Chopra was already sweating profusely in the summer heat and humidity. He took a deep breath, wondering what those boys had ever done with his bike. He’d never seen it again, and in truth he’d never forgiven himself for allowing them to steal it. His father would not have approved.
But he’d shown them, right? He’d risen from the dirt, the ashes, the same way Dubai would in time. He refused to let this woman take that away, and he silently vowed that she wouldn’t. No matter what he had to do. He glanced back at the young sheikh, who rolled his eyes and said, “When can we stop? I’m absolutely dying of thirst!”
“You have become an expert at complaining.”
“Shut up, old man.”
“You must learn to respect your elders.”
“Get me a drink — or at least get her to get me a drink…”
Chopra braced himself.
Brent loved how politics affected military operations.
When he’d earlier needed Close Air Support, he couldn’t get the time of day, but now, after Dennison had had some time to throw her weight around and negotiate her way up and down the pipeline, an old UH-60 Blackhawk came whomping toward them. They’d be picked up and whisked at high speed back into the chase.
The Snow Maiden, Chopra, and Hussein were on bicycles and riding toward the coast.
Dennison had had to repeat that.
Bicycles? There was the Snow Maiden’s connection to the Tour de France, the cousin who’d been murdered. But bicycles?
Dennison had explained that all the roads had been flooded with people trying to flee to the coast and cross over to France. The Snow Maiden’s escape was actually quite clever and much faster than any attempt by car.
A keen-eyed intelligence analyst with his face glued to a satellite feed had, however, picked up the group of three pedaling southward.
Easy prey? Hardly.
Worse, getting back in the air wouldn’t go by the numbers, as Lakota confirmed. “Our ride’s got a Russian on his tail. Looks like another Howler.”
“All right, you talk in our ride, and I’ll get us to put some fire on that Howler,” Brent said, still jogging through the forest.
He reached the road and the pair of trucks where the others had already climbed aboard and were waiting for him. He signaled to both drivers:
They tore off, the engines revving, Brent’s driver cursing under his breath, a habit it seemed. It took just five minutes to reach the zone, where Brent ordered his team to fan out, away from the trucks — all but Daugherty and Heston. He put those operators on the fifty-caliber guns. Then he told the two British drivers and gunners that they didn’t have to stay, that his men would take out that Howler, and thank you very much for allowing us to borrow your nice toys.
“You think I can stand here and turn over my equipment to a Yank? Hell no!” hollered Brent’s driver. He ordered his gunners back to their weapons.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you a choice.”
“Bloody hell, I know that. So rest assured, we’ll get the job done. You put your boys on the bird as well. We’re in the fight now.”
Brent snorted. “Not worried about drawing fire?”
“I think
Finally, Brent smiled. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get ready.”
Brent jogged away as his people set up along a slight mound, all lying prone, weapons trained at the two dark blips appearing over the distant tree line. The team had packed relatively light, not expecting to face armor or aircraft, and Brent longed for a nice Zeus, a fire-and-forget missile launcher that would certainly give the Russians pause — much more so than a pair of fifty-caliber guns.
Brent dropped down beside Thomas, who’d been given a rifle by Lakota. His gaze was fixed through the scope.
“How you doing?” Brent asked, shifting awkwardly onto his elbows.
“Just fine. How are you?” Thomas snapped.
“Look, I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re just a guy trying to save his half-ass career, and I’m just a guy who doesn’t belong here. Never did. Never will.”
“Dennison knows your brother’s there. She’ll send a recovery team.”
“He always knew he’d die out here. I have a detailed list of instructions of what to do. He wrote them for me. This is no surprise.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry.”
Thomas’s tone grew even nastier. “You know why I finally joined the NSA? Because my father came to me, told me he wanted me to protect George. He said George took too many risks. I needed to watch out for him. And stupid me believed my father. What a crock. I found out later that George told my father what to say — just to get me on board. But I keep thinking that maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe it was true. I was supposed to keep an eye on George because I’m the sane one, not the warmonger. And I failed. I let my brother die.”
“Survivor guilt is natural. I promise we’ll talk about this later. I promise.” Brent cleared his throat and opened up a channel to the team. “Ghosts, this is Ghost Lead. Stand by. Here they come!”
The Blackhawk swooped down to within a meter of the treetops, with the Howler trailing. That the Russians hadn’t already blown the transport from the sky bothered Brent. They were holding fire. What the hell?
Maybe they wanted something — or someone — on board. They’d been given orders to track and observe. Interesting…
“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. The Russians aren’t firing at our bird.”
“Ghost Lead, just take out that Howler. Now!”
Brent glanced up at Lakota, waved her over. She rushed to his side and dropped down. He switched off the audio on his Cross-Com. “This is weird.”
“I know.”
“Talk to that Blackhawk pilot. See if he’s carrying any precious cargo or VIPs.”
“Dennison will hear.”
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
Lakota called the pilot, who said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss such issues. That was pilot code for
Otherwise, he would’ve just said
“All right, let’s get that bird onto the ground, then we’ll find out what the hell’s going on here,” Brent said.
The Blackhawk drew closer, then, under Lakota’s guidance and on her count, suddenly banked hard to the left, exposing the Howler behind it.
“All right, fire, fire, fire!” Brent shouted.
The two Brits manning the fifties cut loose with a massive barrage, every third round a tracer that shimmered like laser bolts across green crowns of trees. It seemed now that two fire-lit wires were attached to the helicopter as it climbed and rolled against the onslaught. The wires fluctuated and wanted to drag the chopper down.
Below, both gunners adjusted fire until their rounds were drumming along the fuselage’s thick armor plates. It was awe-inspiring to see an aircraft take that many rounds from the fifties and from the rest of Brent’s people. The thing still remained aloft, seemingly undamaged.
“Damn, I don’t think we can touch her,” shouted Lakota.
“Oh, no!” cried one of the gunners, breaking off fire. “We’ve pissed him off now! He’s coming around!” The man abandoned his gun, jumped from the truck, and began running.
