by Tom Clancy
Though dressed like locals, Vatz’s team wore their camera-equipped Artisent ballistic assault helmets with laser target designator; the headgear subsystems’ 180-degree emissive visors provided them with maps, routes, and other networked data in the cross com monocle below their left eyes. High bandwidth wireless communications, along with a microelectronic/optics sensor suite, provided 360-degree situational awareness and small arms protection.
At the moment, Vatz worked the system’s handheld controller, not unlike the ones used for video games. He studied a radar image being piped in to both ODA teams. Twelve glowing blips were superimposed over a local map. The blips morphed into the glowing silhouettes of inbound Ka-29s with an ETA of about twenty-two minutes.
After muttering a faint, “Whoa,” he pulled up the camera images from every man on his team, silently making sure that each operator was in place.
ODA 888, call sign Berserker, and ODA 887, call sign Zodiac, lay in wait.
Many ODA team members liked to pick radio call signs based upon the first letter of the team’s name, with the detachment commander always being the team’s name followed by the number six, for command. Vatz’s old team used “Victor,” and he’d picked Vortex, which in his humble opinion sounded cool.
But when he’d been reassigned to Berserker, a “B” name had eluded him. The depression hadn’t helped. It was Marc Rakken who had suggested “Bali,” short for balisong, referencing the knives they both collected and reminding Vatz once more of the Venturi in his pocket.
Thus Nathan Vatz, call sign “Bali,” was reborn.
Captain Godfrey got on the radio: “Berserker team, this is Berserker Six. Enemy force inbound on your screens. Start with the plan. And when it goes to hell, you think. Adapt. Shoot. Move. Communicate. Are we clear?”
“HOOAH!” they all boomed over the channel.
“Hey, up there! Hey!”
The voice had come from below, and Vatz peered over the rooftop to spy the mayor on the sidewalk below, shielding his eyes from the glare.
“Mr. Mayor!” shouted Captain Godfrey. “They’ll be here soon. Stay inside!”
“We’ve made a decision. It’s the best for everyone. Now I need you people to come down. We’re not going to offer any resistance when they arrive. We don’t want any bloodshed.”
The mayor was joined by the fire chief and the RCMP commander.
Before Captain Godfrey could reply — and Vatz could shake his head in disbelief — Warrant Officer Samson’s voice boomed over the radio: “Berserker Six, this is Black Bear. We got an inbound helo on radar, coming in from the southeast. Lone aircraft, could be a civilian. Trying to establish comm with that pilot now, over.”
“Roger that,” said Godfrey. “We need him on the ground A-SAP!”
“I hear you, Six. Working on it.”
The captain then lifted his voice. “Mr. Mayor, get inside. It’s too late now.”
“I won’t. We need to wave our white flag, damn it. You’re going to get us all killed!”
“They’re going to kill you anyway,” cried Vatz, unable to contain himself.
“Sergeant, I got this,” said Godfrey, who winked and hollered, “He’s right. You don’t get inside, you’re dead.”
The mayor dismissed them with a wave. “We’ll see about that!”
TWENTY-FOUR
Colonel Pavel Doletskaya had convinced them to remove the straitjacket. He had no intention of hurting himself, and it was ridiculous for him to summon a guard every time he needed to use the small toilet in the corner of his cell.
Besides, they had four cameras inside and two guards outside. If he so much as held his breath, they would be on him in seconds.
They had even given him a small metal cot with a thin mattress and a military-issue blanket. His requests for reading material — for anything, really, to occupy his time — had been ignored. Moreover, it had been several hours since his last visit from the interrogators.
So he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, burping up the remnants of MRE #07, meat loaf and gravy. It was no wonder the American soldiers so often retreated during combat; they were all running to the bathroom after consuming 1,200 calories of pure indigestion.
Doletskaya draped an arm over his head and closed his eyes, longing to clear his mind…
They were back at her apartment now after a remarkable first meal together, and he looked into her eyes as she straddled him.
“Colonel,” he began softly. “I didn’t expect this.”
“Neither did I.”
Viktoria Antsyforov was even more beautiful in the shadows of her bedroom, her long hair, usually bound in a tight bun, fluttering like dark flames.
Following that fateful meeting at Kupol, they became lovers and spent the next few months working out the logistics of her plan. She foisted her ideas upon her colleagues and summarily crushed those who challenged her in their meetings.
On several occasions, Doletskaya had watched as she caught the eye of Izotov himself. Soon, the rumors that she was sleeping with the general circulated. Doletskaya only grinned them away.
On the last night he had seen her alive, they’d returned to Kupol for an elegant dinner at his suggestion.
She’d been quiet throughout the meal.
And when he asked what was wrong, she snapped at him, “I want you to leave your wife. Does that make me a bad person?”
“No. But you know that’s not possible. Not for a man in my position.”
“Why not? You can’t bear a few scars? All my life I’ve been the snow maiden, afraid my heart would melt me. But it is warm now. For you. And I’m not melting. I’m asking you to do something for me.”
“And I’m telling you I can’t.”
She rose, stormed away from the table.
“Viktoria, please…”
He sat there for a few more minutes, paid the check, then went to a local bar for a drink. It was there he decided that he would leave his wife for her, no matter the cost. He did love her.
As he left, he felt lighter, half his age, and suddenly very, very happy.
But when he returned to her apartment building, the entire floor was engulfed in flames, and he couldn’t get anywhere near the area. He stood there in the street, the snow falling on his head and shoulders, watching the fire-men, the flames bending in the high wind, the people covering their mouths and crying.
Two days later they identified her body. They said the fire had originated in her apartment and had been deliberately set. Arson. A suicide.
And Doletskaya had been left wondering why.
Meanwhile, he continued to push forward with her plan. There was too much momentum, too much at stake.
It was what she would have wanted.
But he just could not believe what she had done. And there was still no extinguishing the fire in his own heart.
For her.
He lay there in the cell, wishing he had been strong enough to tell her yes at that last moment. Yes, I will leave her. Yes, I want you.
Now he had lost the only thing that had mattered to him — more than the war, his career, everything.
He bolted up from the cot, faced one of the cameras. “Get me Major Dennison. I’m ready to talk!”
Khaki was speaking to one of the Special Forces commo guys on the ground at the airport, and all Sergeant Raymond McAllen could think was, Damn, I was right. We got no luck.
“He wants to talk to you,” said Khaki, lifting his chin.
“This is Outlaw One, go ahead over,” McAllen said.
“Outlaw One, this is Beast, team Berserker, on the ground. Need you to put down A-SAP. Incoming enemy helos. ETA ten minutes, over.”
“Roger that, Beast. We plan to refuel and get the hell out of there, over.”
“Negative, Outlaw One. You will remain on the ground until further notice, over.”
“Beast, let me talk to your CO, over.”
“Roger that, stand by.”
After ten or
so seconds, a voice crackled over the radio, “Outlaw One, this is Bali, over.”
“Roger, Bali, I want to speak to the CO.”
“Uh, sorry, he’s got a little situation right here, asked me to talk to you, over.”
“Bali, listen to me, we’re going to refuel and try to get out before those inbound helos arrive, over.”
“Negative.”
“Bali, maybe you’re not hearing me—”
“Outlaw One, you are instructed to land, begin your refueling ops. We’ll let you know when you can take off.”
McAllen lost it. “Sergeant, we have orders from American Eagle himself! Do you read me?”
After a moment’s silence, Bali returned: “Outlaw One, I understand, but we have incoming enemy helos and a party planned. You can’t ruin it. And to be honest with you, Sergeant, we could use your help.”
“Roger that, Bali. We got orders that say otherwise, but, uh, we don’t want to ruin your party plans. When we’re on the ground, we’ll see what we can do, understood?”
“Roger, Outlaw One. Link up with Black Bear at the main terminal. Bali, out.”
McAllen spoke into the intercom: “Listen up, guys. The Russians will reach the town about ten minutes after we do, maybe less. Sucks for us, but we’ll be in the process of refueling when they arrive. But we’re also accidentally crashing a little party the SF boys have set up for them. So… the second the skids hit, we’re out the door. We might need to lend these boys a hand before we get back in the air.”
“It’s just like that time my cousin went to fill up his boat before fishing, and the station was being robbed at the same time,” said Sergeant Rule.
“You think if your cousin knew the place was being hit he would’ve stopped for gas?”
“No way.”
“Well, Rule, we’re stopping anyway.”
When Captain Godfrey returned to the roof, he told Vatz that he’d managed to calm down the mayor and that he, a few RCMPs, and the fire chief had persuaded the politician to suck it up, take responsibility, and defend his home.
After all, there was no stopping the nearly five hundred citizens from High Level who had volunteered to remain and defend their homes. They were scattered throughout the town, some hiding in their own homes, poised to attack; others, like the Special Forces, lining the rooftops or crouching in doorways. They were just ordinary folks, caught in an extraordinary situation. One woman in her late fifties whose kids were already grown up carried a big hunting knife and a shotgun. She’d told Vatz that the first Russian to cross her doorstep would be shot, wrapped in Hefty bags, and buried out in her backyard without a funeral. The second one, if he hadn’t learned his lesson, wouldn’t even get the burial.
The people of High Level were not giving up without a fight, no matter the mayor’s reservations.
As Vatz crouched down once more, raising his binoculars to study the plains north of the town, Big Bear’s voice sounded over the radio: “Outlaw team is just setting down.”
McAllen had instructed Khaki to land near a thick stand of trees adjacent to the terminal. The wooded area would provide them with marginal cover, so the incoming Russian pilots might miss them.
However, it was a cool, crisp morning, with lots of sunshine and visibility — painfully good visibility.
Such a pretty day for a battle.
The Longranger III hit the dirt, and McAllen put his mouth to work, sending off recon scouts Palladino and Szymanski to secure the fuel truck, while commo guy Friskis and medic Gutierrez guarded the helo.
Khaki said he would stay with the helo to supervise refueling, but if the Russians started firing, he was out of there to get some action for himself. He carried a couple of rifles and pistols whose magazines he intended to empty. He also had four illegally procured fragmentation grenades. You had to love an ex-Special Forces guy.
Meanwhile, McAllen and Rule jogged across the parking lot toward the terminal, where a thick-necked guy in flannel with an unlit cigar jutting from his mouth was walking out the glass doors.
“You Black Bear?” asked McAllen.
“Yep, Warrant Officer Samson, ODA-888 out of Fort Lewis.” He proffered a gloved hand
McAllen shook firmly. “Sergeant Ray McAllen, Force Recon, Thirteenth MEU out of Pendleton. This is Sergeant Rule, my assistant team leader. Well, we just came to fill her up and clean the windshield. Do we need a key for the bathroom?”
“Funny guy. Why don’t you boys get up on the roof?> Keep low so they don’t see your uniforms. We want them to think we’re all locals for now, good old Canadians with hunting rifles, not much of a threat.”
McAllen grimaced. “We’ll stick with our bird, get the fuel, and get the hell out. We’re headed up north on a TRAP mission.”
“We don’t stop those incoming helos, you’re not going anywhere.” Black Bear removed the cigar from his mouth. “Tell you what. You take up positions along the west wall, close to your bird. Stay out of sight. Get on our channel. You wait for us. All I’m going to say is ‘Outlaw Team,’ and you cut loose.”
“Good enough. Good luck.”
Black Bear nodded. “Good luck to us all.”
Major Stephanie Halverson ran along the wooden fence, keeping within a meter of it, hoping the poles might break up the vertical line that was a United States Air Force pilot shot down and fleeing.
The farmhouse was just a thousand yards ahead, with a couple of barns in the back, a few horses, and another long building. The place stood postcard still.
Almost there. Fight for it.
Nearly out of breath, her nose running, her legs on fire, she repeatedly glanced over her shoulder; there were no Spetsnaz troops in sight.
But as she left the fence to make a final mad dash to the main house, whose front door looked more inviting than anything in the world, the terrible whining of those engines drew near, and a glance back triggered a wave of panic.
She mounted the front stoop, wrenched open the screen door, tried the knob.
Open. Open? Well, what did she expect? She was in the middle of nowhere Canada, crime rate: zero.
Bursting into the house, she cried, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?”
It was a weekday morning, and a middle-aged woman in jeans and sweatshirt appeared from the kitchen beyond. “Who are you? What are you doing in our house?” she demanded.
A middle-aged man with a graying beard came rushing forward, along with a long-haired teenage boy, wearing a ball cap.
“Dad, there’s a crazy lady with a gun in our living room,” said the boy, strangely calm. “And she’s wearing a costume.”
Halverson spoke a million miles a minute: “I’m Major Stephanie Halverson, U.S. Air Force. I got shot down. Russians are here. On snowmobiles. They’re coming. Do you have a car?”
The father glanced down at the pistol in her grip and raised his hands. “If this is some kind of sick joke…”
“It’s not a joke! Do you have a TV? Do you watch the news? The Russians are invading!” Halverson nearly screamed at the family.
“They were talking about some kind of military maneuver on the morning show,” said the mother. “And now there’s some weird news program on every channel.”
As the snowmobile engines grew louder, the teenager, unfazed by Halverson’s pistol, darted to the front window, peeked past the curtain. “She’s not lying. Looks like soldiers out there. They’re coming!”
“I’ll get my rifle,” said the father. “Joey, you take her and your mom to the basement.”
“We can’t stay. We have to go!” Halverson said.
“Well, Major, you picked the wrong address, because my pickup’s battery is dead, and the one tractor I have would never outrun them. I was supposed to drive my boy to school.”
Halverson waved the pistol, tipped her head toward the window. “Those are Spetsnaz troops. Do you know what that means?”
“It means you’d better get in the basement!” cried the father.
W
ithout time to think, Halverson followed the boy and his mother through the kitchen, past an open door, and down a flight of rickety wooden steps. It was a full cellar, the entire footprint of the house, cluttered with boxes, machinery, a washing machine and dryer, and clothes hanging from lines spanning the room.
The boy, Joey, switched the light off, but a dim shaft filtered in through the single window, up near the ceiling. Then he headed toward the back, where he wanted to hide between sheets of plywood leaning against the wall.
“No,” said Halverson. “You and your mom stay here. I’m under the steps. Go.”
Even as she spoke, a crash resounded from upstairs, and a man shouted in a thick Russian accent, “Come out, Yankee pilot!”
TWENTY-FIVE
President Becerra leaned forward in his seat aboard Air Force One and sharpened his tone. “Prime Minister, Spetsnaz forces are in the streets of Edmonton and Calgary.”
Emerson’s tone turned equally sharp. “I’m well aware of that, Mr. President.”
“They’ve captured your communications uplinks and early warning radar, and they’ve hacked in to and now control your power grid.”
“Yes, they have.”
“And my advisors tell me they’ve already begun psychological operations using their new 130X electronic warfare planes. The Euros took out their first two, but two more are in the air. They’re taking control of your radio, TV, Internet, even military communications channels.”
“I know that.”
“My SEALs and Special Forces have infiltrated those areas, but they’re only gathering intel. They tell me some of your local fire and police are fighting back, but they need help. They need you to take official military action, otherwise I’ll be watching executions on CNN.”
“Mr. President—”
“They’ll move your women and children to holding areas, to separate families and sow terror. This is what they do, Prime Minister. This is how they control cities — through fear and intimidation.”