The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  The Phenom had enough fuel to make it to Japan, and was ready for takeoff. He closed and locked the aircraft’s door, securing it for departure. Then he took his seat, buckled his harness, and did a quick instruments check before starting the engines. He smiled with relief as the engines revved to life. Everything was going to be fine; he was way past ready to leave that godforsaken, creepy place.

  Unseen, engulfed in the darkness shrouding the hangar, a man sneaked quietly toward the landing gear with a block of plastic explosive in his hand. He almost swore aloud when the plane’s engines came to life, startling him. He crouched lower, and nearly fell when the plane started rolling. He was running out of time.

  The plane started moving faster. He attached the PVV-5A explosive to the wheel strut while walking next to it. Then running next to it. He barely managed to roll the tape around the block of explosive a couple of times, and inserted the detonating pin while wholeheartedly running right behind the Phenom’s wheel, panting hard, barely able to keep up with the accelerating plane.

  Then he stopped running, breathing hard; the job was done. In a few minutes, the PVV would detonate, taking the Phenom out of the sky in a raging blaze of fire. That was his plan, and he never failed.

  Just as the Phenom took off, the poorly attached PVV block fell off the plane’s landing gear and hit the ground a few yards from where the man stood, short of breath, watching the plane soar. Upon impact, the explosive detonated, sending pieces of burning concrete high in the air, and leaving a smoldering crater behind. Khabarovsk Airport was gone.

  The Phenom surged and retracted its landing gear, already too far from the explosion to be impacted in any way. Immediately after that, Dylan changed the heading, eager to leave Russian airspace as soon as possible. As the plane turned, he noticed the blaze on the ground, where the airport had been.

  “Holy shit,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a trembling hand, “that’s what I’d call a timely departure.”

  ...66

  ...Wednesday, May 11, 6:16AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...LZ Alpha

  ...29 Kilometers North-Northeast of Svetlaya, Russia

  Alex walked along the tree line, heading back toward Tango One. That’s where the wounded were, and that’s where she wanted to go, to check on Sam and Blake. She started to feel how tired she was. She had difficulties breathing; a strong, sharp pain in her sternum keeping her from filling her lungs with air.

  Probably most of the excess adrenaline and cortisol in her blood were gone by now. The wonderful chemicals that kept her body focused on survival and blocked her pain receptors were dropping to more normal levels, allowing her to feel the hurt from her injuries. Her head pounded, the dull throbbing centered around the cut on her forehead. Her chest hurt with every breath, probably a couple of cracked ribs were to blame for that. She vaguely remembered the explosion at the hangar where they’d found the missing plane; it felt like centuries had passed since then.

  Lou startled her, appearing out of nowhere and hugging her hard, lifting her off the ground.

  “Hey, boss, told ya you’re gonna be great at this, didn’t I?”

  Martin, the Bravo team lead, watched with amusement.

  “He’s right, you know,” Martin acknowledged with a quick grin.

  “Put me down,” she said, fighting to break free. Unknowingly, Lou’s hug was hurting her badly, putting pressure on her ribs and sternum.

  He let her go immediately, alerted by the urgency in her voice, scrutinizing her.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, his half-question turning into a statement. “Damn…I didn’t know.”

  “It’s OK, Lou, I’ll live. We’ve got some stuff we need to do, all right? I need your help.”

  “Shoot,” he replied.

  “We need to make sure we’re not leaving anyone behind. The wounded have to leave in the first helo out of here. We’ll be in the last.” She thought for a second, feeling more and more pressure in the chest as she struggled with breathing and talking at the same time. “Martin, can your men count everyone who gets aboard the evac helos?”

  “Yes, ma’am. What’s the total headcount we need to account for?”

  A long sigh escaped from her lips, interrupted by another sharp pang of pain in her chest. Seven had died before they could be rescued…Five more, shot by the Russians on their way here. She did the math in her head, then replied, a wave of sadness overwhelming her.

  “We’re down to 429, that’s all that’s left—429 civilians, plus 14 Bravos, and the 4 of us. That would be 447.”

  Martin looked down for a second, then replied, “Twelve Bravos, ma’am. Only twelve left.”

  She looked at him, feeling a renewed sensation of overwhelming sadness and frustration. She reached out and touched his arm.

  “I am so sorry, Martin, so sorry…”

  “Thank you, ma’am. This is what happens in our line of work. At least it was for a good cause. I am proud to have served with you and your team, and so were they.”

  She nodded her silent appreciation, confirmed the final headcount of 445 with Martin, and then she resumed walking toward Tango One, looking for Sam.

  There he was, lying on his back on the gurney, probably unconscious. The tall German doctor was by his side, keeping a close eye on his vitals. She crouched on the ground next to Sam’s gurney, shooting the doctor a glance of gratitude for the care and attention he had provided to Sam. Then she reached out and grabbed Sam’s frozen hand, holding it tight with hers, and whispering gently words of encouragement.

  “We’re here, Sam, just hold on, we’re here. You’re taking the first flight out, going straight into one of the best trauma centers on this side of the world.”

  “Hey, kiddo…” he whispered with difficulty.

  “Sam!” She sprung to her knees, her heart soaring. She kissed him on the forehead with a loud smooch. He was going to be all right.

  “Yeah, kiddo, it’s me,” he replied, faintly. “Did you find your man, V?”

  She let out a groan of frustration. “No, Sam, no trace of the bastard.”

  “Any proof, anything?”

  “None, Sam, not a trace,” she admitted after a second of hesitation. “Nothing. But I know it was him, I just know it.”

  “You’ll find him, I’m sure…” he added, then closed his eyes again, exhausted. “Look what you’ve done here today. You can do anything, kiddo, anything you set your mind to do.”

  “Shh…” Alex whispered, not letting go of his hand. “Don’t talk. Just rest. I’m right here.”

  They remained quiet for a few minutes, one almost unconscious, and the other deep in her thoughts. Yes, not a single shred of evidence tying V to yet another terrorist attack of unprecedented boldness. None of the captured Russians had any idea about anyone leading operations other than Bogdanov. As for Bogdanov, the Bravos had taken him out before she’d had a chance to interrogate him. But the Bravos weren’t to blame. They had operated by the rules of antiterrorism engagement in a hostage situation. People’s lives come first, safety second, intel third. This time, they never made it to third.

  The pilot, roughed up by the Bravos and tied up with plastic cuffs, awaited his fate almost indifferently, a few yards away. She didn’t hold high hopes to extract any intel from him. V was too smart for that; he wouldn’t have engaged the pilot personally. To make things worse, the moment they’d set foot on the Okinawa, he would be placed under arrest, and she would lose all access to him. After all, she was just a civilian, operating without any official sanction.

  That’s why she had no intel whatsoever. She had nothing on V. Damn it to hell…and back…The slippery bastard managed to stay hidden again. She had nothing, no evidence, but she believed more than ever that it had been him all along.

  “Sam?” she called quietly.

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

  “What do you think is going to happen? Did we just start World War III?”

  “Nah…T
he Russians will issue a statement,” he replied, speaking slowly, with difficulty, making her regret she asked. “They’ll say it wasn’t sanctioned and apologize. Then we, the Americans, will issue a statement and apologize for entering their airspace. It’s all politics, kiddo…no one really wants to go to war.”

  “How about us? Will we go to jail? We did so many illegal things today I can’t even count.”

  “Nah…the public wouldn’t go for it, and we have more than four hundred witnesses on our side. No jail for us.”

  “Good. Good to know,” she replied, feeling a little relief. “Now hush…don’t talk anymore.”

  The sound of multiple helicopters approaching was the first sign that help had finally arrived. Then she saw their dark silhouettes, barely visible against the very early dawn on the eastern horizon, as numerous helicopters approached. Their evac transport had arrived.

  The radio came on.

  “All call signs, this is Eagle Nest. We have visual on you.”

  “Eagle Nest, this is Alpha, copy. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Eagle Nest.”

  Alex caught a different sound, coming from the north. Nothing was supposed to come from there.

  “All call signs, maintain cover. We have inbound bogeys.” Eagle Nest’s voice sounded worried, almost surprised.

  Several Russian helicopters appeared out of nowhere, firing at the trucks, and blowing a few of them up. They must have flown low on the river, escaping detection, and sneaking up on them from behind, Alex thought. But if they are here, why isn’t the entire Russian army? Sakhalin has a huge contingent of air, ground, and naval forces. We should be already dead by now.

  Then she remembered Sam’s weak voice, whispering, “They’ll say it wasn’t sanctioned.” What if it wasn’t? What if V was not acting officially, under Russia’s authority? What if he’s a rogue player?

  A few of Eagle’s approaching fleet of helos engaged the Russians, but a drone was the first one to score, sending a Hellfire missile whooshing through the dim dawn light. It ripped through one of the targets, blowing it up in mid-air. An Osprey approached from the left, surprising another one of the Russian bogeys, and took it out with a long round of shots fired at the bogey’s tail rotor from its belly gun. The remaining Russian helicopter turned around and tried to bug out, but exploded when a missile fired from a Cobra hit it center mass. The explosion sent flying pieces of debris toward their location, making the people scream and crouch close to the ground. Alex covered Sam with her own body, shielding him from the flying, smoldering debris.

  As soon as the sound of the last explosion died down, the approaching heavy transport helicopters became more noticeable. Their rotors spun with a low-pitched sound, and their light-gray, elegant silhouettes contoured in formation against the early dawn.

  “All call signs, this is Eagle Nest. Get ready. Move fast. The area is heating up, we have to go.”

  She let go of Sam’s hand, and two men carried the gurney to the nearest Super Stallion with the rest of the wounded.

  The individuals ran toward the approaching helos, and as soon as the Stallions landed, they climbed aboard, assisted and counted by the Bravos, not wasting a single minute.

  “Let’s go, boss,” Lou said, grabbing her arm and taking her toward the last Stallion. “Time to go home.”

  Alex looked around, taking in the details of the early dawn battlefield, still smoldering here and there. Some Stallions had taken off already; others were almost full, getting ready to go. She had nothing...not a trace that could lead to V, nothing whatsoever.

  Lou didn’t let go of her arm, leading her to the remaining Super Stallion at a running pace. The few remaining people were already aboard; the two of them were the last ones left on the ground.

  As she approached the helicopter, she looked up and saw the clear sky, the sky from where DigiWorld’s satellites had watched over them and their mission, sending them valuable tactical information. The sky from where V would have kept a satellite eye on his operations.

  She couldn’t leave, not yet.

  She hopped aboard the helo, then asked the pilot, yelling to make herself heard, “You got any flares?”

  “Huh?”

  “Flares, got any?”

  “Yeah, over there,” the pilot replied, pointing at a large flare bag secured against a wall mount.

  Without hesitating, she grabbed the bag of flares and jumped off the helo, yelling over the sound of the rotors, “Give me a minute, OK?”

  With the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of consternated Lou, his jaw dropped, signaling to Martin and the pilot to wait.

  She ran a hundred feet or so away from the helicopter, then lit the first flare and put it on the ground. One by one, she lit nine flares, spacing them several feet apart from one another, and placing them in a V pattern. The V, marked by brightly burning red flares, was clearly visible and distinguishable by anyone watching her via satellite.

  She looked up toward the sky, where the satellites would be watching intently. She couldn’t see anything, but she didn’t really expect to. She tilted her head a little, smiled, and made a wide, inviting gesture toward the sky. Come on, motherfucker, she thought, take the bait!

  Then she ran toward the helo as fast as she could, hearing its rotors revving faster and faster as she approached it. She hopped aboard, taking Lou’s hand and sat down next to him, catching her breath.

  The Stallion took off and immediately increased speed. She relaxed a little; they were finally going home.

  Lou leaned into her side, screaming in her ear to cover the rotor’s noise.

  “What the hell were you doing down there?”

  She looked out the window. From their increasing altitude, the red V stood out clearly against the dark landscape.

  “Calling him out,” she replied.

  “For Christ’s sake, Alex, this is not a game!”

  “Ahh, spare me, Lou. You guys don’t even believe he’s behind this anyway. I’m not even sure you believe he exists. So, tell me, what’s the harm, really?”

  ...67

  ...Wednesday, May 11, 12:26AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Vitaliy Myatlev’s Residence

  ...Moscow, Russia

  Vitaliy Myatlev hadn’t moved from his chair the entire night, or day by Moscow’s time zone. His bloodshot eyes, transfixed, glued to the monitors, watched in disbelief how his entire operation was falling apart.

  For hours, he watched powerlessly how these strangers, a handful of people, thoroughly destroyed everything he had carefully built. The most secret of his operations, buried deep in the Russian far east, exposed, blown away in just a few hours. How the hell did that happen?

  He barked orders every now and then, sending reinforcements, and Ivan rushed to execute them with increasing reluctance. Ivan wasn’t an idiot; he knew very well that all people exposed to his boss’s top-secret operation would have to be eliminated. His Spetsnaz background still fueled loyalties to Russian armed forces, loyalties that sometimes stood in the way.

  And yet, no matter how many reinforcements they had sent, how many armored vehicles and how many aircraft, these strangers took them out one by one. Drones, appeared out of nowhere, fired countless missiles, annihilating them.

  He had lost…again. This time, there’d be hell to pay.

  On the screens, in the early light of dawn, he watched a fleet of American helicopters land. His face a sickly shade of pale, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and his fists white-knuckled in anger, he could do nothing but watch powerlessly as every single person was airlifted away.

  Then something caught his attention. Someone was lighting flares in a pattern, laying them on the ground. He watched petrified, through dilated pupils, as the flares lined up one after another to form the letter V.

  His blood instantly turned to ice, and adrenaline kicked him in the gut, setting off familiar alarm bells. He zoomed in the satellite feed just in time to see clearly the woman who just finished l
ighting the flares. He saw her turn her face toward him, staring him directly in the eye through the monitor, as if she were in the room with him. He felt her eyes drill into the depths of his heart, making him shudder. Then she waved at him, smiling, as if she knew he was there, observing.

  Shocked, he pushed his chair away from the desk and sprang to his feet, pacing nervously.

  “Motherfucker,” Myatlev swore loudly, his voice raspy and strangulated with fear and anxiety. How could they know he’d be there, watching? How could she know? Who betrayed him?

  Then he approached the desk where the satellite monitors were installed, and slammed both his fists against the shiny, cherry-wood surface, making the video equipment rattle.

  “So, it’s personal, huh? Alex Hoffmann, you fucking bitch…You want to play? You’re on!”

  ~~ The End ~~

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Executive

  by Leslie Wolfe

  Alex Hoffmann Series Book One

  ~~~~~~~~

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