Marc raised the fire extinguisher over his head ready to pulverize Jack’s skull, but paused. “Come on, Jack. You don’t have to pretend for your friends. Tell the truth. You’re the one that shot me.”
In answer Tate snapped a low kick to Andy’s leg, smashing muscle against bone and sending Marc staggering back. The extinguisher clanged to the floor, and rolled away.
“You’re damned right I did,” said Tate getting to his feet. “You were selling our drone command codes to the Russians.” Tate slashed out with a crescent kick aimed at Andy’s ribs, but the younger man slipped outside the blow, catching Tate’s raised leg under his arm.
Tate grunted as he tried to counter, but Marc was already in motion, driving his elbow down onto Tate’s thigh like a blunt spear.
“Wrong,” corrected Marc. “I was going to sell them to the Syrians until you shot me. But leaving me for dead and swapping the codes with fake ones? Talk about adding insult to injury.”
Gasping in pain, Tate wrenched his leg free, trying to escape another attack, but Marc quickly pivoted under Tate’s leg and swept his supporting foot out from under him. With nothing to grab, Tate smacked hard on the unforgiving steel deck, the impact crushing the air from his lungs.
“The CIA knew you were a traitor,” said Tate trying to suck in air, “They put you on my team and gave me a mission to dump your body with false intel.”
“Mad Eye,” said Roughhouse as she took up position along side the C-130. “The pilot’s refusing to comply.”
“Did you make visual contact with the pilot?” asked Mad Eye.
“I was practically touching him with my nose,” said Roughhouse.
“And he refused?”
“Not really,” confessed Roughhouse. “He said he’d call me back.”
“He stood you up?” laughed Mad Eye.
“These blind dates never work out,” said Roughhouse, going along with the joke. “Please advise.”
“The guy’s a loser,” chuckled Mad Eye. “Move on to the next man.”
“Story of my life,” quipped Roughhouse. “Seriously, I have a unauthorized flight and the pilot’s refusing my orders.”
Roughhouse looked out the canopy of her fighter, waiting for instructions. She’d have given a month’s pay to know the story behind what was going on in that C-130.
The crackle of her radio got her attention. She knew something serious was happening by the flat, measured voice of her tower control.
“Roughhouse one one seven, Mad Eye.”
“Made Eye, Roughhouse one one seven. I copy,” said Roughhouse.
“Can you confirm the following?” said Mad Eye. “You have visual on Herk zero two, four niner six. Aircraft flight is unauthorized. Pilot has refused your instructions. Unauthorized aircraft is nearing restricted air space.”
Roughhouse ticked off the list in her head, matching it to Mad Eye’s account. “Affirmative, on all counts.”
The pause before Mad Eye spoke was barely perceptible, but there was a sense of significance to it.
“Per the Commander of the North American Defense Command, you are authorized to execute rules of engagement,” said Mad Eye.
“Holy crap,” muttered Roughhouse to herself.
“Herk zero two, four niner six,” continued Mad Eye, “is considered a hostile bandit. You are to engage and shoot down. Copy?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Roughhouse. “I mean, Roughhouse one one seven copies.”
“Good hunting,” said Mad Eye.
“Tally ho!” said Roughhouse as she banked away from the C-130 in a wide circle. She wanted a safe distance between her and the inventible hail of debris about to fly off that C-130.
Tate lay wheezing, in pain, on the metal floor as Marc nimbly hopped back, giving him room to get up.
“You left me to die. When you reported me KIA they wiped my away my life. Like I never existed,” panted Marc. “I lost everything.”
It was beginning to feel like their last fight and Tate still carried the cuts and bruises to remind him how that ended. If I can keep him talking I can buy enough time to get my wind back.
“So did I,” said Tate.
“Wrong, again,” scoffed Marc.
Tate rolled onto his hands and knees, but didn’t see the kick until it was too late. Andy’s boot slammed the side of Tate’s head and he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Tate’s world swam in and out of blackness as sounds and words swirled around him in a meaningless haze.
“Rise and shine, Jacky boy,” said Marc, slapping Tate’s face. Tate’s eyes fluttered open and came into focus as Marc as he stood over him with his hands on his hips.
“Your kid died,” quipped Marc. “Yeah, that sucks, but you still had a great wife, whew she was hot!”
Marc glanced at the open cargo bay then back at Tate and got an idea.
“You had a career,” said Marc and bent down rolling Tate over, towards the open ramp. “You had family, loyal friends,” said Marc, rolling Tate over again.
Marc grunted as Tate feebly resisted being turned over, but it only took a little more effort to roll Tate ever closer to the open cargo bay.
“You didn’t lose that,” said Marc. “You gave up. That’s why you’re down there and I’m up here. I don’t just roll over, no pun intended. I take a hit and fight back.”
With another shove, the end of the ramp was only a foot away. Cool wind snapped and wailed around him.
Marc looked at the sweeping vista outside the cargo door, admiring the view. His eyebrow raised in confusion as he thought he saw a dot on the horizon. A sense of urgency began to tingle inside him and he turned his attention back to Tate.
“The mighty Jack Tiller gets hit,” said Marc with a sigh, “and he gives up everything and runs away.”
Marc gave a final push sending Tate towards the edge of the ramp. “I can’t even look at you,” said Marc, stepping back and watching in anticipation of Tate disappearing off the edge, plummeting thousands of feet to his death.
Tate’s leg flopped off the ramp as his body tipped on the edge. The wind caught his leg, dragging him closer to the edge.
Then all hell broke loose.
Marc froze as a jarring, loud sound like ripping air slashed by the plane. A stream of 20mm slugs shredded the number two engine, blowing off chunks of metal in a ball of flame.
The C-130 nosed over as the remaining three engines growled, struggling to level the plane.
Marc looked out the back of the plane and saw the distant form of the F-15. Swearing under his breath, he ran for the ladder and scrambled into the cockpit.
Tate’s limp body slid off the ramp, jolting to a stop as his left hand closed onto the last traction rung at the lip of the ramp.
Dazed, Tate looked down at the misty jungle canopy far below with numb realization. He looked curiously at his left hand locked onto the rung. His hand seemed to be acting of its own will. Tate wasn’t afraid to fall, in fact, as he pondered it, it felt like he wanted to. He looked at his hand and tried to pierce his groggy mind, telling his hand to open, but it wouldn’t. Please. Just open.
As the wind whistled around him he heard a distant sound. A sound he knew. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The wind dropped to a hush and the sound of giggling filled his mind. His daughter’s face was alight with giggling laughter as the world around them whirled by. He was holding her hands, spinning her round and round as her body flew above the grass. Her young, green eyes crinkled with glee as she looked Tate straight in the eyes. “Don’t let go, daddy,” she said.
“I won’t, honey,” laughed Tate. “I promise.”
The wind bucked hard, yanking Tate’s arm, snapping him harshly into reality. His face was streaked with tears, but he continued to laugh.
Breathlessly, Marc threw himself into the pilot’s seat as warning buzzers screeched at him. He grabbed the number two throttle and pulled it back then switched off the fuel pump.
He sta
red out the window, biting his lip until, at last, the flames that sheathed the mangled engine died out.
“Don’t do that again,” sighed Marc as he leveled off the plane and sank back in the seat. He looked out the window checking that engines three and four were still okay. Satisfied his gaze dropped to the co-pilot’s seat. It was empty. He’d forgotten the satellite.
“Let’s see how you like,” mumbled Marc as he grabbed his assault rifle. He slid down the short ladder into the cargo bay, and his stomach sank. The cargo pocket was empty.
“Oh son of a…” Marc stopped in disbelief when he saw Tate standing in the middle of the cargo bay, wearing the backpack.
“Damn it, Jack,” yelled Marc aiming his rifle at Tate’s chest. “Why aren’t you dead?”
“I remembered a conversation from a long time ago,” offered Jack.
Marc waited a moment then looked up from behind the gunsight. “And?”
“If you shoot the satellite it’ll be worthless,” offered Tate unperturbed.
“That’s true,” said Marc, and adjusted his aim at Tate's head.
Turbulence over the wrecked engine buffeted the plane, making impossible for Marc to control his aim at Tate’s head.
“Didn’t you say you didn’t care about the satellite?” asked Marc eyeing the backpack. “I thought you were here for me.”
“I had my priorities wrong,” said Tate. “I’m better now.”
“I’m happy for you,” said Marc and unleashed a burst of fire from his rifle. The bumping aircraft threw off his aim and the bullets hissed past Tate’s head. Swearing, Marc tossed the rifle aside and charged at Tate throwing a flurry of wild, angry punches. The deft skill and lethality Marc had used against a nearly defenseless Tate had been replaced with the flailing of blind emotion. Now it was Tate who found calm in the eye of chaos.
No matter where Marc tried to strike, Tate was there first, blocking, countering, frustrating each assault.
Changing tactics, Marc caught Tate by the throat, but Tate locked out his arm, preventing Marc from choking him. Each struggled to break the other’s hold and gain the advantage.
Hoping to break the stalemate, Tate wrapped his leg around Andy’s, taking his balance. As they fell, Tate shifted his weight, putting Marc between him and the approaching steel deck of the plane. Tate drove into Marc, with his full weight, as they hit the floor, yet Marc held his grip on Tate’s throat.
“I thought you got your priorities straight,” grunted Marc.
“Satellite first,” nodded Tate as he tried to get his forearm over Andy’s throat. “Killing you, second.”
The plane shuttered as the air around the C-130 was ripped apart by a swarm of 20mm shells. The number three engine erupted in scorching shockwave as the F-15 gun hit the engine fuel line. Spinning at over a thousand RPM, the number three propeller began to radically wobble on the fractured shaft. An instant later the eight hundred pound propeller sheered off, spinning into the thin side of the plane.
The thirty foot wide propeller sliced down the length of the fuselage like a skinning knife, peeling the aluminum skin off the airframe from ceiling to floor and wing to the tail.
“That’s one tough bird,” said Roughhouse. The F-15’s gatling gun could fire a blistering four thousand rounds a minute, but the fighter plane’s ammo supply was not infinite. After the last two attacks she only had enough for three, one second bursts. On top of that she was pushing the outside limits of her fuel. If she didn’t head back to base she’d have to answer for needlessly ditching millions of dollars of Air Force property.
“Mad Eye, Roughhouse one one seven,” said Roughhouse. “I’m bingo fuel and heading back to base.”
“What about the bandit?”
“Just wrapping that up,” said Roughhouse.
Both men forgot their battle as air blasted through the naked cargo bay, throwing them against the opposite side. Outside they saw the wing begin to scorch as flame and smoke swept over it. The big cargo plane shuddered and slewed in the air as it fought to stay up.
Tate released his grip and tried to push himself off Marc, but he couldn’t budge. Marc held him fixed, ignoring the hell around them.
“Do you want to die?” yelled Tate over the howling wind.
“I’m already dead,” screamed Marc. “Remember?”
Pulling with his might, Tate rolled Marc on top of him, then kicked up, sending Marc flying back. Freed, Tate sprang to his feet, desperately looking for a parachute. But there was only the twisted ribs of the airframe where the emergency chutes had been.
The C-130 danced in the F-15’s heads up display. The onboard computer couldn’t anticipate the cargo plane’s unstable flight path as it tried to target it with the glowing, aiming reticle.
“Screw it,” mumbled Roughhouse in frustration. Her depleted fuel now a major worry.
She took a best guess and pulled the trigger on her flight stick. Fire and smoke belched from her gatling gun as she emptied the ammo magazine, trying to walk the stream of shells into the C-130.
“Mad Eye, Roughhouse,” she said. “I’m dry. Heading back to base.” Roughhouse omitted her concern of a glide-landing with dead engines. “The bandit’s sustained heavy damage and losing altitude. No way she’ll stay up much longer.”
“Copy, Roughhouse,” said Mad Eye. “See you soon.”
Roughhouse turned off her radio. “I sure hope so.”
The floor under Tate’s feet bucked painfully, sending vibrations up his body. Both men looked down in shock as a flurry of 20mm shells sliced along the belly of the plane beneath their feet, kicking up floor panels into the air. The wind snatched at tatters of the plane’s skin, ripping them away in long strips.
Huge holes ripped open, leaving the men nothing but the aluminum airframe to stand on. Each stared down, momentarily fixated on pieces of wreckage falling to the jungle canopy far below. The cargo bay rocked and shuddered as if possessed. Loose floor plates rattled and skittered out the back of the plane. Anchor straps snapped like cracking whips as the supply pallets strained to break free.
The flaming number three engine exploded in a rain of shrapnel, throwing a chunk of twisted steel into the neighboring engine. At 230 RPM, the thin blades of the turbo fan shattered against the offending steel and the turbo blew in a catastrophic explosion.
Marc grabbed the rib of airframe as the plane took a sickening drop. Tate was momentarily weightless as the plane fell away. He glanced at the rear supply pallet as it strained against its remaining anchor strap, then thudded heavily onto the rollers as the plane suddenly climbed as the auto pilot struggled against the impossible challenge of staying aloft. Tate grabbed a beam overhead and swung down onto a remaining floor plate.
Behind them, black smoke boiled out, behind the remaining engine as friction superheated the gearbox, and torque assembly. The cooling system flash fried and metal screamed as it reached melting.
Andy’s eyes flashed to the tomahawk, as Tate pulled it from his belt and staggered across the heaving floor towards Marc, gripping the cargo netting around the supply pallet.
“After the hell you put me through,” yelled Marc, “is it too much to asked that I get to watch your face as we crash in a ball of flaming carnage?”
The C-130 nosed upwards and Marc flinched as Tate’s tomahawk flashed.
“Yes,” said Tate as he held on to the freed supply pallet. Marc blinked in confusion until he saw the cut anchor strap and the pallet began moving towards the ramp. He grabbed at Tate, but missed as the pallet rolled away.
Marc screamed incoherently and pulled his pistol. Losing control, he fired wildly at Tate, hitting nothing.
The pallet snagged at the edge of the ramp for just a second and Marc grabbed his opportunity, carefully aiming at Tate’s chest. Grinning, he pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a dull snap on his empty gun. The pallet tilted back and slipped into wide open nothing.
Tate looped his arm through the pallet strapping taking a moment
to enjoy the amazing three hundred and sixty degree view of the world below him.
Except for the rush of wind, all was silent.
Tate glanced at the cargo parachute, attached to the top of the pallet and tightened his grip on the straps, anticipating the pop and sudden yank when it deployed, but nothing happened. Integrated with an altimeter, the chute was supposed to automatically deploy at a pre-programed height.
Worry began etching lines in Tate’s face as stared at the inert parachute, for what seemed an eternity. The soft canopy of the jungle was beginning to take on alarming clarity as the pallet continued to drop.
What if Marc stole the plane before the chute had been programed? What if the it was damaged by the explosions?
Dread quickly creeped up Tate’s spine that the chute wasn’t going to open. He was a dead man.
“Oh shi…”
BANG! A pillar of fabric shot up, inches from Tate’s face. He gasped in pain as his arm was brutally yanked as two big, beautiful chutes bloomed above him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A GAMBLE
Tatters of clouds drifted across the broad expanse of the night sky giving a dream-like glow to the stars. Scrub and tall grass rustled as puffs of breeze toyed with random bits of leaves.
In the distance sat a weathered farmhouse. The sagging roof and aged wood creaked in weak complaint. Next to it stood its long time companions, a barn and silo.
If not for the night vision optics, the buildings would have been dark shapes in a landscape of shadows.
The NVOs painted the world in frosty shades of grey, revealing sharp details and depth.
A dark figure crouched low in the scrub as it scanned the old structures, a hundred meters away.
“Razor lead, this is Razor Three,” whispered the black clad figure. “Nothing on thermal. No indication of infrared sensors.”
“Copy,” replied Razor Lead. “Target is the barn. Move.”
Five shadows rose from scrub and grass and silently closed the distance to the barn. Each held a compact submachine gun snugged against their shoulders. The laser sight on their guns emitted a beam, only visible to them, but insured the weapons deadly accuracy.
Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3) Page 17
