ARISEN, Book Eleven - Deathmatch (38 page)

Shaking his head to clear it of shock and grief, Jameson tried to remember Thomas had been right – there was no choice but to go. Too much hung on it. “
Up – go, go, go!
” he shouted, pulling the detonator cord from the second ruck full of explosives they had left in the stairwell, under the breached door.

And then he started leaping up another damned ten flights of stairs in full combat kit, just like in Dusseldorf. He really hoped he made it to the top this time. Just as he heard voices down below – suddenly very panicked ones – the charge went off, ravaging their eardrums in the confined space. Cement and plaster dust also whooshed up the stairs like a sandstorm, blinding the already-half-blind Marines as they climbed for their lives, the stairs collapsing behind them. Two flights later, leaning back down for a look, it looked to Jameson like the entire bottom two flights of the stairwell had collapsed. Rubble city.

Result
, he thought.

Every Royal Marine left knew there was still a shitload of Russia between them and home. But they were out of the bunker – most of them were, anyway. And, right now, there was only one task – to climb – and only one way to go.

Up – and out.

Jameson steeled himself for whatever would be waiting for them out in Red Square. With their luck lately, he didn’t think it was going to be nothing. But they were now one huge step closer to home.

And, with Aliyev in tow, one step closer to saving it.

Envelopment

Nugal River Valley – Riverbank

“Misha!”
It was the damned RTO again.

“What? I’m fighting here!”

“It’s Nina. She’s inbound, two minutes out.”

No one on Team 1 said anything like, “We should wait for air support. Between the UCAV and the Black Shark, we can wipe these clowns out without taking casualties.” Misha famously didn’t give a shit about casualties. Hell, he didn’t even give a shit about becoming one himself – happier to die doing what he loved than to back off, or show anything like weakness or mercy. And everyone on his team knew better than to be the one who did.

“No, that’s bullshit and fuckery,” Misha muttered, as the most recent explosion in the trees ahead of them settled. As nice as it was to have their own shiny drone, and to be able to drop heavy metal on the Americans’ domes, he had no intention of letting some hacker – or even Nina – steal all the glory of the fight he was personally in.

He hit his radio. “White boys are on the ropes. We attack. Base of fire.” He heard their PKMS medium machine gun spin up and go cyclic. It too was fitted with a suppressor, but that could only do so much to quiet 7.62x54mm rounds fired 650 per minute. It now sounded a little less like a machine gun and more like some sort of high-speed hydraulic press tool.

It also slung an awful lot of lead down range.

Maybe it will keep these douchecanoes’ heads down,
Misha thought.

Just to be sure, he hailed Vasily – who was still back by the water’s edge, up on the base of the destroyed bridge.

“Vasily – anybody pops, shoot them in the face.”

“Got it.”

* * *

Up on his platform, belly down, eye to scope, Vasily slightly wondered about this plan of attack. From a certain point of view – from the point of view of Russia – their job was to protect the mission objective. But of course there was no telling Misha anything. He saw his job as being to conquer – conquer everything. He was also still nursing a grudge about what had happened in the South African warehouse.

And it was never enough for Misha to win, to get out with the prize, to beat his opponents.

No, he had to utterly destroy them.

In the culture of revenge and cruelty in post-Soviet Russia – never mind in Spetsnaz – it was understood that leaving your enemy alive, to come back for you later, was sheer stupidity.

And mercy just didn’t come into it.

Anyway, Vasily knew his job was to kill for Misha. He started scanning the field. Even deep in the bush, eventually one of the Americans was going to show too much skin.

And down he would go.

Or, better yet – she.

* * *

As Handon hunkered down, waiting for the JDAM that would end him, or what was left of his team, suddenly something told him to check his six. It was usually good practice – however good your position, however secure you think your rear is, it always paid to take a quick look behind you from time to time.

And, sure enough, there was an undead Somali ten feet behind him – one whose forehead blossomed as he watched, and that then dropped to the dirt. As it went down, it revealed behind it a dark flash running flat out – but rifle up. It was Ali, sprinting to take Juice’s position on the left flank. And making a headshot at a dead run. And also saving Handon’s ass. That was great – but now he no longer had Ali floating in their rear. And that sector had just become another nexus of threat.

Because the walking dead had arrived.

Probably inevitable
, Handon thought,
after the grenade-throwing contest and the JDAMs.

But even as he faced forward again, he realized things were even worse than they looked.

Yep – those crazy Russian sons of bitches were assaulting.

The Spetsnaz team was definitely pushing out. Under heavy covering fire, including a chattering MG, they were bashing right into Alpha’s line. Clearly they weren’t waiting for the UCAV to finish them.

They were going to do it themselves.

On the one hand, Handon’s whole tactical objective was to keep the Russians pinned on this side of the river. And Alpha’s positions, which they were about to be pushed back from, or else get overrun, were definitely on this side of the river. Then again, if their entire team was killed in the next few seconds, that would free Spetsnaz to go where the hell they liked.

The firing had now ramped up furiously, and Handon could half-see the enemy surging forward in the center, keeping low and under cover, but moving fast.

Hey diddle diddle, straight up the middle.

Despite the smash-mouth tactics, Handon sensed something beyond brute force, beyond viciousness, beyond even tactical prowess. He sensed a mind on the other side of this battle – one allied to pure will. Someone who was unaccustomed to losing. And who had an unshakeable intention to win, today and every day.

But of course he and Handon couldn’t both win.

And if neither of them were willing to walk away without the prize, then this had become nothing short of a deathmatch. The commanders of the two forces were both fully committed, utterly resolved – and prepared to buy victory with their own lives, or the lives of their men. And one thing you knew about a deathmatch.

Someone was going to die.

Handon ramped up his own fire in response, countering aggression with aggression, dodging among three positions to keep from getting zeroed, as well as to get better, or at least different, looks at the attackers.

That squad machine gun was chewing up the forest in all directions. This was basic infantry fire-and-movement stuff, designed to put Alpha’s heads down so the riflemen could advance. So whatever happened they had to not put their heads down. Because they’d never get them up again – or not until they had powder burns from point-blank execution headshots.

Chatter on the Alpha squad net was minimal – just guys calling out targets and announcing movements. But now Baxter came on, sounding out of breath and panicked. “We’ve gotta pull back – I can’t stay here…”

Handon couldn’t see him, but could imagine him ducked down under cover, unable to shoot, move, or otherwise be effective. And the kid had a point: Spetsnaz had a wall to their backs, and Alpha didn’t. Theoretically, they were free to maneuver.

But Handon knew if one of their team withdrew, the integrity of the formation would crumble. And if they all withdrew, they were done. They wouldn’t get any breathing room – because if they gave these guys an inch, they would be right on them, pushing out and assaulting harder and faster. No, they’d simply lose their covered positions, and be out in the open looking for new cover to the rear, which would get them shot. You couldn’t give shooters of this quality a look at you like that.

Best case, they’d be fighting on the move, suffering the inevitable disorientation of trying to control a dynamic tactical situation, their opponents instantly pressing their advantage.

And looking to finish it – fast, and decisively.

* * *

Running flat out through the forest, Juice shook his head and snorted. He muttered, “Hey, Juice – pull another hack out of your ass and save everybody’s bacon. Sure, no problem, guys. Let me just grab my ankles here…”

Exactly what he’d hoped would not happen was now happening. At least it was a different kind of hack, so maybe Spetsnaz wouldn’t see it coming. But, in any case, he was all out of time and energy for sarcasm. Because he knew this shit was deadly serious.

And he was also out of breath.

He hugged his rifle to his chest and kept his chin tucked as he dodged trees and leapt over stumps and fallen branches, all while sucking deep steady breaths. Right now oxygen was life. He had to reach that crash site, and he needed to do it ten minutes ago. Every second of delay increased the likelihood he’d be too late when he got there.

And all his friends would already be dead.

There was also the problem of navigation. If he got lost in the woods, vectored wrong, took himself in a circle – which happened all the time in the bush – this mission was over. But he didn’t have time to navigate, only to steal quick looks at his compass.

And to keep hauling ass – and sucking air.

He wasn’t going to let everyone on the team die, and the mission fail, because he wasn’t in good enough shape to do a loaded run. He tucked his chin in further, ignored the lactic acid that burned his legs and lungs – and pushed himself harder.

Soon, but not nearly soon enough, a gray shape loomed out of the jungle in front of him.

The Seahawk crash site.

* * *

Handon had to formulate a plan to deal with the Spetsnaz counter-assault, and he had to do it now. He also had to find a way to keep them from being bombed to death on the next pass of the UCAV.

“All Cadaver One call signs,” he said, not taking his eye from his red holo-dot for a second, as silent, deadly, subsonic rounds cut the air over his head and thwacked into wood and dirt on all sides. “On my signal, put up five seconds of covering fire. Then Ali and Baxter check fire and cover up for five seconds, while Henno and I displace to the rear, twenty meters. Stand by!”

It wasn’t the cleverest small-unit infantry trick in the book, but it was what the situation called for, and it addressed two problems at once. They couldn’t all withdraw and live long. But Handon could trick the enemy into thinking they were withdrawing – when, in fact, their flanks were staying put, and only their middle was retreating, really just sagging. He and Henno, in the center, had the best odds of making it to the rear without getting shot.

Though there were no guarantees.

Then, when the two of them got set under new cover in the middle – and Ali and Baxter popped up from their original positions on the flanks – Spetsnaz would find they’d advanced into an envelopment, and instantly start taking encircling fire.

But the other best part of this plan was: the two lines would then be entwined in an arc, complicating the bombing runs of the UCAV. Then again, this strategy depended on Spetsnaz giving a shit whether they took casualties or not.

Handon hit his mic. “Covering fire – now!” This was part of the subterfuge – by starting with the standard tactic to cover a withdrawal, they hoped to make the enemy think that’s what was happening. After five seconds the four of them had emptied their mags. “Cover up or displace – now!”

Handon rose, turned, and ran for it.

As he ran, his body tensed, waiting for the shot from the rear that would take him.

That risk, this part, was out of his control.

* * *

Misha and the men to either side of him reflexively ducked as the volume of incoming fire ramped up. But a few seconds later it stopped.

“These ass-blasters are withdrawing. I’m going to anally violate them!”

Anchoring the middle of his own line, Misha rose and pounded forward – but he and the men to either side only reached two positions forward when they started taking fire from their flanks. The man to his right went down. Two rounds smacked into Misha’s plate carrier, stinging but not slowing him. And incoming fire from the front started up again – good and hard, right from the center.

For a second, Misha felt like the dog who went for the mailman’s privates – and got smacked in the nose with a rolled-up magazine. His attack had immediately come under enveloping fire. Which meant the Americans hadn’t been retreating at all – but luring him in.

They’d been suckered.

Motherfuckers. But we’ll see who’s the mailman here.

He hit his radio. “RTO! Call that bit-twiddler flying the drone. Tell him to set his bombs for delayed blast for penetration. I want them punching through the canopy – and then ground-level airbursts!” That forest would stop protecting them pretty fast.

Misha chewed his teeth, leaned in – and fought harder.

* * *

And there he is
, Handon thought, as he got reset and started shooting again – putting out precise fire as he, and everyone, got down closer to their last mags. And he never even really quite saw him. More like an impression. Bigger than the others – first and fiercest, like a warlord. Leading the charge.

Unfortunately for this asshole
, Handon thought, squeezing off rounds slowly as he tracked through his EOTech,
he just led the charge into my noose…

Someone had landed some rounds on the guy, probably Handon himself, before he went down under new cover.

Handon had reloaded while hauling ass to the rear, then dove over the next solid cover behind him, a big fallen tree – instantly finding the spot taken by two Zulus, both of them trying to get past it, but unable to figure out how. He’d had to clear the position first. Now he held it, shooting over the top, and hoping the dead tree wasn’t too sodden and decomposed to serve as a bullet backstop.