Precipice: V Plague Book 9 (14 page)

“Find
him!”  Colonel Grushkin screamed at the regular army Major standing at
rigid attention in front of him.

The
Colonel’s face was a mask of fury, covered in blood from the nasty gash that
extended from his left ear across the top of his head, ending just above his
nose.  He was seated on a chair in the hangar where John had found the
Vespa, a medic working to treat the injury.  A portable, generator powered
lamp from a nearby equipment shed threw a small pool of light.

“Colonel, we
have limited…” The man stopped speaking, his eyes opening wide in fear when
Grushkin leapt to his feet and drew his pistol.  Raising it, the enraged
Colonel fired a single shot that struck the hapless Major on the bridge of his
nose and blew out the back of his head.  The corpse crumpled to the smooth
concrete floor.

“Results! 
Find him and bring him to me!”  Grushkin turned and roared at a young
Captain who had taken several steps back and was shaking with fear.

The man
tried to swallow, bobbing his head up and down in acknowledgement of the order
before turning and fleeing as fast as his feet could carry him.  Grushkin
ignored the officer he’d just killed, holstered the pistol and resumed his seat
in the chair.  Tentatively, the medic reached out and continued shaving
the Colonel’s head so he could suture the wound closed.

“How
long?”  Grushkin asked the frightened man.

“An hour,
Comrade Colonel.  If I do not do this right it will reopen when you begin
moving.”  The man’s voice and hands shook as he worked.

“Relax,
Sergeant,” Grushkin said in a calm voice.  “I am through shooting incompetent
fools.  For the moment.”

The man
jerked his hands away from Grushkin’s head and took a step back when the
Colonel turned to look him in the eye.

“If I don’t
return with the American, reopened stitches will be the least of my concerns.”

The medic
nodded his understanding and carefully stepped forward to resume working on the
head wound.  It was bleeding profusely, blood running down Grushkin’s
forehead and into his eyes.  He clutched a towel in his left hand, mopping
away the worst of the blood.

He had
regained consciousness as reinforcements were arriving.  The helicopters that
had been part of the search for the American Major had been returning to
Malmstrom Air Force Base, but when alerted by the AWACS to the events at
Mountain Home they had reversed their course. 

Low on fuel,
they’d had to keep their speed down until the arrival of a tanker that was
scrambled out of Malmstrom.  This had delayed their arrival, giving the
American even more time to escape.  The Spetsnaz on board had quickly
spread out, the helicopters going into search patterns, but the base was too
big for the small force to have any hope of success.

Grushkin had
immediately recognized the need for more boots on the ground and had called for
the troops that had been searching Twin Falls.  They began arriving on
transport aircraft within an hour, spreading out across the sprawling
base.  He had moved himself into the hangar, issuing orders as more
soldiers arrived, holding a dirty towel to his skull in an attempt to staunch
the bleeding.

When a medic
had finally arrived he had taken a seat and told the man to get him patched up
enough so he could function.  He knew his injuries required more attention
than could be given in the field, but he also knew that returning with anything
less than incontrovertible proof of Major John Chase’s death would result in a
swift end to not only his career, but his life as well.

Now night
had fallen, hampering the search efforts even more.  Despite the bravado
of the Russian government for the past several years, the military was in poor
shape.  A far cry from the might of the Soviet era, Russia had suffered
through economic conditions that made the Great Recession of 2008 in America
seem like a minor inconvenience.

There hadn’t
been money to equip its troops with modern equipment.  For that matter
there hadn’t even been enough money to maintain what they had.  When
Barinov ascended to the Presidency he had immediately begun a modernization of
the aging and dated military, even pouring hundreds of millions of his own fortune
into the effort, but no amount of cash can undo decades of neglect in only one
short year.

As a result,
only about one out of twenty Russian helicopters were equipped with a
functioning FLIR system.  Ground troops had never been trained on and did
not have night vision goggles or even scopes on their rifles.  The
severely limited equipment was reserved exclusively for Spetsnaz troops who,
despite being on par in skill with their western counterparts, were woefully
short on the high tech tools that could claim superiority of the battle space.

But Russia
had not only won the battle, they’d won the war.  Their military, poorly trained
and fielding weapons systems that more often than not had been designed during
the Cold War was now the most powerful on Earth.  Yet for their new status
as the sole Superpower, they couldn’t find one American Special Forces soldier.

As these
thoughts ran through Grushkin’s head he felt his pulse increasing out of
frustration.  He was fiercely proud of his country, despite willingly
acknowledging all its shortcomings, and to have achieved domination over the
planet through the means employed…

He shut down
that line of thinking as he had to wipe fresh blood out of his eyes.  The
building frustration was raising his heart rate and blood pressure, causing the
wound to bleed faster.

“Are you
alright, Comrade Colonel?”  The medic asked, noting the increase.  He
had completed shaving the hair from the edges of the wound and was about to
inject more anesthetic before beginning to stitch.

“I am fine,”
Grushkin answered, reaching with his free hand and plucking a blocky radio out
of a cargo pocket in his pants.

He placed a
call, looking for the Captain he’d sent scurrying away when he’d executed the
man’s commanding officer.

“What is the
status of the search?”  He demanded when the Captain responded.

“The men
were scattered across the base, Comrade Colonel.  I have repositioned them
and begun a sweep.  Every building and vehicle is being searched. 
All helicopters are airborne and in search orbits.  I have also sent men
to each exit from the base to secure them.  If the American is still here
we will find him.”  The confidence in the man’s voice didn’t match the
certainty of his words, but Grushkin chose not to berate him.  He had no
doubt he’d made his point with the young officer.

“Have one of
the helicopters begin a patrol pattern outside the perimeter of the base. 
If the American has made it outside the wire, where would he go?”

“There is a
small town a few kilometers northeast of our location, Comrade Colonel. 
Only open terrain in every other direction.  I shall order one of the
helicopters to adjust its patrol immediately.”  The Captain was sounding
more confident as a result of Grushkin not screaming at him.

“Send a
second one.  And be sure there’s some Spetsnaz on board,” Grushkin said as
a new idea occurred to him.  He spent a few moments giving instructions
before telling the Captain to update him every ten minutes. 

The second
helicopter was being sent after the Major’s wife.  It had been a few hours
since he’d seen her driving away, heading west on the road near Twin Falls, but
she couldn’t have gone farther than one of the Hinds could reach.  He
would find and capture her. 

She would be
his bargaining chip.  With her in hand, all he’d have to do is start
broadcasting his demands on loud speakers from hovering helicopters and the
Major would walk right up and surrender to save his wife.  Grushkin
relaxed slightly and smiled as the medic pushed the point of a curved needle
through the flesh on his scalp.

Driving fast
at night without benefit of headlights is not something I’d recommend. 
Just because there’s moonlight that helps you see, spotting something that
would be glaringly obvious during the day becomes almost impossible.  I
had blasted through a small group of males that were stumbling along the
pavement a few minutes ago.  Traveling at close to fifty miles per hour it
seemed as if one moment the road was clear, then they were suddenly right
there.

I didn’t
have time to try and swerve around them, which is probably a good thing. 
Sudden, sharp maneuvers when I couldn’t see where I was going were a recipe for
disaster.  So, by the time I recognized what was in front of me I didn’t
even have an opportunity to draw a breath before I plowed into the bodies.

The impact
was hard, shaking the multi-ton vehicle as two of them were hit head on by the
heavy steel guard that protected the Humvee’s grill.  Years of
conditioning caused me to immediately lift my foot off the throttle, then I
remembered where I was and what I’d just hit and pressed it down again.

As far as I
could tell the heavy vehicle hadn’t sustained any damage.  At least damage
that would make it un-drivable.  One of the bodies had been thrown up onto
the hood, slamming into the corner of the windshield on the passenger side
before flipping over the roof and disappearing behind me.  The Hummer
wasn’t up-armored, so the glass had cracked and the frame around it had
bent.  But it was still intact.

I passed a
road sign that probably gave the distance to Mountain Home, but it was too dark
for me to make out the lettering.  Hesitant to take my attention off the
road after the encounter with the infected, I forced myself to look behind for
any signs that the Russians had realized I was off the base and were in
pursuit.

It was easy
to see the searching helicopters as I glanced back.  A quick check of the
road to my front and I looked again.  The helos were all orbiting over the
base, but there was one that seemed to be much farther afield.  I had to
check the road again, then turned back.  It was definitely outside the
base perimeter, moving perpendicular to my direction of travel at the
moment.  Someone was hedging their bets, just in case I’d slipped out.

Turning back
to the front, I had enough warning to lift my foot and make a stab for the
brakes, but hadn’t even touched the pedal before the impact.  I wasn’t
even sure what the hell it was, just saw a huge form blocking the road an
instant before striking it.

This time
the impact was brutal.  I was thrown against the steering wheel (no airbag
in a combat vehicle) as the momentum shifted and the Hummer twisted sideways and
spun across the pavement.  It came to rest in a roadside ditch, what was
left of it tilted at a sharp angle.

I just sat
there for a minute, like you do when something particularly violent and
unexpected happens to the vehicle you’re in, then pulled on the door
release.  The Hummer was tilted so I was fighting gravity to push it open,
and it wanted to come back on me as I scrambled to climb out.  I finally
made it, nearly losing a couple of fingers when the door slammed closed.

My chest was
bruised, but thankfully my freshly broken nose had somehow managed to avoid
contact with the steering wheel.  I stood there for a moment, surveying
the damaged Hummer then writing it off when I saw the degree of damage to the
front end.  The heavy, welded steel guard was deformed and pushed all the
way back into the grill, buckling the hood and both front fenders.  Steam
and smoke mixed together and vented through a jagged rent that had been torn in
the sheet metal.

Fighting the
door open I reached in and grabbed my pack.  Shouldering it, I spent a
moment making sure all my weapons and meager supply of ammunition were still on
my body.  Satisfied, I moved to the middle of the road, ready to make the
hike the rest of the way into town.  But first I was curious about what
I’d hit.

I could
smell blood, strongly, so that told me a little.  Looking around I spotted
a large form a few yards down the road on the far shoulder.  Moving cautiously,
I approached it, trying to figure out what it was.  Ten yards away I
recognized it.  I’d hit a damn big cow.  Two thousand pounds if it
was an ounce.

Still
approaching, I cursed when I saw one of its legs twitch and heard a ragged
breath.  The poor damn thing was still alive.  I moved to stand over
it, looking down at one big, brown eye.  Its entire body shuddered as it
tried to breathe.  It was injured horribly and I recognized that I was
lucky to have been in a heavy military vehicle.  If I’d been in a car like
the Charger I’d driven to Idaho, I probably wouldn’t have survived.

Positioning
the rifle’s muzzle a few inches from the cow’s head, I pulled the
trigger.  I could hardly afford to use even the single round of
ammunition, but I have a soft spot for animals and that would have haunted me
for a long time if I hadn’t put the poor thing out of its misery.  It
probably would have died soon enough, but…

Looking up at
the sky to my south I checked on the helo that had begun searching outside the
base perimeter.  It was a few miles to the west of the base, turning
north.  It looked like it was in a reconnaissance orbit, no doubt looking
for my big ass.  Its new heading was on a path that would pass west of my
current position, but if it turned to the east, as I expected, it would fly
over the road I was standing on.  The question was whether or not it was
close enough to spot me when it made that turn.

Taking a
quick moment to adjust my pack’s straps, I spun and began running north in the
middle of the road.  The best thing I could do was put as much distance
between the helicopter and me as possible.  If I was spotted on foot, I
was fucked.  There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and I didn’t have
any way to fight a helo. 

All I could
hope for was that they didn’t have FLIR.  I had a faint hope as they were
occasionally turning on their spotlight to get a better look at something on
the ground.  Maybe I had a chance, in the dark.

Digging deep,
I sprinted as hard as I could.  I knew I couldn’t maintain this pace for
long, but right now I needed to open up some distance as quickly as
possible.  The idea of moving off the road and trying to find a hiding
place flashed through my mind but I discounted the idea.  Staying on the
smooth surface of the road would let me move faster and right now I needed
speed.

The Russians
would find the crashed Hummer and dead cow.  That wasn’t an
if
, it
was a
when
.  And when they did they’d know which way I’d
gone.  I needed to either be out of the area, or somewhere that provided
enough cover and concealment that I had a fighting chance.  That meant I
had to get to Mountain Home.  The countryside was just flat, dry grassland
with only a few hardy bushes.  Not even a tree to hide in.