by Robert Gandt
The sound of the rotor blades was close now. Very damn close. No way could he outrun a helicopter. Now what, smart guy?
Another ridge lay directly ahead. Maxwell scrambled over the brush-covered incline, then ducked behind an outcropping of igneous rock. His breath was coming in deep rasps. He pulled the .45 from the leg pocket of his flight suit. He’d follow O’Toole’s example. Keep firing at the bastards until they killed him.
He peered over the edge of the rocks. The Z-9 pilot knew where he was. The helicopter was bearing down on him.
Maxwell waited. The helicopter was close enough now to open up with its automatic guns. Maxwell could see the faces through the glass of the cockpit. The barrel of the gun mounted on the right pylon was aimed at him.
It still wasn’t firing.
As the helicopter swept directly over him, Maxwell fired two rounds from the .45. Useless, he knew, but satisfying. The helicopter pulled up into an abrupt climbing turn, then started back toward him. It seemed to be slowing, its nose tilting up. A tornado of sand and brush kicked up under the chopper. Maxwell wondered what was going on. They gomers could have fired the automatic weapon and shredded him, but they didn’t.
He knew. They wanted him alive.
He glanced behind him. The column of troops was only about seventy-five yards away. Inside the Z-9 were probably six or eight more armed troops. They had him sandwiched.
Maxwell pulled a fresh magazine of ammunition from his pocket, ready to ram into the grip of the .45. He would fire until the first magazine was gone, then he’d—
What was that?
His eyes were fixed on the Z-9, but something else came into his peripheral vision. A blurry object, zigzagging like a bat behind the helicopter. And in the distance another object—an airplane?— higher, barely visible in the waning light. There was something familiar about the odd, inverted-V tail. And the buzzing lawnmower noise.
The blurry object make a final erratic course change. Then it flew into the right turbine exhaust of the helicopter.
The helicopter’s aft section folded upwards, blown from the main body of the fuselage. The mortally wounded aircraft plunged to the ground and exploded with a dull whump. Maxwell ducked as shrapnel from the disintegrated machine whirred through the air.
Slowly he raised his head. A dozen small brush fires blazed around the wreckage of the Z-9. The broken rotor blades were folded over the burning carcass like black tentacles. He could see two figures still in the cockpit, slumped over the controls.
He peered to the west, where he’d last seen the column of troops. They had ducked for cover too. Now they were rising to their feet. One was pointing upward, toward the northwest. In the direction of the buzzing noise.
Maxwell looked upward also. He knew what he’d see.
It looked like an airborne praying mantis. The Predator UAV—unmanned aerial vehicle—had an inverted V tail and an array of video and infrared cameras mounted in its long, bulbous nose. The buzzing noise came from its four-cylinder Rotax engine, the same power plant used on ultra-light airplanes. It was remotely piloted by a controller who interfaced with the vehicle via a Ku-band satellite data link.
The Predator could be configured to carry AGM-114 Hellfire missiles, which were designed to be used against slow moving vehicles. Maxwell had just witnessed a demonstration.
He rose, crouching behind the rocks, and peered at the next ridge. The troops were moving again. Coming in his direction.
<>
Run.
Each footstep made a crunching sound in the soft gravel surface. It was impossible to run quietly in the clunky, steel-toed flight boots. His breath was coming in labored gasps.
He wanted to puke again. He had caught his boot on the root of a low brush and tumbled butt-over-shoulder on the hard ground.
Still running, he pulled out the handheld GPS unit. In the tiny screen he could see the outline of the island. There were no terrain features, no references, just the shape of the island. There was a tiny pulsing datum circle that showed his location. He was about a mile from the eastern tip of the island.
He looked around. The sky to the east was a horizonless blue-black. Over the noise of his own running, he heard something else. Scuffing noises ahead and to the right. Boots crunching on loose stones. He stuffed the GPS back in his pocket.
“Turn left, Dragon!” said Boyce on the CSEL. His voice sounded more urgent than before. “They’re on your right flank, trying to cut you off.”
Maxwell turned to confront them. They were bounding over the ridge to his right, twenty yards away. They wore camos and Fritz helmets similar to the ones worn by U.S. troops. There were three of them, running at full tilt, carbines held in front of them.
They spotted Maxwell just as he got off his first shot. The .45 kicked back in his hands. The first soldier’s legs were still kicking as he pitched headlong down the incline. The other two skittered and hopped sideways, swinging their carbines toward Maxwell.
Maxwell fired at the one on the left, hitting him in the shoulder, spinning him around. He glimpsed the one on the right aiming his carbine.
Maxwell pumped off a shot, lunging to the left. He knew he’d missed. He felt the 7.62 round from the Chinese carbine zing past his ear.
He hit the ground and kept rolling. Another round thudded into the ground beside him. He rolled again, came up with the pistol in both hands. He pointed and fired, then fired again.
The second shot caught the soldier in the throat. He staggered backwards, firing off a wild, high burst. He dropped the carbine and toppled to the ground.
Maxwell whirled back to the second soldier—the one he’d wounded. He was raising his carbine with one arm. Maxwell fired a bullet into the man’s midsection. The soldier grunted, then dropped backwards.
God bless Mr. Colt and his Model 1911, thought Maxwell. The clunky pistol was short-ranged and heavier than the service-issue Beretta nine-millimeter, but the big .45 slug stopped whatever it hit.
“Good job, Dragon,” said Boyce on the CSEL. “Now get of there. Keep running until you get to the beach on the east end.”
Maxwell needed no more urging. He ran down the shallow ravine between ridges. As he jogged, trying not to stumble again in the gathering darkness, he wondered again how Boyce knew so precisely what was going on.
Then it came to him. That buzzing lawnmower noise. It was coming from the darkened sky above and in front of him. The Predator was still out there. It was relaying video images to Boyce’s console aboard Reagan more than a hundred miles away. And it was armed with more Hellfire missiles, he hoped.
Maxwell pulled the emergency radio out of its pouch. He keyed the transmitter. “Battle-ax, Dragon. How many are out there?”
“Twenty, maybe twenty-five. PLA spec ops troops, judging by their equipment. They landed on the west end in a couple of fast hovercraft right after your shoot down. Looks like you’re the object of their interest.”
“What am I supposed to do when I get the east end of the island?”
“Keep your head down and wait. Don’t get in any more shoot outs. You’ll be outgunned.”
“Thanks for the advice. What if—uh oh.”
He saw something over his right shoulder. It like a roman candle, arcing into the sky.
Something going after the Predator.
Maxwell slowed his pace, keeping his eye on the object. It flew a serpentine path, quickly overtaking the slow-flying Predator. A bright flash illuminated the dark sky. A brief, eerie glow illuminated the brush-covered landscape. The carcass of the destroyed UCAV went down like a shotgunned pigeon. It hit the earth a hundred yards from Maxwell.
“What the hell?” called Boyce. “We’ve lost our video link.”
“The Predator got flamed,” said Maxwell.
“Shit,” said Boyce. “What happened?”
“They brought Manpads. Looked like an SA-16.” Manpads—man portable air defense missiles—were mobile, shoulder-launched weapons. The Russian-bu
ilt SA-16 Manpad was deadly against low-flying targets like the Predator.
“That’s bad news,” said Boyce. “You’re on your own, Dragon.”
Maxwell had already figured that out. He was on the move.
“Keep going,” said Boyce. “Keep moving to the east.”
Maxwell wanted to ask what would happen when he ran out of island. Before he could ask the question, he heard sounds nearby. Boots on gravel. They were close, just over the ridge to his left.
He turned and ran.
Chapter 23 — ASDS
Northeast Cay, Spratly Islands
South China Sea
1830 Monday, 30 April
Hurry, darkness.
The shadows spreading over the terrain made it harder for the PLA troops to find him. It also made it impossible to run without stumbling over the nearly-invisible bushes. It was taking all Maxwell’s energy to keep his feet beneath him.
He wished he had his air-soled running shoes. If the gomers wanted to track him, all they had to do was listen. The clunky flight boots sounded like the hoof beats of a Clydesdale.
In his pre-mission planning, he had not given serious thought to the possibility of being captured. Of all the scenarios, that one was far down the list. If he was shot down, he’d be in the water. If he were still alive, the mighty hand of the U.S. military would reach for him.
So much for the mighty hand. He was being chased like a rat over this miserable sliver of rock. The Chinese wanted him alive. He remembered Boyce’s words in the intel brief: If one of you, God forbid, is captured by the ChiComs, all they’re going to extract from you is your own little piece of the puzzle. Nothing more.
But Maxwell’s piece of the puzzle was large. He’d been a test pilot and an astronaut. He knew as much about the Black Star and stealth technology as anyone on active duty. The Chinese would employ every means—none pleasant—to extract information. Every man had a limit to how much he could endure.
With that thought, his hand went to the .45. It had a full magazine. In the pocket of his flight suit was O’Toole’s pistol, also full up. In his pocket he had another loaded magazine.
He would not be a prisoner.
He came to another ridge. Instead of crossing it and silhouetting himself on the skyline, he turned left, staying in the shadow between ridges. He and Boyce hadn’t exchanged communication since the shoot down of the Predator. This was not the time or place for voice dialogue. Anyway, the CSEL was automatically transmitting his coordinates.
Maxwell stopped. He listened to the sounds around him. There was only the rustle of wind, the chirp of insects. The crunch of boots had faded.
Then he picked up another sound, faint and lilting. It took him a moment to recognize it. The ocean. He pulled out the handheld GPS, shielding it in his palm so that the backlit screen didn’t flash in the darkness. He was near the beach, only about thirty yards. The little pulsing cross that marked his location marker showed him to be a quarter mile from the easternmost tip of the island.
He moved up to the last ridge and peered through the topmost bushes. The rocky beach was about twenty yards wide. He could see a white ribbon of surf, darkness beyond. He peered in each direction down the beach. No sign of life.
He was tempted to follow the beach. He wouldn’t have to deal with the entangling shrubs and rocky outcroppings. But he’d be easy to spot. He put the GPS away and headed inland again.
After ten more minutes of picking his way over the rough terrain, he heard the soft rustling noise of the surf again. He was nearly to the eastern end of the island. Boyce had said to stay low and wait. Wait for what? He’d have to ask.
Maxwell dropped to one knee. He was pulling out the CSEL radio when he heard boots again. Several of them, coming from somewhere behind him. He shoved the radio back in its pouch and scrambled to his feet.
He was less than a hundred yards from the beach. Running in a low crouch, parallel to the last low ridge, he tried to keep his body beneath the skyline. At the end of the ridge was a rocky promontory covered with scraggly brush. Running with his head lowered, Maxwell rounded the end of the ridge. He could feel a damp sea breeze from the open beach.
He slammed headlong into a running figure. Maxwell heard the man grunt as they went down.
Even in the darkness he recognized the camo color and the helmet. The soldier already had a grip on his collar. The Chinese soldier was smaller and lighter than Maxwell, but he was surprisingly strong. He planted a foot in Maxwell’s stomach and kicked. Maxwell went over the top, hitting the ground on his shoulder. He rolled to his feet. The soldier lunged at him.
Maxwell feinted backward, then stepped into him, driving a straight left jab into his face. The soldier recoiled, his knees sagging.
Maxwell threw an arm around his neck, giving the man’s head a single violent twist. He heard a crack, like the snapping of a limb. The soldier slumped to the ground, his legs twitching spasmodically.
Maxwell heard more boots on the gravelly soil. More soldiers appeared, coming from the right. He whirled to face them. He had his fingers on the grip of the.45 when something rammed him from behind.
He hit the ground face first. Before he could move, a pair of knees rammed into his back. His right arm was under his body, his hand still clutching the grip of the pistol.
He rolled to his side, flinging the man from his back. He heard someone shout in Chinese. A blurred object was swinging toward his head. He ducked, raising his arm to deflect the barrel of the carbine the soldier was swinging at him. The hard steel of the carbine caught the barrel of Maxwell’s .45, tearing the pistol loose from his grip.
Maxwell was trying to retrieve the pistol when they grabbed him. They yanked him upright, both arms firmly held by soldiers who had come from behind him.
One of them—Maxwell guessed it was the officer in charge—stood facing him. He was a foot shorter than Maxwell. Even in the darkness Maxwell could see the hard, angry look on the officer’s face.
Maxwell’s pistol was dangling at the end of its lanyard next to his right boot. He saw a PLA soldier stooping to retrieve it. As the man’s head went down, Maxwell lashed out with his foot. The man screamed and fell back on his haunches, blood spurting from his smashed nose.
The officer facing Maxwell yelled in Chinese. The soldiers holding Maxwell tightened their grip on his arms. The officer pulled something from his belt. In the thin light Maxwell saw a metallic glint from the blade of the assault knife.
Maxwell saw the dark eyes fixed on him, filled with hate. Now you’ve done it. Why did you smash the guy’s face? They might also be unhappy about his having killed four other PLA soldiers. Instead of taking him prisoner, they were going to slice up him like a game trophy.
The officer brought the blade up to Maxwell’s face. Maxwell stared at the shiny tip of the long slender blade. As he watched, the officer slowly brought the tip of the blade toward Maxwell’s face.
Toward his left eye.
Maxwell felt panic surging through him. He lashed out again with his boot, but the officer easily stepped aside. He kept the point of the blade moving toward Maxwell’s eye.
Six inches.
Maxwell struggled against the grip of the soldiers holding him. There were at least three of them. He couldn’t shake them.
He bit his lip, preparing for the inevitable agony. Don’t scream. Make the bastards kill you.
Three inches.
Maxwell struggled again. He couldn’t move. His heart was thumping like a jackhammer.
The officer’s face was close enough that Maxwell could see his eyes. They were dark brown, cold as ice. The eyes of a killer.
Maxwell no longer had any doubt about what would happen next. The point of the blade was about to pierce his eye.
He heard a noise—pphhhutt. It sounded like a wine bottle being uncorked.
The point of the knife veered toward Maxwell’s eye, then flicked through his eyebrow. The knife disappeared from his view.
M
axwell saw the officer’s face. Between the dark, hate-filled eyes was a purplish cavity. The eyes were frozen, all life gone from them.
The officer toppled over backwards.
Maxwell felt the grip on his arms release. He saw silhouettes in the thin light—PLA soldiers running, falling, kneeling to fire their carbines. Between the distinctive three-round bursts from the Chinese assault rifles Maxwell heard other sounds. The staccato chatter of an automatic weapon.
More muffled pphhhutts. More uncorked wine bottles.
Dark clad figures were moving like ghosts in the darkness. Maxwell was having trouble seeing, then realized that blood was flowing into his left eye from his slashed eyebrow. He swiped at the wound with his sleeve, wiping blood from his eye. From the leg pocket of his flight suit he yanked out O’Toole’s .45.
A figure in camos and helmet stopped in front of him. He was aiming his carbine at something in the darkness. Maxwell raised the .45 with both hands, took aim and—
He heard another pphhhutt. The PLA soldier dropped to his knees, then pitched over on his face.
A large, dark figure materialized out of the gloom next to Maxwell.
“Put that thing away before you hurt yourself.” He pushed the barrel of Maxwell’s .45 down.
“Who the hell are you?” said Maxwell.
“The guy they sent to get your silly ass out of here.”
The voice sounded familiar. He looked like an apparition from hell. He had a long, menacing snout, which Maxwell realized was an NVG unit—night vision goggles. He was clad in some kind of slick, skin-tight outfit.
The sounds of gunfire ceased. Maxwell swiped again at the cut over his eye to clear his vision. He saw bodies on the ground, several of them, and they wore PLA camos and helmets.
More slick-suited figures were appearing from the gloom. Maxwell counted at least six of them.
He looked again at the large man he had seen first. He had the physique of a gorilla.
“Is that you, Wedge?”
The long-snouted figure didn’t answer. He reached into the kit strapped to his waist and pulled out a compress. “Here. Stick that over your eye. I hate the sight of blood.”