The Lazarus Moment

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Spock froze. The sound of gunfire was distinctive, though distant. And his trained ear recognized a weapon that shouldn’t be there.

  Those are MP5s!

  The characteristic sounds of AKs far outnumbered the MP5s, and the weapon he trained on day in and day out seemed to only fire for a few seconds then stop, the AKs continuing for a couple of minutes then dwindling to nothing.

  It was a gunfight, of that there was no doubt. And that meant there were two sides opposing each other, which wasn’t unusual in this part of the world, but the Mozambique Army didn’t use MP5s and there was no way a friendly force would be that far north of the crash site. If the rescue team had arrived, they’d be far south of here.

  He smiled.

  It’s gotta be Red.

  It made sense. He had managed to get the portable comm gear into Dawson’s hands before the plane went over the falls, so they had obviously established comms and a search and rescue team would be on the way. But this area was known to have rebel activity, so if the Pentagon had detected hostiles heading for the crash site, they might dispatch a team to intercept them, and if he knew Red, he’d have already been in the air heading back to their last known position.

  Which meant it was most likely members of Bravo Team engaging the hostiles since there was no way the rescue team could have arrived yet.

  Those crazy bastards must have jumped in.

  He smiled.

  Definitely Bravo Team.

  He headed toward the gunfire.

  Ecomotel, Pretoria, South Africa

  “Something’s happening!”

  Khomenko struggled to his feet, joining his man on watch at the window. Car tires screeched outside, followed by men shouting. With a single finger, he moved the curtain aside just a centimeter.

  And cursed.

  It was the police.

  How the hell did they find us?

  “Time to make a decision, men. Fight and probably die, or surrender?”

  He already knew the answer all three would give him, it just made him feel honored to be with such brave souls as they all shouted their unit’s motto.

  “No surrender! No retreat!”

  He smiled.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  Weapons were quickly broken out, the table flipped over, the team taking cover behind it as one of them pulled the curtains aside.

  They opened fire, shattering the window. Shouts and cries rolled across the sun-bleached parking lot as several of the police took rounds. He retreated to the rear of the small room, peering out the bathroom window at the back when a massive blast hit the front of the room. He stepped back into the room to see his men dead or dying, a grenade or some sort of explosive used on them, it clear the South Africans weren’t here to make any arrests.

  His fighting would lead to nothing good.

  And he refused to die on foreign soil.

  They had been only minutes from leaving, his bag already packed. He grabbed it then opened the bathroom window, scrambling through, then dropping unceremoniously to the sunbaked ground, a burst of dust rising around him. He hobbled toward the nearby buildings, his weakened body and aching leg running off adrenaline alone.

  He reached a narrow alley between two buildings and turned to see the first of the police round the back of the motel, cautiously moving toward the open bathroom window. If they had found them, then they most likely knew who he was, which meant they’d know from identifying his fallen comrades that he had escaped.

  And that meant a massive manhunt.

  He had to get out of the country fast.

  Time for Plan B.

  South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Niner held his knife blade out, rotating it back and forth, trying to catch the sunlight on it, the thunder of rotors overhead exciting the entire group of survivors, even the wounded were all trying to catch a glimpse of the angel in the sky.

  “There she is!” shouted Niner as the Seahawk came into sight. One of the crew hanging out of the side waved, everyone waving back.

  It had taken only fifteen minutes to arrive, one of the choppers heading for the original LZ retasked. Someone attached to a hoist stepped out and was quickly lowered through the trees, the line swinging as the pilot struggled to keep them steady, it like threading a needle with a twenty mile per hour head wind.

  Atlas reached up and caught the man’s leg, halting his swing as he came to rest on the ground. He quickly unhooked himself then grabbed his radio before acknowledging anyone.

  “I’m down, send the first set of supplies and a harness, out.” He turned to the crowd. “I’m Lieutenant McLain. Who’s in charge?”

  Dawson stepped forward. “I am. Agent White. Are we ever glad to see you.”

  “Feeling’s mutual, Agent. We thought you were all dead. The President?”

  Dawson pointed to the First Family, huddled together at the side of the small clearing, Starling already rising to join them.

  The Lieutenant snapped a quick salute, Starling returning it. “Good to see you, Lieutenant.”

  “You too, Mr. President. We’re here to get you and your family out, now. I understand your wife is injured.”

  Starling nodded. “She is, but she’s not the worst. Agent in Charge McNeely is in worse condition than her. He goes first.”

  “No, sir, you go first, then your wife and child.”

  Starling shook his head. “Absolutely not. I leave when the last civilian leaves, not before.” He held up a hand, cutting off McLain. “Those are my orders, Lieutenant.”

  McLain clearly looked frustrated, but bit his tongue. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Niner grabbed the bundle of supplies as they neared the ground. He and Atlas unhooked the line and it rapidly rose, the Air Force personnel quickly unbundling the loot and taking stock of what had just been delivered. Niner grabbed a couple of med kits and joined the doctor who was at McNeely’s side. The man was pale and unconscious. Dawson looked over at the First Lady who was talking quietly to her daughter.

  He’s right. McNeely needs to go first.

  If the object was to treat everyone as equals, then the President had made the right call. The problem was that they weren’t all equals. The President was their number one priority because he wasn’t just a man, he was the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth, and his death could result in a war that could kill thousands, even millions.

  It was the wrong call.

  Yet there was nothing they could do about it, he was in charge and they weren’t about to manhandle the President to get him into a chopper.

  If we can get the seriously wounded people out of here, we can easily double our speed.

  And that’s what would ultimately save lives.

  The hoist lowered again with another load of supplies, the Air Force personnel once again removing them. McNeely was carried over on their makeshift stretcher as the Lieutenant hooked himself to the hoist, Niner and Atlas fitting the harness around McNeely, then lifted him gently, hooking him to the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant waved to the operator overhead then looked at Dawson.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The cable tightened then they both rose from the ground, a few people clapping in excitement as the first of their group slowly rose to safety. The feeling of excitement and relief was palpable, even Starling watching the two men rise through the narrow gap. Dawson felt himself breathe a sigh of relief as they cleared the treetops.

  Gunfire suddenly erupted, the distinctive sounds of small arms fire pinging off the reinforced skin of the helicopter sent Dawson’s heart racing as the chopper banked sharply away, McNeely and the Lieutenant swinging wildly. A collective gasp rose from the group, ignored by the trained personnel.

  Dawson pointed at the Air Force and Secret Service Agents. “Secure the perimeter! Let’s go old school and keep this simple. Challenge is flash, response is thunder.” He charged into the jungle, Niner and Atlas on his heels, racing toward the g
unfire that suddenly stopped, the chopper apparently out of range.

  He froze, raising his fist, the noise of the gunfire no longer providing them with cover. Using hand signals, he had Atlas and Niner spread out on his flanks as they slowly advanced, Dawson scanning the terrain ahead, carefully placing each foot to avoid any unwelcome noises.

  Something snapped ahead of him.

  Someone not being as careful as him.

  He checked Atlas and Niner to confirm they had heard it too.

  They had.

  He crept toward the sound, using the thick trees as cover, then saw something move just ahead. He took cover behind a tree then glanced out to see two men walking toward him, AK-47s pointed at the sky, their heads tilted back as they tried to spot the chopper, the thunder of its rotors now barely audible.

  I hope McNeely got out clean.

  Dawson checked right and Niner had closed the gap, close enough for him to take the second man. Dawson picked up a rock and threw it over the hostiles, it clicking against a tree behind them.

  They both spun.

  Sealing their doom.

  Dawson rushed forward, Niner to his right. He grabbed his man from behind, covering his mouth and yanking his head back, burying his knife in the man’s neck. He twisted the blade, shredding the aorta, blood pulsing down the man’s chest as Dawson pulled him into some nearby brush. Niner gave a thumbs up, his own man taken care of and hidden away.

  Somebody called out, as if looking for someone.

  Must be one of these two.

  Another voice joined him.

  Two men pushed through the brush and into sight. Dawson hurled his knife, burying it in the man’s chest as Atlas appeared from nowhere behind the second man, shoving his knife into the man’s kidney repeatedly while covering the man’s mouth with a huge paw.

  Dawson rushed forward, grabbing his man before he hit the ground, and pushed the knife in deeper as he drew his Glock, pressing it against the man’s head.

  “How many?”

  The man stared at him, terror and confusion revealed in his wild-eyed expression.

  Niner took a knee beside them, his weapon aimed at the woods as he and Atlas covered him. “Portuguese, BD.”

  “That’s you, Atlas.”

  Atlas hissed the question in Portuguese, the man sputtering out an answer.

  “He said seven.”

  Dawson looked at the blood oozing from the man’s wound. He’d be dead shortly, he bleeding out rapidly. The man was clearly suffering and there was no hope of saving him, not in the middle of the jungle. It was times like these the Geneva Convention got in the way, a mercy killing called for.

  The man grasped for something around his neck and Dawson spotted the chain. He pulled it loose, a crucifix revealed. He placed it in the man’s hand, a prayer in Portuguese muttered repeatedly as he gasped his last breaths, his body shuddering, then still.

  Dawson said a silent prayer, closing the man’s eyes.

  Three men suddenly charged from the woods, their guns firing, sending Dawson rolling to one side, drawing his weapon. As he took a bead, he heard Atlas and Niner open fire.

  I guess he told the truth.

  North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Red listened to the update coming through the comms. A rescue chopper had taken fire and was forced to abort the rescue attempt. They had successfully retrieved one of the severely wounded and lowered some supplies, but nothing more.

  At least one’s out.

  “Must be the group the Colonel mentioned that took the boat.”

  Red nodded, agreeing with Jagger’s assessment. There was nothing they could do about them, it would be up to Dawson and the others to eliminate them. At the moment, they had much bigger problems.

  Sixty some odd men coming directly for them, their bravado restored by time and moonshine.

  It was time to thin the herd again.

  “Okay, same as last time. Three rounds each, watch your arcs, fall back. On my mark, three… two… one… execute.”

  Four shots rang out almost simultaneously, followed by four more, then another four.

  And the herd was just a little bit smaller for it.

  South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

  Senior Airman Jane Harrison held the terrified and far too young Nancy Starling in her free arm, her other outstretched, a Glock aimed at the trees. Gunfire echoed through the jungle, the armed personnel forming a line between the hostile action and the civilians, their weapons trained on the darkness.

  The gunfire stopped.

  She hadn’t heard gunfire like that outside training, and it wasn’t the same. In training you knew it was just that—training. Nothing more. You weren’t going to die. None of your friends were going to die.

  This was completely different.

  When the first shots had rung out Nancy had screamed, and she wasn’t alone. Jane had rushed to her side, wrapping an arm around her and putting a hand over the young woman’s mouth, silencing her screams, the last thing they needed was for whoever was out there to know exactly where they were.

  And she swore she peed a little.

  It was humiliating.

  But she was too terrified to give it much thought as her outstretched arm trembled, her weapon bobbing up and down, side to side, as she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.

  The screams had stopped and she removed her hand, shushing the teenager. “It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”

  She kept repeating it, not sure if was for the young girl’s benefit or her own. Either way she couldn’t stop herself, the phrase simply repeating itself like a record skipping.

  She glanced over at President Starling, ducking beside his wife, his body placed between her and the gunfire, a look of concern on his face, but no fear. It made her wonder if he truly wasn’t scared, or if he was so adept at hiding his outward emotions as a politician, that it was all a cover, the man pissing his pants behind that practiced façade.

  “Someone’s coming!” hissed one of the Secret Service agents.

  “Flash!” shouted a voice from the woods.

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thunder!” responded an agent, everyone easing up slightly as the three men emerged from the woods, blood splashed on their suits, all of them carrying machetes they hadn’t had before, it clear from their demeanor that these weren’t ordinary men, and she knew enough from her time on Air Force One that they were probably Special Forces of some type, most likely Delta.

  It made her feel a little bit safer.

  Nancy burst from her arms, rushing toward the Asian man and hugging him hard, the startled soldier looking at who was clearly his commander, then putting an arm on her back, patting her.

  Jane smiled slightly.

  I think there’s a little teenage crush happening there.

  The man she had overheard the President call Dawson stepped forward, the group eager for news. “We neutralized a group of seven rebels. After interrogating one, we’re confident that was the entire group, however there could be other groups.” He glanced up then back at the cluster of Air Force personnel. “McNeely and the Lieutenant?”

  “Safe,” said one of the Airmen, stepping forward, holding up a radio. “In the supplies they managed to drop, they included this. I guess you should hang on to it. We’re Dayshift, they’re Nightwatch.”

  Dawson took the radio, holding it up to his mouth. “Nightwatch, this is Dayshift Zero-One, come in, over.”

  “Dayshift Zero-One, this is Nightwatch, we read you, what’s your status, over?”

  “Nightwatch, we’ve eliminated seven hostiles however cannot guarantee the safety of this LZ. We’re going to continue south and hopefully find another opening, if not, rendezvous with the rescue team. What’s their ETA, over?”

  “Rescue team is still three hours from your location, over.”

  “Roger that, Nightwatch. We’ll reestablish comms in thirty mikes, Dayshift Zero-O
ne, out.”

  Dawson clipped the radio to his belt, heading toward her as she stood, painfully aware she had a wet spot where she shouldn’t. “Okay everyone, let’s get ready to move out in five minutes!” He held out his hand to the crowd. “Water?”

  Somebody handed him a bottle. He stood in front of her and took a long swig, holding it with only two fingers. He lowered the bottle then upended it with a flick of his finger, the contents spilling down the front of her shirt and pants.

  “Shit! Sorry about that, it slipped.”

  She was at first a little pissed that she was now covered in water until she looked down and realized her accident was no longer so obvious. She glanced up at him as he leaned in, lowering his voice.

  “Some of the best soldiers I know had the same problem the first time they were under fire.”

  “Th-thanks,” she managed, making a show of wiping the water down her shirt then off her pants.

  Who is this guy?

  She suddenly found herself very attracted to him.

  “What’s our supplies situation?”

  “A few cases of bottled water, power bars, med kits and flashlights like you were hoping for.”

  “Good, somebody was thinking when they prioritized those deliveries.” He glanced over at Nancy Starling. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s a wreck. No kid should have to go through this.”

  Dawson nodded. “Unfortunately this is the daily life for far too many in this part of the world.”

  “I can’t imagine what it must be like.”

  Dawson looked back at her. “I thank God every day I was born where I was. The hellholes I’ve seen are no place for human beings to live.”

  “We’re blessed.”

  He grinned, waving his arm at their situation. “We definitely are.”

  She laughed, placing a hand on his arm. “How about we continue this conversation tomorrow when we’re actually rescued and eating your steak?”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He looked at the group, ready to go. “I guess we better get moving.” He flashed her a smile then stepped away to address the group, leaving her with zero indication he was at all interested.