Al-Sif nodded. His expression said he understood. And that he agreed to the terms. Juice decided this was an alliance of convenience – but one that would last, for the time being. At least as long as nothing unexpected happened to test it.
He spat out his tobacco, took a breath, and stood up to go back and take over the drone – but then saw his tobacco pouch had fallen on the ground. He squatted back down to pick it up.
The wicked snap of two collapsing air pockets sounded inches over the top of his helmet.
He dropped electrically behind cover.
And then the other side of the stacked wood in front of his face started chipping and spitting from a flurry of incoming rounds. The sound of the impacts in isolation was surreal – no sound of shots, no muzzle flashes, nothing. Someone out there had superb suppressors.
And they also had excellent position – gained by what must have been a supremely stealthy approach through the bush.
The crash site was being assaulted.
And unless that assault was opposed, they would be overrun.
Juice stole a look over at al-Sif, who was also hunkered down behind the barricade. And he tried to gauge what his new ally was going to do in the next few seconds.
He honestly didn’t know.
Nothing to Defend
Seahawk Crash Site, Nugal River Valley
Juice stayed down just long enough to satisfy himself that Baxter, piloting the drone, was under sufficient cover. He was down on the deck, effectively behind both the wooden barricade and quite a lot of Seahawk. But none of that would matter if they were overrun. And Juice knew the only guys they had been fighting lately were not the kind to hang out and trade rounds.
They would be coming – hard and fast.
Hell, they’d probably only kicked things off without being in position to finish them because Juice gave them such a good look at his fat head. Now he’d been given a second chance. Life could be generous that way. The question was always what you did with it.
Juice armed and hurled two grenades into the bush, roughly down the vector of the incoming fire. Then he moved as far away from his starting position as he could while staying behind the barricade. When the grenades crumped off, he popped and started firing. Winning gunfights was always about dominance. Whoever had it was on the fast track to victory. If you didn’t have it, you had to seize it back – fast and with authority.
When his bolt locked back on an empty chamber, he and his mag both dropped behind the barricade, a fresh one coming out and up. As he rammed it home, he checked al-Sif again. “Well?” he said.
The Somali was hunkered down out of the line of fire. He said, “We should go! Dying here helps no one.”
Juice just shook his head sadly. “You got a better hole, dude, you go to it. But if you want to survive this, you’ll get on the team – which is about to push out and counter-assault.”
Al-Sif looked at him like he was insane. Leave cover? Attack into that?
After the brief lull bought by Juice’s assertiveness, incoming rounds started coming in thick and fast again. Juice moved one position over, the other direction this time, popped, and resumed firing. But he was at a disadvantage. The attackers were in thick bush and their suppressors meant no muzzle flash – and not enough noise to locate. But they knew exactly where the helo and its defenders were. Nonetheless, Juice fired steadily and in a controlled way, getting on the radio at the same time.
“Baxter.”
“Yeah!”
“Get ready to crash that drone.”
“What?”
“If we’re killed or the controller is destroyed, the Russians will regain control of the UCAV. And that can’t happen.”
“Roger that. But let me fly it back here to defend us!”
“Negative. It’s too far – won’t make it in time.” Juice knew right where the UCAV was. And he knew this would all be over in less than its flight time back. Also, the attackers were too close to them already. CAS from a fast-mover was a no-go.
Empty mag, drop down, mag change.
Juice took two deep breaths. He rose into a crouch. He armed and hurled two more grenades. And a half-second before they crumped off, he ran right past al-Sif, around the barrier, out into the bush – and if not straight into the teeth of the attack, then just offset from it, swinging around their flank and smashing into them at an angle.
He figured they wouldn’t like that too much.
* * *
Al-Sif stayed where he was, listening to the silent gun battle raging just beyond the clearing. Whatever the bearded commando was attempting, it appeared not to have worked. Since none of the shooting was aimed at him anymore, he peeked up over the barrier. And he could just make out Juice out in the forest, ahead and on the right – face down in the bush. He figured the man had tried to smash into the attackers, but got stopped. And now he was pinned down.
Oh, the hell with it.
The American commando was right. Al-Sif didn’t have anywhere else to go. And his fate was tied to these soldiers now. He was also slowly starting to see how their skill at fighting, their ability to survive, didn’t exist in a vacuum. It was connected to their mission, their larger sense of purpose. They weren’t just surviving – they were part of something bigger than themselves. And their lives were about more than survival. There must be some reason this one ran out into lethal fire, to defend this position he thought so important, when they could have just run away.
Anyway, if the bearded one was killed, al-Sif knew he would probably be next.
He took two deep breaths. He hefted his rifle. And, keeping low, he moved out around the left side of the barrier, swung out to that side, and ran into the bush, firing as he went.
* * *
And that did it. Juice had already developed a sense that there were only two men out there. And he had gambled that a little reckless aggression would put them back on their heels. They wouldn’t be used to seeing their aggression matched, their opponents attacking straight into them. Unfortunately, Juice’s counter-assault had fallen short, and he’d had to eat mulch halfway to their position.
And now he was pinned down.
Until he wasn’t. Al-Sif’s attack from the left was enough to take their guns off him for two seconds – enough time for him to unstick his assault and take it home. In a flash, he was up and moving again, shooting steadily, swinging around the enemy’s flank. He could tell al-Sif was moving and shooting well – and he was clearly brave enough, once he decided to get in the game.
But the two of them didn’t quite overrun their opponents. And the Russians didn’t stand and shoot it out. Instead, they withdrew, and like ghosts melted back into the forest.
Ah, shit, Juice thought. That’s not good.
* * *
Baxter stayed on station, one hand on the drone controller, the other pointing his M9 pistol behind him at the open cargo door. The silent-disco battle outside was freaking him out. And he really wished Juice would update him.
And then with no warning or preamble, Juice crashed in through the open cargo hatch, al-Sif spilling in behind, then turning and covering out. The urgency level in the dim space skyrocketed.
“Move!” Juice said, shoving him aside. Baxter complied. “Shit!”
“What?”
“Your altitude!” Juice jammed the joystick into the console, sending the UCAV into a dive. “Didn’t I tell you to be ready to crash it?” Baxter suddenly felt stupid. Now he understood that meant being closer to the ground. But Juice was already disconnecting the mini-GCS from its power supply and the helo’s external antenna. He tucked it into the crook of his arm, turned and ran.
“Come ON!” he shouted, not turning to say it.
* * *
The three of them leapt over underbrush and around trees for a good four seconds before Baxter managed, “What? Why?”
Not slowing, Juice said: “There’s only one reason guys like that withdraw.”
The forest behind th
em exploded spectacularly, sparks and debris and great gouts of flame blasting out into the surrounding bush. Then it did so again, possibly even bigger this time.
“To put in rockets or heavy ordnance,” Juice said, stopping, crouching, and turning. “RPGs. But those look like TFAA warheads.” Baxter looked at him wide-eyed. “Thermobaric Fragmentation Anti-Armor.” This did not bode well for the state of their downed helo – and drone piloting shack. Juice shoved the little GCS into Baxter’s chest.
“What now?” Baxter said.
“Now we assault back in, before they can consolidate. And hope they only had two of those things…” He stood up and ran back the way they came, obviously expecting the others to follow. They did. Juice was switched on and savvy enough that they all got back to the crash site before the attackers did. Which meant they still held it. The three of them got under cover, started defending – and drove the attackers back under cover.
“Hold here,” Juice said, meaning at the barricade. He took the GCS back from Baxter, then darted into the crashed helo behind them – which looked a hell of a lot more crashed after two thermobaric RPG hits. Juice went straight to the APU, the helo’s auxiliary power unit, which he had been using to power the GCS and overwhelm the Russian’s hacked control signal.
It was a total write-off. The connections he had jerry-rigged were gone and the unit itself was badly scorched, with its metal cover torn open. Keeping low, Juice ducked back out into what was now a desultory and low-key firefight. Both sides had gotten into ammo-conservation mode. Ammo was heavy, and you could only hump so much through the bush, however badass an operator you were.
“Come on,” he said to Baxter and al-Sif. “We’re leaving. There’s nothing here for us to defend anymore.”
The three of them ducked down and slipped out the back way, only straightening up when they had the helo and a fair bit of forest between them and the Spetsnaz shooters.
“Jingle bus,” Baxter said, not wasting words, nor sounding as if he was inclined to fuck around.
Al-Sif got it. “This way.” He took the lead.
Juice was already on the radio. “Cadaver One, Cadaver Four, urgent sitrep, over.”
“Send it, Four.” It was Handon.
“Be advised: we have lost positive control of the UCAV. Repeat – we have been overrun and lost control of that asset.”
“Copy that.”
“We attempted to ditch before we were overrun. Interrogative: can you see if the UCAV is still in the air? Are you visual, or do you have a radar signature?” Juice knew the carrier’s Seahawks were equipped with multimode radar, which had inverse synthetic aperture (ISAR) imaging and small target detection capability. He only hoped like hell the system was intact on that ravaged bird – and that it wouldn’t see anything.
There was a short delay before Handon came back. “Affirmative. We see it. UCAV is still up, and it is maneuvering.”
“Motherfuckers,” Juice said, though he didn’t key his mic for that. The UCAV had been headed at the ground, and fast, but the Russians had somehow managed to regain control in the tiny window between when they abandoned the crash site and impact.
Juice took a breath. “Cadaver One, be advised. The Russians have control of that asset. Repeat – the UCAV is lost. And it’s most likely going to go after you guys up there. And then come kill us here. Over.”
“Copy that. One out.”
* * *
Handon wasn’t particularly worried about the UCAV coming after them in the Seahawk. The Spetsnaz or other Russian personnel flying it would know they had Patient Zero on board, and were extremely unlikely to shoot them down. Handon also knew the only remaining armaments on the UCAV were Hellfire missiles, which were seriously blunt objects. The UCAV would be doing no trick shooting in the style of Thunderchild, taking out a tail rotor and making them autorotate to a forced landing.
But when Handon popped back up into the cockpit and looked out ahead, the pilot, Cleveland, was already speaking to him on ICS.
“Uh…” he said. That was it. And he pointed straight out the cockpit glass. Handon followed his finger – and realized he could make out another aircraft on the horizon. It was the UCAV. It was coming in fast. And it was coming nearly straight at them.
Cleveland stole a look over at Handon. “I’m going to go evasive and try to run.”
“Negative,” Handon said. “It’s a bluff. Trust me.”
Cleveland seemed to be trying to decide whether to trust Handon – with his life. With all their lives.
“Maintain course and heading,” Handon said.
But five seconds later, it was all over. The UCAV blasted right by them, not fifty feet off the right edge of their rotors. It was pretty obviously a flyby – someone wanted a good look at them. But they were also on their way somewhere. Namely, south.
And Handon knew Juice had one thing right. The guys piloting that drone wouldn’t hesitate one second before killing them.
He wished them well. They were on their own.
Not Comfortable with the Mission
Nugal River Valley
The Spetsnaz Team 2 convoy rumbled to a stop on the covered forest road that ran through the river valley, even as Badger and Warchild emerged from the forest, the former having mostly dried out from his swim across the river. They were both unhurt, operational – and mission complete. And as Misha waved them over from the passenger-side window of his vehicle, a third figure unexpectedly emerged behind them – a little smaller, and a little muddier.
It was the Runt – the weakest link in the Naval Spetsnaz unit known as Mirovye Lohi. And, after having demonstrated that the swollen river could not be forded, he was supposed to be out in the Indian Ocean.
But Misha was on the radio with the drone operator on their Akula, so he held up his hand to put these three on ice while he finished the call. “An SH-60 Seahawk? What was the point of origin?”
“Assuming straight-line flight, point of origin was the edge of the river valley where you had your fight.”
“And you think this is the crew who took our fucking zombie?”
“You tell me. Data-link streaming you video now.”
Misha put his hand over his shoulder and the RTO in back put a handheld mobile data terminal in it. Misha squinted as the video resolved, showing a hooptie-looking Seahawk coming up fast. The video froze just before the two aircraft passed. And sitting in the left-hand seat and staring stonily into the camera was… the American commander.
That motherfucker from the riverbank.
Now Misha knew where their goddamned mission objective was. “What’s their heading?”
“Straight toward Djibouti airport. Just as you predicted.”
Misha nodded to no one. “Anything else?”
“We’re also visual with a single ground vehicle out in open desert, heading the same direction – point of origin about where you’re standing. Some kind of fucked-up jingle bus.”
“Leave the helo for now. Destroy the bus. And stand by.”
Misha dropped the handset, opened the door, swung one bulging leg out onto the mud, and wordlessly regarded Badger and Warchild – as well as the Runt. He was ready for them now. He started with the little one. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you alive again on this side of the river.”
The Runt didn’t speak, but Warchild did, his voice a lethal rasp. “We found him half-drowned, face down on the riverbank.”
Misha turned to the old operator, seeming to forget about the Runt. “So – you destroyed their drone-control site.”
“Da, Polkóvnik.”
“That was not a question, Dipshit McGee. I already knew that. The good news for you two douchenoggins is we got the drone back. The bad news is it was seconds away from cratering. Which means they saw you coming and put it into a dive. Which means you fucked up. Fucked up like a Puerto Rican bicycle.”
Neither man spoke. They didn’t really know what that meant, and it didn’t really matter. Ei
ther Misha would kill them or he wouldn’t. Probably he’d just kick their asses. Unexpectedly, he did neither.
“Go. Do something.” He started to close the door, then pushed it open again. “No – wait.”
The two commandos stopped, turned, and waited.
“Was it the one from the warehouse flying the drone?”
They didn’t immediately answer.
“Big-ass orange beard! You know who I mean.”
They got it now. A nod from Badger sufficed. Misha nodded in turn – he knew it. He dismissed them with a toss of his head, then turned back and got into what had been Major Kuznetsov’s command vehicle – one of the nicer oversized SUVs. It even had a sunroof. The Team 2 commander was now stuck back in the middle of the convoy.
And in the passenger seat of this one was… their sniper, Vasily.
Misha knew the others heaped a lot of contempt on him for killing at a distance, for being so far from the fight, for having too little skin in the game. But the thing was, Misha knew Vasily killed a lot more, and a lot more reliably, than any of the knuckle-dragging assaulters. Misha valued outcomes – bodies on the ground. Whether or not Vasily could smell the breath of his victims was his problem.
Misha grunted again. “Now we’ve just got to get that cocksmoking Seahawk on the ground…”
* * *
Bazarov, copilot and gunner, glanced over his shoulder for a last look at the river valley disappearing behind them, as the repaired Black Shark attack helo rose once again into the sky – still powerful and fearsome, but less steady than before. So far on this mission they had absorbed three direct RPG hits, a pasting of explosive rounds from a 25mm Gatling cannon – and, finally, two very near misses with ASRAAM anti-air missiles. The latter had taken their toll. When Bazarov looked forward, all that lay ahead of them was dusty brown wasteland.
He was not a huge Somalia fan.
Moreover, he was pretty sure it was the river valley alone that had kept them alive, as Nina insisted on going up against F-35s, UCAVs, RPG-wielding maniacs, and every other manner of threat. They were all the same to her. Nothing gave her pause.
ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage Page 3
