shined lights inside. The room was used for storage, shelves toppled, canned food rusted and bent with pressure. A few had exploded. A table with two chairs sat in the corner near the door, trash surrounding it. Then his light fell on a figure, bare to the waist, arms outstretched and anchored to the wall with chains and some medieval-looking shackles. The prisoner could neither stand nor sit. His skin looked blue. Sebastian covered the perimeter, then approached, shining his light close enough to blind him. The guy’s head lolled to the side.

  “It would be a great day…if you’re Chechen rebels.”

  Sebastian pulled the Velcro square covering the U.S. flag on his sleeve. The guy sank back, muttering something he didn’t get.

  “Who are you?” Max was behind him, his laser sight on the guy’s forehead.

  “Beckham, Mitch, Major, 364-71—”

  “I know you.” Max moved a step closer. “Sorta. He helped us in Singapore with Vaghn. He’s Deep Six.”

  Sebastian had heard the name, but on that Op, he was pinned under twenty feet of rubble and contemplating his life as it tried to pass him by.

  “Glad to know so I’m popular.” Shivering violently, Beckham struggled to stand as Sebastian worked over the rusty iron cuffs and released him. The guy groaned as he lowered his arms. His trousers were filthy and blood splattered, and his bare chest showed he knew those electrified dental instruments well. His face wasn’t in great shape either and Sebastian was surprised the guy could see through those swollen eyes. He didn’t have time to wonder how Beckham got here and handed him a weapon. Beckham racked the slide, then crossed to a pile of clothing and rummaged. He pulled on a jacket, not bothering to zip it completely, then followed them. He hesitated beside the body of his guard, scowling down at it.

  “What’s the LZ?”

  “The valley. We’re outted. Trucks on the road. Double time.” They ran through the prison, taking the stairs to the ground floor, and paused at the rear door. The major staggered a couple times, reaching for the wall for support. Max hand
ed him a PowerBar from his leg pocket. Beckham ate it so fast he thought he’d devoured the wrapper.

  “Thanks,” he gasped. “I know you guys didn’t come for me, so what gives?”

  “Hostage rescue. Your turn.”

  Beckham didn’t respond, expressionless. That CIA stare.

  Sebastian scoffed. “You need a better class of friends to trust, cousin. Watch your six.” He rushed out the doors.

  “Come south, straight line to my twenty,” Sam said. “Double time! Company has arrived and are ready to engage!”

  Sebastian saw Sam’s signal, a brief flash of red light, and ordered Beckham and Max to hit the trail. “That’s not the LZ, Outlaw.”

  “Never leave a buddy behind to clean up.”

  Sebastian ran toward Sam’s signal and slipped behind a tree, the others scrambling over piles of jagged boulders. A couple feet away beside Sam, Vince Mills shivered uncontrollably, wrapped in rags, but his injured feet would slow them down. Sebastian ordered Sam and Riley to the secondary landing zone. “Take Company boy with you.” In moments, the four disappeared into the dark.

  Max never took his aim off their trail.

  “Get base on the wire,” he said to Max. Max pulled the commlink from his pack, and hailed Dragon One’s Ops commander, confirming they had the package.

  Safia didn’t waste time. “Chopper lifting off. Find some cover, I have a UAV on radar, approaching one mile north.”

  A drone. The Russians were pulling out the stops today. “Secondary LZ. I repeat. Secondary LZ. Come locked and loaded,” Sebastian said into the radio as he ran tandem with Max. Their breath frosted the air, leaving a path, and behind him, he heard the heavy pound of footsteps, shouts he couldn’t translate. Suddenly he stopped, then headed back the way they’d come for a few yards.

  “Coonass, what the hell are you doing?” Max said, running.

  “Buying us some time! Keep moving!” Sebastian dropped to the ground and through night vision saw men enter the prison, uniformed, orderly. He recognized the tactics. The lack of an explosion had brought them back, and he decided to give them what they asked for. He hit the jerry-rigged detonator and didn’t stay to watch, tearing off the NVGs as he bolted. He felt the blast shove him forward, nearly off his feet, and he staggered, gained footing, then ran like hell.

  “That was pretty,” Max said through the PRR.

  “Crowd-pleasers.” Sebastian glanced back, then rushed right as brick and stone hailed down. Screams mixed with the explosion, and he saw one man go flying along with pieces of iron. Then he spotted the gray-bellied drone and searched for cover. There was none, the barren land bleak with ice. They ran. Sebastian didn’t need a guide. He’d memorized the terrain and he splashed through a creek between jagged rocks as he fixed the commlink in his ear and hailed Base again.

  “The chopper is in the air. You’ll have about three minutes after it passes into Chechnya airspace. I’m tracking you thermal. Two hundred yards to the valley LZ.”

  Sebastian was a pilot. Getting in and out of the narrow valley would be a fight with air currents. “Negative, he needs to land farther out.”

  “No time.”

  “Negative, Base, he’ll never make it out of the valley!”

  To prove his point, the wind slid like a fast-moving river in the crevasse and it started to snow. Then he heard the thip-thip of bullets zipping through the trees. A couple hit the rock over his head.

  “Incoming!” He dropped to the ground and rolled to his stomach, then fired, pulling on his NVGs between shots. The forest beyond filled with movement. Uniformed troops walked without restriction, without taking cover. He dropped one man and the others kept moving. Robotic. Jesus. Then he hit the trigger and the small charges he’d left behind destroyed men and trees. He jumped to his feet and ran, his ears perked to the sound of the chopper, the blades beating the air softly. Stealth mode, he knew, sloshing through a stream, climbing over rocks to the LZ.

  “Chopper, your one o’clock,” Sam said, tucked under an outcropping of rock with the others and spying through night vision.

  Sebastian scanned the sky and spotted the black chopper, guns a’ready. Dawn was coming too fast. Then over his commlink, he heard, “Oh shit, we’ve got MiGs.”

  “Repeat last?”

  “A MiG is in the air. Mach 2, ETA two minutes.”

  Sebastian was out of options. “Tell Mustang to follow the smoke.”

  He pulled the ring and tossed the canister into the only clearing big enough for the chopper to land. Green smoke curled in the pre-dawn light. The MiG would spot it, but the chopper had to get in fast and not waste time searching for them. The scream of the approaching jet grew closer. The chopper traveled low in the rocky valley, hopping on air currents and nearly falling out of the sky. Then it stabilized and lowered. The blades beat back the scrub trees, kicked up a flurry of snow. The team rushed forward, Mills limping, and Sam hefted him in a fireman’s carry, running as the helicopter hovered over the ground. Logan hung on the skids, giving Killian commands as he reached for the first man. Riley and Beckham aboard, Sam pitched Mills inside, then turned to cover them as the valley filled with troops. The MiG shot overhead and turned back to take aim. The troops opened up on them, laying a steady stream of gunfire, and advancing quickly.

  Sebastian gave it back, unloading his MP5 as he and Max climbed in. “We’re in! Lift off!” Max hung on the edge, manned the machine gun, and plowed the road, but the MiG was coming for them. Sebastian shouted, “Go, go!”

  The chopper rose swiftly, then curled left, back toward the incoming MiG. Sebastian grabbed a headset, shoved it on, and said, “Mustang, are you insane? Get across the border!” They had to be far from the MiG’s path; the jet wash would toss them.

  “You really need to cut down on the caffeine, honey.”

  Sebastian looked at Sam, then lurched around the pilot’s seat. Viva was flying.

  “We are so going to have a long talk when we get home.” Sam shed his pack and weapons, then slid into the copilot’s seat and pulled on the helmet. “Give me control.”

  “Don’t go all guy on me now, baby.” She pulled back on the stick and the chopper rose swiftly, the force driving them into the deck. Then it shot forward, zigzagging the edge of the valley before climbing over the Caucasus Mountains. A wind shear jostled the craft. Sam held the stick with her and brought them higher. The mist surrounded them, the snow-covered peaks only feet below.

  “Viva, go postal!” Sebastian saw the MiG rocketing toward them, armed with R-73 missiles.

  Then it fired.

  “Incoming!! Incoming!”

  The missile sped toward them, dead on the target. They crested the mountaintop, then Viva sent the chopper sharply downward into Daryal Gorge, across the border into Georgian airspace. But it wasn’t over.

  “It’s heat seeking!”

  “Launching countermeasures.” Sam hit a switch and the flaming tubes tumbled, the missile falling toward it. Viva banked it right, but one countermeasure failed, and the missile turned to chase the hotter target.

  “Release countermeasures again!” he shouted.

  “I can’t. It won’t open!”

  Sebastian grabbed two flares off the wall rack, ignited them, then threw. “Go turbo! Now!” The chopper rocketed with the speed of a Black Hawk. He grabbed on and looked back as the flares tumbled to earth. The missile chased, slamming into the mountainside a second later. Fire blossomed, expanded in a rolling orange cloud. Flames and debris flattened trees, tumbled shale rock. The sight faded as they flew farther into South Ossetia Georgia.

  But the MiG wasn’t giving up. Over the radio, the Georgian military warned the fighter jet to turn back immediately or be shot down. Pissed, Sebastian threw back the door and aimed the .50-caliber machine gun at the pilot. He fired off a hundred rounds just to get his attention, and the jet banked, returning to Chechen airspace. He sank to the chopper floor, breathing hard. Helluva day. He shut the door.

  �
�Remind me to spank you for that, Viva,” Sam said into the quiet of headphones.

  “Ohh honey, promise?”

  Sam groaned, and Sebastian chuckled. Poor guy. Yet he understood Viva’s need for a little thrill seeking. She’d miscarried a month earlier and wasn’t one to sit around and sulk. Like him, she needed the adrenaline push. Though how she conned Killian into trading places was a story he wanted to hear. The man had gone soft. It was scary.

  Then he noticed Beckham frowning at Riley. “You’re Safia’s guy.”

  “Better. Her husband.” Riley grinned.

  Beckham looked a little crestfallen. “Tell her I said congratulations.”

  “You can.” Riley cracked open a bottle of water and drank. “She’s at the other end of this Op.”

  Beckham smirked. “Figures.”

  Viva flew at a more sedate speed as Logan worked over Mills, cracking a heat pack and covering his feet. His toes were blue. Beckham waved off medical care, looking back the way they’d come for a moment, then sank into a corner and closed his eyes. Sebastian noticed his clothing was along the lines of Armani and not Black Ops, but he really didn’t want to know why Beckham was here. He’s too deep in the nasty secrets, he thought, resting against the hatch, then noticed Mills pushing away the oxygen mask. They couldn’t hear Mills over the chopper engine, and Sebastian lurched for headphones, held Mills’s hands down, then pushed them on. He plugged him in.

  “Vince! Chill buddy, you’re safe. Let the doc work on you.” Sebastian dug in his leg pocket and pushed the stuffed rabbit that needed a bath into Mills’s hands. He clutched it, but was insistent, nearly in Sebastian’s face.

  “No! You don’t understand. You have to warn my wife!”

  “Warn her for what? You’ll see her in thirty minutes or so.”

  “It wasn’t me they wanted. It was her.”

  “Shit.”

  Sam immediately hailed Safia with the warning. Mills didn’t settle down till Safia assured him his family was protected. He sank back and allowed Logan to treat him, yet squeezed the rabbit over and over. His anxiousness was as clear as his fear.