Endwar: The Hunted

by David Michaels

  Two of the gunships had returned from the airport area to launch missiles on the bridges spanning the canal. There were four bridges in all, and they were targeting three, blasting away gaping sections that fell in an eerie slow motion toward the bubbling white water. Brent called up the map and nodded in understanding: They were not striking the bridge directly opposite the Almas Tower.

  “Check it out,” he told Lakota, sharing his HUD map with her.

  “I see it.”

  The Euros were either creating an escape route for the Snow Maiden or attempting to funnel Juma’s forces into a single approach. Perhaps both, Brent thought with a deep sigh.

  He stole a quick glance at the camera images captured by Schleck and Riggs; they were still rushing down the stairs.

  Then he switched to the other teams, who had moved about a kilometer up Sheikh Zayed Road and maintained their observation posts, along with several squads of Juma’s men. Copeland was zooming in with his camera to reveal a dozen or so of Juma’s men rushing onto the main highway to launch rocket-propelled grenades at a pair of oncoming Badgers. Just as the militiamen launched, the entire group dispersed in all directions; it was the strangest retreat Brent had ever seen—nothing orderly about it, as though each man were crawling with ants.

  Then it dawned on him.

  The Euros were using their microwave weapon, and Brent’s stomach turned as the men fell to the ground, swelling like balloons as the water and blood in their bodies came to a boil and their skin began to separate like sausages being overcooked.

  “Captain, are you seeing this?” asked Copeland.

  “Yeah.” Brent grunted. “I see it. Alpha? Bravo? Keep tight. Fall back on the tower. Do not engage. Do not get tagged. Go now!”

  His people charged off, along with squads of militiamen in tow.

  Chen Yi’s team had placed wireless surveillance cameras the size of golf balls throughout the tunnel area and approach to the main vault. One of his men was monitoring those cameras via a notebook computer.

  They reached an intersection where four tunnels met, and in the center lay a thick, tubular shaft within which sat a broad cargo elevator with heavy steel gates. This was how they got the gold into the vault, and this, the Snow Maiden grinned, was exactly how it was coming out.

  The three truck drivers parked behind her, and Chen Yi ordered them to remain there on guard.

  She leaned over to Chopra. “You need to get the elevator open for us. Just do it. Or I’ll shoot the kid.”

  Two of Chen Yi’s men carried Chopra from the forklift’s wide seat and toward the elevator’s control panel. Chopra looked weakly at her, then back at Hussein, who cried, “Just do it, old man! We have no choice!”

  Chopra placed his hand on the scanner pad. Nothing. Without power to trickle-charge the backup batteries, they’d eventually lost their charge.

  “There’s no way in. The emergency generator is down in the vault,” he said.

  The Snow Maiden tore the lower panel off the biometric scanner station, exposing the batteries.

  “How much power do I need?” she demanded.

  “Twenty-four volts DC,” he told her.

  She ordered Chen Yi’s men to pull two batteries from the forklifts, wire them in series, and connect them in place of the panel’s existing battery cables.

  A moment after he touched it, the pad lit from beneath and light wiped across the screen. The status display showed READING ... AUTHENTICATING ... And then—

  WELCOME, MANOJ CHOPRA.

  The wide doors slid open.

  “You did the right thing,” the Snow Maiden told him, as Chen’s people carried him back to the lift. Only two forklifts at a time could fit in the elevator, so the Snow Maiden’s and one other entered first.

  They descended for a full thirty seconds until the elevator stopped with a series of hard clunks and thuds. The cagelike doors creaked open. They drove into another access tunnel about forty meters long, only their forklift lights illuminating the way.

  Next came security checkpoint number two: another pair of wide, blastproof doors beside which sat an empty security desk whose monitors flashed a message about being in standby mode since they’d just been powered up via the other terminal.

  “I’m sorry, you have to get out again,” Hussein said to Chopra.

  This time the medic came rushing over and shouted at Chen Yi’s other men as they carried the old man toward the interface panel. The medic was not pleased with all the moving of his patient.

  Now Chopra had to place both hands on a glass-top counter and stare directly into a screen that showed a digitized and lifelike image of him, basically his avatar. A female computer voice, speaking in English with a British accent, instructed him not to blink.

  A light shone directly into one of his eyes, and then the computer said, “Please state your name.”

  Chopra took a deep breath.

  “Please state your name.”

  The Snow Maiden raised her pistol, put it to Hussein’s head, then looked at him expectantly.

  “Manoj Chopra.”

  “Identity recognized. Welcome, Mr. Chopra. It appears you are experiencing a medical emergency. Should I call for medical assistance?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, then. Access is granted.”

  The broad metallic doors slid open, and without delay they drove the forklifts through them, down yet one more tunnel that terminated at a wall of thick titanium bars, not unlike a prison. This was a conventional barrier opened with either a set of four keys or another set of biometric measures.

  And just beyond the bars, about twenty meters away, was the final barrier between them and all that gold: a circular door three meters in diameter and framed in gleaming steel. It reminded the Snow Maiden of a hatch to one of the bomb shelters beneath a few of the military bases in Siberia.

  Chen Yi rushed up to the Snow Maiden. “Two soldiers moving down the tunnel. I want to lock the doors.”

  “We can’t,” she told him. “We’d need the old man to get them back open. Everything has to stay open and remain open.”

  “Then we must move quickly.”

  “I will tell my men to suit up.”

  “You do that.” She took hold of Chopra’s arm. “We’re almost finished, old man,” she reassured him as they carried him up to the next panel.

  He put his hand on the scanner, but then his head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Medic!” screamed the Snow Maiden. “Medic!”

  Lakota turned sharply down Jumeirah Beach Road, a thoroughfare running parallel to the wider highway and leading toward the remaining bridge’s on-ramp. A pair of residential towers known as the Jewel loomed over them, the sky still flickering from explosions across the canal.

  The roar of helicopters had Brent looking up, just as Lakota turned sharply, nearly tossing him out of the Jeep because the vehicle had no doors and wearing a seat belt was the last thing on his mind.

  “The Cheetahs are back,” she sang, her tone dark and sarcastic.

  No one needed the warning, and that was her nerves talking, he understood. He wanted to scream himself.

  Cannon fire from one chopper tore a jagged line across their hood—

  And that’s when he and Lakota simultaneously bailed out, hitting the asphalt and rolling, as the Jeep glided on and crashed into the concrete guard wall.

  Behind them, Juma’s SUV, a dust-covered Cadillac with more dents than a carnival bumper car and whose rear hatch had been removed, veered out of the cannon fire and came to a screeching halt beside them.

  A back door swung open, and there was Juma, waving a hand and shouting, “Get in!”

  Meanwhile, one of his men had hopped down from the tailgate and shouldered a Javelin missile launcher, a newer surface-to-air model developed by the Brits.

  Brent did a double take. “Where’d you get that?” he shouted as he climbed into the SUV.

  “We have a few toys,�
�� answered the warlord.

  The militiaman fired the missile, which arrowed skyward and locked on to one of the choppers. He wasted no time lugging the heavy launcher back to the SUV.

  Brent peered up past the open window and held his breath.

  The Cheetah’s tail rotor took the brunt of the impact, and once the flash and fire had subsided, the chopper began to rotate violently, its tail rotor sheared off, hydraulic and fuel lines hanging down like leaking veins.

  The bird sailed over their heads, and Brent turned back to watch as the Cheetah collided with one of the towers in a spectacular explosion of fireballs filled with showering glass.

  “Holy—”

  Lakota’s curse was drowned out as the main rotor sliced away at the building before snapping, one blade whipping end over end across the road not three meters behind them.

  As they swung right, turning up toward the bridge proper, the man behind the wheel hit the brakes so hard that Brent, Juma, and Lakota all collided with the front seats.

  Before Brent could look up to see what hell was happening, Daugherty was hailing him. “Ghost Lead, two Badgers have pushed through and are setting up a barricade on the other side of the bridge. They’re cutting you off, sir!”

  “Ghost Lead, it’s Schleck. Riggs and I are down in the tunnel. We found Schoolie, sir.”

  “I can see that,” Brent answered, checking their camera broadcasts in his HUD.

  “She was here, all right. They’ve set up some cameras, so we’re being watched right now. Voeckler called me, and he’s already on his way. He’ll jam the cameras and clear the path, sir.”

  “Roger that, get him on it. In the meantime, I need some fire on those Badgers blocking my way. Daugherty? Copeland? Talk to me.”

  The boy was at Chopra’s side, holding his hand now, as the medic tried to bring the old man back to consciousness. Chopra lay on his back, still unmoving, his chest barely rising and falling.

  Unable to stand the frustration any longer, the Snow Maiden grabbed the boy’s wrist and dragged him up and away, moving toward the scanner. “If you’re a living key, then open the gate.”

  She slapped the boy’s palm on the reader.

  “Identity not recognized,” came the computer’s voice.

  She glowered at him. “Were you lying?”

  The boy repositioned his palm on the reader. “No,” he said. “But I told you, I don’t have access to the vault, only to the computers inside. Chopra’s the only one who can get us in there. I told you that!”

  With a pair of keystrokes on the touchpad, the Snow Maiden reset the reader. “Try it one more time.”

  He did. Nothing.

  She cursed, then shifted away from him back toward the medic. “Lift him up. I need his hand on that scanner right now!”

  “Not good to move him!”

  “Lift him up!”

  Chen Yi rushed over to the soldier monitoring the surveillance cameras, then came back to the Snow Maiden. “They’ve jammed the cameras. They’re coming.”

  They propped the unconscious Chopra up and dragged him to the scanner, and the Snow Maiden worked his palm.

  But then Chopra began to wake up. He lifted his head and glanced over at the Snow Maiden, and in that moment, as the computer sensed his consciousness, the gate began to slide open on heavy rollers.

  Not three seconds later, he fainted again.

  “You can’t get into the vault,” said Hussein. “Unless he wakes up.”

  “Come on, you old bastard,” she muttered to him in Russian. “Just one more door.”

  “Sir, if you draw any closer, they’ll hit you with the microwave. Don’t do it, sir,” said Daugherty.

  “Roger that,” answered Brent, and then he regarded Lakota. “We’re getting out.” He tapped Juma on the shoulder. “Tell your driver to stay here for now. Radio the rest of your troops. Tell them to fall back on the Almas Tower. The Euros landed north to divert your people away. Pretty simple diversion, so let’s bring ’em all back here.”

  “I agree, Brent,” said Juma.

  Brent and Lakota hopped out of the SUV and crossed to the tailgate, where several hard cases containing more Javelin missiles had been stored. The militiaman who’d taken down the chopper was wide-eyed and breathless, still overjoyed by his excellent shot and ready to fire again. Brent and Lakota would oblige him.

  “Captain, I’ve got some news for you,” began Copeland.

  “Not now,” snapped Brent. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “I think you need to see this,” insisted Copeland.

  Before Brent could refocus his attention on his HUD, twin flashes of light came from across the canal, from somewhere along the main highway south of the bridge.

  And then he saw them: two missiles arcing high in the sky and suddenly dropping straight down toward the pair of Badgers on the other side of the bridge.

  Lakota was swearing in surprise as the missiles struck a one-two punch to the armored vehicles, both of which lifted off the ground and blew apart, as though they’d been detonated from within.

  “Cavalry’s arrived,” she said, now dumbfounded.

  Secondary explosions lifted more debris in the air as the popcorn popping of ammo cooking off rose through the echoing booms.

  More pieces of the Badgers rocketed back up through the smoke trails left by the missiles, and Brent waved a fist in the air and turned toward the origin of the fire.

  It seemed Grey had somehow cut through the jamming and had called in the reinforcements—or Juma had yet another surprise up his warlord’s sleeve.

  “Thank you, whoever you are.” Brent zoomed in and saw a convoy of six armored vehicles, BTR-12 Cockroaches, along with a man standing in the turret-top cupola of a T-100 Ogre tank rumbling in the lead.

  Brent’s jaw went slack.

  “Ghost Lead, are you there?” called Copeland. “They just took out the Badgers, but they’re heading our way.”

  Brent turned toward Lakota, and she said the name before he could:

  “Haussler.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Almas Tower

  Business District, Dubai

  Brent zoomed in once more on the convoy trundling toward the tower. There were no more epithets to express his feelings; he’d exhausted them all.

  Haussler’s group was the same force Juma’s men had reported moving up from the south. The German and his cronies had encountered some resistance, but not from Juma’s people. That Haussler did not wear a combat suit or other radiation protection suggested his plans were brief: capture the Snow Maiden and go home.

  Gee, that plan sounded strangely familiar.

  “They’re Russians,” Brent finally said, glancing toward Juma. “Why didn’t your guys recognize them?”

  “There were no reports of armor. They must have picked up the vehicles farther north.”

  “If he’s trying to keep low-key, he’s failing miserably,” said Lakota. “He should’ve picked up some local armor or just something less conspicuous.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t care, and neither do the Russians. They’re trying to capture a rogue, one of their own, and we already know that. They don’t have anything to hide right now, do they?”

  Lakota shrugged. “I bet Grey saw them coming, but she couldn’t tip us off.”

  “That’s about all she could do without turning this into an even bigger fiasco,” said Brent.

  “We have to wait now,” Juma warned. “After they pass, we can go. If they spot us, we will be sitting dogs.”

  “Ducks,” said Lakota.

  The warlord frowned at her. “That’s what I said.”

  Chen Yi tugged at the Snow Maiden’s shoulder as she leaned over and watched the medic trying to revive Chopra.

  “The Americans are in the tunnels,” said the special forces captain. “Three so far. They just jammed the cameras.”

  She wrenched around and grabbed him by the neck. “Tell your men to kill them!” Then she shoved him ba
ck and away.

  He glowered at her for a moment, glanced down at his sidearm, then put a hand to his earpiece, his expression shifting. “You need to suit up.” He lifted his head at Chopra and Hussein. “My men will help them, too ...”

  “We open the vault first!” she cried.

  He muttered something in Chinese and rushed off.

  Chopra stirred, his eyes fluttering open. She yelled at the medic, ordering him to lift Chopra and carry him to the final access panel built into the wall beside the main vault door.

  Gunfire began booming in the distance.

  “They’re coming,” gasped Hussein.

  Chopra saw the boy ascending to the throne like an angel, wings spread as he turned to face the crowds and then, finally, inevitably, as perfect and correct as the moment could be, he took a seat on the golden chair and smiled, all of the hope in his heart spreading out in waves across the millions who’d gathered, their faces stretching into the farthest reaches of the desert, their voices a steady hum, like an electrical current coursing through the universe.

  And his father was there, too, standing beside the bike he’d given Chopra. “Your life has been remarkable, and I am very proud of you.”

  His mother and sisters were there, beckoning, even as an evil woman growled in his ear, “Wake up, old man. One more door. Come on. This is it!”

  Computer voices.

  His hand on something.

  A light in his eye.

  A prick to his finger.

  And then the comforting thump of his heartbeat and the words I am still here echoing. Abruptly, the heavy clunking of the vault door jarred him as the ground began to shake.

  He told himself he was submitting to her, if only to keep the boy alive. “Hussein?” he called. “Hussein?”

  The armored transport drivers working with Haussler’s Spetsnaz team maneuvered all four BTRs into blocking positions of the tower’s four parking-garage entrances. They placed the tank on the main road facing north, toward Juma’s oncoming forces, and the main gun had already boomed twice, those rounds targeting Juma’s forces, as best Brent could tell without the satellite uplink.