by Tom Clancy
Then the next two trucks hammered through the gap, taking fire from both sides as though going through a car wash using bullets instead of water. At the same time, all that glass rained like diamonds glistening in the headlights.
She took in a long breath. Held it.
Now it was their turn.
They thundered into the opening, past the cars lying askew, gunfire riddling the side of their truck.
Just a second more… a second…
But in that second the window beside Hussein shattered and Chopra let out a scream.
She breathed, cursed again, turned, and the stench of gas immediately filled the cabin.
A glance to one of the side mirrors showed a string of winking lights — muzzle flashes to be sure — and the thumping continued, punching holes in the back of the truck.
Next came a crack and loud bang, then a steady hissing as the driver’s-side rear tire went flat.
Before she could clear the second truck, a dull thud came from beneath the hood, and flames licked up toward the windshield.
You didn’t need auto-mechanic training to conclude that the fuel line had been hit and had now ignited.
And you didn’t need a driver’s safety lesson to realize that if you didn’t abandon the truck, you’d die in the fire, the explosion, or both.
With Chopra and the kid still hollering, she swung once more to the side of the road, booted the brake pedal, and brought the truck to a rattling halt.
The gunfire continued, AKs popping, triplets of fire ricocheting off metal or stitching across the asphalt.
“Get out!” she ordered the kid. “I’ll get him!”
“I’ve been hit in the side,” said Chopra. “I can feel the blood. Terrible pain.”
“I don’t care. Come on!” she cried, wrenching open her door, seizing him by the arm, and dragging him out of the cab as he shrieked and shuddered.
They hit the sand, and, as more gunfire suddenly woke around the truck, Chen Yi’s vehicle stopped short just ahead. The rear door rolled open, and three of his men jumped out and began firing a barrage that suppressed the incoming fire. The Snow Maiden glanced out to the roadblock, where the soldiers there began shifting positions and returning fire.
“We need a doctor,” shouted Hussein.
The kid’s power of observation was astounding.
The Snow Maiden brought Chopra around the burning truck, using it as temporary shield while guiding him back and away, with more thick smoke pouring from beneath the hood.
They dropped into the deeper sand along the embankment. Chopra continued wincing.
“One of those men is a medic,” she told the boy. “In the back truck, in the cab. Go get him.”
Hussein remained a moment, his gaze torn between the incoming gunfire and the trucks up the road.
“I’m bleeding a lot,” said Chopra. “Please, Hussein. I need help…”
The Snow Maiden put pressure on Chopra’s wound. “Either you get the medic or he dies,” she told Hussein. “And if he dies, we don’t get into the vault. Then I’ll have no use for you, right?”
Hussein swallowed. His eyes welled up.
She could almost see the tug and pull of his thoughts.
With a start, he darted away, carrying his flabby little body toward the trucks.
It was about time the kid showed some courage. He’d obviously been raised by cowards and fools, and she was probably the best influence he’d ever had. Without her, he’d been stuck in his pathetic hole.
Two of Chen Yi’s men from the lead truck sprinted past them carrying shoulder-mounted weapons. The Snow Maiden did not recognize that ordnance, but she quipped that the weapons were no doubt Chinese knock-offs of something engineered by the Americans, Russians, or Euros.
The two soldiers got down on one knee, balanced the cylindrical launchers, and nearly in unison fired not one, not two, but three rockets in a single trigger pull.
It all happened in a gasp.
The road between Chen Yi’s men and the roadblock lit up in a surreal fireworks display of green-blue rocket engines. Smoke trails extended like powdery threads to sew up the air for a second before a cacophony of explosions rose from the SUVs being used for cover. Soldiers were hurled into the air by the massive detonations, and multiple fireballs swelled beneath them, casting a blinding glow that had the Snow Maiden shielding her eyes as the heat wave struck and pushed over them.
Chen Yi ran up behind the men, barking orders in Chinese. They retreated to the trucks as Hussein returned with the medic and Chen Yi approached with them.
“Please help him,” said Hussein.
The medic, a middle-aged man with a snake’s eyes, produced a pair of shears and got to work exposing Chopra’s wound.
“He has to work in the truck,” said Chen Yi. “We have to move him now.”
The medic yelled something in Chinese to Chen Yi.
“I don’t care,” Chen Yi answered.
“We have to move him,” the Snow Maiden echoed. She batted away the medic’s hand. “We’ll get him into the back and you work on him there.”
“Not good to move,” said the medic in broken Russian.
“No time!” snapped the Snow Maiden. “We’re moving him right now!”
“I can go,” said Chopra, glancing back to Hussein. “Thank you. Thank you for getting him.”
The boy looked scared. Really scared.
“All right,” said the Snow Maiden. “Here we go!” She and Chen Yi helped Chopra back to his feet.
And that’s when the old man fainted.
* * *
Brent and Lakota had sat on the floor, sipping tea and eating rice, beans, and a lamb dish that Brent had found a bit too spicy for his tastes, but he’d eaten it nonetheless. Juma was, as expected, a gracious and painfully ceremonial host who spent several hours discussing his family’s history, his commitment to restoring Dubai back to power, and the extensive needs of his militia. It was clear to him that the JSF had arrived to strike a deal of sorts, and he was not shy in making his demands. Ironically, he never asked why Brent and his team were in the country. He’d assumed that it was all about him, as a man in his position might be wont to do.
The conversation had then drifted to Brent and Lakota, and he’d asked them pointed questions about their lives in the United States, why they’d joined the military, and what thoughts they had about the war and when it all might end.
Both were noncommittal in their responses, trying to feed the man what he wanted to hear. Ironically, he called them out on that, and Brent had been forced to apologize. For the better part of two minutes, Brent went on a rant of everything he thought was wrong about the war and the military.
Juma had grinned. “Now that is the truth!”
Finally, growing weary of any more delays, and believing they had indulged Juma enough, Brent got down to business. “We’re actually here because we’re after a woman who might have access to your vaults. She’s captured a man named Manoj Chopra.”
Juma’s mouth fell open. “Chopra? I thought he was dead. I thought the Russians were using his name to try to contact me. Maybe that was him all along. We could never verify…”
“She has Chopra, and she also has Hussein, son of the late sheikh and heir to Dubai.”
“My cousin. We all thought he was dead. I heard rumors of his sisters being alive. Why didn’t you tell me this immediately?” Juma glanced around the room, his thoughts obviously racing, his eyes widening.
Brent winced. “I didn’t want to offend you or dismiss your hospitality.”
Juma rose quickly to his feet. “Who is this woman you’re after?”
“We can brief you, provide all the intelligence we have, but we need a commitment. We brought in a small team to fly under the radar. We need your militia.”
“Of course, you have it!”
“All right, then—”
Brent didn’t finish his sentence.
What felt like an earthquake rocked t
he entire room, dust trickling down from the ceiling, the floor feeling as though it were about to buckle. A bookcase behind Juma began shaking, the books spilling to the floor.
One of Juma’s men came charging into the room. “Sir, gunships! Troops! We’re under attack!”
“Get to the big guns!”
As Brent and Lakota donned their helmets and sealed their suits, Juma bounded after his men, seizing a rifle propped up near the doorway.
When they reached the bombed-out entrance, they spotted a pair of gunships arcing across the night sky.
Brent’s camera zoomed in and the computer immediately identified the aircraft. Data windows opened along the margins of his display. They were looking at a pair of PAH-6 Cheetahs, the main attack helicopter of the European Federation. They were dark, sleek, futuristic-looking birds that boasted hydrogen-powered turbo shafts, shrouded tail rotors, and HOT-3 optically tracked laser-guided missiles with tandem warheads to minimize collateral damage.
A rotating three-dimensional image with engine cutaways glowed alongside the windows, but Brent didn’t need the virtual picture — the real-life picture was clear enough. The gunships streaked through the night as though riding on rails, suggesting they could outmaneuver anything thrown at them. Brent had seen these choppers only a few times during joint operations with the Euros, and he’d certainly never found himself poised beneath their gunners’ sights.
“What the hell are the Euros doing here?” shouted Lakota.
“Good question!” Brent cried. “But the damn uplink is still down. Try hailing those birds.”
“On it,” she replied.
“He’s coming around,” hollered Juma, pointing at the sky and ushering them back behind a pair of fallen columns as the recoil-less autocannons on both choppers came alive, hundreds of rounds of caseless ammunition pounding into the ground as the militiamen scrambled for cover. Juma had said he had about two hundred in Dubai at the moment, two hundred on the island, and the rest scattered across the other islands and in the mid-desert areas. It seemed the Euros were intent on exterminating this piece of Juma’s network. “Come on!” the man cried.
“Sir, Voeckler says the WAN uplink’s not down — it’s being jammed,” reported Lakota. “Can’t get through. And no response from those pilots.”
Brent ducked behind the rocks and called up his roster. He tapped Daugherty. Their suits used the most sophisticated encryption technology on the planet, and that paid off because the LAN still worked and Daugherty answered the call. “I’m here, Ghost Lead.”
“Euros have some gunships here over the island,” Brent reported.
“Just going to call you. Troop transports landing about five clicks north of the tower. They’re deploying. Got a few heavy lifters dropping some armor. Not sure how many dismounts yet. Captain, what is this? The Euros got our backs now?”
“I don’t know. But they’re attacking the militia, which in my book makes them the enemy.”
“Sir, are you ordering us to attack them?”
“Negative, but you’ll return fire if fired upon.”
“Roger that.”
Brent grabbed Lakota by the arm. “We need to get back.”
She’d been listening in and nodded.
A strange whirring and fluctuating hiss grew louder and was amplified by the suit’s sensors. Brent craned his head in time to watch the entire entrance to the compound — piles of rubble, really — explode into more fountains of rock and other jagged debris as the gunship’s pilot cut loose another missile, effectively sealing off the main entrance to Juma’s base.
Two pickup trucks rolled into view with fifty-caliber machine guns mounted in their flatbeds. The men behind those fifties swung the barrels around and, howling at the gunships, directed their fire skyward as brass casings jingled and arced over the sides. Every third round was a tracer, slashing red hot against the night, and both men adjusted their fire, doing what they could to counterattack an overwhelming and technologically superior force. The engines, screams, and gunfire rose in a blaring crescendo as the gunners kept firing. Brent remembered what had happened to the two trucks in Sandhurst, and he doubted this situation would end any better.
As expected, the Cheetahs responded in kind, diving boldly and directly into the onslaught, their pilots launching missiles at each of the pickup trucks.
Brent couldn’t take his eyes off the scene as the gunners tried to bail out before those missiles struck, but they were too late, both enveloped by fireballs, as were the drivers.
“What are they doing?” Juma demanded. “I thought you Americans were allied with them!”
“So did I!” Brent retorted.
And as quickly as the attack began, it ended, with both birds turning tail and heading southeast toward Dubai.
“Why are they leaving?” asked Lakota.
“I don’t know,” muttered Brent. “Call Daugherty.”
She did. Brent told Juma they needed transport back to the vault and a contingent of men to come with them.
“I’ll lead them myself.”
One of Juma’s lieutenants came dashing up with a cell phone and thrust it into Juma’s hand. The conversation went quickly, and when it was finished, Juma said, “Some of my men attacked a convoy near Al Malaiha. Three trucks are still headed south. Also, there’s been another skirmish south of Dubai, along the coast. I don’t know what that’s about. My men did not recognize any of the forces there. Can you contact your people?”
Brent frowned. He tried to call Grey himself. Still no uplink. “We’re being jammed. And until my people can stop it, I’m cut off from back home.”
Juma nodded. “Very well. To the docks.”
As they jogged off, Brent called back to Riggs and Schleck, who were still up on the rooftops. He warned them of the convoy.
“No worries, Boss. We’re on it,” said Riggs.
* * *
The Snow Maiden’s group was down to three trucks, and they would have to make the gold fit or leave some bricks behind, unless Patti could somehow arrange for a replacement. She sat in the back, trying to keep the flashlight steady as the medic gave her somber looks. He’d already started an IV on Chopra, but he didn’t seem very pleased with that and muttered to himself in Chinese.
Chopra’s breathing had grown shallow and wheezy. Though the medic didn’t say it (he probably couldn’t say it in Russian), the Snow Maiden guessed that the bullet had pierced Chopra’s lung and chest cavity and that he was bleeding internally.
If the old bastard could live long enough to get them into the vault, she’d be okay. Just keep him alive, she kept screaming to herself. Part of her wanted the stubborn old bastard to die; yet she pitied the man because he had put such faith and belief in a punk kid who would ultimately break his heart.
She checked her watch. They were less than twenty minutes away now, and Chen Yi called her to say that he saw flashes, smoke, and fires in the distance.
She grinned. The Europeans had arrived.
Hussein sat across from them, his back pressed against the truck wall, fingers wrapped around a leather rung attached to the wall and used for strapping down cargo. “I want to tell you something,” he began, raising his voice above the shimmying truck.
“What?” she said, grimacing.
“You have to keep us alive. The vault is rigged. We’re both living keys. If we die while inside, the explosions will kill everyone and destroy the gold. My father was careful about these things. He explained everything to me. Showed me everything.”
“Nice try, kid. We’ve studied the vault. We know exactly how it was constructed and what security measures are in place.”
“You think you do.”
She snorted. “We’ll see.” She glanced down at Chopra, still wheezing, and then at the medic, who was listening to Chopra’s chest through a stethoscope and plugging numbers into a touchpad medical device that was providing an ultrasound-like image of Chopra’s lungs.
“Bullet here,�
� said the medic. “I find it. Not good.”
“I need him alive for another half hour. Can you do that?”
“Not sure,” said the medic.
She glanced back at the kid, just as a tear slipped from one of his eyes.
“So now you’re finally scared,” she said.
“I’m not scared.” He dragged a hand across his face. “I’m not…”
“You should be.”
“Are you really going to kill us?”
“I don’t want you to die. I want you to lead your country. I told you that. But if you get in my way, then you know what’ll happen. It’s as simple as that.”
Chopra began coughing loudly, and then he was choking, spitting up blood all over his shirt, over the medic, and the truck floor.
The Snow Maiden screamed at the medic, who rifled through his bag, produced a needle, and punched it into Chopra’s ribs. He did something to the needle, and air whistled through. Chopra gasped and was beginning to calm. He caught a breath, then another.
“He bleeds bad. Not much time,” said the medic.
“How long?” she demanded.
The medic shrugged.
“Don’t let him die,” pleaded Hussein.
Chopra reached out toward the boy, who just gaped at the bloody hand.
* * *
A flotilla of about thirty boats left Kish Island, and Juma was able to take Brent and Lakota back in a high-speed cigar boat procured from some Iranian drug dealers just after the nuclear exchange. It was, Juma had said, his personal ride.
Tensions were expectedly high, and Brent was somewhat baffled because the choppers did not return to attack; it seemed they were being lured toward Dubai.
As they neared the city — the skyscrapers like monoliths, black and dead — lightning, like flashes of combat, backlit the clouds about twenty miles north, somewhere near the airport, Brent estimated.
But up there, on the Gold and Silver Towers respectively, were Brent’s eyes and ears, his own low-tech satellite feed in the form of snipers Schleck and Riggs.
“They’ve got about ten Badgers rolling south from the airport area, but real slow,” said Schleck. “Real slow. Weird. They’re taking fire from the militia, but their response so far has been limited.”