EndWar

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!” 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.