by Isaac Hooke
A Hytera radio lay in the driver's seat; Ethan scooped it up before sitting down. Once everyone was inside he started the engine. There was no need to hot wire the military vehicle, as Humvees didn't use keys—one less thing for the professional soldier to worry about during the heat of battle.
The SINCGARS radios and Blue Force trackers had been gutted. Not that he needed those at the moment anyway. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.
He accelerated eastward onto the road, intending to follow the original extract plan. Outside the village, he swerved past the craters formed by the previous airstrike, passing the remains of two Humvees.
"Reinforcements," William said urgently.
Ethan glanced in the left side mirror. Beyond the razed village, several more vehicles sped along the road, coming in from the west. Enemy Humvees and technicals.
"Looks like the extract is going to be a little hot, Sam," Ethan said. His hearing had more or less returned to normal by then, though the ringing remained incessant. "Let's hope your ATV friends arrive early."
"Not going to happen," Sam said. "They were scheduled to insert under the cover of darkness. We have six hours until dusk."
He handed her the Hytera radio. "Then broadcast our position every couple of minutes. We'll just have to hope our allies are listening in on the radio chatter."
"They will be," Sam said. "Question is, when will we be in range of the listening posts?"
William leaned against her seat. "If we broadcast shit on those radios, won't we alert the enemy?"
"Do we have any other choice?" Ethan steered past the blast craters where another airstrike had hit earlier. The charred remnants of three pickup trucks were scattered across the road. "Look behind us, Will. I think the enemy is alerted already."
Sam clicked the transmit button on the Hytera. "Red Team, this is Jolly Roger. We are at position..." She read the GPS coordinates from her smartphone. "We are coming in hot. I repeat, we are coming in hot. Requesting early extract. Over."
"The only extract you will get, infidel," came the Arabic response over the unencrypted line. "Is a direct flight to the fires of hell."
In a few minutes Ethan reached the previously blockaded village. There were no vehicles barring the road anymore—the militants hadn't bothered to leave a contingent guarding it.
Ethan raced onward. Sam continued to announce their position over the radio every few minutes. The Humvees and technicals pursued doggedly. Airstrikes occasionally bombarded the pursuers, but the enemy vehicles were well dispersed and most emerged unscathed.
Thirty minutes later, the vehicle approached the outskirts of the village where they had originally planned to hide out until dusk. About fifty kilometers beyond it lay the thick, horizon-to-horizon wall of smoke that marked the Eastern Front.
"Time to turn north," Sam said.
Ethan spun the wheel to the left, crushing the grass that bordered the road. He barreled over small shrubs and areas of gravel and clay.
The distant pursuers followed. Another airstrike hit. From the plumes emerged technicals, Humvees, and SUVs alike.
"They don't give up, do they?" William muttered.
"You figured that out only now?" Sam said. "After all the battles you've fought with them?"
Ahead, the rolling hills of the foothills were in full play. Sam used the GPS to guide Ethan, keeping the Humvee to gently sloping plains and terraces. There was a lot of green around them, broken only by the ridges of clay and loam.
The Humvee had no problem traversing the terrain, of course. The vehicle was built to negotiate treacherous land such as this. That didn't mean the ride was smooth, of course. Ethan and the others were jerked about often, especially when passing over any vegetation larger than grass; Ethan tried to steer clear of any obvious dips and rises, but the smaller obstacles were difficult to spot in time.
"I can't believe Sam wanted us to walk out here," William said.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Ethan told him.
"I lost my sense of adventure when we arrived in Iraq. I've been on survival mode ever since."
"Keep yourself in that mode, Will," Sam said. "You're going to need it yet."
Ethan struck a particularly nasty hump, sending the Humvee bouncing into the air. A terrible grating noise issued from the undercarriage.
"How are we doing on fuel?" Doug asked after the vehicle had leveled out.
"Just under a quarter tank," Ethan answered.
"Is it enough?"
"Dunno."
"Where's a damn dust storm when you need one?" William complained.
"Wrong season," Doug muttered.
"And location," Ethan added.
The tense minutes ticked past. Ethan kept glancing at the pursuers in his left side mirror, but they always appeared the same distance away. Whether because of the terrain or the airstrikes, several of the pickups had dropped out of the chase, leaving mostly Humvees and SUVs. The vehicles traveled in a long, dispersed, zigzagging row, keeping at least two hundred meters apart from one another.
The ominous wall of smoke that marked the Eastern Front loomed over the landscape in constant accompaniment. It curved to the north, blotting out most of the horizon ahead.
"Red Team, this is Jolly Roger," Sam said, sending the latest positional update over the unencrypted radio band. "We're coming in hot."
"Jolly Roger, we read you loud and clear," returned an unexpected yet welcome voice. "We're coming for you. This is Red Team, over and out."
"Red Team, you don't know how happy we are to hear your voice right now," Sam said, sounding close to tears.
A moment later Ethan saw four dark dots on the northern horizon. Their ATV escort.
The radio activated. "Jolly Roger, be advised, hostile vehicles are on an intercept vector from the northeast. Navigate northwest at your earliest convenience."
Ethan altered course accordingly.
"You're going to burn in hell, infidels!" a militant hooted over the comm. "Hell hell hell!"
The incoming ATVs swerved toward the Humvee, and eventually took up positions alongside, two per flank. Raptor 700Rs. The riders were dressed in combat fatigues patterned in woodland digital, and dark goggles shielded their eyes.
The ATV rider to his left saluted in greeting, and Ethan returned the gesture.
To the northeast, the boxlike shapes of roughly thirty Humvees appeared from the wall of smoke. The military vehicles were arrayed in a long, well-spaced line.
"There's our muj from the Eastern Front," William said.
The moment the words left his mouth, more airstrikes came. Multiple fireballs consumed the enemy positions, both to the northeast and behind. Clouds of dust billowed skyward in huge plumes. These were the biggest strikes yet.
Unfortunately, like the previous bombardments, several of the enemy vehicles emerged unscathed from the blast clouds. Ethan counted ten to the northeast and another seven behind.
He continued driving northwest, heading toward a forty-kilometer-wide gap in the wall of smoke that screened the front line. The two enemy groups eventually merged behind him, forming a cohesive, though dispersed, mass.
Halfway to the gap, another airstrike struck. Nine of the pursuing vehicles emerged. But Ethan didn't care so much about them anymore, because up ahead several enemy reinforcements approached from the northeast and northwest, racing to cut them off in a pincer maneuver.
"Looks like it's going to be close," Ethan said.
"Red Leader, we need more airstrikes, damn it," Sam said into the radio.
"Already on it," returned the familiar voice.
Ethan had the accelerator floored, and could only watch helplessly as the pincer grew tighter. It was close as hell, because Ethan and the ATVs passed right through the pincer with only five hundred meters to spare on either side. The riders in the lead Humvees launched RPGs but the grenades missed by a wide margin.
The pincer vehicles quickly fell in behind Ethan and his escort, merging wi
th the other nine pursuers to form a total of thirty.
Five minutes later he tore through the forty-kilometer-wide gap in the smoke wall and drove into Kurdish territory. Another airstrike reduced the pursuers by half, but in the side mirrors Ethan spotted even more enemy vehicles racing to join the fray from the front lines. The operatives' mad ride had apparently drawn out every militant in the region. And unfortunately, it appeared the Kurds had no presence whatsoever in that portion of Kurdistan.
The harrowing drive continued for another ten minutes. And then:
"Looks like our ride is here," Sam announced.
Up ahead, three MH-60M Black Hawks approached close to the ground. The helos performed a "tactical" landing, banking sharply to avoid potential incoming fire before touching down. Manned by gunners, M134 miniguns poked through the door hatches on either side of each bird, right behind the cockpits.
"This is it," Ethan said. "We're on the final run, people."
"We're going to make it," Sam said.
"We are," Ethan agreed.
He closed on the birds, heading straight for the nearest one. He slammed on the brakes, halting just outside the rotor downwash. Unlike in southern Iraq, there wasn't enough dust in that relatively fertile ground to cause a pilot-blinding brownout condition.
"Let's go!" Ethan exited the Humvee and raced around to the passenger side; William was already helping Sam from the vehicle but Ethan dismissed him. "I got her. Get your ass aboard."
William reluctantly obeyed. Doug covered their rear, loaded RPG launcher in hand.
The ATVs headed for the remaining Black Hawks, two per helo. The bird crews had manually lowered makeshift steel ramps for the ATVs, and the small vehicles drove right inside the cabins. The troop seats had been removed to make room for the quads.
William made his way toward the crew cabin of their own Black Hawk. Crouching in the downwash, Ethan followed just behind him, acting as Sam's crutch.
The corpsman left the cabin and raced toward Ethan.
The closest gunner, probably the crew chief, screamed: "Let's go you sons of bitches! Go go go go!"
The corpsman reached Ethan and together they helped Sam.
Ethan heard the loud bang of Doug's RPG going off behind and to his left, followed by a distant explosion.
"Don't fuck with JSOC!" Doug yelled. Then: "Urgh!"
Incoming gunfire ricocheted from the aluminum fuselage of the war bird.
"Goddamit!" the gunner yelled. "I said go!" He swiveled his six-barrel M134 toward some target behind Ethan and fired 7.62 mm rounds at a rate of fifty per second, the tracers creating long threads of light. Almost lost in the loud, continuous thunder from the minigun was another detonation somewhere far behind Ethan.
William had turned around. "Doug!" He raced from the cabin.
"Will, wait!" Ethan said, but William plowed past him.
Ethan let him go. His first concern was Sam. Once he had her safely aboard, he would aid his friends.
He lifted Sam into the cabin with the help of the corpsman and then, crouching, turned back.
The gunner swore at him again, though his imprecations were lost to the deafening M134, its long threads of light drilling into the approaching vehicles. The nearest enemy Humvee burst into flames.
William had shoved his shoulder under Doug's left armpit, and was slowly making his way back to the helo. Doug pressed a hand to a large, widening red spot in his clothes above the hip.
Ethan joined them, taking Doug's right side.
An RPG exploded nearby. Dirt and gravel whipped Ethan's face.
A near-miss.
"Too damn close," William muttered.
The other birds were airborne, and the gunners strafed the incoming vehicles with their miniguns. Another Black Hawk Ethan hadn't seen before joined the fray. This one was equipped with ESSS stub wings installed above the crew cabins, with clusters of Hydra 70 rockets and AGM-114 Hellfires mounted to the hardpoints. It launched those munitions at will, lighting up the encroaching vehicles.
But the enemy kept on coming.
All of the helos were at risk, Ethan knew. A lucky hit from an RPG could easily take a bird down. The chaffs and infrared countermeasures employed by the Black Hawks were useless against such dumb weapons.
Ethan heard the characteristic keen of bombs, followed by a thunderclap. The air shook, vibrating his lungs.
Another airstrike. Would it be enough?
Ethan and William finally loaded Doug aboard the helo. Ethan closed the rearward sliding door behind him.
"Up up up!" someone shouted.
The vehicle took to the air.
Ethan took a seat beside Sam and glanced outside. Large clouds of smoke dotted the landscape, courtesy of the recent airstrikes. He saw several enemy vehicles emerge from those plumes.
The helo banked sharply to avoid incoming fire, and then headed north, staying close to the ground. The gunners pivoted the M134s backward and continued firing for long moments before at last letting up. The cabin didn't get much quieter: even with the sound reduction panels installed throughout the compartment, the engine and blade noise proved damn loud.
The corpsman finished treating Sam and focused his attention on Doug next. He injected what must have been an analgesic, because Doug's pain-tense features abruptly slackened.
Ethan watched helplessly, worried for his friend.
As the man worked, Doug shouted: "So what's the verdict, doc?"
The corpsman didn't answer immediately. "Want the truth?"
"Nothing but the truth," Doug said above the helo noise. "So help me God."
"I'd put your chances at fifty-fifty."
Doug smiled widely. "Okay, maybe I didn't want the truth. You could've humored me, doc."
"Sorry."
"Doesn't matter. I've overcome dirtier, rotten odds. Do your worst, doc." He glanced at Ethan. "Hey, you were wrong motherfucker."
Puzzled, Ethan regarded Doug uncertainly. "About what?"
"You said we were going to make it."
Ethan didn't know what to say to that.
"We didn't just make it," Doug continued. "We owned it!"
Ethan reached out and clasped his hand. "We owned it, brother." He released his friend and told the doc: "If you need any help, tell me."
The corpsman nodded absently.
Ethan had no doubts in that moment about Doug pulling through. None whatsoever. The man was a fighter.
William shifted beside him.
Ethan glanced at him. His friend's eyes were wet. Distant.
"You okay, bro?" Ethan asked him.
"Yeah. Just..." William hesitated. "I can't believe we're finally out. Goodbye Iraq, you goddamn sandpit of the world you. I never want to see this place again."
"Didn't you say that the last time?"
"Probably."
Ethan regarded Sam, who sat on his other side. She, too, wore a somewhat dazed look. She forced a smile when she realized he was looking at her.
"Thank you." Sam gazed at Ethan, William and Doug in turn. "All of you. For everything."
Ethan nodded. "Just doing our job. It is what you pay us for, after all."
Her expression momentarily darkened. "So this is just a job to you?"
Ethan stiffened. "Hell no. If this were just a job, the three of us would have hightailed it out of the entire damn region when you were taken prisoner. No, this is a vocation."
The grin she wore next finally touched her eyes. "It is, at that."
Ethan donned a pair of noise-canceling headphones taken from a box beneath his seat and then lay back to stare out the cabin window. He watched the rolling hills and lush green pastures of Kurdistan speed by.
It was a beautiful day out there. Gorgeous.
EPILOGUE
Victor Bogdanov exited the vehicle near the passenger departure entrance of Turkey's Gaziantep International Airport.
He could scarcely contain his excitement. He was going to make so much money when he landed in
Istanbul, it was ridiculous. He'd already sent out the invitations, and representatives from the interested parties would be waiting eagerly for his arrival.
When the sale was complete, he planned to use a portion of the proceeds to return to Iraq with a fresh batch of money-hungry mercenaries. And if Dmitri, who was missing and presumed dead, happened to show up, the former employee would be the first target of his new team.
Victor approached the terminal with a bounce in his step. He planned to start the auction at one million dollars. It was a low reserve, but he hoped the frantic bidding war that must follow such a price would spur irrational, competitive behavior. If he was lucky, the price would spiral into the hundred million dollar range.
Because of the sensitive nature of what he was selling, he had already hired a small security force. Its members escorted him even then, and more such men would be waiting for him in Istanbul. If they proved themselves, he might bring them onto his team full-time after the sale, because the DIA would want his head when news of the transaction leaked. It was a small price to pay for being a criminal mastermind.
One of the men opened the glass door to the terminal. Another went inside to lead the way. Victor stepped forward to follow and, distracted by the dollar signs floating through his head, he didn't notice the distant glint of the muzzle flash reflected in the glass.
It wouldn't have saved him anyway.
Bystanders screamed as Victor toppled to the pavement. The security team dropped, drawing Makarov pistols, but it was too late.
Victor Bogdanov lay dead with a single bullet wound to the head.
ETHAN LEAPED down from the shack in the pistachio field. He shoved the TAC-338 sniper rifle into the trunk of the getaway car, a black Audi A8. The vehicle was the "Security" model—bulletproof windows, emergency pyrotechnic blow-out doors, fire extinguisher system, interior smoke extractor, run flat tires. The B7 ballistic armor was capable of defeating multiple armor piercing rounds fired from sniper rifles such as the M24 and Dragunov. It was the kind of car he would've liked to have had in Iraq. The only downside was the tight trunk—even when he positioned the sniper rifle diagonally, the weapon barely fit.
Ethan started the engine, switched into gear, and accelerated through the bumpy field, squeezing the vehicle between the evenly-spaced pistachio trees. The thin trunks occasionally scraped the left and right mirrors. Didn't even dent the armor.