ARISEN, Book Eleven - Deathmatch (42 page)

“Roger that.”

Now those three words –
Just don’t fail
– played in his head, like a mantra, or meditation. As a guide to action, they were wonderfully simple. What do I need to do? Easy! Just don’t fail!

Burton shook his head in dark amusement, as he lined up his final approach on the stern of the giant warship and floating airport. He was already on edge, due to a stark lack of
freaking carrier landings
in his flying history, as a result of him being a pilot in the Army Air Corps. He’d done it in cross-training a couple of times. But not in this aircraft, and not in a long time. He was basically learning on the job, with zero margin for error.

But as he came within visual range of the carrier, his gaze was drawn to the area of flight deck around the island, where he could see men and women running. Some looked like flight deck personnel. But others didn’t. And a number of them were armed.

Jesus Effing Christ
, Burton thought.
That looks like a firefight. What in hell is going on down there?

And then he saw the Aircraft Director, the officer responsible for bringing him down safely, legging it. What in blazes was he supposed to do now?

Oh, the hell with it
.

He was already on final approach, flaps and landing gear down, and he couldn’t stay in the air very long in his current fuel state. Moreover, he had absolutely nowhere else to go.

It was the
Kennedy
or bust.

Sooner than expected, his tail hook semi-miraculously caught on one of the restraining wires and the 7,000-pound aircraft slammed down on to the deck, throwing him forward into his restraining harness, and sending all the blood in his head to the rear as it snapped forward.

When his vision spooled up from G-force-induced blackout, the first thing he could see was four men in unfamiliar dark uniforms, all of them armed to the teeth, running out toward him from the island, and moving to circle around the point where he was going to come to a stop, near the end of the angle deck.

What the bloody hell is happening on this boat?
And what kind of meat grinder had he been sent flying into? Moreover, what were the intentions of these four men? His head swiveled on his neck, he gawped at the scene – and looked in vain for security personnel from the carrier to come to his rescue.

But it looked like he was on his own.

And then he wasn’t. Two American sailors, one with a shotgun and one with a rifle, ran out and shouted at the four dark figures. Two of them spun around and opened fire instantly – cutting down both of the Yanks where they stood. They were dead on the deck in seconds.

Fucking hell
.

The other two foreigners carried on, running toward him, cutting in front of the left wing, but behind the propeller, aiming weapons at his face through the side cockpit glass.

Well, I’m not going down like those two
, Captain Burton thought – drawing his service pistol from his shoulder holster, flipping up the side window, and opening fire, shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger.

One of the two attackers went down.

The other leaned into his weapon, eye to his sight.

* * *

Huddling with his team in the lee of the island, feeling profoundly useless, Wesley saw the same scene as his countryman flying the plane, albeit from a different angle. As the four invaders swung out around the island, practically right in front of him and his team but facing away, Wesley said the fastest prayer of his life that they wouldn’t turn around and see them.

They were so close that Wesley’s hand actually went to his sword, while he wished like hell he had a cricket bat instead. Back when he was a bouncer in the Midlands, the cricket bat over the bar had allowed him to end a lot of brawls with a few deft swings. He knew how to use it, unlike the sword.

But before he could react – either to get the hell out of there, or to engage the attackers – he saw two of the Russians turn and cut down two sailors who approached them. Being as they had turned partly to the rear, it was surely just a matter of time before they spotted Wesley’s team, too. Moreover, seeing them kill two ship’s crew right in front of him prodded Wesley into action.

“Shoot!” he said to Burns and Jenson, bringing his rifle up, flipping the safety off, and opening fire. His two men followed suit, just after him. Their three M4s put out a good volume of fire, and the range wasn’t much. By the time the two Spetsnaz clocked them, they had both been hit and were going down. Burns and Jenson kept laying into them, but Wesley’s eye was caught by something else.

The other two invaders were still circling in front of the plane, which was now slowing and near to stopping. But then the cockpit window opened and a pistol emerged, shooting down one of the remaining two Spetsnaz.

Bringing his rifle up again, Wesley targeted the last one. He fired several times, but the range was longer, and evidently he missed, because the man stayed up and fired repeatedly into the cockpit of the plane, still running toward it. Wesley adjusted his aim and fired again. The Russian finally went down. But he’d already put at least ten rounds into the cockpit. And Wesley figured the man’s accuracy was probably a hell of a lot better than his own.

Because the two turbo-prop engines, both of which had been winding down, now roared back up to full power.

Oh, my God,
Wesley thought. Somehow he could picture the scene in that cockpit – the dead pilot collapsing over his throttle… and shoving it forward with his dead weight.

The plane powered forward again, straining against the wire caught on its tail hook – for two seconds, at which point the hook came out entirely. Suddenly freed from the restraining wire, the Beechcraft rocketed forward again – then hurtled straight off the end of the angle deck, out into open air.

And then down into the sea far below.

* * *

Up in Pri-Fly, the Air Boss and his crew also watched this slow-motion air disaster play out below them, open-mouthed and in shock. Their view was exquisite and unobstructed, as if they were royalty in box seats at a theater in London’s West End. When it was over, and the British plane had done its swan dive off the flight deck, no one spoke. No one could speak.

The Air Boss straightened up and exhaled.

That’s it, then
, he thought to himself.

We’re done.

Us, Too, Mate

JFK – Ship’s Armory

Armour locked eyes with her two teammates, their fear-dilated eyes flashing in the dimness, and she said it. She knew that once she put it out there, there would be no coming back from it, or shirking their duty. “We can’t hole up in here. We have to push out – and secure the passageway outside. So the others can get in – and get armed.”

Parlett and Roy both nodded, and exchanged adrenalized looks as they absorbed this. Though they had all gotten through the flight deck battle together, and were now well armed, they still knew they were very lightly trained as front-line combatants. They also had no real idea what they were facing out there. Not to mention that they’d never had to fight anyone who could shoot back.

Then again, they were also part of the team that had retaken Ammo City, got out of it alive – and, mainly, fought alongside CSM Handon the whole way.

On that terrible day, he had made them believe.

And self-belief was a hell of a powerful thing. Getting ready to lead her teammates into harm’s way, Armour felt like maybe, somehow, Handon was still watching over them. And that gave her courage far beyond her training or experience.

“Come on,” she said, getting behind a crate, putting her shoulder down, and shoving it out into the passageway for cover. Without hesitation, her two friends did the same, right behind her – but she couldn’t hear it, because she was immediately taken under fire from the guard facing her way outside the magazine, perhaps forty yards away.

She dropped to the deck as high-velocity rounds cut the air over her head and smacked into the crate before her. These shots came in with what felt like utter precision, and how Armour hadn’t gotten hit in the initial volley was beyond her. Maybe God was shielding her.

Maybe Handon was.

She also had no idea how she was going to climb back over that crate and into the fight, never mind match up against whatever nameless badasses were raiding their ship. But as she cowered under the barrage and pondered this, she found she had been right about pushing out and maintaining access to the armory. And that she’d made the right decision.

Behind her, coming in from the opposite direction, she could see three or four heads peeking around from cross passageways, looking scared – but also intent and urgent. Armour recognized them as fellow militia members, other survivors of the flight deck battle. And even as she puffed her cheeks with deep breaths and steeled herself to pop back up and engage…

She realized Parlett and Roy were already doing it. They’d taken up positions to either side of her, having pushed out their own crates, and were now firing over the tops of them. By the time Armour got back up and into it, she could see the lone guard facing their direction get hit and retreat back under cover. However superior he was to them in training, skills, and experience, he was still facing three guns to his one. And their solidarity, and teamwork, were enough to carry the moment.

It was one tiny victory.

But, for now, the field was theirs.

Armour turned around to face the newcomers behind them. “Come on!” she shouted, waving them forward. “Get inside!”

The militia was mustering.

* * *

Still crouching down in the lee of the island, its shadow seeming to provide at least imaginary safety, Wesley huddled with his team. And, as had the Air Boss high above, he watched the plane tumble off the angle deck. But unlike him, Wesley thought:

Maybe we’re done… but maybe not.

Rising into a crouch, cradling his weapon, keeping an eye on his people, preparing to defend himself and them, he quickly did the math on this. Due to the raiders, the plane intended to transport Park back to Britain was gone. And, even more damningly, it was Wesley’s fault. He’d had a chance to stop the Russians chasing the plane and save it. But he had moved too slowly, and his shooting wasn’t good enough. He had failed.

But whether it was his fault or not, the result was the same – Dr. Park was not getting back to Britain on that aircraft. And that tipped the balance for him. He had to do this other mission. The weight and magnitude of his duty to the ship and the people under his command hadn’t changed. But his higher duty – to humanity – had become apparent, and it eclipsed the other one.

When his radio went, that sealed it.
“Wesley, Derwin!”

“I’m here!” he shouted back. “Where are you?”

“Ops Room!”

“What’s your status?”

“Everyone’s mustering here. We’ve got arms and ammo, and I’m collecting reports on enemy strength and disposition.”

“Everyone okay?”

“Negative. We’ve had five confirmed KIAs so far – and a few people wounded. We’re taking care of them.”

“Browning?”

“He’s fine, he’s right here. We’re just getting organized, then we’re going out again.”

Wesley nodded vigorously, even though his senior chief couldn’t see him. It was probably the adrenaline. “Stay together!” he said. “Watch each other’s backs. And try to coordinate with the Marines, if you can find them. And also Sarah Cameron – you’ve got to help protect Dr. Park, whatever else happens.”

“Roger that,”
Derwin said. There was a noticeable pause.
“You’re not coming with us, are you?”

“No. I can’t. I’ve got another mission.”

“Okay, Wesley. I’ve got this one. Go. Be brave, and stay safe.”

Good old Derwin. Wesley was truly blessed.

“You, too, mate. I’ll see you on the other side. Wes out.”

He looked across at that shot-up Seahawk on the opposite side of the deck, about forty yards forward of them. Its engines and rotors were still spinning up, but it looked like taking off any second.

They were out of time.

* * *

“Jenson! Burns!” The two wide-eyed men turned in to face him. “I need you to lay down covering fire.” There were more invaders visible at the far end of the flight deck, and they were fighting their way toward the island, engaging the somewhat random group of defenders running around and trying to form up.

Wesley clapped each man on the shoulder. “Ready?”

They both nodded rapidly.

“As soon as we’re safely there, you two follow – first one, then the other. Got it?”

“Safely where?” Burns asked, his brow furrowed.

Wesley ignored the question. It was about to be obvious. He pulled Chief Davis and Pete to their feet. Both already had their big packs securely strapped on their backs. “C’mon,” he said, rising to his feet and leading the charge across the open deck.

Five seconds and several lifetimes later, Wesley slammed into the side of the screaming Seahawk, hauled the side cargo door open, and herded the mechanics into it. Overhead, the rotors were now whumping at full speed or damned close to it.

Responding to the open hatch light, the pilot turned and stuck his head in back. “
Hey! What are you jackasses doing on my aircraft?
” Wesley ignored this as the mechanics tumbled in, then turned and faced out, firing his M4 – covering Jenson, and then Burns, as first one then the other hauled ass across the deck and power-bombed into the back of the helo.

Now rounds were definitely coming in on them, further shredding the much abused airframe. Wesley shot faster, praying he could take cover, not to mention cover the others, behind a wall of lead.

“
I said—
” the pilot shouted.

“
I heard you!
” Wesley shouted back, throwing himself inside and pulling the door shut, bullets thwacking into the other side of it. “
Does it even matter? Go, go – fly!
”