Deep Black

49

The three bullets the Russian fired hit Dean almost square in the chest. It was a good thing — the NSA body armor not only kept them from penetrating but absorbed some of the impact as well, spreading it through its high-tech cells. Still, his breath drained from him and Dean curled with the pain, just on the edge of consciousness. Two of his ribs felt like they were broken, and when the Russians jerked him to his feet he stood there paralyzed, nearly in shock.

One of the Marines finally pushed him toward the gate. Dean stumbled forward, his head off-kilter. Though he knew it couldn’t be true, it seemed like six or seven helicopters were flying overhead, supporting a company of ground troops attacking from all sides. A dozen Russian Marines scattered in small knots on the other side of the fence, firing toward the surrounding tundra and nearby town, though Dean knew there wasn’t anything there.

Soon, very soon, the Russians were going to decide he was the cause of all this misery and take a little revenge. Dean tried to slide his hand in beneath his vest to get one of his hideaway guns, but his ribs screamed with pain. One of the Russians put his hand on Dean’s back and shoved. As he did, the Hind loomed above, a dark, angry cloud of gunfire. Smoke and dust whipped into the air. The fence, only a few yards away, erupted. The metal seemed to jump into the air. Dirt, rocks, cement chips, metal, gunpowder — the air became thick with debris. Dean dived to the ground. In the swirling tornado he grabbed his calf, fishing for the small Glock strapped there. By the time he found it, he was choking and couldn’t see. He rolled to his hands and knees and started crawling toward the helicopter.

He’d gone about five yards when he realized it wasn’t the helicopter, which was now somewhere overhead and firing again. Something moved on the ground to Dean’s left and he rolled again. An assault rifle started firing a few feet away from him — he could hear it but couldn’t see the muzzle flash.

Turning onto his left side, he began pushing himself through the dirt, away from the gun. By turns the night became green, then red, then yellow and purple. Shadows furled into immense balls of blackness, then disintegrated. The helicopter came back, skimming in toward what remained of the gate. Dean saw Karr running toward it. As Dean started to follow, he realized it wasn’t Karr but one of the Russians.

The Glock made a soft popping sound in his hand, and the recoil was so sweet he wasn’t entirely sure in the chaos that he had actually fired. He pressed the trigger again, and the man turned.

Dean threw himself to the ground, but the Russian didn’t fire at him. Dean pushed forward, swimming more than crawling. His hip burned; something had hit him there. He shook his head, trying to wave off the pain. He’d suffered far, far worse.

He had to get out of here soon, or the next thing that hit him would take his head off. But now where was the Hind?

The thing to do, the only thing to do, was get to a clear open space and wait. They would come and get him. They would.

They were kids, but they would come and get him.

Shit. What he really needed was a company of Marines.

He’d settle for a squad. Shit, one guy, Bill Wiley maybe, humping over the fence.

Thirty years ago, maybe. Not now, not here. This wasn’t a Marine show. For better or worse, this was the kids’ game.

For worse, definitely worse. They were blowing it big-time. Them and their high-tech bullshit toys.

But wasn’t it his fault for going ahead with a bullshit plan? He knew it was bullshit and had said so.

Like Vietnam.

Either everybody around him was dead or they were pretending to be. Dean reached as gingerly as he could beneath his vest for the other Glock. Holding one in each hand, he started walking toward the main road, trying to sort out the battlefield. The buildings were almost dead ahead, the SAMs and flak dealers up to the right, out of view, though he assumed they were the source of the flames and black smoke curling through the flare-lit haze. Behind him were the barracks. He could hear vehicles coming from that direction, or at least thought he did.

Maybe get to the buildings, out on the roof, above all of this shit where they could see him.

So what happened to the stinking locator thing, huh? Where’s my beacon to beam me back aboard the mother ship?

As he started across the road toward the buildings, Dean felt the ground rumble. He looked to his left and saw something crashing through what was left of the main gate.

It was a BMP, a tracked armored personnel carrier with a cannon and a machine gun, one of the vehicles that had left earlier to check out the diversions. One of the guns atop the vehicle began firing. Dean dived into the dirt, diving, diving, diving, swimming down, and cursing himself for being a fool, for being a hero, for being here at all.

Then the ground spit him up. A volcano erupted where the gun had been. Tossed in the air by an explosion, Dean found himself diving into the dirt near the building where he’d originally been captured.

“All this time, you haven’t moved like two feet,” shouted a voice in his ears.

Where?

“Up! Up!”

Dean looked up and saw the ladder at the side of the building. He grabbed it, started to climb.

“They’re coming.”

Four loud explosions pushed him upward. Dean knew it was Karr, knew the explosions must be the NSA op’s A-2 firing, but couldn’t see anything except the suddenly grimy night in front of him. One of his eyes had welded itself shut, and the other was half-blinded by the flash from the BMP’s explosion. He climbed as best he could, diving onto the roof and belatedly realizing he ought to make sure it was still there.

It was. He got up and went back to help Karr. But the NSA op didn’t need any help — he kicked his feet over the top of the roof, saw Dean, and grinned. Then he whirled back and worked his A-2 like a drill hammer, smacking the reinforcements that had been following the BMP.

When the loud crack of the A-2 stopped, Karr threw down the gun and turned back toward Dean. The roof had started to shake. The Hind loomed over the side of the building, materializing like a train in thick fog.

Dean reached for the door — it was folded open — but then saw he’d never get it. Instead, he wrapped his arm between the two struts of the landing gear on the right side, barely holding on as the Hind whipped sideways off the roof. He turned to look back to Karr, but something kicked him in the side — the kid was dangling on the other strut.

The helicopter dipped down and the air around it seemed to catch on fire. Rockets leaped from the pod on the winglet, so close the exhaust burned Dean’s cheeks. He knew he was letting go; he knew he was dead. He felt his soul looping around, spiraling toward heaven.

Then he was sprawled on the ground.

Karr laughed at him, picked him up, and settled him into the chopper, almost gently.

“Not bad for a geezer,” Karr shouted. “You’re doing OK, baby-sitter. You’re doing OK.”