by Tom Clancy
These weren’t your grandmother’s tranquilizer darts to bring down wild elephants. And your grandmother would keel over from a heart attack if she knew how much each round cost her and the rest of the taxpayers ...
The Track-Shock sped away, trailing a single ribbon of thin smoke. It banked, turned, and wove through the trees as though it were being steered by an alcoholic cabdriver on the last hour of an all-night bender.
But the round knew exactly what it was doing, and it sewed a remarkable if not chaotic course through the forest, only swooping down at the very last second to strike one of the officers dead-on in the chest. The man was racked by electricity for a second, shaking violently and involuntarily before he simply collapsed.
“Target temporarily neutralized. ETA to consciousness approximately eleven minutes. Warning clock initiated.”
It had been a while since Brent had played with LTL ammo. He wasn’t used to his targets coming back from the “dead” like zombies, but it was nice to have a computer that reminded you when the zombie clock ran out.
Without wasting another second, he loaded another round and lifted the rifle. “Computer, acquire target.”
“Stand by. Target acquired.”
The HUD no longer resembled a skyline of neon billboards. The second officer was there, at the end of the round’s trajectory, and what had once been a dizzying kaleidoscope was now a perfect math equation within a fluctuating grid.
The launcher thumped. The round shot hungrily away, and that eerie smoke trail stitched the trees together for a moment before the second man shook like he’d been playing golf during a lightning storm.
Nice.
As expected, the other two Brits, noting that their brothers in arms had been “taken out” (and Brent was certain they assumed their friends were dead), broke from their positions and rushed off to the east.
What they didn’t realize was that the pair of Russians had done likewise.
Those dumb-ass Brits were now rushing directly toward the Russians.
This was the part where Brent came in.
He swung around and started tracking back toward those Spetsnaz troopers, when—
“Ghost Lead, this is Hammer. Repeat, we’ve located her. Are you there, over?”
Brent had barely heard Dennison call the first time and had been so swept up into the moment that only now did he realize he hadn’t responded to her, which was damned ironic—since his entire career was now riding on her intel.
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead, stand by!”
“Brent, I need you out of there.”
“I need me out of here. I understand. Where is she? At that bar the colonel told us about?”
“Negative.”
“All right. Stand by.”
Brent raced through the woods, foliage dragging across his arms and legs until he spotted the two Brits about forty meters to his right, with the Russians charging toward them another forty or so meters out (36.57 according to the tactical computer, but Brent ignored that detail at the moment, understandably so).
The one troop to the far left darted behind a pair of trees and dropped down to one knee, while the second forged on, cutting loose with two salvos meant to draw fire on him, while his buddy cut down the unsuspecting Brits from his more concealed vantage point.
This was a rather unoriginal gambit that made Brent snort. He reached into his web gear, drew his favorite model grenade, and let the bird fly home to poop on the Russian crouched behind the trees.
As the Brits opened fire on the first troop, the second one exploded in a flash of light backfilled by a shower of blood.
Both of those British officers dressed in digital pattern khakis turned in unison to spot Brent, just as he swung around, lifted his rifle, and fired on the second Russian, who’d dropped to the leaf-covered forest.
Brent was pretty sure he’d missed the guy, so he knifed off as though he had a 500-horsepower engine in his gut, covering the gap between him and his prey in all of a half dozen heartbeats.
When he arrived, the guy was gone.
He spun around, crouched. Looked up.
Son of a—
Brent glanced beyond the small clearing to the stand of trees from where the trooper had emerged, the Russian’s rifle aimed squarely at Brent.
Only the troop’s eyes were visible, his mouth covered by his balaclava. But if eyes could smile menacingly, his did so.
A flurry of gunfire boomed in the distance.
That sound was enough to distract the troop, and all Brent needed was that fraction of a second, that mere flick of the Russian’s glance.
He fired at the guy while falling backward, knowing the troop would return fire simultaneously, and yes, Brent’s instincts paid off. The trooper’s rounds punched the air no more than three or four inches above Brent’s chest as he hit the ground. On impact, Brent glanced up, never losing control of his rifle, and fired again, riddling the soldier with a full salvo. If the guy wore Dragon Skin or other forms of Kevlar, Brent’s rounds had found the seams. The troop did not move.
Brent sighed deeply.
“Who are you?” screamed one of the Brits, rushing up behind Brent. He was long-limbed and gaunt-faced, with a nasty set of crooked yellow teeth.
In truth, the Brit hadn’t been that polite. He’d prefaced his question with a string of epithets that might’ve impressed the devil himself—and what kind of British hospitality was this? The guy held his rifle high and aimed it at Brent’s head.
The Brit’s partner ran up beside him. This guy was shorter, with a slight paunch and jet-black crew cut. Neither man was older than thirty, both still a tad baby-faced.
“Do you speak English, comrade?” cried the second guy.
“Don’t you mean Yank?” Brent asked.
“You’re an American?” cried the first guy. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“Then I guess this is my lucky day,” Brent answered, wearing a silly grin.
“Oh, a wiseass, huh?”
“Go back to your buddies. They’ll be waking up soon. We got it from here.”
“Who’s we?” asked the shorter guy.
“No one, really. Just a bunch of ghosts.” With a groan, Brent hauled himself to his feet.
The first guy’s eyes swelled. “You tell your Yank friends that the British government will be lodging a formal complaint regarding your unauthorized actions here. In this regard, you are trespassers!”
Brent shrugged. “We won’t be staying long. See ya.” With that, he turned and raced away, stealing one last look at the dumbfounded men. “Lakota, how we doing?”
“Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Russians. Thomas is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound rotary aircraft, still unidentified ...”
“Gotcha. On my way!”
The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other kids stared at him in envy. This bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he’d been killed, and so in Chopra’s young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.
He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.
When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound to his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.
The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty box
es still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two boys a few years older than himself. They’d been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.
The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra’s bike. “It’s mine now,” he said evenly.
“What are you talking about?” asked Chopra.
“Your bike.”
“You’re not taking it,” said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling and saying, “Take good care of it. Don’t let anyone borrow it.”
The boy shifted up to Chopra and stared down at him. He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. “What are you going to do anyway?”
Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. “You can’t have my bike.”
“I’m doing you a favor. You’re just making the old man rich. You can’t work for him anymore. Do something else.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Then you’ll never be anything in this world, so it doesn’t matter if I take the bike or not.” He started away from Chopra and grabbed the bike’s handlebars.
His friend came up behind them. “Can you ride me?”
“Sure,” said the boy. “Climb on.”
The second boy balanced himself on the rear wheel’s bolts while the first took a seat.
“You can’t take it!” shouted Chopra, reaching toward them.
The first boy turned and shoved Chopra away. “Don’t do anything. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Chopra reared back, ready to punch the boy in the face, but suddenly he was on the ground, the dust coming up into his face. The other kid had hopped down and shoved him.
With tears in his eyes, Chopra watched as his bicycle vanished down the alley.
“Change of plans,” said the Snow Maiden, riding up beside Chopra.
They were still pushing along the embankment, passing the rows of gridlocked cars, with Hussein keeping close behind them.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked.
Chopra glanced at her. She was riding through that old alley in Mumbai, and then the alley dematerialized into the narrow country road. “What did you say?”
“I told you we have a change of plans. We’re not going to Dover anymore. We’re heading to Folkestone. We’ll be met there. It’s farther south than Dover and closer to us. Now let’s pick up the pace. Come on.”
Chopra was already sweating profusely in the summer heat and humidity. He took a deep breath, wondering what those boys had ever done with his bike. He’d never seen it again, and in truth he’d never forgiven himself for allowing them to steal it. His father would not have approved.
But he’d shown them, right? He’d risen from the dirt, the ashes, the same way Dubai would in time. He refused to let this woman take that away, and he silently vowed that she wouldn’t. No matter what he had to do. He glanced back at the young sheikh, who rolled his eyes and said, “When can we stop? I’m absolutely dying of thirst!”
“You have become an expert at complaining.”
“Shut up, old man.”
“You must learn to respect your elders.”
“Get me a drink—or at least get her to get me a drink ...”
Chopra braced himself. Patience. Patience.
Brent loved how politics affected military operations.
When he’d earlier needed Close Air Support, he couldn’t get the time of day, but now, after Dennison had had some time to throw her weight around and negotiate her way up and down the pipeline, an old UH-60 Blackhawk came whomping toward them. They’d be picked up and whisked at high speed back into the chase.
The Snow Maiden, Chopra, and Hussein were on bicycles and riding toward the coast.
Dennison had had to repeat that.
Bicycles? There was the Snow Maiden’s connection to the Tour de France, the cousin who’d been murdered. But bicycles ?
Dennison had explained that all the roads had been flooded with people trying to flee to the coast and cross over to France. The Snow Maiden’s escape was actually quite clever and much faster than any attempt by car.
A keen-eyed intelligence analyst with his face glued to a satellite feed had, however, picked up the group of three pedaling southward.
Easy prey? Hardly.
Worse, getting back in the air wouldn’t go by the numbers, as Lakota confirmed. “Our ride’s got a Russian on his tail. Looks like another Howler.”
“All right, you talk in our ride, and I’ll get us to put some fire on that Howler,” Brent said, still jogging through the forest.
He reached the road and the pair of trucks where the others had already climbed aboard and were waiting for him. He signaled to both drivers: Take us back up the road, to where a large clearing would serve as the landing zone.
They tore off, the engines revving, Brent’s driver cursing under his breath, a habit it seemed. It took just five minutes to reach the zone, where Brent ordered his team to fan out, away from the trucks—all but Daugherty and Heston. He put those operators on the fifty-caliber guns. Then he told the two British drivers and gunners that they didn’t have to stay, that his men would take out that Howler, and thank you very much for allowing us to borrow your nice toys.
“You think I can stand here and turn over my equipment to a Yank? Hell no!” hollered Brent’s driver. He ordered his gunners back to their weapons.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you a choice.”
“Bloody hell, I know that. So rest assured, we’ll get the job done. You put your boys on the bird as well. We’re in the fight now.”
Brent snorted. “Not worried about drawing fire?”
“I think they should be,” said the driver, tipping his head toward the oncoming choppers. “Let’s go hunting.”
Finally, Brent smiled. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get ready.”
Brent jogged away as his people set up along a slight mound, all lying prone, weapons trained at the two dark blips appearing over the distant tree line. The team had packed relatively light, not expecting to face armor or aircraft, and Brent longed for a nice Zeus, a fire-and-forget missile launcher that would certainly give the Russians pause—much more so than a pair of fifty-caliber guns.
Brent dropped down beside Thomas, who’d been given a rifle by Lakota. His gaze was fixed through the scope.
“How you doing?” Brent asked, shifting awkwardly onto his elbows.
“Just fine. How are you?” Thomas snapped.
“Look, I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re just a guy trying to save his half-ass career, and I’m just a guy who doesn’t belong here. Never did. Never will.”
“Dennison knows your brother’s there. She’ll send a recovery team.”
“He always knew he’d die out here. I have a detailed list of instructions of what to do. He wrote them for me. This is no surprise.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry.”
Thomas’s tone grew even nastier. “You know why I finally joined the NSA? Because my father came to me, told me he wanted me to protect George. He said George took too many risks. I needed to watch out for him. And stupid me believed my father. What a crock. I found out later that George told my father what to say—just to get me on board. But I keep thinking that maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe it was true. I was supposed to keep an eye on George because I’m the sane one, not the warmonger. And I failed. I let my brother die.”
“Survivor guilt is natural. I promise we’ll talk about this later. I promise.” Brent cleared his throat and opened up a channel to the team. “Ghosts, this is Ghost Lead. Stand by. Here they come!”
The Blackhawk swooped down to within a meter of the treetops, with the Howler trailing. That the Russians hadn’t already blown the transport from the sky bothered Brent. They were holding fire. What the hell?
Maybe they wanted something—or someone—on board. They’d been given or
ders to track and observe. Interesting ...
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. The Russians aren’t firing at our bird.”
“Ghost Lead, just take out that Howler. Now!”
Brent glanced up at Lakota, waved her over. She rushed to his side and dropped down. He switched off the audio on his Cross-Com. “This is weird.”
“I know.”
“Talk to that Blackhawk pilot. See if he’s carrying any precious cargo or VIPs.”
“Dennison will hear.”
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
Lakota called the pilot, who said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss such issues. That was pilot code for I got precious cargo but I can’t tell you.
Otherwise, he would’ve just said nope.
“All right, let’s get that bird onto the ground, then we’ll find out what the hell’s going on here,” Brent said.
The Blackhawk drew closer, then, under Lakota’s guidance and on her count, suddenly banked hard to the left, exposing the Howler behind it.
“All right, fire, fire, fire!” Brent shouted.
The two Brits manning the fifties cut loose with a massive barrage, every third round a tracer that shimmered like laser bolts across green crowns of trees. It seemed now that two fire-lit wires were attached to the helicopter as it climbed and rolled against the onslaught. The wires fluctuated and wanted to drag the chopper down.
Below, both gunners adjusted fire until their rounds were drumming along the fuselage’s thick armor plates. It was awe-inspiring to see an aircraft take that many rounds from the fifties and from the rest of Brent’s people. The thing still remained aloft, seemingly undamaged.
“Damn, I don’t think we can touch her,” shouted Lakota.
“Oh, no!” cried one of the gunners, breaking off fire. “We’ve pissed him off now! He’s coming around!” The man abandoned his gun, jumped from the truck, and began running.
As the Blackhawk thumped overhead and swept behind them, the Howler pitched forward, coming to bear on one of the trucks. White-hot flashes came from its rocket pods.