Blood Covenent, page 6
How the sixty-knot winds, the forward momentum of theHercules, and the storm’s swirling vortex would affect their plummet through space at terminal velocity was a subject for chaos theory.
The lights in the aft bay flickered from green to red. “One minute, gentlemen,” came the pilot’s tinny voice through their helmet headsets.
The staff sergeant directing the jump tapped them on the shoulders and indicated he was unhooking them from the plane’s oxygen system. Jim and Jerry nodded as they flipped on their own oxygen tanks. They had thirty minutes before the tanks expired. They hefted their tethered tote bags and made their way to the rear of the aft bay. The ramp was beginning to open and the terrible howling from the storm and slipstream filled the interior of the plane.
Louis Edwards stood bundled in his Air Force parka. He was secured with a safety line to the interior of the plane, as was the staff sergeant. Jerry flashed him a thumbs up and walked to the middle of the ramp. The air currents whipped at their flight suits threatening to suck them into the maelstrom. They stood surrounded by a red glow from theHercules’ internal lamps.
“Twenty seconds,” reported the pilot.
Jim closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He hated leaping out of airplanes. He did not care much for the cold, even though he had grown up in Minnesota and cold was no stranger. But it was the interminable drop through space and time they were about to perform that got to him. He thought briefly of his lovely Lynn, his wife and life partner, and wondered what she was doing right now.
Jerry tended to dance towards the edge. Before him was the great thrill of leaping into the abyss and testing himself against the vagaries of gravity and physics. He believed in his skills and his equipment, and he was certain the very hand of God would lead him to the ground safely. He glanced back at Harper and said quietly, “You ready, Jimmy?”
Harper nodded, not trusting the tremor in his chest.
“Five seconds!”
They moved to the edge of the ramp holding their tote bags, and Harper turned to Jerry. “You know Jerry, I really never liked this part.”
Jerry giggled, sounding more like a honking goose. “I know, Jimbo!”
“Two… One… Jump! Jump! Jump!”
They tossed their tote bags first and leaped second. The storm swallowed them whole.
Louis watched the ramp slowly rise to a locked and closed position. His belief in the Almighty was tenuous at best, but he murmured a short prayer anyway.
* * * *
Harper dropped through the clouds, the mist, the freezing ice, the swirling snow, and the booming thunder of a late autumn storm turning quickly into an early winter blizzard. The wind buffeted and slammed into him. He rocked back and forth. The tote bag tugged him downwards until both he and Jerry fell as fast as a man can fall towards the ground.
He sucked steadily on the dry oxygen and did his best to ignore the heart-stopping horror he felt while dropping like a rock. Special Forces soldiers are never supposed to have fear or experience doubts. Everyone believed them to be super soldiers. Harper knew better than to believe their press clippings and glowing Hollywood movies.
Let him face flesh and blood, tooth and claw, with both feet firmly planted on the ground, and he was a match for anyone. Drop him from an airplane into the dark, cold night and expect him to wait until they were less than a thousand feet above the ground before his chute opened—a different story. His teeth bit down on the rubber oxygen mask, and even in these deathly cold temperatures, he was sweating.
He thought ahead to the night’s duty, fully expecting everything to work, because Jerry told him it would. Jerry was his talisman for dropping out of airplanes. When he was with Jerry, everything would turn out. However, here in this blank night of cloud and rain, with the air roaring passed his ears and every bit of his skin covered up, he was alone. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open.
Nothing changed! The clouds and wind were still around him reaching out to strangle his life force. He pulled away from the clouds, but there was nowhere to run.Please, God, don’t let me die. He prayed fervently, and a child’s story came to mind of another time. A warrior who had won a great victory and fled into the desert, he faced a great wind, earthquake, and fire, only to finally realize God’s voice was a gentle blowing wind.
Harper relaxed slightly, then the chute snapped open and his straps pulled tight. The tote bag reminded him of its weight. “What a ride! Hey, Jimmy that was quite a ride!” Boomed Jerry in his helmet. Jerry was one of those kids who liked the roller coasters that turned you upside down and corkscrewed through the park.
His tongue was dry. He croaked back through his throat mike, “Yeah.”
He felt the bag thump, and he bent his knees as they rolled into six inches of heavy wet snow. The wind tugged at the chute, but Harper was snapping the quick-release straps and shrugging the harness off his shoulders. He pulled the billowing chute towards him and looked about on the gray landscape. His eyes had adjusted to the strange light reflected off the gathering snow.
Jerry was two hundred yards farther away in the same field. Harper concentrated on securing the chute and gathering the tote bag towards him. He abandoned the flight suit, parachute, and oxygen mask, revealing the uniform of a KGB Border Guard. He buried his gear in the snow quickly and began to gather his weapons from the tote bag.
He yanked it open and pulled out a Smith & Wesson Model 686 .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. He flipped open the cylinder and checked the load. Six rounds stared back. He pulled out two more speed load cylinders, dropped them into the side pocket of his jacket, and slipped the Smith into a holster centered in the small of his back.
Next he produced a Colt 1911 .45 ACP automatic—the standard military sidearm of American service men for close to seventy years. He racked the slide and pushed the safety up into the cocked and locked position. This went into a side holster and ten extra magazines into his side pockets. Nothing fancy in the ammunition; the 1911 loved to digest 230 grain hardball. The spare magazines were sleek and flat.
Finally, he withdrew a Winchester Model 1300 Ranger 12 gauge pump shotgun. The stock was replaced with a wooden grip and the magazine tube extended the full twenty-two inches of the barrel. He flipped it upside down and fed the magazine three-inch magnum shells. He slid the bandoleer of shotgun shells under his coat and over his shoulder.
He pulled a final web belt filled with grenades and pulled them tight around his waist. He kicked the tote bag away and started across the field towards Jerry.
Jerry looked at the shotgun in Jim’s hand and said quietly, “Not exactly standard issue.”
Harper shrugged. “I suppose you left your Browning Hi Power home.”
Jerry shrugged back. “Nah.” He reached down and slung an M-16 A2 over his shoulder.
“So where are we?” asked Harper.
“You close your eyes on the way down again?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jerry knelt down in the snow and drew a circle. “We’re here,” he stabbed the circle with his gloved finger. He carved a swath in the snow. “Those trees are between us and the residential barracks.” He drew some squares and pointed to the third one. “They’re supposed to be in this one.”
Harper looked up and could barely make out some trees at the edge of the meadow. “How do you know?”
“I saw the lights when we came down.”
“Oh.”
Like two wolves, they crossed the meadow and entered the woods. Two predators slipped noiselessly across the thickening snow—the wind and new snow covering their progress. The silent woods provided nothing more challenging than some low branches and fallen logs. Their tracks were gobbled up by the ever-increasing storm, and the night’s chill began to penetrate their limbs.
Jerry crouched at the edge of some broad pines and examined the residential barracks. A slope leading up to the chainlink fence and the blue mercury yard lamps greeted the intruders. He lifted a compact set of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the entrance. Huddled inside the alcoves of each building was a lone sentry.
Harper counted buildings and found the third one. He slid out of the trees and covered the ground to the fence. Going over the fence might make too much noise. Jerry slid next to him and pointed to a side gate. The gate was certainly easier to use than cutting through the fence or climbing over it.
Harper went first and readied his shotgun. There are few sounds as intimidating as the chambering of a 12 gauge. He came around the corner of the alcove, the Winchester ready and braced on his hip. He pumped the slide and aimed the black muzzle roughly at the guard’s middle.
Jerry followed behind him and said quickly, “On your knees! Hands behind your back!”
Harper inched closer inside the alcove. He smiled at the guard as Jerry zip tied his wrists and duct taped his mouth and legs.
“Now you sit here real nice,” explained Jerry as he delivered alights out uppercut. The guard’s head snapped back and his eyes glazed over drunkenly.
They moved inside the residential barracks. Harper looked back into the storm and wondered where Murphy was. It seemed too easy.
Jerry shook the snow off his cap and unslung the M-16. He held up two fingers indicating the floor number and pointed to the stairwell. Harper nodded and let his finger rest on the Winchester’s trigger guard. He strained his hearing for the slightest murmur or errant cough. Nothing.
He stopped and listened to the building’s rhythms. He filtered out his own breathing and heartbeat. Again nothing.
Jerry looked back from halfway up the stair and stopped. They had been together enough to recognize the value in each other’s intuition. Harper shook his head silently and beckoned Jerry to come back from the mid-floor landing. Buildings were never this silent, unless they were empty, and an empty residence building made no sense—unless they were expected.
Harper led them back into the entryway and turned down into the first floor corridor. He looked at the first door on their right. Grasping the handle, he turned it quickly and slid into the darkened apartment. He brought the shotgun to ready and proceeded into the apartment. Jerry followed silently, latching the door behind them.
In a few seconds, Harper was standing in the empty bedroom. He lowered the shotgun to his side and hissed, “Working late?”
Jerry shook his head. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared into the gloom. “Okay, we’re expected. At least, they expect something.”
Harper looked through the living room picture window. The snow was beginning to spatter on the glass. The winds were coming up, drying out the wet snow and turning it into a powdery substance. It looked like an old fashioned Minnesota blizzard with wicked wind chills, but moderate temperatures. “We don’t have a lot of time,” observed Harper.
Jerry followed his gaze. “The storm? What do you think, inch an hour?”
Harper squinted critically, “Maybe more.”
“Okay, we steal a snow plow,” suggested Jerry.
“First we got to get the good doctor and his family,” reminded Harper.
Jerry nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.”
“You know that’s not good for you,” chided Harper.
“They’re expecting us. Probably got a party lined up on our behalf. Maybe we should just tell them we’re here,” suggested Jerry.
“That’s a new angle on stealth and secrecy.”
“We call them up and tell them paratroopers are landing in force out there on the meadow or beyond. You said it yourself: this storm is only going to get worse. What better way than to send them where there are no lights in whiteout conditions.”
“Don’t you think they’ll be a might suspicious?”
Jerry shrugged. “Go get sleeping beauty. We’ll use his radio. I’ll do the talking; your Russian is terrible.”
Harper grunted. “My Russian is non-existent.” He slid out the door and retrieved their sleeping guard from the alcove.
Jerry took the radio from the guard’s belt and clicked it on. “Alert! Alert! Paratroops landing east of the residential barracks one thousand to fifteen hundred meters in meadow.” He clicked off and killed the signal.
Harper folded his arms and said, “That’s your great idea?”
Jerry nodded. “You got anything better?”
“Scrub the mission.”
Jerry shook his head. “Jimbo, we can’t leave a mother and daughter to the mercy of these people.”
Harper breathed deeply and nodded. “I know,” he said softly. He felt shame for suggesting they run.
Jerry pointed at the window. “They’re reacting.” Through the darkness and the muffling mercury lamps, ghostly images of troops in white snow camouflage could be seen moving from the residential barracks into the woods.
“We’ll need to move fast.”
“Always.”
Harper moved to the door and listened. The heavy muster of running men could be heard. It rumbled for a moment, then subsided. He pulled the door open and peeked into the corridor. Empty.
Harper waved for Jerry to follow and made his way back into the soft glow of the nighttime lights. He pulled the Winchester to a ready position. His trigger finger rested on the edge of the trigger guard, his belief in body armor less than certain when facing steel-core rounds. They returned to the stairwell and once again ascended—this time all the way to the second floor landing.
Jerry produced a Ruger 22/45 Mark II .22 long rifle pistol with a three-inch silencer screwed into a specially drilled barrel. “Just in case you don’t scare them enough,” he whispered.
“Do we knock?”
Jerry nodded and walked down the corridor to a door roughly in the middle of the building. He positioned himself to one side of the door, holding the Ruger in a two-handed grip. It felt somewhat over-balanced with the extra three inches of silencer.
Harper positioned himself directly before the door—the Winchester held across his chest, and his left foot ahead of his right in a front stance. Jerry rapped firmly on the wood door.
The doorknob began to turn almost immediately. Harper never waited for the door to open; he sprung with a crushing thrust kick aimed roughly at the chest of whoever was opening the door. The wood frame slammed open, knocking the man behind it backwards. Harper dropped his shoulder and rolled into the room below the presumed level of any planned fire.
Jerry came around the open door, finding two internal security troops following Harper’s rolling form. They failed to see the silenced Ruger as it spat two double taps through their foreheads. The miniscule .22 shell casings bounced across the carpeting as each man’s forehead sported two reddish holes.
Harper came to a standing crouch. He swung the Winchester’s stock upwards, smacking the KGB Major just below the chin. Catching the weapon back into his hands, Harper drilled the Winchester’s muzzle into the Major’s neck. He scanned his prisoner and slammed a heavy jump boot on the man’s right hand, pinning it to the floor and away from his holstered pistol.
Jerry moved across the room and kicked the weapons away from the two KGB security troops. They were dead before they hit the floor. He turned into the rest of the room, nodding approval at Harper’s containment of a KGB Major. Sitting together on the sofa was a man and two women. Jerry moved across the room and closed the door.
“Dr. Arkady Malikov?” he asked.
The man nodded dumbly.
Jerry smiled. “Good. It’s time to leave.”
“Past time,” muttered Harper.
Jerry looked at the man lying on the floor. “Let him up.”
Harper reached down and pulled the officer to his feet. He reached forward and pulled the pistol from the holster.
Jerry looked at the man whose head was cocked akimbo because Harper’s 12 gauge was stuck in his ear. “Let me make this real simple for you. Cooperate and live, cause trouble and I’ll shoot you. We need a snow plow.”
Major Yevgeny Yarovitsin narrowed his vision on the Ruger and nodded slowly.
Jerry turned back to the family still sitting on the sofa. He waved his hands. “We have to leave now,” he explained harshly.
Arkady Malikov stood up and asked tentatively: “You’re Americans?”
“Like apple pie,” replied Jerry. “Although he’s a bit partial to banana cream. Now we need to leave,” he added urgently.
Two minutes later, they had gathered themselves together. Yevgeny led them, ever mindful of Jerry’s Browning Hi Power pressed against the base of his spine. Malikov, his wife, and daughter came next, each carrying a single suitcase. Harper brought up the rear holding the Winchester across his chest and squeezing his eyes tight against the whipping snow. Visibility was reduced to little more than ten to fifteen feet.
The wind was relentless as it cut through the women’s coats and tugged at their scarves. The cotton gloves did little to keep their fingers from turning white with pain and frostbite. The slacks they wore did nothing to protect them against a forty-mile-per-hour wind and snowflakes mixed with ice pellets.
Harper eyed the small family and doubted they would last more than thirty minutes in this type of weather. One side of his face was already caked with snow and his leather gloved hands still felt warm, but he knew sooner or later the cold would creep inside his own clothes and the sweat running down his back would turn to ice. He had the benefit of clothing capable of handling this kind of weather, but their charges did not.
Jerry leaned forward, holding one hand on Yevgeny’s shoulder and the other grinding the muzzle into his back. “Major, I won’t hesitate to shoot you. In this storm no one would even hear the shot.” The words were plucked away by the wind. Jerry glanced back at Harper and made out the grim set of his features. The weather would help and hinder them. It really depended on the Russian soldiers looking for them.
