Before Brent could open his mouth in an order to fall back, the first truck lifted off the ground and burst into a dome of fire whose heat and blast wave sent Brent sliding backward.
Smoke swirled in the rotor wash and dropped on them like a woolen blanket as the din of gunfire rose.
Brent coughed. His eyes burned. He could barely see the images piped in from the Cross-Com. And then the smoke thinned.
The second gunner kept firing on the chopper, a fountain of brass casings rising at his side. Brent screamed for the guy to get out of there, but he doubted the man had heard him. The Brit seemed unfazed by the helicopter coming around to finish him off.
Brent hollered again as the rocket pods flashed like cameras and twin smoke trails slashed the air between the chopper and the truck.
But that gunner never released his weapon and fired until the explosion swallowed him.
FOURTEEN
Clearing near Royal Military Academy
Sandhurst
Knowing that Dennison was observing everything on the battlefield, Brent did not report the loss of the fifty-caliber guns or that the Russians were about to finish his team.
Those facts were obvious.
As was the fact that he needed immediate air support. He and his Ghosts were firing slingshots at an armored Goliath, and a break back for the woods would leave them vulnerable.
Only a few seconds after he’d called for help—his senses overloaded by the fires, the secondary explosions, the deafening din of rotors and rotor wash—did a new window open in his HUD to reveal a praying mantis or rather a fighter pilot wearing an alien-like helmet with attached oxygen line. A complex grid of flashing data displays was reflected brilliantly across the pilot’s tinted faceplate.
“Ghost Lead, this is Siren, Joint Strike Fighter Support, over.”
“Siren, this is Ghost Lead, our target is—”
“Relax, Captain. I have your target. Tell your people to take cover, over.”
“Roger that!” Somewhere amid all the racket came the faint hiss of a jet.
Brent hollered for incoming, and they all dug deeper into the mound. Brent craned his neck up, studied the sky, and waited.
Finally, the whoosh of the F-35’s Pratt & Whitney engine boomed louder than the chopper’s.
The F-35 Joint Strike Fighter was a Short Take-Off and Vertical Landing (STOVL) aircraft that had often provided Close Air Support to Brent’s operations in Afghanistan. Pilots could keep their jets hidden in the mountains and launch vertically on a moment’s notice. Some of his operators referred to the fighters as helicopters on steroids, and Brent was well accustomed to working with their highly capable if sometimes immodest pilots. Small world, too, because he knew this particular fighter jockey, and she was one of the best.
Major Stephanie Halverson had fought bravely enough during the Russian invasion of Canada to earn the attention of the president of the United States, along with the admiration of everyone in the JSF. She’d been shot down, nearly captured behind enemy lines, and rescued by a stalwart Force Recon Marine unit, who’d plucked her from the waters of a frozen lake whose ice had given way.
Word was in Afghanistan that if you had Siren on your back, the enemy didn’t stand a chance—and you stood a greater chance of coming home alive.
All of Brent’s people had been trained as air force combat controllers, though Lakota was the most accomplished among them. At the moment, though, Siren didn’t need any help. Brent watched from her point of view as she targeted the Howler and unleashed the dogs: a pair of wingtip-mounted AIM-9X Sidewinder missiles.
That the missiles used a passive IR target-acquisition system to home in on the Howler’s infrared emissions was a trivial detail.
That they would utterly destroy the enemy aircraft was all you needed to know.
And now it was time to stop, hold your breath, and look up at the fireworks show.
And that’s exactly what Brent did.
The twin flashes came, burning magnesium bright, and from the jet’s wings came fate in all its destructive glory.
The Howler tore apart not a second after the Side-winders struck their one-two punch. Flaming debris formed the petals of a brilliant flower before all of it came crashing down just thirty meters away, the entire field trembling, secondary explosions resounding, debris pinwheeling in all directions like razor-sharp throwing stars tossed by ninja warriors.
Brent waved his people away, lest they be sliced apart or caught in the flames. His Ghosts needed no more coaxing and sprinted for the trees.
“Ghost Lead, this is Siren, is there anything else I can do for you today, over?”
“Yeah, you can finally surrender your phone number.”
Although Halverson’s face was hidden by her faceplate, Brent guessed that she smiled. “Always a pleasure, Ghost Lead. Siren out.”
The team, along with the surviving Brits, rallied back to the edge of the field where they’d entered as the Blackhawk settled down into a landing.
“You can ride with us if you want,” Brent told the driver.
“My people are on the way. Thanks for that,” the guy said, glancing at the burning Howler.
Brent gestured toward one of the shattered trucks. “I’m sorry about your gunner.”
The driver made a face. “Me, too. Glad you got us a little help, otherwise we would’ve joined him.”
Brent nodded.
“All right, everyone, let’s load,” shouted Lakota.
Brent shook hands with the driver, a sobering moment to be sure, and then he and the others climbed aboard the Blackhawk. He was the last inside and searched the bay area for any surprising faces. Just the pilot, co-pilot, and two door gunners, about as nondescript a bunch as you could get.
He wanted to express his puzzlement to Lakota, but the bay was much too loud to do any talking. They lifted off and forged onward, toward the coast.
No precious cargo? No VIPs? Why hadn’t the Russians fired at the Blackhawk?
The answer came within seconds. Dennison appeared in his HUD. “Ghost Lead, we’ve intercepted communication from Haussler and his team. They had direct contact with that Howler. They’re trying to track us again, but we cut the line.”
“I thought maybe we were carrying VIPs,” Brent said, lifting his voice above the helicopter’s engines.
“Negative. Well, actually, from Haussler’s standpoint, you are the VIPs. He’ll let you do all the work and show up at the last second to claim the prize. I’ve got a gunship keeping him busy right now, but that asset won’t be mine for much longer. Brits are all tied up, too. I think our German buddy’s going to slip away again, damn it.”
“Roger that.”
“But take a look at this,” said Dennison, her image switching to a streaming satellite video of a hovercraft racing across the channel. A text box indicated that the craft was bound for Folkestone Harbor, with an ETA of just six minutes. The image then zoomed in to show three people on bicycles heading down the narrow, shop-lined Old High Street, en route to the linkup with that hovercraft.
“We have her now,” Brent said, trying to control his pulse. “If she gets on that ship, that’s it. Done deal. Much easier to isolate and control.”
“I agree. I’m instructing your pilot to hold off. We want her to board, get out into the channel, and then I’m calling in a laser strike on the hovercraft’s engines. Once she’s dead in the water, you move in.”
“Sounds familiar and perfect. Only this time she’s going to be on board. Standing by.”
Brent glanced around at the rest of his team. “Get fast ropes ready! We’re back in the hunt!”
“Roger that,” said Lakota, then she began issuing orders to the others.
So the Snow Maiden wasn’t so clever after all. She’d had her fun back in the Seychelles, but now she’d run out of time and terrain. Brent could already feel the zipper cuffs tightening around her wrists. He moved in front of her, got into her face, and said, “You’re n
ot an easy woman to find.”
And she would just glower at him with bloodshot eyes, resigned to her capture.
Oh, were it that easy.
Taking a deep breath, Brent continued to watch the satellite feed. The three cyclists neared the end of the road and disappeared into the alcove of a restaurant identified by the Cross-Com’s AI as “Fat Sam’s.”
“What? They’re stopping for an early lunch?” Brent asked Dennison.
“Probably holding back until the hovercraft gets through the harbor.”
“She’s obviously in contact with someone. Can you intercept?” he asked.
“We’ve been trying. New form of encryption. Hard to break. Cutting-edge stuff, say the geeks back here. But they always say that, right?”
Just then the Blackhawk pilot began to wheel around and reported, “In our holding pattern.”
Below lay the leathery brown stretches of sandy beach and the Folkestone pier jutting out like a slightly bent arm serving as the end of a railway line.
After another minute, the three cyclists appeared, heading along Harbour Street toward the hovercraft, just now entering and blasting seamlessly up the concrete hoverport lying near the railroad tracks. They were all holding to-go cups and had probably stopped for a quick drink.
The cyclists rode a bit faster now, reached the hoverport, set down their bikes, and raced up a small gangway set in place by two crew members.
Brent watched them like a hawk perched on a branch and studying a mouse who’d come up on his hind legs to sniff the air. The swoop and attack were already racing through his mind.
Lakota reported that the team was ready to drop on both ropes.
He nodded, then faced one of the door gunners. He tapped his Cross-Com, indicating that the man should open his intercom channel. He did. “Once she’s disabled, there’s a good chance we’ll take some fire.”
“Don’t worry, Captain. When people shoot at me, I always return the favor.” The guy wriggled his brows.
Brent slapped a palm on his shoulders. “I like your style.”
The hovercraft was a newly designed, high-speed model with hybrid engines, according to Brent’s HUD. With a crew of five and about a hundred passengers, it wasn’t the largest ferry around but arguably the swiftest, able to cross the channel in less than twenty minutes. A few decades prior, hovercraft travel had all but ceased and was only returning in the past few years with a new company, new technology, and a new influx of international businesspeople trying to navigate around chaotic relationships strained by the war.
The craft powered up and slid backward off the hoverport, turned tail, and headed swiftly out of the harbor.
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead, she’s heading out.”
“We’ll give them about ten minutes to move farther off shore. I’ve already got laser strike authorization and controllers on standby.”
“Roger that.” Brent switched channels and asked the pilot about their fuel. They would have enough to complete the mission but probably not enough to get back to base. He could put down somewhere else, though, and had several smaller facilities in mind.
And so they circled, watching as the hovercraft moved farther away.
After several minutes, Dennison appeared: “Laser strike in five, four, three, two—”
Sparks arced high from the hovercraft’s stern, and Brent knew the lasers had done their job. Smoke began billowing, and the broad wake behind the craft began to fade.
“Ghost Lead, this is Hammer! Move in!”
“Roger that.” Brent waved his gloved hand in the air. “Ready on the ropes!”
As the chopper pilot throttled up and took them out and over the English Channel, Brent flexed his fingers and mentally prepared for the descent. The ropes were specially braided, and their gloves were designed of a Kevlar-Nomex outer shell that quickly absorbed the high heat they’d generate while sliding down. Fast-roping wasn’t easy, wasn’t safe, but it sure as hell was, ahem, fast. Grab the rope and slide. Three-meter gaps between operators. And you’d better not get any second thoughts. You loved the adrenaline rush but loathed the idea of being the guy in the middle, with operators sliding above and below you.
The Blackhawk banked around the still-billowing smoke and descended.
Both door gunners swung their 7.62-millimeter machine guns to bear on the hovercraft, and Brent came up behind one, clutching a wall rung for balance.
“Get ready for incoming,” said the pilot. “Here we go.” He brought the chopper in lower, slowing, pitching the nose up a bit until they glided not fifteen meters above the deck.
The gunners kept panning with their guns. Civilians who’d been outside on the deck began rushing back into the enclosed bay, while crew members were throwing up their hands, confused.
Brent listened in as the pilot spoke to the hovercraft’s captain, telling him to prepare to be boarded.
“Keep your eyes on all sides of this boat,” said Lakota. “She could slip off and try to make a swim for it.”
“Is it really a boat?” asked Riggs. “I mean technically—”
“Just watch it!” Lakota ordered.
The captain lodged his protests but was allowing them to board. Brent issued the orders.
Without hesitation the ropes dropped and thumped on the bobbing deck.
“Go, go, go!” hollered Brent.
And drop they did, rifles slung over their backs, gloved hands clutching those ropes, balanced between life and serious injury.
Brent was the last one down, his people already moving forward, rifles raised to begin clearing the deck.
The civilians were understandably shaken, but this was wartime and many were already settling in, realizing that the boarding and search operation was a necessary evil. If they sat quietly and didn’t intervene, they’d be fine, especially since they’d been told that “an American boarding party” had arrived.
As the others went below to continue the search, Brent ordered Park and Noboru to circulate through the passengers with photographs of the Snow Maiden. Within a minute, a few said they’d seen a woman who looked like her heading back to one of the rear restrooms.
After hearing that report, Brent charged toward the stern, went down a narrow flight of stairs, and found the hatch to the restroom locked. He rapped, called. Nothing. He ordered Daugherty and Heston to join him, and Heston grabbed a small prying tool from his web gear and busted open the hatch.
What the hell?
“Captain, did they do this?” asked Heston.
“No, someone else,” said Daugherty.
A short, dark-skinned man, a teenaged boy, and a woman with spiked hair were all piled into the small room. The boy had a gunshot wound to the chest. The man had been shot in the head. Heston moved in, reached down, and turned the woman’s head, revealing a bloody mess. As he did so, the short black wig slipped off, revealing blond hair pulled into a tight bun.
Decoys.
Brent took a step back and began screaming the word No! over and over.
He screamed so loud that even the chopper pilot could have heard him.
The Snow Maiden had to give Patti credit for her assistance and organizational skills. She’d set up the entire decoy run, right down to having the decoys themselves murdered at the last minute so they couldn’t be tortured into confessing. Now there was only one man on board the hovercraft who worked for the Ganjin, and he was just a simple, unassuming passenger, a potbellied, gray-haired old codger more interested in the news flashing across his smartphone’s display than in some boarding party search of his hovercraft.
For the moment, she, Chopra, and Hussein were being driven far away from Fat Sam’s by a taxi driver who’d been paid to take them up to Dover, their original destination. From there, Patti had arranged transport across the channel by private yacht, but that would not happen until nightfall. They would spend the day at the West Bank Guest House, south of Dover, where Patti had made all the arrangements, no questions asked.
>
Once they reached the house, the driver said he’d already been paid and left. They entered into a main foyer/reception area, where a heavyset woman with shimmering white hair showed them to a room. Chopra and Hussein remained strangely silent, until she closed the door and faced them. “I want to thank you for your cooperation thus far. This could be much more difficult. You’ve made the right choice.”
“I’m starving. When do we eat?” demanded Hussein.
“Relax, you’ll get fed,” she shot back.
“We’re not going to Geneva,” said Chopra. “We’re not leaving this room.”
She sighed deeply for effect and pointed at Hussein. “You’ve obviously been looking for him, and I’ve been looking for you. So now that we’ve all found each other, why can’t we just live happily ever after?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. This is a grave matter. But I guess you aren’t much more than an evil person.”
“You think I’m evil? How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“The murders?”
Chopra shrugged. “Of course.”
“They were obstacles. There were no evil intentions in my heart when I killed them, only a job to do.”
“And being that cold is not evil?”
“There are those who are much colder than I am. Trust me. Much colder. You don’t know evil. If I had the time, I would show it to you.”
Hussein took a deep breath and strode over to her. “You need us. So you won’t kill us, so really, we’re calling the shots. The gun doesn’t really mean anything because you won’t use it. You can’t. I can open the window and start shouting.”
“You could,” she told him. “And you’re right, I won’t kill you. But I can make you feel pain.” With that she drew her silenced pistol and aimed it at the boy’s leg. “Care to find out?”
“No, no, no,” he said, backing away and bending over, as though he’d been struck by a softball in the groin.
“Okay, then do me a favor. Sit down at the desk. And Chopra, you sit there, and you explain to this spoiled brat why he needs to lead his country. He wasn’t listening the first time. Tell him again.”
Endwar: The Hunted Page 16
