by Sean McFate
“Negative. The thermal trails came from the air, and low altitude,” said a tech, monitoring a laptop.
“An enemy drone?” said the battle captain, contemplating the implications. If true, it was new stealth technology and could tip the battle.
We’re not prepared for this, thought Winters.
“We lost two more!” shouted the tech.
“Where is it? Somebody get me a bead on the enemy drone!” commanded the battle captain. “We can’t kill what we can’t see.”
Hunter drones, thought Winters uneasily. They were next generation, and he realized they possessed no radar that would see them. Apollo had only two prototypes, but he had assumed them defunct due to technological challenges. Apparently not. He wondered if one or both were flying.
Both, he reasoned. But no matter. He had numbers on his side.
“Approaching phase line Zulu at speed,” said Jinx, referring to the estate’s border fence. “Requesting zero one, cleared hot.”
“Roger. Stand by, Jinx,” said Control.
Lin heard a jet engine rev up somewhere behind her, then felt the noise as a Hunter screeched overhead at high decibels. Moments later the ground shook and the sky was on fire. A hundred-foot-high wall of fire and white phosphorus shot up into the night, cutting a highway of flame through the perimeter’s double steel fence and antitank ditch.
“I love the smell of napalm in the evening!” shouted Valkyrie.
Holy crap! thought Lin. They were the only two words her mind could conjure as the motorcycles drove into flame highway.
“Good hit, Control,” said Jinx.
“Hang on, Princess,” said Valkyrie. “YEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!!!” she screamed as they hit the ditch hard and flew up the backside, making a twenty-foot jump over the remains of the security fence.
“We’re in,” confirmed Jinx to Mission Control.
“They’re in, all of them,” radioed Lava, and the HALO team whooped.
“Looks like I lost a case of scotch, Locke!” teased Tye over our closed battle buddy net. “I bet Jinx your honeypot wouldn’t make it to the fence.”
“Tye, don’t be jealous. I still have feelings for you too,” I jabbed back. Six packaged drones were being pushed by six warriors each, in free fall. Below us I could see the dark outline of woods and the paler loam of meadow, despite the moonless night. Far below was the mansion, and somewhere was Jen.
Focus, Tom, I told myself. Thinking about Jen now would get me killed.
“Prep drones,” ordered Lava. We had less than two minutes to unfold our drone and make it operational, otherwise it would crater into the earth. Unfolded, the drone looked more like a miniature Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft than a standard helicopter. It had two arms, each with a rotor that could swivel for steering, and a tail boom with stabilizer fins. For armaments, it had two side pods that held four missiles each, capable of destroying air or ground targets, and a chin turret with a six-barrel 5.56 mm mini-gun. The pilot was in a mobile command truck driving someplace in Virginia. The drone would be our close air support on the ground, but unfolding it in freefall required aerial ballet.
“Let’s do it!” said Tye, our fire team leader. Tye pulled a quick-release strap, and the cargo netting and aluminum pallet flew away. Next, in a choreography of precision, we simultaneously unfolded the drone’s left and right rotor booms, then the tail boom. The machine began to wobble dangerously.
“Careful, careful!” said Tye as we frantically sought to steady it. Once stabilized, we worked like a floating pit crew, fastening bolts on the rotor booms and locking them in place. Tye rechecked the drone’s parachute straddled across its back, in between the rotors. A ringlike blade guard surrounded the propellers, preventing them from accidentally slicing the parachute chords.
“Five thousand feet,” said Lava. Tye crawled around the drone upside down, inspecting our work. When done, he said: “Drone Six, ready,”
“Copy. Systems check,” said the pilot over the network.
“Three thousand feet,” said Lava.
“All systems green. Ready for chute deployment,” reported the pilot. “Thanks, guys.”
“Happy hunting,” said Tye. “And cover our asses.”
“Wilco,” said the pilot, ground-pounder-speak for Understand and will comply. At 750 feet above ground level, the pilot would deploy the parachute and start the rotors. At one hundred feet, the drone would drop free of the parachute and fly on its own, and kill something.
“Fifteen hundred feet. Positions!” said Lava. We banked away from the drone and toward the lit-up mansion among dark woods, a superlative drop zone. Below, I could see paramilitaries on the grounds. There were significantly more than Lava briefed. It felt like a trap.
“Tye, there’s a lot of tangos down there,” I said, speaking just to him.
A second later, he replied: “Roger, things are going to get sporty.”
“One thousand feet,” said Lava. “Check your DZ.”
My HUD lit up a blue patch of gabled roof on one of the east wings. We each had a patch. I steered with my body, adjusting my heading.
Lava switched to a countdown. “Five.”
The roof came alive like a Christmas tree, as my HUD identified all the enemies in red.
“Four.”
“Marking targets,” said Control. Apollo’s computer system conducted collective targeting that racked and stacked threats, assigning each of us multiple targets. Three red dots blinked on the roof: my prey.
“Three.”
I was speeding at 140 mph, and the ground was coming up uncomfortably fast. Timing would be everything.
“Two.”
I breathed deeply, readying my body for what followed.
“One.”
My parachute deployed automatically, and my body jerked upright. The HUD displayed a negative-three-second countdown clock. When it got to zero, we would all shoot simultaneously in perfect ambush.
So it begins, I told myself as I unzipped my arm wings and pulled out my weapon. The precision-guided rifle locked onto my three targets; all I needed do was aim, pull the trigger, and the computer would fire at the optimal time. Other black parachutes descended on my sides. We surrounded the entire mansion.
Three, two, one, I counted as I aimed and squeezed. The weapon fired three shots, its built-in sound suppressor muffling the noise. It sounded like three taps on a door. One of the targets fell over the side. The three blinking red dots turned gray: targets down. The whole roof went gray, as I reached up for the toggles and steered for a landing.
“All targets down,” confirmed Mission Control. “Congratulations.”
My boots skidded across the steeply angled gable roof, then I was jerked backward, hard.
What the—? I thought, looking up. My parachute was snagged on an ornamental roof spike. Decorative iron spikes lined the roof’s spine, and I was caught. I yanked my riser’s quick-releases, and I slid down the slate roof, crashing into a dead mercenary with a .50-cal sniper rifle. My bullet had penetrated his steel-plated body armor, center of mass.
Six stories below me, men in black combat gear patrolled the estate’s grounds. There seemed to be hundreds, but we were undetected. Surprise and stealth were still ours.
“Phase one complete,” said Lava. “Move to phase two.”
“They’re in, sir,” reported one of the intel techs. The battle captain watched the monitors in alarm as the dozen motorcycles penetrated the perimeter fence and sped through the woods toward the mansion. They were effectively skirting all his defenses, avoiding roads and security checkpoints. His plan to channel a ground assault into an ambush zone was now defunct, since it assumed the enemy would use roads and not motorcycle through woods.
“This can’t be happening,” muttered the battle captain.
Winters was also concerned, although he dared not reveal it. Twelve loose Apollo operatives on the grounds was bad. Twelve plus two Hunters was a disaster. But Winters knew how to even the odds.
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“Deploy everything,” said Winters.
“Deploy everything,” instructed the battle captain over the command net.
“Ground teams,” said Winters. “Annihilate them.”
The Wagner Group commander smiled and gave orders in Russian. He looked like a bodybuilder in fatigues who only shaved twice a month. People called him Colonel Yuri, but that was not his real name. At his disposal were 120 high-end mercenaries drawn from around the world, and all were lethal. Outside, men scurried into vehicles, shouting in different languages. Twelve armored SUVs sped to confront the intruders, with a ten-to-one advantage in terms of combatants.
“Battle Captain, make sure the ground team also has air support,” instructed Winters, and the other man nodded. Winters wanted the battle over fast. If it’s a fair fight, you’re not trying hard enough, he thought.
“Two more drones downed by the enemy,” said one of the techs.
“We still can’t see their UAV,” said another.
“Somebody ID that enemy drone!” shouted the battle captain. The Hunters were picking apart their air force, gaining air supremacy. The threat was mounting.
“We can’t. It’s invisible to our sensors,” said an aggravated tech.
The battle captain turned to one of the Russians. “I want your snipers on the roof to stop looking at the ground and start looking at the sky. Do you understand me? We need eyeballs in the sky looking for the enemy drone!”
The Russian nodded and worked his radios, then gave a puzzled look as if something were wrong. He tried again, and his expression transformed to terror.
“Sir, sir,” he said in a thick Russian accent, trying to flag the battle captain’s attention, but he was interrupted.
“I’m tracking the lead motorcycle!” shouted one of the drone pilots.
“On screen,” commanded the battle captain, and one of the large monitors showed the infrared profile of a dirt biker speeding through the trees. “Take him out.”
“Firing,” said the pilot and automatic gunfire sounded outside, in the distance.
“Missed,” said the battle captain, disappointed. The speed of the bike and tree branches prevented a clean shot.
“Flush them toward this area,” said Yuri, pointing to a spot on the map.
“What’s there?” asked the battle captain, examining the spot on the topographical map.
“Our ambush zone. We’re already in position. All of us,” he said. “Just have your drones flush them toward us. The terrain features will channel them into the ambush zone. Then we will destroy them.”
The battle captain nodded, and ordered the drones to drive the enemy toward Yuri’s grid coordinate.
Winter was impressed. “Excellent plan, Colonel Yuri,” he said. “But what happens when they don’t go through your ambush zone?”
The Russians shrugged. “Then we will run them down and kill them. As Stalin said, there is a quality about quantity.”
Winters smiled approval and decided he liked Yuri.
“Sir, sir!” It was the Russian radio operator. Yuri and the battle captain turned to face him, and then a loud thud outside, as if someone dropped a bag of cement mix. Then another.
“What’s that?” asked the battle captain.
“Check it out,” ordered Winters, and two fighters ran out of the room.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” said the Russian. “Parachutes! A lot of them!”
A second later, one of the fighters radioed in. “Two bodies,” he said in an Armenian accent. “Both snipers, probably from the roof.”
“The roof!” said the battle captain. The Russian tech looked worried. “Shooters to the roof, now!”
“Pull back everything!” shouted Winters. “The motorcycles are a ruse!”
Sirens blasted around the mansion followed by shouting in Russian over outside speakers. Last time I heard something like it, I was in Ukraine being ambushed by Russian Spetsnaz special forces, and it did not end well. My HUD showed the sky dotted with red enemy drones speeding toward us. Men below started shooting at the roof.
“We’re compromised, proceed to Phase Three. Seize the objectives!” said Lava as a stream of bullets erupted the slate roof around me. I dove behind the faux battlements as an enemy drone stalked me. A dead Wagner mercenary lay twenty-five feet in front of me with an SA-18 surface-to-air missile by his side.
Go for it! I told myself, sprinting for the weapon. The roof blew up around me again in a stream of mini-gun fire, and my back felt like I was being pounded by a jackhammer. I was knocked off my feet as bullets hit my body armor. Coughing, I willed myself to roll over despite the pain.
The enemy rotary-wing drone swerved to a hover, its mini-gun trained on me. I raised my rifle at it and heard the buzz of the mini-gun, then watched it explode. Its flaming body crashed into a battlement and tipped over the side. Behind it was Drone 6, its mini-gun whirring to a stop. I mustered a thumbs-up, and it flew away, in search of new prey.
God, I hate getting shot, I thought as I sat up. The Apollo tactical suit stopped the three bullets, but it still hurt like hell.
“Locke, where are you?” It was Tye. “Stop your lollygagging and get down here, we need an assist!” My HUD registered three green dots in the floor beneath me; the dots were blinking, indicating request for backup.
“Copy,” I wheezed and got to my feet. Bullets zinged through the air as a full-on drone dogfight was occurring before me. A black streak screeched overhead, and an enemy drone was blown to pieces. My HUD tracked the Hunter do a six-G turn and return to smoke another enemy UAV. Two kills in four seconds.
“Glad that thing is on our side,” I muttered as it screeched by.
“Locke, say again?” said Tye. “Get down here!”
“Good copy,” I said, and hopped across dormers. Below I saw multiple black armored SUVs crash out of the woods and plow through the baroque gardens, then fishtail to a stop at the base of the mansion directly beneath me. About forty heavily armed men in combat armor got out and ran into the mansion.
“Uh, Valhalla,” I said, using Lava’s call sign. “Spot report: thirty tangos just entered the building, south side, first floor.”
“Good copy,” replied Mission Control. Valhalla must have been busy.
“Locke, where are you?” asked Tye, angry.
I turned to run and saw Jinx fly out of the wood line, followed by more Apollo bikes. But not all of them. Chasing them was a fleet of enemy SUVs, armed dune buggies, and dirt bikes. It was a running firefight, and two of the Apollo fighters were hit; one of the passengers was slumped over, shot.
“Jen!” I screamed. They were driving into a death trap. Gauging the ground six stories below, I took out my 550 parachute cord. I can repel down, if I double up the strand, I thought. Not ideal, but I would land without breaking my legs.
“Get in here, Locke! We’re pinned down and about to get wasted!” shouted Tye. I had never heard him panic, ever. It was an evil choice: Tye versus Jen.
“Control, we’re getting chewed up. We need backup!” yelled Jinx as she sped through the woods. Their plan worked, sort of. They drew the enemy out of the mansion long enough for the main effort to HALO safely to the roof. But it failed because there were ten times more enemy than expected. Winters had laid a trap to lure them in and kill them.
“Control?” she repeated.
“Deploying a Hunter your way,” said Control. Automatic gunfire ripped through them and she saw one of her teammates fall.
NO! thought Jinx. They will pay, she promised, as she twisted around and returned fire. She was down to nine riders. Then she noticed her own bike losing power. She looked down; it had somehow taken a hit and was grinding metal.
“Control, my bike has taken damage and slowing. If I fall, Valkyrie is my second. Confirm,” she said.
“Confirmed,” said Valkyrie.
“Confirmed,” said Control. “You are four hundred meters from the objective. Make it!”
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The Hunter shrieked overhead, then four seconds later passed above again. Two enemy drones dropped out of the sky on fire. Jinx dodged one as it smashed into the ground and rolled toward her.
“Jinx, heads up!” warned Control.
But it was too late. Jinx’s bike shot into the air as the sloping downhill turned into a twenty-foot drop, sending her across the great lawn of the estate. The whole team was airborne as they followed her blindly over the edge, and she heard Valkyrie’s trademark yee-haw! The team landed rough, but not as hard as the enemy. The bikes made it, like Jinx, but the armed speed buggies and SUV flipped end over end. One exploded. It was hard to imagine anyone survived.
“Jinx, get to mansion ASAP and assist Valhalla,” ordered control. “Urgent!”
Bullets sprayed everywhere as they were caught in the open, and one hit her in the back, pitching her forward. She fought through the pain to keep control. An enemy bike was on her tail, and no matter what she did, it was getting closer.
I need to kill my tail fast, or it will kill me, she realized.
Jinx hammered the back brake, locking the wheel up. The enemy bike zoomed past. As her bike started to slide, Jinx laid it down on its left side, pulling up her left leg up so it didn’t get crushed. She let go. The bike continued to skid as she lifted up her precision-guided rifle, locked onto the enemy rider, and squeezed the trigger. He went down.
Jinx slid to a stop, her body armor making the ride feel like snow. Other vehicles swerved around her, shooting at each other, but Jinx ignored them. She pushed the rider’s immobile body over with her foot, put the muzzle at his neck where the body armor was weakest. The man jerked up a concealed 9 mm pistol, and she fired. He died.
“Jinx, how copy, over?” said Control.
Jinx looked up and saw five SUVs barreling down on her. They had no shooters sticking out of the windows because bulletproof glass does not lower, so the drivers intended to run her down.
Move! she thought and sprinted for the fallen rider’s bike, mounted it, and accelerated forward, kicking up dirt.