by Justin Bell
“We have eyes on the LZ,” the voice from the Little Bird reported in. “I see the down Blackhawk. I repeat, I see the down bird…” the voice trailed off.
Fernando glared at the radio, waiting for the rest of the sentence, but nothing came. He could see the small aircraft head, starting to settle into a landing pattern.
“LB-11, are you there?” asked the co-pilot.
There was a heartbeat of silence, then the voice crackled again from the radio. “This is LB-11. We have eyes on the Blackhawk…and we have eyes on Team Ten. What’s left of them.”
Fernando’s head dropped.
“Evidence of a firefight in the vicinity,” the Little Bird reported. “I see multiple down bodies, but no movement. I believe the LZ is secure, Team Ten is lost.”
Fernando looked over toward Verragio, who nodded.
The voice crackled again. “Did Team Ten have a Humvee?”
The two pilots of the Blackhawk exchanged looks again.
“I have no report of that,” replied Fernando. “Is one in the area?”
“Affirmative, I also have eyes on a Humvee vehicle, can’t get the unit designation from here, it’s parked a short distance from the Blackhawk wreckage. There’s a mounted fifty cal, no visible hostiles.”
“Acknowledged, LB-11. We’re on your six, and following you in.” Fernando snapped off the comms and sat in silence in the cockpit, watching the Little Bird bank back around, slowly descending toward the crashed helicopter. They evened out, and around them the buildings once again rose into view, the Blackhawk making its way down toward the street.
***
The low tick of the idling engine of the Humvee faded into silence as the Little Bird made its way from air to ground, slowly traversing the empty space between buildings. Twisting slightly, the pilot nudged close to the concrete facade of a three-story structure, then went almost straight down, the whipping propellers scattering dust, dirt and loose debris in arcing whirlwinds, spattering the passenger side of the Humvee with a peppering of small refuse.
Wind slammed down on the vehicle as the Blackhawk maneuvered into position, finding scarcely enough room as it descended, cutting things very closely in the space around it, angling toward the ground, nose lifted up. From the ground, he could see the man behind the fifty caliber door gun, and he could see the formless shapes of the pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit, then looked over toward the Little Bird, confirming the presence of the two pilots there as well. A small crew, put together in the hopes that they would have plenty of room in the larger copter for rescue efforts, no doubt now feeling quite discouraged that this would not be that.
His muscles cramped in his shoulders, arms and knees, wedged into the tight, dark place, his head extended just enough for the eyes to glare out from behind his scabbed eyelids, following the paths of the two aircraft toward the pavement.
In the distance, the dull roar of engines echoed from between rows of buildings, a sound that Scarface had not heard in quite a while, but a sound he couldn’t worry himself about now. He only had one thought in his head. One idea. One plan.
Metal landing skids scraped on the pavement as the Little Bird settled, the tail section jumping slightly as downdraft from the Blackhawk punched up from the hard surface. The vacant lot was obscured by swirling tornados of debris now as the larger helicopter descended, the thumping rotors from both aircraft completely drowning out the sounds of those stray motors he had heard moments before.
It was a familiar sound to him, though the rotors of the Russian made Mi-24 Hind D sounded a bit different than these American variations of it, and looking at the emotionless black hide of these two aircraft made him miss the old Krokodil of his younger years.
His legs ached, but he remained in a half coiled posture, just looking over the metal ridge, watching as the Little Bird completed its landing, the Blackhawk making a similar motion downward. As he watched, the two pilots from the smaller aircraft exited the plane through openings in the side of the cockpit, each one wearing dark colored fatigues and carrying American made automatic rifles. Narrowing his eyes, he thought they were M4A1 carbines, but they could have been M-16s; he’d lost track over the years. He was more familiar with the Kalashnikov-branded AKM assault rifles these days, the modernized versions of the old school AK-47s. They weighed mostly the same with loaded magazines, but the AKM just felt better balanced to his hand.
Up ahead, both of the pilots stepped back, lifting their arms, shielding faces from the flying debris as the Blackhawk slowly worked its way down toward the ground. It was a massive beast, looking like a large bloated whale descending through the clear blue water, though instead of ripples of water it was a bruising rush of wind slamming down and around him.
After a few moments the Blackhawk settled upon the ground itself, wheel struts buckling as its massive weight pressed toward the road, the rotors whipping against the buildings and road below.
It was almost time. His legs tensed, his knees bent and pressed against the metal interior. Several feet away the Blackhawk eased into its shuddering landing.
***
“Little Bird is down!” shouted Greenway, looking out at the smaller egg-shaped aircraft where the two pilots were emerging from the front cockpit. “Verragio and Fernando are on the ground and disembarking!”
“Affirmative,” replied Wexall. She glanced back. “Santamaria and Roman, suit up and get ready, we’re comin’ in close to the buildings!” Looking back through the front canopy the structures felt closer than they had looked on their descent. “You sure you can do this?”
“You doubt my skills, Wexall?”
“Impress me, Greenway.”
As she watched, the whumping blades above them whirled close to the building next door, at one point she could have sworn she saw sparks dancing from where it glanced off concrete, but she pushed her eyes back forward, determined to not jinx them.
Moments later, the helicopter buckled, spring-mounted struts giving way slightly as the six ton aircraft pressed down into a landing posture, the blades above starting to slow as Veraggio and Fernando made their way toward them, automatic weapons in hand.
“We’re down,” said Greenway as the Blackhawk sat back, feeling stable, and he began to slow the rotors while the other two pilots continued their approach.
Wexall reached around herself, moving to unclasp the seatbelt, gazing over at the approaching pilots when the dull gray sky of Boston afternoon erupted in a shattering light storm and explosion of thrashing thunder.
***
It was time!
Tensing his muscles, Scarface shot himself straight up in the rounded roof turret of the Humvee, hands clutching at the controls of the fifty-caliber heavy machine gun. There were twin handles at the rear of the metal weapon, a thick ammo box bolted to the right side, and he swiveled in the turret, bringing the long, narrow barrel around in an instant. He’d purposefully had it aimed away from where the copters could land so it wouldn’t arouse any suspicion and the plan worked, because none of the pilots saw it coming.
Thunder roared and the weapon slammed in his tight grip, a rapid, repeated punch punch punch of heavy-weapons fire smashing through the background noise of the Blackhawk’s slowing rotors.
The two Little Bird pilots whirled around in shock and the lead pilot simply disappeared in a red cloud as bright sparks walked their way up the concrete toward them. Bullets hit the ground like jack hammers, pumping angry, jagged scars in the pavement, throwing clumps of broken asphalt up in the air. With a shout, the second pilot backpedaled furiously, moving away from the remains of the first, lifting his M4 and turning at the waist, bringing the weapon around. Scarface moved to adjust, swiveling right, opening up another barrage with the fifty, and the pilot tossed a quick burst back at him, sparks dancing along the metal hide of the Humvee. Just as the fifty-caliber roared back to life, the pilot slipped under and behind the Little Bird and instead of taking the shots directly, the bullets punched ragged, cir
cular holes into the curved skin of the helicopter, chasing the holes with flashes of lead-powered lightning. The small aircraft jerked and spasmed with the impacts of the rounds, slamming relentlessly into its formerly smooth surface, puckering metal and splintering steel out into twisted peels of shorn metal.
“Cover, get to cover!” one of the Blackhawk pilots screamed, pushing herself out of the cockpit, lifting her M4 and firing on him. More yellow lights burst from the ridge of metal where the roof met the body and Scarface winced away, as a round glanced off the rounded edge of the turret.
“Roman, get on that door gun!” a voice shouted.
This wasn’t going according to plan; they were reacting too quickly, he’d only hit one target with his first volley. These soldiers were well-trained, far better trained than the children he’d dispatched earlier.
Twisting away from the Little Bird, he brought the fifty back around toward the Blackhawk and hauled on the trigger mechanism, chunking pavement in a winding path toward the larger aircraft. The two pilots spun away, scrambling from the impacts, but the man on the door gun—Roman they’d called him—swung behind his weapon and opened up with it, sending arced, orange tracer fire back toward him. It felt as if the Humvee was being lifted up on two wheels, the bullets pounding again and again on the driver’s side metal. Turning, he scrambled free of the turret just as a tight grouping of return fire smashed into the weapon mount, splintering metal and throwing the fifty-caliber into a high arc. The ammunition box exploded, scattering shells throughout the roadway as he dropped free of the turret, landing clumsily on the ground behind the Humvee. Smaller caliber weapons opened up then, the remaining crew of the helicopters firing with their M4 Carbines, blitzing the vehicle with 5.56 millimeter.
Scarface kept his head down, opening the rear door of the vehicle and reached in, slipping out one of the automatics he’d stolen from the soldiers. The mag was full—he’d checked it earlier—and he made his way toward the slanted rear of the Humvee, then pushed himself up, swinging the weapon around and firing a quick burst of automatic fire. He saw the flash of impacts against the Blackhawk, but wide of the door gun, and the gunner adjusted swiftly.
Both rotors had stopped and in the momentary silence before the Blackhawk gun opened fire, once again Scarface heard the strange rumbling of engines echoing along the narrow pathways. They were closer now. Not just closer, but close. He saw them then, the small swarm of motorcycles, shooting from the gap between two buildings, four of them, with six riders, and they were braking hard just behind his stolen vehicle, men scrambling from the seats.
“Looks like you need a little help, stranger!” the lead man on the motorcycle shouted. “Anyone fighting these FEMA creeps is a friend of mine!”
Then the motorcycle riders charged forward, all of them clutching weapons in their hands, and the afternoon was torn asunder with gunfire.
***
“Who are they?” Greenway shouted from behind the Blackhawk, the M4 automatic crossed over his chest.
“I have no idea. A bunch of guys on motorcycles!” Wexall shouted back.
“This has gone south in a hurry. Can you see Veraggio from where you are?”
“I see her, but it’s not pretty,” Wexall replied. “She’s gone, Greenway. That fifty cal chewed her up.”
“What about Fernando?”
“He’s on the other side of the Little Bird and the closest guy to those suitcases!” She gestured toward the scattering of fallen bodies from Team Ten, the yellow-clad soldiers sprawled about the rough ground of the vacant lot, and among their fallen bodies were the brushed-metal cases they had been carrying - cases which contained computers and DNA samples from the market in Quincy. Cases that Wexall knew they needed. This was no longer a rescue mission, it was a recovery mission, and those metal cases were precisely what they needed to recover.
“Fernando, do you copy?” Wexall barked into the radio perched on her tactical vest. “We’ve taken out the fifty caliber, but we have six fresh hostiles with small arms.”
“I copy,” a small, tinny voice replied.
“Good! You’re the closest to Team Ten, we need those cases, man. That’s why we’re here! Do you get me?”
“I get you,” he replied.
“Fifty-caliber is almost out!” shouted Roman from the other side of Wexall and she whirled toward him.
“Don’t we have two fifties on that bird?” she asked. “Can you borrow some from your neighbor?”
“Already did!” replied Roman. “Burned through half that box already!”
“Point taken,” replied Greenway. He glanced over at Wexall. “Tell him to count to twenty. We’re going to open the floodgates and give him some cover fire!”
Wexall relayed the message through the radio and got the acknowledgment. Scattered pops of semi-automatic fire chattered from behind the Humvee and the front window of the Little Bird exploded.
Greenway gestured and she followed him, moving around the nose of the Blackhawk, weapons raised. From inside the aircraft, Santamaria left his position and moved toward the opened door facing the Humvee as well. Roman pulled his M4 up next to him, coming up into a kneel, his hands clutching the trigger mechanism of the fifty.
“Twenty!” screamed Greenway. “Go go go go!”
Everyone moved in unison, charging out to form a firing line in front of the Blackhawk, their weapons barking with muzzle flashes. Shifts of movement behind the vehicle told them people were ducking and covering, and Greenway glanced left just in time to see Fernando charge from behind the Little Bird, bolting out over empty pavement, heading for the empty cases. He grabbed one, lifting it and tucking it under his left arm, then snagged a second with his freed left hand.
Wexall came up next to Greenway, shouldering her weapon, wrapping her free hand around the foregrip, and firing in full auto toward this new enemy.
Fernando grabbed a third case in his free right hand and started running toward them, head lowered, legs pumping.
“Fifty’s dry!” shouted Roman, sweeping up his M4 and vaulting from the Blackhawk to open fire. One of the men on the other side of the Humvee shouted and pitched backwards, his weapon cartwheeling into the air.
“Come on, Fernando!” shouted Greenway. “Move it move it!”
Fernando did. He ran, fast as he could with the three cases tucked under his arm and in both hands, within twenty yards he picked up the pace, boots slapping pavement, scattered gunfire echoing from the surrounding walls. A thick punch of concrete exploded at his left foot and he veered right, eyes opening so wide that Greenway could see them from ten yards out.
Wexall saw the same thing and shifted her aim, trying to track the shooter who was getting a bead on Fernando. She saw a barrel extend over the hood of the Humvee, following the Little Bird co-pilot’s motion and she moved left, yanking the trigger, the weapon kicking. Sparks blasted from the hood, but the barrel remained flat and level, then fired again, a fully automatic burst. Fernando screamed and lurched forward, the cases leaping from his hands and clattering to the ground, rolling end over end. The thick hide did not bend or break, and the clasps held tight, but Fernando slammed face-first on the ground and as Wexall watched in horror, three more rounds plowed into his back as he lay there, shearing fabric and rocketing red into the air.
“Fernando’s down!” screamed Greenway. “Get those cases!” He charged forward himself, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. Reaching the cases first he hooked his fingers around the handles, weapons fire chewing the ground at his feet. He pulled away and turned, charging back toward the Blackhawk and Wexall moved in next to him, ducking low and grabbing the third case in her left hand as she held the M4 one-handed, spraying random gunfire in a scattered arc toward the military vehicle, not knowing and not caring if she actually hit anyone.
Roman and Santamaria moved toward them, slamming fresh magazines into their weapons and firing, punching bullets into flattened slugs against the skin of the Humvee. Wexall and Greenway
tossed the cases into the helicopter, then moved toward the cockpit.
“Board up!” the pilot shouted. “We need to evac right now!”
“We just gonna leave Fernando laying there?” asked Roman as he backpedaled toward the vehicle, firing with his automatic.
“No choice!” replied Wexall. “We try to get him, we all end up like him!”
Roman twisted his lips into a grimace, but deep down, he understood. Command had been explicit—the intel in the cases was the primary goal. Everything—and everyone—else was expendable. Greenway and Wexall slid into their seats, bullets peppering the cockpit of the helicopter, but not powerful enough to break its tough skin. Santamaria jumped into the cargo area and Roman followed close behind, using the gun mount to hoist himself up. Pain suddenly drove into his left shoulder blade, a fierce horse kick impact, shoving him further forward, toppling up into the helicopter.
“Roman’s hit!” shouted Santamaria.
“Get him in! We’re taking off!” replied Greenway, as the rotors kicked over and started their furious spin. Santamaria dragged his fellow gunner the rest of the way inside as gunfire ricocheted along the skids of the aircraft. Slowly, the Blackhawk lifted up into the air as if trying to pick up something a little bit too heavy, but the rotors caught, spun, beating at the ground and lifting the heavy, blunt beast up into the air. Weapons fire chased them, but either zipped away harmlessly or pinged off the metal, causing no damage while the helicopter cleared the roofs of the low buildings, then angled left, finding a trajectory back to Chicopee Air Force Base, two operatives shy of the six they left with.
