Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  A thousand calculations passed through his mind in the space of a breath; Gage didn't know whether to shoot high, low, or directly on target. He opted for the heat throwing the round up, the elevation factor throwing it up even more. So he aimed low on one of the shapes, just beneath the sternum.

  If the bullet rose, he could still claim a possible chest shot or head shot. He held on target, feeling the breeze on his skin, but no wind gusts. Good. He only had to worry about elevation, not lateral trajectory.

  Melding to the weapon, he found his hold, using the night visor for a flat TV-like image of the target with the front-sight blade fixed on the heart.

  He released a half-breath. Held it.

  And in the time it takes to freeze movement he had computed the ballistics of the trajectory and the probable angle of the bullet's climb by height, heat, and cold, and in a flowing instant of perfect poise, fired.

  Gage knew he'd hit as he brought the MP5 out of recoil and heard the thrashing, the angry shout. And instantly he brought the sights on target again but the second man leaped to the side, rolling.

  Gage fired a quick shot, leading him with the barrel but he knew he'd missed as soon he squeezed the trigger.

  Then the first man hit, the one who had gone down screaming, suddenly rolled to the side also, finding solid cover behind a white boulder.

  No! Missed both!

  White adrenaline surged and Gage was moving. He leaped a frozen slab of granite, switching to three-shot, and then he fired another quick burst to prevent them from moving.

  Breath harsh, fast, snarling with blood hot with the heat of the kill, Gage closed the distance and was there, firing behind the rock. He dropped instantly into a crouch, scanning, alert, vivid and fired with fear and excitement.

  He looked down, scanning. Tracks in the snow. Blood.

  So ... he hadn't missed, after all. He just hadn't claimed a clean kill. The round had probably hit too high, a shoulder or collar injury. A hampering injury but not a killing wound. Maybe not even crippling.

  Dead to emotion, Gage scanned the forest, breathing slower, slower still. He used the moment to recover his pulse, slow his racing heart, removing the adrenaline from his thought processes as much as possible.

  No thermal images registered on the night visor’s luminosity or heat index. Slowly, breath catching, he nodded, understanding; they had already gone deep into the trees, finding cover, waiting for him to follow.

  An ambush.

  Take your time ... Don't move too fast ... They'll expect you to be excited ... Rushing in ... Do it slow and careful ... Stay alert ... Stay close to cover at all times.

  Moving with the thought, Gage was instantly tracking, body bent low, his face up, scanning, holding the MP5 close to his chest. He used the night visor’s thermal imaging, following the blood through the screen's green-tinted moonlit snow, deep and red and glowing.

  *

  FORTY-FOUR

  An expert tracker uses the land itself, both the infinitely small and the grand scale of terrain, as an ally. Because tracking is more than pursuing; it is an all but lost art where a hunter perceives the direction of prey by understanding the creature's physical limitations, its habits, and the movements forced upon it by its surroundings.

  Stalking was another name for it, and as Gage moved forward it all came back to him, how it was done, the beauty of it, the feel.

  It was most important to know habits; to understand how a creature preferred to move, its instincts, reflexes, and fears.

  Gage had learned that anticipation and knowledge were far more important than simply reading tracks. But on this cold killing ground anticipation was at a minimum, maybe even impossible; professional killers were careful to remain unpredictable.

  It was made even more difficult because Gage didn't have a true feel for the land, couldn't find that essential overview of imagination that enabled him to map out future movements.

  He had studied the terrain in a dimensional sketch before he jumped, just to familiarize himself with the topography. So he remembered some details from the charts. But it wasn't enough. Vaguely, he recalled that a sharp ridge laid directly ahead and beyond that laid a long steep slope of a glacier, perhaps 1,000 feet down, which ended in a drop-off.

  Gage didn't want to deal with that, not in a combat situation. The glacier would be sheathed in ice and broken with hidden drop offs, hazardous to negotiate. Even with crampons and a rope, it would be a difficult traverse, and impossible to complete if he was receiving or returning fire.

  Certainly they wouldn't go that far.

  Scanning, he considered the most likely scenario. Almost all men, particularly professional soldiers, when they were retreating, would generally look for the first defensible position to provide a strong counterstrike. A platoon would mount a rear guard, throwing back a steady stream of fire to slow a pursuer's advance. And a battalion would retreat in separate, smaller groups, moving in parallel lines or eccentrically to catch the enemy in a haze of crossfire.

  A crossfire, more than anything else, is what Gage expected. He guessed that they would soon divide, moving diversely. One would try to draw him straight on, stumbling through the snow, showing signs of weakness, intimating an easy kill. The second man would work away and to the flank, gaining higher ground for a sniper post. But then again, knowing he would be expecting it, they might reverse the scenario.

  Gage paused, shook his head. It could go either way; a guessing game.

  A moment passed and he decided that if the tracks divided, he would follow those that led straight ahead. But he would keep his real attention on the flank, searching for a thermal image.

  He would try and outshoot the sniper, hitting him first. It was possible, because the sniper, Carl or Sato, would have to come from behind cover before he took the shot.

  Step by cautious step, Gage continued into the night. Then, looming before him was the ridge.

  Not high, it rose on a gradual incline and was steep enough to provide solid cover for someone shooting from the far side. A good place to make a stand.

  Gage hesitated then moved behind cover, studying the terrain through the night visor. To his advantage the rocky slope provided plenty of large granite blocks for quick cover.

  A moment's rest and Gage ran forward for six steps before finding advanced concealment behind a boulder. Then, gradually, sprinting from rock to rock in quick bursts, he continued up the slope, pausing only at the top.

  Grimacing with exhaustion, hot, he glanced sideways, catching his breath.

  The tracks still ran together, but the ground was rocky, breaking up the signs of flight. The steps near the ridge crest vanished in a patch of broken granite stones, then appeared again in the snow at the top. Together, the tracks disappeared over the rim. Quickly, moving in a line parallel to the snowy footprints, Gage vaulted the crest, sweeping left and right, and dropping instantly behind a freezing granite slab.

  Concealed again, he rested, breathing tiredly, sweating, feeling a sudden and terrifying nervousness. He wanted to shed the heavy coat and backpack but resisted the temptation, remembering the training at Northern Warfare School.

  If you become overheated, do not remove your utility jacket ... Sweat exposed to cold air will cause immediate hypothermia ... And if you fall into water, your jacket will delay death.

  It all came back to him, over and over, again and again, the rules, the exceptions, the way to survive, how to forestall and shut down cold or hypothermia with drugs and movement, how to find the path to overcome.

  Distantly familiar thoughts passed through his mind. This was the world, the world of cold and darkness and fear that no one truly wanted to experience or inhabit; a world that had always separated him from the rest of humanity; a world of cruelty, terror, and white trembling courage, of mistakes, regrets, and harrowing death that left nightmares and madness in its wake.

  For a brief second, breath heaving, Gage felt his sweat-soaked face twist with the pain
of his scarred soul; the pain of too much of this fear and adrenaline and heat that had long ago burned his blood thin and weak. He felt again the agony of too many nights like this in the cold, nights where he had forced himself to stalk grimly and patiently through a withering fear, a maniacal courage controlling the panic inside.

  He paused, scanning.

  It's been too much of this, he thought. Too much.

  But, as always, the faces came to him, Simon and Sarah and Malachi. And the faces of people who had died from the work of his hands; faces and names of people whose lives were destroyed because of gold and power and an ancient book.

  Fear lessened under the force of something else, something new.

  Do what you have to do! Finish it!

  Crouching, Gage advanced down the slope, moving cautiously, every boulder, every slope holding a probable ambush site. The risks were great now because they had run out of tactical ground. Gage knew they couldn't retreat past the glacier.

  The tracks ended on the edge of the glacier, descending down a slash in the rock. Gage crouched beside it, peering down cautiously. It was a sort of half-chimney, exposed on one side and cut deeply with jagged, frozen rock on the other. He scanned the rocks, saw ice and snow torn off the boulders from someone's frantic and dangerously unroped descent. The snow at the bottom, on the edge of the sloping ice wall, was blasted and scattered from a bruising fall. Below the 40-foot chimney, on a narrow ledge that ran the length of the glacier, Gage saw boot prints that trailed out of sight. When he looked closer he saw a slight glow on dark stone.

  Blood.

  He frowned.

  They were waiting for him down there. There was no place left to run.

  Something told him to turn back. He was outnumbered and they had selected a dangerous ambush site. But he hesitated, playing out the odds; first, he possessed superior firepower with the MP5, but, then again, they would have him in a crossfire; second, on the narrow ledge, he did not have room to maneuver, and they would have found solid cover, not needing to maneuver; last, they would have first acquisition of target, could claim the first shot.

  Not good.

  Cold was on him, now, the heat fading with his stillness, and he wanted to turn back, forget it. The tactics were bad, there was no good way to do it.

  The manuscript felt heavy in his pack. Then he thought about the lives it would save.

  Don't push a bad situation ... Pull out.

  But he was too far out to pull back. Overcome by heat and anger, the greatest mistake of men locked in mortal combat, he felt himself going over the edge. He knew something was wrong with it but in a rare moment of procedure violation he ignored the warning, moving past the impulse to retreat.

  He took out the rope.

  The chimney was the only path down the 60-foot cliff and ended at the top of the glacier. Through the night visor he saw the steep, ice-glazed slope that slid brokenly out of sight, vanishing into the far distance at least 1,000 feet away, maybe more. If any of them lost purchase on the narrow lip of rock at the top, and began sliding, they wouldn't stop. They would gather speed on the ice, plummeting faster and faster down the glacier until they reached the drop off which would hurl them into the heart of this ancient chasm.

  Gage uncoiled the rope and secured it at the top over a granite pylon. Then he removed the carabineer from his pocket, clipped it to his belt, and slipped the rope through the descender.

  He locked himself into it, and holding the MP5 in one hand, he eased over the frozen edge to rappel carefully down the chimney. His boots skidded wildly as he touched the wall, and he went to his knees, locking down clumsily on the rope to stop his descent.

  Struggling for balance, he found dark footholds in the side of the chimney and tried again, moving cautiously, one jagged step at a time. It was an awkward descent, one hand holding the rope, the other holding the automatic on a steady beat at the bottom of the shaft.

  Gage figured they would leap out and begin firing up the chimney as soon as they heard him descending. He was prepared to return fire. Or, possibly, they would let him reach the bottom, then cut loose with a crossfire. Either way, it would be a point-blank confrontation.

  He took another cautious leap – four feet. And again. A dozen more leaps and he would be at the bottom. By reflex he glanced up.

  A massive figure against the sky.

  Arm outstretched, as if offering something, but Gage brought the MP5 up and fired wildly even before he was on target.

  Explosions thundered between them with light blinding. Gage let go of the rope. Then falling, he smashed into a rock as the figure at the top fell back, roaring.

  Pain and another rock had collided against him and Gage was thrown out, sprawling wildly through the chimney and in a space of time too short for human measurement and too quick for human reaction he saw it all... Carl at the bottom on the shaft, lifting the gun to shoot... white snow approaching and ice flashing past his face and there was no time for anything else as he smashed wildly into the German.

  Stunning impact in Gage's face and the night visor was gone in a wild tangle of limbs and then they were in the air, wrestling.

  Gunshot!

  Gage shouted and brought the MP5 up, but it wasn't in his hand. Then he locked up with Carl and they were sliding down the glacier, sliding, sliding, gathering speed every second and the German fired another shot past his ribs.

  Shouting angrily Gage caught Carl's gun hand in his left and spun as they careened wildly down the glacial slope. Then Gage rolled, grabbing the gun barrel with his right hand and twisting it backwards against the German's wrist.

  Carl roared as the automatic weapon was torn from his hand and Gage spun again, elbows and fists and the rope was still with him, tangled around them both.

  Then, a thunderous numbing impact launched them through the air.

  They had almost reached the cragged edge of the glacier and this was death. And then they came down again, smashing together into the slope and rolling at a blinding, incredible speed on the continuing slope.

  Forget him! Execute emergency rollover! Now!

  Gage slammed his forehead into Carl's face and pushed, separating himself as the German screamed in rage and in a wild moment of clarity, Gage saw the end, the edge of the glacial slope that emptied into night.

  NOW!

  Savagely Gage tore the ice ax from his shoulder strap and rolled to his chest, slamming the sharpened pick into the glacier.

  Bearing down with everything he had, the ax plowed a deepening trench down the slope.

  Sliding!

  Seconds ... seconds.

  In an incredible descending rush he slowed, slowed. He pushed, hard, jamming the ice ax in deeper, and then he stopped, breath beaten from him in a gut-stunning concussion.

  Instantly Gage wrapped his right hand through the wrist strap of the ax handle. But a horrendous impact ripped the ice ax from his hands and Gage roared.

  Tangled around his legs and waist, the rope stretched with incredible tension and it was immediately clear: Carl had gone over the nearby edge holding the far end of the rope and was still holding it.

  Tenacious – incredible weight pulling.

  Frantic, groaning with the strain, Gage glanced up wildly and saw that the ice ax was holding, his right wrist burning in the strap. But the pick wouldn't stay long without his weight pushing it into the ice wall.

  He reached up with his left hand, clawing and pushing with his feet, but the icy slope was too steep to gain any purchase.

  Weight swung on the rope, changing. Grimacing in pain, blood hot on his face, Gage glanced down, saw a hand come over the edge, Carl climbing the rope.

  Gage pulled, groaning and straining with every fiber to raise himself for a grip on the ice ax. And in shuddering slow motion he crept up an inch.

  Exhaustion struck him in a tidal wave. Don't rest! Do it now! Do it now or you'll never do it!

  Ignoring the pain, screaming with the effort, Gage pulled ag
ain, lifting both himself and Carl a step. His left hand locked on the ice ax.

  Wildly he looked down. Saw Carl at the edge of the abyss.

  Face disfigured by pain and blood, shoulder tearing with the combined weight, Gage desperately gripped the ice ax with his left hand. With his right hand he frantically grabbed the Dragon.

  Enraged, Carl climbed over the edge of the ravine, holding the rope in both hands. Savagely the German strained backwards, heaving.

  The rope drew taunt as a bowstring.

  Unendurable!

  "We'll die together Gage!" he shouted in a maniacal rage, a death rage.

  Struggling, scrambling, Gage dug one knee hard against the glacier and pivoted, straining to hold onto the ax. He glared down.

  Carl hauled back on the rope, laughing.

  Gage swung the Dragon and the nine-inch blade severed the rope with a touch and Carl stood in space for a frozen time, arms pin wheeling in the air, face and eyes open in shock.

  Screamed.

  Cold came to him again, frosted breath vanishing into the stars in long streams.

  Closing his eyes, Gage leaned his head back against the icy rock slab. The outcropping provided a small place to reorganize, to recover.

  It took him ten long, scrambling minutes to reach the slab after seeing it from the edge of the abyss. Ten minutes of clutching nervously, dangerously at the icy slope, but he had finally made it, beaten and bleeding, trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion, death creeping in.

  Fumbling in the night, Gage found the ends of the rope, coiled it. He found the top half; the end was smashed, blasted, torn, the mark of a heavy grain, low velocity bullet.

  Tired, he sighed.

  Probably, one of his own subsonic rounds in that wild and sudden blast from the MP5 had done it. He expelled a slow breath, too tired to analyze it. It happened and now it was over. He had work to do. He geared down into the reflexive machine mind required for prolonged combat.

  Gage felt his body all over and at once, his breath was regular, steady, deep enough; hands were slightly injured, still function-able; chest and back were bruised, twisted, nothing crippling. He noticed his eyesight focusing keenly on the distant stars, everything surreal in its clarity.