Red Hammer: Voodoo Plague Book 4

by Dirk Patton

  Staying very still until the Hummer was below my position, I turned my head to look for the MRAP. I couldn’t see it in the faint moonlight, but could see the two rocks far below that were hiding it. I didn’t know what type of ambush had been set up for the Russian patrol, but I did know that there was a high probability that some of my team – when the hell did I start thinking of the Russians as my team? – would have to expose themselves to sniper fire from above.

  In a straight line it was less than 400 yards to where they were waiting, even though the road wound around and covered well over half a mile to get there. Less than 400 yards for a trained military sniper is a nothing shot. These guys routinely train at 800 plus yards. I had to find and neutralize the two men before they started ruining peoples’ evening.

  I climbed/crawled the final twenty feet on my belly, moving slower than I wanted, to stay as quiet as possible. A large tarantula crawled out from behind a rock and scurried across my hand. Flashing back to a mission in Central America many years ago I remembered a team mate and close friend we called Spider.

  He was bigger and meaner than me. A spider the size of a nickel had crawled into his bunk one night at Fort Bragg. He’d screamed like a pre-teen girl and tried to shoot the damn thing before we tackled him and took his weapon away. From that day forward he was known as Spider. He was gone now, having survived the Army but not the heart attack that had taken him a few years ago.

  Smiling at the memory of my friend, I kept crawling until I was able to poke my eyes above the lip of the mesa. Turning my head a fraction of an inch at a time, I scanned the immediate area. Not seeing anything in either direction I patiently scanned the whole area a second time. Still nothing. Where the hell were they? I was about to start a third scan when the muted sound of a boot rubbing on sand came from my left.

  I froze and listened, but heard nothing additional. Slowly I turned my head, still seeing nothing, then remembering my training started looking for “what is wrong with this picture”. Rocks are irregular shapes, and so is the human body, especially when concealed and lying on the ground. Cactus are unique shapes unto themselves. What doesn’t occur in nature are perfectly straight lines. Perfectly straight lines are almost always something man made, like a rifle barrel. Then I spotted him.

  The rifle barrel was silhouetted against the night sky from my vantage point, visible even with the camouflage netting that had been placed over it for concealment. Now that I knew where to look I could see the sniper. Make out his body, his face pressed to the stock of the rifle, eye to the scope. He was at the base of a rock the size of a VW Beetle, pressed into the recess where it met the ground. The rifle was extended over the edge of the mesa, pointed down into the canyon at a 45 degree angle.

  I didn’t see his spotter, but he had to be within whispering distance of the sniper. Or so I thought. America fields two man teams, a sniper and spotter, and they are usually joined at the hip. I knew that when I had been in the Army and studied Russian tactics they followed the same doctrine, but had that changed? Was the spotter possibly at another location and in touch via radio? It didn’t make sense, tactically, but I sure wasn’t seeing the second man.

  The clock in my head was ticking. I had to eliminate the sniper before the ambush started. Slowly, I wormed my way onto the mesa, up on knees and elbows now. Crawling straight forward to get behind the sniper’s peripheral vision I turned and worked my way behind him. I was moving slow and silent, each elbow and knee being placed lightly to test for noise before I shifted my weight forward.

  Finally I reached a point thirty feet directly behind the prone man and paused. Now one of the things a spotter is responsible for in addition to helping identify targets is providing security while the sniper is focused downrange. I still couldn’t find the other man and momentarily worried that he already had a rifle aimed at a point between my shoulder blades. With the thought, a spot on my upper back twitched and started itching.

  Moving as slow and quiet as I ever have, I pulled my rifle around off my back. Settling my cheek into the stock I peered through the scope which was overkill at only 30 feet. Using the night vision in the scope I swiveled back and forth, hoping to spot the second man. Still nothing. I swiveled farther to the right, again found nothing and shifted aim back to the sniper. I hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t detected any movement, but he was gone.

  Two loud explosions I recognized as American grenades shattered the night, then the sound of unsuppressed AKMS rifles reached my ears. The ambush. I started to raise up onto my knees and elbows to change positions, but a heavily accented voice from behind froze me in place.

  “Not to be moving, American. I will be shooting you.”

  45

  Rachel woke up shivering and in pain. It was completely dark and she panicked momentarily when she realized she was in water to above her waist. She tried to move, but something was holding her in place and there was a weight on her legs. Forcing herself to calm down she touched the object on her legs and felt thick, wet fur. Dog!

  It all came back to her in a flash of memory. Fleeing the tornado in the pickup. Jackson driving and crashing them into the ditch she had spotted to escape the devastating wind. Jackson! She reached out with her left hand, fumbling in the darkness until she felt his thick shoulder on the opposite side of the bench seat.

  Mind racing, Rachel tried to prioritize what she needed to do. Before she could help Dog or Jackson, she needed to extricate herself from the truck. Why was it full of water? Forcing her hand down by her side she hit the seat belt release button then had to shift Dog’s body to let it retract and free her. She let out a sigh of relief when she placed a hand in front of Dog’s muzzle and felt his breath. He was breathing steady and strong. Alive. Hopefully nothing was broken and he had just been knocked out like her and Jackson.

  Reaching to her right, Rachel’s hand banged against the window. Feeling around she found the door handle and pulled on it, hearing the lock release. She pushed on the door but it didn’t budge. Was the passenger side of the truck stuck against the wall of the ditch they’d taken shelter in? It was too dark to tell.

  Rachel moved her hand around the door panel, gratefully finding a window crank and not a button for electric windows. She turned the lever and it started moving slowly, the window next to her face beginning to retract into the door. There was obviously damage that was binding either the mechanism or the track the window traveled in, but with some effort she was eventually able to get it all the way down.

  It was raining, not torrents like before, just a steady rain that pattered on the roof and came in the open window. Rachel stuck her arm out and felt the muddy wall of the ditch. It was close to her. Very close. Too close for her to squirm through the opening and onto the roof of the truck? She reached up to the top of the window and moved her hand back and forth between the steel frame of the door and the mud. It seemed like it would be a tight fit, but she thought she could make it, not for the first time regretting the implants she’d had put in her boobs. Wouldn’t it just be fitting if she couldn’t get out of the truck because of a boob job.

  Gently shifting Dog to the seat between her and Jackson, she paused when he whimpered. Stroking his muzzle she spoke soothingly to him, hoping he was waking up, then pulled her legs under her butt and twisted her upper body to pass through the window. She worked her head through, pausing when she could see over the roof of the truck. Even though it was raining, there were large rents in the cloud cover and some moonlight was making it through.

  Rachel could see that the roof was a good four feet below the lip of the ditch. That four feet of elevation difference had saved them. The ditch was about a third full of water, swamping the truck to a point halfway up the doors. Taking a breath, she repositioned her feet and pushed, popping her shoulders and arms free, but came to a stop when the top of her breasts met the edge of the window frame. She tried pushing her back into the muddy wall of the ditch. Tried rubbing handfuls of mud on her shirt to ma
ke it slippery. Nothing worked.

  Cursing, she squirmed her way back through the window and splashed back onto the seat. A moan from the other side of the cab caught her attention.

  “Please wake up.” She said softly, as much to herself as to Jackson. She reached across to touch him, finding him slumped forward, forehead resting on the top of the steering wheel. Cautiously probing she felt a large bump on his head where he’d most likely struck the wheel when they crashed. She also noted how hot his skin felt, feeling even more chilled because of it.

  Reaching behind Jackson, she pulled on the door handle and the door popped open a couple of inches before hitting the ditch wall on that side. Realizing there was more room on the left side of the truck, she found the window crank and lowered the window. Moving onto the floor and getting on her knees, she shifted Dog over onto her seat. Back on the seat she climbed over Jackson’s back as carefully as possible, afraid of falling on him and hurting him more than he already was.

  At the window, she repeated the slithering maneuver and again got her head and shoulders above the truck’s roofline before getting stuck by her boobs.

  “Goddamn it!” She said and slammed a fist on the roof of the truck. Jackson moaned again and she called to him to hang on. She didn’t know how she would be able to help him. He weighed way too much for her to move, and was way too big to squeeze through the narrow opening, but there was no way she could help him if she was trapped too.

  Squirming back into the truck she almost screamed when something touched her arm, but it was only Dog. He was on his feet and had stuck his nose against her. Relief to have him conscious flooded through Rachel and she took a moment to wrap him up in a hug before turning back to the window. This time she faced the mud and started levering her body up through the window.

  With considerable effort she managed to force her way clear, momentarily fearful that she was going to pop one or both of her implants. A giggle nearly escaped her mouth when she pictured herself in a tight shirt, lopsided with one big boob and one small one. Pushing the ridiculous image out of her head she got her feet up on the door and kept squirming, finally getting her hips past the top of the truck. At that point she was free, quickly pulling her feet up and walking her ass across the roof of the truck to the middle before pulling her knees to her chest to combat shivers of cold.

  Covered in mud, she sat there trying to figure out how to get Jackson and Dog out of the truck. Even on the roof her head was still below the top of the ditch and she slowly stood to get a look at what was around them. Turning a full 360 degrees she was dismayed to see nothing other than darkness. Several vehicles lay on the pavement a couple of dozen feet away, moonlight gleaming faintly on their chrome details.

  She wasn’t sure, but didn’t think the cars had been there when they’d driven into the ditch. Had the tornado deposited them as it passed? She well knew the big storms certainly had the power to do so. Looking back down at the truck she was standing on she heard a thump from below and leaned forward to see Dog pressing his nose to the rear window. She could hear him whining, wanting out of the wrecked vehicle.

  The rear window! If she could break it out then she would have easy access to rescue Jackson and it would be an easy leap for Dog. Sitting back down, Rachel dropped into the bed of the truck, splashing into a foot of muddy water. She turned and looked at Dog who was uncharacteristically frantic, clawing at the mud through the open passenger window in an attempt to escape. Jackson was still unconscious.

  Checking around in the bed of the truck, she came up empty with anything to break the glass. Climbing back to the roof she leapt to the edge of the ditch, clawing in the sticky mud to pull herself up onto the shoulder of the road. Pausing a moment to look around for any danger, she dashed to the closest vehicle when she didn’t see or hear anything.

  The car was a newer Cadillac, all the glass missing out of the windows. It sat on its roof at the edge of the shoulder and with a shudder Rachel realized it had only been a matter of blind luck that had prevented the tornado from dropping it right on top of them. Hoping for a tire iron, she moved to the trunk but it wouldn’t release. On her hands and knees she crawled inside the vehicle, found the trunk release button and pushed it to no avail.

  Abandoning the Caddy, she moved on to a small Mazda SUV that sat on four flat tires. The body was twisted and none of the doors or rear hatch would move. Next she came to a Chevy truck lying on its side. The back window was missing, not just broken out, but the entire thing gone out of the frame. Sucked out by the tornado, Rachel mused as she stepped into the bed and leaned into the cab.

  Shoving the rear seat out of the way she dug around in the darkness until her fingers felt the cold iron of a lug wrench. It held fast when she tugged and she had to stop and run her hand down its length until she felt the large, plastic wheel that secured it in place. Spinning the wheel, she grabbed it when it clattered free. As she ran back to the ditch she could hear Dog’s whines and growls as he continued to try and dig his way free. What the hell had him so panicked?

  At the edge of the ditch, Rachel paused and composed herself. A bad landing that resulted in a twisted ankle or broken leg would be beyond bad. It would most likely be fatal. Measuring the distance with her eyes, she jumped and landed square in the middle of the roof. The rain slick metal afforded poor traction and her boots slipped, her legs flying out from under her and she landed squarely on her ass.

  Tail bone hurting, she dropped into the bed of the truck with a splash and turned to look in the cab. Dog had made a lot of progress with his digging and mud coated much of the inside of the vehicle. He was still going at it, whining and snarling as he worked to clear room to squeeze his body out of the window. Rachel glanced at Jackson who was still unconscious with his back to her.

  Stepping back, she took a practice swing with the tire iron, turned her face away and smashed it into the window right behind Jackson. The glass shattered, spider webs appearing across the entire surface, but it stayed firmly within the frame. Rachel hit it again, rewarded this time with a hole the size of a softball. She kept beating on the glass, finally reversing the tool and using the rounded edge to rake shards out of the way. Before she could finish, Dog leapt through the window, nearly knocking her down in his desire to get out of the truck’s cab. Rachel looked at him standing near the tailgate, head lowered and a loud growl rumbling in his chest.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” She asked him as she kneeled down in the water.

  Turning her attention back into the cab she saw that Jackson was starting to move. That was a good sign. She leaned her whole upper body in through the window, trying to see Jackson’s face as he lifted it off the steering wheel. Reaching out she placed a hand on his powerful back. With a guttural snarl he turned, reached up and grabbed her neck, lunging for her face with snapping teeth.

  46

  No matter how good you are, or think you are, there’s always someone out there that’s a little better. Maybe a little younger, or maybe just smarter and faster. Either way, I felt like an idiot when I heard the Russian sniper’s voice. While I was busy looking for his spotter he’d managed to circle around behind me without making a sound. The son of a bitch moved like a ghost.

  “Be rolling over.” He ordered. I resisted the impulse to make fun of his poor English. He hadn’t shot me right off so there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing him. Instead, I released my grip on the rifle and rolled over to face him.

  He wasn’t a big man, no more than five and half feet tall and very thin. This was obvious even with the ghillie suit he wore which masked his outline and features. The Dragunov rifle he was pointing at my chest looked huge in his small hands. With the long sound suppressor attached to the muzzle it was nearly as long as he was tall.

  I’ve worked with a few snipers over the years and they are truly a different breed of men. Solitary, except for their spotter, they are typically deep thinkers with the patience of Job. They will lie in wait for
their target, sometimes for days on end, in situations that anyone else would find intolerable. To them, intolerable is missing their shot. This ran through my head as I lay there looking up at the muzzle of the Russian rifle.

  “They shooting patrol?” He asked, meaning the rest of my team. There was still fighting below, but it sounded like there was only one AKMS still firing. I hoped that was one of the soldiers with Vostov that was still shooting, not the patrol. The firing was sporadic and sounded like mop up.

  “Fuck you, Ivan.” Was my only answer. A confused expression crossed his face.

  “Segrei. No Ivan.” He said. God help me but language barriers could be fun if someone wasn’t pointing a high powered military rifle at you.

  The firing below had stopped and I saw in his eyes when he made the decision to shoot me. I also saw movement in the dark behind him. I shifted my eyes, expecting to see the spotter who had probably been watching me sneak up behind him and warned him via radio. But a moment later I realized it wasn’t a spotter. It was two females, and they were coming fast.

  He saw my look, but ignored it at first, probably assuming it was a feint. He must have seen something else when I recognized the females because he whipped around, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. He snapped a shot off immediately and I moved while he was occupied.

  From the corner of my eye I saw the first female’s head explode. To have turned and fired in the same motion, that was one hell of an impressive shot. He shifted aim and fired again, the second female crashing to the ground at his feet, what remained of her head almost on the toes of his boots. He didn’t step back or make any movement other than to give her a brief glance.

  By this time I was 5 yards away behind a two foot tall pile of rocks, rifle up and locked onto him. He turned back to where I had been and froze the instant he realized I wasn’t there waiting for him to kill me. The entire engagement with the two females had only taken about five seconds and he had thought I would have stayed rooted to the ground. Not the first time I’ve been underestimated, by a long shot, and I’m not complaining. Go ahead. Underestimate me all you want. I’ll stick a knife in your ribs then twist it while you’re trying to get over your surprise that I didn’t do what you expected.