The Lazarus Moment (19 page)

“Yes,
sir!”

They
both paused the conversation as the second chopper landed, the rest of First Squad
jumping out, already geared up. Jacobson shrugged his pack on and checked his
weapon as his men gathered around him.

“This is
going to be a fast, hard hike, men. We need to reach the President as quickly
as we can. Over seventy hostiles are heading toward him and the survivors, and
we’ve got no time to dillydally and check out the scenery, nor wait if someone
twists an ankle. Keep your eyes open and watch where you’re stepping. Eyes in
the sky tell us there’re no hostiles between us and them, but that doesn’t mean
there isn’t something out there that’s hungry for a late afternoon snack. This
is the jungle, people. If it charges you, shoot it. Pamela Anderson isn’t going
to bounce in and protest your cruelty. Our priority is the President and those survivors.
Understood?”

“Yes,
sir!”

A third
chopper landed, the medical team disembarking. They’d be leaving with Second
and Third Squads when they arrived. All his men had basic first aid, and two
were corpsmen. They’d be able to deal with the minor stuff, though at this
point it still looked like they’d be hoofing it out of the jungle and back
here.

Which
means we either stay and fight, or try to fall back in the dark.

He
didn’t like either option, but they might not have a choice.

None of
that mattered right now. All that mattered was getting there first.

“Commander,
a word.”

Jacobson
followed Lt. Commander Petersen, the doctor sent to accompany Second and Third Squads.
“What is it, doc?”

“The
latest update I’ve got is that the First Lady is severely injured, along with
several others. They need immediate treatment.”

“We’ll
do our best, doc, but there’s only so much my team can do until you guys arrive
with the equipment.”

Peterson
pointed at a duffel bag. “I’ve got everything I need in here to treat her for
what I think might be wrong. Depending on how bad she is, it might be enough.
If it’s really bad”—he shrugged, shaking his head—“there might be nothing
anyone can do, not if we’re looking at tomorrow for getting them out.”

Jacobson
lifted the bag. It was heavy. “Do my people know how to use what’s in here?”

Peterson
shook his head. “I don’t think you understand me, Commander. I’m coming with
you.”

Jacobson
assessed the man. He
looked
in good shape, about ten years older than
the rest of his team, but the question was what kind of shape was he
really
in. “We’re talking five to six hours of hard slogging, doc.”

“I grew
up on volksmarches in Germany and never stopped. You don’t have to worry about
me slowing you down.”

Jacobson
smiled.

“Then
let’s do it!”

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“Hey BD, you’re gonna wanna see this!”

Dawson
looked past the group at Niner, waving for him to join him. He nodded and cut
through the group. They were moving far too slow, at best half a mile in the
past hour. The stretchers were just slowing them down too much, the bamboo at
first cutting into the bearers’ skin until people started ripping sleeves off
and wrapping them around their hands. This sped things up a bit, allowing the
bearers to last a little longer, but the jungle was dense and unforgiving,
every sound terrifying the city dwellers.

I’d
kill for a machete.

They had
nothing beyond their combat knives to try to cut through the particularly dense
jungle, and it was clear their enemy didn’t have the same supply problem. The
last update from the Colonel indicated the rebel group was moving swiftly
toward them and a squad of search and rescue personnel were now inbound on
foot.

It would
be close.

Yet even
if the dozen men on their way were to arrive first, they’d still be facing a
force of almost seventy hostiles who knew this terrain a hell of a lot better
than anyone on the good guys’ team.

Let’s
just hope Red and the guys can thin the herd without getting trimmed
themselves.

“What’ve
you got?” he asked as Niner led him ahead of the group, he and Atlas still on
point. The way Niner was walking quickly and with confidence suggested it
wasn’t anything bad, though unless it was some secret resort in the middle of
the jungle, he couldn’t see how it could be good news.

They
stepped out of the trees and into a tiny clearing, sunlight pouring in from
above, Atlas standing in the middle.

“So,
whadaya think?”

“That
you two of all people don’t need to work on your tans?”

Niner
pointed at him. “Good one.” He pointed up. “See that blue stuff, that’s sky.”

“Yes,
but there’s no way we can get a chopper through there.”

“No, but
we could get a hoist. Maybe we can get some of the wounded out, maybe even the
President.”

A smile
spread across Dawson’s face. He slapped Niner on the back. “Good thinking.”

“I knew
there was a reason we kept him around,” muttered Atlas.

“All
this time I thought it was for my good looks.”

“Keep
dreamin’ shit ball.”

Dawson
looked up then back as the first of the group came into the tiny clearing.
“Radio it in, see if we can get a chopper here. Make sure they’re loaded with
supplies. I don’t think we’ll be able to stay here long enough to evacuate
everyone, not with those rebels closing the gap.”

Niner
headed off to get the satellite gear as Dawson stood beside Atlas, debating
their best course of action.

“Whadaya
think?” asked Atlas.

“I think
we’ve got a very limited window of opportunity here, and we have to risk taking
it. If the rebels are four hours away, that might be enough time to get
everyone out.”

Atlas stared
up. “I dunno. One at a time, through the trees, that’s probably ten minutes
each minimum. Times fifty people. I’m no math genius, but I don’t think we’ve
got the time.”

Dawson
grunted. Atlas was right, at best they’d get six to ten people lifted out of
the clearing in an hour, and that assumed no delays in getting choppers
overhead. Even at ten people an hour, they’d need five hours, and the rebels
were closer than that.

But
if Red can delay them just a couple of hours…

“If we
can get the wounded and the First Family out, then that’s good enough for me.
Just getting the wounded out will easily double our speed. And if we can get
some flashlights down here, we’ll be able to travel at night a hell of a lot
safer.”

“True.
It’s definitely worth the risk, BD, definitely worth it.”

Dawson
knew Atlas was trying to make him feel better about his decision. It was risky,
wasting perhaps two hours to get the wounded and VIPs out, and it could doom
them all, but he was confident it was the right decision.

Assuming
they can get choppers here quickly enough.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“That looks like the leader at two o’clock. Red bandana, cigarette.”

“Got
him,” replied Jagger over the comm. All four of them were spread out about ten
feet apart, using the trees and thick underbrush for cover as the rebel force advanced.
They had made good time, but the rebels had been faster. His estimate had them
no more than three hours from the crash site, if that. These guys were moving,
motivated probably by a big payday.

“I’ve
got the leader. Everyone takes three shots, watch your arcs, I don’t want to
waste two bullets on the same man. Third shot, fall back and regroup half a
klick back, understood?”

A series
of acknowledgements came through his earpiece. “On three… two… one… Execute.”

Red
squeezed his trigger, the round belching from the barrel of his MP5, screaming
toward its target at over two thousand feet per second. He dropped. Red took
out a second target to the leader’s left, then a third, just as the man started
to react. On either side he heard the fast, single shots of the others, then
nothing as he spun, pushing through the foliage.

The
rebels opened up behind them, shouts of anger and panic, it clear from Red’s
trained ear they were firing in all directions.

If
we’re lucky, they’ll kill some of themselves.

He could
see the others on his flanks and as the gunfire faded, he slowed up, the others
joining him.

“Everyone
still in one piece?”

“Yup,”
replied Jimmy, “Can’t say the same for my three guys.”

“Me too.
Umm…” Jagger pointed to a hole in Jimmy’s pants. “Is that new?”

Jimmy
leaned over and poked a finger through what was clearly a bullet hole in his
crotch. “Huh. I guess someone’s looking out for me today.” He nodded toward
Jagger’s junk. “Good thing it wasn’t you, you might be one testi short.”

“Don’t
you concern yourself with my boys, they’re squared away, thank you very much.”

Red
chuckled. “Okay, did everyone hit their targets?”

Affirmatives.

“Then
that’s twelve down.”

Jagger
grunted. “So only sixtyish to go.”

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Spock froze. The sound of gunfire was distinctive, though distant.
And his trained ear recognized a weapon that shouldn’t be there.

Those
are MP5s!

The characteristic
sounds of AKs far outnumbered the MP5s, and the weapon he trained on day in and
day out seemed to only fire for a few seconds then stop, the AKs continuing for
a couple of minutes then dwindling to nothing.

It was a
gunfight, of that there was no doubt. And that meant there were two sides
opposing each other, which wasn’t unusual in this part of the world, but the
Mozambique Army didn’t use MP5s and there was no way a friendly force would be
that far north of the crash site. If the rescue team had arrived, they’d be far
south of here.

He
smiled.

It’s gotta
be Red.

It made
sense. He had managed to get the portable comm gear into Dawson’s hands before
the plane went over the falls, so they had obviously established comms and a
search and rescue team would be on the way. But this area was known to have rebel
activity, so if the Pentagon had detected hostiles heading for the crash site,
they might dispatch a team to intercept them, and if he knew Red, he’d have
already been in the air heading back to their last known position.

Which
meant it was most likely members of Bravo Team engaging the hostiles since
there was no way the rescue team could have arrived yet.

Those
crazy bastards must have jumped in.

He
smiled.

Definitely
Bravo Team.

He
headed toward the gunfire.

Ecomotel, Pretoria, South Africa

“Something’s happening!”

Khomenko
struggled to his feet, joining his man on watch at the window. Car tires
screeched outside, followed by men shouting. With a single finger, he moved the
curtain aside just a centimeter.

And
cursed.

It was
the police.

How
the hell did they find us?

“Time to
make a decision, men. Fight and probably die, or surrender?”

He
already knew the answer all three would give him, it just made him feel honored
to be with such brave souls as they all shouted their unit’s motto.

“No
surrender! No retreat!”

He
smiled.

“I had a
feeling you’d say that.”

Weapons
were quickly broken out, the table flipped over, the team taking cover behind
it as one of them pulled the curtains aside.

They
opened fire, shattering the window. Shouts and cries rolled across the sun-bleached
parking lot as several of the police took rounds. He retreated to the rear of
the small room, peering out the bathroom window at the back when a massive
blast hit the front of the room. He stepped back into the room to see his men
dead or dying, a grenade or some sort of explosive used on them, it clear the
South Africans weren’t here to make any arrests.

His
fighting would lead to nothing good.

And he
refused to die on foreign soil.

They had
been only minutes from leaving, his bag already packed. He grabbed it then
opened the bathroom window, scrambling through, then dropping unceremoniously
to the sunbaked ground, a burst of dust rising around him. He hobbled toward
the nearby buildings, his weakened body and aching leg running off adrenaline
alone.

He
reached a narrow alley between two buildings and turned to see the first of the
police round the back of the motel, cautiously moving toward the open bathroom
window. If they had found them, then they most likely knew who he was, which
meant they’d know from identifying his fallen comrades that he had escaped.

And that
meant a massive manhunt.

He had
to get out of the country fast.

Time
for Plan B.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Niner held his knife blade out, rotating it back and forth, trying
to catch the sunlight on it, the thunder of rotors overhead exciting the entire
group of survivors, even the wounded were all trying to catch a glimpse of the
angel in the sky.

“There
she is!” shouted Niner as the Seahawk came into sight. One of the crew hanging
out of the side waved, everyone waving back.

It had
taken only fifteen minutes to arrive, one of the choppers heading for the
original LZ retasked. Someone attached to a hoist stepped out and was quickly
lowered through the trees, the line swinging as the pilot struggled to keep
them steady, it like threading a needle with a twenty mile per hour head wind.