“You ready?” Malichai asked Rubin.
Rubin bent over Jerry. “I’m heading out now, but I’ll be back in time to haul your ass out of here. I want you alive, soldier. You got that? You have a family waiting for you at home. Jack’s right here if you need anything.”
“I’m with you, buddy,” Jack assured and reached out to grip Jerry’s wrist.
Jerry attempted a faint grin. “I’ll be here. Just lying around. Give me a gun. I’m right-handed.”
Rubin looked up to meet Malichai’s questioning gaze. No one wanted Jerry to take his own life. A decision had to be made. His team knew him better than they did. Both men looked to Braden.
“He’d never do that with us needing him. He knows every gun counts,” Braden whispered to Malichai.
Malichai gave the thumbs-up to Rubin, who put a gun on the man’s chest. “It’s loaded. Just point and shoot. Just make certain it isn’t pointed my way.”
“Depends on whether or not these meds wear off before you get back,” Jerry said.
Rubin gave him a grin, another pat and then turned his attention to Jack. “He’s a tough one, but you keep him down until I get back.”
Jack nodded while Jerry made derisive sounds. “That’s my momma, telling me I have to behave myself.”
“You keep that in mind.” Rubin crawled back toward Malichai, staying low. Together, they pulled out their gear and shed their snow clothing.
Their garb was specifically constructed for nighttime raids. They reflected their surroundings, and with their enhancements, it was easy enough to fade into the night. They both were capable of lowering their body temperatures to confuse the night vision goggles and still function without impairment. It was one of Malichai’s least favorite things to do.
“Helicopter will be here at dawn,” Rubin reported. “We’ll be back by then.”
They had to be or that meant they were dead.
Malichai regarded Braden as he shoved weapons into each of the carefully hidden compartments in his clothing. “You stay put. Jack, if he gets some wild hair that he’s coming after us, either sit on him or shoot him in the leg.”
“Not sure that will stop him,” Jack said. “But I’ll be glad to follow those orders, sir.”
Braden let out a groan. “You’re giving way too much authority to a bloodthirsty individual, sir.”
Malichai heard the strain in their voices, although they were trying to hide it with jokes. He gave them a small salute. “At dawn. Be prepared to move out fast.”
“I’ll get right on that, sir,” Jerry said.
Rubin turned and looked at Malichai. Crouching low, they moved to the very edge of the boulder line. The big rocks progressively got smaller, forcing them to go down onto their bellies. Movement always drew the eye. Someone from each of the three bunkers had to have been given the job to watch for anyone trying to sneak out of the encampment, especially after Braden had tripped a few of their traps.
In spite of the continual conflicts, the mountains of Afghanistan were home to many wild animals, including snow leopards, lions, jackals, fox and the roaming ibex. Any number of animals might have triggered those traps, if Braden hadn’t left tracks for their enemies to find. It didn’t matter, they had to take out those bunkers in order to give the helicopter a chance to land safely and take the wounded home.
He signaled to Rubin to make his way to bunker two first. That was the one with serious firepower and the most experienced of the enemy fighters. If they couldn’t get to all of them, they had to at least kill those in bunker two. It would take an hour to make it across the snow-covered ground if they didn’t want to be seen. During that hour, the hope was that the fighters would be taking a much-needed break, eating and, if they were lucky, going to sleep. Malichai would approach from one direction, with Rubin coming in from the opposite side.
Malichai proceeded to move inch by slow inch. He didn’t drag himself because he couldn’t afford to have drag marks be seen in the snow. He had to use his hands and feet to propel his body forward. Always, he had to keep his body inches from the ground. Without his enhanced strength, he could never have accomplished such a thing.
Months earlier, he’d been shot in the leg, but thanks to Rubin’s psychic surgery and the efforts of Joe, another teammate who was very skilled in psychic healing, his leg was stronger than ever. He felt very confident crossing that long expanse of snow to get to his intended target.
His enhancements were not as specialized as some of the other GhostWalkers’ because he was considered an “all-around” soldier. He could find water in a desert twenty-five feet below the surface. He could go up the side of a sheer mountain or swim for long periods of time underwater without taking a breath. He was extremely fast underwater. His sense of smell, his eyesight and hearing, were all very acute.
He often felt like the man who wasn’t master of anything yet could manage to make his way through numerous pitfalls. If he did have one claim he could make, it was taking apart or putting together explosives in record time. He had a feel for them. He almost didn’t have to look at them to know how to take them apart or put them together. It was instinctive. But that was it as far as his enhancements went.
They maintained silence until they both reached their destinations. In position, Rubin reported.
They were always careful with telepathic communication. The truth was, many people had undeveloped psychic talents. They could trigger a warning just by making the wrong person vigilant for no reason that individual could put his finger on—it was just a feeling.
In position. Rubin, we can’t chance them making any noise. We have to do this one right. Even if they were able to kill their enemy, they had to do it swiftly so the others didn’t find out. Most likely number is five. There will be a lookout behind the bunker. Malichai had to get to him first. He would be in the best position to get away and raise the alarm. Making my way around to guard’s location now.
He spoke in very small bursts of energy, keeping the output as low as possible. Once again, he began to move, inch by inch. He “felt” for the traps Braden had warned him about. He had encountered the first row of them approximately twenty feet out from the wall. The traps had wrapped around the reinforced boulders with more traps every few feet. A virtual minefield of alarms and real bombs that would be triggered by weight had been constructed to protect those inside the bunker.
The traps gave off energy that he felt through the hairs on his body. He had trained over and over to be sensitive enough to know when there was a trap, a bomb, anything at all that would harm him or those relying on him.
Malichai made his way around the bunker. Due to the rock formation, it was quite a distance to the back of the bunker. There were no breaks in the rock and he finally went up, once again using his strength and the gecko-like tiny hairs engineered into his hands that allowed him to hold not only his own weight but that of another man as heavy as him. The hairs were microscopic, but each single hair was divided into a thousand fine projections, sticking out like tiny brushes. Unseen, they were only felt. Malichai had had to train for months in the proper way to “stick” to a surface, and then learn to get unstuck. Once that had been accomplished, he’d trained to climb fast and in silence. He could hang upside down or stay on a ceiling if needed.
He clung to the side of the rock, surveying the enemy camp and counting the six men in the bunker. The guard would make seven. Sleeping quarters were toward the back of the bunker. Two men were lying down. Two were drinking what looked like tea while another stood with a pair of night vision goggles looking toward the encampment where Braden and the others were. A sixth man swept back and forth with his night vision binoculars over the snow-covered ground.
Malichai slowly crawled down the rock wall and made his way toward the back of the bunker where the guard would be. It was darkest there. None of the light from the fire reached the o
uter perimeter. Once in the darkness, he stalked the guard. The man was facing out away from him, thinking all danger would come from outside the bunker, not inside. Malichai didn’t waste time. Coming up behind him, Malichai slammed his knife into the base of the man’s skull, his hand over the guard’s mouth to muffle any sound. He then carefully lowered him to the ground.
It’s done.
Rubin was on the wall on the opposite side. They took the two men sleeping first. They were a distance from the others, and no one so much as turned to look at them, leaving them alone so they could get sleep. They crept up on the two men drinking tea and killed them quickly, catching the small glass vessels they drank their tea out of. The sentries watching the enemy were the last ones, and they managed to kill them as well.
They left the fire burning brightly, and this time, used the back entrances to the other two bunkers. Bunker one held only five men, and they used the same configuration as bunker two. One man guarded the rear of the bunker against the off-chance that they would be attacked from that side. Two watched the enemy camp and the ground around the front of the bunkers while the other two rested. It was the same in bunker three.
When all the enemy were dead, Malichai and Rubin snuck back to camp. Above the bunkers were caves where they were concerned with the possibility that more of the enemy lived, so they didn’t dare blow up the weapons. They disabled the larger ones and made their way back, arriving just before the helicopter was due.
Malichai indicated to Braden and the others that he wanted them silent as they made their way up the slope to the rendezvous point with the helicopter. They didn’t want to make any noise at all and tip off any of the enemy who might be staying in the caves that they were escaping.
Rubin took Jerry on his shoulders. He’d been given painkillers but it still had to hurt like hell. Rubin didn’t say anything or ask questions, he just started up the slope. The moment he had traveled a few feet, a barrage of deadly fire hit just below them. Rubin caught Jerry in his arms and dove for cover.
Malichai swore. That answered the question of whether there were more in the caves. Or at least, someone had shown up and discovered the dead.
“Shit,” Malichai hissed. “We missed a few.”
“That’s impossible,” Rubin denied, but he had his rifle out and ready after securing Jerry.
“I’ll get them out of there.” There was no choice. If they were going to get the wounded into the helicopter, they would have to make it safe for the helicopter to put down. Malichai had no choice; he had to go.
Braden shook his head. “You’re crazy, man. You can’t face that kind of firepower.”
“Do you have any better ideas?” Malichai asked. His gaze was on bunker two. The bunker was positioned to cover the mountain from almost any angle. Naturally, the enemy would have set up there. They didn’t need the other bunkers in order to control the entire area. He had to clear that bunker and get rid of the weapons. There was no point in hesitating. He had to do it now, before the helicopter decided it was too risky and left them, and before any more of the enemy decided to show themselves—if there were any more. Wouldn’t they already be out in force if there were? He couldn’t think about that.
Without further preamble he left the safety of the boulders, sprinting from his position down the slope toward the bunkers. Malichai charged into the gunfire, running low, using a zigzag pattern with his enhanced speed. He had to leap over larger rocks and go around others. Bullets flew at him, never stopping, hundreds fired from the machine gun, tearing up the ground as he ran. Rocks exploded, sending pieces flying into the air. The bullets whipped around him, ripping at his clothing, tearing holes in the material and slicing pieces of skin. Still, he was up. He was running, his entire mind focused on the task in front of him.
No matter what, he had to silence those weapons. Bunker two contained at least three enemy. Three different weapons were being wielded. They meant business too. The sound was continuous, a booming thunder rolling over the top of him, so loud his ears hurt. He had enhanced hearing, and no matter how he tried to turn down the volume, with the heavy barrage of murderous machine-gun fire, there was no way to do so.
Mortars hit the ground on two sides of him, nearly simultaneously, letting him know that bunker one had at least one fighter still alive. No way could he and Rubin have missed that many of the enemy, even at night. Reinforcements must have arrived to take over, at least three or four, so more likely five. Had they been random? Men arriving? Had they been in the caves? Were there more? He could drive himself crazy wondering.
He dove for cover, rolled and came back up, hurling grenades over the barrier of bunker two. He tossed grenade after grenade into the bunker. The enemy continued to fire at him until the grenades inside the bunker began to explode, one after the other. Bunker one’s fire was continuous, the bullets hitting all around him. One nearly parted his hair. He actually felt it burning along his scalp.
He heard Rubin’s rifle and then the fall of a body in bunker two. It was quieter after that, and Malichai took another chance. Ignoring the firepower the enemy threw at him from bunker one, he ran the last few feet and leapt over the barricade, landing in the snow, his weapon ready and tracking, looking for anyone left alive in bunker two.
The smell of blood and death was heavy in the crowded bunker. Shrapnel had torn into bodies, ripping through them, leaving behind bloody shells he knew he wasn’t going to get out of his head for a long time. He had no choice but to wade through the blood and gore to reach the still-intact mortar gun.
The barrage of bullets coming from the machine gun in bunker one was a steady stream, zipping across the thick stone barricade and into the bunker, keeping Malichai pinned down. The mortar gun was lightweight, sitting on a tripod, the weapon resting on the metal plate. He swung the entire apparatus around so that it faced bunker one rather than the boulders his wounded were camped behind.
He turned the explosive power of the mortar gun on the enemy. While he fired round after round into bunker one, Rubin’s rifle also engaged, and he never missed. If he pulled the trigger, someone inevitably went down. After what seemed like forever, bunker one fell silent. Malichai waited. There was no way to know for certain, but they couldn’t keep the helicopter waiting forever. It was all about fuel.
Everything was still and quiet. Malichai knew he had to check bunkers one and three, although there had been no gunfire from three. They had to be able to load the wounded into the helicopter. It was waiting for the clear signal to land. He stepped out from behind the shelter of bunker two, heart pounding, mouth dry. Nothing stirred. He began to make his way over to bunker one when machine-gun fire erupted from behind the walls of bunker one. It was fast. Furious. And bloodthirsty.
Malichai didn’t know how many times he was hit, but it felt like a dozen. Maybe more. Pain blossomed, spread like wildfire, all up and down his leg, from his calf to his thigh. There was no coming back when his leg was that torn up, flesh shredded, pulverized even. He knew he was a dead man as he crumpled to the ground. The bones in his leg were shattered. He felt that, the bursting pain that traveled through his system so bright and hot he nearly passed out. He fought that feeling and ignored the bullets still spitting at him. He began tearing off wrappings with his teeth and slapping field dressings over wound after wound. It was almost automatic, although he knew it was futile. There was so much blood, but he pressed the dressings over the worst of them, five of the worst, where the blood was a fountain, spouting up like a whale.
Dr. Peter Whitney had developed a drug called Zenith. That drug would stop bleeding and force adrenaline into the body, allowing a wounded man to get to his feet. It was supposed to promote healing, but after a few hours it began to do just the opposite, breaking down cells until the wounded died unless he was given a second drug to counteract the first. Whitney had been the man who conceived the GhostWalker program and psychically enhanced the
soldiers who tested high in psychic ability. He’d also genetically altered them without their permission.
Second-generation Zenith had been developed by Whitney’s daughter, Lily. She was a brilliant doctor and researcher. She was also one of the orphan girls Whitney had experimented on. For some reason, Whitney had chosen her as his successor, and he had officially adopted her. She was married to a GhostWalker from Team One. Second-generation Zenith was supposed to work without the ugly side effects. He hoped so. Zenith was all he had to keep him alive.
He waited, breathing deeply until the drug hit his system. When it did, the heavy load of adrenaline from five patches was almost too much to handle. The dressings were already stopping the bleeding and sealing the wounds from the outside. He knew that didn’t mean he wasn’t bleeding internally, or that it could miraculously heal the broken bones, but the adrenaline gave him the necessary strength to move.
Malichai began to drag himself across the snow-covered ground. Jagged rocks were just below the surface, making it a struggle to keep going. Each time the shooter behind bunker one rose up to aim at Malichai, another rifle barked and then a third. Braden and Jack were clearly helping to keep the enemy pinned down while Malichai painstakingly made his way to the bunker.
It seemed he had used up quite a lot of his strength dragging his wounded leg behind him. He left a long trail of blood in the white snow. That trail of blood was an arrow, pointing out his position to the enemy. It didn’t matter that he wore specialized clothing to help him hide or that his enhancements would have kept him from being seen—the blood trail was a dead giveaway.
Although Rubin and the others kept the enemy pinned down, the machine gun was firing continuously so that bullets hit the ground mercilessly. He didn’t care. He knew, from the way he was bleeding, in spite of the Zenith, he was a dead man anyway. It wasn’t like he had a whole hell of a lot to lose. He had to give the helicopter a chance to land and take the wounded home.
Vendetta Road Page 46
