The two operators seated back there leapt over the side, just as a wall of flames filled the pickup truck’s rear window.
Then, as the truck reached the next corner, Vatz hung a sharp left turn—
Just as another rocket hit, blasting them up onto two wheels.
Beethoven shouted something but Vatz’s ears were still ringing from the explosion.
They hung there for a million-year second until the truck slammed hard onto the passenger’s side, safety glass shattering. They slid up onto the sidewalk, caromed off a building, then sideswiped a light pole before coming to a screeching halt, engine still running, glass still tumbling, flames crackling from somewhere outside.
As smoke began to fill the cabin, Vatz coughed and unbuckled. He called out to Beethoven, whose head was bleeding but who was conscious.
The two operators in the back of the crew cabin were already hauling themselves outside, where they took near-instant machine gun fire from the helo as it swooped down again.
Vatz figured that on the next pass the pilot would launch rockets again. He and Beethoven had only seconds to get out of there.
Holding his breath, he forced open the door and climbed out onto the crew cabin door. He gave Beethoven a hand, hoisting the medic up and out. They jumped down to the sidewalk—
Just as the chopper finished its turn and began to descend directly toward them.
Vatz glanced over at Beethoven.
They both knew there was no time to run. The helo would launch rockets, and their lives would be over in a heartbeat.
Yet in that second, in that shared look, they knew what they had to do. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be running; it would be defying the enemy until the end.
So, without a word, they crouched down and began firing at the chopper, as did the rest of his team — if only to rage against the enemy.
And as his clip was about to empty, Vatz closed his eyes, thought of Zack back in that alley.
Commander Jonathan Andreas drew in a long breath as tension mounted in the
The VA-111 Shkval racing toward them was a solid rocket torpedo that generated a gas cavity, which gave it great speed but precluded a guidance system. Its eight-mile short range classified it as a last-ditch weapon and earned it the title of revenge weapon. The torpedo was most often fired as a “snap shot” back down the bearing of an incoming enemy’s torpedo.
At the moment, Andreas assumed that the commander who had ordered its launch was as surprised to discover him as he was to discover the Shkval.
“Sonar, go active, single ping on bearing three-two-zero!” he ordered.
“Torpedo has rapid right-bearing drift, headed across our bow,” reported the sonar operator.
“Passing fifteen hundred feet, Captain,” said the chief of the watch, making direct eye contact with Andreas.
The sonar operator chimed in again. “Sonar contact, bearing three-two-four, range thirty-five thousand yards, designate contact Sierra One, sir.”
“Emergency blow main ballast—” cried the officer of the deck.
“Belay that!” barked Andreas. “Check the bubble. The bow’s coming up. The planesman has control. Ahead two thirds. Keep water moving across the control surfaces, make your depth eighteen hundred feet.”
“All ahead two thirds, make my depth eighteen hundred feet, aye, sir,” repeated the OOD. “What about that torpedo, sir?”
“He launched an out-of-range snap shot when he heard our emergency backdown. We were sinking like a rock with virtually no forward motion. A two-hundred-knot Shkval can’t be guided. If he cranked in any lead angle, he aimed where we aren’t.”
“Let’s hope his aim continues to be that poor, sir.”
“I think it will.” Andreas regarded the sonar operator. “Talk to me. Anything from Sierra One?”
“Nothing on broadband or narrowband, sir,” replied the operator.
“Engineering, get somebody on that hydraulic glitch. I want a healthy sub when we attack this guy.” Andreas silently scanned the control room, gauging the tension level once more as the hull groaned under the pressure. “All right, consider this a moment to regroup — and remember, if God didn’t want us down here at eighteen hundred feet
He got one or two chuckles and observed some easing of posture among the men manning the various stations.
After a few more breaths, he added, “Now gentlemen, we might’ve found that missing Borei, the
The
“Come left to three-two-zero,” he ordered. “We’ll close on datum and see what sonar can sniff out.”
He had ordered them to the target’s last known location. Now
Vatz snapped open his eyes at the sound of a terrific boom, followed by a dozen other pops and cracks and groaning sounds, all rising above a tremendous rush of air that knocked him flat onto his back.
As the sky panned overhead and a wave of dizziness crashed over him like a twelve-foot breaker, he rolled onto his side, blinked hard, and looked up again.
The Ka-29 had burst apart and crashed into the street, long draperies of fire and smoke rising high.
Beyond it, engines booming, soared an A-10 Thunderbolt II, better known as a Warthog or just Hog, a twin- engine jet designed to provide close air support for ground troops.
A second A-10 followed closely on the first one’s wing, and then, off to Vatz’s left, he spotted a half dozen Apache attack helicopters, along with several Chinooks, V-22 Ospreys, and the redesigned RAH-66 Comanche recon/attack helicopters.
Beethoven started hollering and cursing, unable to contain his emotions. “Ladies and gentlemen! The Tenth Mountain Division has arrived!”
A flicker of movement from the buildings on his left caught Vatz’s eye. Down at the next intersection, a squad of Spetsnaz troops had just rounded the corner and crouched to fire.
“Troops right there!” cried Vatz.
Shots rang out; blood sprayed over the pavement as Beethoven fell, multiple wounds in his face and neck. He died quickly.
Vatz returned fire, darting behind the burning pickup truck; the rounds tracked him, thumping hard into rubber and steel. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over!”
He swore. Comm was still jammed. He slipped around the back of the truck, where he spotted three of his men holed up in another doorway. He waved them on, and they charged down the street away from the fiery wreck, the Russians moving up behind them.
Rakken flickered open his eyes. They were talking about him. He recognized the voices: medics from his platoon. He was lying on his back, staring up at the observation deck’s ceiling. Flashlights panned everywhere. There was no more gunfire, only the sounds of his men.
“He won’t make it, will he,” said a bearded, unhelmeted civilian, leaning over Rakken.
“Shhh,” ordered one of the medics. “He can still hear you. And there’s always a chance. But he’s not in pain. We took care of that.”
Rakken’s gaze came in and out of focus.
“Sergeant, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
The guy took Rakken’s hand, and he squeezed.
