“No, you’re right. Good call. Ditch him.” While Rule took care of that, McAllen ordered the pilot to take off.
The rotors began to kick up as Rule shoved the co-pilot outside, then slammed shut the door.
After jogging a few yards away, the co-pilot whirled around and raised his middle fingers.
“He’s not happy!” Rule cried.
“He’s lucky we didn’t shoot him,” added McAllen.
As the engine began to roar even louder, and the floor began to vibrate, McAllen grabbed onto the back of the pilot’s seat as the gear left the ground.
“This helo is a piece of crap!” shouted Rule.
McAllen smiled darkly. “But it’s all ours!”
While Khaki ordered the pilot to bank away and head north, McAllen wrestled with the idea that they could use the helo and its weaponry to assist the SF guys.
What a surprise that would be, seeing a Ka-29 swoop down to take out Spetsnaz infantrymen on the ground, not Canadians and Americans.
But they didn’t have the fuel, might need the weapons later on, and there was always the chance that they could be accidentally taken out.
So there it was. Despite the pure, unadulterated frustration, they would stick to the plan.
Of course, those Special Forces boys weren’t about to let him live down that decision. “Outlaw One, this is Black Bear, over!”
“Go ahead, Black Bear.”
“Is that you in that Russian helo, over?”
“Roger that. Sorry we couldn’t stick around for the cake, but I think your operators got it under control, over.”
“If this channel wasn’t being recorded, you know what I’d be telling you right now, don’t you?”
McAllen knew. And he’d probably say the same thing. “Understood. Outlaw One, out.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Sergeant,” said Khaki over the intercom. “Every player has his part.”
“Yeah, but you know, you can’t help but ask — what’s more important? One pilot? Or helping secure an entire town?”
“That’s not your question to answer.”
“No, but it’s still mine to ask.”
The driver of the pickup truck had introduced himself as Barry. He was three hundred and fifty pounds of flannel-clad Canadian hunter/firefighter, and he barreled down the street at sixty-plus miles per hour, with Vatz buckled into the passenger’s seat, Band-Aid jammed into the backseat.
Vatz had contacted the other four guys he had posted downtown, and they were already en route to the airport in another truck.
Meanwhile, some of Captain Rodriguez’s men were reconnoitering the roadblocks, while others attempted to fall back into the neighborhoods to see just where those Spetsnaz troops had moved. Rodriguez had said he’d already lost four men, and that he still hadn’t heard when the Tenth Mountain Division’s first troops would arrive from Grand Prairie.
They drove in silence for a minute, then Barry suddenly blurted, “This is like something out of a movie. I mean, this stuff doesn’t happen to folks like us.”
“Well, it does now,” said Vatz.
“I got a condo in Florida. What am I doing here?”
“Saving your town,” said Band-Aid.
“Speaking of which, I heard we destroyed all of their helicopters.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Vatz said.
“I also heard that a squad or two went off into the neighborhoods. They’re using gas.”
“What else did you hear?” asked Band-Aid.
“They shot down the two choppers we had up there.”
Vatz rubbed his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. “I saw one of our birds go down. But we also took out the helo that was after it.”
A crash and muffled thud made him snap up.
Suddenly, the truck was drifting to the left, cutting into the wrong lane and now racing toward a building.
Vatz glanced sidelong at Barry.
He’d been shot in the chest by a sniper, and blood had splattered all over the cab. A gaping hole had opened in the windshield.
Band-Aid was screaming that the round had missed him by a few inches. Most of the rear window was gone.
Before Vatz could grab the wheel, the truck plowed through the glass door and adjoining wall of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, cinder blocks and glass tumbling down onto the hood, crashing through the windshield and onto Vatz as he ducked, burying himself in the floorboard.
But the truck kept on moving, blasting through decks and counters until Vatz reached up through the debris on his lap and threw the gear into park, then switched off the engine.
“Jac, you all right?”
The medic came up from behind the seat. “I’m good. I’m good.”
Vatz lifted pieces of cinder block from his lap, opened his door, and forced himself outside, coughing.
Dust-filled beams of light shone in from the shattered entrance. With his rifle at the ready, Vatz moved shakily forward, along with Band-Aid.
“He’s out there, somewhere…”
“Only way to tell is to draw his fire,” said Band-Aid. “I’ll run across the street.”
“Hold up.” Vatz got on the radio to inform Black Bear what had happened.
“Too tied up now to send another truck, but I need you here! There’s a squad out there in the trees. Our snipers got them pinned down, but for how long I don’t know. We can’t move till we take them out. I need you here, over.”
“Roger that, on our way, out.”
Band-Aid frowned. “On our way?”
“Get back in the truck.”
“Damn, I like your style.” The medic rushed to the rear cab door, tugged it open, hopped inside.
Vatz yanked the driver’s door, reached in, and hauled Barry out of the seat. He dropped hard to the floor, and Vatz had to turn away. Sure, he’d seen his share of blood and gore, but all that blood and brain matter, coupled with the guy’s weight, was just too much.
Repressing the urge to gag, he hauled himself into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Damned radiator was cracked and hissing. Ignoring it, he threw the shifter in reverse, floored it.
Rubber burned as they shot back through the bank and exploded onto the street, trailing dust and tumbling pieces of concrete.
Not a second later, another round punched through the side window; Vatz ducked, threw it in drive, floored it again.
A third round struck as Vatz kept low and steered blindly.
After two more breaths, he popped up and cut the wheel hard left, turning down a side street. “We’re out of his bead now, I think.”
Band-Aid did not answer.
Vatz stole a look into the backseat, couldn’t see the medic. “Band-Aid?”
Nothing.
Vatz’s heart skipped a beat. My God. He was a magnet for death.
“Hey, Sergeant, yeah, I’m good.” The medic popped his head up and leaned back in the seat, one eye shaded by his monocle.
Vatz sighed in heavy relief. “Damn it, bro, you gave me a heart attack!”
“Sorry, I was just checking the Cross Com. You know, if you and I can get in behind those squads near the terminal—”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what Black Bear has in mind.”
THIRTY
The snowmobile’s engine began to falter, and Major Stephanie Halverson knew she’d be back on foot very soon.
“What do you think, Jake?” she asked aloud. “Still think I’ll make it?”
She imagined Jake Boyd in his cockpit, flying just off her wing, flashing her a big thumbs-up.
“Well, I won’t argue with that.”
Halverson estimated she had covered between sixteen and eighteen miles, and she now rode through tall pines; beyond the woods she could see a frozen river whose opposite shoreline lay a half kilometer away.