Dark Winter

by Anthony J. Tata

  Spartak’s thumb slapped the space bar with a loud slap. She stood, grabbed her harness, managed to get it over her shoulders, and shouted, “Brace!”

  Mahegan pressed his intercom button and said, “Stu, now.”

  Mahegan felt his stomach lurch into his throat. He had been on his share of wild aviation rides fraught with enemy fire and the accompanying maneuvers necessary to dodge the lead flying at them. But he had never felt an XC-17 in a free fall from the sky. He imagined they were losing a thousand feet per second. He managed to put his hands against the roof of the pod and prevent a head strike that could have left him unconscious. The g forces had the entire team pinned against the roof as if they were in some antigravity ride at the county fair.

  The cameras showing the MiGs continued to function. A smoke trail angled toward the camera. Mahegan braced for impact, just as Spartak had warned. Chaff enveloped the airplane and the camera became obscured. Waiting for impact was exactly like the moment before a paratrooper’s feet hit the ground at the end of the jump. He knew it was coming, but it would come when it came. There was no rushing it.

  Mahegan was surprisingly at peace with his lot in life. Nothing flashed before his eyes. He eyed his teammates as best he could in their awkward positions around the pod. If he was going to die, these were the people he wanted to be with. If death awaited him momentarily, he was doing what he loved doing—serving his country. No sacrifice too small or too great. It all counted. Whether riding in a cargo plane or slitting the throat of an ISIS terrorist, Mahegan had done it all. He had contributed ten lifetimes of combat to his nation in his short life.

  A brave man dies once; a coward many times.

  Chief Iowa had muttered that phrase once and while not a Croatan like Mahegan, Iowa’s sentiment was universal as far as Mahegan was concerned. He thought of his guidepost Croatan adage. It is better to die a hero than grow old.

  He locked eyes with Cassie, who was secured with a nylon cable and snap link and laying flat against the ninety degree V where the vertical wall met the ceiling of the command pod. She looked comfortable, if that was possible. The g forces were making it impossible for any of them to move other than make minor hand movements. If the missiles did not destroy the XC-17—and them with it—the aircraft was almost certainly in an unrecoverable delta dive, pushing the plane beyond its structural limits.

  The aircraft cleared the chaff and the cameras were piping the night sky back at them. Two more missiles smoked toward them. It didn’t seem possible that the first two had missed, but perhaps the chaff had tricked them. The two MiGs briefly crossed the lens of the camera.

  Again, Mahegan braced for impact by finding that peaceful place in his mind. He found himself wishing that he could reach out and hold Cassie’s hand. Mahegan and Cassie’s vacation to Bald Head Island now seemed both splendid and stupid. They’d connected. Fallen in love. Made love. Held each other. Scars healed—physical and mental. They’d been wounded in the toughest fight either thought they might face. He wanted to die with those memories of Bald Head Island and Cassie on his mind. Peace. Happiness. For once.

  This was what love did.

  There, they’d promised to die heroes and grow old. In some cultures, Mahegan’s thirty-one years would be ancient. There on the tranquil beaches of Bald Head Island, he’d found what had been eluding him—love.

  Cassie was tough and nurturing. She had lost her parents, part of the mental healing that had taken place. It wasn’t so long ago that Mahegan had lost his father. And he thought briefly of his mother, Samantha, with her blond hair and freckles, teaching him how to surf and swim in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

  Cassie imperceptibly shook her head as the plane began to rattle. But still, the missile had seemingly missed.

  “Jake!”

  The headset had stayed glued to his ears. He held the coiled wire and transmit button in his hand, which was slammed against the ceiling. He managed to press his thumb against the black button, which seemed a Herculean task. “Roger,” he muttered.

  “Not much time before we hit the ocean. Four missiles have missed. For some reason they’re not using guns.”

  “Four’s all they got. Level this bitch out,” Mahegan said through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t think I can,” Stu said.

  Mahegan and Stu had shared many a beer where they’d talked about his heritage and Stu’s upbringing in Bozeman, Montana. They were more similar than one might have imagined. Both grew up on the frontier. Mahegan in the Atlantic Ocean. Stu on the high plains.

  “You can do it, brother.” Mahegan’s voice was raspy. The plane was shuddering. Rivets started popping.

  “You know I’ll do my best, brother,” Stu said.

  Mahegan felt the airplane rattle. Thought he could hear rivets coming apart as the C-17 was in a near delta dive toward the Pacific Ocean.

  “Jake!” Stu shouted into the headset again.

  The plane was rattling and the centrifugal forces continued to pin him to the ceiling of the command pod, a rectangular insert inside the cavernous airplane.

  “Roger,” Mahegan muttered. “Anytime now, Stu.”

  “I can’t recover! Need to eject the pod!”

  “Come join us then.” Mahegan didn’t like the thought of the crew biting it while he and the team in the command pod potentially survived.

  “I’ve got to maneuver this so we can drop you,” Stu said. “We can’t make it back there.”

  The two operators knew what was being said. Stu was going to sacrifice his life and that of his crew so Mahegan and his team could Charlie Mike—continue the mission.

  “Eject?”

  “Maybe. If we get you out in time. Our stabilizer is shot. This thing isn’t flyable. Only thing I can try to do is lift the nose. I’ve already dropped the ramp. Trying to get some drag.”

  “Roger.”

  The C-17 had not only been equipped with 105 mm cannons, but also with a glass cockpit that allowed for pilot ejection. Given the missions that Savage and his team conducted, the up-fit included safety precautions for the pilots, as well. Mahegan was hopeful that the crew chief outside of the pod had his jump parachute on and would bail when the pod ejected. Two cargo parachutes were secured to the top of the pod and connected to the parachute static lines in the aircraft. If Stu was able to get the C-17 level for drop operations, the pod would slide out and the weight would pull the static lines until they deployed the parachutes from the pack trays atop the pod. A small cotton tie would then snap free from the static line when the parachute and static line were at their maximum length and taut.

  The plane shuddered more, but leveled . . . and slowed. Mahegan could feel the adjustments Stu was making. The plane began banking as if spiraling in the air. Without warning, the pod slid from its secure position and they were free-falling through the sky. Mahegan felt the parachutes deploy and slow their descent. With the sudden change in acceleration and speed, the entire team in the pod fell to the floor.

  “Stu ejected us,” Mahegan said.

  “Where the fuck are we?” Savage barked.

  “GPS showing us about twenty miles off Attu Island,” O’Malley said.

  They were all either on their knees or laying prone in the command pod as it floated through the air.

  “How soon can we get the backup command aircraft here?” Savage asked.

  “It was trailing us by an hour. Let’s message it to land at Casco Station while the Coast Guard sends a search and rescue for us.” Mahegan was remembering the flight route. The command pod had a beacon on it. “Make sure they send two helicopters. One for Stu and his team.”

  “Roger. Trying to get our comms to work. All our connections were ripped out, but we have stubby antennae as backup.”

  The pod worked as designed as O’Malley made contact with the U.S. Coast Guard Station on the most remote island of the Aleutian chain.

  “Two HH-65 Dolphins on the way,” O’Malley said.

  The pod l
anded with a jarring thud into the water, like hitting concrete.

  “Okay, team. Let’s get the hatches open and the boats out,” Mahegan said.

  Though they had never rehearsed the drill, they found the two life rafts and popped the water tight hatches after ensuring they were not inverted. Mahegan helped each member of his team to the top of the rapidly sinking pod. As he pushed on the cook, he said, “Whatever you did, good job.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mahegan noticed her thicker Russian accent. The fear had unmasked her ruse, perhaps.

  “And I know you did that to save your own ass, so don’t think you’re golden,” he said.

  The cook said nothing as she climbed into the freezing air. Mahegan helped Cassie up the ladder and then followed her. Once on top and assured that he had all of his charges, including General Savage, Mahegan removed a thermite grenade from his tactical vest and tossed it into the container before shutting the hatch. The explosion sounded like a dull thud as half the pod was already underwater. O’Malley had one raft inflated and was boarding Savage and the cook. Owens was inflating the second raft and connected it with a rope to O’Malley’s raft. The wind was blowing at least thirty miles an hour. The sea chop was white capping at five to ten feet. Air temperature was below freezing while the water temperature was probably in the high thirties or low forties. They wouldn’t last long if the Coast Guard could not find them.

  Mahegan helped Cassie into Owens’ rubber raft. They all donned life jackets as Mahegan stepped from the sinking pod into the raft. There were paddles, but they were comically useless.

  Rough seas filled the boats with water. The sky was black, lit only by the sweeping array of stars in the northern sky. The galaxies reminded Mahegan how vast the ocean was. If the GPS was not working, there was no way anyone would ever find them. The Coast Guard needed to hurry.

  After thirty minutes of bailing water using combat helmets and hands, the distant thrum of helicopter blades rode in on the howling wind. Mahegan retrieved the flare gun from the emergency kit, inserted a flare, and fired it skyward. The burning yellow and white arc cut through the black night like the single band of a rainbow. As the blade sounds grew louder, he fired another.

  The Coast Guard HH-65 with its unique Fenestron-ducted rear fan blades was soon hovering above them. The rescue swimmer dropped into the water and began helping each member of Mahegan’s team onto the seat and winch that pulled them into the helicopter.

  As soon as they were all wrapped in blankets, Mahegan looked across the floor of the helicopter at Cassie and nodded. Then he stared at Savage, who was sitting next to him.

  “Is our backup there yet, Jake?” Savage asked. “Check on Stu, also.”

  “I’m checking,” Mahegan said.

  Tugging on the leg of the crew chief, Mahegan managed to get a headset and confirmed with the pilots that a JSOC command and control aircraft was twenty minutes from landing.

  “No time to waste. We land, we transfer, we take off. We’ve got to get to Iran,” Savage said.

  “I’m with you, boss.”

  The helicopter spun to a landing near the taxiing backup XC-17, which lowered its ramp. Mahegan pointed at the aircraft. “There’s our ride. Let’s go.”

  Holding her M4 carbine and rucksack, Cassie smirked at Jake as she jumped from the helicopter. “That was a hell of a ride we just had.”

  “I think it only gets more interesting from here, Cassie.”

  Cassie nodded as they jogged to the yawning ramp of the C-17, engines whining. They had named the drop zones near the suspected meeting locations of the RINK leaders. The intel feed indicated that four airplanes had landed within a relatively short period of time closest to drop zone Romeo near the village of Yazd, Iran.

  Once seated in a replica of the command and control pod they had just ridden into the Pacific Ocean, Mahegan put on his headset and watched his team take their seats. Savage across from him; Cassie to Savage’s left; Owens to Mahegan’s right; and O’Malley at the far end where he had two monitors and the ability to access the most remote regions of the Deep Web. Spartak, the cook, was still handcuffed and seated next to O’Malley, intently studying the screen full of ones and zeroes.

  “Did Stu, Sherrod, and the loadmaster make it?” Mahegan asked the pilot.

  “Chopper has three beacons. Don’t know yet. Word is they got out, but that could be all bullshit rumor, Jake.” The pilot was Rod Miller, another former Task Force member who had flown every special operations rotary and fixed wing aircraft in the inventory. He was as close to Stu and Sherrod as he was with anyone, but he hid the emotion in his voice that Mahegan knew was there.

  “Roger that. Let me know when you get word, Rod,” Mahegan said. “Flight time?”

  “Roger. About ten hours provided we don’t have any more incidents.”

  “Ten hours? This thing will be over in ten hours.”

  “Sorry, Jake. This baby only goes so fast. I can push her to 500 knots, but that’s it unless you want me to rip some rivets off.”

  “No thanks. Been there, done that,” Mahegan said.

  Miller chuckled. “Yeah, well we’ve got escort leapfrogging with us. Word is that the North Korean Army is all the way into Seoul. None of our shit is hitting them. Crypto bombs followed by directed energy followed by electromagnetic pulse.”

  O’Malley was waving a hand at Mahegan. “Hey, boss?”

  “Thanks, Rod.” Then to O’Malley, “What you got, Sean?”

  “Two things. You see here”—O’Malley pointed at a flat screen monitor above his dual computer monitors—“an orbital image of the earth rotating slowly against a black background.” He zoomed in and used his finger to circle the Korean Peninsula, the Middle East, and the northern tier of Europe that included Belarus, Poland, Germany, and Belgium. Just above the earth in each of those locations were groupings of icons that resembled tiny satellites. “Somehow, we’ve got three sets of stealth microsatellites. I mean DARPA has been working on this for years, but I don’t think they ever got there.”

  “What’s their function?” Mahegan asked.

  The entire team was huddled around O’Malley’s computer station. Mahegan felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Cassie leaned into him, ostensibly to make room for the others crowding around. Just another comrade joining the huddle. But her touch felt good and sent his mind reeling once again.

  They were back on Bald Head Island. He and Cassie were laying naked in bed, her head on his forever wounded left deltoid. A piece of his best friend’s Humvee had branded a lazy Z scar in his left arm just below his ranger tab tattoo. Who knew? Maybe a part of Sergeant Colgate was on that hot metal as well. He didn’t mind the pain, because it was a constant reminder to do better every day.

  As she rested her hand on his chest, Cassie asked him, “Jake, what’s your love language?”

  He had no idea what a love language was and by extension what his might be. “Thought I kind of just demonstrated that.”

  Cassie smiled. “Yeah, well, it was a great demo, but you know even though I’m ranger-qualified and army and all that good stuff, I’m still a woman underneath all of that.”

  “Yeah, the demo made that very clear.”

  She bit his arm playfully. “Be quiet. Physical touch, words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time, or gifts. Which one speaks to you most in love?”

  “I like all that stuff. Except the affirmation thing. I know when I’ve done well and when I’ve failed. I’ve done both and I don’t need some bullshit trying to pump me up if I jacked something up.”

  Cassie laughed. “So we know it’s not words of affirmation, such as great job! Which of those is most important, Jake, to you?” She touched his pectoral muscle above his heart as if to point at his soul.

  “I always want time,” Mahegan said after a long pause. “Because it’s the one thing that you can never get back. It’s always moving forward.”

  “So it’s quality time. I’ll tell yo
u up front. Mine is physical touch.”

  “Well, the demo had lots of that—some pretty quality time if you ask me.”

  With her hand resting on that same shoulder, he knew she was communicating to him her need for that touch even through uniforms and in the back of a yawing C-17 aircraft with five others standing around.

  “They are controlling the attacks,” Spartak said, standing next to O’Malley and pointing at the screen where the circles highlighted the icons. “A high altitude airplane or rocket deploys these in a pod. The pod opens and the satellites, no bigger than soccer balls, pop open and begin doing their thing.”

  “Which is what?” Mahegan asked, looking at the woman, unsure of her ethnicity or nationality. Could he trust anything she said? She had saved them from certain death, but perhaps primarily had saved her own ass.

  “Cyber-bombs, machine learning, automated resupply, you name it,” Spartak said.

  “Nukes?” General Savage asked.

  “It can launch nukes, yes. The algorithm cycles through a million codes a second until they break the encryption and can launch. The Internet of Things has made everything easier and everything more vulnerable.”

  “So the nuke that hit Tokyo?” Mahegan asked.

  Spartak paused. “That seemed a bit early, don’t you think?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Savage growled.

  “I already told you. I am Spartak. World’s best hacker. I live in the Deep Web. I can disarm Russian MiGs that want to shoot us down. That’s all you need to know. Everything else flows from that.”

  “That’s why they wanted you?” Mahegan asked. “The raid at the bar?”

  “I was at the bar simply to hide. Off the grid as you say. Someone posted a Snapchat with me in the background. The enemy you face is so good that they were able to find my facial image on self-erasing snapchat and geo-locate me within hours.”

  “That’s when we got the bump in intel,” O’Malley said.