Asura

by R P L Johnson

  The second chopper had not moved, although its rotors were turning slowly. Yvonne could see Alex Hill disconnecting the heating coils that warmed the fuel tanks. Holding her hood down against the wind, Yvonne trotted towards him.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Rose demanded.

  ‘Nothing that need concern you, Captain,’ King replied. ‘We may need to accelerate the schedule that’s all.’

  ‘Bullshit! Who are you, King? And who is jamming our radio? Just what are you playing at here?’

  Alan Frazier stepped in front of Rose. He too was wearing one of the throat microphones and an earpiece. He held his American-made M4 carbine with casual familiarity.

  ‘You heard the man... None of your business, Squaddie.’

  Campbell and Patterson had already taken up firing positions behind the shattered wings of the Fairchild. They looked alert and edgy. The men were obviously used to working together: they were probably a fire team from whatever agency King was working for. Something big was about to happen and Rose had to decide whose side he was on. He backed down, for now, and tried to ignore the superior smile on the face of Alan Frazier. He turned on his heel and stalked back into the fuselage of the crashed plane.

  Rose took a couple of seconds to compose himself before he spoke to the passengers. What could he tell them? In the end he decided to stick to the facts.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve decided to cut short this little camping expedition.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ Garrett commented, fixing Rose with an exasperated look, as if Rose was nothing more to him than an incompetent waiter.

  Rose wasn’t about to give up any authority to that blowhard. ‘Mister Garrett, you can take the other end of Mister Morcellet’s stretcher,’ he said, returning the aging MP’s stare with one of his own.

  ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Garret said, bristling. ‘I’m injured too you know.’

  Rose looked at Doctor Keyes who gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  ‘I’m sorry Mister Garrett,’ Rose continued, ‘—but it’s a two man job, and Doctor Keyes will need his hands free. I’m sure that helping out in the rescue will go down well with the media back home.’

  Rose had no doubt that Garrett would build up his part anyway—never letting the facts get in the way of a good story—but Garrett seemed to warm to the idea.

  ‘Can you use a camera,’ he said to the young girl, Hadeeqa. She nodded shyly. ‘Good. Go outside and take some shots of us coming out.’ He tossed her a small stainless steel cube that he took out of his jacket pocket: a digital camera. He was a canny old bird, Rose had to give him that. The truth became a lot more malleable with a few photos to back up his claims.

  Rose knelt by the Doctor who was adjusting the straps on Morcellet’s plastic stretcher. The Frenchman was still conscious, despite the booster shot of morphine the doctor had given him. He might overhear a whispered conversation, but Rose decided to take the chance.

  ‘When I give the word, we move quickly to the chopper,’ he said. ‘There’s something going on here that I don’t yet understand, but our radios are being jammed and King’s been lying to us from the start. He and the others are not what they seem.’

  Doctor Keyes looked at him, his small round spectacles concentrating his forthright stare until it could cut diamond. He nodded again, and set about strapping Morcellet’s oxygen bottle against the side of the stretcher, working quickly but precisely.

  Rose stood to leave, with Hadeeqa close behind, camera in hand. He caught an inquisitive look from the injured Frenchman, but Morcellet said nothing.

  Millicent Carver waited until Rose and Garrett had carried Morcellet’s stretcher out into the cold. Keyes followed close behind and Hadeeqa hovered at the Doctor’s side. No one noticed that she wasn’t behind them.

  Outside the rising wind had been joined by the prop wash of the big Mi-8 helicopter as Patterson guided it onto the safe landing zone. As soon as it was down, he started loading the unopened baggage in through the side door.

  ‘Go, go!’ Rose shouted and, ducking low against the wind, led the survivors towards the chopper.

  King blocked his path, flanked by Alan Frazier.

  ‘Put the stretcher down, Captain,’ King ordered.

  Rose gently lowered the stretcher to the snow and Campbell pinned his arms from behind. Held in the huge man’s grip, Rose was helpless. ‘What’s your game, King,’ he asked. ‘First rescuer, now killer?’

  King shrugged.

  ‘A degree of subterfuge was necessary at first. Mister Garrett has some important friends: they insisted that a rescue attempt be made. Unfortunately the pace of events has forced our hand.’

  ‘You’ll never get away with this,’ Garrett shouted. ‘You’re damn right I have important friends. They’ll make sure you swing for this.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You see, mountain rescue is such a dangerous business.’ King nodded towards Frazier who raised the blunt muzzle of his M4 and stared at them down the iron sights. ‘I’m afraid you just didn’t make it.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Rose struggled in Campbell’s grip, but it was no use. The big man held him as easily as he would a child.

  Suddenly there was a noise from the other side of the site. The turbocharged diesel engine of the Supacat roared to life. Rose strained to look around the curve of the crashed plane and saw Millicent Carver in the driver’s seat gunning the throttle.

  Kings expression changed instantly. For the first time his mask slipped just a fraction and Rose saw the light of panic in his eyes.

  ‘She’s the one!’ King shouted. ‘Get her!’

  Frazier swung his M4 around. Rose had to do something, but all he could do was twist ineffectually in Campbell’s grasp.

  His flapping hands caught the toggle of his backpack, and seeing his chance, Rose yanked down hard. The airbags in the sides of the backpack exploded outwards, bursting Campbell’s arms apart as the avalanche protection system inflated with over two hundred pounds of pressure.

  Freed from Campbell’s grasp, Rose flung himself forward, cannoning into Frazier and knocking him to the snow. Frazier’s shots whistled wide of their target, slamming into a snow bank behind Carver as she poured on the throttle and tore away around the back of the Fairchild.

  Rose rolled to his feet and sprinted for cover. He rounded the side of the fuselage just as a second volley of shots tore through the air behind him.

  The Supacat charged past, nearly side-swiping Rose as Carver wrenched the all-terrain vehicle through a tight angle, keeping the crashed plane between herself and Frazier.

  Rose leaped aboard the trailing sled. He grabbed hold of the shock cord webbing that secured the equipment and hauled himself in as it sped away.

  Carver whipped around in her seat, a slim, black knife clenched in her fist.

  Isn’t anyone here on my side, Rose thought.

  Carver ducked low as more shots whipped overhead.

  ‘You’re not with them are you?’ she shouted.

  ‘I thought I was,’ Rose replied. ‘But apparently not.’

  Carver slipped the knife into a concealed sheath in her boot. Keeping low they sped away from the crash site.

  ◆◆◆

  King fumed. All the time their quarry had been right under their noses! And now she was loose. The rest of the survivors cowered in the snow afraid to even move in case they drew the attention of the furious King and his men. But they were of no importance now.

  Dave Patterson was throwing the last of the cases aboard the chopper.

  ‘Forget them, you imbecile!’ King shouted. ‘Get that woman.’

  Patterson and Frazier leaped aboard the chopper and it roared into the sky, riding a whirlwind of stinging snow.

  So close, King thought. They were so fucking close.

  ‘Get the other chopper up here,’ he ordered. ‘One way or another, I want that woman dead.’

  ◆◆◆
<
br />   Holding her hood down over her eyes to shield herself from the rotor wash, Yvonne trotted towards the helicopter. Alex Hill was inspecting a panel on the helicopter’s underside as she approached. He closed and dogged the little maintenance panel, and turned towards the open rear door.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouted.

  She could see the helicopter’s flight crew in the cockpit but she had no chance of making herself understood through the thick glass windshield, so she called out again. Hill turned round and seemed to be waiting for her. He wore a pair of mirrored goggles and had his hood up against the cold. His lips visible below the silver shield were set in a grim line.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ Yvonne called. ‘Should we wait in the shelter?’

  As Yvonne approached, Hill pressed his hand against his ear as if listening to something. He reached inside the open door of the helicopter and drew out a slim automatic pistol. Before Yvonne could do anything, Hill chambered a round and aimed it at her.

  She stared at him in disbelief. She wanted to call out to him, to question what on Earth he was doing, but she couldn’t speak. All she could do was stare at the blunt muzzle of Hill’s pistol as he slowly cocked the weapon with his thumb.

  This wasn’t happening... This just couldn’t be happening.

  The grim line of his lips compressed and his thumb curled back around the grip, ready to fire.

  CRACK!

  Yvonne heard the gun go off. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Bullets were supposed to hit you before you heard the shot, but she distinctly heard the crack of the pistol going off and the shrill wheet of the round as it had sped past her.

  She realised with embarrassment that she’d screwed her eyes closed. When she peeked, she expected to see Hill taking aim for a second shot, but instead he was on his back in the snow, wrestling with another figure in a bright red jacket; a silver blanket, knotted around the figure's throat, flapped behind the assailant like a super hero’s cape.

  The sight of someone else fighting to save her life, something she should have done herself, spurred her into action. Yvonne was a nurse, but she was a nurse in the Army Medical Corps, and as such had been through basic training just like any other soldier. She might not be built for combat, but now that she had been given a second chance, she sure as hell was going to give it her best.

  Hill found the upper hand and pinned his assailant to the snow just as Yvonne–covering the last few yards at a dead run–kicked him under his exposed chin. It was beautiful: David Beckham couldn’t have caught him any sweeter. Hill’s head snapped sideways as Yvonne’s kick almost lifted him off the snow and sent him sprawling by the rear door of the helicopter.

  Shakily he struggled to his hands and knees. Yvonne saw that he had dropped his gun, and it lay there, black and alien, half buried in a depression caused by its own metallic weight. She picked it up and trained it on the stunned him.

  ‘Nice kick,’ said Yvonne’s saviour. It was the co-pilot from the crashed plane. Yvonne struggled to remember her name: McCarthy, that was it, Rebecca McCarthy.

  ‘Thanks,’ Yvonne replied. ‘Good timing, yourself.’

  Any further conversation was drowned out by the noise of the Mi-8’s two Klimov turboshaft engines as they screamed up to full power. Standing under the assault of the rotor wash became almost impossible, and the two women instinctively backed away towards the shelter. Through the blizzard thrown up around them, Yvonne saw Alex Hill crawl onto the loading ramp at the rear of the helicopter. It was still open and remained so as the chopper took off and headed up the mountain towards the crash site.

  ◆◆◆

  Rose clung onto the sled as Carver whipped it around another snow dune. His feet swung out over the lip of the sled and he was pelted with snow thrown up by the deep treads of the ‘cat’s balloon tyres. He clawed his way across the bucking equipment and onto the six-wheeled ATV.

  Behind them the Mi-8 thundered towards them. The big helicopter dipped its nose down as it accelerated like a charging bull. It was gaining easily, and although the chopper was unarmed, Rose could see one of King’s men leaning from the open hatch with an M4 assault rifle at his shoulder.

  Carver swung the ‘cat around in long s-bends. They would be a difficult target to hit, but the evasive manoeuvres slowed their progress.

  The chopper swooped low over them, churning up a maelstrom of flying snow. Bullets fizzed through the storm above their heads. A volley of shots slammed into the trailing sled.

  ‘Don’t just sit there,’ Carver shouted. ‘Shoot back!’

  ‘With what? I’m not armed,’ Rose replied.

  ‘Aren’t you a soldier?’

  ‘On a humanitarian mission.’

  Carver glared at him in exasperation. Above them the helicopter powered off and into a high. Banking turn ready for another run. Rose searched through the boxes of equipment on the rear pallet of the ‘cat. If King had hidden any more weapons in the crates then Frazier must have unloaded them. All the crates Rose opened were full of legitimate rescue supplies.

  The chopper sped towards them. Carver pulled down hard on the control yoke, freezing the three wheels on one side of the ‘cat while sending the others into overdrive. The little ATV spun like a top whipping up a cloud of talc-fine ice crystals that surrounded them like a smokescreen.

  It only lasted a second before the downdraft of the approaching helicopter blasted it away. Carver floored the accelerator and they shot off again, right under the belly of the chopper.

  ‘I think I’ve found something,’ Rose said. ‘Hold her steady for a second.’

  Carver kept a straight course and the chopper sped up behind them, closing in for an easy kill.

  Just a little closer, Rose thought.

  He opened the twin pack of flares he had found and popped the seal on one of them. Taking aim at the windshield he pulled the tap. The flare smoked for a second before shooting out a brilliant red star.

  The flare glanced off the tough Lexan windshield without leaving a mark!

  ‘Shit!’ he swore.

  ‘Nice shot, soldier boy. You want to try throwing snowballs at them next?’

  ‘I want a do-over. Keep it steady.’

  He took aim with the second flare. He could see the smile on Alan Frazier’s face as he leaned out of the speeding chopper.

  Rose fired the flare right at Alan’s grinning mug. The red charge flew up and into the open door of the chopper. Pink smoke billowed out of the open door as the burning flare lodged inside the cabin. Rose could see it wafting up into the cockpit, obscuring the pilot’s vision. With a roar of its twin engines the helicopter pulled out of its attack run and made for the safety of altitude.

  ‘I take it back,’ Carver shouted above the engine noise. ‘Nice shot.’

  ‘It won’t slow them down for long,’ Rose replied. ‘I need to find more flares.’

  Crates of medical supplies and packets of dehydrated food flew in all directions as Rose ransacked the cargo. Climbing equipment was strewn all over the sled; they had rope by the mile and plenty of spare ice bolts and axes, but no flares. The trailing helicopter, now clear of the flare’s smoke, loomed large behind them.

  ‘Here they come again!’ Carver shouted.

  The chopper swooped in low. Bullets raked the speeding snow all around them. This time the occupants of the chopper were taking no chances. Frazier sprayed them with supersonic rounds; most went wide but he succeeded in keeping their heads down while the chopper drew ever closer.

  Just as the chopper roared overhead, a figure dropped from the open hatch. Dave Patterson landed with a thump, right in the middle of the sled. He raised his M4.

  Rose grabbed an ice axe and swung it with all his might. The razor-sharp titanium pick slammed into the upper receiver, jamming the bolt.

  Patterson mashed the trigger: nothing. He threw the ruined weapon away and pulled a knife from his belt.

  He held the heavy blade in a fencer’s grip, thumb along the back of the hi
lt.

  He’s done this before, Rose thought. Although the ice axe gave Rose a reach advantage, Patterson was a combat-seasoned field agent, whereas Rose’s hand-to-hand training was a distant memory.

  Patterson swung the knife in a deep arc forcing Rose to jump back to avoid being disembowelled with one stroke. A millisecond too late, Rose realised it was just a feint as Patterson’s fist slammed into his jaw. He staggered backwards.

  ‘Royal Engineers, eh?’ Patterson taunted. ‘Bunch of fucking plumbers and bricklayers. I’m going to show you what real soldiering’s about.’

  He pressed forward with the knife: quick deadly thrusts to the throat and stomach. Rose backed away again but he was running out of room. He was right up against the gunwale of the little sled. On either side the snow whipped past at over fifty miles an hour while above them the helicopter kept its deadly watch.

  Patterson swung again, but this time Rose was ready for it. The knife clanged against the steel shaft of his axe and at the same time Rose kicked out at Patterson’s knee. The big soldier was quick but not quick enough. The front prongs of Rose’s crampons raked across his shin.

  ‘First blood to the bricklayers,’ Rose said.

  The wound on Patterson’s leg didn’t slow him down. Enraged, he stabbed furiously again and again. Rose was forced back onto the defensive, barely managing to block each deadly thrust a fraction of a second before Patterson’s knife ripped out his throat or buried itself in his flesh.

  Seeing an opening, Patterson swung at Rose’s unprotected side: a killing blow that would cut Rose’s liver in two.