"Egonov!"
Egonov turned and Masters pulled the trigger. The round hit his torturer in the shoulder. Masters had been attempting a head shot. He pulled the trigger again, hitting the man's right hip. Masters fired again and again.
Egonov fell, his head bouncing off the floor.
Masters fired again until he put the same number of bullets in the man as the number of dead men in his team.
Masters, now overextended, dropped to the floor, his fall broken by Igor.
The two soldiers who were in his room burst from the hall. Masters watched them assess the situation. One keyed the radio.
"Doc, Junior. Men down. Repeat, men down. We need you. Now!"
CHAPTER 40
MOYER'S EYES POPPED OPEN. He was floating. No, not floating, but he was moving. He heard voices. Different voices; one odd sounding.
". . . 'kay, Boss. You're going to be okay."
"Shaq?"
"Hey, you're awake. Enjoy your nap?" Doc's voice. Jose's voice.
The ceiling was moving. No, he was moving. That made more sense.
"Shaq?"
"Colt's with him. He came to. Won't let me work on him until you're all patched up and ready to go dancing."
"I hate dancing."
"Good, because I've seen you dance."
Moyer couldn't tell what was real and what was a dream. Had he just seen Gina? Where was he? Russia. That's right, Russia.
"Report."
"We got it taken care of, Boss."
"I told you to report, Doc."
"Okay, but try to relax."
"Ree-port!"
"Yes, Boss. Facility is secure. You've been shot and assaulted. We're moving you to the surgery for a little touch-up."
"Surgery?"
"The bullet deflected off the butt of your M4. That saved your life. But it fragmented and nicked your jugular and a piece went through your shoulder and under your arm. There's a doctor here. We're gonna stabilize you."
"Shaq."
"He'll live. A bullet grazed his head but left him with a skull fracture and . . ."
"And what?"
"His eye has been damaged."
"Take care of him first."
"No can do, Boss. Triage dictates I take you first."
"Shaq first."
"You two are a pair. He said the same thing about you. The difference is, he can still kick my butt; something you can't do in your situation."
"Rescue?"
"One man, the team leader. We found two bodies. One had been tortured. You don't want to know about that right now."
"Junior?"
"Here, Boss. Just helping cart your lazy rear end."
"Send report."
"Will do, Boss."
"First finish job. Kill the satellite."
"We're on it, Boss."
The ceiling changed as they pushed through a pair of swinging steel doors.
A strange voice; heavy Russian accent. "You have field med kit?"
Jose answered. "Yes."
"We have very little here. I may need what you have."
"It's yours."
SIRENS FILLED THE AIR and pushed their way through the old building. Zinsser could see splashes of red and blue on the covered glass.
Perspiration dripped from Brianne's face and off her nose, dropping onto her hands and Gina's bare skin. She maintained the count, but the words came out as whispers.
"Switch with me," Zinsser said.
"I got it."
"Switch with me."
"One, two, three . . . okay."
A young officer entered. "Paramedics are here." He looked things over. "Let me do that."
Before Brianne could answer, the small city cop knelt by Brianne and elbowed her out of the way and started the compressions. "How's Presley?"
"He's okay," the officer said. "He's worried about what's going on in here."
"He's a good man," Zinsser said.
"He's a pain." The officer said it with a smile.
Brianne placed fingers on Gina's neck. The officer was doing a good job; there was a pulse with every compression. Then she felt something else. "Hold it."
The officer stopped pushing Gina's sternum into her heart.
"Check me. I think I've got a pulse."
Zinsser used his free hand to touch Gina's neck. A pulse. A strong pulse. "Yes!"
Gina moaned, then opened her eyes. She seemed confused, then her gaze settled on Zinsser. "I know you."
A good sign. "Yes, you do. You had us scared."
"I had myself scared."
Zinsser kissed her on the forehead. "There, now you can't say you've never been kissed."
A weak smile settled on Gina's face. "Who says that's my first kiss?"
Zinsser laughed.
Then he wept.
J. J. AND PETE detached the fuel cell from the wires connecting it to the satellite's electrical system. The nuclear payload was small and used only to provide electricity to the transmitter and electronically controlled elements. Angel-12 also contained small tanks of rocket fuel for positioning, orbit, and attitude control. The liquid fuel frightened J. J. more than the radioactive material.
Judging by the nonstop monologue coming from him, Crispin was nervous. J. J. stopped listening after the third time he heard, "RTG stands for radioisotope thermoelectric generator and they're used in all kinds of spacecraft."
It took twenty minutes for J. J. to crack open Angel-12 and remove a long cylinder, which he placed in the transportation package from the FedEx truck. J. J. radioed Lev and told him to bring the truck into the compound.
After inserting the RTG into its new home, Pete moved it from the flatbed and carried it back to the FedEx van. J. J. took thirty minutes to place small packages of C4 plastic explosive in strategic spots. What the explosive didn't do, the rocket fuel would finish. J. J. didn't want to be anywhere close when he pushed the detonator.
As he placed the fourth block of C4, he saw something: twenty-five small rockets. On closer examination he found a mechanism that would open a door and extend the cylinder holding the three-foot-long missiles. The rockets were too small to carry much of an explosive payload, but they were large enough to take out another satellite, an ICBM, or maybe even high-flying aircraft.
J. J. couldn't be sure. He was a weapons and explosive expert, but space-based "Star Wars" like offensive weapons were beyond him. It did, however, explain some of the urgency surrounding the mission. This was not the kind of technology one shared with other countries.
He placed the last explosive package, jumped from the truck, and walked to Rich who watched from the front of the hospital. "Good to go, Shaq."
Medical gauze covered half of Rich's face. "Good."
"How's Boss?"
"Good, but still out of it. He lost a lot of blood."
"Yeah, I know what that's like. Kinda messes with the brain."
"I'm not on my game either." He looked up as Pete returned from the FedEx truck. "Colt . . . listen. Doc has given me some serious pain meds. My brain feels like it's running in second gear. Boss, can't make the calls. That means, you're team leader."
"No, you're team leader—"
"Shut up, Colt. The man in charge has to make decisions in a snap. I don't think I could tie my shoes without help. From this moment on, you're the man."
"Shaq—"
"I may be in pain and slow, but I can still rip your face off."
"I'm the man."
"That's better."
Jose stepped outside.
Pete spoke. "Hey, Doc, Colt's the man now."
"As long as it's not me."
"How's Boss, Doc? Can he be moved?"
Jose nodded. "It will be tough on him. On the big man here too."
"I can take it."
"We can't stay here," J. J. said. "For all we know, more bad guys are on the way. I don't think we just took out the whole splinter movement."
"Agreed," Pete said.
"Get Boss and Shaq
prepped for the trip. We've got a lot of miles to go."
"Boss needs a faster trip. So does Shaq. We're hours from the extraction point."
"All we have is the FedEx," J. J. said. "We blew everything else up. And the flatbed will be useless once I hit the button. Most likely, the building will take a big beating. Get 'em ready, Doc."
PRESIDENT HUFFINGTON SIGNALED FOR the video conference to end. The image of Colonel Mac disappeared. He took a moment to sort through everything he heard, then rose. He put a hand on Bacliff's shoulder. Tears of relief steamed along his cheeks. "Go home, Andrew, go home to your wife. You have a lot to be thankful for."
"They're not home yet."
"I know. But they will be soon." He faced Helen. "I'm going to the Oval. I have a call to make. I want you there."
Minutes later, Huffington held the phone to his ear.
"President Huffington, I hope you are well."
"I'm well, President Solovyov. How is your wife?"
"She spends my money on parties and Western decadence."
"I know what you mean." Huffington considered his next words. "Urie, I need to tell you a story, then ask a favor, then give you a gift. The story will make you angry, the favor is more than I have a right to ask, and the gift, I hope, will make it all right."
"You have me intrigued."
"It began a few days ago when a Chinese satellite we believed dead came back to life . . ."
GINA OPENED HER EYES and once again experienced fear-causing disorientation. Her heart quickened, breathing came with great pain. She tried to sit up, but she was too weak.
"It's all right, sweetheart." The voice, familiar and longed for.
"Mom?" She turned her head and saw her mother, eyes red and puffy, no makeup, hair in disarray. Standing next to her was Chaplain Bartley. He was smiling. "You look horrible."
"Thanks," Bartley said.
"I meant my mom."
"Thanks." She took Gina's hand.
Nothing ever felt so good.
"Hey, Squirt." Rob stood at the foot of the bed.
"Hi, Rat-Face."
"She's going to be okay," Rob said.
"I'm really sore."
Her mother smiled. "It could be from the gunshot wound, or the CPR, or the surgery."
"I'm confused."
"She's the same ol' Gina." Rob's smile widened.
PETE HEARD THEM FIRST. The whup-whup-whup of a helicopter. "I hope those are the right birds."
"Take positions, just in case. Let's make sure Boss and Shaq are away from the windows and doors. Get Hawkeye and Doc to help you, then I want a man at each cardinal point of the building. And see if you can't get Captain Masters to stop trying to take over the mission."
"I think he has a few pent-up emotions."
"He needs to keep them in the pen."
Pete disappeared into the building. J. J. scanned the sky and found a single distant dot approaching. He retrieved his binoculars and aimed them at the dot. An Mi-26. It was a monster built, if J. J.'s memory was on target, in the mid-1980s.
It came in loud and low, making no attempt to hide its approach. J. J. took that as a good sign, although the pessimist inside reminded him the helo could carry up to eighty troops. For a moment he envisioned a steady stream of armed men pouring from the craft like water from a hose. He was part of the best Spec Ops team working, but he didn't like those numbers.
The craft found a clear corner of the compound and settled on its wheels. Only one man exited the craft. He wore a Russian Army uniform but carried no weapons. He walked with confidence and purpose. J. J. stepped out to meet him.
"I am Srarshiy Serzhanf Demidov, Army of the Russian Federation. I have been told to speak with a man named 'Colt.'"
"That would be me."
Demidov took a step back and saluted. "My orders are to convey you to your next destination." He looked at the giant satellite, opened his mouth as if to ask a question, then closed it, keeping his silence.
"You are a welcome sight."
"We also have medical supplies including plasma and blood."
"I could kiss you," J. J. said. The man looked stunned. "It's an American expression. I'll settle for a handshake."
It took twenty minutes to get the team and the wounded into the large helicopter. Igor the doctor—whose name it turned out was really Igor—connected Moyer, Masters, and Rich to IVs.
J. J. moved to the pilot's area. "I have one last thing to do and I can do it from the air. Take us up and out about a kilometer." The pilot nodded.
The Mi-26 lifted to five hundred feet and moved back the distance J. J. requested. He removed the remote detonator. "You want the honors, Boss?"
Moyer waved him off.
"In three, two, one." J. J. activated the detonator. The shock wave made the aircraft bounce and shift from its location. A column of fire and smoke crawled up the air. Shrapnel peppered the front of the former hospital, a hospital that held only the corpses of Russian dissidents, terrorists. The helicopter was filled with three wounded men, two corpses of Masters's team, J. J.'s team, and Dr. Igor. The latter would not be leaving the helicopter with the others. People in Moscow had questions for him, and J. J. had no doubt the man became a bargaining chip with the Russians.
Pete looked at Connie. They received another message. J. J. had never seen a bigger smile. Pete moved to the side of the helicopter where Eric Moyer lay strapped to a litter. He motioned to J. J.
"Boss. You awake?"
"Yeah, just a little loopy from the . . . um . . . um . . ."
"Pain meds," Jose suggested.
Pete lifted his head. "Listen up, team. They found Gina. She's alive and Stacy is with her."
The cheer shook the sides of the helicopter. They took turns congratulating Moyer. The moment the cheering ended, Sergeant Major Eric Moyer broke into tears.
EPILOGUE
Three months later
STEAKS WERE SIZZLING ON the barbecue in Eric Moyer’s backyard. There were drinks, baked potatoes, and Moyer’s closest friends. J. J., Tess, and Chaplain Bartley sat in lounge chairs, soaking in the sun. Jose, his wife, and what seemed like fifty-two kids were nearby. Pete, Crispin, Colonel Mac, and Sergeant Kinkaid stood on the lawn telling jokes. Rich and his wife sat in the shade. Even with the new eye patch covering his friend’s eye, Rich looked good.
“May I have everyone’s attention, please?” Moyer stood in the center of the backyard, the smell of barbecue filling the air. “The steaks are almost ready and I don’t let anything interfere with such important things.”
There was light laughter.
“Then get to it, Boss,” Pete said. “I’m hungry.”
“Okay, I’ll make this quick. First, having almost everyone in one place allows me to say thank you to all of you for what you did, especially for Gina. Data, you and Agent Lazzaro did a great job. My family will never be able to repay you.”
“I’m still calculating the bill.”
Moyer turned to Agent Terry Wallace. “I’d like to thank you for helping to save my daughter’s life.”
“If you want to thank me, Moyer, then take Zinsser back on your team.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.” Moyer pulled his daughter close. “Gina and I have matching bullet wounds. How many fathers can say that?”
“How many want to?” Gina said.
“Okay, to the announcements. First, Captain Masters—who as the world knows now is the son of the former vice president—is recovering nicely from his wounds and plastic surgery.”
Some of those present applauded.
“The big news, however, is this: The Army accepted my request for retirement.”
No applause, just stunned silence.
“I know, I know, but I’ve put a lot of years in this business, lost team members, and nearly lost my daughter. My identity has been compromised.”
“What are you going to do, Boss?” Pete looked stunned. “I don’t think you’re ready for the easy chair.”
Moyer
grinned. “Well, I landed me a sweet job with a private security firm. I’ll be a consultant. Good money. And not only that, Rich is going with me. The Army has given him a medical discharge—losing his eye and all.”
“Anybody wanna see?”
Several women and Crispin said, “Eww.”
“Hey, Robyn says it makes me look sexy.”
“This leads me to the next announcement. Stand up, J. J.”
“Why? Last time I did that I got volunteered for something.”
“Stand up, Colt. The steaks are waiting.”
“Okay, but I’m only doing it for the steaks.”
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to the new team leader: J. J. ‘Colt’ Bartley.”
“What?”
Applause.
“You earned it several times over.” Moyer lifted his drink. “To Boss.”
A chorus of “To Boss” rang out.
MOYER PUT TWO FOLDING tables together to make room for the inner circle, those in the know about the mission.
“Since your official retirement is a couple of weeks off, I feel safe in bringing you up to speed.” Colonel Mac looked at those around the table: Zinsser, Brianne, his team, Kinkaid, Tess, and Agent Wallace.
“I appreciate that, Colonel,” Moyer said.
“Of course, there are a few things I can’t share, especially about Angel-12.” Mac made eye contact with J. J. “Some of this you already know, but I asked Tess to help uncover the mole, the one who tipped off the Chinese and hired Green Zone to abduct Gina. Tell us how you did that, Tess.”
Tess shrugged. “The real credit goes to Sergeant Kinkaid. He pushed me to act on my first thoughts, on instinct. He thinks everyone knows more than he thinks he knows. He wouldn’t let up.”
“I do what I can.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I felt it could only be two people. Normally I wouldn’t say something like that. I’m an academician, I like facts laid out in order.”
“We didn’t have time for that,” Kinkaid said.
“I know. Anyway I chose—on what I first believed was a whim—Major Scalon and Captain Tim Bryan of STRATCOM. As I thought about it later, it occurred to me they knew more about Angel-12 than anyone else; they knew who was on the insertion team because they briefed them; and they knew what everyone involved was doing, because they were monitoring the situation from Nebraska.”
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