EndWar e-1

by Tom Clancy

  McAllen was ready to call it day. Khaki was giving him the high sign: the tank’s full, let’s boogie.

  “All right, Outlaw Team,” McAllen began.

  The sudden hissing and sparking of new fire on the wall behind him, on the ground, the snow, and over his head sent him diving onto his gut.

  And just beyond the chopper, in the forest, came at least a dozen Spetsnaz infantry, probably two full squads, with one guy dropping to his knees, balancing a tubelike weapon on his shoulder.

  McAllen’s mouth fell open. He recognized an RPO-A Shmel, or “Bumblebee,” when he saw one. The weapon fired a thermobaric projectile utilizing advanced fuel-air explosive techniques. Some described the weapon as a flamethrower, but it was more like a rocket with a flamethrower’s aftereffects, burning for a very long time.

  The guy aimed at the fully fueled Longranger.

  “Get out of there!” McAllen hollered to Khaki, Rule, and Friskis. “Get out!” At the same time, he cut loose with his XM9, directing all of his fire on the guy with the Bumblebee.

  Squinting against the smoke from his barrel wafting into his eyes, McAllen watched the guy fall forward and drop the rocket, just as Khaki, Rule, and Friskis came racing toward him, gunfire raking their paths.

  Gutierrez swung his rifle around and began to suppress the oncoming troops, but McAllen already saw they couldn’t hold them back for long.

  And yet another Spetsnaz troop picked up the Bumblebee and was leveling it on his shoulder.

  McAllen fired at that guy, dropped him, then another salvo sent him rolling to the left, out of the bead. He felt a dull pressure on his shoulders as a few rounds struck his Crye integrated body armor, but he was okay.

  “God damn, Jonesy, you would’ve loved this,” he grunted, wishing his old assistant were here in the fray. Then he cried, “Outlaws, fall back to the front of the terminal. NOW!”

  As his men continued, still returning fire, McAllen got to his feet and did likewise. He chanced a look back, saw yet another guy shouldering the Bumblebee.

  There was no one to stop him now.

  McAllen sprinted forward, reached the corner, and ducked around to his left, just as a massive explosion struck like thunder from a hundred rain clouds.

  A gasp later, the concussion wave struck, lifting him a meter into the air, then knocking him flat onto his belly.

  With the whoosh and roar of flames still resounding, accompanied by an unbearable gasoline stench that seemed to clog the hot air, McAllen felt a hand latch onto his wrist and pull him to his feet.

  “They blew up my goddamned chopper!” shouted Khaki, releasing him. “They blew it up!”

  Just then the two civilian birds swooped down, riflemen ready to strafe the oncoming infantry behind them.

  “Forget the bird. I’ll buy you another one!” cried McAllen. “Let’s get some cover!”

  Ahead lay a garage, home of the airport’s fire crew. They swept along the main terminal, headed for that—

  One of the terminal doors opened, and Black Bear appeared. “Marines, get in here now!”

  “Do what he says,” hollered McAllen.

  They filed into the terminal, stealing a moment to catch their breaths.

  Black Bear smiled, removed his cigar. “Guess you boys will be staying awhile.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  While they usually packed light, Sergeant Nathan Vatz’s team, along with the rest of the company, had opted to haul some of the bigger gear up to High Level, especially when faced with a cold weather operation against a numerically superior force.

  Fortunately for them, some of that equipment had made it out of the C-130 before the missile had struck. Their AT4 and Javelin had survived, along with a couple of other surprises still waiting for the Russians.

  The boys at the airport had taken the AT4. Vatz’s team had the Javelin, and he tensed now as the missile, fired from the other side of town, dropped like Thor’s hammer on top of the Russian helo.

  Well, the U.S. government would have to make some reparations to the townsfolk of High Level, Alberta—

  Because the helo burst apart, raining ragged pieces of metal, tubes, and wires onto the surrounding buildings. Doors folded in, and large glass windows shattered into the road. Still more brick facades crumbled, and a steel street sign was cut down like a blade of grass.

  More shrapnel and other debris hurtled into the second chopper, whose troops were already jumping down, a couple immediately succumbing to the blast.

  Vatz firmly gripped his pistol-like combat weapon, nicknamed Lethality Central, LC for short.

  The first 15mm, cold-launched, intelligent-seeker round streaked away from one of the weapon’s five tubes, homed in on that chopper’s open door, and punched through several infantry.

  Vatz triggered two more rounds, saving the 4.6 mm projectiles in tube number five for close encounters of the final kind.

  One of the locals down below ran out in the street and rolled a grenade beneath the chopper. The pilot couldn’t achieve liftoff in time, and the blast sent him banking sideways. With a grinding, crunching, glass-shattering racket, the bird chewed its way into the local courthouse. The rotors snapped off and spun away like knives thrown in a circus act as the helo’s nose vanished inside the building.

  Another grenade, this one launched by Vatz’s engineer, dropped beside the helo, the detonation opening up the bird’s fuel tanks, and the fires quickly rose, triggering several more explosions.

  Wind-whipped smoke appeared in the distant north. Vatz seized his binoculars and swore as one of the Russian helos fired rockets on the main roadblock. He’d been hoping they’d leave that obstacle to the mechanized infantry, but sometimes luck — and bullets — ran out.

  Those local guys manning the roadblock couldn’t do much against that bird, and they wouldn’t last long. Vatz already felt the pang of their loss.

  “Bali, this is Black Bear, over.”

  The voice surprised Vatz, and he switched his Cross Com to an image piped in from Samson’s helmet camera. “Bear, this is Bali, go ahead, over.”

  “Communications are back. Go figure. Anyway, we’ve taken out four enemy helos, but we got twenty, thirty Spetsnaz guys on the ground from at least two we didn’t get, moving toward the terminal, over.”

  “Roger that. We destroyed our two helos. Still got one out by the northern roadblock. No location for the rest, over.”

  “Yeah, I see the smoke.”

  “Black Bear, hold them there. If we don’t get any more visitors, we’ll rally at your position, over.”

  “Sounds good, Black Bear, out.”

  Captain Godfrey, who was coordinating operations with Captain Rodriguez from 887, said those guys were sending a truck out to the roadblock to see if they could assist with fires on that helo.

  Meanwhile, the thumping of more rotors drove Vatz to the opposite side of the roof. Down below, in the side street, a Ka-29 had just landed, and troops began pouring out.

  He cursed, got back on the radio, told his boys to expect dismounts in the area.

  Then he express-delivered another pair of guided munitions down on the helo through its canopy. He slipped the LC into his Blackhawk SERPA holster, took up his MR-C rifle, and fired down on the still-exiting infantry.

  The Spetsnaz rushed around the chopper and began returning fire, rounds tearing up the stone balustrade as Vatz rolled back for cover.

  “We have to get down,” he shouted to Godfrey, who was still speaking to Rodriguez. “They’re getting inside! They’ll come up and cut us off!”

  “All right,” cried the captain.

  Automatic weapons fire was already drumming from somewhere below as Vatz wrenched open the door leading to the dark stairwell.

  He rushed down to the first landing, turned—

  And locked gazes with a Spetsnaz troop below whose rifle was still pointed down.

  While Vatz’s first reaction should’ve been to lift his rifle and fire, adrenaline had already
taken over.

  And muscle memory.

  And a rage simmering deep down.

  He launched himself from the landing and crashed down onto the guy before the enemy soldier could react. They fell onto the floor, the Russian’s rifle knocked free, Vatz’s weapon having dropped somewhere behind him.

  The guy’s left hand was going for the pistol holstered at his waist. Vatz seized that wrist with his right hand, now unable to draw his own LC from the SERPA holster.

  “Sergeant, get him!” shouted Godfrey, who had just reached the landing above.

  But Vatz couldn’t stop the guy’s right hand from coming up to unsheathe a small neck knife dangling from a chain.

  The troop thrust upward with the three-inch blade, and Vatz took hold of the guy’s wrist with the blade tip poised a few inches from his cheek.

  The guy raged aloud, fighting against Vatz’s grip, as the captain yelled, “Move, I can’t get a shot!”

  Drawing in a quick breath, Vatz did three things: released his grip on the trooper, threw his head back away from the blade, then forced himself onto his rump while drawing his LC.

  He fired.

  Nothing. What the…

  Vatz realized in that horrible moment that he’d failed to switch the pistol from the guided munitions to the stacked 4.6 mm rounds for close quarters, which was why she clicked empty.

  Another shot rang out from above: Godfrey.

  But it was dark, and that round punched the wall beside the soldier.

  The Russian went for his pistol.

  Vatz thought of the Blackhawk caracara blade he always packed for those up-close and personal moments, but it was buried deep in one of his hip pockets.

  The seven-inch fixed blade he carried, the Masters of Defense Mark V, was held tight in its sheath strapped farther down his hip.

  But Marc Rakken’s prized balisong, the Venturi, was right there, in a narrow pocket much higher on his hip.

  Sorry, Marc.

  In the span of two heartbeats Vatz had the Venturi in his hand, pinky-popping the bottom latch, bite handle dropping then swinging up to lock the blade in the open position.

  The Russian was sliding the pistol out of his holster—

  Vatz dove forward for the kill, thrusting his blade deep into the soldier’s neck to sever his spinal cord.

  Gunfire resounded over his shoulder, and Godfrey was there. He put a bullet in the guy’s head as Vatz withdrew the balisong’s Damascus blade.

  “I put out the word to mask up,” said Godfrey. “Now that they know we’re here.”

  Vatz rose, covered in blood. He closed the balisong and returned it to his pocket, then slid off his light pack to fish out his mask.

  They didn’t have full nuclear, biological, or chemical protection, part of the micro-climate conditioning subsystems of the full MOPP 4 helmets and suits, but the lightweight masks would help.

  He froze as more footfalls sounded in the stairwell.

  Silently, he motioned for Godfrey to halt, then reached into his tactical vest, tugged free a fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairs.

  Major Stephanie Halverson and the boy reached the barn and darted inside, then moved to the window to catch sight of the remaining troops.

  She’d been right. Just three left now, and all charged forward, widening the distance between one another, rifles held menacingly.

  With three of their brothers dead, they wanted much more than a downed pilot.

  The boy’s face was scrunched up in agony, tears finally slipping from his eyes. “They killed my mom and dad.”

  “And they’ll kill us.”

  “My parents are dead because of you!” He leveled the automatic rifle on her.

  She slowly raised her hands, one still clutching her pistol. “Well, Joey, we got about ten seconds before they get here. They don’t care. They’ll shoot — both of us.”

  The barn door beside them burst open—

  But no one charged in.

  “Yankee pilot? Come out with hands up!”

  Halverson bolted to the wall, then sprinted for the door on the opposite end of the barn. She already knew at least one more troop had to be waiting there.

  Joey charged behind her, reached for the door handle.

  “No!”

  He looked at her.

  “Wait,” she said.

  She reached out, opened the door, and rolled back inside the barn—

  Gunfire ripped though the doorway. At the same time, a trooper appeared in the opposite doorway. Joey spotted him first.

  Just hours ago the kid had been an innocent farm boy living in rural paradise. Now he jammed down the trigger of his rifle, wise enough to aim for the guy’s legs because the Russian wore body armor.

  Then Joey rushed across the room, since the soldier was still moving, getting ready to draw his pistol.

  Halverson wanted to scream for him to come back, but it was too late. He rushed forward and shot the guy in the face, even as the other two soldiers burst into the barn, immediately cutting him down.

  Halverson, who was near the door, came in behind the first Spetsnaz troop, shot him point-blank in the neck.

  But the second guy whirled, aimed his rifle at Halverson.

  I’m dead.

  She flinched, but the troop suddenly staggered back, rounds punching into his chest and neck.

  Halverson slammed onto her gut, dirt and hay wafting into her face.

  She glanced over into the lifeless eyes of the Russian. Then she lifted her head.

  Joey was on the ground, clutching his rifle with one hand, his chest with the other, blood pouring between his fingers.

  “Joey?” She rose slowly, making sure all three troops were not moving, then she went to him, took his head in her lap.

  “It’s not fair,” he said, coughing up blood.

  Halverson’s voice was gone.

  No, it’s not.

  He grew very still, and then… he was gone.

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  But she couldn’t lose it. Not now. More troops would come. She had to get the weapons, a snowmobile. She had to get moving!

  Gingerly, she slid out from beneath Joey, placed his head gently on the ground.

  Then, frantically, she grabbed a couple of the rifles, another sidearm, two more clips, and rushed from the barn, her mind racing as quickly.

  Get inside. Get her clothes, civilian clothes. Activate the beacon or they’ll never find you.

  She reached the house, stormed into the master bedroom, tore through the woman’s closet, and found herself jeans, a sweatshirt, a heavy winter jacket, hat, scarf, gloves.

  Back to the kitchen. She grimaced and stepped over the father’s body to tear through the refrigerator, grabbing a couple bottles of water and some apples.

  Then, still trembling, she went to the cupboard and seized an unopened package of cookies and some canned goods. She went to the drawers, throwing stuff everywhere, trying to find a can opener. Then she cursed, tossed the cans, and grabbed the rest.

  She gathered more ammo from the soldiers, tucking it all into a pillowcase like some burglar, then found the keys to one of the snowmobiles in the pocket of a dead troop.

  On the table in the entrance foyer sat a picture of the happy family. Halverson stared at it for a few seconds before charging outside.

  After using bungee cords to fasten the gear inside the snowmobile’s small rear basket, she donned the helmet, fired up the engine, and ordered herself not to look back.

  She sped away, heading due south, leaving a rooster tail of snow in her wake. The cold wind on her face began drying her tears, and after another moment, she slid down the helmet’s visor and leaned into the machine.

  The fuel tank held about five liters, just over a gallon of gas, and the Russians had already used a liter to get to the barn. She wasn’t sure how far she’d get, but she’d ride until the tank was empty.

  A broad, flat plain o
f snow lay ahead, and more trees stood on the far horizon. She steered for them.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You’re wasting my time, Colonel.” Major Alice Dennison sat at her station in the command post, arms folded over her chest, and sneered at the broken and defeated Russian on the screen.

  “I did not talk under the influence of your drugs.”

  “Sorry, but you did.”

  “I did not!”

  “You told us everything you know — which is, unfortunately, not enough.”

  Colonel Pavel Doletskaya’s brows came together, and he began nervously pulling at the white whiskers on his chin. “You tell me what I said.”

  “All right. Operation 2659 is the invasion of Alberta.”

  “That’s shocking,” he said sarcastically. “I can’t believe you beat that out of me.”

  “The twenty-six represents the duration of time you’ve given yourselves to gain full control of the province. But if, after twenty-six days, you’ve failed in that mission, the second part of your plan takes place, activation code five-nine.”

  Doletskaya’s mouth began to open, as he realized that he had, in fact talked, but not willingly, as he pretended he wanted to do now.

  She went on, “The snow maiden was, in fact, Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov, with whom you were having an affair until she went home one night and set fire to her apartment, killing herself and four of her neighbors.”

  “I didn’t tell you that!”

  “Yes, you did. Maybe you thought you were remembering it, but you were telling us. I’ll ask you one last time, but I don’t expect you know the answer: The activation code is for what? A second invasion? A tactical missile attack? What?”

  He sighed loudly for effect. “I’m not aware of any activation code.”

  “Yes, you are. She told you about the code. But she never told you what it meant. And then she died. So we’re finished talking, you and I.”

  “Wait a moment, Major. If I told you everything already, then why did you agree to meet with me?”

  She shrugged. “Just for confirmation.”