The Devil’s Noose

by Michael Angel

  The man looked down, dumbfounded. Chelovik cursed and threw himself to the ground. Navarro pivoted and flung himself behind the bulk of the 4x4.

  The grenade went off with an ear-splitting bang! and a phosphorescent flash that burned its way through Navarro’s closed lids. His vision swam, and he had to blink in order to see more than shapes.

  The Ozrabek guard lay on the ground, blood streaming from his ears. Chelovik groped about blindly, pistol still in his hand. The man got off one shot into the darkness before Navarro drew his arm back and felled the man with a firm right hook.

  Looks like the ‘strongest’ has a glass jaw, he thought, as he scooped up the dropped Makarov.

  Automatic weapons fire rattled about him. One bullet whined as it ricocheted off one of the 4x4’s doors. Navarro moved swiftly to help October. The big man’s chest shuddered as he heaved himself up.

  “You hurt bad?” Navarro asked, as he half-dragged his staggering friend to the 4x4’s passenger door.

  “Nyet,” October coughed, and then cursed. “Only wind knocked out. Stupid Ozrabeki. They think man big as me cannot wear body armor?”

  Navarro slipped around the front of the car one more time. He ducked more shots as Chelovik’s men got closer and slipped into the driver’s seat. His fingers found the key still in the ignition and turned it, the engine roaring to life as a bullet shattered the 4x4’s side view mirror.

  Navarro threw the vehicle into gear and floored the gas pedal. The wheels threw up twin rooster tails of dirt as they sped off, passing Zhao’s body to one side. The back of the young woman’s head was completely gone. Navarro cursed.

  You’re going to pay for that, Chelovik.

  “I don’t know where we’re going,” he said aloud. “But we’ve got to get back to base to warn the others. This piece of shit doesn’t have a radio in it.”

  “Just keep going,” October said reassuringly, as he opened a side compartment in the door. He pulled out a sheaf of green and white papers. “Kljovo! Finally, some luck! Maps!”

  Far behind them, the wreckage of the destroyed truck finally smoldered out. The remaining Ozrabek rebels helped Chelovik to his feet.

  “Are you all right, Commander?” one asked.

  “I’ll live.” The Colonel spat blood to one side. A tooth came with it. He grimaced and turned away. “It seems that those two took our communications with them. No matter.”

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  Chelovik tugged his uniform back into place. “We’re heading back to base. But there’s no way the rest of the expedition will cooperate now. So we keep the Frenchwoman alive and wipe out the rest.”

  “Commander, what of the rest of our vision for the Daichin?”

  “It’s time to accelerate the plan,” Chelovik declared. “I want the new brood tank loaded on a truck and put on the road to our mountain base. By the time the Westerners figure out what happened to their people, we’ll have our new strain bred and ready to unleash. No one shall ever doubt the dread word of the Daichin Tengri ever again!”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “You’re bloody well right I’m concerned!” Preble protested, as he limped heavily up and down the length of Module A’s makeshift command center, cane gripped in one hand. “They haven’t reported back in over an hour now. More than enough time for something to have gone pear shaped.”

  “No, they haven’t called in,” Redhawk acknowledged. The man’s face looked unnaturally grim and pale in the reflection of his multiple computer screens. “But General Votorov’s convoy hasn’t called back in either.”

  Blaine stepped into the C&C, carrying a case in each hand. In his left was the black attaché case he’d brought along from the beginning. But in his right, the case sported a silver coating and heavy metallic ribs. He stopped by Redhawk’s desk.

  “What about Leigh and Helen?” he asked. “They still down in the mine?”

  “Haven’t heard from them,” came the reply. “That doesn’t surprise me either. You saw how the signal cuts in and out when they’re on the elevator alone.”

  “That’s all we can do, then.” Blaine tapped one of the screens. “Any chance you can put up local radar on this? I need to see what the weather’s going to be.”

  Redhawk threw him an irritated look. “Not without losing one of my drone cams, I can’t. Why the sudden need?”

  A shrug. “Because I’m flying out of here on the Falcon.”

  Preble stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about? We’re nowhere close to being done here!”

  “You may not be done, but I am.” He hefted the silver case. “I’ve got your samples in here, under five different forms of biological containment. I’ve got the proof I need of this organism’s value to industry. Bio-metallurgic purification will be worth billions to the right people. And I’m getting my cut of that.”

  “You’re not abandoning us here,” Redhawk said ominously.

  “I’m not abandoning anyone,” he announced, with a smug grin. “From here, it’s only a few hours flight-time to either Moscow, Beijing, or Dubai. As soon as I get to my destination, I’ll send the jet right back. I promise.”

  “No one’s approved this. The pilots won’t–”

  Blaine’s voice grew chill. He stalked off past Redhawk’s desk and stopped just inside the front door.

  “The pilots understand something that your friend Navarro chose not to. This whole expedition was under the auspices of the CDC and the WHO. But it’s being paid for by someone higher up the food chain. Which means those pilots work for me. The plane’s been warming up on the tarmac for the past twenty minutes. I’m leaving.”

  “Just when I think you can’t disappoint me any further,” Preble said, “you go ahead and prove me wrong.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Redhawk swore, as his fingers began tapping out commands on the keyboard. “Colonel Chelovik’s returned.”

  The screen labeled SLEAZY zoomed in as single truck rumbled through the base’s gate and then stopped amidst a cloud of dust. Chelovik got out of the passenger side of the cab, shouting orders as he did so. More soldiers got out of the back of the truck, clearing the interior space of extra ammunition and equipment.

  “Where’s Zhao and Navarro?” Redhawk murmured. “They’re missing two of the three vehicles they started out with. And a few of their soldiers.”

  “Maybe this vehicle started having problems,” Preble suggested, as he moved to look over Redhawk’s shoulder. “So they sent it back early.”

  “Without radioing ahead? And with the rebels still out there…I don’t think they’d have left General Votorov somewhere along the roadside.” Redhawk grimaced as he pressed a button, allowing Sleazy’s camera to zoom in on the Colonel’s face. “Chelovik has a fresh bruise and a swollen lower lip. I’d say that he’s been in a fistfight.”

  “What’s that on the other screen?” Preble’s hand shook as he attempted to point to the monitor he meant.

  Redhawk switched feeds to a screen marked as TIPSY. The neighboring drone’s path took it close to the motor pool. The image was shaky, but it clearly showed a large silver cylinder being wheeled up to the truck on a metal cart. He scowled as he saw it.

  “They’re carrying a biocontainment dewar, a huge one,” Preble said. “Someone’s planning to make that into a brood tank.”

  “That’s assuming they haven’t seeded it with the bacteria already,” Redhawk said grimly. “No, I think we can guess what’s inside.”

  “But I’m the only one who has the samples of Nostocales Diabolus!” Blaine insisted, as he hefted his own silver case. “That is, until Leigh returns.”

  “So far as we know–” Redhawk began, before he jerked back reflexively from the keyboard. “Shit! Shit!”

  Chelovik had grabbed an assault rifle from one of his men. The last image of the Colonel was of him taking aim at the drone with the rifle. The firearm bucked soundlessly.

  Sleazy’s camera turned into a dizzying blur of c
olor before it went dark.

  Redhawk’s hand came down on the main communications switch. He spoke quickly, but in a no-nonsense tone that came down the line with no questions asked.

  “Threatcon Delta! I repeat, attack is imminent!”

  He repeated the call twice more, then reached out and grabbed Preble’s arms. The toxicologist let out a squawk of surprise as Redhawk stuffed him under the desk and then squeezed in next to him.

  Preble was about to protest when he heard a sound. The sound that chilled the hearts of soldiers in every army around the world.

  A crump, followed by the deadly whistle of an incoming round.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Ian Blaine didn’t hear or see the blast.

  But did he feel it.

  One moment he was standing inside the doorway of the C&C. There was a strange noise. That was followed by a smothered sound as Redhawk dragged Preble under the heavy monitor desk.

  He turned to ask what the matter was. Or maybe he just wanted a last parting shot for them to pass on to Leigh Austen. Either would do as he pushed through the doors, on the way to a new, debt-free life of plenty.

  But that was only in one moment.

  In the next, a wave of pressure lifted him off his feet and made his eardrums twang with pain. A blow to his back, a sting in his hand, and he found himself outside of the trailer-shaped module and staring up at the midday sun.

  Blaine groaned as he blinked and then sat up. His impeccable gray suit had been coated in tan-colored dust. Before him lay the smoking doorway of Module A, now wide open and with smoke billowing from inside. A hole had been punched in the roof and the satellite dish lay on its side.

  He noted absently that he still had his silver attaché case in one hand, apparently undamaged. His black attaché case lay a few feet away. He crawled over to it.

  Blood ran from a splinter of wood that stuck out from the web of skin between his thumb and index finger. Blaine brought it to his mouth, closed his teeth on it, then pulled it free with an agonized grunt. He spat it out as he grabbed the black case. He ignored the pain that shot up his hand as he stood, swaying on his feet for a moment.

  Full alertness came back to him as he heard a second crump and incoming whistle.

  In days gone by, Ian Blaine had been the star of the track team. To his surprise, he showed the same abilities in middle age as back in high school. He pumped his arms, letting the cases swing awkwardly as he sprinted down the main road.

  His breaths came in a wheeze, and he kept his head down as another explosion rocked the earth, throwing up a dust cloud ahead and to one side. The crackle of automatic weapons fire joined in, filling his head with the sounds of a war movie.

  This can’t be happening, his mind insisted. Not to me! Not to Ian Blaine, soon-to-be billionaire Ian Blaine!

  He’d already run more than half the distance to the runway when three men emerged from the rubble. They wore the charcoal-colored fatigues of the Motte and Bailey firm, and they were coated in even more dust than him. Two of the men kept up suppressive fire to the right with short bursts of their assault rifles. The third was bent over a fourth man, who sported a half-dozen pieces of shrapnel jutting from his chest and torso.

  “Dammit, he’s gone,” the man said, as Ian Blaine slowed to a stop before him. He looked up in surprise. “Who the hell are you?”

  Blaine took a moment to gasp in some air. He noted that the name Gorecki had been stenciled on the man’s uniform. He made sure to use it. It helped rapport. People liked hearing their own names.

  “I’m Ian Blaine,” he said, between breaths. “I’m the one who hired you, Gorecki. I’ve got valuable medical samples with me. I need you to escort me to the airstrip.”

  The man hesitated. “I can’t get through to anyone. My orders aren’t to leave–”

  Blaine’s voice rose to a near-scream. “Your orders have changed! I was in the C&C, and it’s been hit! Now get me to that airstrip or I’ll have M&B fire your asses for…for poor customer service!”

  Gorecki stared at the man as if to ask: Is this guy for real?

  Another round came in, impacting the building next to them. Glass flew overhead with a spray deadly sharpness. One of the remaining troopers spoke up.

  “They’re walking their mortars closer to our position!” he shouted. “We’ve got to move before they plaster us!”

  Gorecki had a wan, bony face that was already sullen-looking. The dust coating and the death of one of his troopers hadn’t brightened it up any.

  “All right, we’re falling back to the airstrip!” He jerked his thumb at Blaine. “Keep the suit between you two.”

  The four men moved out as yet more crumps and bangs sounded in the distance. Once, as they drew close to the airfield, the shadow of a drone flew by overhead. The M&B men exchanged shots with darting shadows as they passed the final outlying buildings next to the tarmac.

  But Blaine was focused on only one thing: the bright golden-striped Dassault Falcon as it taxied into takeoff position. The engines’ roar almost blotted out the rat-tat of automatic weapons fire. The corporate jet made a graceful turn as it swung away from the battered Antonov cargo plane at the far side of the runway. It stopped, and a crew member opened the side door. He lowered the entry steps and beckoned to the men with an urgent wave.

  “Come on!” Blaine shouted. “This is our last chance!”

  He didn’t wait for the men to respond. Instead, he repeated his former track-star performance and dashed across the open space to the jet. Gorecki and his two remaining men sprayed the nearby buildings with one last burst of suppressing fire and then followed.

  A nearby ricochet off the fuselage didn’t faze Blaine in the slightest. He took the steps two at a time and all but leapt into the cabin. Gorecki stopped at the base of the stairs and turned, providing cover fire as his two men made it on board.

  His rifle clicked on empty. Gorecki tossed it aside on the tarmac. Then he heaved himself onto the Falcon, helped yank up the steps, and collapsed in an exhausted heap as the steward closed the door.

  “Get me out of here!” Blaine shouted into the cockpit. “Schnell, schnell!”

  Another set of pings as bullets sprayed the plane was all the encouragement the pilots needed. They extended flaps and set full power to the engines. The jet began to move down the pitted and cracked stretch of concrete, accelerating all the way.

  “You’ll see,” Blaine said, to the puffing and gasping soldiers. “You’re all going to be well-rewarded for a job well done.”

  Unbeknownst to Ian Blaine, one of Colonel Chelovik’s main concerns had been how to keep the Westerners from leaving the Karakul unless he allowed it. Last evening, he’d personally placed a trio of men armed with rocket-propelled grenades towards the end of the runway.

  The men had spent the night smoking cigarettes and nursing a single bottle of vodka to keep the cold night air at bay. Still, they took their job seriously. The Colonel knew what the outsiders were capable of.

  And now, by the grace of Daichin Tengri, they finally had a target.

  Chapter Forty

  The effective firing range of the RPG-7 was around two hundred meters. The golden-striped trijet raced down the runway towards Chelovik’s three men, closing to that distance in less than half a minute. They’d already spaced themselves out to maximize the chance of a hit and to avoid being caught in each other’s backblast.

  They stood, placing the wood-wrapped portion of the rocket-propelled grenade tube on their shoulders. Optical iron sights went up. A curt command, and the trio let their weapons fly.

  A cloud of blue-gray smoke enveloped their firing position as the initial gunpowder booster charges went off. Then, as the warheads reached their apogee, the rocket motors ignited and drove the missiles home at more than six hundred miles an hour.

  The warheads were high-explosion fragmentation rounds designed to penetrate armor plating on military aircraft. The Dassault Falcon had no such plates. It
had been designed with weight-saving panels ideal for fast, long-distance travel.

  The first RPG struck the runway ahead of the jet just as the nose wheel came off the ground. Chunks of asphalt sheared off the entire front portion of the landing gear. To Blaine and the other passengers, it felt like the plane had bounced over a speed bump.

  The remaining two RPG rounds impacted a half-second later on the starboard wing. Both tore meter-long holes, shredded the flaps, and broke the hydraulic lines that helped steer the aircraft. But the worst damage was done to the internal braces that held all the structures together.

  The plane’s wing folded in on itself as it were made of tinfoil. Then it simply tore off in a single mass. The Falcon rolled on its side as it fell back to earth, trailing a mass of flame from its ragged stump of a wing.

  The three Ozrabek rebels let out a cheer as they watched the catastrophe unfold.

  Then they looked on in horror as they realized the jet was coming down right on top of them.

  Shouts of blyad! and der’mo! came from the trio as they tried frantically to scramble to safety. But they vanished as the burning fuselage came down with a skin-rippling BOOM. A fountain of liquid fire erupted from the plane’s wreckage as it plowed a swath of destruction eighty yards long and half again as wide.

  Blaine cracked his head against the roof of the fuselage as the plane rolled and fell to the ground. He felt the warm gush of blood – his blood? – across his face. The acrid smell of burning plastic filled his nose.

  He felt no pain, only startled amazement as a mass of flame engulfed the rows of seats behind him. The silver case with his precious samples fell into that fiery maw. That was followed by the three soldiers who’d helped him get this far.

  Blaine’s last real thought was: Someone’s going to catch hell over this.

  * * *

  Back at what remained of the C&C, John Redhawk had managed to restore connections to his last three drones. After the mortar strike on the lab module, Chelovik’s men had taken advantage of the confusion and shot down Dopey, Happy, and Wheezy.