by Joshua Hood
“Listen, I know you are still pissed about last night, but I need you to get over it.”
The Russian ignored him, and Hayes realized he was going to have to try harder.
“What I’m trying to say is that . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . ” He stopped, the words like ash in his mouth.
“You’re what?” Vlad demanded, eyes cold and enshrouded in smoke from the cigarette dangling between his lips.
“I’m trying to apologize for what happened back at the Sky Bar.”
“I tell you what,” the Russian began, “there is a package waiting in Korhogo . . .”
“Nothing illegal, or anything that would break your precious code,” Vlad added hastily, “but it would allow me to pay back some of the money that I owe.”
He brings this up now? Before the drop?
“How about we focus on the drop and then talk about this Korhogo thing?”
“Fine, whatever,” Vlad said.
Hayes left the cockpit armed with the realization that no matter what he did, it would never be enough to please the Russian.
“The hell with him,” he said, focusing on the task at hand. Unlike the other two drops, where they’d used a pallet, this time he’d chosen a speedball—a double-reinforced canvas drop bag that looked like an overstuffed football. He snapped the static line to the cable and inched the bundle to the end of the ramp.
He set the bag down and glanced back to the cockpit, the lemon-yellow glare of the sun through the bug-spattered windscreen starring his vision.
Damn, that’s bright.
They were halfway up the valley and closing in fast on the rows of off-white tents shimmering like a beacon in the center of the postage stamp of bare earth.
“We’re going to make it,” Vlad said in disbelief.
“Just hold her steady,” Hayes said, about to turn back to the ramp when the ground exploded with the flicker of hundreds of muzzle flashes.
17
ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST
General Dábo stood next to his up-armored Mercedes SUV, casually smoking a cigarette, the clatter of the distant helos sending a charge through his blood.
Where are you?
He scanned the sky from left to right, almost missing the pair of Mi-24 Hinds coming in low on the horizon, the rocket pods that hung from their stubby wings giving them the look of lethal dragonflies. The sight of the gunships took him back to the cinema in Abidjan and the showing of Rambo III. It was his first movie, and seeing the helicopters in action had been the defining moment in his life. The reason he’d come to the capital and joined the army in the first place.
He watched the lead Hind drop toward the field, its mate settling into an orbit high overhead, the door gunners sweeping for targets. The roar of the helo’s turbines when it settled on the ground sent Dábo’s eyes east to the blood-red tiles of the presidential palace.
Too late to turn back now.
He flicked the cigarette into the grass and grabbed the AK-47 from the young captain.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Dábo nodded, slinging the rifle across his chest and starting toward the helo, the young captain tight on his tail.
Holding the AK and maroon beret, the general ducked under the blades, the rotor wash from turbines clawing at his camo BDUs. The Russian-made gunship was a massive bird and usually the six-foot-three general wouldn’t have had a problem finding a spot to sit. But with the troop compartment already packed with the squad of soldiers and their weapons of war, it was a tight fit.
But rank had its privileges, and without having to say a word, one of the sergeants got to his feet and Dábo dropped into the seat. He set the AK between his knees, barrel pointed to the floor, and grabbed the headphones from the hook. By the time he stretched them over his head, the pilot had already bumped the throttles and the twin TV3-117 turboshafts screamed as the gunship rolled forward—gathering speed before leaping skyward.
“Sir, where are we going?” the pilot asked over the internal net.
Dábo smiled and turned his attention to the troop commander sitting on the bench across from him, the same question written across the man’s face.
Out of all the units in the Ivorian military, the Republican Guard was the elite of the elite. It had the most funding, the best training, and was designed to operate as an autonomous unit. If Dábo had been in command of a traditional unit, he would have had to get orders cut, request fuel, and wait for chain of command’s approval.
But as the commander of the Republican Guard, all he had to do was pick up the phone.
“The president wants us to take Korhogo,” he lied.
“It’s about time,” Captain Koffi said.
Dábo smiled at the young officer’s exuberance, reassured that he’d picked the right man.
“This is going to be a quick and dirty hit. Our objective is the airfield and our goal is to take and hold it long enough for an aircraft to land and take off. Do you understand?”
The captain nodded, and if he had any questions wisely kept them to himself.
“Good. Now brief your men.”
It was three hundred miles to Korhogo, and the Hinds had to land at a forward arming and refueling point—or FARP—at Kiémou to take on fuel. Waiting for them on the ground was a matte-black Mi-17, a squad of heavily armed mercenaries forming a defensive perimeter around the unarmed helicopter.
While the gunships took on fuel, Dábo climbed out and walked over to the Mi-17, one of the bearded mercs leading him to the bottom of the ramp.
“Wait here. Keep your eyes to the ground,” the man ordered, finger never straying from the trigger of the Vektor R4 assault rifle in his hands.
Dábo listened to the first command, stopping where the man told him to, but despite his best intentions, his curiosity got the better of him and he hazarded a quick glance up the ramp. The interior of the cargo hold was dimly lit, but he was able to make out two figures. The first was an auburn-haired woman in a black dress, her bare legs backlit by a trickle of light through the window.
But it was the second figure, the younger woman, that held his attention.
That face, I’ve seen it before, but where?
He tried to get a better look but before he had a chance the woman was walking toward him with a black duffel in her hand.
“General Dábo,” the woman said in French. “I am Theresa Mallory, Monsieur Cabot’s representative.”
“And who is that?” he asked, nodding toward the figure inside the helo.
“That is none of your concern.”
“This is my country, which makes what happens here my concern,” he hissed. “So, I will ask you again, who is that?”
“I think this should be enough to make up for any inconvenience,” she said, unzipping the duffel, and dropped it at his feet.
He looked down at the bag. Banded stacks of U.S. hundred-dollar bills spilled out on the tarmac.
He nodded. “Yes, I believe you are right.”
“Good. Now to business,” the woman said, handing him a manila envelope. “Inside you will find the satellite imagery you requested and the inbound flight information. My understanding is that the aircraft is due to arrive in two hours.”
“Two hours?” Dábo demanded. “It will take twenty minutes to fuel the helicopters and another thirty minutes of flight time just to get to the airfield.”
“According to Monsieur Cabot, you are a capable and resourceful man—I’m sure you will be able to figure it out.”
“Is there anything else?” he asked, picking up the duffel.
“No, as soon as you are fueled and my men have the tactical frequency you will be using, we can get this show on the road.”
Dábo nodded, already feeling the clock ticking down in his head when he started back to the gunshi
ps.
* * *
—
The moment the general was out of earshot, Theresa Mallory turned to the bearded mercenary. “Du Brun, a word,” she said, starting up the ramp.
At the top of the ramp she stopped at the bench seat and removed her sunglasses.
“Yes, ma’am?” the man said.
Theresa dropped the sunglasses on the seat and reached into her bag, fingers closing around the grip of the Walther PPK.
“Yes, ma’am?”
In a flash she jerked the pistol out and whirled on the bearded mercenary, chopping the suppressor hard across his face.
The blow sent the man to his knee and Theresa jammed the suppressor into the center of his forehead, her voice like ice when she spoke.
“I ought to shoot you right here.”
“Wh-what did I do?” the man asked, ignoring the rivulet of blood running down his face.
“What was the one thing you were told?” she demanded.
“No one sees the girl.”
“And if you failed?”
“Please, Theresa . . . I . . .”
“Sorry, luv,” she said, pulling the trigger.
The Walther spat, and the bullet snapped the man’s head back, Theresa stepping out of the way as the body tumbled forward.
Bloody idiot, she thought, stepping to the troop door.
“Wikus, you are in charge. Get someone to clean this up and get ready to leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Theresa returned the pistol to her bag, exchanged it for a satellite phone, and dialed.
“Yes?” a voice answered in French.
“Monsieur Cabot, we may have a slight problem.”
“You know how I feel about problems.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Well, what is it?”
“The general, he saw the package.”
There was a pause, and for a moment Theresa thought he’d hung up.
“Did he recognize her?”
“No, I don’t thi—”
“You don’t know?”
She wanted to tell him that Dábo had not recognized the other woman, but she wasn’t sure and knew better than to lie.
“No, sir, I do not know for sure.”
“Well, that is a problem,” Cabot said, and then the line went dead.
18
BOBO-DIOULASSO
One second the sky in front of the Provider was clear and blue and in the next instant, tracers were coiling up toward the windscreen like red whips. The bullets punched through the bottom of the aircraft, blowing fist-sized holes through the cargo hold.
“Hold her steady!” Hayes yelled, turning back to the ramp.
The ground fire had picked up, and all he could do was watch as the tracers blinked like fireflies on a summer evening.
Just kick it out, the voice urged.
But that wasn’t an option. Hayes had come too far, risked too much to take the easy road now, and held fast—knowing that there were more lives than just his at stake.
Holding on to the edge of the ramp, he leaned out into the slipstream, squinted against the burning mix of wind and engine exhaust that clouded his vision. The camp was coming up fast, and Hayes ducked back inside.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and grabbed the bundle, ready to throw it out, when Vlad screamed over the radio, talking so fast in Russian the only words Hayes made out were “RPG” and “pulling up.”
In the cockpit, Vlad jammed the throttles forward and yanked back on the yoke, sending the Provider’s nose skyward. The sudden change in the aircraft’s attitude threw Hayes off balance, and he stumbled forward.
He reached out to snag a strut but missed, and then he was tumbling forward, falling hard across the bundle, the sudden push of his body sending it shooting across the rollers—toward the gaping maw of the open cargo hatch.
Hayes kicked his legs behind him, desperately trying to hook his foot around anything that would keep him inside the plane, but there was nothing there. The bundle hit the lip of the ramp, bounced into the air, and launched him from the back of the aircraft.
Twisting in midair, he grabbed the bundle’s handle with his left hand and the static line with his right. By now Vlad had the Provider in a near-vertical climb, and when Hayes jerked to a halt, the deadweight of the bundle threatened to pull his shoulder from its socket.
While the static line was strong enough to hold him, the quarter-inch nylon was too thin for a proper handhold, and the scalding of his palm told Hayes that he was slipping.
Drop it, drop it now! the voice screamed.
But Hayes held on, ignoring the static line slicing into his left palm and the tug of the bundle that threatened to rip his right arm from the shoulder joint. He waited until he saw the camp below, and only when he was sure the bundle would hit its target did he let it go.
The bundle tumbled from his grasp, its static line snapping taut, ripping the parachute from the pack tray. It caught air. The silk dome inflated with a whump and the bundle slowly dropped gracefully into the center of the camp.
While the camp’s occupants rushed to claim the bundle, one thousand feet above them, Hayes was trying to save his own life—frantically trying to climb back inside the plane.
The ramp was less than four feet above his head, but even with the surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins and two hands on the static line, Hayes knew the odds of making it to safety were not in his favor.
He started up the static line, climbing hand over hand, ignoring the bullets snapping past his head, the rush of the wind buffeting his body.
“Get your fat ass up there,” he yelled at himself.
By the time he reached up and grabbed ahold of the ramp, his forearms were on fire and his clothes soaked with sweat. His shoulders and lats screamed as he pulled himself onto the ramp and squirmed his way into the cargo hold.
Once inside the aircraft, Hayes crawled to the bulkhead and slapped the plunger, his mangled hands leaving a crimson streak on the button. The ramp closed behind him and he collapsed to the floor, chest heaving, throat burning from breathing in the acrid exhaust.
He was worn out and his body screamed for rest, but Hayes knew he had to get to the cockpit. Had to get the plane back on the deck before Vlad got them both blasted out of the sky.
Shrugging out of the chute, he climbed to his feet and was staggering toward the cockpit stairs when a 14-millimeter shell hit the belly of the Provider and detonated.
The explosion opened up a section of the floor like a can opener, blasted Hayes off his feet, and bounced him off the bulkhead. The impact left him dazed and wobbly, but the sight of the flames spreading across the floor launched him into action.
Hayes staggered through the smoke and yanked the fire extinguisher off the wall. He ripped the pin free, aimed the hose at the flames, and mashed down on the handle. While he worked the retardant across the flames, Hayes yelled at Vlad over the radio.
“Get the fucking nose down!” he screamed.
Silence.
Hayes ditched the empty extinguisher and climbed up the stairs and into the cockpit.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Get us down!”
But Vlad was vapor-locked, his eyes vacant, hands bone white on the controls, brain so overcome by the overwhelming fear that came in the face of imminent death that it had shut down.
He’s done, the voice said. Take over.
But before he could drop behind the controls, the flash of the sun off metal drew his attention, the disbelief of what he saw freezing him in place.
Ever since Muammar Gaddafi was overthrown in 2011, there had been reports, whispers really, that black-market profiteers had gained access to the Libyan dictator’s arsenal and absconded with crates of Iglas—Russian man-portable sur
face-to-air missiles. Western intelligence agencies spent nine months searching for the weapons, and when the intel was compiled in late 2012, they gave Hayes a list with six names.
He spent the next six months hunting his targets, and by the time he crossed the last name off the list, he’d personally recovered and destroyed four cases of the missiles. When he returned to the States, Director Shaw told him that the rest of the stolen ordnance had been recovered.
Guess he was wrong, the voice said.
It was the understatement of the year, and Hayes realized he had two choices: He could play the blame game or deal with the surface-to-air missile rushing toward the starboard engine.
He dropped to a knee and reached into the space behind Vlad’s seat, where the plane’s emergency equipment was stored. In one quick motion, he jerked the pyrotechnic pistol from its mount on the floor, grabbed a flare, and got to his feet.
Hayes stepped out of the cockpit, cracked open the pyrotechnic pistol, and shoved a flare into the breach on his way to the emergency escape window on the starboard side of the hold. He ignored the black-and-yellow caution tape that bordered the window and the CAUTION: DO NOT OPEN IN FLIGHT warning stenciled above it. He yanked up on the release and pulled the window open.
The window wasn’t much wider than his shoulders, and the first hurdle was wedging his upper body through the opening, a difficulty compounded by the rush of air across the fuselage that kept trying to shove him back into the plane.
With the Igla closing in on the Provider at Mach 1.9, Hayes knew any delay could prove deadly, and he ignored the metal scrape of the window frame, kicking and twisting his torso out of the aircraft.
Then he was through, upper body hanging free of the aircraft, the rush of the slipstream tearing his eyes, making him feel like a hood ornament on a freight train.
Unlike earlier models, the Igla was designed to attack its targets head-on, and once the IR sensors in the nose had a lock, the guidance system would steer it onto target. When Hayes had first seen the missile in the cockpit, it was flying on a relatively flat arc, but now that the seeker had a lock, the missile was maneuvering—the contrail doglegging hard to hit the engine from the front.