Endwar: The Hunted

by David Michaels

  Patti contacted her over the suit’s radio and said that their ship, the NYK Line’s Leo Leader out of Panama was pulling into the dock and would be ready within a few minutes to receive them.

  “How did the Americans get here? By land? Or by sea . . . if there’s a JSF ship out there—or a submarine—this could all be for nothing. Do you understand?”

  “Viktoria, there’s no need to remind me of that again.”

  “Well, if you haven’t taken care of that, then I can’t promise you anything.”

  “I understand. And you should understand that linking up with Haussler was beyond foolish.”

  “You gave me no choice. Your Green Brigade friends couldn’t stop him. So I earned his trust by killing the Chinese. Are you happy?”

  “What will you do with the German now?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure.”

  The Range Rover was parked just behind a pile of concrete rubble on the north side of the tower. Juma turned over the car to Brent and Lakota. He was going back into the tower to find his cousin, who was with Schleck and Voeckler. The rest of Juma’s men had sought cover in the Almas Tower, but ironically, the chopper had broken off to escort the telecom trucks. Juma said the convoy was heading south down Sheikh Zayed Road.

  Brent took the wheel, with Lakota at his side. He checked the gauges. Half a tank of gas. They had to assume the Snow Maiden was meeting someone. The farther south she drove, the stronger the radioactive fallout became. She might be moving the gold out of Abu Dhabi, but probably not much farther south than that.

  “Brent, I just got a call from my men at the airport,” said Juma over the radio. “They’ve been putting some fire on that cargo plane, but one of the choppers is keeping them pinned down.”

  “See if they can disrupt the convoy of BTRs. That’s about all we can hope for now. I’m thinking the gold is with them.”

  “Okay, Brent.”

  He turned onto the highway and put the pedal to the metal. One headlight was out, and the engine wailed against his coaxing. He turned off that headlight and used the suit’s night vision.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Copeland,” called the team’s medic. “Heston and Daugherty are stable but took some serious shrapnel hits. The suits administered pain meds before I could do anything. Heston’s fuel cell is out, damaged by the grenades, and Daugherty’s is shot, too. We need to evac a-sap.”

  Copeland’s camera view filled a window in Brent’s HUD, and he glimpsed his men sitting up against the tunnel wall, both grimacing.

  “All right, hold position till I can get you out of there. Noboru? Park? Go back for Riggs and Schoolie.”

  There were few jobs more grim than retrieving the bodies of your fallen comrades.

  He tossed a look to Lakota. “There’s just the two of us, some small arms, and a few grenades. How do we stop a convoy of trucks with a big lead?”

  “Somebody told me you drove Corvettes when you were younger.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then just drive, baby, drive!”

  He drove his foot deeper into the pedal.

  “That’s nice!” she cried.

  Brent flicked his gaze to the right, saw Villanueva’s door just a few feet away, both Corvettes neck and neck now, their Borla exhaust systems thundering as they raced up the four-lane road.

  He blinked again and saw Lakota. She looked at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we take out those trucks. She doesn’t get away this time. Not this time.” Her voice did not falter, and he knew she would keep her promise or die trying.

  The telecom trucks were running with lights out, so it took both Brent’s night vision and zoom lens to finally glimpse them in the distance, range 2.23 kilometers and falling.

  “I can’t get this piece of crap to go any faster.”

  “It’s no Corvette.”

  He snorted. “Yeah.”

  “Whoa. Hold,” she said. “We don’t have to catch them.” She spoke rapidly to someone else on another channel, her voice muted by the helmet.

  He tensed. “What?”

  “You know the old saying, if it becomes a sensor it has to talk to all of us?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that thing about situational awareness, but what’s that have to do with—”

  “Voeckler’s sending stuff to me since he knows you’re driving. He’s regained temporary contact with Florida. Andreas says he’s talking to Colonel Grey, passed on word of what’s happening. Florida’s just launched a predator drone from one of her modified tubes. Drone’s in the air now. Check it out.”

  A window irised open in the upper right-hand corner of Brent’s display to stream video from the unmanned reconnaissance drone as it arced high over the road. He spotted their Range Rover and the three trucks gliding like blips in a video game display across the dark road. The drone’s camera panned right and focused on a long series of docks. A flashing red label appeared with the words Mina Jebel Ali. Another quick zoom revealed a ship. After a pause, a second glowing label IDed her as the Leo Leader, a hulking blue cargo vessel with a huge bay entrance constructed at her stern. Ramps were just now lowering so that the Snow Maiden could drive her trucks directly into the hold without stopping.

  “All right, I’m confused,” Brent confessed. “She might be heading to the dock, but is she taking the trucks because it’s just faster?”

  “No, because she’s also got the gold,” finished Lakota. “And the BTRs are just the decoy. We assumed the gold was in the better-defended vehicles, and we played right into her hand.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  “And so are we.”

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, up top at nine thousand feet, over.”

  A new window in Brent’s HUD showed a rotating file image of a JSF Boeing 747 that was operating out of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. The image switched to the pilot, who wore a narrow headset with attached monocle similar to Brent’s Cross-Com. A bar below him indicated that his aircraft was equipped with a YAL-1 laser cannon attached to the jet’s nose cone. The 747’s chemical oxygen iodine laser was primarily an air-to-air missile defense weapon, but the YAL-1 had recently been modified to take out ground targets.

  Two smaller windows opened on Brent’s screen to show the 747’s escort: a pair of carrier-based F-35s operating from the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower Carrier Strike Group.

  Brent could barely contain his excitement.

  He’d already resigned himself to losing her, but now he had a real chance, with good intel.

  “Hawk’s Honor, this is Ghost Lead,” he began, trying to calm down. “I need a strike on those three telecom trucks observed via predator. If you can take out the engines with minimal collateral damage, the beers are on me. I’d like to take my target alive. Also, I’ve got a cargo plane at the airport. Need that taken out, too, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Roger, Ghost Lead. We have your ground targets in sight. Stand by . . .”

  Brent switched channels. “Juma, can you get me some people out here? We’re going to stop the trucks, but I need help! Pick up my guys at the Silver, then come on out!”

  “I’ll call my people from the Almas, but we only have two cars left. I can call some more from the north.”

  “Do it!”

  “I will, Brent. And good news. My cousin is okay.”

  Brent sighed. The Snow Maiden probably could have killed the boy. He doubted she had a soft side. She’d left him alive because that benefited her in some way—but how?

  The stench of fuel and burning rubber filled the truck’s cabin, and the temperature grew unbearably hot for a moment before the engine began to cough and protest. The Snow Maiden didn’t notice the basketball-sized hole in the hood until smoke began wafting from it.

  Haussler’s truck pulled over to the side of the road, followed by the second truck, and then the Snow Maiden joined them, the engine finally dying altogether.

  She was aghast as she climbed out of the truck, glanced at t
he sky, then got on the radio to Patti. “You told me you jammed their uplinks here.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, they’ve taken us out with a laser, melted right through the engine blocks. The gold is sitting here. Either you come and pick me up, or it’s over. I still have the oil-reserve data. Time to cut your losses, you hear me?”

  “We need that gold, too.”

  “Get me out, or I’m walking right now!” she screamed.

  Haussler ran over to her. “What now? You want us to carry the gold to the ship?”

  Several of the Spetsnaz troops slid open the rear doors and hopped down from the truck. They ran ahead of Haussler and the Snow Maiden, then began pointing down the road. One whirled back. “Vehicle coming. Looks like militia.”

  “I’ve called for a pickup,” said the Snow Maiden.

  “I’m sure you have.” Haussler turned away from her and began speaking in French to the chopper pilot. He finished, looked at her, smiled weakly, then began speaking to someone else.

  Meanwhile, the Cheetah broke away, wheeled around, and headed north toward the oncoming car.

  “Okay, so there’s a gunship,” said Lakota calmly. “Any thoughts?”

  “Not really.”

  “So we just drive right at him?”

  Brent squinted. “His rocket pods look empty.”

  “But his cannons aren’t.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Lakota’s voice grew more tense. “Captain . . .”

  “Relax. I got this.”

  Brent took a long breath. She couldn’t hear or see what he did on the closed strategic channel. The 747 pilot had cut loose his escorts, and the F-35s were both en route, with the lead jet already locked on to the Cheetah.

  The pilot stoically reported that her Sidewinder missile was away.

  A shooting star wiped across the sky and descended toward the Cheetah.

  Brent’s heart beat once. Twice.

  He gasped.

  The Sidewinder struck the Cheetah top down, and the chopper disintegrated into a fireball that lit up the entire highway. Flaming debris shot from the flames and spread like fireworks to cast a deep glow over the Range Rover’s hood.

  Brent veered to the left as a jagged piece of fuselage slammed down on the hood and shattered the windshield. Then he rolled hard right, tires screeching, as the fiery hunk of metal sent flames billowing toward his helmet.

  The Snow Maiden stood, aghast. Their air defense had just been blown from the sky, and all she could do was breathe.

  For just a second, she closed her eyes and told herself no, she wasn’t ready to surrender. Not yet.

  A blast of air nearly knocked her to the ground.

  Suddenly, a pair of jets came swooping down, banked hard, then slowed and turned on their axes as vectoring nozzles switched directions, pointing downward. Both hovered now like choppers, and their pilots cut loose with internal cannon fire, rounds ripping and sparking across the road, sending all of them diving for cover behind the trucks.

  The Spetsnaz troops began to return fire, but Haussler hollered for them to keep down. The jets descended even more, and the cannon fire grew unbearable, shredding through the trucks, the gold, and striking the troops huddled down near the tires.

  She grabbed Haussler by the arm and ran back toward the embankment, exploiting several feet of cover below the road. The troops were screaming, dying up there in the hell storm of unrelenting salvos.

  “This is it, Heinrich,” she said. “I guess this is it.”

  “Did you think I would come here with no backup plan myself?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wait. Look . . .”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “A favor from your old friend General Izotov, who would like to see you more than ever—and I’ve promised that meeting. And so now we are saved.”

  “I thought we had a deal.”

  “Unfortunately, your contacts let you down. Mine won’t. You’ll be coming back to Moscow with me.”

  He’d barely finished his sentence when both jets blew apart in successive bursts. Wings, cockpit canopies, and landing gear appeared through swelling fires and tumbled end over end to crash down and scrape across the highway. A wedge-shaped piece of fuselage crashed into the telecom trucks, knocking two on their sides and tearing them open. Bricks of gold tumbled out and glittered in the flames, and the Snow Maiden hit the dirt as more bricks thumped to the ground around her.

  She reached down, grabbed one bar, and cursed at the top of her lungs.

  Six Russian Federation KA-65 Howlers like the ones Brent had faced near Sandhurst thundered overhead as he approached the shattered telecom trucks.

  At the same time, a pair of fighter jets streaked above them, and though Brent received no indication of their IDs, he could only assume that they, too, were Russian and had been responsible for taking out the F-35s.

  As he and Lakota bounded out of the Range Rover, a wave of gunfire from somewhere behind the trucks sent them down to their bellies, and not a second later, a grenade exploded on Lakota’s side of the truck.

  He screamed for her. No answer.

  Feeling as though he’d been hit by ten thousand volts, Brent bounded around the Range Rover and dropped down beside Lakota, who was lying facedown near the wheel. Razor-sharp pieces of shrapnel had peppered one side of her suit. He rolled her over, and her eyes slowly flickered open. “Don’t let her get away ...”

  His HUD showed her vital signs and that the suit had already hit her with painkillers.

  Brent nodded, looked up, and saw that the Russian choppers were just now coming around to escort a larger, slower bird, a troop transport.

  And then, from the embankment, he saw two figures dash forward, away from the trucks.

  Brent charged after them, and they didn’t notice his approach as the rotor wash whipped across the road.

  He leveled his rifle on the taller one and cut loose a triplet of rounds that punched the guy onto his back; however, the rounds failed to penetrate his armor. He was only stunned.

  The smaller figure swung back to face him.

  It was her.

  And as she fired into his chest—one, two, three rounds—he threw himself into the air and knocked her to the ground. He dropped his rifle and pinned her arms with his knees, and his gloved hands fumbled for the latch on her helmet. He found it, threw it back, and, as she fought to squirm free, twisted off her helmet and tossed it away.

  He wrapped his gloved hands around her neck and began to choke her. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” he screamed in English, knowing she understood him.

  “I don’t care,” she said, groaning in exertion.

  With a sudden jerk she rolled, driving her legs up and over his head, boots slamming into his helmet. The power in her legs was remarkable, and she tore him free, forcing his head back with her ankles. He lost his grip on her throat and fell away, reaching out to his right for his rifle.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, second squadron of F-35s inbound. They’ll be in missile range in two minutes, if you can just hang on, over.”

  He couldn’t answer the pilot.

  And if he could just delay her for two minutes ...

  Brent sat up—in time to watch the Snow Maiden’s boot connect with his helmet, knocking him back down. He rolled, tried to sit up again, but she stood over him now, aiming her pistol at his head.

  “Who are you?” she screamed, her short hair whipping in rotor wash as the transport chopper landed, with Russian troops thumping out beside the door gunner, who swung his machine gun around to face Brent.

  The first guy Brent had shot was staggering to his feet and screaming in Russian, waving for the Snow Maiden to follow him.

  Was that Haussler?

  Ignoring him, she screamed once more for Brent to ID himself.

  The weird light in her eyes told him enough. If he kept pushing her b
uttons, he’d buy more time. “You don’t give me orders, little girl.”

  Voices in his ear now:

  “Brent, it’s Juma! We’re on our way! Almost there!”

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, one minute ... Stand by ...”

  The Snow Maiden leaned toward him, aiming at his neck. “I can shoot you right here, and you’ll die.”

  “Then do it, you crazy bitch.”

  “Viktoria!” screamed the other man. That had to be Haussler!

  The Russian troops were running forward now, about to surround them.

  Brent stole a look back at Lakota, who was now lying on her side, clutching her rifle, and staring vaguely at him.

  Then he glanced back up the road, where in the distance he saw two cars, a Ford pickup truck and another Range Rover SUV about three hundred meters behind. Some of his Ghosts were riding in the pickup, hanging over the flatbed’s sides, rifles brought to bear.

  The Russian gunships had fanned out, and two were turning toward the oncoming cars.

  Brent wanted to call off Juma and his people, but it was already too late.

  Lakota began firing at the oncoming Russians, who dropped and returned fire.

  At that moment, the Snow Maiden leaned down and began to jab her gun into his neck.

  Brent grabbed her arm as the pistol went off.

  And then he pulled her down toward him with all his might. She lost her balance and fell. Just as he moved to climb back on top of her, gunfire hammered across his back, and then it came, the sharp, steady pain.

  He gasped and fell over, onto his side, as the Snow Maiden was pulled away by the other man, who Brent now confirmed was Heinrich Haussler. He was working for her?

  Lakota fired again, and more rounds from the Russians ahead punched into and clanged off their Range Rover.

  Rockets ignited above and streaked away from the Russian choppers. Brent turned his head to watch as his people bailed out of the cars only seconds before the missiles struck. Twin explosions swelled into summits of fire, and the screams from his men over the team channel were awful and unbearable. The Range Rover assumedly carrying Juma turned around and headed back in retreat.