The Lazarus Moment

by J. Robert Kennedy

  If only there had of been an LZ closer.

  They were still hours away. They could have tried to insert a small team through the canopy then carve out an LZ, but it would have taken almost as long as hiking in, the jungle so dense and the area a chopper needed to land safely, huge. And with the enemy force advancing, it had been decided that every foot the survivors could travel themselves could prove invaluable. Once the SAR team reached them, there’d be an entire squad facing the enemy, with two more hot on their heels.

  There’s no way the enemy would confront them.

  He had convinced himself it was the right decision, since it wasn’t his and he had no choice, though he would have preferred dropping in himself at least to assess the situation, but that option had been eliminated. With rebels having opened fire on the rescue chopper that had managed to evacuate one of the wounded, the President had ordered no more lives risked, which was sort of confusing.

  Who the hell is the President right now?

  He was no constitutional expert though he was pretty sure it was the guy he was trying to save, though the new guy certainly seemed to be in charge.

  He stopped, stepping aside to let the group pass, his shift at the front up.

  We’ll make it.

  They had to. After all, it was the President and his family. The alternative was unthinkable.

  He flagged down the doctor who was looking none the worse for wear. “I understand you were able to talk with the President’s physician?”

  Lt. Commander Petersen nodded. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “The only severely wounded person I’m worried about is the First Lady. The worst off made it out before the chopper took fire. I’d like to medivac her the first moment we can, but with her injuries there’s no way we could risk pulling her up through that”—he pointed up at the thick canopy—“so there’s not much that can be done until either an LZ is cleared or we hike them back to the main LZ.”

  “Will she survive that long?”

  Peterson shook his head. “I don’t know. She should, assuming there aren’t internal injuries we’re not aware of, but these things are always hard to assess on the ground. The President’s physician believes it’s just broken ribs though her breathing is labored. He had to re-inflate a lung with a pen. She’s in a lot of pain and discomfort, but she should be okay, especially once we can get her some pain meds.” He sighed. “We got lucky from that perspective.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hate to say it, but they’re lucky that almost everyone either died in the crash, or survived mostly unscathed. Can you imagine if we had dozens of people with severe burns or lacerations?” He shook his head. “That pilot performed a miracle. The river killed more of them than the crash did.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The badly wounded couldn’t fight the current so went over.” Petersen sighed. “Such a waste. If they had just landed a couple of miles upstream or downstream, another twenty might have survived.” He looked at Jacobsen. “Still, it’s a miracle that any did.”

  Jacobson had to agree with the man. He had gone into enough plane crashes over the years to know they could be horrible, the survivors quite often dying later from excruciatingly painful injuries, their suffering needlessly prolonged because they happened to be sitting a few seats behind those who had mercifully died instantly.

  Thank God they did that fuel dump.

  They had almost no details of what had happened, and frankly, he couldn’t care less at this point. All he knew was that he had fifty people to rescue, fifty people to protect.

  They should just carpet bomb those rebels and be done with it.

  The problem was the distances. They were dealing with incredibly tight distances on a map. Put his team in open country and they’d be there in an hour. The problem was the jungle. It was ridiculously thick, the undergrowth a constant struggle. If the rebels were twenty miles away, there probably wouldn’t be much debate, but they weren’t. They were only a couple of miles away, and apparently satellite was showing other small groups in the area that they couldn’t be sure who they were. Could they be other survivors? Hostiles? Innocent locals?

  And if a bomb went astray, they might end up killing the very people they were trying to save.

  They were in a Catch-22. Bomb them now when there’s a safety margin and risk potentially killing innocent people, or wait and hope the SAR team reached them first.

  When it would be too late to do anything about it should they fail.

  And now there were two hundred more on the way.

  This day just keeps getting better and better.

  North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  “Roger that, Control Actual, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

  Red sighed, shaking his head, exchanging glances with the others as they continued toward the crash site, the rebel force only about five minutes behind them.

  “Did he say two hundred?” asked Jagger.

  Jimmy, sporting a fresh bandage over his arm courtesy of Wings, held up a finger. “Over two hundred. And they’re going to be between us and BD if we don’t hurry things up.”

  Red pursed his lips, glancing to his left and right, the lay of the land pretty much the same as it had been for the past couple of hours. Trees and more trees. “Ok, we don’t have a choice. We make a stand. Eliminate them or break them, but they can’t be allowed to rejoin that new group. We’ve only got time for one more hit if we’re ever going to join up with the survivors before that company of rebels reaches them.”

  Wings looked up at the rapidly dimming light. “If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to do it now. What’s the plan?”

  “We’re going to hit them from both sides this time. Jimmy and Jagger, you two take them on their right flank, then when they respond, Wings and I hit them from the left. You hold your fire, they should think you bugged out again and turn their attention to us, then you open up on them again. Fire at will, fall back if you have to, but no three shot limit. They all go down. Understood?”

  Acknowledgements all around, Red sending everyone off with hand signals. He and Wings broke right, putting about a hundred yards between them and the others. He activated his comm. “Zero-two in position.”

  “Zero-Eight in position,” responded Jagger.

  Red took a knee behind a tree, peering out from behind his cover, scanning the jungle for movement, sound, anything. It was hard to hear anyone coming until they were almost right on top of you, the sounds of the jungle so naturally loud it was actually distracting. And sometimes what was snapping branches and rustling leaves wasn’t human at all, all manner of creatures great and small calling this place home.

  “Contact, twelve o’clock.”

  Red looked to where Jagger had indicated, seeing nothing at first, then suddenly seeing the silhouette of a rebel cautiously advancing, he the unlucky bastard selected to take point, knowing full well it meant certain death.

  More emerged, soon a dozen in sight. The challenge they faced were the trees. There was so much cover that a sustained battle might become just that. Sustained. Their previous encounters had been over in seconds, not giving their targets a chance to hide, but now that they were going beyond a few shots, and the enemy was expecting them, this could turn ugly, quickly.

  There’re worse places to die.

  The entire force was visible now. He counted thirty-two, though with them passing behind and in front of trees as they advanced, it was hard to tell.

  Just keep killing until nothing moves.

  He activated his comm. “Zero-Eight and One-Zero, engage when ready, over.”

  “Engaging.”

  Shots erupted from Jagger and Jimmy, their muzzle flashes clearly visible, both on full auto as they tried to eliminate as many targets as they could. Two down, three, four, eight, too many to count, the strategy at the moment working, though the advantage would last only a few more seconds.

  The rebels turned,
responding in the one direction exactly as Red had expected, the MP5s silenced quickly as Jimmy and Jagger took cover.

  “Engaging.”

  He opened up on the rebels as they poured fire on his comrades. More dropped, at least half a dozen before they realized they were being attacked from behind. Confusion reigned for a moment, some turning to return fire, others continuing to fire on the silenced position.

  “Take cover!” ordered Red as bullets slammed into their position. The sound of single shots from two MP5s across the combat zone let Red know both men were still intact, the enemy fire directed at him and Wings quickly dwindling. “Engage!”

  He spun back out, most of his body covered as he searched for targets. Only a few were out in the open now, most hiding behind trees, but enough hiding on the wrong side.

  He took a shot, one dropping, then another. Wings was squeezing off rounds to his left, Red ignoring his arc, concentrating on his own and making sure no one tried to escape the battle by moving forward.

  That didn’t seem to be a problem.

  The fifteen or so that remained seemed content to hide, though with accurate fire hitting them from either side, they were beginning to panic, their backs pressed up against tree trunks as they cowered from one side to the other, not sure what to do.

  One broke, sprinting from his position, retreating rather than advancing.

  Wings took him out.

  Another broke, then another and Red adjusted his position as their arcs changed, the entire force now falling back.

  “Take them all out.”

  He didn’t want to have to deal with them again in ten minutes, no matter how few, but with the angle of attack worsening, over half a dozen managed to make it.

  He lifted his weapon, rising as the MP5s became silent.

  “Regroup,” he signaled, taking a direct line for the crash site then narrowing the gap with the others, enough distance that a stray shot shouldn’t make it through the trees. He paused for a moment as all four listened for any signs of pursuit.

  Nothing.

  “That should hold them for a while.”

  Red looked at Jimmy. “You get hit again?”

  Jimmy grinned. “All my original holes, no more.”

  “Good. Let’s hope they’ve learned their lesson.” He activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two, come in, over.”

  “This is Control Actual, go ahead Zero-Two.”

  “Sir, enemy is bugging out. Keep an eye in the sky on them for us, but I estimate their numbers to be less than ten, over.”

  “Confirmed, Zero-Two, UAV over your area shows eight heat signatures retreating, joining two others who held back.”

  “Probably their commanders.”

  “Agreed. The second contingent has landed and are already disembarking. They’ve got a good climb ahead of them, but then it’s a clear shot to the survivors.”

  “Roger that, sir. We’re heading now to intercept them.”

  “You’re outnumbered fifty to one.”

  “That sounds almost fair.”

  There was a pause as the Colonel either laughed or growled. He’d never know which. “Negative, Zero-Two. Make for the survivors. Four more guns might make the difference, over.”

  “Roger that, Control Actual. Zero-Two, out.”

  He looked at the others, a frown on his face.

  “You heard the Colonel. Let’s get a move on.”

  South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  “Stand clear!”

  Dawson looked to make sure everyone was well clear of the chopper thundering overhead, unseen. The sun was low on the horizon now, the jungle floor dark, all flashlights stuck in the ground, pointing upward in the hopes someone above might catch a glimpse.

  He doubted it would help.

  “Drop One, away!”

  He saw nothing at first then there was a crashing sound overhead, tree limbs snapping, animals protesting then suddenly he could see it, the bottom of a skid dropping like a rock.

  “Here it comes!” he shouted, pointing just in case anyone tasked to clear it out of the way, missed it.

  It hit the ground with a crunch, just to the right of the flashlights.

  “Move!” he shouted and a dozen able-bodied men surged forward, unhooking it then grabbing the netting and hauling the shipment out of the drop zone. Dawson held the radio to his mouth. “Drop zone clear, proceed with second drop, over!”

  “Proceeding with Second Drop.”

  “Stand clear!” ordered Dawson, the group already redistributing themselves around the drop zone. To call this a clearing would be incorrect. It was merely the only spot where there was about a ten foot radius without any tree trunks. There was no opening in the canopy overhead, they were going merely by ear, Dawson having guided the chopper to the exact drop zone once the GPS was no longer accurate enough.

  He and the pilot had obviously got it right.

  “Drop Two, away!”

  Again the pause then the crashing sound. It had been decided by people smarter than him that trying to lower anything through the trees would not only be too slow, inviting enemy fire, but would most likely result in the cargo being hung up. But drop a heavy enough load from high enough, its momentum should carry it through the canopy.

  He and the others had thought it a crazy good idea, as long as nothing was breakable.

  The second load slammed into the ground, swarmed immediately by the retrieval crew, the process repeated a third time. He signaled the all clear.

  “Dayshift Zero-One, Sierra Zero-One. Permission to come aboard, over?”

  Dawson grinned. “Permission granted!”

  The Special Forces community was vast in the United States Military. There were Delta, SEALs, Rangers, Green Berets, Force Recon and more, and they all thought they were the best. The rivalry was fierce but friendly, and when your back was against the wall with two hundred hostiles heading your way, you didn’t care what patch was on the shoulder, you welcomed them with open arms.

  This time there wasn’t a crash, just some cursing echoing through the trees before the boots then legs then entire body of a Navy SEAL appeared overhead, being lowered by a cable. He motioned for Niner and Atlas to help the new arrival and they rushed forward, reaching up and guiding him down the last few feet. The man unhooked himself then stepped clear of the cable.

  “Sierra Zero-One clear!” reported Dawson, the cable immediately retracting as the new arrival walked toward him. “Agent White I presume?”

  Dawson laughed as the two men gave each other thumping hugs, it not the first time they had met. Senior Chief Chuck Skerritt and his team had been instrumental in helping stop the attempted coup months ago and they hadn’t seen each other since. He was a top-notch soldier, one he was happy to have help them out. “Chuck, great to see you again. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, BD. We were just returning from an op in Somalia and were already en route to the Bush when we got the call. We thought you were all dead.”

  “So did we.” He lowered his voice. “We lost over forty including Spock.”

  “Shit, BD, I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

  “The best.” Dawson watched as a second SEAL landed. “How many are you?”

  “Just four of us, I’m afraid. That’s all we could fit with the cargo. More are on their way.” He shook his head. “We should have been here sooner.”

  “You’re here now.”

  “Yeah. The initial SAR teams were sent with orders to hike it in since everyone thought you guys were dead. When we heard you were actually still kicking we volunteered for a drop but Command nixed it and cooked up this new plan.”

  “Well, it seems to be working, and we can use more trained personnel.” He motioned toward the jungle around them. “We’ve extended our perimeter but there’s just too much area and visibility is shit, especially now that it’s getting dark. For all we know we could be surrounded.”
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br />   “There’s a couple of UAVs overhead now but infrared is having a hard time distinguishing between man or beast, there’s some good sized meals wandering around in these woods.”

  Dawson nodded, watching the third SEAL break through the trees overhead. “And a few good sized things that would like to make meals out of us, I’m sure.”

  Skerritt laughed. “Yeah, they briefed us on the way in. Best you don’t know what’s probably eyeing you right now. Suffice it to say shoot first, eat later.”

  Dawson grinned as the third man hit ground, the new arrivals joining them, handshakes exchanged, Dawson recognizing both men. Suddenly gunfire erupted, civilians screamed, and all the Special Forces members swung toward the sound, dropping to a knee as their weapons came to the ready.

  The unmistakable swoosh of an RPG from directly ahead had them all staring up, the whine of rotors as the pilot banked followed almost immediately by the sound of an explosion as the rocket hit the chopper. The mayday over the radio, repeated by the pilot, told Dawson they were still alive, but the screaming of the engines was distinct and familiar.

  “Tail rotor’s out!” shouted Skerritt, who then pointed toward where the RPG was fired. “Did you see the flash?”

  Dawson nodded. “Looked high.”

  “Must have climbed a damned tree to get the shot.”

  A massive crash overhead had everyone staring then running, the Seahawk helicopter slamming into the treetops, making quick work of the branches. Smoke and flames billowed from the tail and Dawson felt his stomach flip as he saw someone fall from the cabin, dropping through the trees then slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Skerritt leapt forward but Dawson grabbed him, the helicopter still dropping.

  And then it stopped, the spinning propeller coming to an abrupt halt as the massive piece of hardware tilted past ninety degrees, the blade slamming into the trunk of a substantial tree.

  The engines cut.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Dawson as everyone surged forward, the chopper still about twenty feet in the air, suspended between several large trees. There was no telling how long it would last, or how long before it might erupt in a fireball. He pointed at two Air Force personnel then the body of the fallen man. “Check him!” He and the others came to halt under the chopper, staring up.