“Anyone alive up there!” There was a groan, but not much more. Someone was alive. He turned to Skerritt. “How many were left?”
“One of my men and four crew.”
“Hey, up here!”
They all turned toward the shout, Dawson at first seeing nothing. “Flashlights!” All six were quickly grabbed, the new arrivals with their own, and beams quickly cut through the darkness with limited effect.
“Give me a minute, I’m okay, I’m just caught up! I can get to the chopper!”
“That’s Felix!” exclaimed one of the SEALs, jubilation in his voice and on his face. The comrades slapped each other on the back as they tried to spot their friend overhead. “There!”
The man pointed and Dawson suddenly could see the SEAL, hooked on a branch above the chopper. They had obviously been in the process of lowering him when the chopper was hit. The bastard was lucky to be alive, let alone apparently alive and well.
One of the Air Force One crew walked up, shaking his head. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
Dawson looked over at the man that had fallen from the chopper, two crew moving his body away from the drop zone. He frowned. “Okay, we might have three alive in the chopper,” he said. “If your man Felix can get in there and free them, it’s only twenty feet, so we should be able to get them out safely.” He pointed at the flames. “But if that ignites the fuel, everyone’s toast.”
“I’m clear!” shouted Felix from overhead. Dawson watched as the man slowly climbed down the tree, reaching the overturned cockpit. He peered through the glass then waved. “Pilot’s dead! Copilot is breathing but out cold. I’m going to step onto the chopper now. Get clear in case this thing drops!”
“Everyone back!” ordered Skerritt, those gathered scattering like roaches when the light turns on.
“Here I go!”
The wreck creaked, a branch snapped, but the man’s two hundred pounds with gear seemed not to be the proverbial straw. Dawson watched, holding his breath, as Felix slowly made his way across the side of the chopper on hands and knees.
“Okay, I can see inside the cabin.” The voice lowered, as if he were talking to someone inside before he called out to those below. “Okay, I’ve got another wounded here but conscious. There’s some rope. I’m going to tie it off and try to lower him to you!”
Felix disappeared inside the chopper, it creaking in protest at the movement, the trees snapping in anger as the thousands of pounds of uninvited weaponry scarred the pristine jungle.
“Here he comes!”
“Two men only!” ordered Skerritt, he and one of his men stepping forward, the others all holding back despite wanting to get in and help. The wounded man slowly became visible from what was now the bottom of the chopper, dropping a foot or two at a time as Felix struggled to control the nearly dead weight. The two SEALs positioned themselves under the injured man, reaching up to get a hand on him.
Skerritt made contact first, stepping under him. “Okay, we’ve got him!”
The rope slackened rapidly as the man dropped the last few feet into Skerritt’s arms. The other SEAL untied him and they quickly carried him away.
“I’m going for the copilot now!”
The chopper protested again then suddenly dropped several feet before catching on a thick branch.
“Are you okay?” shouted Skerritt, everyone holding their breath, waiting for a reply.
The chopper dropped again.
“Yes, I’ve almost got him!”
Another two feet had bark and tree limbs exploding under the pressure, raining down on those below.
The smell of jet fuel filled Dawson’s nostrils. Usually a welcome smell, it reminding him of the life he loved, this time it wasn’t.
“Fuel leak!” he shouted, eyeing the flames. “You’ve gotta get out of there now!”
“I’m unhooking him now!”
“Everyone out of here, now!” ordered Dawson as he eyed the flames, a massive explosion imminent as he and Skerritt watched helpless.
There was a thud and the entire chopper shuddered, rolling again as the propeller turned, another blade catching in the Y shape of a split trunk, the Seahawk coming to a halt not ten feet from the jungle floor, completely inverted.
With Felix and the copilot pressed against the windshield.
The rotors began to bend. Dawson pointed at them. “They’re not going to hold. You’ve got seconds!”
The screeching of metal was almost overwhelming when he heard Felix shout, “Stand clear!” Dawson and Skerritt stepped back as the silhouette of Felix disappeared then just his boots reappeared, slamming into the shattered cockpit glass, the entire frame breaking away and dropping to the ground.
A sickening sucking sound from the rear of the chopper signaled the end, the sound all too familiar to these soldiers.
The fuel had ignited.
The chopper erupted into a ball of flame as Felix and the copilot dropped from the opening toward the ground. Dawson and Skerritt surged forward as the flames erupted in all directions except directly under the chopper, the metal skin acting as a heat shield. Felix let go of the copilot, either intentionally or by accident, his arms and legs flailing. Dawson jumped for the copilot, Skerritt for his man, both breaking the falls with their arms, the force shoving them to the ground hard, the falls broken.
Dawson felt hands on his shirt, hauling him to his feet before he had a chance to catch his breath. It was Niner, grabbing him and rushing him, stumbling, into the trees as Atlas hoisted the downed copilot over his shoulders in one swift motion, quickly following them into the dense jungle.
Shouts and cries filled the jungle around them and it wasn’t until Dawson was at least a good sixty feet away that he had a chance to recover his balance properly, Niner hauling him the entire way.
Dawson stood up, turning back toward the fiery crash site. “Everyone okay?”
There were shouts of acknowledgement but that was useless, he needed a true count. “Sound off! Air Force!” Eight acknowledged. Good. “Secret Service!” Two. “SEALs!” Another four. “Seahawk crew!”
“We’ve got both of them,” acknowledged Skerritt about twenty feet away.
All accounted for.
Dawson pointed at the recovery crew. “Check on those supplies. If you can get them away safely, do it.”
The dozen men rushed back toward the inferno as Dawson walked over to the SEAL team, all huddled around Felix. “You okay?”
Felix took a hand from Skerritt who hauled him to his feet. “Little winded, but I’ll live.”
“Pretty stupid thing you did,” grinned Dawson.
Felix laughed. “I hope my commander writes it up as extremely brave and selfless, worthy of a medal.”
One of the recovery team rushed up to them. “Supplies are safe, we’re getting them clear now but we need more people.”
“Take whoever you need,” replied Dawson, the man leaving, his shouts echoing through the trees as he gathered civilians to help with the human chain that Dawson could see in the firelight.
Yet none of that mattered right now. He turned to Skerritt. “We’ve got another scouting party out there, obviously.”
Skerritt nodded. “You guys took care of the last one, let us return the favor.”
Dawson smiled.
“With pleasure.”
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters, Langley
“That’s him!”
Leroux pointed at the screen, the footage from Johannesburg accessed only minutes ago. The South Africans were insisting they handle the investigation, the administration in Pretoria apparently taking it as a point of honor to tie up their end of the tragedy, their bungling of the capture already making the press. Why they hadn’t surrounded the motel before screeching to a halt in front of it was anybody’s guess, though the prevailing wisdom in the room was overzealous lack of experience.
Whatever the cause, Khomenko had escaped, three of his men found dead in the room. Their
photos had arrived and facial recognition identified them as members of Khomenko’s command in Donetsk.
But the man himself had gotten away.
Until now.
On the screen, the image of a man clearing security looked nothing like the file photo they had of him, yet it was clear to Leroux who it was. Khomenko could have lost his hair from the chemo and this man was bald, hiding it with an FDNY ball cap, the glasses had frames that were large and thick, as if to try and distract from the shape of the upper portion of his face. Not to mention he was the same build as the FSB file they had received indicated, and the mustache was obviously fake.
Who has a moustache and no arm hair?
The outstretched arm in the photo was completely free of hair, another confirmation the man had lost his hair from chemo.
And he appeared angry.
Like a man who just found out his plan had failed.
The news had broken that the President was alive just a few minutes before the footage was taken, but that was almost an hour ago. Which meant he could potentially be heading anywhere now, though almost definitely trapped on an airplane.
Fool!
Leroux watched as the computer confirmed what he already knew, the facial recognition points mapping on a side monitor, Therrien smacking his hands together. “It’s him!”
“Excellent. Let’s figure out what name he’s travelling under and what flight he got on. What kind of footage do we have access to?”
“Everything now, boss,” replied Child. “Once the President, or, umm, the Vice President—hell, I don’t know what to call him. Didn’t he just get demoted?—once whoever called, the taps opened.” His fingers were flying over the keyboard as he talked. He pointed at one of the panels. “Let’s follow him through the airport and see what flight he gets on.”
They watched as Khomenko headed for a bathroom, disappearing inside. Child fast-forwarded the feed for almost half an hour’s worth of footage until Khomenko finally reemerged, heading directly for his gate, handing over his boarding pass then leaving the frame as he entered the jetway.
“Where’s that flight going?” asked Leroux as Morrison entered the op center.
Child grinned. “Dubai.”
“Do we have any assets in that area?”
“Yes,” replied Morrison as he joined Leroux in the center of the room, watching the footage of Khomenko loop.
“Who?”
“Kane.”
South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique
Senior Chief Chuck Skerritt cleared the last of the civilians then glanced over at Felix. “Did you see where it came from?”
Felix nodded. “Yeah, looked like it came from the top of the trees. Bastard must have climbed to take the shot.”
“Which direction?”
“No freakin’ idea. It was all green to me.” He paused for a moment. “Sun was in the west, so I’d say almost due north of where I dropped. Literally.”
“That’s where I made it, too.” Skerritt lowered his night vision goggles, the jungle suddenly springing to life. The others did the same as they advanced, spreading out so as not to be a juicy target. The sounds of the survivors behind them slowly faded, as did the roar of the fire from the chopper. The Delta team along with the other trained personnel were forming a perimeter to protect the civilians, and it was up to his team to eliminate the hostiles. And now that he had a bead on their location, the UAV might just be able to help. He activated his comm. “Nightwatch, Sierra Zero-One, any targets in our vicinity, over?”
“Zero-One, Nightwatch, we’re showing numerous targets in your area, but there’s a cluster of six bearing zero-two-zero from your current position. Looks like your hostiles, over.”
“Roger that, Zero-One, out.”
He motioned toward the targets, advancing slowly as he scanned left to right for movement.
Something lit up his goggles and he flipped them up to see the streak of an RPG racing toward them. He surged left, arms outspread, knocking Felix to the ground as the rocket slammed into a tree, shredding the wood into thousands of razor sharp shards that blasted in every direction.
He winced as several pieces bored into his leg.
But the pain would have to wait.
Gunfire erupted from the trees ahead, bullets tearing into the ground to his right. He rolled left, behind a tree, then continued to roll, his FN SCAR Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle stretched out ahead of him, waiting for the shot.
The tree trunk exited his field of fire and the muzzle flashes of the AKs ahead of them were suddenly crystal clear.
He opened fire.
“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, the others to his right and left leaping to their feet and pressing forward, their own weapons firing. He was about to reach for a grenade when he thought better of it. It was one thing to toss a grenade in the open, an entirely different thing to throw it in the forest. It was just as likely to hit a tree and bounce back at you, as it was to make the target.
Felix continued to the left, the others to the right as they quickly outflanked their enemy, pouring controlled bursts on their position from three sides now. Skerritt ceased fire, rolling back behind the tree then jumping to his feet, peering out from the other side, his night vision goggles back in place.
He switched to single shot and took aim.
He fired.
One down.
Another spun around, firing at Felix’s position.
Skerritt fired.
Two down.
Another dropped, then another, his own men continuing to press their advantage using the trees as cover.
He didn’t have a shot, the gunfire now down to two weapons, only the muzzle flashes from behind the trees visible. He rose and rushed forward, taking advantage of the opportunity, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the enemy position. He was within twenty feet with still no shot, then ten. His men had adjusted their fire so they wouldn’t hit him and he signaled he was about to break right, the right flank immediately ceasing fire.
Skerritt broke right, rounding the massive tree blocking his shot.
And opened up on the two remaining men from behind, silencing their weapons.
He quickly scanned the area for other hostiles, the rest of his team joining him and taking up covering positions as he radioed in. “Nightwatch, Sierra Zero-One. What’s our count, over?”
“Six hostiles down, no other targets in your area. The rest of the readings scattered as soon as you opened fire. They were all animals, over.”
“Roger that, Nightwatch. Returning to the main group, out.” Skerritt rose. “Let’s get back to the group.” He pointed at the fallen rebels. “Grab their weapons and ammo. If we’re going up against two hundred hostiles, we may need it.”
That and a miracle.
Burj Khalifa, Dubai
CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane moaned in pleasure as Helena, a Filipino masseuse, worked her magic on his aching muscles. He had just been extracted from Pakistan, a hellhole if there ever was one, and after lying on nothing more comfortable than rocks for over a week while waiting for some Al Qaeda bigwig to show, he was in need of some tender loving care.
Care that Helena was more than capable of providing.
While Dubai prided itself on welcoming foreign visitors, there was one thing he would never risk, and that was getting a massage from a local. The risk of Daddy or an older brother finding out what she did for a living too great. But the Filipinos and other foreign workers who poured into these Middle Eastern countries were completely safe to deal with, and to be honest, he felt sorry for them.
Especially the Filipinos.
More Filipinos worked outside their own country than any other citizens in the world. Over ten million worked under often horrible conditions, treated as slaves with few rights, especially in the Middle East. Mostly Catholic, they were often barred from practicing their religion, sometimes their passports were seized, they were raped, and when some tried to defend thems
elves, it was the innocent who were charged, and sometimes ultimately beheaded.
It was one of the many reasons Kane hated the Middle East. It wasn’t that everyone was bad, far from it, it was that he had yet to find a government that he would consider civilized. There were no democracies here, there were no equal rights, there was no freedom of the press, and there definitely was no freedom of religion.
Which was why when you were here, you were careful.
Dubai was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Decades of cheaply pumped oil and the recent sustained high oil prices had made the country filthy rich, and they were desperate for international recognition, as was the entire region. All that oil money had been put to use wisely with the “winning” of the 2022 FIFA World Cup. Thousands of foreign workers were toiling in the insane heat of the Qatari desert to build the venues that the well-heeled would enjoy in a few years, most aware but conveniently ignoring the fact that graft and corruption had chosen the location and thousands of workers had died for their pleasure.
Foreign workers had no rights.
He wondered what Helena’s life was actually like outside of the hotel. Did she feel safe? Did she fear for her life? Was she free to leave?
Her fingers reached low, below the towel, spreading out over his glutes.
He moaned again, something stirring.
Anywhere else, I know where I would want this to head.
But he preferred to keep his head intact, and he wasn’t about to get caught having sex with his masseuse in a Muslim country where he might lose his head if he wasn’t careful. No matter how liberal Dubai may appear, it was still a Muslim country and he was still a foreigner.
His watch jolted him.
And he cursed to himself. His watch appeared to be like any other semi-luxury one, but it was a highly customized CIA issue piece, it capable of receiving a signal anywhere in the world. Its discrete notification method of using a slight electrical pulse allowed him to know there was a message without anyone around him aware. No vibrations, no beeping, and unless it was on his wrist with a coded activation sequence entered, it functioned only as a watch.
The Lazarus Moment Page 18