EndWar

“They’re down!” he shouted. “But he’s still holding the rope. He’s not letting go! Cut it! Cut it!”

Gutierrez immediately unsheathed his Blackhawk Tatang, a thirteen-inch-long serrated blade that he lifted high in the air, then—

Thump! He cut nylon like butter, leaving a deep scar on the helo’s deck.

“They’re clear!” cried McAllen.

“Everybody, brace for impact!” warned Khaki. “Three, two, one!”

THIRTY-TWO

“He’s been shot in the leg. Caught him just above the armor. Looks like it missed the artery, though. Get Beethoven over here A-SAP,” Vatz told Black Bear.

The warrant office acknowledged, then Vatz finished cutting open the medic’s pant leg with the Mark I the medic had given him. The Masters of Defense knife had a secondary blade at the butt that was specifically designed for cutting cord or clothes off an injured combatant.

As Vatz worked, his attention was divided between treating the medic and checking the perimeter for remaining troops.

A couple of gunshots sounded from somewhere south.

“That’s our guys,” said Band-Aid.

“You have a good ear.”

The medic nodded, then flinched in pain.

Vatz had the morphine injection ready. “Okay.”

Band-Aid tensed, took the shot, then relaxed a little and said, “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Jac. I’m no medic. I could still kill you.”

“Please don’t. I’ll tell you what, though — you’re some damned operator.”

“Nope. Just doing my job like everyone else.”

“Your plan worked.”

“Sometimes you get lucky.”

“Like me.” The knot of agony that had gripped the medic’s face began to loosen. “Could be worse, right?”

“Right. Morphine kicking in?”

“Yeah. Feels good. Next time make it a double.”

Vatz cracked a slight grin.

“Bali, this is Beethoven, over?” called the team’s assistant medic, Staff Sergeant Paul Dresden. “Coming right up on you, over.”

“Come on, out.”

The assistant medic arrived. He had a scruffy blond beard and wore an expression of deep concern. He’d been given the call sign Beethoven by the captain since he was, in fact, an accomplished pianist.

Vatz gave Beethoven an update of what he’d done so far.

Band-Aid thrust out his hand. “Thanks, Nathan.”

“Any time, brother.” He turned to Beethoven. “I’ll get the portable litter ready. We’ll get him back to the terminal.”

A voice sounded in Vatz’s earpiece. “Bali, this is Black Bear. Just got a report from Zodiac Six. We have at least a battalion-size force coming down from Behchoko. ETA on their first elements is four hours, six for the rest of the battalion. We need to get back to the roadblock, see how much damage has been done. Zodiac wants to take a few men into the neighborhoods to recon their sniper positions. I want you to lead the roadblock team, over.”

“Roger that. Any word yet from the Tenth?”

“They have sorties in the air, some already on the ground. Air support is en route, too, but no one’s committing to an exact ETA yet. I’ve pressed them hard. I’m sure that battalion coming down has stepped up their plans.”

“Roger that. We’re bringing up Band-Aid to the terminal, then I’ll organize the team. Send down some guys to get Captain Godfrey’s body out of my truck. See you in a few, out.”

“Hey, Sergeant, you know they’re all talking about you,” said Beethoven as he helped Vatz get Band-Aid onto the litter they had just unrolled.

“Who’s talking?”

“The rest of the team, that’s who.”

Vatz’s tone turned defensive. “They all talking smack about the new team sergeant, eh? Heard about what happened to me in Moscow?”

“They’re saying you might be the best operator they’ve ever seen.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not kidding.”

Vatz gave a little snort. “You guys haven’t been around much.”

“All I know is, I’m sticking close because you don’t die. Put me on your roadblock team.”

“My luck will run out. Either way, I always draw a lot of fire.”

Beethoven grinned. “Sign me up.”

“We’ll see.”

The Ka-29 slammed into the ground so hard that the booms supporting the landing gear snapped off.

The chopper slid forward, then came to a sudden halt, driving Sergeant Raymond McAllen hard against his seat’s straps as a wave of snow crashed down over the canopy.

“Palladino? Gutierrez? Go get them!” ordered McAllen, bolting from his seat and opening the door. “Friskis? Szymanski? Security outside!” McAllen crossed toward the cockpit. “Khaki, how we doing?”

“I think we survived,” mused the pilot, studying the gauges. “Still got some battery power. Good news: the fuel leak has been fixed.”

“Yeah, since the tank is dry. You’re a comedian.” McAllen turned and slammed a palm on the Russian pilot’s shoulder. “Well, Boris, you might get to see America after all.”

“My name is Captain Pravota. Address me as such.”

“All right, Captain, you can get up now, get to the back, and we’ll fit you with a nice little pair of zipper cuffs.”

“No need. I won’t resist. Have I?”

“Just follow orders. You can take orders from a lowly sergeant like me, can’t you?”

The old pilot frowned. “Just leave me here.”

“Nah. You’re coming. Everybody loves a defector.”

“As one soldier to another, do me honor and shoot me.”