by Summer Lane
“What if they call in air support?” Andrew asks.
“We have our own aircraft,” Chris replies. “They’ll be on standby. That won’t be an issue.”
Good. I feel good about this plan so far. It is solid and simple.
What more could you ask for?
The only doubt I have is whether or not Cheng actually knows the layout of Red Grove as well as he says he does. I have no reason not to trust him, but I do not know him well. He could just as easily betray us as Sophia did, or anyone else in the militias.
I watch Chris, gauging his reaction to all of this. Beyond his steady words, I can read his body language. He is relaxed, and I can see that he believes Cheng. And if he believes him, I will have to as well, like it or not.
We will find out if our trust has been misplaced, regardless of what we think now, in this moment.
“We’ll take the C7-Caribou, like we did at Camp Freedom,” Chris says. “We’ll go high enough where they can’t hear us coming. We’ll drop in silently.”
I get a sick feeling in my stomach.
I hate jumping out of airplanes. The HALO jump I completed with the Angels of Death when we hit Sky City was not my idea of a good time. In fact, it was little more than a nightmare that I survived. I felt strong afterwards, accomplished. The experience was exciting and invigorating.
But that doesn’t mean it’s something I want to do every day.
I’m brave, but I’m not that brave.
The rest of the mission planning drags on for another forty minutes. We approach the situation from every angle possible, but Chris’s original idea still sticks. We are going in by air, and we will infiltrate the property through the rear entrance.
I am antsy, nervous. I want to get this show on the road.
Once the meeting has ended, the Angels of Death have twenty minutes to gather their gear and weapons before we meet at the airfield. I use that time to run back to the main prison building and assemble my supplies. My cell has remained untouched since I left it. The body of Eli Morales is gone, but the memory of him is not.
I try not to think about it. I pull on my black combat pants, layering clothes for warmth. First a tank-top, then a thermal, then a jacket. Over the jacket is my armor-plated vest. I lace up my boots, buckle my straps, sheathing my knives and smaller handguns.
I miss my knife, though—the knife Jeff Young gave me so long ago.
Before I was a soldier. When I was just a girl.
I pull my wild red hair into a low ponytail, stretching a black knit cap around my forehead. I check my gun, make sure I have enough reload ammo, and sling it over my back. The last step is to button my fingerless gloves, and then I am done.
I open the cell door, lock it behind me, and leave the prison building, headed toward the airstrip. As I turn the corner, I almost collide with Uriah.
“Uriah!” I exclaim.
I embrace him.
He lightly squeezes me back, but pulls away.
“I’m sorry about what happened to Eli’s daughters,” he tells me. “I know it was hard for you.”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “They didn’t deserve that.”
“Nobody does.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get this thing done.”
He understands. We walk together into the cold, night air. My heart is beating against my chest. No matter how many times I go on a mission, no matter how many times I find myself on the frontlines, I will always have some fear in me.
Fear keeps me sharp.
Without fear, I would have no courage.
So I embrace the feeling, take a deep breath, and approach the Blackhawk. This chopper will take us to another airfield where we will board the Caribou—the same model of aircraft Manny lost at Camp Freedom—and get ready to jump into enemy territory.
“You got this?” Chris asks me, waiting silently near the open doors.
“Yeah,” I reply.
He ignores Uriah completely and takes a step forward, pressing a soft kiss against my forehead. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and hold his hand against my cheek. I close my eyes.
Just like old times.
“I love you,” I say. “No matter what happens—or has happened.”
A sad, steady smile appears on Chris’s face.
“I love you, too,” he replies.
“Ah, young love,” Manny interjects, stepping out of the chopper. “Are you ready to go out and fight for glory, honor and country? Because I am. I’m feeling unquenchably patriotic at the moment.”
I smile and throw my arms around Manny’s neck, forever grateful for his lighthearted presence, for his wild gray hair, for his wrinkled grins and his undying loyalty.
He hugs me tightly.
“Don’t get too sentimental with me, Commander,” he winks. “People might start to talk.”
I laugh. The action eases some of the sick tension in my stomach.
Andrew is inside the chopper, checking the equipment and messing with something on his belt. He steps outside, his black hat pulled low over his forehead.
“Everybody get their earpieces,” he says, more to himself than to us.
He passes around earpieces, connecting us all to a closed radio channel, so that we can communicate with each other within the noisy confines of the chopper and the Caribou, and when we are separated during the mission into Red Grove.
I put the plastic bud into my ear and wrap the earpiece around the back of my ear, connecting it with the rest of the radio equipment on my belt. Vera finally arrives at the chopper. She exchanges a few brief, unheard words with Uriah, and approaches the group.
“So this is it,” she says, gravely. “The last stand.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “There’s nothing final about what we’re doing.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
She looks paler than usual. Her blue eyes are rimmed red.
“Vera,” I say quietly, putting my hand on her shoulder. “We’re a team. We’re going to be okay.”
She sniffs and straightens her spine.
The rest of the Angels of Death comprise a total of about thirty men. It is a large group, and the best strike team in the militias. I am honored to count myself among them. Although I don’t have a personal relationship with every person in this room, I recognize their faces and feel comfort, knowing that we are all in this together.
Together, we fight.
Together, we stand.
Together, we die.
Chapter Eleven
I grip the seat on the Caribou, the rattle and roar of the engine jarring the inside of my skull. I grit my teeth and stare straight ahead. It’s dark inside. Loud. I am surrounded on all sides by my team members, and I have a hard time believing that I was doing this same thing just a few weeks ago.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “It’s just like jumping off a diving board. You did it before, you can do it again. This is a piece of cake compared to what you did before.”
There is truth in this. The HALO jump that I completed was at an elevation of around twenty thousand feet. We are not nearly that high—we are closer to maybe ten thousand feet. No oxygen mask is required. This is a basic parachute jump.
I can handle this.
I tell myself that I am capable over and over again, concentrating on breathing evenly.
Chris is sitting beside me. He squeezes my fingers.
I squeeze back.
The Caribou plows through the air.
It’s almost time. Has to be.
I steel myself for the jump ahead. I look around, gauging the expression of the rest of the team. Vera looks pale, just as scared as I am. Andrew is calm. Uriah is expressionless. And Chris just stares at the wall, his gaze so intense I’m surprised he doesn’t burn a hole through it.
The cargo bay begins flashing red.
Here we go.
Th
e flashing red light signals the beginning of our jump. The cargo bay door slowly opens, sending a wall of ice-cold air into our faces. I wince from the force.
Hang in there, breathe deep, this will be over in seconds.
I strap on my clear goggles. Chris stands first. He gives me one last squeeze and then he is gone, pausing only a moment to gauge his position, then dropping out of the plane, arms and legs splayed apart like a star.
I’m next.
Just one more jump. Then I’m retiring. Good plan.
I run forward and jump, feeling that weightless sensation of falling for a split second. My stomach flies into my throat and the cold air rips into my skin like sharp slivers of icy glass. I hold my breath and spread my arms and legs apart like Chris, the wind catching my limbs and slowing my descent.
Unlike my HALO jump into the high mountains, I can hardly see anything. The moon is obscured by black clouds and the stars are gone. I can barely see the outline of the earth below, black and gray.
I can hardly breathe as the wind rushes around me. I keep my limbs splayed apart. My heart thumps wildly in my chest. The initial jolt of terror is gone, replaced with my survival instinct.
Just buckle down and get to the ground.
We drop closer and closer to earth with every passing second. Behind me, there is a neat line of dark silhouettes slicing through the sky, mere dots against the blackness.
When we get closer to earth, my elevation sensor begins screaming, a high-pitched shriek in one ear. I reach my hand behind my back and pull the drag chute ripcord. I experience one of the most terrifying moments of my life when the chute does not leave my pack.
My mouth goes dry, and several seconds later, the chute rips from the pack and catches the air, dragging the parachute out behind it. The parachute fills with the wind of my descent and slams open, billowing above my head, dark and translucent.
As the parachute does its work, I brace my body for the next step. I jerk forward, swinging out and snapping backward as the parachute slows my fall. My teeth rattle.
I approach the ground quickly. I squint through the goggles, disoriented by my jump and the darkness of the night. The ground looks oddly misshapen, bumpy and uneven. I bend my knees, clap my boots together and brace my body again, this time for the impact of hitting the ground.
And that’s when I realize I’m not about to collide with the ground.
I’m about to collide with a canopy of trees.
Where’s the clearing? There was supposed to be a flat spot!
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through my veins and I shield my face with my arms. I shoot through a tangle of branches and leaves. I feel them scrape against my clothes, snapping and cracking.
The impact is jarring and painful. The branches rip through my hair, tear my clothes and cut my skin. The noise of the collision sounds like a bomb in my ears. I curl into a ball and try to protect myself from getting torn to shreds.
Then, just as quickly as this mess started, I come to a sudden stop.
The harness on my parachute yanks me backward, knocking the air out of my lungs. I gasp for air. I hang there for a few moments, breathing and getting my balance before I dare move. I hear crashing around me, and I assume that the rest of my team is having the same issue that I am.
We weren’t supposed to land here.
We were supposed to land in the clearing!
I want to grab my flashlight on my belt and see where I am—and how far away from the ground I am—but I know better. Any form of light could give away our location.
I am not willing to sacrifice our mission for a sense of personal peace.
No way.
My eyes adjust to the darkness. I rip my goggles off and peer into the tree. I am hanging just above thick branches. My parachute is caught in a torn tangle above my head. Fantastic.
I check my gear and my belt, then unsnap the harness that connects me to the parachute. I lift my arms up and slide through the straps, slipping through the air. I land in a neat crouch on the branches below me, but my agility is ruined by my inability to judge the distance in the dark.
It is a longer fall than I thought.
I lose my balance and slip through the branches. I barely manage to catch one of them, hanging by one arm, swinging above the forest floor.
Desperate for a handhold, I twist one hand further around the branch and support the weight of my body, then use my other hand to pull myself up. With my gun strapped to my back—along with the rest of my gear—I weigh a lot more than usual, and I can barely support myself.
But I do it, and that is all that matters right now.
I crawl onto the branches, breathing hard, holding on for dear life.
These branches are thick and old. They smell sweet and green—a cedar tree. I look around me, seeing the faint outline of other jumpers tangled in the trees.
This is dangerous.
We landed in the wrong spot, which means Omega could be anywhere, and it would be all too easy for them to raze us down with a spray of machinegun fire while we hang helpless in the trees.
No, stop that! We’re smarter than that. We’ll get out of this.
I gauge the distance from my place on the branches, looking to the forest floor. I am thirty feet from the ground. High enough that jumping would break a bone.
I carefully lower myself to a branch below me, then drop lower, gripping it with my hands. I continue this process, finding one branch after another, moving toward the ground. When I’m about ten feet away from the forest floor, the branch beneath my boots snaps. I fall and hit the ground with a thud. My knees get the worst of it. I feel a stab of pain, then I roll into a kneeling position, catching my breath.
I have made it.
The first thing I do is grab my weapon and hold it against my shoulder, cradling it across my chest, press my back against a tree, and look through the scope, tracking the darkness for any signs of enemy movement. I don’t see anything, but I keep at it as the Angels of Death slowly make their way out of the trees.
Miraculously, nobody has any broken bones. We are only scraped and bruised, and for that, I am thankful.
Chris and I exchange nods, and he takes the lead position.
“Yankee One,” he says quietly, into the earpiece. “You good?”
“Roger that, Alpha One,” I reply. “We are A-Okay and good to go.”
“Assume team formation, Yankee One.”
“Roger that.”
He goes left, silently moving, taking half of the team with him, including Andrew and Vera. Uriah is my lieutenant, and we take the other half of the Angels to the right, just as we planned, with Cheng leading the way.
I have no trouble navigating through the dark forest. It’s cold, wet and slippery. Redwood trees tower up around us. It smells fresh and earthy. One of the few places where you might be able to close your eyes and imagine that the apocalypse never happened.
We walk for what seems like hours, before crossing the threshold into a new part of the forest. I see the dim glow of firelight in the distance, and I raise my fist. I kneel down. My team holds. I look at Cheng.
“That’s it,” he says into the earpiece.
“What’s with the firelight?” I hiss.
“Torches. They’re very picky about lighting.”
It is dark, but I can tell that Cheng is grinning.
I tap Uriah’s shoulder.
“Looks clear,” he reports, never moving his eyes from the scopes on his rifle. “I don’t see any patrols.”
“Good,” I reply. I click the radio in my ear and talk softly into the receiver in my vest. “Alpha One, this is Yankee. We’re in position, over.”
An achingly long pause ensues before we pick up his response in our earpieces. “Yankee, this is Alpha One, we copy. We are in position,” he replies. “No patrols in sight. We have a green light.”
I gesture forward.
“Move,” I command.
I am the first one to get closer to
the orange light. It flickers through the trees, dim and fluttering at first, then brighter as we draw near to the source of the fire. We move silently through the cold, damp beds of fern. I make a fist again. I can see the fence, now. It’s a big, double layer of chain-link fencing with coils of razor wire at the top. Behind it, there is a tall wooden fence.
A large, cabin-like building is visible just over the top of the fence. The orange firelight glows from just the other side. I check the gate again, confirming the lack of patrols, and turn my optics to the trees, searching for security cameras or trip wires.
“Okay, boys,” I whisper. “This is going to be quick. Keep up.”
I can feel the weight of anticipation rolling off my team.
When it comes to missions like this, you can crouch in the shadows and plan for only so long before someone has to make the first move to break cover and move toward the target. In this case, that someone is me.
I hold my rifle at the ready while I move smoothly across the field of fern between the chain-link fence and me. Uriah moves in behind my lead, followed by Cheng and the rest of the team. Cheng, Uriah, a couple of other men from the team get to work on the chain-link fencing while I stay kneeled, facing the forest, covering them. The rest of the team does the same.
They break through the fence the old-fashioned way, using wire cutters. It is quiet and efficient. They toss the wire aside and we move into the first section of fencing. Chris’s team hovers just beyond the clearing, tracking our progress and covering our lead.
Once we are through the second layer of fence, they will move forward, too. I let Uriah and Cheng move through the opening first. I come in last, backing through the hole, keeping an eye out for movement.
Right now, it is eerily silent. The only sound in the area is the steady rhythm of our breathing and the screech of a night owl.
They cut through the second layer, and we are through! I breathe a sigh of relief and make a motion. Chris catches it and his team cuts through the fern, and through the fences.
