by Peter Nealen
Beside him, Hart dashed forward, his peculiar, hitching run immediately identifying him. He dropped to an awkward knee behind another tree and opened up, spraying fully automatic fire across the increasingly bullet-riddled hulk of the Lada SUV.
Brannigan’s side was starting to hurt from sucking in the cold air, and his wounds were stiffening up again, but he forced himself to his feet and dashed forward. There were only a few yards between the Blackhearts and the shooters at the SUV by then, and things were getting interesting.
Bullets kicked up snow so close to his boots that he felt one go by within inches of his foot. Somebody was shooting under the vehicle, and he threw himself sideways behind a tree as more rounds smacked into the bark with loud thunks. Rolling around the trunk, he dropped to his side in the snow, leveling his AKM, but saw he didn’t have a shot.
Another white-clad shape hit a knee behind the next tree to his left. Looking up, he saw that it was Hancock. Getting his second-in-command’s attention, he signaled to him to go down the slope and come in alongside the road. That way, he should be able to flank the vehicle.
Hancock nodded, moving off with Santelli and Curtis, while Brannigan rolled back around the tree to dump another ten rounds into the SUV. It was just covering fire at that point.
But they had to finish this soon, before either they ran out of ammo, or the locals and their Russian allies showed up.
***
Hancock slipped through the trees as fast as he could without his feet sliding out from under him. It had been a while since he’d done any kind of serious cold-weather training; he liked it where it was warm. You couldn’t surf where it got down below freezing on a regular basis. Well, you could, but he generally didn’t care to.
The road was just ahead. Looking back, he saw that they had moved about a hundred yards down from where Brannigan, Hart, and Wade were still trading fire with the guys who had strongpointed behind the SUV. Wade was doubtless shooting with one knee in Gogol’s back, probably blithely unconcerned about whether or not the man could breathe or was suffocating face down in the snow. It was Wade’s way.
He hesitated. Santelli and Curtis had kept up well, which he found slightly embarrassing. He had a good foot of stride on either one of them, and Santelli wasn’t exactly a field and stream guy anymore, but they’d kept up. Getting old and slow, Roger. He gauged the distance back to the house and made his decision. Speed is security, and it’ll take too long to try to thread through the woods. Stepping out onto the side of the road, he started to jog back toward the house and the vehicle. Behind him, he could hear the crunching footsteps and wheezing breaths of the two other Blackhearts following.
The road curved back toward the house, the trees presently obscuring the vehicle, the light of the single headlight filtered through the gaps between the dark trunks. The roar of gunfire reverberated across the hillside behind and echoed through the scattered houses of the village. The noise masked the thud of his boots as he ran forward, his rifle in his shoulder.
The SUV came into view just ahead, slightly skewed in front of the house, and he could barely make out the man in winter camouflage huddled behind the rear wheel well. Lifting his rifle, he slowed, trying to bring his breathing and heartbeat under control as he kept gliding forward, still just over fifty yards away.
Screw it. He flipped the AKM to full auto and triggered a burst, the Russian rifle thumping and spitting flame in the dark. Bullets hammered into the steel of the Lada’s body, but a few struck home, as the man in the winter camouflage jerked, falling halfway on his side as he lost his balance.
Hancock dropped to a knee behind the nearest tree, even as the man he’d shot fired back, bullets snapping by his head. There was definitely still some fight left in the man, even with at least one or two 7.62 rounds in him. Bracing the AKM against the tree trunk, Hancock fired again. His aim was better, or at least he hoped it was. Curtis opening up with a ten-round burst made it hard to say which one of them laid the man out, flopping and bleeding in the snow.
Then Santelli was running past him, his short legs pumping, sending little clods of compacted snow flying from his soles, his Vz.58 in his shoulder and ready. He only got a few strides before he had to throw himself flat, a long burst tearing through the air where he’d been only a moment before.
***
Wade was getting pissed. He couldn’t maneuver, not while he also had to keep Gogol pinned down. He was determined that the slippery little bastard wasn’t going to get a chance to get away and try to set them up again. He leaned out from behind his tree, looking for a target, and fired five shots at the SUV anyway, finally shooting out the last headlight.
He was still aimed in when he saw movement on the far side of the hood, and the flickering stab of flame from somebody doing a mag dump, silhouetting the SUV’s profile against the snow.
There wasn’t much of a target, and the Vz.58’s sights weren’t the greatest, but Wade prided himself on his abilities with a gun. He’d hit smaller targets with a shitty AK that he’d dug up out of a cache in Iraq. He put the barely-visible front sight post on the man’s head and squeezed the trigger.
The Vz.58 barked. The man’s head disappeared. Wade hadn’t seen the hit, but he knew the shot was good, and the shooting from back there had stopped.
Then another blast of fire came from somewhere out in front of the house, aimed back towards Hancock and the flanking team.
***
Lezàrd was the first one out the door, and he went out shooting. Given that Redrum’s chest still hurt, he wasn’t all that thrilled with the man’s tactics, but when he came out behind him and saw the bodies sprawled in the snow behind the bullet-riddled SUV they’d driven in, he was grateful enough that they’d gone that way.
Lezàrd was down on a knee behind the corner of the house, avoiding exposing himself to the hillside, shooting down the road. Seeing some movement down that way, Redrum followed suit, even as Flint came out behind them both, propelling a battered, bleeding Codreanu ahead of him.
“Right!” Flint shouted, just before plunging toward the treeline with Codreanu. Redrum glanced over to see him go, then blasted half his magazine on full automatic down the road before getting up, one boot trying to slide out from under him, and dashing after Flint. He wasn’t going to get left holding the bag this time. Not like Flint had left those other poor bastards in Mexico.
He knew the story Flint had spun for the Board. He also knew Flint well enough that he didn’t believe a word of it. Flint had left those men to die; he’d probably shot one or two on the way out just to make sure they didn’t slow him down. It was just Flint’s way.
He got into the trees, Flint already a dozen paces ahead of him. He paused, hesitating. He was half tempted to just leave Lezàrd. It would serve the nasty Frenchman right, especially after shooting him. But he swore as he realized that with all but three of them now dead or captured, they were going to need Lezàrd. At the very least, they’d need to be able to take his remaining ammunition off his corpse.
He ducked behind a tree, flipped his M21 to automatic, leaned into the stock, and dumped the rest of the mag down the road. “Lezàrd! Go!” he shouted. The French merc didn’t need any further prompting, but got up, sprinted forward, fell flat on his face, scrambled back up, and made it the rest of the way into the treeline, chased by more bullets kicking up snow and frozen mud behind him.
Then they were running through the woods after Flint, heading downhill through the trees and scattered houses, several of which were starting to show lights, toward the M4 Highway. If they could steal a vehicle, they might still make it out.
***
The vicious exchanges of gunfire between Bianco and whoever was inside the house had kept Flanagan, Jenkins, and Gomez flat on the ground as they tried to treat Childress. He’d been hit four times in the torso and once in the leg. He was bleeding profusely, and unless Flanagan was reading the signs wrong, he was starting to have trouble breathing. Which meant his ches
t cavity was compromised, and one of his lungs was collapsing.
The shooting from inside had stopped, and Gomez and Jenkins rose up, weapons leveled through the window. “On three,” Jenkins whispered, and counted down before clambering through the broken window, leading with his rifle. Gomez followed awkwardly, trying to avoid cutting himself on the broken glass.
Javakhishvili slid to a kneeling position next to Flanagan, pulling his med kit off his back and batting his hands away. “I’ve got him,” he snapped. “Cover the front.” He immediately started assessing Childress’ wounds and Flanagan’s interventions. Childress already had a tourniquet on his leg, and chest seals on the holes in his torso. Flanagan had been fast and thorough.
“Hey, Sammy,” he said, “can you hear me?”
Childress’ reply was a gasp. “Yeah.”
“You having trouble breathing?” he asked.
“I can’t…can’t feel my legs,” Childress said in reply.
Shit. I wonder if one of the bullets hit his spine. This is bad. “It’s fine, Sammy, it’s probably just shock,” he said, rather than voice his concerns. Yeah, he’s definitely developing a tension pneumo. Fuck. Digging into the med kit, he came out with a 14-gauge needle. Without warning, he plunged it into Childress’ chest, finding the right spot by feel. There was a noticeable hiss, and Childress’ breathing eased.
Javakhishvili only realized that the shooting had died down when he heard the air escaping from Childress’ chest cavity. The night was eerily quiet in the wake of the firefight, but that wouldn’t last.
Brannigan loomed over him as Gomez appeared in the window. “House is empty, boss,” Gomez reported. “They got out. Looks like they ran south.”
Brannigan nodded. Javakhishvili only spared the slightest glance at him. He was wholly concerned with his patient.
“How soon can you move him, Herc?” Brannigan asked.
“Without killing him?” Javakhishvili replied. “We could probably move him now. Still a fifty-fifty chance, frankly. He’s shot to pieces. And I’m pretty sure one of us is gonna have to carry him.”
He couldn’t see much, and Brannigan didn’t say anything right away, but he could sense the Colonel’s frustration. They’d come so close. And now they had a severely wounded casualty to try to smuggle out of the country. That was going to be extremely hard.
“Vinnie, get Kevin and Don,” Brannigan said. “You guys stick with Herc and Sam, and start moving ‘em back to the vans. The rest of us are going to go after those bastards. They’ve still got Codreanu, and I want him. We’ll rendezvous at the river, south of Cuzmin.”
“Roger,” Bianco answered, hefting his RPD and disappearing into the dark. Brannigan looked down at Javakhishvili and his patient, then bent down and grabbed Childress’ hand. “Hang in there, Sam,” he said quietly. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
Childress nodded and squeezed the Colonel’s hand in reply. “Get those sons of bitches, sir,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of the guys who shot me just getting away with it.”
Javakhishvili couldn’t see enough of Brannigan’s face to tell, but he thought that the Colonel might have grinned, bitterly. “We’ll get it done, Sam,” he said. He stood and clapped Javakhishvili on the shoulder. “Take care of him, Herc. And try not to get rolled up.”
“Count on it,” Javakhishvili said. “I’m allergic to Russian hospitality.”
Brannigan nodded. The rest of the Blackhearts had gathered in the shadows behind the house. “Time to go.” He pointed to Gomez, who simply turned and headed into the woods across from the front door. Spreading out into a narrow fighting wedge, the rest of the Blackhearts following, except for those staying with Javakhishvili and Childress. Wade was still propelling Gogol ahead of him, his weapon lifted in such a way that he could either engage or shove Gogol down and shoot him.
The hunt was still on.
Chapter 20
Starshiy Serzhant Anatoliy Gavrikov didn’t really feel the cold. He was sure some of his recon element did; he was all too aware of how outdated the propaganda about the rough, tough Russian woodsman really was. Most of these kids had grown up in the cities, and despite the training, they weren’t nearly as inured to the rigors of the outdoors as he was. He’d been born and raised in the Urals, and had joined the Army because it seemed like a better future than rotting away in a mountain town that was slowly dying as the Russian economy, almost entirely dependent on petrol prices, tanked.
He stopped again, looking back with disgust. This is what passes for Spetsnaz these days? Two of his men were lagging badly, struggling with the footing in the ankle-deep snow. Too much time riding armored vehicles and SUVs around, you soft little suki.
Turning back toward his target, just outside the tiny farming village of Sokolovka, he froze. Cocking his head, he listened carefully, though there was no mistaking that sound. He’d heard it in Syria. It was some distance away, but somebody was in the middle of a firefight, off to the west.
Taking a knee in the snow, he keyed his radio and called Lopatin. “This is Five,” he called. “I hear shooting somewhere to the west, northwest.”
“Acknowledged,” Kapitàn Lopatin replied. “Seven has reported the same thing. Move to the nearest road for pickup and send coordinates when you get there.”
Gavrikov acknowledged and shoved his radio back in his vest. “Let’s go, girls!” he hissed. “We have rendezvous to make. Better speed up!” Without waiting, he got up and led out, pushing into the trees toward the field to the immediate west. There was a road on the far side of the field, and the more he thought about the map, the more he thought that he could get a little bit farther north before calling in their pickup coordinates. It was going to take the rest of the detachment some time to get on the vehicles and get moving to meet them. Better to get closer while they could.
The gunfire was dying down. Whatever had just happened, it was ending, and that meant that their quarry might be getting away. Presuming they weren’t already dead.
I hope not. Gavrikov considered himself a cynic when it came to a lot of the outspoken Russian patriotism floating around; he’d seen too much corruption and misuse of power since the Soviet Union fell when he was a child. But he was a soldier first and foremost, and he had a soldier’s eagerness to get to grips with the enemy. The reasons why didn’t interest him that much. There was a fight to be had, and he was going to feel cheated if it passed him by.
***
Ignatiev was already in his UAZ-469, poring over the map, by the time his driver, Mager, scrambled behind the wheel, the barrel of his A-545 banging against the doorframe as he got in. Ignatiev ignored the junior man’s mumbled apologies. He was focused on the marks he was making in the light of a flashlight held in his teeth.
He was marking the locations—or the rough areas—where each of the recon units were as they called in the reports of the firefight, along with the directions they were reporting. Lines running from his marks were converging on one spot.
Hrustovaya. Another miserable little village, just shy of the Ukrainian border. Are they going to try to bring the Ukrainians into this? Or just run to them when it’s all over? His mouth thinned. Not if I catch you first, Amerikantsi.
Mager was still fumbling with his kit. Ignatiev turned and snarled at him. “Get us moving, idiot!” Still muttering apologies, the junior “volunteer” got the UAZ started and pulled away from their temporary headquarters. Ignatiev shoved the map back into his assault vest and readjusted his own A-545 next to his leg. If things went well, he would soon have photos of a row of American special forces soldiers’ bodies to send back to Moscow, irrefutable proof that just what they had feared was coming to pass. The Americans weren’t satisfied with attacking Russia’s allies in the Middle East; now they were coming right into the Motherland’s own backyard.
Snow blowing from the back tires, the UAZ and several more like it roared off into the night.
***
“We’ve g
otta move, Herc,” Bianco said over his shoulder. He’d been scanning the woods around the shot-up house for the last several minutes, unable to avoid noticing the growing number of lights as the neighbors reacted to the gunfire right outside their own homes. Hrustovaya was coming awake, even in the wee hours of the morning, and that meant they were going to have company soon. And it was most definitely not going to be friendly.
“I need a few more minutes,” Javakhishvili said. He’d thrown his own camouflage poncho over himself and Childress so that he could use a light, but the sheet was too thin to do much more than faintly dim the flashlight’s glow. “I don’t want him to bleed out and die while we try to move him.”
“We’re all going to get shot to death if we don’t move,” Childress countered. His voice was weak and thready. “We have to get off the X. Now.”
“You’re too badly hurt, Sammy,” Javakhishvili said. “We drag you too far, it could kill you.”
Childress tried to laugh, but it quickly turned into an agonized cough. “I doubt I’ll get much better care with the Transnistrians,” he said. “Get me out of here.”
“He’s right, Herc,” Bianco said grimly. “If we stay in place, Sam’s gonna be dead anyway. I don’t like it either, but we’ve got to move.”
Javakhishvili didn’t say anything for a moment, as he double- and triple-checked the tourniquet around Childress’ leg and the chest seals on his torso. Swearing softly in Georgian, he saw that Childress’ breathing was getting labored again, and quickly “darted” him one more time, plunging the needle into his chest to relieve the pressure on his heart and lungs. Then he switched off the flashlight and pulled the cut-up bedsheet off his head. “We’re going to need to bundle him up good,” he said. “With the amount of blood he’s lost, he could freeze to death, since he’s not exerting himself.”
