by Tom Clancy
"Everyone, listen up," snapped Mitchell. "Those guys weren't waiting for us. They're on a rat line, coming back from A'stan. They were probably in the caves till now. We just got bad timing. Diaz, you and I help out those door gunners. Brown? You and Ramirez get 'em on board. Ready people? Here he comes!"
As the Black Hawk roared by, and a fresh wave of gunfire pinged off its fuselage, Mitchell craned his head and realized that Ramirez and Brown were taking the CIA agents. "No!" he cried, pointing at Rutang still strapped into the stretcher. "You get him first."
"Roger that," hollered Ramirez.
"That how it is, Captain?" shouted Agent Saenz. "You decide who lives and dies?"
Mitchell gave the man a look, then regarded Diaz. "Move out."
He sprang from cover and broke left, with Diaz right behind. They picked their way along a stretch of broken boulders and snow, then dropped behind a narrow spine of mottled rock, able to prop up on their forearms.
Mitchell's HUD began to light up with so many targets that he thought the IWS had crashed. He estimated near thirty now, and who knew how many more to come.
"I'm hunting for the RPGs," announced Diaz, ready to shoot any Taliban fighter shouldering a rocket meant for the chopper. "Got one. Taking the shot!"
Were it not for his HUD, Sergeant Marcus Brown would not have seen a thing through all the whipping ice and snow. Superimposed over those gray curtains was the green, glowing outline of the chopper, its ID flashing: Black Hawk 29.
He and Ramirez hauled Rutang up and over a few rocks, then fought their way through gusts tugging hard on their shoulders, threatening to topple them.
The chopper was just ten meters away now, its gear floating precariously a meter over the spiny ridgeline. There was no level spot to land, and the pilot had come in as low as he dared, with his nose pitched up, his main rotor slicing the air just a few meters away from the mountainside. The scene reminded Brown of that YouTube video he'd watched of a Black Hawk crashing on Mount Hood, and now those whomping rotors began to seriously unnerve him.
As they reached the chopper, the door gunner, who had already ceased fire, lowered a harness, and Brown and Ramirez rushed to get Rutang fitted. If the pilot had been able to descend just a little more, they could have avoided the delay, but you played the hand you were dealt, and once they had Rutang buckled up, they gave the gunner the signal. Rutang rose via winch toward the open bay.
Brown and Ramirez headed back for the CIA agents. One down, two to go. While there was no time to discuss it now, Brown wanted to speak with Ramirez about the captain's decision to take Rutang first. Brown and Ramirez could have evacuated both agents in one shot, then come back for the medic. It wasn't a big deal, but if something happened in the interim, it was better to save two than just one.
Or was it more important to save your friend than a couple of CIA agents, who they all knew could turn on you in a heartbeat if that furthered their agenda?
Brown had worked with Mitchell before, yet this was the first time the captain had revealed personal bias during a mission. With Mitchell it was always cut-and-dried: the mission and the team came first. Brown called that professional bias. Still, Mitchell could have ordered Brown to take Rutang and Ramirez to grab one of the agents. Brown could have dragged the medic, albeit slower than two guys could. But Mitchell was all about them double-teaming his buddy. Even the CIA guy had called him out on it. Interesting.
Diaz's round hit the Taliban insurgent squarely in the chest, and it appeared as though he had swallowed a grenade. The RPG he'd been shouldering hurtled away like a boomerang, trailed by what was left of him.
People often asked if the grim nature of her job ever got to her. They'd ask about how the military prepares you for killing people. She didn't talk about that. She just did her job like she'd been taught. She removed targets and did everything she could to detach herself from the emotions. She thought of the operators to her left and right, her friends. She ignored the fact that the men she killed could have families they'd be leaving behind.
But was it possible to kill with no guilt, no remorse? Maybe for some.
It was Diaz's subconscious that got the best of her. There were always demons who rose from the bogs of night and marched through her quarters, dripping blood and growling that they'd returned for revenge.
She'd bolt awake, chilled and soaked in sweat. But she knew that this came with the territory. Adapt and move on, she always said.
Diaz probed the mountain once more, spotted a second guy lifting his RPG.
At the same time, Ramirez reported that he and Brown were nearly at the chopper with the two CIA guys. That was good, but if Diaz didn't tag this next guy…
As she homed in, the din of gunfire and helicopter engines narrowed into her breathing, only her breathing, as though she wore scuba gear and was back at the reef in Cozumel.
Right now, as far as she was concerned, there were only two people in the entire world, and she would reduce that number by exactly one.
The reticle hovered over the guy. He wore a heavy woolen pakol pulled down over his ears. He was turning toward the Black Hawk when Diaz took her shot.
At the very least she anticipated a puff of smoke from his chest, perhaps a small amount of blood.
Nothing. She had missed.
What the hell?
Carlos and Tomas screamed with glee in her ears.
A cold panic rushed up Diaz's spine as she resighted the man and fired, but it was already too late. Yes, he died, but his RPG was already airborne.
Ramirez glanced away and grimaced as Agent Vick, who was seated in the snow next to his partner Saenz, finished coughing and puking.
"Glad you came back," said Saenz. "We know where we stand with your captain."
"We evac the most seriously wounded first," Ramirez said through his teeth.
Saenz grinned and snorted. "Whatever you say, soldier." He regarded Vick. "Look at him. All this running around and the drugs… we're getting sick."
"And you're getting out of here," Brown said, hauling Saenz to his feet.
Ramirez got behind Vick and struggled against the big guy's considerable girth. "Promise me something," he said in the agent's ear. "You won't throw up on me, will you?"
Vick began coughing again.
"Oh, man," moaned Ramirez, guiding the man forward. "Here we go."
The captain and Diaz, along with one of the chopper's door gunners, did an outstanding job of keeping the insurgents along the mountain busy while Ramirez and Brown ushered the agents out of there. The pilot had pulled off his spot and now wheeled overhead to engage the enemy. But once he saw them nearing the ridge, and Ramirez gave him a shout to confirm that, he swung around and descended.
With the Black Hawk in its deafening hover, they seized the harness and line. Vick got buckled in and went up first. Saenz followed, and even as he was halfway up, just a meter from being pulled in, he took a round in the shoulder, making Ramirez curse and holler for the guys up top to move faster.
Then a flash came from the corner of Ramirez's eye: one of the Taliban fighters had launched a rocket-propelled grenade.
Ramirez screamed over the radio for the pilot to lift off.
As the engines roared, he and Brown dove from their little ledge, dropping at least two meters into a huge snowdrift below.
Just as Ramirez was swallowed in all that white, the RPG hammered into the mountainside, heaving up fountains of rock and shrapnel.
And yet the snow kept coming, shielding Ramirez at least a little, large pieces of snow and ice resembling foam rushing over his head as he slid down several more meters and came to a jarring halt.
Brown stopped with a blast of snow beside him.
Ramirez flailed his arms, relieved that he was buried only a quarter meter deep in the snow. He sat up as the chopper arced overhead through the starlit night, with Saenz just now being hauled into the bay.
Brown crawled next to him, his face barely visible behind his ne
w camouflage suit of snow. "We're supposed to be dead."
"Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner. I have your package on board, coming back around to pick you up."
"Negative, negative," replied Mitchell. "It's getting even hotter down here."
"Roger that. I got another valley directly east of your position. Got it marked on your tac map."
"Stand by." Mitchell ducked behind the rock and with a voice command pulled up his tactical map so that it filled his entire HUD. He spotted that second valley indicated by the pilot's flashing green designator. He zoomed in, saw how the more level ground provided a good LZ and that it put a hillside between them and the oncoming Taliban fighters. "Black Hawk Two-Niner, put down in that valley, and we'll rally on you."
"On our way, Ghost Lead."
"Okay, people, we're pulling out," Mitchell said over the radio. "Fall back on me." He glanced over at Diaz, who was just rising from the rock, getting ready to move.
Out past her, a figure rose from the ridge about thirty meters off, lifting his rifle at Diaz as a red diamond and outline appeared around him.
Mitchell cut loose with silenced rifle fire directly over Diaz's shoulder, dropping the guy as she turned and gasped. "Whoa. I owe you big time, Captain."
"I'll settle for a beer."
"You got it."
They charged off along the hillside, meeting up with Ramirez and Brown, then all four started up through the rocks, threading their way to the top. Sporadic fire tore into the ground ahead.
A brilliant yellow square lit up in Mitchell's HUD, indicating the chopper's new position in the landing zone, and he turned left, taking them along a much steeper embankment, the snow giving way beneath his boots.
Ramirez, pulling up the rear, opened fire and cried, "They're closing on us!"
Mitchell picked up the pace. The hill led them toward a pair of lone trees, then it would drop off again and roll out into the valley and the helicopter beyond.
He aimed for the trees, wary of every step.
Suddenly, Brown cried, "Diaz!"
Mitchell craned his head, just as Diaz, who'd lost her footing, went tumbling down the hill. She'd been smart enough to tuck her arms into her chest, but while that helped avoid a break, it made her a more streamlined barrel, and down she went for more than a dozen meters until she finally stopped, facedown, unmoving.
Reflexively, Mitchell started toward her, ordering Ramirez and Brown to hold position and cover him. Twice he nearly dropped himself on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow.
He reached her, fearing the worst. Slowly, he took her by the shoulders, rolled her gingerly onto her back.
She blinked, began coughing.
Mitchell sighed in relief. "Now you owe me two beers," he said, then seized her hand, helped her to her feet. Together they started back up the hill, with Ramirez and Brown above them.
They forged onward, back toward the trees, the snow deepening to shin height and topped with a thick ice crust.
Mitchell's calves and hamstrings soon burned. He thanked every PT instructor he'd ever had for forcing him to go farther than he ever thought possible. That kind of training paid off in spades during combat.
They began making better time and came within a stone's throw of the trees, but then Brown reported enemy contact: "I see six at the top of the hill. Make that seven! They're following!"
"Alicia, I'm not kidding now," said Mitchell. "We need to move!"
"Yes, sir!"
They charged together for the trees. Once there, they paused to catch their breath.
"We need you now," he said, cocking a brow.
She took up her rifle and inspected it for damage from the fall. "I'm good."
"Take out the first guy, and that'll get 'em thinking twice."
"Watch me."
Being on the wrong end of a well-coordinated sniper attack was most soldiers' worst nightmare. Men simply died, as though plucked from this earth by the hand of God. As they dropped, so did morale, while the paranoia grew to a fever pitch.
Mitchell took aim but held his fire, watching through his crosshairs as Diaz fired her first shot.
The lead Taliban fighter hit the snow, sending the others to their bellies and wishing they had ice picks to dig cover. They shouted about a sniper, and one gave orders for them to get up, but several others protested.
"Ramirez? Brown? Get to the chopper!" Mitchell ordered.
"Sir, even with the suppressor, if I fire again—"
"I know, they'll spot us. Once they're back up, I'll need one more shot."
"Roger that."
Mitchell stole a few seconds to consult the drone's intel one last time before he sent it flying back toward the border, where it would be retrieved by support personnel.
"Oh, man," he said aloud. Ignorance was bliss. He wouldn't even tell Diaz how many insurgents were about to reach the hilltop.
"Looks like they're getting ready to come up," said Diaz.
Mitchell crouched down beside her. "The second you fire, we're gone. Ready?"
"Yeah, hang on. Almost have the shot. Almost…"
A muffled bang came from Diaz's rifle, and the subsonic round traversed the hillside before the Taliban fighter in its path could blink again.
He toppled. Mitchell and Diaz wasted no time breaking from the trees.
"That all you got?" Diaz asked, jogging alongside him. "Move it!"
Mitchell smiled to himself. "That's three beers. Last one for the insult." He picked up the pace, boots now slipping across those hidden rocks and sheets of ice.
Near the bottom of the hill the grade grew steeper, forcing them to sidestep down to reach bottom.
Mitchell stole a look back over his shoulder.
What he saw left him breathless.
Finally, they started across level ground and into a field of scree, the broken and eroded rocks creating yet another challenge. Mitchell slowed to avoid several larger stones to their left.
"Come on, sir, we're almost there," hollered Diaz.
"I hear you," Mitchell answered. "Just don't look back."
THIRTEEN
NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN
AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER
JANUARY 2009
"Oh my God," said Diaz.
"I told you not to look back," said Mitchell.
"Saying that made me look back."
"Me and my big mouth." Mitchell tightened his grip on her wrist.
The Black Hawk, outlined in green on Mitchell's HUD, was churning up a storm that quickly enveloped them, ice particles needling into Mitchell's nose, ears, and cheeks.
He'd take the pain, because all that rotor wash helped conceal them. The Taliban fighters in pursuit, who'd come in a long stream across the top of the hill like a Roman army, had just lost sight of their targets.
But in a last-ditch effort, they fired anyway, rifles popping and echoing behind them as Mitchell and Diaz shifted to the left, around the external fuel tank and reached the open bay door. Brown was there to accept Diaz, and Mitchell spun around and returned fire until Brown called, "Captain!"
Mitchell turned back, just as one of the minigun operators collapsed forward on his gun, blood pooling down his face and neck. "Portside gunner's down," Mitchell cried.
"Captain, get on that gun," snapped the pilot.
With rounds sparking and clinking off the chopper as he climbed aboard, Mitchell cried, "Go! Go! Go!"
Brown and Ramirez had already unbuckled and were lifting the wounded gunner from his seat, and Mitchell immediately slid into his place, two-handing the Gatling gun and utilizing the AIM-1 laser pointer as he guided the six barrels back onto the hillside. He shifted his aim once more, easing the weapon left as the chopper pitched forward and gained altitude.
Showtime. He began hosing down the insurgents as they leapt forward, crashing onto their bellies to avoid his bead. Tracer rounds flashed from the spinning barrels like glowing arrows fired from a hundred bowmen until they burned out at 900 me
ters.
At the same time, all those hot brass casings were funneled out from the gun through a tube mounted on the fuselage, and as the pilot brought them around, they left long trails of clinking and tumbling brass in their wake.
The gun's reverberation sent chills rushing up Mitchell's spine. It was hard to imagine that he was firing roughly fifty bullets per second. He needed to carefully select his targets, too, since he only had 4,000 rounds of linked ammo in the box before he'd have to reload.
But the pilot didn't seem to care about that. "Come on, Captain, keep up that fire!"
Mitchell obliged, sewing a jagged seam in the hill, his HUD and the AIM-1 putting him on those red diamonds that quickly turned white as his hailstorm of fire left behind walls of flying dirt and snow and death.
As he and the other gunner maintained fire, Ramirez and Brown worked on Saenz and the wounded guy, though they were probably using hand signals since the racket inside the helicopter made voice communication impossible.
Reminding himself of all the good people who had been lost in Waziristan, Mitchell kept the minigun on target, drawing more lines through hordes of fighters before the Black Hawk rolled right and descended over the hill, on a course due east for the border.
He released his white-knuckled grip on the gun and slumped in his seat. Every muscle ached. He could sleep for a year.
A hand came down on his shoulder. It was Ramirez, who pointed to the wounded gunner, then to Saenz, and flashed a thumbs-up; both guys would make it.
Mitchell nodded and, as Ramirez returned to his seat, directed his attention to Rutang, still barely recognizable beneath his swollen face. The medic had been through several lifetimes' worth of combat, and Mitchell had been proud of his comeback after his battle with depression and stress. He'd gotten off the propranolol and was managing to be a good father. Mandy had had that second baby, a boy, who Rutang had said definitely resembled the FedEx guy.
As Mitchell sat there, growing numb from the cold and exhaustion, he wondered what would happen to his friend. Could Rutang bounce back yet again?