Reaper: Drone Strike: A Sniper Novel

by Nicholas Irving

  The lights glared near the front of the aircraft but were dimmer toward the rear, which helped with his concealment, though he felt exposed. Seeing Clutch confirmed every decision he’d made up to this point. He was right about the crash, about the compound, about the ship, and about the airplane. They were taking Clutch for some strategic reason. Perhaps selling him to the highest bidder. Countries like Russia or Iran would pay nicely to show a U.S. Army Ranger in captivity. Make up some story about finding him in Iran, maybe. Charge him with war crimes. Use Clutch as a weapon in an information war. When they were done with him, they’d kill him for sure.

  He had to save his Ranger buddy. It wouldn’t fully compensate for LaBeouf and Samuelson, but it was something. He needed this win or there might be no return from the abyss.

  The short bald man with glasses ran to the cockpit and pounded on the door, which opened soon after. One of the pilots shook his head and then shouted back at Baldy, who promptly pulled a pistol from his waistband and stuck it in the pilot’s face. He forced his way into the cockpit and shut the door.

  Now it was three against one. If there were ever a time to exploit an enemy’s weakness, now was the moment. Great force applied at a specific point was far more effective than that same force spread randomly. He stepped forward, gathering intelligence as he moved to the second container, paused, and let himself become part of the environment. He listened to the roar of the airplane. The slipstream whistled against the fuselage. The engines moaned. The wings flexed. All in harmony to keep one of the world’s largest airplanes in the sky. He stepped forward to the leading edge of the container. He was practically in the open now.

  Baldy opened the cockpit door. Looked in his direction, or was he looking at Tankian? Harwood froze.

  The plane changed from cruising to a downward dive.

  They were veering off course. Because of Clutch?

  Baldy turned back toward the cockpit. Harwood backed away slowly, sliding between the two containers first and then all the way back to where his rucksack was.

  When chaos hit, he wanted to be ready. If they were landing, Tankian and his team might only be using the regular passenger door. There was a chance they’d come off the back, but an equal chance they would be using the front.

  His feet were on the rollers by the time the aircraft touched down on the runway. The airplane taxied fast until it stopped. When the front passenger door opened, Harwood breathed a sigh of relief. Blue-and-red lights bounced inside the aircraft. Sirens wailed.

  Had the pilot reported a hijacking, or was it an ambulance and police escort? He could take action right now. No longer in the air. Everyone focused on the front passenger door and Clutch.

  On the flip side, he was surrounded by about a million gallons of gas, and there were cops at the door. Most important, Clutch had to be in bad shape. He was more convinced than ever that they were getting him medical attention. He might be able to rescue Clutch right here, right now, but he had no idea where they might be, nor did he have any assurance where the nearest hospital was. They’d been in the air maybe two hours, probably less. From Cyprus, they could be in Turkey, Egypt, Greece, Israel, and any number of cities within those countries. He ruled out Israel and Egypt but couldn’t discount Greece and Turkey, two of the countries that shared Cyprus. Still, it was all spitballing. He needed to let the situation play out until a window of opportunity presented itself.

  One did almost immediately.

  Tankian and one of the two big men departed the aircraft and did not immediately return. Baldy and one guard remained behind. Baldy stayed focused on the pilots, most likely preventing their communication with anyone external. Harwood figured he had about an hour, maybe less. Depended on where they took Clutch. Tankian and the guard were there to make sure that Clutch returned with them. He had to have been in serious condition for them to stop the entire flight. Plus, they likely had a lot of money riding on Clutch living and being delivered to the right person.

  Harwood leaned back around the corner and watched. The guard was standing like a bouncer next to the open door of the aircraft, his back turned to Harwood. No flight attendants, just the guard, probably doubling as the crew for the flight. Someone shouted at the guard from the tarmac. The guard leaned forward and rotated the passenger door, preparing to shut it.

  Harwood moved quickly and placed his hand on the lever that opened the container door. As soon as the passenger door shut, sounding like a ratcheting weapon, he pushed up on the lever, creating a clang that stopped his heart. It was seriously loud.

  He pressed his back into the left side door of the container. The right side swung open about a foot. The hinges squealed, but the whining jet engines masked the noise. Harwood braved another peek around the corner of the container, this time from a lower position. He was on his knees, knife in his hand.

  The guard was gone from the door. Harwood quickly moved back and stood, preparing for the guard to come from the opposite direction. He steeled himself. Flipped his knife in his hand. Prepared to confront the guard.

  Footsteps rang out like gunshots the closer they came. The window was opening. Harwood moved silently toward the opposite side of the container to reduce the guard’s reaction time.

  The footsteps stopped, perhaps calculating.

  Harwood sensed the man was less than three feet from him, perhaps suspicious, perhaps distracted by something else. He wasn’t in the mood for giving away the initiative. Harwood spun around the corner, knife held in his left hand, pistol in his right hand. The guard had decided at the same time to come around the corner toward him.

  Harwood ducked low, using a wrestling move, and raked the knife across the left man’s interior thigh, hoping for the blade to sever the femoral artery. He would settle for a nick. If he had scored, the guard showed no sign of injury. He wheeled on Harwood, lifting his pistol as Harwood spun and kicked the weapon out of his hand. It clanked against the rollers and spun toward the aft of the aircraft.

  A purple blossom began spreading on the man’s inner thigh. For the first time, he stumbled and looked at Harwood with a distant stare, like a wounded buck that knew its seconds were numbered. Harwood didn’t take chances and needed to move on to the next threat. He stabbed the man directly in the heart and felt no remorse. This cretin had helped lock Clutch in a fish cooler. Watching him crumple to the floor gave Harwood some small measure of satisfaction. He glanced toward the cockpit. Nothing moving. He could see Baldy’s back, but that was it. They hadn’t heard the commotion from the cockpit.

  He returned to his original task, which was to recon the containers. They might hold some clue as to why they had kidnapped Clutch or where they might be headed.

  Harwood used the flashlight function beneath his pistol to bathe the interior of the container in light.

  The chrome Mercedes-Benz logo winked at him when his flashlight crossed the grille. A Mercedes GLS SUV was chained inside the container. He walked to the rear and what initially looked like the end of the container was a black screen. He pushed against the filmy mesh and it gave. Finding the seam where it met the perpendicular metal wall, he pulled at the material, which gave way. The flashlight shined on metallic canisters and ammunition crates, some new, some old. Stepping behind the screen, he saw computers, monitors, and other communications equipment secured on a pallet.

  He backed out, checked to make sure no one was lying in wait to ambush him, managed to drag the dead guard into the container, and locked the door again. There wasn’t much he could do about the blood, but a lot had seeped between the rollers and it wasn’t as obvious as he’d expected it to be.

  The airplane quit taxiing. He imagined they had been told to relocate and that Baldy stayed where he was to ensure the pilots didn’t take off without Tankian and Clutch. He expected to see that the second container was the same as the first, but he was wrong. The odor was strongest directly outside the door of the container, which he was more careful opening this time, managing to deade
n the noise as he pushed up on the lever.

  Upon opening the second container, he was blasted in the face by the stench. There was something dead inside. The rotting smell of decay permeated the air.

  Using his flashlight again, he saw a similar setup. The Mercedes SUV in the front. The black screen in the back. But this time behind the screen were two drones with wings collapsed upward the way jets on an aircraft carrier were stored to make enough room. These drones barely fit in the container with a collapsed wingspan of eight feet across. They looked like small B-2 bombers with their contiguous-fuselage-and-wing design. Like angry hornets ready to sting, they stared at him. He ducked under the wing and continued deeper into the container.

  Beyond the second drone was a small command and control pod with chairs, monitors, and computers, all on an elevated platform. Surrounding that were stacks of ammunition crates. Machine-gun ammunition, rockets, artillery, and missiles. Some of the crates looked new, and some looked like they were being reused. Beyond the ammo were rows of silver canisters, like oxygen tanks, secured with ropes to the side of the container. He counted maybe twenty. Beneath the canisters was a tarp big enough for two people or one very large animal.

  The thin walls of the containers echoed with footsteps coming toward him. He would have to inspect the tarp later. He made a mental inventory of everything else. It was obvious that someone intended for the containers to withstand a cursory visual inspection, nothing more. He slid out of the container, closing and locking it.

  When he stepped out, the ramp began to lower. As he stood between the two containers, the light from the airport buildings and runway gradually seeped into the airplane. The footsteps grew louder. Someone was walking from the nose of the aircraft toward the rear. Had to be Baldy or one of the pilots.

  His options were to hide in one of the containers and risk being locked in, climb back up on top and risk being seen, or to exit the aircraft and risk not rescuing Clutch if he reentered. He considered other factors.

  The pilots weren’t in charge; Baldy was telling them what to do. Clutch was in serious condition, if he was even alive. He didn’t let the thought enter his mind that Clutch might be dead. It was there, trying to shove its way in, but he was pushing back. He had to execute the mission and couldn’t allow negative thoughts into his mind.

  The ramp was all the way open. Light spilled in. The footsteps grew louder. One SUV pulled into view. Baldy appeared to his right. Harwood wasted no time.

  He spun to his right and stabbed Baldy in the stomach, raking the knife up. The man’s bespectacled eyes grew wide as he let out a soft, “Unnhh.” Harwood dragged him between the containers and slid the knife into his heart.

  Two down, two to go.

  He looked toward the SUV. Brake lights shot on as it stopped. One driver, one security guy, Tankian, and Clutch. Worst case, three to one. Likely case, two to one. The odds would never be better.

  Harwood waited. Saw the hulking security man step out of the passenger side and open the door for Tankian, who stepped out of the right rear of the vehicle. They came around and lifted the hatch of the SUV. With the two large men blocking his view inside the vehicle, Harwood couldn’t see in, but he imagined that Clutch was lying there, probably on a backboard.

  Harwood stepped from his protected position and sprinted down the ramp holding his pistol in one hand and knife in the other. He still couldn’t shoot, because a miss or pass-through could hit Clutch. The driver stepped from the vehicle and raised a rifle, aimed at him, and fired.

  Harwood did a forward roll when he saw the rifle coming up. He popped up and fired two rounds at the driver, who was not in the line of sight with Clutch. Missed. The driver ducked and popped back up, fired again.

  Harwood rolled again, like a wrestling move from the standing position. The driver moved away from the vehicle, which was a mistake for him. Harwood snapped off two rounds, connected with at least one.

  By now, Tankian and his bodyguard had turned. The bodyguard was pulling a pistol from his holster, but it was caught on his loose shirt. Harwood gained an angle that took Clutch out of play and fired. Hit. Turned toward Tankian, who was rushing toward him. Ten feet, five feet, and on him. No chance to get a shot off.

  “You!” Tankian shouted as he raised his fist.

  Harwood was quick, but Tankian was surprisingly fast for a big man. The catcher’s mitt of a hand pummeled his forearm and jarred the pistol loose, sending it skittering on the pavement. His left hand came up with the knife and nicked Tankian’s arm, causing him to reel backward. They squared off like two wrestlers, circling. Sirens blared in the distance, but all Harwood could focus on was Tankian’s flat, murderous eyes. He’d come to the end of the road. One man left. That was all that stood between him and Clutch … and a bit of redemption. He could never bring Samuelson or LaBeouf back to life, but he could save Clutch. There was no greater calling to him than this moment right now.

  Tankian circled left, leading with his left hand. A southpaw. Blue lights spun in the background. Sirens continued to wail.

  “Asshole,” Tankian spat. He took a swipe at Harwood and missed. Harwood’s knife also missed on his return effort. Harwood spotted his pistol as they circled. It had landed near the right rear tire of the SUV, just below the exhaust plume coughing out of the tailpipe. In his periphery, Clutch’s inert body lay in the back of the SUV, presumably alive. Why else would they bring him back? All he needed to do was dispatch this brute and drive away. He could figure out the rest from there.

  With the sirens getting closer, Harwood considered his options again, some of which weren’t in his control, even though Command Sergeant Major Murdoch had taught him never to allow himself to be in a situation that he didn’t control.

  The look in Tankian’s eyes and the lack of aggressive action on his part told Harwood all he needed to know. Tankian was stalling for the cops to arrive. He knew that a stowaway like him would have no standing in whatever country they were in. What Tankian had no way of knowing was that his two men inside the aircraft were dead. It was just Harwood and Tankian.

  Harwood began edging toward the vehicle once he had circled to the driver’s side. The door was maybe ten meters away. The police cars were close, maybe one hundred meters away. He charged Tankian, a risky move, the knife swishing in the air as if he were a Japanese chef. Tankian instinctively took a step back and held his arms high to block the attack.

  Harwood spun and slammed the rear cargo door shut and then raced to the open driver’s door, leaped into the bucket seat, and slammed the gearshift into Drive. The wheels boiled and shot the SUV toward the gate about a quarter mile away. The police cars were coming from the same gate directly at him. Harwood was relying on the chaos to help him escape, cutting across the grain.

  His momentum carried him through the gate before security personnel had an opportunity to close it. He took a turn too fast and felt the alternating wobble of the SUV from one side to the opposite. The high center of gravity almost tipped them over, but it settled, and Harwood gunned the gas again.

  Sheer cliffs greeted him on the right and steep drop-offs on the left. The GPS navigation aid showed he was hurtling to the south into a winding road that led to the coast. He spun to his right when the road bottomed out near the water.

  The GPS showed the city of Thessaloníki as their location.

  Greece. They had landed in Greece when they noticed Clutch needed medical attention. Harwood had never been to Greece and knew very little about it other than the names of a few cities. He had briefly passed through Skopje, Macedonia, one of the former Yugoslav republics that many claimed was still a part of Greece. There was a U.S. logistics base in Macedonia.

  Too far, he thought.

  His best option was to get to ground and contact someone. Maybe Stoddard. Maybe Murdoch. Maybe Sassi.

  Traffic was light at this time in the middle of the night. He entered the outskirts of the city, following the blue H signs, wanting to be near a hospi
tal in case Clutch required attention. A few random cars came at him from the opposite direction, their bright headlights causing a dagger of alarm until the moment he determined they weren’t police.

  He steered the vehicle to a parking lot behind the hospital and parked in the far corner. He felt naked without his rucksack, but he’d had no time to go back for it. Taking inventory on his person, he found his knife, his phone, and his TacSleeve on his arm. In the well of the passenger’s seat was a kit bag with two HKP30 pistols, ammo, and several burner phones. He walked from the driver’s seat to the hatch and popped it.

  As the rear door rose, Clutch rolled over and said, “Damn, Reaper. Where’d you learn how to drive?”

  Harwood smiled and nodded. Clutch hadn’t lost his sense of humor. Harwood did a rapid triage on his spotter. Flashlight in the eyes. Pupils about the right size. Face looked okay save a few nicks. Someone had replaced the bandage on his shoulder. Legs and arms were functional.

  “Can you stand?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Clutch’s voice was raspy. He needed water. Harwood held out his hydration system hose, which Clutch drained.

  Harwood helped him around to the driver’s side.

  “I assume you can still pull a trigger,” Harwood said.

  “That and more. I’m okay. He was going to sell me to a politician in America. I overheard him talking.”

  “Sell you to an American politician?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all of it. He’s going to attack somewhere in Chicago or nearby. Those containers—”

  “Have drones in them. And ammo.”

  “That’s right … and chem.”

  The canisters.

  Harwood nodded. “When is this going down?”

  “Sounded like within twenty-four hours.”

  Clutch looked him in the eyes and said, “You were right.”

  “I usually am, but about what?” Harwood asked.