by Tom Clancy
McAllen shoved his pistol into the back of the pilot’s head. “Put this bird down!”
Then he called out to Rule, telling him to open the bay door and throw down one of his Velcro patches, the American flag.
All their uniform patches and other black insignia could be removed via the Velcro, depending upon the mission and what the lawyers had to say about operations in a particular nation. Sometimes you had to show the patches, sometimes not.
Rule slid open the door, and as they got even lower he tossed down the patch, then started closing the door, just as she fired again, the round pinging off the jam.
Rule cursed and fell back onto the floor.
“Is he hit?” asked McAllen.
“I don’t think so,” shouted Gutierrez.
“Look, she’s got it,” said Khaki. “She sees us! She knows. Here she comes.”
Halverson thought she was dreaming as she ran toward the helicopter, its gear just setting down on the ice. She clutched the patch in her hand and broke into a full-on sprint.
For a moment she had doubted the patch, thought maybe the enemy was luring her into the helo, but that was thinking too hard. If there were Russians on board, they would rather take her by force, not cunning. It would be a matter of ego. This was her rescue.
The gunfire behind her had ceased. Those fools thought their comrades in the helo had captured the “Yankee pilot.” They had no idea that somehow, some way, Americans had taken control of an enemy helicopter. She had almost waved after picking up the patch but thought better of it. The troops behind would find that highly suspect.
With the rotors now blowing waves of snow into her eyes and clearing a circle around the helo, Halverson leaned over, ditched the survival kit, and made her last run for it, coming onto the rotor-swept ice.
Just twenty yards now, and her gait grew shaky as her boots found little traction. It was all she could do to remain upright.
Boom, down she went. Took a hard fall. Right on her butt. The impact sent tremors of pain through her back.
Get up!
The helo’s side door slid open, and a helmeted soldier was waving her on.
She rose. Gunfire began pinging off the chopper. Damn it. The Russians had figured it out.
Okay, back on her feet now. A few rounds sparking here and there.
Ten yards. Five. That soldier was right there, his face obscured by a visor.
Abruptly, the helo tipped slightly away from her, rotors lifting back—
Then she saw what was happening. The ice below had cracked, and the helo’s gear was sinking into the water, chunks of ice already bobbing around it.
But the cracks were on the back side of the helicopter, so Halverson kept on running. Just fifteen feet now. Ten. Five.
The soldier’s mouth was working: come on!
Halverson increased her stride.
The soldier leaned out as far as he could, extending his gloved hand.
What was that sound? Oh, no… The ice began splintering at her feet.
She took three more steps, heard a chorus of cracking sounds, then she began to slip and tried shifting to the right—
Only to find herself atop a small raft of ice that floated freely, her weight driving one side down.
Instinctively, she reached out. Nothing to grab on to, no one to help. She began to fall.
Oh, God, no…
The water rushed up her legs, over her chest, and broke over her face, the sensation like a billion fingernails of ice poking every part of her body.
Completely underwater now, the shock having robbed her entirely of breath, she panicked and kicked frantically for the surface.
Only then did the extreme cold hit her.
In truth the water was probably not colder than what she’d experienced during water immersion tests during her training, but combined with the stress of the moment, the stress of the past night, it was liquid death.
Her head hit something hard. More ice. She pushed up, tried to find an opening.
Where was the surface?
She made a fist, punched the ice, looked around, punched again.
Rule had already yanked the quick straps on his boots, toed them off, and had zipped off his combat suit, leaving him in his black LWCWUS (lightweight cold weather undergarment set) and socks.
No way would they let that pilot drown.
Rule would die first.
Friskis had already found a nylon rescue rope, and Rule made a loop in it as the chopper began to rise from the river.
With the looped rope in one hand, he jumped out, dropping six feet toward the broken ice. Before he even felt the water, he screamed at it like an animal raging against nature.
Just as he broke through, about to be swallowed, the rattling of the helo’s machine gun sounded against the rotors.
That’s right, boys, let ’em have it!
Rule sank deep, popped up, and cried out again as the chill seized him in its grasp. He told himself, not so cold, not so cold, as he swam forward, didn’t see her, dove under, widened his eyes—
And there she was, just off to his left, a few feet back and struggling to push through the ice, unable to see the opening nearby.
He paddled to her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her back with him, kicking as hard as he could.
They burst up, both tanking down air, gasping, the rotor wash whipping over them. “Grab on to my back!”
She wrapped one arm over his right shoulder, tucked the other arm beneath his left, and locked her hands. Smart girl. “I’m ready,” she said through her intense shivering.
There wasn’t time to ascend the rope and climb back into the helo — not with that incoming fire.
So Rule flashed a thumbs-up, seized the loop with both hands, and braced himself.
From the open door, McAllen gave the Russian pilot the go-ahead, and the rope snapped taut. Rule and the woman were wrenched from the water and swung hard under the chopper.
“Go, go, go,” McAllen cried over the intercom.
The helo’s nose pitched down, and they veered off, still drawing fire from the infantrymen behind them.
One of the BMP-3s even fired a round from its big gun but missed by a wide margin. The Russians were at once desperate, embarrassed, and mighty pissed off.
“This is it,” said Khaki. “We’re on fumes now.”
“Just get us to the other side of this forest and put us down there. We have to get them inside.”
McAllen wished they could turn back for just a moment and launch rockets, but not with Rule and the pilot dangling below.
“Hang on, buddy, just hang on!” shouted Palladino, even though the sergeant below couldn’t hear him.
They all began shouting, and maybe it made them feel better, McAllen wasn’t sure, but he joined in and remembered the conversation he’d had with his young assistant:
“Just want you to know that I’m giving you a hundred and ten percent. Always,” Rule had said.
“We’ll see how long it takes for you to create your own shadow. And I hope it’s a pretty long one.”
Yes, indeed, Sergeant Scott Rule had just cast a very long shadow. And McAllen would make sure to commend him for that.
Rule’s arms were frozen, his hands locked onto the rope. The pilot was tugging hard on his shoulders, and tears were beginning to form in his eyes from all the exertion.
“Don’t… let go…” she said in his ear.
She was half dead, but even then she sounded kind of sexy. Leave it to him to be thinking of sex at a time like this…
He closed his eyes.
I am a Marine. This is my job. I will not fail.
But the feeling had escaped from his arms, and the rope began sliding through his fingers.
“He’s losing it!” shouted McAllen. “Khaki, how much longer?”
“We’re almost there!”
McAllen began stripping out of his combat suit so he could give it to the pilot, once they had her inside. The suit�
�s life critical layer had a narrow network of tubing that would provide one hundred watts of heating A-SAP. Rule’s suit waited for him.
Talk about being hung out to dry. McAllen couldn’t imagine how cold those two must be.
The helo broke past another long stretch of trees, then the engine stuttered like a misfiring lawnmower.
“No choice now,” said Khaki.
“Try to put them down easy,” McAllen said.
“Easy is not possible,” grunted the pilot. “Maybe you pray now. Because we go down hard!”
He wasn’t kidding. The chopper began dropping like a rock as she lost power.
McAllen clung to the back of the pilot’s seat, watched as Rule, who was one-handing the rope now, slammed into a snow bank.
“They’re down!” he shouted. “But he’s still holding the rope. He’s not letting go! Cut it! Cut it!”
Gutierrez immediately unsheathed his Blackhawk Tatang, a thirteen-inch-long serrated blade that he lifted high in the air, then—
Thump! He cut nylon like butter, leaving a deep scar on the helo’s deck.
“They’re clear!” cried McAllen.
“Everybody, brace for impact!” warned Khaki. “Three, two, one!”
THIRTY-TWO
“He’s been shot in the leg. Caught him just above the armor. Looks like it missed the artery, though. Get Beethoven over here A-SAP,” Vatz told Black Bear.
The warrant office acknowledged, then Vatz finished cutting open the medic’s pant leg with the Mark I the medic had given him. The Masters of Defense knife had a secondary blade at the butt that was specifically designed for cutting cord or clothes off an injured combatant.
As Vatz worked, his attention was divided between treating the medic and checking the perimeter for remaining troops.
A couple of gunshots sounded from somewhere south.
“That’s our guys,” said Band-Aid.
“You have a good ear.”
The medic nodded, then flinched in pain.
Vatz had the morphine injection ready. “Okay.”
Band-Aid tensed, took the shot, then relaxed a little and said, “Thanks, Sergeant.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Jac. I’m no medic. I could still kill you.”
“Please don’t. I’ll tell you what, though — you’re some damned operator.”
“Nope. Just doing my job like everyone else.”
“Your plan worked.”
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
“Like me.” The knot of agony that had gripped the medic’s face began to loosen. “Could be worse, right?”
“Right. Morphine kicking in?”
“Yeah. Feels good. Next time make it a double.”
Vatz cracked a slight grin.
“Bali, this is Beethoven, over?” called the team’s assistant medic, Staff Sergeant Paul Dresden. “Coming right up on you, over.”
“Come on, out.”
The assistant medic arrived. He had a scruffy blond beard and wore an expression of deep concern. He’d been given the call sign Beethoven by the captain since he was, in fact, an accomplished pianist.
Vatz gave Beethoven an update of what he’d done so far.
Band-Aid thrust out his hand. “Thanks, Nathan.”
“Any time, brother.” He turned to Beethoven. “I’ll get the portable litter ready. We’ll get him back to the terminal.”
A voice sounded in Vatz’s earpiece. “Bali, this is Black Bear. Just got a report from Zodiac Six. We have at least a battalion-size force coming down from Behchoko. ETA on their first elements is four hours, six for the rest of the battalion. We need to get back to the roadblock, see how much damage has been done. Zodiac wants to take a few men into the neighborhoods to recon their sniper positions. I want you to lead the roadblock team, over.”
“Roger that. Any word yet from the Tenth?”
“They have sorties in the air, some already on the ground. Air support is en route, too, but no one’s committing to an exact ETA yet. I’ve pressed them hard. I’m sure that battalion coming down has stepped up their plans.”
“Roger that. We’re bringing up Band-Aid to the terminal, then I’ll organize the team. Send down some guys to get Captain Godfrey’s body out of my truck. See you in a few, out.”
“Hey, Sergeant, you know they’re all talking about you,” said Beethoven as he helped Vatz get Band-Aid onto the litter they had just unrolled.
“Who’s talking?”
“The rest of the team, that’s who.”
Vatz’s tone turned defensive. “They all talking smack about the new team sergeant, eh? Heard about what happened to me in Moscow?”
“They’re saying you might be the best operator they’ve ever seen.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not kidding.”
Vatz gave a little snort. “You guys haven’t been around much.”
“All I know is, I’m sticking close because you don’t die. Put me on your roadblock team.”
“My luck will run out. Either way, I always draw a lot of fire.”
Beethoven grinned. “Sign me up.”
“We’ll see.”
The Ka-29 slammed into the ground so hard that the booms supporting the landing gear snapped off.
The chopper slid forward, then came to a sudden halt, driving Sergeant Raymond McAllen hard against his seat’s straps as a wave of snow crashed down over the canopy.
“Palladino? Gutierrez? Go get them!” ordered McAllen, bolting from his seat and opening the door. “Friskis? Szymanski? Security outside!” McAllen crossed toward the cockpit. “Khaki, how we doing?”
“I think we survived,” mused the pilot, studying the gauges. “Still got some battery power. Good news: the fuel leak has been fixed.”
“Yeah, since the tank is dry. You’re a comedian.” McAllen turned and slammed a palm on the Russian pilot’s shoulder. “Well, Boris, you might get to see America after all.”
“My name is Captain Pravota. Address me as such.”
“All right, Captain, you can get up now, get to the back, and we’ll fit you with a nice little pair of zipper cuffs.”
“No need. I won’t resist. Have I?”
“Just follow orders. You can take orders from a lowly sergeant like me, can’t you?”
The old pilot frowned. “Just leave me here.”
“Nah. You’re coming. Everybody loves a defector.”
“As one soldier to another, do me honor and shoot me.”
“Aw, Captain, don’t be so dramatic. The conditions in our prisons are way better than your barracks. You’re going on vacation. Did you bring your bathing suit?”
It didn’t matter that the helicopter had practically crash-landed and that Major Stephanie Halverson felt certain that it wouldn’t be taking off anytime soon. It was all about getting out of the wind, getting out of the wet clothes, and getting warm.
The big Marine with the olive skin, who had introduced himself as Sergeant Gutierrez, carried her on his back into the helo. The other guy named Palladino carried the Marine who had rescued her. His name, she had learned, was Sergeant Rule, and his face was blue. If that was any indication of what she herself looked like, maybe frostbite had already set in.
They frantically pulled off her clothes, and for once she could care less about being naked. But they were gentlemen about it, ignoring her body and just helping her get into the long johns and then into the combat suit.
Oh, God, the heating system was unbelievable. She sat there on a rear seat, legs pulled into her chest, riding wave after wave of heat.
“I’m hoping you’re Major Stephanie Halverson,” said a steely eyed man with a touch of gray at his sideburns.
“Good guess.”
“I’m Staff Sergeant Raymond McAllen, United States Marine Corps.” He offered his hand.
She took it. “Thanks for…” She broke off.
“Well, yeah, I know, it’s not much of a rescue. And we’ll need to get moving pretty soon
. I know you’ve been out there a while. We can set up a litter, turn it into a little sled, and drag you if we need to.”
“I’ll be all right. Moving is good. Thanks for the combat suit. But what’re you going to do once we’re out there? Sun’s up, but it’s damned cold with that wind.”
“Guess I’ll have to cuddle with the Russian.”
“Don’t make me smile. It hurts.”
“Sorry, Major. Can I ask you something personal?”
“Uh, okay?”
“Are you a relative or friends with Becerra?”
She drew her head back in surprise. “I’ve never met him.”
“Funny, because this TRAP mission came down from him. The President of the United States ordered my team to rescue you. Any idea why?”
She frowned. “You think I’m carrying secret intel that could end the war tomorrow?”
“Who knows?”
“Sergeant, I’m just a pilot who was training at the wrong time, in the wrong place. The president contacted me directly while I was up there. He wanted a SITREP. I don’t know. Maybe he thought I was worth saving.”
“Damn…”
“What, not a good enough reason?”
The sergeant shrugged. “I was just hoping for something… I don’t know.”
“Something more important than my life?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s okay, Sergeant. I am just a pilot.”
“You must be one hell of a pilot.”
Her brows lifted. “That I am.”
He nodded then regarded his men. “All right, people. We’ll assume those mechanized troops are still coming for us, on foot or otherwise. Let’s get ready to move!”
“Sergeant?” called Halverson. He glanced back to her. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. And if you need anything—”
“Just get me home.”
He winked. “Count on it.”
It was midnight when General Sergei Izotov was wrenched from sleep by a video call from President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin.
The president appeared disheveled and incensed. He rubbed sleep grit from his eyes and said, “General, I have Snegurochka on the line.”