by Tom Clancy
Repressing the urge to gag, he hauled himself into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Damned radiator was cracked and hissing. Ignoring it, he threw the shifter in reverse, floored it.
Rubber burned as they shot back through the bank and exploded onto the street, trailing dust and tumbling pieces of concrete.
Not a second later, another round punched through the side window; Vatz ducked, threw it in drive, floored it again.
A third round struck as Vatz kept low and steered blindly.
After two more breaths, he popped up and cut the wheel hard left, turning down a side street. “We’re out of his bead now, I think.”
Band-Aid did not answer.
Vatz stole a look into the backseat, couldn’t see the medic. “Band-Aid?”
Nothing.
Vatz’s heart skipped a beat. My God. He was a magnet for death.
“Hey, Sergeant, yeah, I’m good.” The medic popped his head up and leaned back in the seat, one eye shaded by his monocle.
Vatz sighed in heavy relief. “Damn it, bro, you gave me a heart attack!”
“Sorry, I was just checking the Cross Com. You know, if you and I can get in behind those squads near the terminal—”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what Black Bear has in mind.”
THIRTY
The snowmobile’s engine began to falter, and Major Stephanie Halverson knew she’d be back on foot very soon.
“What do you think, Jake?” she asked aloud. “Still think I’ll make it?”
She imagined Jake Boyd in his cockpit, flying just off her wing, flashing her a big thumbs-up.
“Well, I won’t argue with that.”
Halverson estimated she had covered between sixteen and eighteen miles, and she now rode through tall pines; beyond the woods she could see a frozen river whose opposite shoreline lay a half kilometer away.
With an unceremonious cough, the engine died. She tried to start the snowmobile again. The tank was bone-dry.
She hopped off, checked the forest behind her, then unloaded the gear, jamming what she could into the pillowcase she’d taken from the farmhouse.
That poor family. Halverson now wore the mother’s clothes, which smelled like laundry detergent. She slung the survival kit over one shoulder, the pillowcase over the other, then started toward the river.
At this time of year the ice should be thick enough to support her, she thought. If she followed the river, her GPS said she’d reach another broad plain offering no cover, but more forest lay on the opposite shore. However, getting to that better cover meant crossing the river and placing herself in the wide open.
Her whole life had been a risk, and there were very few she hadn’t taken, save for the one with Jake.
She paused at the very last tree before heading down onto the snowy bank. She took a long pull from her water bottle, stowed it, then thought, I got this.
For a few moments, it was eerily quiet. Just the sounds of her breathing and snow crunching faintly beneath her boots.
Then she heard it: a humming in the distance. Was that an engine?
“Outlaw One, this is Hammer of Tampa Five Bravo, over.”
Sergeant Raymond McAllen, who was seated just behind the pilot’s chair inside the Ka-29, had already been notified by radio operator Friskis that Major Alice Dennison was calling, so he put on a headset and adopted his all-business tone to answer, “Hammer, this is Outlaw One, go ahead, over.”
“Outlaw One, I’m sending you updated GPS coordinates for your package. We picked up the survival beacon about ninety minutes ago, over.”
“Outstanding. At least it’s a rescue now and not a recovery, over.”
“Roger that. However, be advised that mechanized infantry forces are homing in on that location. Intel from one of our drones indicates two BMP-3s, over.”
“Roger that, Hammer. Coordinates just received. Stand by.” McAllen got on the intercom. “Khaki, you looking at that GPS?”
“Yeah, I got it,” he said, tapping a finger on his own unit’s screen. “I think we’re about thirty minutes away.” He leaned forward and rapped a knuckle on a gauge. “But look at this fuel. She’s leaked a lot, come down fast. We’ll be riding on fumes.”
“All right.” McAllen switched to the radio. “Hammer, this is Outlaw One. Note we’re approximately thirty minutes out from the package, but we’re nearly out of fuel. I put in a request for an exfiltration helo over an hour ago, but haven’t heard anything from our CO. Can you follow up, and we’ll send an updated GPS of our location at that time, over?”
“Roger that, Outlaw One. Understood. I’ll check on that pick up and get back to you. Hammer, out.”
The lights inside the chopper flickered. They’d been doing that sporadically for the past fifteen minutes, leaving McAllen’s men even more restless.
Since the noise was so loud in the troop compartment, McAllen got the team’s attention by raising a fist, then he traced a big 3 0 on the back of the pilot’s seat, mouthing the words: thirty minutes. He gestured going down to snatch up the pilot.
Each man flashed a thumbs-up, then each went back to checking his weapons and inspecting the rest of his gear.
“Hey, Sergeant,” called Khaki. “These GPS coordinates… you know where she is right now?”
“Do I want to know?” he asked, his tone already darkening.
“She’s crossing a frozen river.”
“Why?”
“There’s a huge wooded area on the other side. Only good cover around.”
McAllen swore through a deep sigh. “Well, that gives us two problems: if she’s still on that river when we get there, then we’ll be out in the open.”
“But we’ll be quick.”
“And if she’s not,” McAllen went on, “it’ll be interesting trying to find her in the woods while you hang back with the chopper, which might run out of gas before we find her.”
“These are the things we think about but do not say,” said Khaki. “Got some good news, though: I think we can intercept her before she reaches the tree line.”
Just then, several blinking lights shone on the cockpit panel and the chopper began to lose power.
“What is it?” McAllen asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Khaki.
The pilot was speaking so fast that his words became a blur, like the ground racing by at just a thousand feet below, then nine hundred, eight hundred.
“He’s talking about that electrical problem again,” said Khaki. “But I’m not sure what he means. I don’t know all the technical terms in translation.”
With a jolt, the power returned, and the rotor spun back up hard, the fuselage shuddering a moment before they began to regain altitude.
Khaki glanced back at McAllen and beat a fist twice on his chest, as if to say, heart attack averted.
McAllen nodded, then told the pilot in Russian that he’d buy him a lifetime supply of vodka if he could keep them aloft until they reached their destination.
The pilot rolled his eyes and in broken English said, “I will make deal. But you will take me with you. I want to see America… before my government takes over everything.”
McAllen exchanged a look with Khaki, then said, “Well, my friend, you’ll get your wish, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before a Russian flag is flying over the White House.”
“Or flying over the Canadian Parliament,” added Khaki.
The pilot laughed under his breath. “Gentlemen, I think you should prepare for some cold days ahead.”
Sergeant Nathan Vatz and Band-Aid took the truck along a dirt road running parallel to the wooded area opposite the airport terminal. While that section of forest was thick, it was only about a thousand yards wide, cut into a perfect rectangle when the airport had been constructed.
“All right, this is close enough,” said Vatz, bringing the overheating truck to an abrupt stop.
They hustled out and skulked their way into the forest, threading between clusters
of firs and pines, their limbs drooping with snow. Intermittent cracks of gunfire boomed ahead.
At the next tree, Vatz signaled for the medic to crouch down. “How many frags you got?”
“Three.”
“I got two. Now listen very carefully.”
Vatz unfolded his plan, then studied the medic’s face. Was there any sign of fear? Would this guy lock up at the most dire moment? Damn, if only Vatz had spent more time training with these guys. Well, the medic had made it this far and had even taken all those extra qualifications courses. Sometimes you had to let go and place your trust in the machine that produced operators of the highest caliber.
“Sergeant, are you all right?”
Ironic. Maybe Vatz was the one who couldn’t be trusted.
“Sergeant?”
“Yeah, sorry, just going over it again in my head.” He called up Black Bear, let him know what was happening, and the assistant detachment commander said he and the men inside were ready.
Vatz proffered his hand to Band-Aid. “Let’s go get ’em.”
The medic shook vigorously. “Hooah.” Then he trotted off, working to the north side of the woods to place himself in a flanking position of the enemy.
Meanwhile, Vatz kept low, shifting as gingerly and stealthily as he could straight toward the enemy position. He came within fifty yards of the Russians, his breath shallow as he settled down beside a tree.
His binoculars told the story. It was a full squad all right — at least ten troops visible. One Russian shouldered a rocket launcher, either an RPG-7 or a Bumblebee, but they were probably saving that as a last resort. They would’ve blown up the terminal already. They probably had some mortars as well, definitely two machine guns, plus the usual assortment of rifles, pistols, and undying love for the Motherland that had been brainwashed into them during training. They hadn’t wasted any gas. They were masked up, as was everyone inside the terminal. So it was what it was: a standoff.
But not for long.
“Band-Aid, I’m in position, over.”
“Roger that, me, too.”
“All right. Wait for it.”
Vatz called Black Bear. The boys inside were ready.
He switched his MR-C rifle to single-shot mode, raised it, then stared through the scope.
The squad leader would be the guy doing the most talking through his headset.
After panning down the line, Vatz found him. The Russian had his mask off and lay on his gut, balanced up on his elbows, reading images from a small tablet computer on the snow in front of him. He spoke quickly into his boom mike.
In truth, military snipers rarely engaged targets closer than three hundred yards, but Vatz’s plan depended upon a perfect shot. So he’d come in much, much closer, and he would do everything possible to ensure that perfection. Yes, at this range he could probably just lift and fire, but he had a moment to be sure, so he took it.
Vatz couldn’t use the laser target designator on his assault helmet because the Russian would detect it. So Vatz would need to compare the height of the target to its size using the mil dot reticle on his scope.
Time for math homework. The average human head was six inches wide. The average human shoulders were twenty inches apart, and the average distance from a trooper’s crotch to the top of his head was one meter.
The height of the target (in yards) × 1000, divided by the height of the target (in mils), gave the range in yards. Bullet drop and gravity wouldn’t be issues.
Consequently, the perfect shot was all about the simple range and dialing in the scope to set those crosshairs on target.
He made the calculations, the adjustment to the scope, and settled into his breathing pattern.
He considered himself a good shot, not a great one. He could fight an ODA team better than most of them, but again, he was no record holder on the firing range.
His finger got heavy on the trigger, and it appeared the squad leader was about to get up.
Vatz held his breath.
And fired.
The shot caught the Russian in the back of his neck, just below his helmet, blowing that helmet off and taking a large piece of skull with it.
As the dead man hit the snow, the two troopers nearby spun back in Vatz’s direction, like good little soldiers, exactly as they should.
Vatz switched to full automatic, bolted to his feet, shifted out from behind the tree, and hosed them down with his first salvo, dropping one before he dodged to the next tree.
A pair of explosions resounded.
That was Band-Aid, initiating his part of the plan. While their attention was drawn to the rear by Vatz, Band-Aid was moving in from the left flank and lobbing his frags.
And then Black Bear and the men inside joined the fiesta.
It was up to Vatz now to make sure he got out of their line of fire. He sprinted off to the south, making a wide arc through the trees, gunfire tracking his steps, shaving off bark, whistling by.
Vatz ran on currents of electricity, viewed the world through high contrast, smelled every particle of gun-powder. He suddenly turned, weaving through more trees, heading directly toward their right flank.
He spotted two troops, both trading fire with the guys in the terminal, who’d all in unison opened up with a barrage of rifle fire.
Vatz put the MR-C’s grenade launcher to work, thumping one off to fall at the trooper’s knees—
Boom! The explosion tore them up, and they ragdolled it to the snow.
The remaining Spetsnaz seemed unorganized now, with at least three more turning tail and running straight toward Band-Aid. Vatz hit the ground, called up the medic.
Two seconds later, Band-Aid’s rifle echoed.
“Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”
“Go ahead, Bali.”
“Hold fire. Move in. We got ’em on the run!”
Black Bear keyed his mike, and Vatz heard the hoots and hollering of the others. “Roger that, Bali. Great job!”
Vatz took a deep breath and smiled inwardly. It was about time something went right.
But the victory celebration lasted only a few seconds before Band-Aid’s tense voice came over the radio:
“I’m hit! I’m hit!”
THIRTY-ONE
Major Stephanie Halverson’s eyes had grown so heavy, her muscles so sore, that she staggered to a halt in the middle of the frozen river, leaned forward, and tanked down air.
Ten seconds, she told herself. Just ten seconds.
The wind had picked up and had been blasting snow in her face. Her cheeks and nose were going numb. She shivered and pulled up the scarf, turned back, squinted at the shoreline she’d left behind.
Through veils of snow she made out two Russian BMP-3s rumbling on their tank-like tracks down toward the riverbank.
Her little trek on the snowmobile had helped buy her time, but once she’d switched on the beacon, the Russians had also picked it up. Those infantry squads had probably been tasked with both finding her and performing a reconnaissance mission in this area, killing two birds with one stone, unfortunately.
Reflexes took over. She turned, broke into a run. The opposite shoreline seemed impossibly far away. Her legs were back to burning as she imagined a sniper somewhere behind her casually lining up to take his shot.
At least the end would be quick.
What was she thinking? She wouldn’t give up. Not yet. Not after coming this far. Not after three innocent people had already died!
Screw the pillowcase, the supplies. They dropped into her wake.
She would reach the forest by sheer force of will. They couldn’t stop her.
Anticipating a gunshot, she veered right, then left, still jogging, her boots nearly slipping on the ice beneath the powdery snow.
She glanced back. The Russians were still coming, frozen river notwithstanding. The BMP drivers were testing the ice, while dismounted troops started toward her.
As the snow rose to her shins, her pace slowed, but she swore
and kept weaving erratically, kicking forward now. Then, suddenly, a crack made her flinch and gasp.
The gunshot echoed off.
She didn’t feel anything. Maybe he’d missed. Or maybe it’d take a second for the pain to come.
Automatic weapons fire resounded—
But it was joined by the strangely irregular thumping of rotors.
The afternoon sun blinded her for a moment, but out of the glare came a helo swooping toward her.
For a split second her spirits lifted. They’d sent someone. She’d make it.
Then the chopper banked slightly, and she got a better look at the fuselage, the red star, the terrible and familiar outline of a Ka-29. Now those rotors seemed to pound on her head, made her want to scream.
“Oh, yeah?” she cried aloud. “I don’t think so.” She kept on running as the chopper came around once more, descending from behind.
As its shadow passed directly overhead, she extended her arm and fired, the round ricocheting off its hull.
They would land in front of her, cut her off from the forest.
She fired again, smelled fuel, and thought maybe she’d scored a hit.
The helo slowed to a hover, began to pivot, and Halverson wasn’t sure what to do now. Break left? Right?
“She’s firing at us,” hollered Sergeant Scott Rule.
Sergeant Raymond McAllen didn’t need the young superstar to tell him that. But damn, McAllen hadn’t anticipated this part, where the pilot assumed they were Russians about to capture her and decided to shoot at their already malfunctioning helicopter.
They were still hovering, and McAllen ordered the pilot to land, but the Russian shook his head, second chin wagging. “How thick is the ice?”
“It’s thick. Land!”
“I don’t like this ice.”
“Khaki, can you land this thing?”
“Okay, I put down,” said the pilot with disgust. “But if ice breaks, your fault!” He leaned forward and spoke rapidly into his microphone.
“Damn it!” Khaki jolted forward and switched off the unit.