EndWar Page 18

  Good thing he did. The debris was already crashing down along the wall, and just as the larger parts of the helo’s fuselage hit with echoing concussions and multiple booms, Band-Aid hustled up and dropped down to the captain.

  The medic was a Japanese-American with a sparse beard who never seemed relaxed, always “on.” He dropped his medical bag, about to get to work. “How long has he been unconscious?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Aw, hell. I liked him.”

  “Just move up front, look for Black Bear’s truck. They’re coming for us.”

  “You got it, Sergeant.”

  Vatz glanced once more at the fallen captain. And once again, it was always somebody else.

  Cursed? Lucky? He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

  And for just a second, he did just that.

  There in the darkness of a dark, damp alley in Moscow lay his old friend Zack with a gaping bullet hole in his head.

  Zack’s eyes snapped open. “Vatz, man, it’s not so bad here. If you want, we could hang out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re just delaying the inevitable. Those boys from the Tenth probably won’t get here in time. Maybe you’ll weaken this recon force, but once their BMPs come rolling down, you guys are all dead. Unless, of course, you run for it.”

  “We won’t leave these people.”

  “I know. So I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  “Sergeant!”

  Vatz took a deep breath, heard the sound of an engine.

  “Sergeant?” cried Band-Aid.

  Vatz snapped awake with a chill. He immediately hoisted the captain in a fireman’s carry, then rushed around the corner, toward the street, where a pickup truck was waiting.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sergeant Raymond McAllen, Sergeant Scott Rule, and Khaki rushed up to the idling Ka-29. McAllen held up the grenade, as Khaki had suggested.

  Meanwhile, Rule was on the other side of the helo, pointing his weapon at the co-pilot on the other side of the canopy.

  Both pilots were in their late fifties and seemed more annoyed than scared. They raised their hands, and McAllen motioned for the pilot to go to the back, open the bay door.

  “You smell that?” cried Khaki. “That’s fuel.”

  The pilot reached for the side door and inched it open, just as McAllen seized it, glanced up, and aimed his SIG P220 pistol, screaming in Russian, “Don’t move!”

  With a gun to his head, the pilot was most accommodating, and McAllen climbed up into the helo, took the pilot’s sidearm from his holster, then motioned him back toward the cockpit.

  “Something’s wrong with this helo,” hollered Khaki.

  McAllen ignored him for now. “Rule, get everybody else in here,” he ordered his assistant. “Khaki, come on up, get in the co-pilot’s seat. But I don’t think you’re flying.”

  After ordering the co-pilot to turn over his sidearm, McAllen moved back, allowing Khaki into the cockpit. The co-pilot vacated his chair and slowly headed into the troop compartment, Khaki’s pistol trained on him until Rule got back inside and took over.

  McAllen and Khaki donned headsets, then Khaki spoke quickly to the pilot in Russian, his language skills even better than McAllen’s. In fact, the two spoke so quickly that McAllen only picked up a word here and there.

  “All right, he doesn’t care, he’ll fly us where we want to go so long as we don’t shoot them, but it’s no coincidence they were just sitting here.”

  “How bad?”

  “He says they’re having trouble with the gear. And there’s an electrical problem along with a fuel leak somewhere. Remember, these Russians have some new gear, but the old stuff is very old.”

  “So we just got into a flying bomb.”

  “Pretty much.”

  McAllen lowered his voice, even though he didn’t need to. “Don’t tell the other guys.”

  Khaki winked and said, “We’re screwed.”

  “Less screwed than before. At least we got a ride now. How’s the fuel?”

  “They filled it up before leaving Behchoko, but we’ll find out just how bad this leak is.”

  McAllen spoke slowly to the pilot, asking him more about the fuel problem.

  The pilot threw up his hands, shrugged.

  Bastard wasn’t telling.

  “It’s about a two-hour ride up to your pilot’s last known coordinates,” said Khaki. “We might make it there, but if we don’t refuel, this won’t be our ride home.”

  “Just get us there. My CO’s working on the rest.”

  Friskis, Gutierrez, Palladino, and Szymanski piled into the bird, and Rule shut the door behind them.

  Then the assistant team leader rushed up, slapped a hand on McAllen’s shoulder, and shouted in his ear, “Do we have to take the co-pilot?”

  “No, you’re right. Good call. Ditch him.” While Rule took care of that, McAllen ordered the pilot to take off.

  The rotors began to kick up as Rule shoved the co-pilot outside, then slammed shut the door.

  After jogging a few yards away, the co-pilot whirled around and raised his middle fingers.

  “He’s not happy!” Rule cried.

  “He’s lucky we didn’t shoot him,” added McAllen.

  As the engine began to roar even louder, and the floor began to vibrate, McAllen grabbed onto the back of the pilot’s seat as the gear left the ground.

  “This helo is a piece of crap!” shouted Rule.

  McAllen smiled darkly. “But it’s all ours!”

  While Khaki ordered the pilot to bank away and head north, McAllen wrestled with the idea that they could use the helo and its weaponry to assist the SF guys.

  What a surprise that would be, seeing a Ka-29 swoop down to take out Spetsnaz infantrymen on the ground, not Canadians and Americans.

  But they didn’t have the fuel, might need the weapons later on, and there was always the chance that they could be accidentally taken out.

  So there it was. Despite the pure, unadulterated frustration, they would stick to the plan.

  Of course, those Special Forces boys weren’t about to let him live down that decision. “Outlaw One, this is Black Bear, over!”

  “Go ahead, Black Bear.”

  “Is that you in that Russian helo, over?”

  “Roger that. Sorry we couldn’t stick around for the cake, but I think your operators got it under control, over.”

  “If this channel wasn’t being recorded, you know what I’d be telling you right now, don’t you?”

  McAllen knew. And he’d probably say the same thing. “Understood. Outlaw One, out.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, Sergeant,” said Khaki over the intercom. “Every player has his part.”

  “Yeah, but you know, you can’t help but ask—what’s more important? One pilot? Or helping secure an entire town?”

  “That’s not your question to answer.”

  “No, but it’s still mine to ask.”

  The driver of the pickup truck had introduced himself as Barry. He was three hundred and fifty pounds of flannel-clad Canadian hunter/firefighter, and he barreled down the street at sixty-plus miles per hour, with Vatz buckled into the passenger’s seat, Band-Aid jammed into the backseat.

  Vatz had contacted the other four guys he had posted downtown, and they were already en route to the airport in another truck.

  Meanwhile, some of Captain Rodriguez’s men were reconnoitering the roadblocks, while others attempted to fall back into the neighborhoods to see just where those Spetsnaz troops had moved. Rodriguez had said he’d already lost four men, and that he still hadn’t heard when the Tenth Mountain Division’s first troops would arrive from Grand Prairie.

  They drove in silence for a minute, then Barry suddenly blurted, “This is like something out of a movie. I mean, this stuff doesn’t happen to folks like us.”

  “Well, it does now,” said Vatz.

&n
bsp; “I got a condo in Florida. What am I doing here?”

  “Saving your town,” said Band-Aid.

  “Speaking of which, I heard we destroyed all of their helicopters.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Vatz said.

  “I also heard that a squad or two went off into the neighborhoods. They’re using gas.”

  “What else did you hear?” asked Band-Aid.

  “They shot down the two choppers we had up there.”

  Vatz rubbed his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. “I saw one of our birds go down. But we also took out the helo that was after it.”

  A crash and muffled thud made him snap up.

  Suddenly, the truck was drifting to the left, cutting into the wrong lane and now racing toward a building.

  Vatz glanced sidelong at Barry.

  He’d been shot in the chest by a sniper, and blood had splattered all over the cab. A gaping hole had opened in the windshield.

  Band-Aid was screaming that the round had missed him by a few inches. Most of the rear window was gone.

  Before Vatz could grab the wheel, the truck plowed through the glass door and adjoining wall of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, cinder blocks and glass tumbling down onto the hood, crashing through the windshield and onto Vatz as he ducked, burying himself in the floorboard.

  But the truck kept on moving, blasting through decks and counters until Vatz reached up through the debris on his lap and threw the gear into park, then switched off the engine.

  “Jac, you all right?”

  The medic came up from behind the seat. “I’m good. I’m good.”

  Vatz lifted pieces of cinder block from his lap, opened his door, and forced himself outside, coughing.

  Dust-filled beams of light shone in from the shattered entrance. With his rifle at the ready, Vatz moved shakily forward, along with Band-Aid.

  “He’s out there, somewhere . . .”

  “Only way to tell is to draw his fire,” said Band-Aid. “I’ll run across the street.”

  “Hold up.” Vatz got on the radio to inform Black Bear what had happened.

  “Too tied up now to send another truck, but I need you here! There’s a squad out there in the trees. Our snipers got them pinned down, but for how long I don’t know. We can’t move till we take them out. I need you here, over.”

  “Roger that, on our way, out.”

  Band-Aid frowned. “On our way?”

  “Get back in the truck.”

  “Damn, I like your style.” The medic rushed to the rear cab door, tugged it open, hopped inside.

  Vatz yanked the driver’s door, reached in, and hauled Barry out of the seat. He dropped hard to the floor, and Vatz had to turn away. Sure, he’d seen his share of blood and gore, but all that blood and brain matter, coupled with the guy’s weight, was just too much.

  Repressing the urge to gag, he hauled himself into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Damned radiator was cracked and hissing. Ignoring it, he threw the shifter in reverse, floored it.

  Rubber burned as they shot back through the bank and exploded onto the street, trailing dust and tumbling pieces of concrete.

  Not a second later, another round punched through the side window; Vatz ducked, threw it in drive, floored it again.

  A third round struck as Vatz kept low and steered blindly.

  After two more breaths, he popped up and cut the wheel hard left, turning down a side street. “We’re out of his bead now, I think.”

  Band-Aid did not answer.

  Vatz stole a look into the backseat, couldn’t see the medic. “Band-Aid?”

  Nothing.

  Vatz’s heart skipped a beat. My God. He was a magnet for death.

  “Hey, Sergeant, yeah, I’m good.” The medic popped his head up and leaned back in the seat, one eye shaded by his monocle.

  Vatz sighed in heavy relief. “Damn it, bro, you gave me a heart attack!”

  “Sorry, I was just checking the Cross Com. You know, if you and I can get in behind those squads near the terminal—”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s what Black Bear has in mind.”

  THIRTY

  The snowmobile’s engine began to falter, and Major Stephanie Halverson knew she’d be back on foot very soon.

  “What do you think, Jake?” she asked aloud. “Still think I’ll make it?”

  She imagined Jake Boyd in his cockpit, flying just off her wing, flashing her a big thumbs-up.

  “Well, I won’t argue with that.”

  Halverson estimated she had covered between sixteen and eighteen miles, and she now rode through tall pines; beyond the woods she could see a frozen river whose opposite shoreline lay a half kilometer away.

  With an unceremonious cough, the engine died. She tried to start the snowmobile again. The tank was bone-dry.

  She hopped off, checked the forest behind her, then unloaded the gear, jamming what she could into the pillowcase she’d taken from the farmhouse.

  That poor family. Halverson now wore the mother’s clothes, which smelled like laundry detergent. She slung the survival kit over one shoulder, the pillowcase over the other, then started toward the river.

  At this time of year the ice should be thick enough to support her, she thought. If she followed the river, her GPS said she’d reach another broad plain offering no cover, but more forest lay on the opposite shore. However, getting to that better cover meant crossing the river and placing herself in the wide open.

  Her whole life had been a risk, and there were very few she hadn’t taken, save for the one with Jake.

  She paused at the very last tree before heading down onto the snowy bank. She took a long pull from her water bottle, stowed it, then thought, I got this.

  For a few moments, it was eerily quiet. Just the sounds of her breathing and snow crunching faintly beneath her boots.

  Then she heard it: a humming in the distance. Was that an engine?

  “Outlaw One, this is Hammer of Tampa Five Bravo, over.”

  Sergeant Raymond McAllen, who was seated just behind the pilot’s chair inside the Ka-29, had already been notified by radio operator Friskis that Major Alice Dennison was calling, so he put on a headset and adopted his all-business tone to answer, “Hammer, this is Outlaw One, go ahead, over.”

  “Outlaw One, I’m sending you updated GPS coordinates for your package. We picked up the survival beacon about ninety minutes ago, over.”

  “Outstanding. At least it’s a rescue now and not a recovery, over.”

  “Roger that. However, be advised that mechanized infantry forces are homing in on that location. Intel from one of our drones indicates two BMP-3s, over.”

  “Roger that, Hammer. Coordinates just received. Stand by.” McAllen got on the intercom. “Khaki, you looking at that GPS?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” he said, tapping a finger on his own unit’s screen. “I think we’re about thirty minutes away.” He leaned forward and rapped a knuckle on a gauge. “But look at this fuel. She’s leaked a lot, come down fast. We’ll be riding on fumes.”

  “All right.” McAllen switched to the radio. “Hammer, this is Outlaw One. Note we’re approximately thirty minutes out from the package, but we’re nearly out of fuel. I put in a request for an exfiltration helo over an hour ago, but haven’t heard anything from our CO. Can you follow up, and we’ll send an updated GPS of our location at that time, over?”

  “Roger that, Outlaw One. Understood. I’ll check on that pick up and get back to you. Hammer, out.”

  The lights inside the chopper flickered. They’d been doing that sporadically for the past fifteen minutes, leaving McAllen’s men even more restless.

  Since the noise was so loud in the troop compartment, McAllen got the team’s attention by raising a fist, then he traced a big 3 0 on the back of the pilot’s seat, mouthing the words: thirty minutes. He gestured going down to snatch up the pilot.

  Each man flashed a thumbs-up, then each went back to ch
ecking his weapons and inspecting the rest of his gear.

  “Hey, Sergeant,” called Khaki. “These GPS coordinates . . . you know where she is right now?”

  “Do I want to know?” he asked, his tone already darkening.

  “She’s crossing a frozen river.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a huge wooded area on the other side. Only good cover around.”

  McAllen swore through a deep sigh. “Well, that gives us two problems: if she’s still on that river when we get there, then we’ll be out in the open.”

  “But we’ll be quick.”

  “And if she’s not,” McAllen went on, “it’ll be interesting trying to find her in the woods while you hang back with the chopper, which might run out of gas before we find her.”

  “These are the things we think about but do not say,” said Khaki. “Got some good news, though: I think we can intercept her before she reaches the tree line.”

  Just then, several blinking lights shone on the cockpit panel and the chopper began to lose power.

  “What is it?” McAllen asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Khaki.

  The pilot was speaking so fast that his words became a blur, like the ground racing by at just a thousand feet below, then nine hundred, eight hundred.

  “He’s talking about that electrical problem again,” said Khaki. “But I’m not sure what he means. I don’t know all the technical terms in translation.”

  With a jolt, the power returned, and the rotor spun back up hard, the fuselage shuddering a moment before they began to regain altitude.

  Khaki glanced back at McAllen and beat a fist twice on his chest, as if to say, heart attack averted.

  McAllen nodded, then told the pilot in Russian that he’d buy him a lifetime supply of vodka if he could keep them aloft until they reached their destination.

  The pilot rolled his eyes and in broken English said, “I will make deal. But you will take me with you. I want to see America . . . before my government takes over everything.”

  McAllen exchanged a look with Khaki, then said, “Well, my friend, you’ll get your wish, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before a Russian flag is flying over the White House.”