79
Caucasus Mountains, Georgia
Ten miles inside the border
Acton popped his head up and aimed, squeezing the trigger twice, hitting his target center mass before dropping down. Their enemy was getting bolder as the chopper got louder, a sound he had finally made sense of. Over the past fifteen minutes the sound of the choppers had progressively got louder then quieter, and it wasn’t until a few minutes ago that he had realized they were searching for them, the sounds actually from other passes through the mountains.
Though this time it sounded different.
This time it sounded like they were coming up the right pass.
And would be here any second.
So they had to even the odds a little more.
And it also meant their betrayers probably sensed they were about to get robbed of their reward should the Russians arrive first and be forced to secure the situation.
He leaned out, squeezing off two shots, then stepped back, giving Laura room to fire two rounds of her own. She darted back into their alcove as a flurry of returned fire tore at the stone around them.
She smiled at him. “I think I got one.”
He pressed against the rock as tightly as he could. “I think you just pissed them off.”
80
Caucasus Mountains, Georgia
Eight miles inside the border
“Sir, a drone has spotted them, just ahead, but there’s nowhere to put you down!” shouted the pilot over the din of the rotors. He pointed to a small flat area to their left, Dymovsky leaning over for a look. “We’ll have to put you down there.”
Dymovsky nodded. “Fine.” He looked at the snow swept surfaces outside, immediately regretting what he was wearing. He eyed the properly equipped soldiers with him, debating whether to pull rank and demand one of their jackets.
Then I’d be everything they’ve come to expect from Moscow.
Filippov pulled a duffel bag from under his seat and unzipped it, pulling out a tightly rolled bundle. He handed it to Dymovsky. “Winter jacket. I brought it just in case.”
This kid is good.
“You take it. You’re the one who planned ahead.”
Filippov produced a second one with a grin. “I planned for both of us.”
Dymovsky chuckled, removing his thin overcoat and unrolling the compact jacket, quickly donning it as the helicopter landed. The doors slid open and the soldiers poured out followed by Dymovsky and Filippov, still handing supplies to his boss—gloves, hat and scarf.
This kid is very good.
The chopper lifted off as they headed toward the path nearby, cut through the mountains, the second chopper landing moments later. The captain commanding the troops walked over to him, pointing down the path. “They’re this way, sir. My men will take point and bring up the rear. If there’s any danger, hug the wall, it will cut down their field of fire.”
Dymovsky nodded. “Very well, Captain. Let’s hurry up, we’re about to lose the light.” He glanced over the edge, the drop several hundred feet.
And I do not want to be on here when it’s gone.
81
Caucasus Mountains, Georgia
Ten miles inside the border
Dawson deployed his chute, the jerk a shock to the system, killing his momentum almost instantly, there a lot of it after almost 30,000 feet of free fall. He reached up and freed his toggles, testing his chute as he surveyed the area below, searching for a place to land near the location his visor indicated the professors were pinned down.
From up here there wasn’t much he could do to help, and to try and swoop in and shoot their opponents from the air would be suicide, there simply no way to hug the side of a mountain with a nearly thirty foot wide canopy over your head.
“Zero-One, Control. Russian choppers have landed personnel, fourteen at last count, two miles north from your target location.”
Dawson frowned, looking toward the north, not seeing the choppers, they probably holding back until the ground troops got into position, then they’d provide cover should it become necessary.
He surveyed the area. The canyons were tight which didn’t leave a huge amount of maneuverability, though there was more than enough, especially when they had little to counter them with beyond a couple of sniper rifles.
Which just might be all they’d need if they could get a proper line of sight.
But shooting down choppers would take this to an entirely different level.
“If those troops get there before we do, that means we might be killing Russians. How does Washington feel about that?”
“They’re monitoring, Zero-One. You’re to proceed with the mission under your original parameters. Eliminate anything or anyone that threatens your safety or that of the professors.”
Things must be bad in Japan.
“Roger that, Control.” He scanned for a landing spot as close as possible to the professors.
“So we’re killing Rooskies?” asked Niner. “Can someone please confirm that we’re on the right side of the border? I really don’t want to be blamed for starting World War Three.”
“One-One, Control. You’re confirmed well inside Georgian territory, over.”
“Yeah, Control, but do the Russians realize that, or is this just the suburbs of their new Crimean resort?”
“One-One, our recommendation is you don’t get caught, over.”
Niner grunted. “Guys, I think Control is developing a sense of humor.”
Dawson smiled, it true. He recognized the voice of the man they were dealing with, he green the first time though now showing much more confidence and comfort with his communications. He was a friend of Kane’s and a man he knew he could trust to give him the best information available.
If he was dealing with Langley, Leroux was who he wanted to deal with.
And he was getting funny.
Dawson spotted a landing zone. “Bravo Team, there’s a small plateau about one klick south-south-east of the target area, does everyone see it?”
Five confirmations quickly followed.
“Let’s see if we can all set down there without breaking a nail.”
Niner responded. “Atlas, you first. Remember, I’ll be looking for something soft to land on.”
“It’ll be my fist shoved up your ass if you try it.”
“Promises, promises.”
82
Over Georgian Airspace
“Saber this is Gypsy One-Oh-Two. Permission to engage, over?”
Apocalypta—A-Poc for the syllabically averse—and her wingman screamed across the border into Georgian airspace, Georgian Air Traffic Control protesting loudly, jets already scrambling to intercept. The Georgian’s aging fighters would be no match for their aircraft, but she had no desire to kill innocent pilots of a country that had no involvement beyond being the unwilling host to a minor skirmish between two massive militaries.
“Negative Gypsy One-Oh-Two, do not fire unless fired upon, over.”
“Roger that, Saber, I highly recommend someone contact the Georgians again and remind them whose side we’re on, over.”
A-Poc’s scope showed half a dozen so-called hostiles racing toward their position, though she doubted they had the balls to open fire, not on American fighters.
They have to know we’d give them a spanking that would make what the Russians did feel like a love tap.
“Riveter, let’s hit the deck, see if they’re willing to follow us into these mountains.”
“Roger that,” replied her wingman as they rapidly removed thousands of feet of comfort between them and the ground, the white-capped peaks of the Caucasus Mountains quickly nearing, the peaks soon over their heads. “This should be fun.”
A-Poc laughed as she banked left then right, the canyon walls whipping past as they thundered toward their target area, the scope suggesting the Georgians were content to fly at altitude over the mountains and observe.
Exactly as I thought.
“I feel like I’m Clint Eastwood in Firefox!”
“Girl, how old are you?” laughed Riveter. “Independence Day, Will Smith!”
A-Poc rolled her eyes. “My God. I think I’ve been flying since you were a twitch in your daddy’s jeans.”
“Hey, don’t hate the woman, hate that you came first.”
She smiled, letting Riveter get the last word for the moment, instead concentrating on the terrain ahead.
And loving the greatest job in the world.
83
South Kuril Islands, Russian Federation
Japanese name: Chishima Islands
Captain Yamada cursed as an explosion ripped through the night sky, two flaming wrecks falling toward the ocean, it too dark to see if any parachutes had deployed. He raised his binoculars. “What the hell just happened? Who fired first?”
“I think they collided, sir!” replied his XO.
Then the horizon lit up, the Russian ships suddenly bright against the dark seas as missile after missile erupted from their launchers.
“Activate defenses and return fire! Everything we’ve got!”
He gripped his binoculars tight as he watched the Americans respond.
On the sea and in the air.
And so it ends?
All for a lie over seventy years old, to protect a bunch of old men who had probably done what they thought was right at the time, though seemed determined not to do so now.
I wonder what the Americans would think if they knew what this was truly about.
He had a feeling they wouldn’t be here at all, and as the weapons systems of his country’s destroyers opened up on the incoming ordnance, explosion upon explosion indicating their success and the destructive power of the incoming warheads, he wondered how long they would be able to hold.
“Sir, the Izumo has been hit!”
Yamada swung his binoculars to their starboard side, a massive fireball erupting from their sister ship, burning men highlighted against the intense orange and yellow of the flames that now engulfed the forward guns.
Someone jumped into the water, followed by another, their flaming bodies extinguished when they hit the water.
“Deploy rescue crews!”
“Yes, sir!”
He turned his attention to the battle, his ship rocking with each launch, with each shot fired from their mighty deck guns. The USS Fitzgerald had taken a hit, it partially aflame, and several Russian ships appeared to be fully involved. He stared at the skies, missiles streaking in the dead of night, fireball upon fireball indicating another brave young pilot meeting his maker.
All so Tokyo’s elite could continue the lie.
84
Caucasus Mountains, Georgia
Ten miles inside the border
Acton spun toward Zorkin as the man yelped, suddenly gripping his shoulder, blood flowing over his fingers.
“You okay?”
Zorkin winced out a nod. “Yeah. Ricochet.” He moved his hand and examined the wound. “I’ll live, just a scratch.”
Acton wasn’t so sure ‘scratch’ was the right word considering the amount of blood that seemed to have flowed, though the pressure Zorkin was applying seemed to be stemming it.
Though it also meant he was pretty much out of the fight if he wanted to maintain that pressure.
A roar from the enemy position erupted, the sound of footfalls crunching on snow clear as someone rushed their position. Acton leaned out and squeezed off two more rounds, another of their attackers dropping, another of his magazines empty.
One left.
The tight quarters and sustained AK-47 fire whenever they tried to take a shot, had proven effective in limiting their opportunities and their accuracy.
I guess suppression fire does work.
The sound of the choppers abruptly changed and he looked toward the thunder he could now physically feel, and cursed. Two imposing helicopters straight out of a Rambo movie were rounding the pass, an impressive array of weapons suddenly added to the mix as they slowed, turning toward their position.
“What now?” he shouted to Zorkin who had taken a glance at the choppers before returning his attention to their more immediate concern.
“We hold out! They can’t land here!”
Acton stole a quick glance at Laura, whose eyes were wide and staring directly at the gunships. “They can open fire!”
Zorkin shook his head. “They want those relics you’re carrying. They won’t dare damage them.”
One of the choppers turned slightly, repositioning itself, exposing one side. “Shit,” muttered Acton as he saw an open door, there nobody in the back. “There’s no one inside!”
Zorkin glanced over at him. “What?”
Acton pointed at the chopper. “There’s no one inside, just the pilots!”
“They must have landed their troops somewhere else,” said Laura. “Farther down the pass.”
Acton agreed. “And they’ll be here soon enough. Then it’s over.”
Zorkin glanced behind them, they about to have a second front opened up on them, there still six, at last count, in front of them. “We have a better chance of surviving if my people catch us!” he shouted, still gripping his arm.
Acton frowned. “Are you sure about that?”
Zorkin nodded. “Yes, your government knows you’re here, you’ll be safe.”
“Eventually.” Acton leaned out and fired two more precious bullets, the sound of someone crying out bringing a satisfied smile.
Make that five left.
He looked at Zorkin. “What about you?”
Zorkin shook his head. “I’m a dead man already. Don’t concern yourself with me.” He removed his hand from the wound and fired three rounds before ducking back down. “We hold until my countrymen arrive!”
85
Caucasus Mountains, Georgia
Eleven miles inside the border
Dawson flared his chute and came to a gentle landing, turning on his heel and pulling in the nylon canopy. As he began rolling it up, he checked for the others, spotting all five securing their chutes, no one seeming the worse for wear.
“Everyone good?”
Niner was the first to jog over, pulling off his helmet. “Yup.”
“Find your soft landing spot?”
He grinned. “I did.”
Atlas shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “The bastard landed right on top of me.”
“I told you I would.” He looked at Jagger. “And you were right, he wasn’t as soft as I thought he’d be.”
“Told you.”
Niner started pointing fingers. “I’ll be collecting my fifty bucks from each of you when we get back.”
Dawson pointed to the north, in the direction the professors were supposed to be, the distinct sounds of gunfire and chopper rotors echoing through the valley. “Let’s get a wiggle on. We’re less than a klick out.”
Niner smacked Atlas’ ass. “Rock solid.”
“As promised.”
“Control, Zero-One. Any update on those Russian troops, over?”
“Zero-One, we’re showing them less than five minutes from your target location. Your ETA?”
Dawson frowned. “Probably five minutes. What’s the latest on the hostiles already at the location?”
“As expected, the professors have thinned them out. Looks like less than half a dozen actively in the fight.”
Niner tossed a look over his shoulder. “I like those odds.”
Dawson checked his watch. “Don’t forget the dozen Russians.”
“Okay, okay, I take it back.”
86
Caucasus Mountains, Georgia
Ten miles inside the border
Acton spun as a roar from above drowned out the machine guns. He looked up to see someone dropping from overhead, his AK-47 at the ready, already belching lead at the mountainside over their heads. Acton pushed Laura to the side and jumped out from the alcove, twisting his body as he raised his weapon.
He emptied five shots into the man, the rounds tearing through his attacker’s feet and lower extremities before he finally landed on him, slamming Acton into the hard rock ground, knocking the wind out of him.
And the AK-47 continued to fire.
Acton reached around, grabbing the man’s arm, aiming the weapon away from where Laura was, but the man was impossibly strong, or Acton was impossibly cold, his hands like blocks of ice, all feeling in his feet lost long ago. Suddenly the man jerked to the left then immediately to the right, breaking Acton’s grip. The Georgian somehow managed to stand, stumbling backward before aiming his weapon directly at Acton’s chest.
Laura calmly stepped forward, her Beretta extended, she pressing it against the man’s temple and firing.
He crumpled forward, landing once again on Acton, this time unmoving.
The roar of more men charging their position had Laura whipping around, firing in groups of two as Acton struggled to get the man off him, he easily 250 pounds.
“I’m out!” shouted Laura, hitting the deck as the remaining men rushed toward them. Zorkin fired his final round, winging a man then futilely throwing his weapon at the horde.
It bounced off a head, slowing him for a split second.
And then they were on them, weapons aimed at all their heads. Acton raised his hands, still under their comrade. One of them sneered, raising his weapon, saying something Acton couldn’t understand, but it seemed clear to him that he was debating whether two million rubles was enough to just deliver them all dead.
Suddenly there was a loud thud, the man dropping to his knees, a gaping hole in his chest, a look of shock on his face as his soon to be lifeless hands reached for where his heart had once been.
His companions spun around, searching for the source, another hit, falling backward, blood splattering on the gray rock surrounding them. The final man started to fire blindly then had the sense to turn his weapon toward his prisoners.
Raging Sun (A James Acton Thriller, #16) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 19
