Ragnarok cta-4

by Kane Gilmour

  Knight and a teammate had been sent to the grassy plateau near Mount Kadam to watch the early morning deal go down, mark the players and then, if possible, kill the UFA members with knowledge of the deal and deactivate the device. Knight and his teammate would then be extracted with the nuclear material.

  The only problem was the timing. As a part of the former Delta group known as Chess Team, which was now part of a larger black ops organization known as Endgame, Knight was privy to all kinds of intelligence, but in this case, his headquarters-based handler, callsign: Deep Blue, named after the chess-playing supercomputer, had only been able to provide him with a location and a general timeframe.

  No exact date.

  No exact time.

  Knight had been lying in the grass for three days now.

  It’s a wonder he can’t smell me.

  The soldier hadn’t moved from Knight’s hand in twenty minutes. Deep Blue had been tracking the operation through an NSA satellite and communicating with Knight through a tactical earplug, but Deep Blue hadn’t said anything in hours and Knight guessed that was just plain bad luck. If Deep Blue had been watching, he would have warned Knight of the soldier’s arrival long before Knight’s digits got mashed into the soil. All he could do now was wait. If the solider moved on, fine. But if he stayed put much longer, Knight would have to break cover and risk the noise of killing the man-his hand simply couldn’t take too much more.

  “Please tell me that tango isn’t standing near you.” Knight’s partner, Erik Sommers, callsign: Bishop, spoke so softly and calmly in Knight’s earphone that the man could have been resting in an easy chair. Bishop was somewhere off to Knight’s left across the huge field. Knight didn’t know exactly where Bishop was, but he knew that the man probably would have had a great view of the guerillas down the slope of the field. He wouldn’t have been keeping an eye on Knight’s position for the most part. Deep Blue was supposed to do that.

  Unable to respond verbally, Knight slipped his tongue out of his mouth and touched the sensitive lip-microphone he wore. The resulting sound would be an audible click in Bishop’s earpiece. A yes.

  “Is he on your hide?”

  Another flick of the tongue. Yes.

  Bishop let Knight hear his chuckle. “Figures. Deep Blue, you copy? Could use some eyes in the sky right now.” Bishop’s voice still stayed soft and level, as if he held no real interest in the fact that his teammate was close to being compromised. It almost sounded like the man was about to fall asleep.

  Deep Blue did not respond, which was unusual, but far less strange than Deep Blue not warning Knight about incoming enemy forces.

  “Knight, you want me to intervene?” Bishop inquired, almost Zen-like in his serenity.

  Knight considered for just a moment. His hand was sore as hell, but if the soldier needed to be taken down, it would probably be better for him to do it with the knife than for Bishop to come across the field with his custom-modified XM312-B machine gun that could turn the soldier into paste, but which would also alert half of Uganda. He slid his tongue out twice to touch the lip-mic. No.

  Knight was about to call it a day and unsheathe the knife when Deep Blue finally spoke in his ear.

  “Sorry I was away. I’ll explain later. Knight, I see you’re in the shit. Stay down, I’m sending Bishop to you. We need to abandon this op.” Deep Blue’s voice, masked by voice modulation in case anyone were to pick up on their frequency, was still full of tension. Something was deeply wrong. The team rarely abandoned an operation. Anticipating the reaction of his teammates, and the questions Bishop would pose because Knight was unable to speak without giving away his cover, Deep Blue continued. “I need you both in Cairo an hour ago. Something huge is going down. Bishop, kill the tangos. Hit however many of the soldiers downfield as you can. Transport is inbound to your location and should arrive in less than two minutes. Go.”

  With that, thunder filled the air as Bishop stepped out of cover on the edge of the field. Despite his adopted Scandinavian-American name, Bishop was a huge mountain of a muscled man, with deep chestnut Persian skin that revealed his true heritage. He looked perfectly at home holding the long-barreled machine gun. It boomed with each shot, sending. 50 caliber rounds scorching through the air at a rate of almost 800 rounds a minute. The top half of the soldier standing on Knight’s hand turned to a cloud of mist with the first hit, and the man’s legs fell over onto Knight’s back.

  Knight didn’t stand. There was no point. His weapon was already aligned with the bulk of the soldiers down the field, and they had all stopped to turn and stare in Knight’s direction, temporarily dumbfounded by the roar of Bishop’s machine gun, which sounded like a fleet of supersonic jets each crossing the sound barrier, one after another. Boom. Boom. Boom. Knight swept his sore hand to the grip of the weapon, glanced down the scope and began taking out his own targets. He went for headshots, and one after the next, removed another fanatical Ugandan terrorist from the world.

  Bishop began stalking across the field toward Knight, sweeping the barrel of his XM312-B to the side of him as he went, mowing down wave after wave of the enemy combatants. In many cases, Bishop’s indiscriminant sweep hit the living and dead-men on the receiving end of Knight’s long-range, 50 caliber sniper rounds.

  “Where’s that pickup?” Knight asked.

  “It’ll be here,” Bishop said, his calm only slightly interrupted by the pounding of his weapon’s vibration on his body.

  The still-living members of the UFA had hit the dirt and were firing back with Russian AK-47 assault rifles, which only had an effective range of about 450 yards-nowhere near the distance away that Bishop and Knight were-but Knight had also spotted them readying a few rocket-propelled grenades and he knew those could reach his position. Still, it would take little effort for him and Bishop to hold off the 30 soldiers still in the fight.

  Knight picked up his EXACTO, short for EXtreme ACcuracy Tasked Ordnance, which made hitting targets a mile away much easier thanks to its “fire and forget” ammunition, which stayed on target by changing shape while in flight. He changed positions quickly, focusing on the small breakaway group to his right, across the field. The ones with the rockets. He assumed a kneeling stance and launched a few rounds toward the group. He took two men with one bullet, piercing the first man’s head and the second man’s chest.

  So much for -

  Then the ground at the front of the field, between his position and the terrorists, erupted in a spurt of flame. Dark-colored soil launched into the air. Knight moved his eye from the scope and looked up to see an A-10 Thunderbolt II ground attack fighter. The plane was commonly known as the “Warthog” and it bristled with armaments and a GAU-8 heavy rotary nose-mounted cannon. The plane was painted olive drab green, but its belly was painted in garish, thin, black, red and yellow stripes.

  At first, Knight had thought their transport was here. But the Warthog’s color scheme said otherwise. The plane was one of twelve fighters in the Ugandan People’s Defense Force Air Wing. The government forces had arrived, but it seemed they weren’t targeting the UFA soldiers. The ground in front of Knight was chewed up by the 30 mm Gatling-style cannon on the nose of the plane, and then the cannon fire was gone as the plane blasted by overhead. The gouge in the field was almost a foot deep, as if a tractor had just come by and ploughed a furrow. The dark line was less than a yard from Knight’s position in the grass. Bishop stood just to the other side of the line in the earth and looked at Knight. He had stopped firing his XM312-B.

  “That was damned close,” he said. For once, his reserve of calm was shattered.

  Knight stood and turned to look up at the A-10 as it banked in the sky for another attack run. “Deep Blue, we need that transport, now!”

  Knight ignored the scattered AK-47 fire from further down the field. Many of the UFA soldiers had fled with the arrival of a UPDF plane, but the few left were still firing at Bishop and Knight. None of them had figured out they didn’t have the rang
e to hit their targets. Knight looked at Bishop and had an idea.

  “Stand still, Bish.”

  Bishop did as he was asked without any query. Knight walked over to him and laid the long barrel of the EXACTO sniper rifle on the man’s shoulder from behind. With Bishop being almost a foot taller than Knight, the little Korean American didn’t need to even squat to get the right angle. He lined up the scope on the returning Warthog and took five quick breaths, then slowed his breathing to several shallow ones.

  The Warthog was lined up perfectly, on an attack run for their position, and it opened up fire with the rotating cannon spitting out a line of fire at 60 rounds a second. The fire scoured a fast approaching line into the ground. If they didn’t move, they would be cut in half.

  “Better know what you’re doing,” Bishop said. “And do it fast.”

  FOUR

  Walt Disney World Resort, FL

  2 November, 1300 Hrs

  “How the hell do I keep getting myself into these things?”

  Jack Sigler, callsign: King, raced across the roof of a speeding, white public transit monorail train that ran around the amusement park on an elevated track. The man he was chasing was not going to get away.

  It was an overcast day in what was supposed to be sunny Flor-ida. A high-sixties breeze buffeted King’s short-cropped hair. He missed his long shaggy hair, which he’d cut for an undercover mission in Paris and planned to grow out again. His loose-fitting black t-shirt with his hero Elvis’s TCB logo rippled across his muscular chest in the warm wind. The shirt was his favorite. That was King, too: taking care of business. The man he chased across the roof of the fast-moving monorail was dressed in his own pair of jeans and a lightweight hooded sweatshirt with a small Jansport backpack on his back. No more than twenty-five, King thought, the man had a nervous, sweaty look to him that had first tipped King off that something wasn’t right.

  King had been vacationing in Florida with his girlfriend, CDC disease detective turned Endgame expert, Sara Fogg. Accompanying the pair was his adopted fourteen-year-old daughter, Fiona Lane, the lone survivor of an attack that took the lives of her grandmother, as well as the rest of the Siletz Reservation the pair called home.

  As a former Delta operator and field leader of the ultra-secret Chess Team, King had met both women while on the job, and his work had severely affected each of their lives. Most of the time, Fiona was fine with her adopted family of soldiers and her life of danger, but sometimes she wanted to just be a kid. She had asked King shyly if they might take a trip to Disney sometime. After the recent events with his job in Paris, King and Sara had quickly decided it was something they all needed. A little time for each of them to be normal.

  King and Sara had grown closer, too, so much so that she was naturally a part of the process now, when it came to decisions for Fiona. King wasn’t sure marriage was in the cards anytime soon-after all, he was a full-time soldier dealing with threats that affected America and the globe. The level of danger was more than could be coped with by most tactical military teams. But he also couldn’t deny that he felt empty on the downtime when Sara was out in the field battling microscopic enemies that all the bullets in the world couldn’t kill.

  Their Disney vacation had started out fine, and King found himself really enjoying sleeping in each morning. The girls were impatient with him, though, so today they had headed to Epcot early and King followed when he woke. He was taking the monorail from the hotel when he had spotted the sweaty man with the backpack.

  Seated at the front of the train, Sweaty had started fidgeting with his pack, and King, trained to notice such things, had started counting problems with the man. Inappropriate clothing-the sweatshirt was too hot for the day. A bag and hands in the bag fumbling with things unseen. Profuse nervous sweating and a glazed stare fixed directly ahead. King couldn’t believe it, but the man was exhibiting many of the symptoms of a suicide bomber. But he was a Caucasian man-not West Asian-so King had initially told himself that maybe he was being overly cautious. He glanced back behind him to check the rest of the monorail car for the other passengers, to see if anything or anyone else set off his security radar.

  But when he turned back, he realized he never should have taken eyes off the subject. The man had stood, swept into the unlocked driver’s compartment at the front of the train and pulled an automatic pistol out of his pack.

  That’s what I get for racial profiling.

  King lunged from his seat, already in motion along the length of the car when Sweaty had conked the driver-an older man of at least sixty-five-over the head with the butt of the weapon. He was squatting and affixing a magnetic bomb to the dash of the train when King had nearly reached the door of the driver’s compartment.

  Passengers screamed, as King eyed the bomb.

  Sweaty had turned at the last second and with no hesitation had fired a sweeping arc of eight bullets through the Plexiglas windows and back into the passenger area of the compartment. King instinctively threw himself backward as he saw the gun arm coming up, almost in slow motion. The Plexiglas shattered as he fell to the floor, fragmenting and spraying large shards over him and a row of screaming Mouseketeers. He rolled to a crouch against the bottom of the door leading into the front compartment, and one of the passengers made eye contact with him. She pointed at the front of the train.

  King rose and peered through the shattered window, quickly taking in the unconscious old man, the bomb on the dash and the open side window through which he could just see the leg of the sweaty man rising out of view.

  The roof, he thought. Why do they always go for the roof on a moving train?

  King stepped into the driver’s area and checked for a pulse on the old man. He was alive-just out cold. The bomb was unfamiliar to King, but clearly not a homemade job. Either Sweaty was a professional bomb-maker or he had obtained the device from one. King didn’t know much about the monorail trains at Disney, or about how they worked, but he had read some things about the park on the flight from Europe. He knew that the trains had a system that prevented them from colliding and shut them down in case of an emergency. He remembered that the system was called MAPO, after Mary Poppins. There were lights on the dash that would indicate when the MAPO system was engaged. But a small black device with a blinking red light had been magnetically attached to the dash next to the MAPO system, and King was dismayed to see that no MAPO lights were lit. The black device was clearly interfering with the safety system of the train.

  King stared at the bomb and the black box. He didn’t know what to do. He knew how to disarm some simple, improvised explosive devices, but not a bomb of this complexity. He didn’t know if he could just remove either the bomb or the electronic device interfering with the MAPO system. Either attempt might set the bomb off early. He glanced at the speedometer and saw the train was doing nearly 50 mph, and then looked out the front of the train at the monorail track ahead. Eventually they would hit something or the bomb would go off, assuming it had some kind of internal timer.

  Gonna have to bring Sweaty back, King thought, and climbed out the open window.

  The man ran toward the back of the train. King chased after him, but made ready to hit the deck should the man turn and fire the 9 mm that he still clutched in one sweaty hand. But the man didn’t turn until King was nearly on top of him. Sweaty stopped on the roof of the last car and simply stood still. As King got up to him, the man turned and again brought the weapon up, but King was ready for him this time. He swatted the weapon from the man’s arm and it went flying into the air. King launched a right cross and hit the man on the chin. Sweaty staggered back and all the fight went out of him. Then the man brought his eyes up to look at King.

  But his eyes didn’t stop on King’s face. He was looking over King’s right shoulder, up toward the front of the train, and King saw terror fill the man’s face. The man took a step back from King, turned and sprinted off the rear of the train, his torso slamming into the concrete edge of the ra
ised rail and his body then flipping backward to plummet to the ground forty feet below.

  King watched the sweaty man fall as if in slow motion, then he slowly turned around to see what the bomber had seen. He was expecting more men. Armed men. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his consciousness, he was even expecting some hideous creature from the unknown-King had certainly faced enough far-fetched exotic creatures as a part of his work, to make the possibility of a monstrous beast one he would consider.

  What he wasn’t expecting was a Russian Mil Mi-24 helicopter gunship loaded with armaments on its wings and a Yak-B nose-mounted cannon pointed right at King. In fact, the massive Russian assault helicopter was probably further down on the list of things King’s subconscious could have imagined than the Loch Ness Monster.

  FIVE

  Fenris Kystby, Norway

  Rook’s only recourse to the shotgun was to rush the man holding it. If he could get close enough, fast enough, he might divert the angle to the barrel on the weapon.