by Tom Wilde
Vega said over the moan of the engines, “Now we’re going to go on individual oxygen. Mr. Smith, put that coat on, strap in, and don’t unbuckle until I say you can, got it?” Smith made no response other than an affirmative nod as he followed Vega’s orders.
My world got smaller as Vega helped me put my diving mask and helmet on, then the oxygen mask that connected to an overhead pipeline. I felt a cold rush of oxygen in my mouth as the sound of my own breathing competed with the engines’ noise. I gave Vega a thumbs-up, and he moved over to Smith and checked him as he put on his own air mask and goggles. Having made sure everyone was hooked up and ready, Vega took a seat opposite me. The cabin lights switched to red and my ears started popping.
I sat in my chair, hunched forward with the parachute pack on my back, and concentrated on relaxing, but I was constantly distracted by moving my jaw to clear my ears and trying to swallow in a throat gone dry. It was getting damn cold inside the fuselage. From time to time, Vega would flash a small penlight around my mouth and jaw, probably looking to see if I was still breathing as I hugged myself around my armored leather jacket. My problem was that while I was inhaling, it felt like I wasn’t getting anything to breathe. I suddenly realized I was actually panting, and I felt hot pepper being sprinkled on my brain and pinpricks running up and down my body as my world got fuzzy and gray around the edges. But if I reported any of these symptoms to Vega, he’d scrub the mission, and I couldn’t risk that for Caitlin’s sake. All I could do was try to keep my failing body together and fight against the hypoxia, at least until I could get the hell out of the plane and get my parachute open.
I gathered my strength and tried to concentrate, sucking in the cold gas as tiny electric minnows swam across my vision. Finally, the bloodred lights flickered, and I saw Vega come toward me and disconnect my air hose from the ceiling line and then hook up the one from my portable oxygen bottle strapped to my left thigh. The lights flickered again and I was pushed against my seatbelt as the plane decelerated and the engine pitch dropped to a rumbling moan. Vega held up two fingers in front of my face. Two-minute warning to jump.
I felt a tinge of embryonic panic start to blossom. I felt like I was forgetting something critical, but I could not remember what it was. I watched Vega move back to the hatch and attach a safety line to the bulkhead. I shook my head in an attempt to clear my mind, but all it did was make me dizzy.
I tried to stand up, twice in fact, before I realized my seat belt was still attached. My neoprene-gloved fingers were as useless as wet clay, and I finally had to bang the heel of my palm on the belt release. I lurched up on legs that felt dead from the thighs down and half fell over to where Smith was sitting, glad I didn’t fall flat on my face.
I pushed off from the back of his chair, but not before I saw the wide-eyed look in Smith’s eyes. Smith was yelling something too, but I couldn’t make out what he was trying to say as Vega, who was now hooded and gloved, undogged the hatch. Instantly, the moan of the turboprops magnified a thousandfold as a hurricane exploded into the cabin, sucking all the heat away in the blink of an eye.
Vega waved me to come to the hatch. I felt like I’d been dropped headfirst into an Arctic ice pond, but I stepped forward, one numbed stump of a leg at a time, until I made it to the hatch. I felt more than heard the shatterproof glass of my face mask crinkle as frost started to coat the edges of my vision. I saw through the opening a slash of angry red light cutting a curved horizontal swath through the inky blackness toward the wing of the plane, and then I felt a thump on my left shoulder as I fell out into space.
I was body slammed into a tumbling fall as the roar of the engines tore through my head, then faded fast as a million fiery pins stabbed every centimeter of my body. I was dimly aware that I was flailing like a man drowning in an icy lake. My jumpsuit was flapping and slapping me, as if it were desperately trying to remind me of where I was. A half-forgotten voice screamed in my head: “Position!”
I forced my arms and legs out and arched my body, fighting the urge to curl up into a frozen ball as I blinked to clear my eyes, only to find myself falling in total blackness. My hindbrain was yelling “Pull! Pull! Pull!” but my thoughts snapped to Sergeant Vega’s warning words echoing in my mind: “Pull too early and you will die.” I gritted my teeth and sucked in oxygen, forcing the animal panic to recede. The shot of pure adrenaline did me some good, and I felt like I was waking up out of a dream where I was falling. Only to find myself falling.
I looked to my altimeter; the green glowing arrow was spinning a countdown, and through the fog of my mask I saw I’d just crossed eighteen thousand feet. I was still higher than I’d ever jumped before. I checked my GPS unit on my right forearm and saw that I was over three miles off target, with the lighted indicator pointing behind me. I cut a pair of ninety-degree turns until I was all the way around, and saw a jagged constellation of stars laid out below me in a rough arrow shape—the lights of the island of Corfu.
Having a target in sight, coupled with the rapidly fading crush of freezing-cold air, gave me focus as I whipped through the night sky and angled my fall into a forward arc, cutting down the lateral distance between me and Vanya. I confess to one mad, joyous moment as I thought, I’m coming for you, you bastard!
I kept glancing between my altimeter and the lights of Corfu, watching them fade out at the upper corners one by one as I fell toward the sea like Icarus. At forty-five hundred feet, I popped the chute and felt the reassuring rapid slithering across my back as the parachute was drawn into the sky, followed by the rumble-crack sound as the harness grabbed me by the haunches and my head and spine were suddenly forced down toward my guts. Then, the blissful sensation of being carried through the night sky.
I looked up to see a sea of stars surrounding a sharp, black rectangle, as if someone had cut a hole in the sky. The lines felt right in my numbed hands as I fumbled for the steering toggles. A bright fat crescent of a moon was over my right shoulder, and ahead of me and slightly to my left, sitting on a vast plain of black water, I saw a tiny cluster of lights in the distance. I took a moment to pull the breathing mask off my face. It came off like it had grafted itself there, and I let it fall down my neck as I fumbled for the valve on the tank, choking it off.
I kept making minor corrections since the sea breeze would lift and toss me gently as I angled toward the lights, ruefully noting that all this would be a lot easier if I had the powered paraglider I used back in Afghanistan, but the engine noise would kind of defeat the purpose of a sneak attack. So I sailed on at the mercy of the wind. My GPS unit kept subtracting the distance, telling me I was on course with less than two miles to go.
Then I saw with a sickening shock that whoever preprogrammed that GPS unit was off about a mile or so. My still-fogged dive mask finally revealed that some of the lights I was aiming for were actually the running lights of Vanya’s yacht, now looming up out of the darkness like a materializing whale. And I was an airborne cannonball coming right for it in slow motion.
I was too damn close—if I could see the ship, then anyone on the ship could see me. I yanked my steering toggles straight down to stall my forward momentum and accelerate my drop, but the sea breeze wasn’t cooperating and I felt the wind rush and lift me. I went for my ultimate last-ditch maneuver and yanked the cutaway, jettisoning the parachute and dropping myself into space. The lines whipped away and I flailed my arms to keep myself on a feet-first dive into the open water.
It felt like it took forever, and when I finally broke the surface my legs rolled up and I was spun into a slamming, head-spinning backwards underwater somersault that kicked the air out of my lungs and felt like a concussion bomb went off in my head. To my altitude-chilled arms and legs the water felt boiling hot, but as the sea washed under my helmet and armored jacket, the shock of it felt like liquid ice. I fumbled in the disorienting blackness to stuff the mini scuba tank regulator in my mouth while my ears suffered the change in pressure, which felt like a pair of ice p
icks were shoved into my brain. I barely managed to jettison my parachute harness and wiggle the swim fins on over my neoprene boots, almost losing one in the process, when the surrounding water silently burst with light, like a momentary flash of lightning.
I kicked upward to the surface, breaking the choppy water just in time to see the swath of a searchlight from the yacht come scything back toward me. I waved myself down with my arms then kicked ahead with my rapidly numbing legs, biting down on my mouthpiece while mumbling unintelligible curses as I plowed through the sea. So much for the stealth approach, I thought, just as my throbbing ears picked up the magnified sound of speedboat engines.
I pumped my legs and fixed my eyes on the glowing wrist compass, the only point of light in my cold, oil-black world as I followed the needle northward. The rhythm of my movement helped me fight the chill and gave me focus. My high-altitude drop already felt like the memory of a delirium dream, and I briefly wondered how close I’d come to going unconscious up there. I shook off that thought and started kicking harder as the humming buzz of motorboats got louder in my head. I was in an underwater race for my life.
With a shock, I felt my forward-stretched hand contact a smooth wall that I barely avoided ramming my head into. I’d run straight into the bottom of the yacht. I stopped my breathing mid-breath, fighting the urge to pant as I trickled the air out of my lungs, forcing myself to minimize the bubbles I was sending to the surface. I slowly kicked downward, keeping one gloved hand on the hull and clamping down on my raging urge to breathe. I knew Vanya’s troops had automatic rifles, and if he had those, then hand grenades were almost a certainty. I could be concussively blown out of the water in an instant if someone started dropping improvised depth charges into the sea. I cleared the keel of the hull, and then kicked for my life in the direction of the island as I sucked in life-giving draughts of air.
The pervasive engine sounds stayed in the background as I used my compass to change my course ten degrees east. I wanted to avoid the boat docks on the island. My legs were getting tired and feeling leaden as I lost track of the time. I was wondering how much longer I could continue to draw on my little air bottle when my hands plowed into a rough, rocky mass. I slowly kicked toward the surface, breaking water that was gently rolling waves. Through my face mask, the island was a blackened mass blotting out the stars, and behind me I saw the lights of the yacht and a pair of speedboats farther out, scouring the sea for me.
Keeping low in the water, I unloaded all my gear until I was left with my mask, flashlight, and knife. I half swam, half crawled with the gentle waves until I could pull myself ashore. I peeled off the face mask, getting the scent of salt water blended with a mixture of pine and olive tree as I scrambled up the rocks to the hard-packed soil of the island. The moon poured out light from a cloudless sky, bleaching the island bone white. I could clearly see the eastern walls of Vanya’s compound across the way. The entire complex was darkened, giving it the appearance of an empty, abandoned fortress.
My jacket and jumpsuit clung to me like dead wet skin, cutting me off from the warm Mediterranean air, and I gritted my teeth to keep them from chattering as I hurried across the bare expanse. I spied a raised area of cover, and ran to a concrete pavilion, shaped like a miniature Acropolis. Stretched out below was an oblong, open-air amphitheater that brought to mind the gladiatorial arenas of Rome. It was Vanya’s training ground that Caitlin had told me about. I didn’t have the time for the view, however. I could hear footsteps approaching.
I eased back against a fluted pillar and readied my best close-quarter weapon—my flashlight. I slipped my thumb through the lanyard and felt for the light switch. I counted down the steps, feeling like my heartbeat was louder than the sound of approaching booted feet. Then I attacked.
I whipped my arm around and fired off a flash of light, revealing I had a single opponent as I charged. I heard a gasp and had a brief, flickering impression of a dark-skinned soldier, hands up to his face as if trying to wipe away the instant blindness. I gave him a hard, backhanded blow to the head with the butt of the flashlight then slipped in behind him, whipping my free arm around his throat as I released the flashlight and clapped my hand to his mouth. He lurched against me and we fell back together, slamming me between his body and the hard ground.
My chest felt like I’d been stabbed through with a blunt flagpole and I almost lost my grip with the shock of the pain, but I held on as Vanya’s soldier flailed about and yelled against my gripping hand, trying to connect with me while fortunately forgetting the heavy rifle that slid back and forth across his chest as he struggled. His body finally melted into unconsciousness and I gratefully rolled him off of me.
I didn’t have time to enjoy the respite from being crushed. The carotid hold I used is normally good for rendering an opponent unconscious for only a minute to a minute and a half. I quickly stripped off my neoprene gloves and dug through my wet pockets for the shoestrings that I’d brought with me. I tied the guard’s hands behind him, then laced his boots together and fashioned an improvised gag by slicing a long swath from his camouflage shirt. He was just starting to moan and struggle against his bonds as I took up his AK-47 and did a quick search of his web belt. I found a hand-sized radio unit that I turned off before putting it into one of my own pockets. I didn’t want to risk triggering an accidental transmission.
I scanned the moon-washed area around me and found it unoccupied. I slipped my knife back into its sheath that I wore on my calf under my jumpsuit and felt inordinately pleased with myself for neutralizing the guard while leaving him alive. All I had to do now was breach Vanya’s defenses and get an audience with him. Without being killed, of course. The walls of Vanya’s compound were unassailable with my present lack of equipment, but the hillside that the complex was attached to offered possibilities. I ran, not so fast as to risk twisting my ankle on the uneven terrain, until I reached the base of the hill. The mound was overgrown with low, twisted bushes and branches of scrubby pine trees. I checked the safety on my captured rifle, then slung it across my back. Grabbing the curled branches, I pulled myself up the hill.
The foliage had two virtues: it made fairly good handholds and they smelled nice. On the downside, the damn greenery seemed almost animated as it scratched at me and tangled me up almost every inch of the climb. The twisted growth seemed especially fond of grabbing my slung rifle, causing me to stop and free it. I climbed and crawled my way almost to the top of the mound, stopping short of the apex when I spotted Vanya’s radar and radio antennas. I didn’t know if I’d be tripping any alarms if I got any closer to them, so I moved along in a sideways progression, until I was looking down into Vanya’s courtyard. From my vantage point and with the moonlight above, it was like looking into a giant-sized toy box with chess pieces arranged on the bottom. I could hear the rushing sound of the artificial waterfall that covered the entrance to the Roman-style baths in the cave below me.
Climbing up the covered hill was a chore; getting down was flat-out dangerous. Twice, clumps of branches uprooted in my hand, causing me to slip and slide as I grabbed for my life while sending showers of pebbles down ahead of me. Eventually, I reached solid ground at the corner where the wall of the complex mated with the hillside. I unslung my rifle, slipping the selector switch to single-shot fire as I peered around the courtyard. Except for the running waterfall, everything was still and silent, all the marble statues bearing mute witness to the night.
I straightened up and walked ahead. I’d fought my way here, to the very heart of the enemy camp, and now, everything depended on being able to actually talk to Vanya. I made my way to the marble table and Vanya’s throne as unnoticed as a ghost in a graveyard. I saw the pedestal and statue of Alexander the Great, wearing the moon like a silvery laurel. A wicked inspiration took hold of me.
I got the transceiver I had taken from the guard and clicked it on. I hit the transmit button and announced, “Vanya, it’s Blake. I’ve come to speak with you.”
> There was a hiss of static, and then I heard Vanya’s voice. “Blake? Where are you?”
“Right here,” I said, then tossed the radio away. Had the statue of Alexander been a genuine artifact, I’d never have dreamed of doing what I did next. As it was, I offered a silent apology to the artist as I crouched down for a clear field of fire, flipped the Kalashnikov assault rife to full automatic, and let rip a thunderous, trip-hammering rain of steel and lead that blasted the marble effigy into broken shards.
When the gun ran dry, I whipped it off my shoulder and slammed it into the pedestal. With my already abused ears ringing, I took my place on Vanya’s throne as the sound of running footsteps approached. I was blinded by a bath of light pouring in from numerous sources, and I held my hands up, more to ward my eyes than to signal surrender. As I heard the clicks and clacks of weapons being readied, I said to my unseen captors:
“Take me to your leader.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There was a rough, confused jumble of activity as unseen hands grabbed me and pulled me off of Vanya’s throne. Steel handcuffs were ratcheted onto my wrists and I was shoved along with the crowd, like being carried along by the waves of a wild surf. I was prodded along by more than a few jabs from the metal fingers of rifle barrels until I was propelled into the main building and over to the elevators. It was crowded inside on the way down, with all the young soldiers forcing their way in, and when the doors opened up we all spilled out into the concrete bunker. I was marched down the hall and back to the conference room, where I was shoved down onto a chair. With the sound of the heavy metal door shutting me in, I was suddenly surprised to find myself alone.
The room was the same as when I last saw it, with the map of the Mediterranean displayed on the long wall. I eased my leather chair forward until I could rest my handcuffed hands on my lap below the oval, polished-wood table, and waited for my host to make his appearance, fully aware I was being watched the whole time.