by Will Jordan
Striding out the rear cargo ramp of the Globemaster with the rest of his team in tow, Jason Hawkins made straight for the parked choppers, already armed and geared up. His back was ramrod straight, his face set with dark, focussed determination. He had barely spoken a word on the flight over, and even his own men were afraid of him.
‘Where are we on aerial recon?’ he demanded.
‘We’ve got a Predator over the target area now,’ Sanchez, his new second in command, reported. ‘GPS tracking is locked in.’
‘And she’s still there?’
‘Hasn’t budged, sir. She’s just sitting there.’
Hawkins nodded. ‘She’s baiting us. Let’s see what she has to offer.’ Raising his hand, he spun it in a rotating motion. ‘Saddle up, gentlemen! This is it!’
* * *
In the operations room, Richard Starke stood surveying the bank of monitors in front of him, each displaying footage from the team’s helmet cameras. He watched as they piled into the transport choppers, weapons and gear being secured as the chopper’s engines spun up to full power.
‘Bravo One and Two taking off now, sir,’ the technician manning the terminal reported. ‘Alpha One is flying top cover.’
Brave One and Two were the Black Hawks, while the Mi-24 attack chopper had been designated Alpha. A Russian-built machine that had once rained death on the battlefields of Afghanistan, it had been requisitioned from the Lithuanians to act as heavy fire support. It was well equipped for such a role, bristling with rocket pods and heavy machine guns, and so heavily armoured that it had earned the nickname ‘flying tank’.
‘Time to target?’ Starke asked, his tone brisk and efficient.
‘Five minutes, sir.’
His gaze switched to the monitor showing real-time footage from the Predator drone. Anya was seated on a small hilltop near a dilapidated house, barely moving.
He wondered then if she would even put up a fight.
* * *
The land was quiet in a way that only the deep hours of the morning can be, the air cool and still. Overhead, the stars were clearly visible between thin ribbons of trailing cloud, the view unspoiled by light pollution.
Nearby an owl called out, the haunting cry echoing through the slumbering forest. The waters of the lake lapped gently at the shore, while further out, a fish splashed at the surface before disappearing silently back into the depths.
And in the midst of this nocturnal stillness, the woman sat with her back against a tree, waiting and watching, barely moving a muscle. She knew what was coming. She knew her chances, and she wasn’t afraid.
It started with a low, distant thumping sound coming from the south-west. So faint that it might have passed unnoticed, but after hours of patient waiting, her senses were keenly adapted to her environment.
She heard the distinctive sound of the approaching choppers, and knew her time had come. Leaping to her feet, she took off down the slope, heading for the ruined house.
* * *
‘Tango’s on the move!’ the technician called out.
Starke watched through the drone’s night vision camera as the blurry green shape sprinted down the forested slope, leaping nimbly over obstacles in her path, following a straight and certain course.
‘She’s heading for the house,’ Starke realised, amused and perplexed by her decision to hole up there. ‘You can run, Anya. But you can’t hide.’
Leaning forward, he spoke into the comms link connecting him with Hawkins. ‘Alpha One, are you seeing this?’
‘Copy that,’ Hawkins replied. ‘She’s going for the house.’
‘Are you in position?’
‘Thirty seconds.’
Starke turned his attention back to the drone feed. Sure enough, Anya disappeared through the building’s main entrance. Thinking she had avoided detection.
‘Alpha One is in position,’ Hawkins reported. ‘Weapons hot.’
Starke smiled faintly. ‘Light it up.’
* * *
With the two Black Hawks hanging back, the Mi-24 attack chopper swept down out of the night sky like some dark beast born from ancient nightmares, rotors thundering, engines screaming.
The wing-mounted pods opened up, unleashing a barrage of unguided rockets that streaked through the darkness before detonating with multiple concussive blasts. The roof, weakened by decades of neglect, was shattered by the impact, collapsing in on the floors below. The front wall absorbed the bulk of the explosive onslaught, blasted inward in a deadly hail of debris before crumbling apart, taking much of the remaining structure with it.
In a matter of seconds, the house and everything within it had been reduced to a heap of smoking rubble.
Hawkins, watching the destruction unfold with immense satisfaction, smiled as he pressed his transmitter. ‘Good hit. Repeat, Alpha One has good hit on target.’
‘Copy that,’ Starke replied. ‘Move in, make sure she’s dead.’
‘Bravo One, prepare to deploy. We’ll cover you.’
‘Roger that, Alpha. Bravo One is going in.’
As the Mi-24 circled protectively, the first Black Hawk tilted its nose downward and came in across the lake, heading for the flat, open ground between the house and shoreline.
There was no movement below. Thermal imaging units swept the surrounding woodland and high points, on the lookout for possible sniper or RPG ambushes, yet no targets presented themselves. The Black Hawk continued on its course, flying straight and steady, coming in over the lake before flaring its nose upward to slow its momentum.
What neither the pilots nor any of the troops onboard could possibly see were the four green plastic devices hidden in the long grass. Slightly curved in shape and painted olive drab for camouflage, each plastic casing was stamped with a simple warning.
FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY
Normally, Claymore anti-personnel mines were fixed horizontally, designed to kill or injure enemy infantry who happened to pass by. But in this case, all four had been turned upwards, their explosive detonators daisy-chained together into a single electronic trigger called a clacker.
A clacker that was now in the hands of the woman they’d come here to kill. The woman who had crawled out of the house through a hole broken in the rear wall, making her way unseen along a shallow trench dug into the soft earth, covered over with camouflage sheeting.
The woman who was now watching the approaching troop carrier from a covered foxhole at the edge of the trees, crouched low and silent, her face and body covered with camouflage paint.
Waiting until the chopper was directly over the landing area, the woman braced herself and triggered the clacker.
It took only a millisecond for the surge of electricity to make its way along the detonator wires and into the explosive devices. All four of them detonated simultaneously, ejecting their load of heavy steel ball bearings skyward like giant, overpowered shotguns, straight into the underside of the Black Hawk.
The effect was devastating. In a fraction of a second, the deadly projectiles tore through the chopper’s outer skin and through the lower deck, severing hydraulic lines and electrical systems, and perforating the rotor blades above. But it was the effect on the human bodies inside that was worst of all.
Four men were killed instantly, their bodies torn apart by shrapnel, including the pilot, who slumped forward against the control column. The co-pilot, badly injured himself, fought in vain to regain control even as one of the compromised rotor blades sheared off, becoming deadly missiles themselves, scything through nearby trees before shattering into pieces.
The woman watched, eyes gleaming in the darkness as the Black Hawk yawed violently to starboard before pitching right over and slamming into the ground by the edge of the lake.
* * *
In the operations room, Starke watched in disbelief as the stricken chopper went down, the broken rotor blades churning the lake water around it, steam and smoke rising from ruined engine components.
‘What the
hell is happening down there?’ he demanded. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I… I don’t know, sir,’ the confused technician replied. ‘Alpha One, status report.’
‘Bravo One is down. Repeat, Bravo One is down.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Starke snapped. ‘She did this. Find her!’
* * *
No sooner had the ruined chopper come to rest than a second firestorm erupted, this one less explosive and more incendiary in nature. Stacks of wood gathered from the nearby forest, placed at intervals around the area and liberally doused with gasoline, suddenly burst into life as if by magic.
The abrupt flare of thermal and visible radiation was like a nuclear bomb going off on the infrared cameras. Within moments, the remaining choppers and the Predator drone overhead had been blinded by the plume of heat and light.
Ignoring this, the woman crouched in her foxhole shifted position, moving behind the bolt-action sniper rifle resting on the edge of the hole. As the first man, injured and panicked, clambered out of the ruined chopper, she carefully took aim and put a high velocity armour-piercing round through his chest.
He was quickly followed by two more, emerging almost at the same moment. She dropped the first with a single shot to the head, though the second managed to tumble over the side of the overturned fuselage and into the water below.
Hefting the rifle up from its bipod, she stood up and advanced, pausing only to fire a third shot that knocked him flat. Her right hand came up and worked the bolt action, drawing a fresh round into the breach. The spent casing fell sizzling into the grass by her feet.
‘Please!’ she heard him cry out. ‘No more!’
Her next shot was enough to put him down for good. Casting aside the heavy and cumbersome weapon, she waded out into the shallow water, grabbed the dead man and yanked his comms unit off his head.
In the gunship overhead, Hawkins heard a new voice on the radio. ‘Are you listening?’
He felt his pulse quicken at the sound of the female voice. It was her.
‘Nice move with the Claymores,’ he replied, managing to hold his anger in check. ‘Gonna have to pay you back for that.’
Her response was simple. ‘Then come and get me.’
Tossing aside the dead man’s radio, she reached into his webbing, withdrew a pair of fragmentation grenades, yanked the pins free and tossed both devices in the chopper’s open side hatch.
The resulting explosion ignited the fuel tanks, closely followed by the remaining munitions onboard, adding to the near-total thermal white-out on their scopes.
Gritting his teeth, Hawkins switched frequencies to speak with the pilot. ‘Take us in. You’re weapons free.’
‘Sir, we’ve got no visuals,’ the pilot warned. ‘We can’t see anything down there.’
‘Light up the whole goddamn area, then!’ he shouted. ‘Fire!’
The gunship streaked in once more, rockets and machine guns flaring as it opened fire indiscriminately, strafing back and forth across the area around the ruined house. The woman they were aiming for had already retreated, however, taking refuge amongst the dense tree cover.
As the Mi-24’s gunners continued their work, Hawkins radioed the second Black Hawk. ‘Bravo Two, move in now.’
‘Negative, sir. Area is too hot for landing,’ the pilot protested.
‘Deploy further out and come in on foot,’ he snarled. Already he was starting to see the weakness of her strategy. ‘She can’t move beyond the fires or we’ll see her. Form a perimeter and run that bitch down.’
Finding a suitable clearing about a quarter of a mile away, the second Black Hawk set down, disgorging a dozen operatives in full battledress, protected by Kevlar and armed with assault rifles, light machine guns and grenade launchers. Enough firepower to take on an entire platoon of regular infantry.
As the chopper quickly lifted off, the pilot eager to avoid the same fate as his comrades, the operatives spread out into a skirmish line and advanced, moving swiftly and stealthily through the darkened forest. Heading towards the distant fires that still raged all around the ruined building, closing in on their target.
Chapter 71
CIA Headquarters, Langley
Dan Franklin was in his office, anxiously awaiting news from Lithuania. Never in his life had he found himself so torn and conflicted, both professionally and emotionally.
After everything that had happened, he simply didn’t know what to believe any longer. Had Drake really turned traitor? Had Cain truly been the corrupt and ruthless renegade he’d come to believe? Was Anya deserving of the death that was coming for her?
A thousand questions tumbled through his mind. Questions for which he had no answers. All he knew was that he was playing a dangerous game, with the highest stakes imaginable.
He practically snatched up his cell phone as soon as it rang.
‘Franklin.’
But instead of the call he was expecting from Kennedy, a different voice spoke to him now. ‘Don’t talk, just listen. If you’re the man I believe you to be, you will want to hear this.’
* * *
The assault force had formed a skirmish line about five metres apart, moving quickly but methodically through the dense undergrowth, weapons tracking back and forth in search of targets. Their eyes had by now adjusted to the low ambient visibility, and they advanced using hand gestures to communicate.
Backing up against a tree about fifty yards ahead of them, the woman gripped the M14 rifle tight, checking the receiver to make sure the first round was chambered. Though long since replaced by more advanced infantry weapons, the M14 was a powerful and accurate semi-automatic rifle, battle tested by decades of use, and still favoured by some special forces groups. Its 7.62mm rounds also stood a better chance against body armour than the lighter shells fired by more contemporary weapons.
They were getting close now. She could hear the faint rustle as they moved through the undergrowth. The moment she started firing, they’d have her position zeroed in. Unless she took their sight away.
Slowing her breathing, she reached for the remote switch in her pocket, disengaged the safety on her rifle and waited.
The lead operatives had closed to within twenty yards when suddenly, light blazed into life in front of them, blinding and intense. Instantly their night vision vanished, their view of anything beyond the floodlights non-existent.
‘Cover! Cover!’ one of them yelled, dropping to the ground.
His comrade was a fraction slower to react – a mistake that would prove fatal. Rounding the tree, she raised the M14 and put a trio of rounds into his centre mass, dropping him.
As the others returned fire, trying to take out the lights, she took aim at her second target as he darted forward, and put down several more rounds. At least one found its mark, blasting through his thigh, and she saw him fall with an agonised cry.
A sudden crack and a shower of sparks nearby plunged the area into darkness once more. They’d taken out the light. Realising her position was untenable, she turned and retreated, ejecting the half-empty magazine and inserting a fresh one as automatic fire rocketed past her, tearing into vegetation and ricocheting off rocks and tree trunks.
Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins as she pounded onward. A fleeting shadow, barely visible as she flitted through the trees. She would fall back to her next defensive position, ready to launch another attack as they closed…
The impact of the bullet striking her was like a giant stone fist slamming into her back, the impact sending her tumbling to the ground. She tried to absorb the fall, rolling through muddy soil and bushes, but she felt as if some great weight were pressing down on her lungs, refusing to let her draw breath.
‘Target down!’ she heard a voice call out, accompanied by rapid movement. Coming straight for her.
Rolling over, she drew her automatic and opened fire just as a figure emerged from the darkness. The weapon thudded back against h
er wrist again and again until her target collapsed beside her.
He was down, but more would be coming. She had to fall back, draw them in, keep them occupied.
Get up, she commanded herself. You have to get up now.
Every second she held out was another tiny victory. That was how she saw it now. It was no longer a case of surviving, but of clawing for each second.
Groaning in pain, she grabbed for her fallen rifle and heaved herself upright. Her lungs burned with breath that increasingly wouldn’t come, but she forced herself to move, to push forward, to fight through it. Pain was nothing now. She could take it.
Gritting her teeth, she broke into a limping run as more operatives closed in, drawn to the sounds of the firefight like sharks to blood. It was only a matter of time now.
A matter of seconds.
* * *
In the operations room, Starke stood in tense silence, listening to the reports coming in. With thermal imaging nullified by the combination of fire, smoke and heavy tree cover, he was reduced to monitoring radio chatter to discern the progress of the battle.
‘Target’s in the woods, heading west towards the hilltop,’ one of them reported. ‘Team Two, move left and flank.’
‘Copy that, Team Two is Oscar Mike.’
‘Get some flares up. Can’t see shit here.’
‘There! I see her. Heading for that gully on the right.’
‘Got her. Move in now. Cut her off!’
Starke folded his arms, his jaw clenched as he pictured Anya’s desperate final moments playing out. She had put up quite a fight – better than even he had expected – but it was over now. She was surrounded, outnumbered and outgunned.
All that was left was to fight and die.
