“But we’ll be quick.”
“And if she’s not,” McAllen went on, “it’ll be interesting trying to find her in the woods while you hang back with the chopper, which might run out of gas before we find her.”
“These are the things we think about but do not say,” said Khaki. “Got some good news, though: I think we can intercept her before she reaches the tree line.”
Just then, several blinking lights shone on the cockpit panel and the chopper began to lose power.
“What is it?” McAllen asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Khaki.
The pilot was speaking so fast that his words became a blur, like the ground racing by at just a thousand feet below, then nine hundred, eight hundred.
“He’s talking about that electrical problem again,” said Khaki. “But I’m not sure what he means. I don’t know all the technical terms in translation.”
With a jolt, the power returned, and the rotor spun back up hard, the fuselage shuddering a moment before they began to regain altitude.
Khaki glanced back at McAllen and beat a fist twice on his chest, as if to say, heart attack averted.
McAllen nodded, then told the pilot in Russian that he’d buy him a lifetime supply of vodka if he could keep them aloft until they reached their destination.
The pilot rolled his eyes and in broken English said, “I will make deal. But you will take me with you. I want to see America… before my government takes over everything.”
McAllen exchanged a look with Khaki, then said, “Well, my friend, you’ll get your wish, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before a Russian flag is flying over the White House.”
“Or flying over the Canadian Parliament,” added Khaki.
The pilot laughed under his breath. “Gentlemen, I think you should prepare for some cold days ahead.”
Sergeant Nathan Vatz and Band-Aid took the truck along a dirt road running parallel to the wooded area opposite the airport terminal. While that section of forest was thick, it was only about a thousand yards wide, cut into a perfect rectangle when the airport had been constructed.
“All right, this is close enough,” said Vatz, bringing the overheating truck to an abrupt stop.
They hustled out and skulked their way into the forest, threading between clusters of firs and pines, their limbs drooping with snow. Intermittent cracks of gunfire boomed ahead.
At the next tree, Vatz signaled for the medic to crouch down. “How many frags you got?”
“Three.”
“I got two. Now listen very carefully.”
Vatz unfolded his plan, then studied the medic’s face. Was there any sign of fear? Would this guy lock up at the most dire moment? Damn, if only Vatz had spent more time training with these guys. Well, the medic had made it this far and had even taken all those extra qualifications courses. Sometimes you had to let go and place your trust in the machine that produced operators of the highest caliber.
“Sergeant, are you all right?”
Ironic. Maybe Vatz was the one who couldn’t be trusted.
“Sergeant?”
“Yeah, sorry, just going over it again in my head.” He called up Black Bear, let him know what was happening, and the assistant detachment commander said he and the men inside were ready.
Vatz proffered his hand to Band-Aid. “Let’s go get ’em.”
The medic shook vigorously. “Hooah.” Then he trotted off, working to the north side of the woods to place himself in a flanking position of the enemy.
Meanwhile, Vatz kept low, shifting as gingerly and stealthily as he could straight toward the enemy position. He came within fifty yards of the Russians, his breath shallow as he settled down beside a tree.
His binoculars told the story. It was a full squad all right — at least ten troops visible. One Russian shouldered a rocket launcher, either an RPG-7 or a Bumblebee, but they were probably saving that as a last resort. They would’ve blown up the terminal already. They probably had some mortars as well, definitely two machine guns, plus the usual assortment of rifles, pistols, and undying love for the Motherland that had been brainwashed into them during training. They hadn’t wasted any gas. They were masked up, as was everyone inside the terminal. So it was what it was: a standoff.
But not for long.
“Band-Aid, I’m in position, over.”
“Roger that, me, too.”
“All right. Wait for it.”
Vatz called Black Bear. The boys inside were ready.
He switched his MR-C rifle to single-shot mode, raised it, then stared through the scope.
The squad leader would be the guy doing the most talking through his headset.
After panning down the line, Vatz found him. The Russian had his mask off and lay on his gut, balanced up on his elbows, reading images from a small tablet computer on the snow in front of him. He spoke quickly into his boom mike.
In truth, military snipers rarely engaged targets closer than three hundred yards, but Vatz’s plan depended upon a perfect shot. So he’d come in much, much closer, and he would do everything possible to ensure that perfection. Yes, at this range he could probably just lift and fire, but he had a moment to be sure, so he took it.
Vatz couldn’t use the laser target designator on his assault helmet because the Russian would detect it. So Vatz would need to compare the height of the target to its size using the mil dot reticle on his scope.
Time for math homework. The average human head was six inches wide. The average human shoulders were twenty inches apart, and the average distance from a trooper’s crotch to the top of his head was one meter.
The height of the target (in yards) ? 1000, divided by the height of the target (in mils), gave the range in yards. Bullet drop and gravity wouldn’t be issues.
Consequently, the perfect shot was all about the simple range and dialing in the scope to set those crosshairs on target.
He made the calculations, the adjustment to the scope, and settled into his breathing pattern.
He considered himself a good shot, not a great one. He could fight an ODA team better than most of them, but again, he was no record holder on the firing range.
His finger got heavy on the trigger, and it appeared the squad leader was about to get up.
Vatz held his breath.
And fired.
The shot caught the Russian in the back of his neck, just below his helmet, blowing that helmet off and taking a large piece of skull with it.
As the dead man hit the snow, the two troopers nearby spun back in Vatz’s direction, like good little soldiers, exactly as they should.
Vatz switched to full automatic, bolted to his feet, shifted out from behind the tree, and hosed them down with his first salvo, dropping one before he dodged to the next tree.
A pair of explosions resounded.
That was Band-Aid, initiating his part of the plan. While their attention was drawn to the rear by Vatz, Band-Aid was moving in from the left flank and lobbing his frags.
And then Black Bear and the men inside joined the fiesta.
It was up to Vatz now to make sure he got out of their line of fire. He sprinted off to the south, making a wide arc through the trees, gunfire tracking his steps, shaving off bark, whistling by.
Vatz ran on currents of electricity, viewed the world through high contrast, smelled every particle of gun- powder. He suddenly turned, weaving through more trees, heading directly toward their right flank.
He spotted two troops, both trading fire with the guys in the terminal, who’d all in unison opened up with a barrage of rifle fire.
Vatz put the MR-C’s grenade launcher to work, thumping one off to fall at the trooper’s knees—
