The Kremlin Conspiracy by Joel C. Rosenberg
Annie laughed. “You don’t say.”
“Oh yeah, a real straight arrow,” said McDermott. “Fell in love with his high school sweetheart, practically engaged, and planning to get married as soon as he gets out of the corps. When the chips are down, you can count on this guy.”
No sooner had the words come out of McDermott’s mouth than they all heard and felt the explosion.
The lead chopper disintegrated in a ball of fire.
Marcus stared in disbelief as parts of the fuselage fell to the earth. Then antiaircraft fire erupted below them, and the pilots took emergency evasive action. The Super Stallion lurched left, then right. The pilots fought to gain altitude and get out of range of whoever was firing at them. They had been flying at about ten thousand feet. Now they were racing for the ceiling—about eighteen thousand feet, give or take.
Marcus couldn’t believe what was happening. Charlie Company had run this route a hundred times before. It had always been secure. But then he saw the second helicopter, the one directly in front of them, take several hits. Black smoke started pouring out of its engine. The chopper careened to the left. Her pilots were rapidly losing control and altitude. It quickly became clear she was going down—with a United States senator on board.
For the moment, Marcus’s chopper kept climbing at a rate of about twenty-five hundred feet per minute. But Marcus had no illusions. They were no longer headed for the ceiling. Their mission had radically changed. They were supposed to be protecting Senator Dayton. That meant they had to follow the ailing chopper.
Anticipating a sudden and very rapid descent, Marcus tightened his shoulder harness, then reached over and tightened Annie Stewart’s. Everyone else followed suit, holding on for their lives as the Sikorsky began diving for the deck.
They landed hard on a narrow outcropping on the side of a mountain. The civilians screamed as the landing gear collapsed and they skidded toward the edge of the cliff. Fortunately, they ground to a halt with ten or fifteen yards to spare. But they had no time to lose. The helicopter carrying the senator had crashed on a rocky slope about two hundred yards ahead and below them. Marcus could see smoke pouring out of the cabin, along with some of its occupants. He had no idea whether it had been the Taliban or al Qaeda operatives who had fired upon the three choppers. But whoever it was, surely they had seen the results. They had to know the Americans were on the ground, which meant they’d be racing toward them and radioing for reinforcements as they did, the billowing black smoke acting like a beacon and providing precise coordinates.
Sergeant McDermott moved fast. Pushing aside the civilians—most of whom were in shock or nearly so—he heaved open the side door and jumped out. He motioned his men to follow and everyone else, including the pilots, to stay put. He ordered Nick Vinetti—the sniper—to set up an overwatch position. His job was to take out any hostile forces that might approach from any direction. At the same time, McDermott ordered Pete Hwang—the medic—to scramble down the mountainside with Marcus and provide aid, medical or otherwise, for those in the senator’s chopper. Meanwhile, he said, he would work the radios and call for assistance.
Marcus and Pete did as ordered. When they reached the crash site, they were horrified at what they found. Both the pilot and copilot had been killed immediately upon impact. Four of the dozen Marines on the chopper had also been killed. Two more were severely wounded. The senator himself was wounded in the leg and bleeding profusely. His chief of staff, the political officer from the U.S. Embassy in Kabul, and a senior public affairs officer were badly shaken up but physically had only minor cuts and contusions. Pete immediately put a tourniquet on the senator’s leg, then turned his attention to the two Marines. The others set up a defensive perimeter while Marcus radioed a situation report back to McDermott.
“Sir, permission to move these people up to your location?” Marcus asked, explaining that the fire inside the crumpled fuselage was out of control and risked setting off the fuel tanks in short order.
“Permission granted,” came the response. “Bring the senator first.”
Marcus ordered the able-bodied civilians to follow him back up the mountain to the working chopper as he slung Senator Dayton over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and led the way. When they reached the others, Marcus set the senator inside the chopper, then scrambled back down the slope to help Pete, only to find that one of the most severely wounded Marines had just died.
That’s when the first crackle of gunfire echoed through the canyon. Marcus spun around, M4 at the ready. He spotted two rebels moving across the ridge to their south, both of them firing AK-47s. He took aim but before he could pull the trigger, he heard two sharp cracks in rapid succession. He turned to see Nick Vinetti reloading his M40 bolt-action sniper rifle. Beaten to the punch, Marcus turned back to see two lifeless bodies crashing down the rocky slope. They were dressed like Taliban. From this distance Marcus couldn’t positively identify them, but it didn’t matter. Whoever they were, there were surely more to follow.
Marcus thanked Nick over the radio, then scanned for more hostiles. But Pete needed help.
“Get this one back to the other chopper,” the medic said as he injected one of the badly wounded Marines, now writhing in pain, with another dose of morphine. “Tell Sarge we need to get him to Kandahar immediately along with the senator.”
“No can do,” Marcus replied. “Sarge says there’s a sandstorm over Kandahar. Nothing’s taking off or landing right now, and they’re not sure how long it’ll be till it lifts. They’re sending backup from Kabul, but they’re at least an hour out.”
“Then another hour back to Kabul?” Pete said. “No way—this guy has lost too much blood. He can’t wait that long. Tell Sarge they need to head back to Kabul immediately.”
“Roger that,” Marcus replied, then heaved the Marine over his shoulders and started working his way back up the mountain.
He’d climbed about halfway back to McDermott and the civilians when he heard a high-pitched whistle coming from his right. He turned just in time to see the contrail of an RPG slicing through the air. He followed the arc until he saw the rocket slam into the only working helicopter they still had. The Sikorsky erupted in a huge fireball, raining metal and rock from the sky. Marcus set down the Marine and covered him until the worst of it was over. He turned around and thought about climbing back down when, below them on a winding dirt road, he spotted two pickup trucks filled with cheering jihadists.
Suddenly there was a flash of light and then came another RPG. Stunned, Marcus watched as it hit the chopper below him, killing most of the Marines positioned nearby.
Marcus opened fire on the guerrillas down below.
He killed two that were standing in the bed of one of the trucks, reloading their rocket launcher. With another two bursts, he wounded two more crouching near the second pickup. Then he grabbed the wounded Marine and moved right, concealing his position behind the smoke pouring out of the destroyed Sikorsky above him. He ejected his partially spent magazine and loaded another, this one packed with tracer rounds. Then he aimed at the gas tank of the second truck and fired again. In an instant, the gas tank ruptured. Fuel began pouring out like a river, and Marcus had created his opportunity. He continued firing, one burst and then another. The tracer rounds ignited the fumes. The truck exploded, causing the fuel tank of the other truck to detonate as well. The booms could be heard up and down the valley.
Marcus hoisted the wounded Marine back over his shoulder. He knew he had to get to higher ground. He’d seen a cave near the top of the ridge, about seventy-five yards beyond the wreckage of the helicopter he’d been flying on. This was his new objective. Using the chaos of the moment, he proceeded to work his way farther up the mountain. But just then gunfire erupted again from the road below them. Marcus could hear rounds whizzing past his head and ricocheting off the rocks around them. Fortunately, Nick Vinetti reengaged, providing desperately needed covering fire. One by one, the sniper picked off the
Sergeant McDermott was not there. Nor was Senator Dayton.
Through gritted teeth, Nick quickly explained that after the first spray of bullets had riddled the chopper, the sergeant and several of the young DoD guys had decided to carry the senator up to the cave to keep him out of the line of fire. They had just come back to get a first aid kit, bottles of water, and other supplies when the RPG had hit. Most of them were killed, Nick said. Sarge was alive but in pretty bad shape. Still, he’d led the survivors back up to the cave. That’s where Marcus should take the Marine on his shoulders, Nick said, then wait there for him. He’d get there as soon as he could. Meanwhile he would stay here and provide cover until his dwindling ammo was gone.
Marcus took the advice—part of it, anyway. There was nothing he could do for Nick just now, and he did need to get this wounded Marine to safety. But he would not stay and wait in the caves. Instead, he promised to be back with painkillers and more ammunition. It took longer than he’d figured to make the climb, however. The terrain was far steeper than he’d expected, and when he got there, he was stunned to find so few survivors. The only passengers left alive were McDermott, the senator—who had blacked out—Annie Stewart, and two foreign service officers. All had been injured in the explosion to one degree or another. One of the FSOs had also been shot and was bleeding badly. McDermott had second- and third-degree burns on his hands and face, but despite his own pain he was doing everything he could to stanch the man’s wounds.
The other FSO was in shock. He was sitting to one side of the cave, shivering and mumbling incoherently. Miss Stewart, on the other hand, was at McDermott’s side. From the looks of it, she actually had some medical training and was presently injecting the FSO with a shot of something. The woman had blood all over her face and hands. Whether it was mostly hers or someone else’s wasn’t immediately clear. She had obviously been hit by shards of flying glass and burning metal. But she was alive, and now she was valiantly trying to save her colleagues.
“I need something for Vinetti,” Marcus said as he caught his breath.
“Painkillers?” McDermott asked.
“Right—something—he’s in bad shape.”
“We don’t have any more,” McDermott replied. “We just used the last of it.”
Marcus asked for more rounds for Nick’s M40 sniper rifle. Again McDermott had to inform him there were none to be had. All their supplies had been on the chopper.
“How soon till reinforcements arrive?” Marcus asked.
“They’ll get here when they get here.”
“Sir?”
“The radio was destroyed in the blast.”
“We’re not in communication with Kabul?”
“No, Lance Corporal Ryker, we are not. Now let me do my job.”
Marcus looked at the FSO dying in front of him. He’d stopped breathing. He was pale. His blood pressure was visibly dropping. They were losing him. McDermott began giving him mouth-to-mouth. Just then, Pete and the surviving Marines from the second chopper arrived at the mouth of the cave. Pete raced to McDermott’s side and took over. His comrades moved to help the others. Marcus said a silent prayer. They needed more than luck to get off this mountain alive. They needed divine intervention.
When he’d whispered an amen, he told Sergeant McDermott he needed to get back and help Vinetti. Sarge didn’t need to be asked twice. He gave his assent, and Marcus raced back down the mountain. As he did, he could see a cloud of dust on the dirt road, approaching from the south. As it neared, he could make out a convoy of a half-dozen white Toyota pickup trucks. Each was filled with Taliban. Their situation, already precarious, was worsening by the minute.
The closest U.S. military presence was at the forward operating base near Kandahar. But that was at least sixty miles away to the south, and it was currently consumed in a sand- and dust storm that could last for hours. Kabul was some two hundred miles away to the north. The closest American aircraft carriers were operating in the Indian Ocean, and that was a good four hundred miles away, maybe more. So who was coming to help them? From what direction? How long was it going to take them to get there? Marcus had no answers, and McDermott no longer had any means of contacting his superiors, much less any friendly forces in the region.
Vinetti was lying on his stomach, looking through his scope at the approaching storm.
When Marcus reached him, he didn’t waste any time, just told him the bad news. No morphine. No extra sniper rounds. Then he demanded his friend’s sidearm.
“What for?” Vinetti asked, looking up for the first time.
Marcus set his fully loaded M4 assault rifle down beside his comrade, along with the rest of his own magazines and those he’d grabbed from McDermott.
“What are you doing?” Vinetti asked.
“Just give me your .45,” Marcus replied. “I need to move fast.”
Reluctantly, Vinetti unholstered his sidearm and handed it over, along with the last two mags he had. Then he looked back through the scope. “Good luck,” he said. “Be fast.”
Marcus holstered the .45 and once again began scrambling down the side of the mountain. He could see the Taliban caravan approaching. They were still about a klick and a half away, but they were coming fast. He thought he could beat it, though it was going to be close. Perhaps his only advantage was that he had the element of surprise. Unless they were watching with binoculars, it was very unlikely the guerrillas knew he was careening down the mountain toward them. To be sure, he was kicking up a fair amount of dust. But he was betting that none of it was noticeable given all the smoke from two blazing jet fuel–driven infernos.
At one point, he lost his footing and nearly went down the mountain headfirst. He recovered fairly quickly, but his hands and knees were bleeding and he was covered in dust. What’s more, he’d lost one of the extra magazines he’d been carrying. But there was no time to go back for it. The lead pickup in the procession couldn’t be more than a half kilometer away now.
When he reached the dirt road, Marcus set off in a dead sprint. He was aiming for the burning vehicles. He estimated they were fifty yards ahead. That was only half a football field. He could do that, he told himself. He’d run far longer as a player in high school. His coach had called them suicide drills. He had no idea.
Marcus expected to hear Vinetti open fire at any moment. But he hadn’t started yet, and Marcus suddenly wondered if either or both of his guns had jammed. Focus, he told himself. Focus. Keep moving. Keep running. Don’t look up. Don’t look back. Focus. There was nothing he could do about Vinetti. All he could account for was himself. But that was the problem. He thought he’d been in good shape. The best of his life. But his heart was pounding hard enough to explode at any moment. His lungs were sucking in dusty, smoke-filled air. His body was drenched with sweat. His mouth and tongue were bone-dry. Every muscle in his body was in searing pain—straining, pushing. He felt like he was going to vomit. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. He was almost there, but that convoy was closing in fast.
He reached the first body and grabbed the dead man’s AK-47 and every mag he could find. Slinging the machine gun over his back, Marcus kept moving. He found another body. Another Kalashnikov. More ammo. He took it all. Darting through the smoke and around the flames, he found two more machine guns and then spotted the prize he’d come for in the first place—a rocket-propelled grenade launcher lying on the side of the road beside four charred but usable RPGs. There was only one problem. He was never going to have time to get back up the mountain with the loot. The convoy was less than forty yards away, and they had spotted him.
Marcus heard the crackle of gunfire.
Then Vinetti finally engaged. His first shots blew out the windshield of the lead Toyota, instantly
Boom, boom . . . crack, crack, crack.
The sounds from the mountainside changed as Vinetti fired the last of his sniper rounds and switched to Marcus’s M4, felling one jihadist after another.
Marcus knelt close to one of the burning trucks to give himself some cover.
He feverishly reloaded the RPG launcher, wondering if at any moment the heat would cook off the explosives before he could pull the trigger. It hadn’t happened yet, and Marcus begged God that it wouldn’t. He took aim once again, settled himself, and fired.
Again the grenade hit its mark. He felt the concussion and thought he’d been nearly deafened by the blast until he heard the pinging of multiple rounds off the pickup beside him. Then he felt the bone-rattling impact of two rounds hitting his bulletproof vest, sending him sprawling and the grenade launcher skittering across the road. The heat was unbearable. He was just a few inches from the flames. All the air had been knocked out of him and he was immersed in thick black smoke. Unable to breathe, unable to see, he jerked away from the roaring truck. He scrambled desperately to his feet, knowing he needed to find cover, and then he felt the searing pain of a round slicing through his left shoulder.
An instant later he landed face-first in the gravel, then slid off into a ditch along the side of the road. For a moment, everything seemed to go into slow motion. But at least he was somewhat shielded by the berm and thus from the worst of the heat. His lungs greedily sucked in as much air as they could. But he could hear the crackle of more automatic gunfire. He could hear bullets whizzing overhead, and he felt his hand moving to his holster.