The voice surprised Vatz, and he switched his Cross Com to an image piped in from Samson's helmet camera. "Bear, this is Bali, go ahead, over."
"Communications are back. Go figure. Anyway, we've taken out four enemy helos, but we got twenty, thirty Spetsnaz guys on the ground from at least two we didn't get, moving toward the terminal, over."
"Roger that. We destroyed our two helos. Still got one out by the northern roadblock. No location for the rest, over."
"Yeah, I see the smoke."
"Black Bear, hold them there. If we don't get any more visitors, we'll rally at your position, over."
"Sounds good, Black Bear, out."
Captain Godfrey, who was coordinating operations with Captain Rodriguez from 887, said those guys were sending a truck out to the roadblock to see if they could assist with fires on that helo.
Meanwhile, the thumping of more rotors drove Vatz to the opposite side of the roof. Down below, in the side street, a Ka-29 had just landed, and troops began pouring out.
He cursed, got back on the radio, told his boys to expect dismounts in the area.
Then he express-delivered another pair of guided munitions down on the helo through its canopy. He slipped the LC into his Blackhawk SERPA holster, took up his MR-C rifle, and fired down on the still-exiting infantry.
The Spetsnaz rushed around the chopper and began returning fire, rounds tearing up the stone balustrade as Vatz rolled back for cover.
"We have to get down," he shouted to Godfrey, who was still speaking to Rodriguez. "They're getting inside! They'll come up and cut us off!"
"All right," cried the captain.
Automatic weapons fire was already drumming from somewhere below as Vatz wrenched open the door leading to the dark stairwell.
He rushed down to the first landing, turned- And locked gazes with a Spetsnaz troop below whose rifle was still pointed down.
While Vatz's first reaction should've been to lift his rifle and fire, adrenaline had already taken over.
And muscle memory.
And a rage simmering deep down.
He launched himself from the landing and crashed down onto the guy before the enemy soldier could react. They fell onto the floor, the Russian's rifle knocked free, Vatz's weapon having dropped somewhere behind him.
The guy's left hand was going for the pistol holstered at his waist. Vatz seized that wrist with his right hand, now unable to draw his own LC from the SERPA holster.
"Sergeant, get him!" shouted Godfrey, who had just reached the landing above.
But Vatz couldn't stop the guy's right hand from coming up to unsheathe a small neck knife dangling from a chain.
The troop thrust upward with the three-inch blade, and Vatz took hold of the guy's wrist with the blade tip poised a few inches from his cheek.
The guy raged aloud, fighting against Vatz's grip, as the captain yelled, "Move, I can't get a shot!"
Drawing in a quick breath, Vatz did three things: released his grip on the trooper, threw his head back away from the blade, then forced himself onto his rump while drawing his LC.
He fired.
Nothing. What the . . . What the . . .
Vatz realized in that horrible moment that he'd failed to switch the pistol from the guided munitions to the stacked 4.6 mm rounds for close quarters, which was why she clicked empty.
Another shot rang out from above: Godfrey.
But it was dark, and that round punched the wall beside the soldier.
The Russian went for his pistol.
Vatz thought of the Blackhawk caracara blade he always packed for those up-close and personal moments, but it was buried deep in one of his hip pockets.
The seven-inch fixed blade he carried, the Masters of Defense Mark V, was held tight in its sheath strapped farther down his hip.
But Marc Rakken's prized balisong, the Venturi, was right there, in a narrow pocket much higher on his hip.
Sorry, Marc.
In the span of two heartbeats Vatz had the Venturi in his hand, pinky-popping the bottom latch, bite handle dropping then swinging up to lock the blade in the open position.
The Russian was sliding the pistol out of his holster- Vatz dove forward for the kill, thrusting his blade deep into the soldier's neck to sever his spinal cord.
Gunfire resounded over his shoulder, and Godfrey was there. He put a bullet in the guy's head as Vatz withdrew the balisong's Damascus blade.
"I put out the word to mask up," said Godfrey. "Now that they know we're here."
Vatz rose, covered in blood. He closed the balisong and returned it to his pocket, then slid off his light pack to fish out his mask.
They didn't have full nuclear, biological, or chemical protection, part of the micro-climate conditioning subsystems of the full MOPP 4 helmets and suits, but the lightweight masks would help.
He froze as more footfalls sounded in the stairwell.
Silently, he motioned for Godfrey to halt, then reached into his tactical vest, tugged free a fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairs.
Major Stephanie Halverson and the boy reached the barn and darted inside, then moved to the window to catch sight of the remaining troops.
She'd been right. Just three left now, and all charged forward, widening the distance between one another, rifles held menacingly.
With three of their brothers dead, they wanted much more than a downed pilot.
The boy's face was scrunched up in agony, tears finally slipping from his eyes. "They killed my mom and dad."
"And they'll kill us."
"My parents are dead because of you because of you!" He leveled the automatic rifle on her.
She slowly raised her hands, one still clutching her pistol. "Well, Joey, we got about ten seconds before they get here. They don't care. They'll shoot-both of us."
The barn door beside them burst open- But no one charged in.
"Yankee pilot? Come out with hands up!"
Halverson bolted to the wall, then sprinted for the door on the opposite end of the barn. She already knew at least one more troop had to be waiting there.
Joey charged behind her, reached for the door handle.
"No!"
He looked at her.
"Wait," she said.
She reached out, opened the door, and rolled back inside the barn- Gunfire ripped though the doorway. At the same time, a trooper appeared in the opposite doorway. Joey spotted him first.
Just hours ago the kid had been an innocent farm boy living in rural paradise. Now he jammed down the trigger of his rifle, wise enough to aim for the guy's legs because the Russian wore body armor.
Then Joey rushed across the room, since the soldier was still moving, getting ready to draw his pistol.
Halverson wanted to scream for him to come back, but it was too late. He rushed forward and shot the guy in the face, even as the other two soldiers burst into the barn, immediately cutting him down.
Halverson, who was near the door, came in behind the first Spetsnaz troop, shot him point-blank in the neck.
But the second guy whirled, aimed his rifle at Halverson.
I'm dead.
She flinched, but the troop suddenly staggered back, rounds punching into his chest and neck.
Halverson slammed onto her gut, dirt and hay wafting into her face.
She glanced over into the lifeless eyes of the Russian. Then she lifted her head.
Joey was on the ground, clutching his rifle with one hand, his chest with the other, blood pouring between his fingers.
"Joey?" She rose slowly, making sure all three troops were not moving, then she went to him, took his head in her lap.
"It's not fair," he said, coughing up blood.
Halverson's voice was gone.
No, it's not.
He grew very still, and then . . . he was gone.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
But she couldn't lose it. Not now. More troops would come. She had to get the weapons, a snowmobile. She had to get moving!
Gingerly, she slid out from beneath Joey, placed his head gently on the ground.
Then, frantically, she grabbed a couple of the rifles, another sidearm, two more clips, and rushed from the barn, her mind racing as quickly.
Get inside. Get her clothes, civilian clothes. Activate the beacon or they'll never find you.
She reached the house, stormed into the master bedroom, tore through the woman's closet, and found herself jeans, a sweatshirt, a heavy winter jacket, hat, scarf, gloves.
Back to the kitchen. She grimaced and stepped over the father's body to tear through the refrigerator, grabbing a couple bottles of water and some apples.
Then, still trembling, she went to the cupboard and seized an unopened package of cookies and some canned goods. She went to the drawers, throwing stuff everywhere, trying to find a can opener. Then she cursed, tossed the cans, and grabbed the rest.
She gathered more ammo from the soldiers, tucking it all into a pillowcase like some burglar, then found the keys to one of the snowmobiles in the pocket of a dead troop.
On the table in the entrance foyer sat a picture of the happy family. Halverson stared at it for a few seconds before charging outside.
After using bungee cords to fasten the gear inside the snowmobile's small rear basket, she donned the helmet, fired up the engine, and ordered herself not to look back.
She sped away, heading due south, leaving a rooster tail of snow in her wake. The cold wind on her face began drying her tears, and after another moment, she slid down the helmet's visor and leaned into the machine.
The fuel tank held about five liters, just over a gallon of gas, and the Russians had already used a liter to get to the barn. She wasn't sure how far she'd get, but she'd ride until the tank was empty.
A broad, flat plain of snow lay ahead, and more trees stood on the far horizon. She steered for them.
TWENTY-EIGHT.
"You're wasting my time, Colonel." Major Alice Dennison sat at her station in the command post, arms folded over her chest, and sneered at the broken and defeated Russian on the screen.
"I did not talk under the influence of your drugs."
"Sorry, but you did."