Relieved.
And ashamed.
Ashamed at the joy they felt it wasn’t their loved one that had died.
Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique
First Lady Melanie Starling gasped in pain as four men lifted her onto the makeshift stretcher, the leaves and bamboo shoots expertly woven together about to be tested. One of the Airmen had volunteered to be a guinea pig and the two stretchers for the wounded had held up nicely.
Now the question was how navigable the jungle was with a six-foot long stretcher carried between two people.
Dawson turned to see the fire doused with dirt, all the supplies gathered, the pittance they had collected able to fit in the emptied duffel bag that had carried the weapons. He pointed at Atlas and Niner. “You two scout ahead, make sure we don’t stumble upon anyone.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Both headed out, weapons drawn, Dawson turning to the gathered Secret Service and Air Force personnel. “Agents, I want you to trail the group by about one hundred yards, covering our six. If you spot anything, don’t engage. Rejoin the group and we’ll make a stand together. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Jane, she seeming to have taken natural command of the Air Force personnel, she the highest-ranking member still alive, but also good at giving orders. “Airman, you and your crew need to keep this group moving and together. We’re only as fast as our slowest person, and if we lose someone, we’re even slower. I want every single person who leaves here to arrive stateside, got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good.” He turned to the group. “Okay, we’re moving out now. Those who’ve volunteered to be stretcher-bearers, don’t be heroes. If you get tired, hand off to someone else. There’s no shame in it. If you hurt yourself overdoing it, then you’re useless after that. We’re going to do this slow and steady. If you need help, ask for it. And whatever you do, don’t wander off on your own. If you get separated from the group, listen for the river and head toward it, then walk upriver, that’s the opposite direction of where it’s flowing for you landlubbers.” He raised his hand over his head, then dropped it, pointing forward. “Let’s go!”
Stretchers were lifted and the entire procession began to shuffle forward.
Dawson waited for the last person to leave the clearing, remaining with the Secret Service personnel. He checked across the river to see the small group there moving forward as well. He hoped farther upriver there might be a spot where they could cross and join the main party, though as long as they kept within sight of each other, they’d be okay.
He stared down the river one last time, then began the trek with the others.
Goodbye, old friend.
Downriver from Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique
Spock’s eyes fluttered open to a strange sensation. His entire body was floating, gently bobbing up and down, and for a minute, he could be forgiven for thinking he was actually home, floating in his parents’ pool, having fallen asleep.
Unfortunately reality elbowed itself in front of the comfortable memory as he realized his entire body was aching, especially his forehead. He reached up, gingerly touching the source of the pain and felt a good-sized egg.
I’m alive.
He glanced about and realized he was floating on something, a seat cushion by the looks of it. He remembered going over the falls, managing to get a grip on the doorframe just before the plane hit the bottom, then little else.
In fact, nothing else.
The sun was blaring down on him and he was dying of thirst. He spotted the shore, only feet away, and gently kicked toward the trees, the river wide enough to actually give him a view of the sky for the first time since they had crashed.
He grabbed some roots and pulled himself clear, rolling onto the jungle floor, catching his breath as he stared at the trees overhead, the cushion continuing to float away. Gently moving all his limbs, he thanked God he had nothing broken, though he was badly bruised and scraped. And his head pounded.
You’re alive, that’s all that matters.
He sat up, his head swimming slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them, focusing on a single point.
The toes of his boots.
Things settled.
Might have a concussion.
He’d have to monitor it. If he started to feel tired then he might be in trouble. He stood, using a tree trunk for support, then looked upriver. The falls were at least a couple of miles away. It was going to be one hell of a trek to catch up, but he had to do it. Right now he was certain everyone thought he was dead, and the last thing he wanted was to get to camp and find everyone already rescued and gone.
He picked up a branch, a little better than waist height, and put some pressure on it.
You’ll do.
And with his walking stick in hand, Spock, risen from the dead, began the painful walk toward his team, already planning how he’d scare the shit out of them.
Approaching Air Force One Crash Site, Over Mozambique
Red had spotted the river on the way down, guiding his chute toward the water, then cutting himself loose just above the surface. Surveying the trees overhead, he was convinced it had been a wise choice, despite them all being soaked.
We’ll dry out.
“Everyone good?”
Jagger nodded. “Yup. My balls are gonna chafe, but at least nothing’s broken.”
Mickey. “Really? Your balls are gonna chafe? Not your inner thighs?”
“You’ve seen my balls. What do you think’s gonna chafe first?”
Jimmy shook his head. “You’re the only man I know who can actually spin in the shower and smack someone beside him.”
“You love it.”
“Yes, big boy, and don’t you forget it.”
Red turned away, grinning as he took a GPS reading. “Okay, looks like we’re right where we want to be, between the survivors and the rebels. If everyone’s balls are ready, I suggest we establish comms and get a bead on our hostiles.” He pressed his earpiece. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two, come in, over.”
“Bravo Zero-Two, this is Control, what’s your status, over?”
“We’re on dryland, Control, team intact. Request update on rebel position, over?”
“Sending it now.”
Red glanced at his tactical computer’s display and nodded. “Roger that, update received. Check-in in thirty mikes, out.” He pointed west, away from the river. “We’ll head inland about half a klick.”
“Booby traps?” suggested Jagger, patting a pocket containing some C4 as they began their march.
“Negative, we don’t know how many civilians use this area. This is strictly harass and evade. A delay op. We’re facing a massively superior force. Our job is to obstruct, hinder, and inflict maximum damage so they don’t reach the crash site before the rescue team does.”
“But first we’ve gotta find them,” said Jagger, pushing aside some heavy foliage.
“Seventy guys walking through the jungle in a hurry? I think we’ll hear them no problem.”
Jagger grunted. “Let’s just make sure they don’t hear us first.”
Jimmy slapped Jagger on his back. “Just make sure they don’t hear those balls clanging.”
“You can always hold ’em if you’re concerned.”
Jimmy glanced over at Red. “Sarge, I think Jagger’s hitting on me.”
“I’m going to start hitting on someone if you two don’t cut the chatter.”
“Yes’m!” squealed Jimmy.
Red stifled a laugh. They were nowhere near the enemy and their light banter would help pass the time. He figured they had about half an hour before first contact.
Then the rest of the day was going to be hell.
Landing Zone Alpha, South of Air Force Once Crash Site, Mozambique
Lt. Commander Rich Jacobson jumped to the ground and cleared the helicopter blades, quickly turning to direct the others unloading the equipment, pointing to where
he wanted things. The clearing they had managed to find could barely fit a chopper, though it would do—it would just delay things until it was expanded. His job was to get the advance team on the ground and moving north as quickly as possible; his second in command, Lieutenant Maria Lopez, would be left behind to coordinate efforts here.
Lopez was last off the chopper, it immediately lifting off, the second chopper already banking toward the clearing as the first arrivals carried the equipment to the edge of the clearing and into the trees.
“Lieutenant, keep this area clear. I don’t want anything to delay a chopper being able to land. The advance team will depart in ten mikes with light equipment. We’re going to find the President and secure him until the rest of the team arrives with the supplies. I want comms up and a perimeter established just in case there’s hostiles in the area.”
“Yes, sir!”
They both paused the conversation as the second chopper landed, the rest of First Squad jumping out, already geared up. Jacobson shrugged his pack on and checked his weapon as his men gathered around him.
“This is going to be a fast, hard hike, men. We need to reach the President as quickly as we can. Over seventy hostiles are heading toward him and the survivors, and we’ve got no time to dillydally and check out the scenery, nor wait if someone twists an ankle. Keep your eyes open and watch where you’re stepping. Eyes in the sky tell us there’re no hostiles between us and them, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something out there that’s hungry for a late afternoon snack. This is the jungle, people. If it charges you, shoot it. Pamela Anderson isn’t going to bounce in and protest your cruelty. Our priority is the President and those survivors. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
A third chopper landed, the medical team disembarking. They’d be leaving with Second and Third Squads when they arrived. All his men had basic first aid, and two were corpsmen. They’d be able to deal with the minor stuff, though at this point it still looked like they’d be hoofing it out of the jungle and back here.
Which means we either stay and fight, or try to fall back in the dark.
He didn’t like either option, but they might not have a choice.
None of that mattered right now. All that mattered was getting there first.
“Commander, a word.”
Jacobson followed Lt. Commander Petersen, the doctor sent to accompany Second and Third Squads. “What is it, doc?”
“The latest update I’ve got is that the First Lady is severely injured, along with several others. They need immediate treatment.”
“We’ll do our best, doc, but there’s only so much my team can do until you guys arrive with the equipment.”
Peterson pointed at a duffel bag. “I’ve got everything I need in here to treat her for what I think might be wrong. Depending on how bad she is, it might be enough. If it’s really bad”—he shrugged, shaking his head—“there might be nothing anyone can do, not if we’re looking at tomorrow for getting them out.”
Jacobson lifted the bag. It was heavy. “Do my people know how to use what’s in here?”
Peterson shook his head. “I don’t think you understand me, Commander. I’m coming with you.”
Jacobson assessed the man. He looked in good shape, about ten years older than the rest of his team, but the question was what kind of shape was he really in. “We’re talking five to six hours of hard slogging, doc.”
“I grew up on volksmarches in Germany and never stopped. You don’t have to worry about me slowing you down.”
Jacobson smiled.
“Then let’s do it!”
South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique
“Hey BD, you’re gonna wanna see this!”
Dawson looked past the group at Niner, waving for him to join him. He nodded and cut through the group. They were moving far too slow, at best half a mile in the past hour. The stretchers were just slowing them down too much, the bamboo at first cutting into the bearers’ skin until people started ripping sleeves off and wrapping them around their hands. This sped things up a bit, allowing the bearers to last a little longer, but the jungle was dense and unforgiving, every sound terrifying the city dwellers.
I’d kill for a machete.
They had nothing beyond their combat knives to try to cut through the particularly dense jungle, and it was clear their enemy didn’t have the same supply problem. The last update from the Colonel indicated the rebel group was moving swiftly toward them and a squad of search and rescue personnel were now inbound on foot.
It would be close.
Yet even if the dozen men on their way were to arrive first, they’d still be facing a force of almost seventy hostiles who knew this terrain a hell of a lot better than anyone on the good guys’ team.
Let’s just hope Red and the guys can thin the herd without getting trimmed themselves.
“What’ve you got?” he asked as Niner led him ahead of the group, he and Atlas still on point. The way Niner was walking quickly and with confidence suggested it wasn’t anything bad, though unless it was some secret resort in the middle of the jungle, he couldn’t see how it could be good news.
They stepped out of the trees and into a tiny clearing, sunlight pouring in from above, Atlas standing in the middle.
“So, whadaya think?”
“That you two of all people don’t need to work on your tans?”
Niner pointed at him. “Good one.” He pointed up. “See that blue stuff, that’s sky.”
“Yes, but there’s no way we can get a chopper through there.”
“No, but we could get a hoist. Maybe we can get some of the wounded out, maybe even the President.”
A smile spread across Dawson’s face. He slapped Niner on the back. “Good thinking.”
“I knew there was a reason we kept him around,” muttered Atlas.
“All this time I thought it was for my good looks.”
“Keep dreamin’ shit ball.”
Dawson looked up then back as the first of the group came into the tiny clearing. “Radio it in, see if we can get a chopper here. Make sure they’re loaded with supplies. I don’t think we’ll be able to stay here long enough to evacuate everyone, not with those rebels closing the gap.”
Niner headed off to get the satellite gear as Dawson stood beside Atlas, debating their best course of action.
“Whadaya think?” asked Atlas.
“I think we’ve got a very limited window of opportunity here, and we have to risk taking it. If the rebels are four hours away, that might be enough time to get everyone out.”
Atlas stared up. “I dunno. One at a time, through the trees, that’s probably ten minutes each minimum. Times fifty people. I’m no math genius, but I don’t think we’ve got the time.”
Dawson grunted. Atlas was right, at best they’d get six to ten people lifted out of the clearing in an hour, and that assumed no delays in getting choppers overhead. Even at ten people an hour, they’d need five hours, and the rebels were closer than that.
But if Red can delay them just a couple of hours…
“If we can get the wounded and the First Family out, then that’s good enough for me. Just getting the wounded out will easily double our speed. And if we can get some flashlights down here, we’ll be able to travel at night a hell of a lot safer.”
“True. It’s definitely worth the risk, BD, definitely worth it.”
Dawson knew Atlas was trying to make him feel better about his decision. It was risky, wasting perhaps two hours to get the wounded and VIPs out, and it could doom them all, but he was confident it was the right decision.
Assuming they can get choppers here quickly enough.
North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique
“That looks like the leader at two o’clock. Red bandana, cigarette.”
“Got him,” replied Jagger over the comm. All four of them were spread out about ten feet apart, using the trees and thick underbrush for cover as the rebel forc
e advanced. They had made good time, but the rebels had been faster. His estimate had them no more than three hours from the crash site, if that. These guys were moving, motivated probably by a big payday.
“I’ve got the leader. Everyone takes three shots, watch your arcs, I don’t want to waste two bullets on the same man. Third shot, fall back and regroup half a klick back, understood?”
A series of acknowledgements came through his earpiece. “On three… two… one… Execute.”
Red squeezed his trigger, the round belching from the barrel of his MP5, screaming toward its target at over two thousand feet per second. He dropped. Red took out a second target to the leader’s left, then a third, just as the man started to react. On either side he heard the fast, single shots of the others, then nothing as he spun, pushing through the foliage.
The rebels opened up behind them, shouts of anger and panic, it clear from Red’s trained ear they were firing in all directions.
If we’re lucky, they’ll kill some of themselves.
He could see the others on his flanks and as the gunfire faded, he slowed up, the others joining him.
“Everyone still in one piece?”
“Yup,” replied Jimmy, “Can’t say the same for my three guys.”
“Me too. Umm…” Jagger pointed to a hole in Jimmy’s pants. “Is that new?”
Jimmy leaned over and poked a finger through what was clearly a bullet hole in his crotch. “Huh. I guess someone’s looking out for me today.” He nodded toward Jagger’s junk. “Good thing it wasn’t you, you might be one testi short.”
“Don’t you concern yourself with my boys, they’re squared away, thank you very much.”
Red chuckled. “Okay, did everyone hit their targets?”
Affirmatives.
“Then that’s twelve down.”
Jagger grunted. “So only sixtyish to go.”
North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique
The Lazarus Moment Page 14