by Sean McFate
“OK,” mumbled Winters, and the aide smiled. It was as close to a compliment as anyone would receive from the boss.
“Do you want me to show you the forward firing positions?” asked the aide. “We have minefields, mortars, and obstacles to channel a ground assault into an ambush kill zone. We requisitioned”—meaning stole—“and outfitted speedboats. Two are patrolling the shoreline as we speak, using acoustic detection for a waterborne assault. The Russians made improvised depth charges.”
“What about an air assault?” asked Winters, listening closely as they walked the grounds.
“The Wagner Group has next-generation Verba surface-to-air missiles scanning the sky, better than the ones the Russian army uses. They are positioned across the peninsula, giving us defense in depth and interlocking fires. Anyone foolish enough to attack us by land, sea, or air will be sent to their maker, and fast.”
Winters liked the man’s spirit, and paused to consider if he would be his next protégé or cannon fodder. He judged the latter, and hobbled away. Both men snaked through the firing line, as mercenaries filled sandbags and converted marbled architecture into fighting positions. The library reminded Winters of the Chevalier, with his exquisite carpets, the smell of old leather books, and eight-pointed stars on the ceiling.
“Atten-HUN!” yelled a former Marine as Winters entered the spacious room. Everyone stood at attention, their battle dress a collage of origin and technology. Winters took the seat at the head of a long oaken table. The magnificent library now served as a tactical operations center, with map boards, laptops, and large monitors. The background noise was a polyglot of radio chatter.
The staff was bifurcated. At Winters’s right sat English-speaking ex-Apollo warriors with next-generation battle gear. On his left were the Russian commanders of the Wagner Group. What they lacked in tech they made up for in attitude. There was neither enmity nor love between them, just a common mission.
“Skip the brief. I just walked the line, and do you know what I saw?” said Winters, pausing for an answer from the group. None came. “Weak defenses. We’re not ready.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” said one of the ex-Apollo commanders. “We’ve only been on the ground a few hours and have secured the AO. Give us a day and it will be Fort Knox.”
“We don’t have a day,” rasped Winters. “Make no mistake about it. What’s left of Apollo is a desperate, cornered wild animal. They will attack tonight. Tonight!” Winters grasped his throat in pain, as alarm was expressed in numerous languages.
“But how is that possible?” asked a Wagner Group commander with a heavy Russian accent. “Even we didn’t know where we would be eight hours ago.”
“Because I leaked them our position,” responded Winters coolly.
Silence. Then the Russian spoke again, with care, voicing what everyone was thinking. “But why would you do such a thing? Why not wait a day? In twenty-four hours we will be at one hundred percent strength and dug in.”
“Because it’s a trap. Waiting a day would not bait them because they know we have numerical superiority. It must be tonight! If they thought we were still collecting our forces and vulnerable—and they had the element of surprise—they would attack us with everything they have. When they do attack, we will obliterate them in a single battle!” Winters leaned forward, fist clenched and spittle flying from his mouth.
The commanders pumped their fists in the air, whooping their support in a babel of tongues. Winters continued, and they quieted down.
“We have more troops, more firepower, and the advantage of a prepared defensive position. They think we are weak and regrouping, but that is a ruse. Their attack will be our opportunity to wipe them out cleanly, once and for all!”
Cheers resounded and butt stocks banged on antique tables.
“And when the last of old Apollo is gone, there will be nothing to stop us. Our moment of victory is at hand!”
Multicultural battle cries filled the library in a roar of warfare. Winters sat back, pleased. With any luck, Locke would come, too—and when he did, Winters would have a special surprise waiting for him.
Chapter 56
The cargo airplane’s rear ramp lowered, and night air blasted us. The lights of Manhattan were far below, and two more cargo planes flew behind us. Somewhere beyond were the Hunters escorting us. The Bombardier corporate jet and the other cargo airplane had flown ahead and were already on the ground. Jen would be among them, but doing what I didn’t know.
“Five minutes,” came the pilot’s voice over my headset. The door light flicked on to red, meaning it was not time to jump. We were not the only thing HALOing in; two rotary-wing drones were packaged up and ready to free-fall. The loadmaster came aft to triple-check their cargo chutes as we inspected our own. With a voice command, my HUD came alive.
“OK, team, this it,” came Lava’s voice over the command net.
Tye turned to me. “You a go?”
I nodded, and he slapped the side of my arm in support.
“Check equipment!” shouted Lava, and we all sounded off. I was slinging the newest precision-guided firearm with tag-and-shoot technology. It looked like a regular 7.62 mm assault rifle with a built-in sound suppressor, except it had a larger scope with a convex bug-eye. No need to zero it, either; its onboard computer did everything. The weapon also produced enough chamber pressure to shoot through any kind of body armor. Strapped to my thigh was a tactical bullpup shotgun less than two feet long that held nine shells. Good for tight firefights.
“Ground team on the move,” said Lava, and we cheered. Lava was the mission commander and monitored all Apollo command nets, while I heard just my team’s. Like horse blinders, sometimes it’s better to focus on what’s in front of you rather than the whole world.
“One minute,” said the pilot. The loadmaster made a final adjustment to the drones’ rigs and then scooched forward, away from the tail ramp.
“I want a nice, clean exit,” said Lava, standing on the edge of the ramp with the ground thirty-five thousand feet below. Lava always led by example.
“Ten seconds,” said the pilot.
“Clear the deck,” commanded Lava, and we all got behind the drones, ready to push.
“Five, four, three, two, one.” The light switched to green, and the two drones were sucked out the fuselage by a drogue chute, making an audible zing. We followed, diving en masse off the ramp headfirst. The other two planes zoomed overhead, and I felt their prop blast.
Looking around, I saw thirty-five jumpers and six drones hurtling to Earth. Each drone was packaged up in a ball of aluminum and firepower. In the southwest, the lights of Manhattan contrasted to the inkiness of the sound to the north and Connecticut in the distance. At this altitude, our planes were out of range of all but the best surface-to-air missiles and in any case would be profiled like commercial flights. In the distance, my HUD tracked the two Hunters circling us protectively, but they were invisible to most radar and the naked eye in the moonless night. We were also mostly invisible. Skydivers are difficult to spot on radar, making HALO a good ingress for covert missions.
“Chase the drones!” commanded Lava, and we all dove ahead. My HUD lit up one of the drones in green, five hundred feet below; the machine’s small drogue parachute slowed and stabilized it as it fell. Its twin side rotors and tail boom were folded in, making it more streamlined. I assumed the flat-track position in my wingsuit and sped toward it.
“Locke, give me a hand,” said Tye, who had already met the drone and was now kneeling on top of it and working a loose cargo strap. But I was coming in too fast. “Watch your speed! Watch your speed!” he said as I nearly collided into him.
“Quit screwing around, Locke,” he jibed as I circled around for another pass. His armed reach out and snagged me, pulling me in, while his other was anchored to the drone.
“Thanks, man,” I said. Because he was my designated battle buddy, we could communicate directly without anyone hearing us.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Positions,” commanded Tye as four more jumpers arrived. We gathered on one side of the drone. “Control it! Control it! It’s rotating clockwise!” said Tye, floating above us. With precision, he dropped and rammed against the direction of spin. We all fought it, gaining control.
“Now fly it!” shouted Tye. The drone had no wingsuit, like us. To get it over the drop zone required “flying” it, but that was an understatement. Lining up on the same side, we spread our legs in the delta position, pushing the drone toward the estate twenty-four thousand feet below.
“That’s it! Keep it up,” said Tye.
The Bombardier and the other cargo plane touched down at a community airport about twenty miles from the objective. The ground commander, call sign Jinx, went over the mission inflight. Lin couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was suicide. Even crazier than the time her FBI SWAT team was ambushed by two dozen mafia foot soldiers in a Brooklyn warehouse. She took a bullet that day, saved by her body armor. But it felt like a truck hit her.
No one else on the plane seemed too concerned about the plan’s insanity quotient, so she kept her mouth shut. The last seventy-two hours had been a string of life-stunning events, so why question things now?
The Apollo tactical armor felt strange, almost flimsy. As soon as she deplaned, she did a series of high kicks on the tarmac that landed in a split. Incredibly, the armor moved with her like a leotard. While still in a split, she held up her armored hands and waved them around in the dark, her HUD revealing colors, allies, objective, her vitals, everything. Unbelievable, she thought.
“Hey Princess, gonna stop playing with yourself and get back in the war?” It was her assigned battle buddy. She went by the name Valkyrie and was one of the few women to serve in Delta before jumping the fence for Apollo. Lin did not care for her, and the feeling was obviously mutual.
“On me, Princess,” said Valkyrie as they double-timed to the cargo plane, where the rest of the team was wheeling out motorbikes. Only the field surgeon remained in the Bombardier. Lin followed Valkyrie into the cargo plane and helped unstrap a large dirt bike. Before Valkyrie could walk it out, Lin blocked her.
“Listen, Valkyrie, if you want this night to go well, stop calling me Princess. Do you understand?” said Lin in her command voice.
“Anything you say, Tinkerbell. Now help or get out of the way.”
Lin let her pass. Now was not the time to pick a fight. Valkyrie started the bike in perfect silence; it was electric.
“Come on, get on,” said Valkyrie. Lin swung her leg over the back and mounted. “Strap in, Dimples.” Lin’s fists balled up, and she fantasized about twisting this jackass’s neck.
Be cool, Jen. Be cool, she thought, calming herself down. She looked around for a strap or seat belt but saw none. Valkyrie twisted around and reached down, extracting two thin nylon straps from each side of the seat.
“Clip these to your belt,” said Valkyrie. Lin snapped them to the body armor’s D-ring belt buckle. Conveniently, they had quick-release levers in case she needed to ditch.
What the crap am I getting into? she thought.
“Keep that Saiga up. Don’t shoot until I tell you. And do not blow our surprise,” cautioned Valkyrie in a tone suggesting she disdained babysitting newbies.
“Got it,” said Lin.
The crew wheeled out an armed rotary-wing drone from the cargo plane, and unfolded its dual, traverse rotors. It looked like a miniature V-22 Osprey with a rotorless tail boom. Its chin was a mini-gun turret, and missile pods were its flanks. A minute later it was hovering, controlled by remote pilots.
“Our guardian angel,” said Valkyrie over the headset.
The municipal airport was closed after dark, but it did not stop a beat-up, compact car from speeding toward them, an amber strobe pulsing on top.
“Ye gads, local airport security. Pathetic,” spat Valkyrie. The two aircraft powered up and started taxiing toward the runway.
“Let’s ride!” yelled Jinx, a woman. Apollo’s ranks had a lot of female warriors, Lin realized. She liked it.
The drone vanished into the darkness, scouting the route ahead. Sixteen riders mounted twelve bikes. None of the vehicles had lights because the HUD showed everything like daytime. Lin found it a little freaky.
“Keep the Saiga pointed forward, but do not shoot my arm, baby doll,” said Valkyrie. She accelerated so hard that Lin almost dropped her weapon. The only thing that held her in place were the safety straps.
Crap! thought Lin as she struggled to right herself. The shadow bike gang swooshed around the security vehicle in black silence, making it skid sideways as the driver panicked. Then they ghosted into the night.
“Sir, we’ve got activity. Looks like you were right,” said the aide, although it was unnecessary.
Of course I was right, thought Winters. The library-cum–tactical operations center had been buzzing since they’d electronically eavesdropped on a call to the police. The local airport security guard reported seeing a corporate jet and military cargo plane land and its crew start unloading motorcycles. The police thought nothing of it, but Winters knew it was Apollo.
“High alert,” commanded Winters as he stirred a cup of tea. Like Napoleon, he liked to fast before battles. It honed his strategic thinking.
“High alert!” yelled the battle captain, and a siren blared outside. Men ran to position. The battle captain had the body of an operator and the face of a cowboy. In a past life, he commanded at every level in U.S. Army Special Forces, up to general. Now he quarterbacked operations for Winters and was exceedingly good at it.
“Get the fixed wings in the air. Find them. Kill them,” said Winters calmly. All was going as planned. They are easy to bait because they are stupid, he thought as he sipped his tea.
The battle captain gave a nod, and pilots in the library wearing virtual reality goggles worked joysticks. In the background, the jet drones whirred to life. A second later they were gone.
“Fixed-wing drones deployed,” confirmed the battle captain. Silence, save the background radio chatter. The long, oak library table was crowded with specialists wearing headphones and working laptops. Monitors displayed what the drones saw, which was nothing out of the ordinary as they skimmed the roads and trees, scanning for prey.
Winters checked the time and estimated they had four minutes before the Apollo motorcycles would cross the estate fence. Plenty of time to kill them, he knew.
“How many tangos?” he asked. “Do we have an estimate?”
“Ground surveillance radar?” said the battle captain.
“Scopes are clean,” replied a technician.
Something nagged at Winters. With a corporate jet and cargo plane, he calculated a motorcycle ground attack could range from ten to sixteen riders, and probably a drone. A threat, if they had the element of surprise, but they didn’t. But could this small force really be Apollo’s main effort? It didn’t completely scan, yet all the other sensors showed zero activity.
“Chatter on local 5G spectrum in ops box,” said a tech. “Could be something.”
“What are they saying?” asked the battle captain, who walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder.
“Uh . . . hard to discern. One guy is telling another he thinks he just witnessed wild horses running in the night. Other guy thinks he’s high again.”
“That’s them,” said Winters.
“But sir, it could be anything,” said the battle captain with caution. He did not want to tie up precious assets chasing down every hunch. They had one minute to find the threat.
“That’s them,” repeated Winters. “Deploy the drone QRF.”
The battle captain nodded, and the rest of the drones took off.
“Annihilate them,” said Winters, sipping tea. Main effort or not, he saw no reason why they needed to live.
“Incoming!” yelled Jinx over the radio net, and Lin’s heart jumped. Four red dots bl
inked on her HUD, indicating the enemy drones. A missile arced across the sky and blew up their drone, sending it crashing into the trees where it exploded.
“Follow me,” said Jinx, and the lead bike peeled off the back road and into the wood line.
Did she just drive into the trees? thought Lin in horror. Then all the bikes raced into the woods, going for cover. Trees and speed afforded some protection against missiles.
“Hang on!” yelled Valkyrie, as they bounced through the woods at 40 mph. It was a mature forest with minimal underbrush, making it dangerous but navigable. Missiles exploded tree trunks around them, blowing shards of wood everywhere. Lin was too stunned to be scared, as Valkyrie dodged trees.
“Contact! Request backup,” radioed Jinx. “Backup twenty seconds,” Jinx relayed to the team.
“Jinx, you have three more fast movers inbound,” warned Mission Control, and Lin’s HUD showed two additional red dots in the distance, although she could see nothing.
“Ah shit,” said Valkyrie.
Before Lin understood why, she felt her weight press into the seat as they raced up a sharp slope and became airborne, jumping thirty feet in the air. They were exposed.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! sounded an alarm in Lin’s earpiece.
“Tone!” yelled Valkyrie as they flew through branches. Missiles burst trees around them as they fell back to earth. They landed hard and Valkyrie fought for control, showing great skill as they recovered.
Three drone jets screamed over them, skimming the treetops. Then they exploded; Lin felt the concussion wave as they fireballed through the night sky. A second later, one of Apollo’s larger Hunter drones shrieked above.
“Yeah!!” shouted Valkyrie.
“We just lost three drones,” said the battle captain in shock. “What happened? Surface-to-air missiles?”
