“End of the fuckin’ line,” he muttered, smacking a magazine into the AN-94 and flipping the weapon over in his hands. He plucked his only smoke grenade from his harness and pulled the pin, tossing it out in front of him. A thick cloud of green smoke formed quickly and concealed his position from the enemy.
Believing that Gil was using the smoke to cover his retreat over open country, the Chechens charged after him pell-mell and were met by withering fire from Gil’s AN-94. He lobbed his last hand grenade into their midst and blew them off their feet. Those who survived fell back through the smoke and continued to fire blindly in his direction.
Gil slapped in his last magazine and readied himself for the smoke to clear, deciding that no way in hell was he going to allow Kovalenko the privilege of delivering the coup de grâce. He would die with the infantry.
The sky overhead was suddenly filled with the whine of a T63-A turboshaft engine. A fast moving black OH-6 Cayuse attack helicopter — the vaunted Killer Egg — swooped in over his position and fired a spread of 70 mm Hydra rockets, decimating the advancing Chechens.
Ex — New Zealand Special Air Service pilot Kip Walker then yanked the stick left, rolling out west over the valley. “That should buy ’im a minute while we ’andle this bloody sniper,” he grunted. “I don’t want the bloke shooting us in the bloody ass.”
“He’s up and moving!” said the copilot, watching Kovalenko on the infrared monitor.
The FLIR scope mounted beneath the front of the Killer Egg had picked up the prone sniper as they swept in over the ridge, and Walker had poured on the speed to avoid being hit as they flew across Kovalenko’s field of vision. Now they were flying directly at him.
Walker lined up the helo and fired the twin GAU-19 Gatling guns hanging off either side of the aircraft.
Anzor Basayev’s body exploded from the hydrostatic shock of the .50 caliber rounds, splattering Umarov with gore as he scrambled into the trees hot on the heels of the fleeing Kovalenko. Another burst from the Gatling guns, and both of Umarov’s security men exploded on either side of him. He fell forward onto his face as the Killer Egg swept overhead and banked hard to the south.
Kovalenko stopped short and ran back to help Umarov to his feet. “They have infrared. We have to keep running!”
Walker banked the helo over the valley, checking the infrared to make sure that Gil was still alive and in the same position before firing another spread of rockets into the trees in order to flush dozens of Chechens out into the open. He pulled the stick back and to the left, working the foot pedals to slew the helo around and bring his guns immediately to bear on the enemy below. The adrenaline rush of operating over Russian territory was greater than any he’d ever experienced.
He put the helo down on the deck and squeezed the triggers as he swooped in on the scattered enemy, cutting them apart like a buzz saw.
“Get on the talker to Mason!” he shouted into the headset. “Get the Pum’er in ’ere! We don’t wanna be around if the damn Russians show up.”
The copilot got on the radio and called in the Puma transport helicopter that was holding station on the far side of the ridge.
Walker dropped the helo back to the deck for a final attack run.
Gil watched the helo mow down the rest of the enemy. Then he ran to grab an AK-47. A lone Chechen stood up from behind a rock, firing an RPK at almost point-blank range. Gil jumped inside the horizontal arch of fire and grabbed the long barrel of the machine gun under his arm, slugging the Chechen in the face and jerking the weapon from his hands.
The Chechen fell back a step and pulled a knife. Gil charged and smashed him over the head with the barrel of the RPK, splitting his skull as another Chechen stepped from behind a tree and shot him in the back. Gil fell forward, catching himself with his hands and grabbed the dead Chechen’s knife. He spun around and hurled it. The gunner ducked and fired again, missing as Gil sprang to his feet and rushed him, pulling his own knife.
The Chechen swung his AK like a ball bat and struck Gil a glancing blow across the top of the helmet. Gil slammed into him and drove the knife deep into the guy’s side. The Chechen screamed in Gil’s face, trying to wrestle free of his grasp. The two fell over as one and rolled downhill, slugging away at each other. They came to a stop against a tree. The Chechen clawed for Gil’s eyes, and Gil caught a finger in his teeth and bit down, pulling the knife free and stabbing the man over and over again until he quit moving.
Smelling that the Chechen had soiled himself in death, Gil rolled off and drew his pistol, waiting to see if there were any more holdouts. When he felt confident there were none, he staggered out into the sun to see an all-black twin-engine Puma helicopter setting down on a level patch of ground halfway between him and where he had left Dragunov. Six heavily armed men jumped out of the helo and formed a defensive perimeter, two of them armed with sniper rifles.
The Killer Egg remained on station five hundred feet above, its infrared-detecting eyeball keeping a careful watch on the surrounding terrain.
Gil was trotting toward the Puma when he saw a green cloud of smoke forming in the trees at the north end of the valley.
One of the snipers ran out to meet him. “Chief Shannon? I’m Doug Mason. I was with SEAL Team I from 2010 to 2013.”
Gil saw the helo had no markings of any kind, not even a tail number. “Who the hell are you guys?”
“Obsidian Optio. Better load up, Chief. We don’t have permission to be here.”
Gil pointed north. “That green smoke yonder is my man. He’s wounded.”
Mason glanced over at the smoke two hundred yards off. “Okay, Chief. We’ll get him.”
They loaded up, and the Puma flew along the ground, getting as close at it could to Dragunov’s position before setting down again. Gil and three other men dismounted and climbed up through the rocks to where Dragunov lay in the sun, soaked in his own blood. He had managed to crawl from the cleft in the rocks, but he hadn’t made it very far.
The Russian managed a weak smile. “You’re alive.”
“So are you.” Gil checked his wound and saw that his abdomen was torn open from left to right. “We gotta get you outta here, Ivan.”
The four of them lifted him up and carried him down to the helo.
“What about Kovalenko?” Dragunov asked as they hurried along.
“He got away,” Gil said. “Unless the helo got him.”
They set Dragunov down on the deck of the Puma and climbed in after him. Dragunov grabbed Gil’s arm. “Kovalenko wouldn’t be killed by a helicopter.”
“I know it.” Gil saw a pack on the bench seat with a SEAL Team trident sewn to the side of it. “This your kit?” he asked Mason.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Gimme your rifle,” he said, grabbing up the pack. “I have a mission to complete.”
“What are you talking about? They sent us in to pull you guys outta the fire.”
“Well, the fire’s out now,” Gil said. “And the last thing that fucker will expect is me coming after him.”
“What fucker? Chief, you’re bleeding!”
“Call Pope and tell him to have me picked up at the bridge crossing into Georgia as originally planned.”
Mason was confounded. “What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell is Pope?”
“Your superiors will know.” Gil took the McMillan TAC-338 sniper rifle from Mason’s hands.
“That’s my personal weapon.”