Black Dragon, page 2
Tarasova peered down at her fuel gauge and saw that they would soon have to turn back and head for home. Swearing to herself in frustration, Tarasova couldn’t believe that her aviation regiment hadn’t seen a single Japanese plane since the invasion of the Kuril Islands had begun. She had two kills to her name and was eager to bring down three more planes before the war ended, so she could become part of a small but elite fraternity of female aces. Seeing that her day would probably end in frustration, Tarasova was about to tell her wingman that they needed to head home, when, through the clouds, she spotted something. Her heart began to beat faster. She turned her head so she could see better. A smile soon formed on her face. Flying just below them was a Japanese transport plane, trying to use the clouds for cover.
“Oksana, look down,” said Tarasova into her radio handset.
With a wave of her hand, Oksana indicated that she also saw their prey.
As they had practiced many times before, Tarasova took the lead as her plane, like an eagle, dove out of the sky, while Oksana formed up slightly back, always ready to help should she need to. A second later, Tarasova saw the transport plane fill her gun sight. Depressing the trigger on her small steering wheel, she felt her fighter’s 20mm cannon and 12.7mm machine gun fire in unison. Tracers, like long, red lines cutting through the air, streamed toward her target. The plane shuddered slightly as she fired off a five-second burst into the fuselage of the Japanese plane.
Tanaka was about to stand up and order the pilot to turn the plane around, when the fuselage of the plane violently erupted inward. Bullets and long, razor-sharp splinters of metal tore through the aircraft as if it were paper. Professor Kase died instantly when a 20mm cannon round tore through the plane and struck him in the midsection, cutting him in two. Blood flew everywhere, making Tanaka cringe as far back as he could in his seat. The noise of bullets tearing through the plane was deafening. Tanaka screamed in fear and brought his hands up to block the terrifying noise. As quick as it happened, the attack stopped. As he looked out of his blood-splattered window, his heart sank when he saw two Soviet fighters dive straight past their transport plane, missing them by only a couple of meters as they disappeared into the clouds.
In the cockpit of the doomed plane, the young Japanese pilot broke out in a cold sweat. His mouth went dry with fear. He hadn’t expected to have to fly for his life. Remembering his flight school training, he banked hard right and dove straight down, hoping to lose their attackers. A moment later, he looked out of the side window in his cockpit; a feeling of dread seeped into his tired body. He was far too inexperienced to tangle with the two fighter planes that were undoubtedly lining themselves up for another attack. He barely knew how to fly the plane, let alone any combat maneuvers that might help him shake their attackers.
In the back of the plane, Tanaka grasped for whatever he could to stop himself from flying about inside the rapidly diving plane. He felt his stomach rise up into his chest. Fear filled his mind. His palms became sweaty. He had never been so terrified in his life. Looking over his shoulder, Tanaka saw that the army major had also been hit during the attack. A long, deep gash cut into the dying man’s chest; bright red blood bubbled out of the wound. All of a sudden, the plane shuddered in the air as the left-hand engine began to spew a long trail of dark, oily smoke behind it. Tanaka wasn’t a pilot, but he knew that they no longer had any chance of escape with only one undamaged engine. He closed his eyes and prayed that the end would come quickly. With shaking hands, he reached into his briefcase, pulled out the picture of his parents, and held it tight to his chest. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to die alone.
With a wide grin on her face, Tarasova watched as the doomed Ki-56 transport plane tried to turn back toward Matua Island. She knew it was a futile gesture on the pilot’s behalf; the damage she had inflicted on the plane was too much for it to remain aloft for much longer. Deciding that she had best finish the transport plane off before her fuel gauge slipped any lower, Tarasova deftly brought her fighter in line just behind the transport plane. She looked through her weapons’ sight and fired off another long burst from her machine guns. She watched as the Japanese plane banked over and then plummeted out of the sky straight at the dark green waters of the Pacific Ocean barely a hundred meters below it. A few seconds later, the plane struck the water as hard as if it had hit land, shattering apart. The ocean quickly wrapped itself around the doomed Ki-56 and then like an unseen hand, it pulled the plane beneath the waves. The plane slowly began its long descent into the depths of the ocean. Not even bothering to see if there were any survivors, Tarasova broke radio silence and informed her base that she had scratched a Japanese transport, giving her three kills. Turning back to the north, Tarasova and her wingman flew home without giving any thought as to what had happened today and whom they had killed; it was something that would return decades later, threatening to bring about a new and even deadlier conflict.
2
Colombia
Present day
Death stalked the night.
The tropical downpour stopped as suddenly as it had begun, replaced by a warm wind that raced through the lush jungle valley. Under a dark, cloud-filled sky, a brown-haired capybara warily stepped out from under the branches of a low-hanging tree and raised her snout up, sniffing the night air; behind her, three small pups rooted in the wet ground looking for food. Something unseen—but very real—in the dark told the capybara to be wary. She had already lost one pup to an ocelot earlier in the day, and she wasn’t in the mood to run into any more hungry predators. The night came to life with the sound of gunfire. She had heard that sound before and didn’t need to be told that trouble was coming. With a loud grunt, she turned about and led her litter back away from the path just as two people emerged out of the dark, running for their lives down the narrow trail.
Stopping for a few seconds to catch their breath, the two rain-soaked people looked back over their shoulders, peering into the nearly pitch-black night, hoping that they had somehow managed to lose their pursuers in the thick tangle of trees. The sound of a flare rising up into the night told them otherwise. Realizing that they couldn’t stay where they were, together they turned and continued running down the slippery, mud-covered animal trail, knowing that to stop was to die. They ran as fast as their tired legs could carry them. Together they pushed on, tripping and stumbling over gnarled roots protruding up from the soaked ground. Barely able to see, they put their heads down, and together made their way down the winding trail.
A moment later, the distinct pop of a flare bursting open filled the night air. A bright green light bathed the jungle forest as the flare slowly descended from the sky; the tall trees sending long shadows creeping across the mucky trail. Ryan Mitchell froze in his tracks, grabbing the hand of the terrified young woman beside him. Like statues, they stood there, motionless, waiting for the flare to burn itself out. Ryan’s training told him that if they made any sudden movement, their pursuers might see them.
Barely a few hundred meters behind them, a pair of dogs barked and snarled to be let off their leashes; they had their scent.
Mitchell swore. He knew they had to keep moving, or the men following their tracks would surely catch them. Looking down, he saw terror in the eyes of the person he had come to help. He shook his head; it should have been a relatively straightforward rescue operation. Yet it had gone horribly wrong.
Susan Thomas, a lean and tall young woman, moaned as she held her hand to her side. Dark, sticky blood seeped through her slender fingers. Wounded by a shot that had grazed her during their escape, she was losing blood.
Mitchell wasn’t in much better shape. Shot in the right shoulder, he could feel a burning pain radiate out from the wound every time he tried moving his right arm. Luckily, the shot had gone right through. Still, it hurt like hell.
Gritting his teeth in anger and frustration, Mitchell doubted that Susan could move any faster than she already was. They would have to make the best speed they could, hoping that fear and adrenaline combined would keep her going until they made it to safety. He ripped off a piece of his mud-stained shirt, reached down, placed it over Susan’s wound, and then delicately placed her hand over the top to help slow the bleeding.
Five months ago, while working in Colombia with some college friends, Susan had been abducted from an archaeological dig site by thugs from a local drug cartel that had recently branched out into the more lucrative business of kidnapping, and was held for ransom. After several agonizing months of not knowing where she was or what had happened to her, the cartel contacted her parents and demanded ten million dollars for her return. To show that they meant business, she was brutally beaten. The graphic images were e-mailed to her parents, convincing them to pay off her captors. Whatever the cost, they wanted their daughter back alive.
In the darkness behind them, a threatening voice called out.
Another answered.
Mitchell swore; they were closing in on them. He spun about on his heels and aimed his Heckler and Koch 9mm pistol behind them as if expecting their pursuers to emerge from the jungle at any moment. Clenched firmly in his left hand, Mitchell wasn’t even sure how many rounds remained in the magazine. He had no extra ammunition on him; whatever was in the pistol, taken from a dead kidnapper during their escape, was all he had.
The light from the flare burnt out, plunging the forest back into darkness.
Mitchell helped Susan up on her feet. She let out a pained moan. Perhaps her wound was worse than he thought; there just wasn’t time to check . . . they were being hunted.
Pushing his sweat-soaked hair away from his eyes, Mitchell looked to the east. His plan, he thought, had been simple enough. When the guards were busy with some of the local prostitutes, Mitchell intended to secretly whisk Susan out of the cartel’s camp and then link up with the remainder of his team waiting for him on a prominent gravel road a couple of kilometers away. Yet, somehow, at the last minute his cover had been blown. Before he could get Susan out of the camp, a deadly firefight erupted. During the running gun battle Mitchell managed to kill four of Susan’s captors before they were both hit, slowing them down to a painful hobble.
Not far behind, a flashlight beam lit up the trail . . . they had to go.
Mitchell tenderly placed his left arm around Susan’s slender waist. “We need to keep moving,” said Mitchell with a wink, trying to encourage her.
With a weak smile, Susan looked up and nodded, taking another breath to steel herself against the shooting pain. She placed an arm around Mitchell’s neck for support. With a nod at Mitchell, they began to move as fast as they could down the narrow game path.
From behind, the sound of dogs snarling and barking, grew closer by the second.
Mitchell could feel the fear in Susan; her heart was racing wildly. The sound of the dogs made her shake in terror. He didn’t doubt they had repeatedly threatened her with the massive beasts. Mitchell had seen them pacing back and forth inside their fetid kennels, a diabolic cross between a wolf and a pit bull.
“Not too much farther,” Mitchell whispered, hoping that he was right.
They had barely gone a dozen meters when a root caught Susan’s foot. Tumbling forward, she fell out of Mitchell’s grasp and landed on her knees. A loud moan escaped her lips. He bent down and saw that Susan was close to blacking out. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he scooped her up in his arms. Taking one last look back over his shoulder, Mitchell began running as fast as he could down the slick trail.
Barely a second later, another flare opened up right above them. Shadows thrown up by the trees appeared like long, ghostlike fingers trying to stop them from getting away.
Shots rang out. A couple of bullets whipped through the branches close to Mitchell’s head. He ducked his head and then picked up his pace. He knew had to keep moving. If they stopped, a horrible and painful death undoubtedly awaited them both.
Behind Mitchell, in the menacing dark, the sound of paws running in the mud filled his mind with a primal fear.
They were coming.
The hulking hunting dogs had been let off their leashes. Snarling loudly, they sprinted down the muddy path hunting down their prey.
Mitchell’s injured body was fighting against him. The pain from his wound seemed to grow worse with every step that he took. The muscles in his legs burnt, while his lungs cried out for oxygen. It was only his fear for Susan that kept his tired and battered body moving. Mitchell broke out from the cover of the jungle; thankfully, he felt a gravel road under his aching feet. He looked around and saw that they were alone. Quickly deciding to head north, Mitchell prayed that his people would be waiting for him somewhere down the road. A quick phone call to a number monitored by his team was all he had been able to do before all hell broke loose in the cartel’s camp. He hoped that it was enough of a warning to get his people in place.
Susan cried out and pulled herself tight into Mitchell’s arms.
Mitchell’s heart leapt. Barely ten meters behind them, the massive hunting dogs, like demonic hounds from hell, were closing quickly, their sharp, white teeth gleaming in the light from another flare hanging directly above the dirt road. Mitchell knew that even without Susan in his arms he couldn’t outrun the powerful beasts. He stopped, lowered Susan to the ground, raised his pistol, and then quickly fired two rounds into the closest dog. With a yelp, it fell to the ground, dead.
Taking aim at the next dog, Mitchell pulled the trigger—and nothing happened.
Mitchell cursed. The slide on the pistol was all the way back . . . it was empty. Screaming obscenities, he hurled the useless pistol as hard as he could at the charging dog. Unfortunately, his aim was off. The pistol flew past the snarling dog’s head and landed somewhere in the dark.
The dog went straight for Mitchell’s outstretched arm. Trained to take down threats, the large dog sunk its teeth into his forearm like a sprung bear trap, trapping its victim.
Pain shot through Mitchell’s left arm. He felt himself dragged to the ground by the hundred-pound beast. He was forced to let go of Susan. Mitchell felt his arm being tugged back and forth, as if he were nothing more than a child’s rag doll.
A deep, gruff voice from somewhere in the dark called to the dog in Spanish.
Susan lay upon the ground beside Mitchell, her hands on her bloody wound. Tears filled her deep-green eyes. She couldn’t go back. She would rather die now on the dirt road than spend another day in captivity, in fear.
The pain was excruciating. Mitchell gritted his teeth as he tried pulling his arm free. It was no use; the animal’s jaw was just too powerful.
Flashlights lit up the road. A man whistled loudly. A moment later, the dog let go of Mitchell and obediently ran back to its master.
Mitchell let out a deep breath. The pain in his left arm from where the dog had bitten him was agonizing.
Men approached, laughing with one another.
Mitchell raised his hand to block the light from the flashlights shining in his eyes. He couldn’t see who was there, but he had no doubt that one of the men was Duran, the leader of the cartel, with some of his men walking toward them. Biting his lip, he shook his head in defeat. It was a feeling that he wasn’t used to.
A dark figure approached. Clutched in his dirt-stained hands was an AK 74.
“Mister Williams, you really screwed up. Or should I call you Captain Ryan Mitchell?” The man taunted him in fluent English.
Mitchell knew the voice well enough; it was indeed Duran. A former Colombian soldier who had sold his services to a local drug cartel before taking over one after its patron died under mysterious circumstances.
Mitchell took a deep breath to calm his beating heart and then sat up on the dirt road. He reached over and pulled Susan into his arms, trying to control his own growing feeling of desperation and her fear.
“So, Duran, what gave me away?” said Mitchell in Spanish, trying for time.
Duran stepped closer, his dark eyes narrowing. “Oh, you were very good. I’ll give you that, Mister Mitchell. Your cover story as a washed-up Yankee soldier was perfect. No one suspected a thing. In fact, I was thinking of promoting you within my organization. The problem was that poor old Zayas, my former deputy, was a truly suspicious man. He had many Colombian police and military informers in his back pocket, so he had you checked out and to his surprise, it would appear that you have been a busy boy all over South America over the past few years, Mister Mitchell.”
“Well, I guess the overly efficient little toad won’t be checking on anyone in the future,” responded Mitchell, thinking of the botched escape from the camp. Zayas had been the one to sound the alarm and the first one to die. Clearing his mind, Mitchell looked up, hoping that Duran would become overconfident and step just a little closer. It was his only chance; if he could somehow grab the thug’s AK, he’d have a chance to kill the other men still lurking in the shadows. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
“Enough of this crap, Patrón,” said a man, holding the surviving dog in the dark. “Just shoot the Yankee bastard and drag the girl back to the camp. I think it’s time we sent her parents a new video of her partying with some of the boys.”
Mitchell looked down; Susan was trembling uncontrollably. There was no doubt in both their minds what her captors intended to do to her this time.
