by S L Shelton
I took the moment’s respite to look around for something to strap myself to the container with when I saw a long, heavy strap tucked into a cargo pouch on the wall. The Serb saw me looking for something; I guess he assumed I was looking for a weapon. He responded to my search by pulling a long military knife from behind his back.
Oh shit!
He charged. I dodged his first slash, but on the backslash he caught a piece of my left forearm. I felt the blade cut through my jacket and bite into my skin. I jerked my arm back, protectively turning my body away from my new wound.
His next stab was slower, so I kicked his hand as it came around, the tip of my boot catching him at the wrist and sending his knife skidding on the floor behind him. He turned and went for it.
While he was away, I reached for the cargo strap. It was about twelve feet long and heavy, with large metal clips at both ends.
When the big Serb returned with his knife in hand, I spun my body, whipping one end of the strap out toward his head. He ducked it, but it caught his shoulder on the retreat. The set of his jaw changed to pure anger when he stepped forward again. I had to end it…quickly. I whipped both ends of the strap around in front of me, letting it pass once around my body.
“Anytime you’re ready,” Nick said as I was into my turn.
When the strap came back around, I whipped my whole body around like a helicopter blade, flinging the heavy clip across the man’s jaw.
The big Serb went sailing to the floor, his teeth flying across the cargo bay.
A great roar of laughter erupted from the men. Their evening of gladiatorial entertainment had just taken an exciting turn. But in the commotion, I didn’t notice one of other Serbs had cautiously approached me until he was scrutinizing my face. His eyes went wide. I’d been made.
“It’s now or never!” I heard Nick say, just as the curious Serb was about to sound the alarm.
I pushed him roughly to the floor and then whipped the cargo hook back around, striking the ramp release and smashing the control panel.
The ramp began to descend.
Confused and shocked looks spread across the bay as the air began to get sucked out the back and the howl of wind filled our ears.
Most of the Serbs became acutely aware that they were not strapped in and started moving forward to the front of the plane, away from the ramp. I, on the other hand, was rushing toward the container.
“I hope you are strapped on.” I heard Nick in my ear again just as the large guide chute exploded backward through the open ramp.
Just as the sled started to slide, pulled toward the door by the guide chute, I slammed myself against the container box and flicked one end of the clip over a bar welded to the side. It immediately began dragging me toward the ramp.
Many of the Serbs were under the impression that this was some sort of freak accident and began trying to grab at me and the sled. But in the split second that I clipped the second hook to the box, realization entered their eyes—just as the box left the plane.
For three of them, it was too late; they were being pulled out of the back of the plane by their own momentum.
I watched as their expressions were replaced by terror as they fell with me for a few moments. I looked back up in time to see several more of them being jerked out by the parachutes as they began to open inside, sweeping the cargo hold of bodies like a plunger clearing a clogged drain.
Because the chutes were engaged from the sides of the plane instead of the center, anyone having the misfortune of being between them and the ramp was pulled out the rear.
A few more tumbled out the back and receded into the darkness before I was jerked up by my strap when the chutes engaged. It was too dark to see the falling men for long. For a brief moment, they were dark spots against the countryside before disappearing from sight.
I hung there for a few seconds, dangling from my strap with my back to the container.
Except for the pressure on my side, it was the most calm I’d felt since this whole thing had started. The strap dug painfully into my injured ribs, so I shifted my weight by pulling up on the welded bar. I felt above me and discovered two more bars. It was a ladder—no more than pieces of rebar welded to the corrugated panels of the box.
Hooking my arm through one, I unclipped one end of the cargo strap and then attached it to itself under my arm, effectively creating a chest harness. I gripped the rung tightly and unhooked the other end, leaving me for a moment without a safety.
I quickly snapped it several rungs higher and began to move up.
I guess this is officially my highest climb, I thought to myself as I smiled.
“Did you make it, Monkey Wrench?” I heard Nick ask through my earpiece. He was strapped in on the opposite side of the container.
I clicked on my throat mic. “AHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhh. Over,” I said and then laughed after I released the mic switch.
It actually felt good to scream. I felt more strain melt away.
“Smartass,” he said, but I think I detected a hint of amusement in his voice.
By then I was over the top of the container and looking down at him on the other side. He looked up and I caught a glimpse of a grin before it disappeared into a sneer.
“This is a slow ride,” he said. “There’s enough chute here for a tank… This box is nothing.”
“Good,” I replied. “There are people in this box who have no way to prepare for a hard landing.”
He nodded and then climbed up to where I was, scanning the dark horizon as he moved. “Momma, this is Spartan. Over,” I heard in my earpiece and in front of me.
“Spartan, Momma. Over,” came John’s voice.
“Momma, Spartan. Be advised. Monkey Wrench, Gretel, and package are in hand, floating slowly toward a field about five clicks from your location. Over.”
“Spartan, Momma. Good to hear it, but you’ve got to tighten up. Tangos rolling your way on the ground. Over.”
“Shit!” Nick exclaimed under his breath. “Any details, Momma?”
There was a pause. John must have been getting information from his com-link that we weren’t hearing. “Spartan. Papa informs me you have a truck with four maybe five bad guys en route to your location. Wait.”
There was another pause, and then, “Spartan, be advised. Heavy is changing course to intercept. Over.” John was referring to the cargo plane.
And the bad news just keeps coming, I thought.
“Momma, Spartan. Any chance of support? Over.”
“Affirmative Spartan, but you’ll have to deal with the ground hostiles yourself. Our ride is fifteen mikes out. Over.”
Fifteen minutes didn’t used to seem like a very long time, but this fifteen minutes seemed like an epoch.
“Momma. ETA on the heavy. Over,” Nick asked.
A pause, then, “Fifteen mikes. Over.”
“Momma, tell your ride to push it up. We’ve got zero maneuverability on this box. Out.”
Nick looked at me. “Do you know how to pull a trigger?”
I did, so I nodded. In truth, I was a fair shot. I grew up on a farm and had hunted and target practiced like most farm boys.
But pulling the trigger on a man...that would be a test. The fact that I put myself in this situation, though, and that I had come as far as I had, made me believe I would do what needed to be done when the time came.
Nick looked back down the length of the cargo container. It was small compared to the one on the train. He held his hands out to both sides, grabbing the straps in the front.
“Get back there and hook up to the box. Do you see these?” he asked, pointing at the coupling and retainer pins for the chute straps. “When we hit ground, jerk the pin out and pull down hard here. The last thing we need is a gust to drag us around this field while we’re being shot at.”
“Got it. Jerk, then pull down,” I replied.
We were only a few seconds from touching down when we spotted the vehicle John had warned us about. It was stil
l about half a mile away as we hit the ground with a crash. It was a hard jolt. I lost my footing and ended up on my belly.
Quickly righting myself, I grabbed for the latches on the chutes and freed them.
Nick was on the ground and running toward the SUV by the time I hopped off the top of the box. The brush was high, about chest height. The field hadn’t been plowed this year, so last year’s fall growth had gotten tall.
As soon as I got my bearings, I ran in the direction Nick had gone, but I’d lost sight of him.
“Get down. Let them pass. We’ll hit ‘em from behind.” I heard Nick in my ear when I was about fifty yards away from the container.
A few seconds later, I could see the headlights of the SUV through the tall grass. They were bouncing hard over the rough-plowed field and completely unable to see through the brush.
The vehicle went past me and then pulled to a sudden stop ten feet further away. I guess I was lucky it didn’t run over me, but the five men that spilled out made me feel less than confident that my luck was of any value. Their rifles were raised in the direction of the cargo container.
“Now!” I heard Nick hiss in my ear.
On the other side of the Range Rover, two men tensed and then dropped. I didn’t even hear the shots that killed them.
The third Serb on that side squatted down low. I aimed my pistol at the closest man to me, hesitated, and then dropped my aim to his shoulder.
I squeezed the trigger and he screamed out, his rifle dropping from his hand. The second man spun around, his rifle pointed directly at my chest.
I hesitated.
The next second seemed to stretch out for minutes.
A flash came from the end of the rifle in the Serb’s hands.
Almost simultaneously, I saw a flash come from the end of my pistol, accompanied by a sudden pressure against the palm of my hand.
I heard a small clack and then caught a glimpse of the brass casing flying away in my peripheral vision.
Suddenly it felt like someone had hit me in the chest with a hammer.
I noticed, as I was spinning to the ground, that the Serb had developed a dark spot in the center of his forehead.
Flinging himself backwards, falling flat-backed on the ground, the Serb was horizontal before I was. I landed hard on my right shoulder with my back to the SUV and then rolled onto my back thanks to gravity.
Suddenly there was pain, taking my breath away and robbing my mind of any coherent thought.
To the side, I had a vague awareness of the first man I’d shot, grabbing his rifle with his other hand.
Move! My inner voice hissed into my ear.
It felt like hours before my body responded, but somehow I managed to roll onto my throbbing left side. The pain raced down into my arm and gut like hot liquid as I swung my right arm over, pointing my pistol at the face of the man who was now holding his rifle with his good arm.
I squeezed.
Another flash of light, pressure in my palm, and a small glint of brass flying away from my pistol.
This time there was no reply from the other rifle. I laid there staring at his open eyes, a dark spot between them leaking black fluid down his face.
What was I feeling? Was there a change in me?
All I could perceive was pain.
I released my pistol and brought my hand up to feel where I had been struck. Warm, sticky blood greeted my fingertips, but the hole was higher than I thought it had been.
I took a deep breath. There was lots of pain, but no bubbling.
Good. It didn’t get my lung, I thought.
I tried to reach back with my other hand to see if there was an exit, but it hurt too much so I dropped my arm back to the ground.
I spoke into my throat mic. “Nick. You alive?” I asked.
“Affirmative. No names,” Nick said quietly.
“I’m down. No bad guys my side,” I said, grunting. Then I saw movement to the front of the headlights.
“Are you to the front of the SUV?” I whispered into my mic.
“Negative.”
I reached to my side for the pistol. Felt around in the grass for a second before my fingers touched it. I leveled it quietly at the man, my hand steady as a rock.
I can’t express how amazed I was at the sheer mechanical movement of my hand as I lifted that weapon into place.
I heard a whisper from the man in front of me. Something in Serbian, I assumed.
“Oopomoc,” I heard Nick say in my ear.
“Oopomoc,” I called out in a hoarse whisper.
The man appeared in the headlights of the SUV.
I squeezed my trigger.
This time there was no pause, no slow motion, and no elevated heart rate. There was only a muted clack, accompanied by a spray of pink mist in the headlights. Two dark spots appeared in his throat and cheek.
Nick and I had shot him at precisely the same moment.
Nick ran around the SUV to my side, looking at each of the three downed men before popping another round into each of them to ensure they were dead.
He kneeled next to me. “Hey.”
“What’s up?” I asked, cavalier.
He pulled back the jacket and ripped my shirt open at the collar to see the wound. He grunted once before roughly rolling me to my side to see my back.
“It went through,” he said, and then laid his ear to my chest. “Any trouble breathing?”
“No,” I said weakly.
“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it,” he said, smiling before he began unwinding the compression bandages from around my ribs.
“Spartan, Momma. What’s Monkey Wrench’s status? Over,” John asked into our earpieces.
“Momma. It’s a scratch. Clean through. He’ll live.” Nick said, making light of my trauma.
It certainly didn’t feel like I would live. “I’m sorry about your nose,” I said in a hoarse whisper. He smiled and continued to unwrap my ribs.
“Status on Heavy. Over,” he asked as he began re-wrapping the bandage around my shoulder, compressing the now wadded up halves of my shirt.
“Spartan. Eight mikes. Over.”
“Momma. Acknowledged. Will advise status of package. Wait,” Nick said as he tied the end of the bandage and then grabbed the rifle belonging to the dead Serb closest to us.
I pushed myself up and dizzily wobbled along behind him as he ran toward the cargo container, holstering my pistol before picking up a rifle myself.
By the time I reached him, he had the door unlatched and was pulling it open.
“We’re Americans,” Nick said as I reached the opening.
Excited sounds of delight came from inside.
“Is anyone injured?” I asked.
I heard a couple of people say they were okay. Others were checking on their fellow boxmates as I peeked in.
When it appeared that no one was seriously injured from the ‘jump,’ Nick picked up the pace. “Okay, everyone out. We need to get you all to that SUV over there,” he yelled into the box. “The plane is on its way back.”
That got them moving.
The former hostages started exiting the container. Kathrin was helping an older woman to the front when I saw Barb. She was standing in the center of the entrance, jaw dropped, eyes wide.
“Scott? What? …how?” she sputtered.
Nick interrupted with a harsh tone. “Hugging and kissing later. We’re escaping now. The bad guys are on their way back.”
Barb’s father came forward, helping one of the other hostages. He looked up and saw Barb’s expression and then looked at me.
“You know each other?” he asked as he left the container.
“Enough talk!” Nick shouted. “We have to move!”
Just then there was an explosion of light and noise as the cargo plane burst over the hill. It was flying so low that everyone but Nick dropped to the ground, expecting to be hit.
Nick picked up the woman Mr. Whitney had been helping before slinging her over
his shoulder like she was laundry. She looked none the worse for the treatment, despite being in her sixties.
“Help anyone who can’t move fast,” he said as he turned to run.
Eight people were out of the box and headed toward the vehicle by the time Nick put the woman down. He ran toward the box again as those people crammed themselves inside, but then stopped suddenly, clearly realizing there was no time for more, not to mention no more room in the SUV.
“Get them clear,” I said into my throat mic as the plane came toward us. “Gretel and I will take the others through the woods.”
The plane was getting louder as it approached, and I knew that only added to the panic building in my gut. But to his credit, Nick waved me toward the woods before turning back. There were seven of us—Kathrin, Barb, Mr. Whitney, a man from the security detail, another middle-aged man, and a woman.
“The woods!” I yelled over the approaching roar. “Run!”
We set off at a sprint for the tree line in the opposite direction of the SUV. Once they were all moving, I took up the rear, helping the injured security man I had seen in Dusseldorf.
“Here,” I said, slipping my arm around his waist.
He looked to his side and saw the blood leaking from under the bandage Nick had wrapped around me.
“I’m good,” he said, standing a little taller. “Worry about yourself.”
As we made it to the trees, the big cargo plane touched the ground, its landing gear bouncing over the rough field, throwing dirt and brush far and wide. The gear must have hit a very irregular spot of ground because all at once, it lurched up. We could see the landing gear on one side fold under itself.
When it came back down, it came down hard, sending a tidal wave of soil into the air. It smashed over the cargo container with the grating of metal on metal and then continued bouncing across the field.
I could see the headlights of the SUV were disappearing around a hill as the monstrous hulk of a plane finally slid to a complete stop.
“Monkey Wrench. Keep moving. Don’t stop until you rendezvous with the extraction team,” Nick said into my ear.
“Acknowledged,” I replied breathlessly as I looked back over my shoulder to the plane.
Mr. Whitney looked at me. “I don’t know if you noticed or not, but they took our shoes. We aren’t going to make great time.”
