EndWar

But before they could reach said tarmac, Colonel Stack accosted them. “Sergeant McAllen?”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

“This your team?” The colonel’s gaze played over the five men standing on the ramp behind McAllen.

“Yes, sir.”

“You boys feel like taking a little ride?”

They all boomed: “Sir, yes, sir!”

“I’m talking way up north, behind enemy lines.”

McAllen smiled. “That’s the way we roll, sir.”

“Very well. Seems there’s a pilot who got shot down. It seems the president has taken a liking to her. So this comes down from The Man himself.”

“Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but it’s obvious why you picked us. We’re the best, of course, but—”

“Slow down, Sergeant. And stow that ego before you hurt someone with it. Truth is, I didn’t pick you for this. I wanted your green Marine asses up on Highway 63, but apparently there’s a major in Tampa who took orders from The Man, and she personally requested you boys.”

“You hear that, Sergeant?” cried McAllen’s new assistant, Scott Rule. “We haven’t even dropped a Russian and we’re already famous.”

McAllen grinned crookedly, then silenced the man with a look.

The colonel went on, “So this major heard you were the first team at that crash site in Cuba. She must’ve figured you’re doing something right. Bad news is, best I got to get you up there is a civilian chopper. It’s a Bell LongRanger III. Company’s called Highland. Might be a blessing. The Russians might not take a potshot at a tourist bird. But that’s only your ride up. I’m still working on your ride home. There’s an HMMWV coming off one of the other 130s. You’ll hop on and take that up to Highland’s hangar. Official warning orders to follow. Questions?”

“I assume we have the last known GPS coordinates of this pilot?”

“We do. She’s northwest of Behchoko, though she hasn’t activated her survival kit’s beacon.”

“Sat phone?”

“Iridium is down.”

“So there’s no guarantee she’s even still alive.”

“Sergeant, you come back with the woman or her body. That’s what The Man wants.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stack glanced off in the distance, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. “There’s your ride now.”

Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken sat inside the Stryker with the rest of his rifle squad. It would be at least another six hours before they reached the outskirts of Calgary, and the ride east on Interstate 90 had taken forever because of the patches of ice and civilians getting in the way to gape at the brigade rumbling east. They finally had turned onto 95 to head north.

The Stryker’s driver, Private First Class Penny Hassa, was a spunky, freckle-faced twenty-one-year-old who kept Rakken entertained with her sarcastic remarks regarding the traffic, the weather, and anything else that struck her.

She’d assume a general’s deep drawl and announce into the intercom, “Gentlemen, the rules are different in this Stryker. We have a strict sexual harassment policy — we believe in it!”

And that’d inspire Rakken into a fit of laughter. In point of fact, Hassa didn’t take any crap from anyone, but she loved to tease.

The vehicle’s commander, Sergeant Timothy Appleman, who was also wired into the intercom, allowed Hassa her indulgences, and Rakken certainly appreciated that.

Rakken and his troops sat knee-to-knee, facing one another, their heavy packs and boxes of ammo, along with a half dozen AT-4s, jammed into the storage areas above and behind their seats. Since it was too loud to converse, they slept, read, or listened to music or watched videos on their iPods.

The squad was divided into two teams, A and B. A team had a team leader, a grenadier (GREN) who carried a rifle with attached M203 grenade launcher, an automatic rifleman (AR) with an M249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon), and a rifleman with the AT-4 antitank weapon (RMAT). B team had all of the same, except the RMAT was replaced by a DM — a designated marksman equipped with an M16A4 with a heavy barrel and improved optics.

While the Force Recon Marines, SEALs, and Army Special Forces were already fielding a lot of the new future force warrior gear, budget restrictions along with heavy pressure from liberal antiwar lobbyists had forced the Army to push back implementation of most of that high-tech equipment to the general infantry to at least 2032, war notwithstanding.

The unnerving thing was, while Rakken and his people were headed into urban terrain with outdated weapons, the Russian Spetsnaz had dropped in with state-of-the-art firepower. Rakken’s squad could be facing anything from directed energy weapons to the microwave weapons made famous by the Euros to Electrodarts delivering fifty thousand volts.

And of course, the threat of biological and chemical weapons always loomed.

“You guys are awful quiet,” said PFC Hassa.

“Just thinking, Hassa,” said Rakken. “I got a buddy who got sent up to High Level.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Way up in Alberta. I’m just hoping he’s okay.”

“Aw, you believe that?” she asked, interrupting him.

“What?”

“Bunch of kids in a pickup truck just drove by and flipped us the bird!”

“Call in some air support.”