EndWar

by David Michaels

“We’ll see how long it takes for you to create your own shadow. And I hope it’s a pretty long one.”

  Yes, indeed, Sergeant Scott Rule had just cast a very long shadow. And McAllen would make sure to commend him for that.

  Rule’s arms were frozen, his hands locked onto the rope. The pilot was tugging hard on his shoulders, and tears were beginning to form in his eyes from all the exertion.

  “Don’t . . . let go . . .” she said in his ear.

  She was half dead, but even then she sounded kind of sexy. Leave it to him to be thinking of sex at a time like this . . .

  He closed his eyes.

  I am a Marine. This is my job. I will not fail.

  But the feeling had escaped from his arms, and the rope began sliding through his fingers.

  “He’s losing it!” shouted McAllen. “Khaki, how much longer?”

  “We’re almost there!”

  McAllen began stripping out of his combat suit so he could give it to the pilot, once they had her inside. The suit’s life critical layer had a narrow network of tubing that would provide one hundred watts of heating A-SAP. Rule’s suit waited for him.

  Talk about being hung out to dry. McAllen couldn’t imagine how cold those two must be.

  The helo broke past another long stretch of trees, then the engine stuttered like a misfiring lawnmower.

  “No choice now,” said Khaki.

  “Try to put them down easy,” McAllen said.

  “Easy is not possible,” grunted the pilot. “Maybe you pray now. Because we go down hard!”

  He wasn’t kidding. The chopper began dropping like a rock as she lost power.

  McAllen clung to the back of the pilot’s seat, watched as Rule, who was one-handing the rope now, slammed into a snow bank.

  “They’re down!” he shouted. “But he’s still holding the rope. He’s not letting go! Cut it! Cut it!”

  Gutierrez immediately unsheathed his Blackhawk Tatang, a thirteen-inch-long serrated blade that he lifted high in the air, then—

  Thump! He cut nylon like butter, leaving a deep scar on the helo’s deck.

  “They’re clear!” cried McAllen.

  “Everybody, brace for impact!” warned Khaki. “Three, two, one!”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “He’s been shot in the leg. Caught him just above the armor. Looks like it missed the artery, though. Get Beethoven over here A-SAP,” Vatz told Black Bear.

  The warrant office acknowledged, then Vatz finished cutting open the medic’s pant leg with the Mark I the medic had given him. The Masters of Defense knife had a secondary blade at the butt that was specifically designed for cutting cord or clothes off an injured combatant.

  As Vatz worked, his attention was divided between treating the medic and checking the perimeter for remaining troops.

  A couple of gunshots sounded from somewhere south.

  “That’s our guys,” said Band-Aid.

  “You have a good ear.”

  The medic nodded, then flinched in pain.

  Vatz had the morphine injection ready. “Okay.”

  Band-Aid tensed, took the shot, then relaxed a little and said, “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Jac. I’m no medic. I could still kill you.”

  “Please don’t. I’ll tell you what, though—you’re some damned operator.”

  “Nope. Just doing my job like everyone else.”

  “Your plan worked.”

  “Sometimes you get lucky.”

  “Like me.” The knot of agony that had gripped the medic’s face began to loosen. “Could be worse, right?”

  “Right. Morphine kicking in?”

  “Yeah. Feels good. Next time make it a double.”

  Vatz cracked a slight grin.

  “Bali, this is Beethoven, over?” called the team’s assistant medic, Staff Sergeant Paul Dresden. “Coming right up on you, over.”

  “Come on, out.”

  The assistant medic arrived. He had a scruffy blond beard and wore an expression of deep concern. He’d been given the call sign Beethoven by the captain since he was, in fact, an accomplished pianist.

  Vatz gave Beethoven an update of what he’d done so far.

  Band-Aid thrust out his hand. “Thanks, Nathan.”

  “Any time, brother.” He turned to Beethoven. “I’ll get the portable litter ready. We’ll get him back to the terminal.”

  A voice sounded in Vatz’s earpiece. “Bali, this is Black Bear. Just got a report from Zodiac Six. We have at least a battalion-size force coming down from Behchoko. ETA on their first elements is four hours, six for the rest of the battalion. We need to get back to the roadblock, see how much damage has been done. Zodiac wants to take a few men into the neighborhoods to recon their sniper positions. I want you to lead the roadblock team, over.”

  “Roger that. Any word yet from the Tenth?”

  “They have sorties in the air, some already on the ground. Air support is en route, too, but no one’s committing to an exact ETA yet. I’ve pressed them hard. I’m sure that battalion coming down has stepped up their plans.”

  “Roger that. We’re bringing up Band-Aid to the terminal, then I’ll organize the team. Send down some guys to get Captain Godfrey’s body out of my truck. See you in a few, out.”

  “Hey, Sergeant, you know they’re all talking about you,” said Beethoven as he helped Vatz get Band-Aid onto the litter they had just unrolled.

  “Who’s talking?”

  “The rest of the team, that’s who.”

  Vatz’s tone turned defensive. “They all talking smack about the new team sergeant, eh? Heard about what happened to me in Moscow?”

  “They’re saying you might be the best operator they’ve ever seen.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  Vatz gave a little snort. “You guys haven’t been around much.”

  “All I know is, I’m sticking close because you don’t die. Put me on your roadblock team.”

  “My luck will run out. Either way, I always draw a lot of fire.”

  Beethoven grinned. “Sign me up.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The Ka-29 slammed into the ground so hard that the booms supporting the landing gear snapped off.

  The chopper slid forward, then came to a sudden halt, driving Sergeant Raymond McAllen hard against his seat’s straps as a wave of snow crashed down over the canopy.

  “Palladino? Gutierrez? Go get them!” ordered McAllen, bolting from his seat and opening the door. “Friskis? Szymanski? Security outside!” McAllen crossed toward the cockpit. “Khaki, how we doing?”

  “I think we survived,” mused the pilot, studying the gauges. “Still got some battery power. Good news: the fuel leak has been fixed.”

  “Yeah, since the tank is dry. You’re a comedian.” McAllen turned and slammed a palm on the Russian pilot’s shoulder. “Well, Boris, you might get to see America after all.”

  “My name is Captain Pravota. Address me as such.”

  “All right, Captain, you can get up now, get to the back, and we’ll fit you with a nice little pair of zipper cuffs.”

  “No need. I won’t resist. Have I?”

  “Just follow orders. You can take orders from a lowly sergeant like me, can’t you?”

  The old pilot frowned. “Just leave me here.”

  “Nah. You’re coming. Everybody loves a defector.”

  “As one soldier to another, do me honor and shoot me.”

  “Aw, Captain, don’t be so dramatic. The conditions in our prisons are way better than your barracks. You’re going on vacation. Did you bring your bathing suit?”

  It didn’t matter that the helicopter had practically crash-landed and that Major Stephanie Halverson felt certain that it wouldn’t be taking off anytime soon. It was all about getting out of the wind, getting out of the wet clothes, and getting warm.

  The big Marine with the olive skin, who had introduced himself as Sergeant Gutie
rrez, carried her on his back into the helo. The other guy named Palladino carried the Marine who had rescued her. His name, she had learned, was Sergeant Rule, and his face was blue. If that was any indication of what she herself looked like, maybe frostbite had already set in.

  They frantically pulled off her clothes, and for once she could care less about being naked. But they were gentlemen about it, ignoring her body and just helping her get into the long johns and then into the combat suit.

  Oh, God, the heating system was unbelievable. She sat there on a rear seat, legs pulled into her chest, riding wave after wave of heat.

  “I’m hoping you’re Major Stephanie Halverson,” said a steely eyed man with a touch of gray at his sideburns.

  “Good guess.”

  “I’m Staff Sergeant Raymond McAllen, United States Marine Corps.” He offered his hand.

  She took it. “Thanks for . . .” She broke off.

  “Well, yeah, I know, it’s not much of a rescue. And we’ll need to get moving pretty soon. I know you’ve been out there a while. We can set up a litter, turn it into a little sled, and drag you if we need to.”

  “I’ll be all right. Moving is good. Thanks for the combat suit. But what’re you going to do once we’re out there? Sun’s up, but it’s damned cold with that wind.”

  “Guess I’ll have to cuddle with the Russian.”

  “Don’t make me smile. It hurts.”

  “Sorry, Major. Can I ask you something personal?”

  “Uh, okay?”

  “Are you a relative or friends with Becerra?”

  She drew her head back in surprise. “I’ve never met him.”

  “Funny, because this TRAP mission came down from him. The President of the United States ordered my team to rescue you. Any idea why?”

  She frowned. “You think I’m carrying secret intel that could end the war tomorrow?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Sergeant, I’m just a pilot who was training at the wrong time, in the wrong place. The president contacted me directly while I was up there. He wanted a SITREP. I don’t know. Maybe he thought I was worth saving.”

  “Damn . . .”

  “What, not a good enough reason?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “I was just hoping for something . . . I don’t know.”

  “Something more important than my life?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s okay, Sergeant. I am just a pilot.”

  “You must be one hell of a pilot.”

  Her brows lifted. “That I am.”

  He nodded then regarded his men. “All right, people. We’ll assume those mechanized troops are still coming for us, on foot or otherwise. Let’s get ready to move!”

  “Sergeant?” called Halverson. He glanced back to her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. And if you need anything—”

  “Just get me home.”

  He winked. “Count on it.”

  It was midnight when General Sergei Izotov was wrenched from sleep by a video call from President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin.

  The president appeared disheveled and incensed. He rubbed sleep grit from his eyes and said, “General, I have Snegurochka on the line.”

  “Does she know what time it is here?”

  “Obviously, she does.”

  “What does she want?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She wanted to speak to both of us together. I hope, for your sake, General, that everything is going as planned.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “All right, I’m putting her through.”

  The screen divided into two images: Kapalkin on the left and Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov, that dark-haired beauty, on the right.

  Antsyforov was wearing an expensive fur coat and hat, and stood near a tree in a wooded area draped in snow. Her breath steamed in the cold air. “Hello, gentlemen.”

  “Hello, Snegurochka,” said Izotov. “I hope you’ve called with good news.”

  “Yes. There is no way we will lose this war.”

  “Very well, then. Stand by, and we will contact you with the confirmation code—”

  “Uh, no, General. When I said we, I wasn’t talking about you.” She shifted, to the left, allowing a man dressed in a green cowl to appear: Green Vox. “I was talking about the Green Brigade Transnational.”

  “Hello, purveyors of death,” said Green Vox.

  Izotov threw up his hands. “Colonel, what now?”

  “There is a suitcase in Edmonton, another one in Calgary. Ten kilotons in each. As planned. But now we control both of them. And again, when I say we, I mean us—not you.”

  Izotov spoke through gritted teeth. “Colonel, this terrorist scum is merely a subcontractor, nothing more. I’m unsure what you’re trying to say.”

  “I’m saying, dear General, dear President, that our plan has changed.”

  Izotov leaned farther forward on his bed and widened his eyes on her.

  Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov was, in his opinion, one of the most brilliant and trusted GRU officers in the history of the organization. When the security leak involving Doletskaya had been exposed and the Euros had alerted the Americans, it’d been she who had gone underground by staging her own death with their help. She had erased herself from the organization—all in the name of restoring the Motherland to greatness.

  And now she was saying it was all a lie?

  She had even given her body to Izotov, pleasured him in ways that no woman ever had.

  Now even that meant nothing to her?

  They were going to use the threat of tactical nuclear weapons to bluff the Americans and Euros into giving them Alberta, should the conventional ground war fail.

  “What are you talking about, Colonel?” asked Kapalkin.

  “I’m saying that this oil has become the root of all evil. I’m saying that Mother Gaia can no longer survive if this struggle continues. I’m saying we are going to detonate both of the nuclear devices. And there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

  Izotov noticed how Green Vox reached over and clutched Antsyforov’s hand.

  The president sighed deeply. “All right, Colonel. You’ve sacrificed a lot. You want money. I understand. Let us go back to sleep, and we’ll begin negotiations tomorrow.”

  “There will be no negotiations.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Izotov.

  “Within forty-eight hours, the reserves in Alberta will be contaminated, the cities of Edmonton and Calgary uninhabitable. We will ensure that the Russian Federation is held responsible for this by fully revealing your plan. And forget using this call as evidence. I’ve taken care of that as well as the deactivation of my chip. You can’t kill me.”

  “Colonel, have you gone insane?” asked Izotov.

  “No, General. I have never seen things more clearly.”

  “Enough games,” said Kapalkin. “We will call you in the morning, and you will name your price.”

  “No price. Only a clock for you to watch . . . and time for you to think about what you are doing to our world.”

  Izotov dug fingernails into his palms. “What are you waiting for then?” He threw up his hands. “Detonate the nukes!”

  She took a deep breath and sighed. “We will wait until as many civilians as possible can escape. Then, with all of those military units in the area, we will achieve maximum effect against the Federation.”

  “Name your price!” cried Kapalkin.

  She took a step toward the camera, opened her slightly chapped lips. She suddenly grinned, glanced away, then looked up. She said very slowly, “No . . . price . . .”

  “So you’re going to do it,” said Izotov. “You’re terrorist scum now.”

  “No. You have no idea who I am, and why I do what I do. No idea. Good-bye.”

  Izotov sat there a moment, stunned. Kapalkin was equally speechless. “I could not have anticipated this,” Izotov finally said.

  “Nor I. But what do we do now? W
e can’t let her destroy those reserves.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “We’ll send in two teams to find the weapons, pull out all of our forces.”

  Izotov shook his head. “If we pull out, and the weapons are detonated, there will be no denying we are responsible.” Izotov thought a moment. “We could lie and say we were tipped off, but that would still mean we are in bed with the enemy. Also, our nuclear search teams would never make it in time—especially if they have to penetrate American defenses. I’m at a loss. There is no one in the GRU I trusted more than her. No one. This is . . . unbelievable.”

  Kapalkin bolted up, walked away from the camera, then cursed and said, “Do you know what I’m going to do now, General? I’m going to do something that will shock you.”

  “At this moment that will be difficult.”

  “Oh, this will bring you to your feet.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Russians had cleared a path through the roadblock of demolition derby cars that Vatz and the local boys had constructed across Highway 35. Enemy rockets had reduced more than half of the vehicles to heaps of blackened and burning wreckage, though the hulks themselves could still be pushed back into place. It would take at least an hour or two for Vatz’s team to repair and reinforce the obstacle. Thankfully, the team’s little surprise for the Spetsnaz mechanized infantry had remained intact. Sadly, the eight Mounties who had been defending the area had been killed; Vatz put two of his men in charge of picking up the bodies, which would be taken back to the airport. The atmosphere was at once tense and grim.

  Band-Aid had been stabilized and moved into the terminal, where one of the medics from Zodiac team had established a makeshift infirmary. Consequently, assistant medic Beethoven was cut loose and able to come along with Vatz.

  He and the medic drove a civilian car nearly three kilometers north along the highway. They pulled over into a ditch and hopped out to survey the plains in the distance. Twice Vatz had tried to use the Cross Comm to pull up imagery from drones flying over the area, but the Russians were back to jamming their frequencies.

  They both lay in the embankment with binoculars pressed to their eyes. Vatz asked, “Got anything?”