Red Hammer: Voodoo Plague Book 4 Page 25

  He started to speak to Igor, but Vostov barked out a rapid fire stream of Russian and he moved to her side of the vehicle. She opened the door and stepped down, doing an admirable job of disguising her injury. She pulled an ID case out of the now dirty lab coat she still wore, opening it and flashing it in front of his face, talking a mile a minute in an aggressive tone. I recognized the Russian words for the full name of the GRU, and also recognized the word for prisoners. She continued to hold the wallet open as she started waving her arms, voice growing even louder.

  The Captain had stiffened when he’d seen what I assumed was her GRU ID. As she grew louder he pulled himself into a rigid position of attention. Vostov paused in her tirade, barked out a single word and slapped her wallet shut, returning it to her pocket. The Russian officer held himself at attention for just a moment, snapped off a salute and turned to bark orders at his men. Two of the Humvees moved, opening up the road and Vostov gave the man a glare before climbing back in the MRAP and slamming the door.

  Igor was already back behind the wheel and floored the throttle, roaring through the opening in the roadblock and narrowly missing two Russian soldiers who had to jump for their lives. A full minute passed while Vostov leaned forward to watch in the outside mirror. Finally she relaxed and turned to me.

  “No one wants to interfere with a GRU operation.” She smiled. I was relieved to see the Russian sitting in back with us lower his rifle so the muzzle was pointed at the floor. He met my eyes and winked.

  I was impressed with her performance, but then Russian soldiers are just like soldiers everywhere else in the world. When confronted by an angry officer that happens to belong to a very powerful intelligence unit, you don’t ask questions. You mind your own business and hope to God the spook didn’t write down your name.

  As we approached Albuquerque, we began encountering more Russians patrolling in captured Hummers. Twice we were stopped, but Vostov showed her ID and the soldiers couldn’t apologize and wave us on about our business fast enough.

  “With that magical ID, why didn’t you want to just ride to the base with us?” I asked her after the second time we were questioned.

  “Because now I’m drawing attention to myself. And it will be noted that I came through security at the base with a captured American vehicle and three prisoners. If my superiors happen to notice, which is definitely possible, I will have a difficult time explaining my actions and where you are.” She answered.

  “But it does not matter. Because of my uncle, they will be afraid to take any action against me without concrete evidence. They may start an investigation, but like everything internal to the GRU that is political, it will take weeks. Well before that, if everything goes according to plan, things will change at home and I will be untouchable.”

  “And if things don’t go according to plan?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

  “Then I will be arrested, tried, convicted of treason and shot.” She answered more calmly than I thought I could have if I were in her shoes.

  The conversation died out and within ten minutes we had crossed the outer edge of the city and turned off the highway, following signs that pointed the way to Kirtland AFB main gate. When the gate was in sight, Vostov spoke to the two men in Russian. They nodded and she turned back to the front. The man in back with us moved his rifle back into a guarding position as I felt us slow for the gate guards.

  My legs were asleep from the pressure of Martinez sitting on me. She turned to look at me and I could see the fear in her eyes, but also resolve. Like me, she still had her pistol, hidden in her clothing. Unlike me she also had several blades concealed on her person. I knew she had one strapped to each forearm and I could feel the one in the back of her pants digging into my leg. Scott looked like he was dizzy and in pain, but ready to fight as well.

  I was proud of these two. They thought like warriors. If things went bad, they would fight. There was no possibility of surrender to the Russians. But if we had to fight, I needed my legs to function. Wrapping my hands around Martinez’ slender waist, I lifted her, spread my legs apart and lowered her to the metal deck between them. Pressure off, the pins and needles hit as normal blood flow resumed. I flexed the muscles in my legs and swiveled my feet around, loosening the joints.

  A moment later we came to a stop and Igor opened his door to speak with the guard. Ballistic windows are wonderful, but it sure would be nice if they could figure out a way to make them open like normal windows.

  There was a question in Russian from the guard and I could see three more men standing in a semi-circle to our front, rifles ready. I suspected there were more behind us. Also, it was more than likely that the Russians had something pointed at us with enough power to penetrate our armor and turn us all into pulp.

  Vostov leaned across the front and handed her ID to the guard, speaking much more calmly than she had to the Captain at the road block. The guard’s tone was deferential, but he apparently insisted on inspecting the vehicle and all the passengers. He kept Vostov’s ID and took Igor’s as well. Coming to the back he banged on the door and after a nod from Vostov the Russian guarding us reached out and opened it.

  The gate sentry looked in, two more men with rifles up and aimed at us backing him up. He said something and the soldier across from us fished out an ID card and handed it over. Three ID cards in hand he disappeared around the side of the vehicle, but the rifles pointing in at us didn’t waver. I spared a glance at Vostov, who looked completely at ease, as if she went through this daily. Perhaps she did.

  A long five minutes later the guard stepped back up to Igor’s open door and handed all three IDs to him. He said something that sounded respectful to Vostov, then turned his head and shouted to the men behind us. Rifles lowered, one of them stepped forward and slammed the rear door shut. Igor closed his door, waved at the guard and a moment later drove us through the gate onto Kirtland AFB.

  “Was everything about that normal?” I asked, once we cleared security.

  “Yes. Completely.” Vostov said, smiling.

  “They don’t inspect equipment coming on the base?” I asked, patting one of the nukes sitting next to me.

  “Not when there’s a GRU officer in the vehicle that just told them she was returning with captured technology and American prisoners. Not if they value their futures. All they did was check to make sure our IDs matched with the list of personnel assigned to this base, and that our IDs were valid. Once everything checked out, their job was done.”

  “How long do you think you have before someone starts asking questions?” Martinez spoke up.

  “Two days, maybe three. Maybe less when one of the Stealth Hawks disappears. No matter. The bombs will be on a cargo flight to Moscow in a little over 12 hours.” She answered, then turned to Igor and gave directions, pointing towards a road that followed the perimeter fence and would take us to the far side of the base where our ride was waiting.

  48

  It’s around 500 air miles from Albuquerque to Oklahoma City. The Stealth Hawk’s cruise speed was lower than a standard Black Hawk, but it still only took a little over six hours to make the flight. It had been surprisingly easy to steal the helicopter from the Russians. Well, can you really ‘steal’ something that was yours to begin with? Anyway, there had been no security posted at the hangar when Igor pulled to a stop.

  When the Russians captured Kirtland they had transported all the Air Force personnel at the base to the Bernalillo County Jail which was only a few miles away. Throwing the doors open, they had released all of the prisoners, not concerned with turning lose murderers, rapists, arsonists, and all other variety of felons. Jail cleared of civilians, they had stuffed the facility with every American who had been unlucky enough to be on the base when they arrived.

  A platoon of infantry was assigned to guard the jail, and with security around the perimeter of the base the Russians hadn’t felt the need to expend manpower guarding locations within the fence. This just made it ea
sier for us. For that matter, as we had driven the perimeter road I had noted that it would have been simple for us to breach the fence and gain access to the hangar if we hadn’t had Vostov to escort us through the gate.

  The helicopters were exactly where Vostov had said they would be. Sitting in the hangar they looked more like something out a science fiction movie, but this was due to the design changes necessary to make them stealthy to radar. I heard Martinez catch her breath when we walked into the hangar. I looked at her and the look on her face reminded me of a child in a toy store.

  Walking to the closest helicopter she checked it over, shook her head and moved to the next. After checking all of them she came over to where I stood with Vostov.

  “None of them are fueled. We’ll have to wheel one out to fuel it before we can leave.” She said.

  “Pick the one you want and let’s get going. We’ve only got about five hours of darkness left.” I answered, checking my watch.

  Martinez nodded and trotted off to a small tractor parked against the wall of the hangar. Moments later she had it running and pulled up to the nose gear of the aircraft she had selected. They all looked the same to me, but after checking each one over something about that one had gotten her attention. Tractor hooked to the front landing gear, she waved at me and Igor and I rolled the massive doors the rest of the way open.

  Helicopter out in the open, Martinez parked it next to an in-ground fuel point and wasted no time in connecting a hose to the Stealth Hawk. While she monitored the fueling, the two Russians helped me load my three bombs and secure them with heavy, rubber bungee cords. Scott climbed aboard and settled into a web sling, rifle across his knees. I tossed my pack in next to his and Martinez’ and turned to Vostov.

  “We’ve made a good start, Captain.” I said. “When this is over, I just hope our two countries can work together to rebuild, not continue fighting each other. There’s enough enemies in the world.”

  “We will meet again, Major.” She leaned in, and in very Russian fashion kissed me on each cheek before turning and climbing aboard the MRAP.

  When the fueling completed, Martinez and I had boarded and she’d started the engines. The first thing I noticed was how quiet this bird was compared to a standard Black Hawk. Then she lifted us into the air and I was even more impressed when the noise of the rotor didn’t threaten to rattle my brain into mush.

  We exited Kirtland to the east, almost immediately flying over nothing by empty desert. She kept us low, flying nap of the Earth. I climbed into the co-pilots seat and pulled on the helmet that was tethered to the control panel with a long cable. When I lowered the visor, a screen flared to life in front of my eyes showing the view from the front in glorious HD night vision. In the top right I could see our speed, heading and altitude, surprised that we were traveling at 130 knots only 50 feet above the ground.

  Looking back at the forward view I got a knot in my stomach when I remembered that telephone poles, cell phone towers, all kinds of things were taller than 50 feet. But as I watched the ground rush under us I realized that Martinez would be able to clearly see any obstacle in plenty of time to avoid it. Leaving her to it, I returned to the back, checked on Scott and stretched out on the gently vibrating deck. I think I was asleep in less than a minute.

  I woke up with a start when Scott kicked my foot. I looked up at him and he grinned back through obvious pain.

  “We’re 10 minutes out of Tinker.” He said. I nodded and stifled a groan when I stood up.

  The body was tired and sore, and sleeping on a hard, steel deck hadn’t helped anything. And my ass still hurt from the vaccine injection. Rubbing my backside, I climbed forward into the cockpit, squinting at the early morning sun shining directly into my eyes. I worked the helmet onto my head and lowered the visor. My view changed to the HD cameras mounted on the exterior of the aircraft, the electronics automatically compensating for the blinding sunlight.

  “How we doing, Martinez?” I asked on the intercom, stifling a yawn.

  “No worries, sir. I’ve been on the radio with Tinker for half an hour and they’re expecting us. Seems there’s a Colonel Crawford mighty anxious to see you.”

  Great. I still believed I had done the right thing in making the deal with the Russians. I just hoped the Colonel agreed.

  “We’ve got an escort.” Martinez said and I looked to the side to see a pair of F-35s flying in formation with us. Turning my head, the helmet seamlessly transitioned across several cameras, and I could see two more on our left.

  I watched in the display as we descended, then looked ahead and saw the sprawl of Oklahoma City. It looked so fucking normal. There was traffic on the freeways and surface streets. Not much, and I was sure nothing close to pre-attack volumes, but there were people down there going about their daily lives. But for how much longer? Could we take the data in the flash drive and synthesize enough vaccine to save them? And even if we pulled that off, there were still tens of millions of infected roaming around the country. What happened when they decided to come to dinner?

  The four fighter jets peeled off with a roar, leaving us to descend the final 2,000 feet on our own. We cleared the perimeter of Tinker AFB and Martinez cut our speed to under 50 knots, flying over row after row of barracks, then down the length of a runway. At the far end a row of hangars sat with their doors rolled open, two Humvees, an ambulance and an Air Force staff car sitting in front of one of them.

  Martinez cut our forward speed to zero and made a sedate landing, though I suspected she would have preferred to execute a high speed combat landing. Every pilot I’ve ever known does. Descending that last 20 feet to the tarmac I looked towards the waiting vehicles and saw Colonel Crawford and Captain Blanchard step out of one of the Hummers. The other Hummer disgorged four Rangers and three Air Force officers stepped out of the staff car. Where was Jackson? Was he still searching for Rachel and Dog?

  “Good to see you, Major.” Crawford said after I climbed down out of the Stealth Hawk and walked forward to meet him. “Your pilot said you have some special packages on board.”

  “Yes, sir.” I had already taken the keys out of my pack and handed them to Blanchard. He headed for the side door of the aircraft, Rangers close on his heels. They would take possession of the nukes and make sure they stayed secure.

  “Where’s Jackson, Colonel? Did he find Rachel and Dog?” Now that the mission was over I let myself think about them. Think about Rachel. Acknowledge the ball of worry that I’d kept tamped down in my gut for the duration of the mission. When I thought about Rachel a pang started deep inside me and threatened to strangle my breathing. Was this just fear for someone I cared for deeply, or was this love? She had wanted to know my feelings when she’d professed hers, and I still didn’t know the answer.

  All I knew was that it was just as important to me to find her now as it was to find Katie. Was that my answer? Was I in love with two women? I shook my head, telling myself I was being ridiculous, and focused on what the Colonel was saying.

  “There’s a lot to tell you, and I suspect you have a lot to tell me. I only see three packages coming off that aircraft.” I followed his gaze, watching as the Rangers loaded the bombs into the back of their Humvee.

  “Yes, sir. There is. But you didn’t answer my question. Where’s Jackson. What’s going on with the search?”

  49

  Rachel tried to scream when Jackson’s hands went around her throat, but he squeezed so hard she couldn’t move any air in or out. He was still wearing the seatbelt and strained against it, trying to turn and move his jaws to her, but it held tight. She felt her feet leave the bed of the truck as he pulled her closer and put a hand on his chest to brace against him. He was incredibly strong and it did no good. Snapping teeth just inches from her face, Rachel remembered the iron lug wrench in her right hand and jammed the end of it into Jackson’s mouth.

  Teeth broke and his lips were torn open, but he didn’t flinch. She started pounding on his head with the
tool, splitting his face and scalp open, but having no other effect. His grip was still like bands of steel around her throat and she could feel the edges of her consciousness starting to close in. She could no longer hear the snarling, only a roar like the ocean in her ears. She felt his bloody lips brush her cheek.

  Suddenly one of his hands was no longer constricting her neck and she gulped a ragged breath. Her hearing returned and she panicked when she heard additional snarls in the truck with her until she realized it was Dog. He had leapt in through the missing window and had clamped his powerful jaws onto one of Jackson’s arms.

  Jackson waved his trapped arm around, strong enough to drag Dog around the cramped cab. Rachel renewed her attack with the tire iron, this time pounding on the wrist of the arm that was still holding her. If she could break the wrist he wouldn’t have the strength to hold on. She hoped.

  The third blow did the trick, his grip slackening. Rachel put her hands on the window frame and pushed, tearing her throat out of his damaged hand. She stumbled backwards in the bed of the truck, losing her balance and falling to her ass in the muddy water. Dog was still inside, savagely ripping at Jackson’s arms, but the confined space prevented him from getting the advantage and tearing his throat out.

  “Dog! Come here!” Rachel shouted, her voice hoarse.

  Dog disengaged and in a flash jumped through the window and splashed into the water next to Rachel. He pressed his body up against hers, facing the front of the truck and she could feel him shaking. Or was that her shaking so hard it only felt like Dog?

  They sat that way for a long time, Rachel’s arms locked around Dog, his head against her chest. Jackson could hear them breathing and continuously tried to turn his body to reach them, but the seat belt was stronger than he was. He was trapped. Stuck in the seat and only able to snarl and flail his arms. Tears started rolling down her face, then deep sobs racked her body as she buried her face in Dog’s matted fur.