by S L Shelton
“What now?” Daniil said.
I turned to Nick and the other man, gesturing for them to lower their weapons. They looked at John, who nodded. Everyone relaxed a tick.
“Daniil. Which one of you knows how to fly a helicopter?” I asked.
A confused look washed over his face. “Rodka used to fly helicopter for army.”
“Anyone else?” I asked.
“Nyet.” Daniil replied. “Funny you ask. Popovich says we go to Hague with helicopter. Rodka flies.”
I looked at John, gauging his response to this new information, which confirmed at least part of what I had theorized. John nodded at me.
“This is going to sound real bad, but I need you to hear me out before you respond. We’ve got one chance to make this work,” I said.
“Okay,” he said pensively.
“The Serbs are going to kill you and the hostages on that helicopter,” I said plainly.
His eyes opened wide. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“The plane that just arrived? We believe it brought in at least one nuclear bomb. The Serbs are going to send it to The Hague with the hostages and you.”
Fear and anger washed across Daniil’s face.
“So we need to find a way to get you, the nuke, and the hostages out of here before you take off in that helicopter,” I said.
“Half of hostages,” he said, correcting me.
“Half?” John and I asked at the same time.
“Da. Half go with us to Hague, half go with Serbs on plane,” he said.
“Shit!” John exclaimed.
This changed things.
“We don’t have the manpower we need,” John said. “We can take the helicopter with minimal collateral losses, but if they split the hostages up, we can’t do both.”
“Then we have to move before the helo arrives.” Lt. Marsh said.
There was a click in John’s earpiece. He turned his head to listen, then, “Acknowledged.”
“It’s too late,” he said as he turned back to us. “The chopper is ten minutes out. Even if the Russians help us, we now have twenty-two Serbs to deal with,” he said, accounting for the one that Crow had killed.
I was already in the zone. This was only a little wrinkle—an adjustment. I just had to convince John.
“Let them leave on the chopper,” I said.
“What? Do you seriously think I’m going to let the Russian mob fly off with hostages and a nuclear device?” John exclaimed and then turned to Daniil. “No offense.”
Daniil shrugged dismissively.
“Yes. Three of their guys and two of your guys dressed as theirs,” I said, explaining. “Fifteen hostages and five guys with guns strolling in the dark. Most of the Serbs will be well away from the chopper as soon as the nuke gets loaded. The person arming it would have come in on the transport and probably doesn’t even know what the Russians all look like.”
“Is true. New guys don’t know us, old guys all drunk,” Daniil offered, supporting my argument.
“Once the chopper is off, you can take the cargo plane. No loud noises around the nuclear device. That’s better anyway,” I said, appealing to his common sense. “And at least half the hostages would be free with no shots fired.”
John thought about it for a minute. He was coming around. I pulled out my iPad and brought up the map of the area. I zoomed in on the hilltop Kathrin and I did yesterday’s surveillance from.
“Here. Ralsko Castle. It’s on a big hill. You can set down on the other side in the field, here,” I said, pointing at the map. “You’ve got roughly three hours before the chopper is supposed to arrive at The Hague. That’s plenty of time to get the hostages off and your specialists in to deactivate the bomb.”
John looked at my map. “What’s the terrain like?” he asked.
I switched the map to terrain view.
He studied it and then stood looking at me pensively. “We need Rodka,” he said finally.
I looked at Daniil. He nodded and then left the building, walking into the growing chaos outside the barracks where several new Serbs just showed up. He returned a few moments later, Rodka following behind him.
I met him and Daniil in the entrance. Rodka looked on the floor, seeing the dead Serb, and then looked at me.
“Daniil says you can help us.” He looked at me for a second and then pointed his gun at me. “Daniil trusts too much.”
Before his sentence was finished, there were four laser spots on Rodka’s chest. He froze as anger washed across his face.
Daniil jumped in quickly. He said something to Rodka in Russian that I didn’t understand, but several others in the room did.
John added something in Russian. Rodka looked behind him at the truck rolling up in front of the barracks.
“How do I know you tell truth?” Rodka asked John.
“Why would they be in charge the whole time and then send just the Russians off in the chopper with the hostages? And why would they need to fly in a special truck just to move hostages from the barracks to the chopper?” John replied.
It made perfect sense to him. I saw it on his face…resignation.
“We need to dress two of our guys like two of your guys,” I said. “The rest goes as planned. You get in the helicopter, fly away from the base and land here on the other side of this hill. You’ll pick up our bomb team and then the hostages and the rest of your guys are free.”
“But I need to fly, for talk on radio,” Rodka stated more than asked.
“I’m afraid so. But our techs can defuse the bomb,” John said sympathetically. “And even if they can’t, we’ll run the engines hot and get there early, go out over the ocean, and ditch it. But I doubt it will come to that,” he said, trying to downplay the danger.
Rodka thought about it for a second. He dropped his gaze to the floor as he sorted all the information. “What choice I have?” he began. “If I yell, everyone dies, including us. If I ignore you and take chopper, it blows up, either by Serbs or by your jets. If I go with your plan, maybe I live but my men are free—”
He paused, looking first at Daniil, then me, and then back to John.
“Your offer sounds best,” he said finally. “I go with you.”
“Great. We need two of your men to switch with our guys,” I said.
Rodka nodded. I looked at John and then John looked at Lt Marsh. “Okay! Let’s move this Charlie Foxtrot along,” he said finally.
Daniil and Rodka left. While they were gone, John called in the plan and requested the techs to be at the coordinates on the opposite side of Ralsko Castle along with transport for approximately fifteen hostages and two Russians.
A few moments later, Daniil returned with two of the other Russians. As they arrived, the chopper could be heard approaching the tarmac.
“Hurry! Change into their clothes.” John said to Lt. Marsh and one of the other men.
Once changed, Daniil and the two impostors walked out of the building, blending into the chaos of the hostage-loading procedure before climbing into the back of the truck with the hostages. A few seconds later, they were gone.
I hadn’t gotten a chance to see if Barb had been loaded into that truck or not. I waited until everyone had settled down and the truck was being backed onto the chopper before broaching it.
I clicked the switch for the throat mic I was still wearing.
“Arrow, Monkey Wrench. Is Barb with you? Over,” I asked.
John flashed me a hard look, but he kept quiet.
There was a long pause and then a barely audible “Nyet.”
Why would I think my luck should change now?
As soon as the chopper was airborne, the attention shifted to the plane. John, Nick, and one of the other guys were arguing about how to take the plane when we heard the engines start up.
Time had just run out.
“Papa, we’re about to lose the heavy. They just started their engines up.”
“Roger, Momma. We’ve got good
tracking. If you can’t take the field, we’ll trace it to its next location.”
I wasn’t happy with that. The Serbs had what they wanted; they didn’t need the hostages any more.
Kathrin quietly worked her way around to me before bumping me on my arm and nodding toward the tarmac.
I raised an eyebrow in question.
Is she asking what I think she’s asking? I thought.
She was still dressed in Michelle’s clothes. I was still in the Serb’s clothes.
I looked at her pensively. She lifted her eyebrows and nodded toward the tarmac again, more insistently.
The engines on the aircraft revved.
It was put-up or shut-up time. Move your ass, Scott, I thought to myself before nodding in agreement with her.
While John and Nick had their backs to us, we snuck out of the office and into the entryway. I saw that the area in front of the barracks was clearing out, and the Serbs were all headed toward the airfield.
I looked at Kathrin. “Are you sure?” I whispered.
“Come on,” she said with a grin. “I want to meet that girl of yours.”
I smiled as I pulled the black hood up from under my jacket. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Kathrin put a hand to her face as if she were crying as I grabbed her by the elbow, and then I pulled her out of the building, dragging her quickly to the airfield.
When we arrived on the tarmac, I held back so we were the last ones on board and then stumbled up the ramp as the plane started to move, my head down, tugging a seemingly unwilling Kathrin behind me.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire, I thought as the ramp started to close.
I drunkenly pushed past a handful of Serbs. They laughed and shoved back, grabbing at Kathrin’s behind as I pulled her forward. I looked at her, quickly catching her attention by gripping her elbow more tightly, warning her not to strike back.
I could tell by the look on her face that it was difficult for her to restrain herself, but she nonetheless continued in her role as the weeping rape victim.
I pushed her roughly toward the small cargo container strapped to the center of the cargo area. The door was open. I shoved her toward the opening, sending her stumbling inside. I couldn’t hear what was said over the roar of the engines, but I could see hands reach out to comfort her, and then confused looks, followed by Kathrin putting her finger to her lips as the door clanked shut.
I fell over heavily against the bulkhead between the door and a bundle of something soft before dropping my head between my knees as if I were sick.
I looked sideways to see if anyone had noticed the strangers in their midst. They appeared to have been fooled—at least for now. As I settled into my nest and began looking around, I saw another Serb running for the back of the ramp as it was coming up. He leapt onto the ramp and pulled himself over, rolling like a floppy rag doll to the floor of the cargo bay. His hood was up as mine was, as many of the Serbs’ were, but as he pulled himself drunkenly toward the bulkhead, I saw his face.
Nick!
He tucked his head into the corner and fell over as if he were passed out. Then I heard a voice in my ear.
“Momma, Spartan. On board. Package in sight. Monkey Wrench and Gretel are under the radar.”
“Roger, Spartan,” came John’s voice. “Monkey Wrench. If you can still hear me, you and I are going to have words when this is over. Momma out.”
I looked down the aisle at Nick. He was convincing as a passed-out drunk, but I could see one of his eyes flitting back and forth, looking around the cargo bay. There were roughly eighteen Serbs back there with us. I had no way of knowing how many were in the seats forward of us from my viewpoint, but by guessing, I came up with an additional eight count plus flight crew.
Very, very bad odds.
What was I thinking? I asked myself.
I slumped against the bundle next to me. It took me a moment, but I figured out what it was: an equipment parachute, stowed for deployment. Its hooks were neatly lined up to attach to a cargo sled. I looked across the bay and saw another one just like it on the other side.
Slumping forward, I turned my head, discreetly toward Nick and then nodded in the direction of the chutes. He looked at them, a look of agitation sweeping across his face before turning back toward me and nodding.
My space was abruptly invaded before we could do anything about the parachutes. A drunken Serb walked up and started talking to me in a belligerent tone, bumping my foot with his boot-clad toe. I tucked my head deeper between my legs.
“He wants to know if she was good,” Nick said into my ear.
I nodded without raising my head. The Serb persisted, throwing more words at me that I didn’t understand.
“He’s pissed at you for sharing her with the Russian instead of your friend,” Nick said.
I leaned forward, putting my finger down my throat, and retched on his boots. That backed him off for a second, but then he came toward me more aggressively.
“You aren’t going to get rid of him,” Nick warned.
I waved my hand, gesturing for him to leave me.
Two of the sober Serbs came over and tried to talk him into sitting down and sleeping it off. But he insisted on being belligerent.
“We can use this if you play it right,” Nick said into my ear. “If he doesn’t back off this time, start a fight. I’ll need thirty seconds on each side to hook up the chutes.”
I nodded.
The poor, drunk bastard wouldn’t give up. This time, when he came at me, he pushed at me with his boot. I stood up, head still down, but glad for the darkness in the cargo area. Only a tactical red light was on, giving me a bit of concealment from anyone who might recognize a strange face in the crowd.
When he approached again and shoved me, I pushed him to the side and then hit him in the ribs. He stumbled but didn’t fall. It took him a second to realize he was in a fight, but once the adrenaline was in him, he became a bull.
He charged me, fist swinging high. I easily sidestepped the drunken punch and delivered another hammer to his other side.
Now he was pissed, and the men in the cargo bay were starting to enjoy the show, yelling at him, encouraging him to go back for more.
He came charging back at me, but this time he threw his body into me and wrapped his arms around my waist, slamming me into the cargo container. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick, busily snapping the heavy snap links of the chute to the cargo sled the hostages were strapped to.
I brought my elbows down hard on my opponent’s back, loosening his grip and allowing me to shove him backward. He stumbled as he fell back, but helpful hands reached out, lifting him and then shoving him back toward me.
“I need to get on that side now,” I heard Nick say into my ear.
When the drunken Serb stumbled toward me again, I threw a punch that sent him spinning to the other side of the cargo container, taking the fight to the other side as Nick had ordered. There, two of the sober onlookers caught him. Sadly, the punch appeared to have knocked him unconscious. Despite his pals shaking and egging him back into the fight, he was flopping loosely about like a puppet that had its strings cut.
“Shit!”
“I need more time,” Nick warned.
Shit, shit, shit! I thought to myself. This is going to hurt.
I stepped forward drunkenly as if I were going to punch the man again, but I let my swing miss my target, instead striking one of the sober men holding him—a big guy.
Oops! I should have thought that out a little longer, I realized.
A loud whoop rose from the men in the cargo bay.
The man rubbed his face with the back of his hand and then smiled at me.
There is nothing scarier than hitting a guy in the face and getting a smile in response.
This man was not drunk and he was not small—but he was pissed. I barely saw the fist that hit me in the side of my head. I staggered against the cargo box as he stepped forward, fists raised.
I raised my hand as if conceding my mistake, but he moved forward anyway; the time for apologies had passed.
I ducked under a punch, letting his hand slam against the side of the cargo container. This just enraged him more.
As I moved to the side, trying to draw attention away from Nick, he charged once again. His attempted roundhouse punch was deftly blocked by my elbow, which seemed to rise to the occasion on its own volition to deflect the blow. I had no time to wonder what odd muscle memory may have caused the block before my foot lashed out and caught him at the knee, bending it sideways and sending him to the ground.
I guess old muscle memory is better than no muscle memory. It was hard to believe that a couple of years of karate as a kid had made such a permanent alteration to my reflexive motor skills, but I had no other explanation for the automatic response.
He stepped back for a second, somewhat surprised by the coherent counter, but determination washed across his face. He would not be undone by a drunk.
He responded with several kicks in the air, followed by another roundhouse punch. I was able to dodge the kicks, but all I could do with the punch was raise my shoulder to protect my ear. Most of the force glanced off my skull, but enough of it connected that it rung my bell a bit.
I would have been able to shake it off and resume my battle if it hadn’t been for the sweep of his leg to my feet.
CRASH!
I went down hard on my injured ribs, slamming to the floor, my shoulder colliding with the wall next to the container—but he wasn’t done yet. He stepped forward and brought his boot down over my head. I crossed my arms in front of me and pushed back hard as he made contact, sending him backward a few feet.
“You need to hit the emergency drop on the ramp. The guide chute release is on my side,” came Nick’s voice. “When the light flashes, you have to be strapped to the sled, or you are going home with these guys,” he said just as the angry Serb stepped in for another kick.
“Busy!” I said.
The kick was aimed for my head. I raised my left elbow to block it and then executed a nearly perfect roundhouse sweep with my leg, followed by a knee to his chest, which sent him bouncing to the deck.