…62
Every few minutes, Alex looked up at the sky, more and more worried. One after another, myriad stars became visible, as the heavy clouds moved away. A moonless night, pitch-dark, and, within minutes, direct satellite line of sight would be opening up right above them, as the last of the clouds disappeared fast.
The Russians had to have a satellite or two monitoring the operation; one doesn’t pull off that kind of endeavor, and then decide to ignore it. It made sense. V would definitely keep his eye on the silo and the status of his op; he was a logical, thorough, resourceful strategist. They were about to have company, she could bet on that. V wasn’t going to give up his operation without a fight.
Her radio crackled to life.
“Alpha, Tango One ready for departure.”
“Copy that, Tango One, on my way.”
That was the code name for the first truck in their escape convoy. Numbered one through nine, the trucks were loaded with people and ready to leave, hotwired by the Bravo teams and driven by passenger volunteers. Each truck had at least one Bravo team member riding in the back, ready to open fire on any attacker. Tango Nine, the last of the convoy, had three Bravos at the back of the truck, and Lou rode with them.
Alex had the passenger seat in Tango One, from where she could help Tango One’s driver navigate. She headed there fast, satisfied that all trucks were loaded and ready to leave.
They had found an escape route toward the coast, a curvy, narrow, mountain road meandering forty kilometers or so toward the coastal town of Vanino. Of course, they would never get to Vanino; they couldn’t risk it. Vanino, being a coastal town, had to have Russian Coast Guard forces. They couldn’t risk being seen and captured. A convoy of nine military trucks loaded with people was not that inconspicuous.
No, they would cross the mountains on the road to Vanino, then veer off that road heading south, taking a road hardly worth being called a road, just to get out of swamp territory and onto hard terrain, where rescue helos could land. The so-called road was more like an unpaved trail, not even visible on maps. But the satellite feeds from DigiWorld confirmed it was there, barely wide enough for the trucks.
Then the trucks would take them to the clearing they had identified via satellite, just about ten kilometers after leaving the paved road to Vanino. She had given those coordinates to Henri Marino as a landing zone for their extraction. It was wide enough, and the terrain was flat and firm. No one had confirmed those coordinates yet, but she couldn’t wait any longer. No one had confirmed the exfil mission had been cleared either, but she couldn’t afford any doubt. She had to believe they’d be there.
She knew she was asking for a lot… rerouting a US Navy vessel into the territorial waters of Russia was crossing the point of no return to what could potentially read in tomorrow’s papers as the start of WW III. Nevertheless, the USS Okinawa and its fleet of Super Stallion helicopters were their only chance of survival. Go, Marino go! Make it happen, girl!
It wasn’t going to be easy. They’d found 434 survivors; 7 people had been killed since XA233 had been hijacked, including the flight’s captain. Those trucks held 434 men, women, and children in very poor shape, some wounded badly. There were 434 people who counted on her and the team to take them home safely.
They needed to get going. The sky was almost completely clear.
Satisfied they had everyone loaded on the trucks, Alex hopped into the passenger seat in Tango One and radioed, “This is Alpha in Tango One, ready to go.”
One by one, all Tangos confirmed.
The trucks set in motion, going east, their lights on low beam. Their convoy, moving slowly on the curvy road, seemed eerie to her, like moving though an alternate reality. She felt a pang of fear, thinking just how vulnerable they’d be once they entered the stretch of curvy, narrow, mountain road, with no place to turn or take cover if things got ugly. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
She shook her dark thoughts away, and turned toward the back. Through the opening between the truck’s cabin and the cargo hold, she reached out and touched Sam’s hand. He lay on the gurney covered in dirty blankets, in and out of consciousness, barely alive. His skin felt ice cold and damp. He was going into shock.
She squeezed his hand.
“Sam? You holding on? We’re moving, see? Just a little while longer. Just hold on. Promise me you’ll hold on.”
Sam didn’t reply, didn’t even open his eyes. Dr. Adenauer, still by his side, shot her a worried glance as he placed two fingers on Sam’s right carotid, feeling for a pulse.
“Please hang on, Sam, please,” she whispered. “We’re almost there.”
Next to him, lying on another gurney, Blake was conscious, although pale and wincing at every bump in the road. Adeline sat crouched next to him, holding his hand with both of hers, while her big, round eyes searched Alex’s with unspoken fear glinting in them. The doctors had patched Blake’s wound enough to help him survive the journey, but not much more. She locked eyes with Blake, trying to encourage him. He nodded slightly. He was holding on.
A third gurney held an unconscious man; Alex had learned he was a doctor, and the Russians had smashed his ribs to make a point. He was heavily sedated, his vitals monitored closely by an American doctor, Gary Davis.
A short vibration coming from her phone caught her attention. A text message from Tom. It read, “We have you on satellite, from DigiWorld. Godspeed and be safe!”
Her heart swelled. They were not alone. She opened a comm on her radio.
“Lima, this is Alpha.”
“Go for Lima,” Lou’s voice replied, with a little static in the background.
“Lima, Father has visual, says hi.”
“Copy, Alpha. Tell him to look wide.”
That was a good idea. If the DigiWorld satellite would zoom out a little, they would be able to see if anyone approached their convoy, by air or by ground, and give them the heads up.
She texted Tom. “Will try. Go wide with visual, keep us posted.”
The truck was slow, going sixteen, maybe twenty kilometers per hour. The road was bumpy, making the wounded in the back groan in pain.
She craned her head out of the window and looked back at their convoy snaking through the wooded mountain road. The other trucks were holding close, none had straggled. She checked the sky again; it was all clear. If Tom had eyes on them, so could anyone else. So could V. Their headlights in the perfectly dark forest made them easy to spot from above, even with the dense tree foliage cover.
She felt adrenaline hit her gut. Something was wrong. Behind them, the sky was slightly less dark. At times flashes of light ripped through the hazy darkness, sending long shadows everywhere. Something, someone was coming.
Her phone chimed again, at the same time Lou’s voice came alive on her radio.
“Alpha, this is Lima. We have company.”
She checked the new text message from Tom.
“Multiple armored vehicles approaching fast from behind. Five Ansyr, two BTR-80 armored personnel carriers, two trucks carrying troops.”
She pressed the radio button fitted on her wrist and replied, “Copy, Lima. Get ready. We have nine miles left to go until we turn south. Multiple armored vehicles inbound, Ansyrs, BTR-80s, troops. We can’t outrun them.”
Ansyr was the latest Russian assault vehicle. It was bad news. The Ansyr was an armored vehicle that could go a maximum of 120 kilometers per hour for 800 kilometers without refueling, and could carry three troops and a heavy-machine gun. The vehicles would have no difficulty catching up with the trucks. There was nothing on those trucks that could stop an Ansyr.