Part 2 (1/2)
FOUR.
”Oh, d.a.m.n, Mick, we got only ten minutes till the Russians arrive.”
Staff Sergeant Raymond McAllen, leader of a six-man USMC Force Reconnaissance team, didn't need his a.s.sistant, Sergeant Terry Jones, to remind him of that. He'd set his stopwatch within a minute after the eighteen-man platoon fast-roped down into the valley as their Black Hawk had thundered off to seek cover until they called her back.
”We got less time than that, Jonesy. But the crash site should be just over that ridge.”
”Yeah, but it don't look good. No contact from them. We don't even know if this guy is still alive.”
”Our job's to find out. Come on!”
The sun was beginning to set over the Sierra Maestra mountains in southern Cuba, and the shadows grew longer across slopes covered in mud from the midday rains. McAllen and his men had already shouldered their way through some dense jungle in sweltering, humid air, but they were almost at the site.
And no, this wasn't a run-of-the-mill TRAP (Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel) mission. Apparently, one of the pa.s.sengers...o...b..ard the Learjet was a Russian colonel who'd been on his way to Guantanamo when the Russians had shot down his escort fighters. They'd also managed to strike a glancing blow to the jet, forcing it down into the mountains.
Fortunately, McAllen and his entire Force Recon company had been engaged in a weeklong, live-fire training exercise at Gitmo and been able to respond within minutes of the call.
Unfortunately, they'd been out in the field doing some physical training when the call had come, and they'd been forced to board the chopper with whatever they had, leaving behind their best high-tech toys-advanced body armor, weapons, and communications systems that were all part of the military's Future Force Warrior program.
They'd get by with just the conventional gear. McAllen believed that if you depended too much upon technology in the field, you'd become sloppy and soft, a kid at a convenience store who can't make change, a Marine who can't aim because the computer does it for him.
He waved on the others, Jonesy first; then his two recon scouts, Corporals Palladino and Szymanski; his radio operator, Lance Corporal Friskis; and finally the team's medic, Navy Corpsman Gutierrez, who carried the team's biggest gun, the Squad Automatic Weapon, because putting more steel on target was the best form of preventative medicine.
Palladino and Szymanski moved out ahead, walking point, ready to throw hand signals or call in via the intra-team radio at their first sign of contact.
Meanwhile, the other two six-man teams were about three kilometers west, moving to head off part of a company-size Russian ground force that had already inserted, minutes after the crash. A second Russian team was just north of the site, and higher was scrambling to put another Force Recon platoon on the ground there, but McAllen still bet that his team would reach the jet before the Russians did.
Their friends in Moscow were taking no chances and a.s.suming nothing. They'd actually planned in advance to drop troops on the ground and ensure that this colonel was dead.
That certainly had McAllen's attention.
He pulled up the rear, sweeping the jungle with his carbine, head low, repeatedly stealing glances behind.
They stole their way even higher up the slope, boots digging deeper into the mud, as the mountain grew darker and the hoots and cries of birds seemed to drift off into an eerie silence, save for their footfalls. The stench of the crash grew stronger, a combination of mildew, smoke, and spilled fuel.
”Outlaw Three, this is Outlaw One, over,” called McAllen over the radio.
”Go ahead, One,” answered Palladino; he was also the team's sniper, six feet of muscle and hard heart.
”Got eyes on the site, over?”
”Just now, but we'll need to approach over that hill to the east. We can't get down this way. Too steep. Come on up and have a look, over.”
”Coming up.”
After reaching the ridge and jogging over to where Palladino and Szymanski were hunkered down, McAllen caught his breath and saw what the sniper was talking about.
The approach was far too steep. Even so, this perch afforded a perfect view of the valley below.
The Learjet had burrowed into the side of the mountain, yet most of the fuselage was intact. Its wings were gone, though, its side door open, smoke still pouring from its engines and the long, meter-deep furrow stretching out behind. They couldn't get to it, but circling around as Palladino had suggested would kill even more time.
”What do you want do, Sergeant?” asked Szymanski, his chiseled face and thick neck dappled with sweat.
”s.h.i.+ft around.”
”Uh-oh,” interrupted Palladino, staring through a pair of night-vision goggles into the gloom ahead. ”Enemy contact, tree line north. At least six guys, maybe more. They're moving in.”
McAllen tensed. So the Russians had beaten them to the site, but they hadn't reached the jet itself yet. He got on the radio: ”Outlaw Team, this is One. I want Outlaws Three and Six up here on the ridge. I want sniper and SAW fire on that tree line. The rest of you come with me!”
Gutierrez hustled forward with his big machine gun, setting up a few meters away from Palladino, who dropped to lie p.r.o.ne with his M40A3 sniper rifle balanced on its bipod.
McAllen led Jonesy, Szymanski, and Friskis along the ridge, weaving through the palms and other trees until they reached the aforementioned hill east of their position. It, too, was particularly steep but draped in enough dense foliage to conceal their advance-and the possibility of a tumble down the hillside.
”Outlaw One, this is Outlaw Six,” called Gutierrez. ”They're breaking from the tree line, over.”
”Let Outlaw Three take the first shot, and that's your signal to open up, over.”
”Roger that.”
McAllen imagined Palladino up there on the hill, staring through his scope, making hasty calculations- When suddenly his rifle resounded, a great thunder-clap echoing off the mountains.
A gasp later, Gutierrez began delivering his lecture, the Professor of Doom bathing himself in bra.s.s casings, the SAW rat-tat-tat rat-tat-tating loud and clear.
McAllen's group had a handful of seconds to make their break from the slope and weave a serpentine path toward the downed plane.
He ordered Szymanski and Friskis out first and they charged away, vanis.h.i.+ng off into the trees, while he and Jonesy took a more westerly path, closer to the Russians in the tree line. McAllen figured that even if the enemy got closer, at least two of his men would make it to the plane, while he and Jonesy could intercept.
Up on the hill, Gutierrez and Palladino continued laying down fire, the Russians only answering with sporadic shots.
McAllen and Jonesy reached the Learjet, two seconds behind the other guys. ”Stay out here,” McAllen ordered Szymanski. ”Mask up. Pop smoke. Friskis, stay with him. Call the PL, tell him we've reached the site.”
”You got it, Sergeant.”
McAllen and Jonesy slipped on their masks and McAllen followed Jonesy into the hazy confines of the jet, his rifle at the ready.
The cabin walls and ceiling were heavily scorched. He glanced right.
And wished he hadn't.
At least ten people were strewn about, their blackened limbs twisted at improbable angles. A few of them were dressed in the burned remains of civilian clothes while the others wore military uniforms, Navy mostly.
”Check the c.o.c.kpit,” he told Jonesy, then rushed forward to the nearest body, whose government ID had melted into his chest. There wasn't much left of his face, either, but it was clear he wasn't their Russian colonel. He was a black man, about middle age.
McAllen was about to move on to the next guy- When the man's eyes snapped open, shocking the h.e.l.l out of him. ”Jesus!”
The survivor's voice came thin and cracked. ”Help me.”
McAllen leaned over the man. ”Whoa, G.o.d, buddy, yeah, yeah, I will. And you help me. We're looking for a guy, a Russian colonel.”