CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: MISSION EXECUTION, PT I
Wild Bill, on the same frequency as the alpha team, immediately started up his chopper upon hearing that Zap was making a break for the roof. The power came on with the high-pitched whir of electronics. The blades started turning, producing a steadily increasing whine.
Low-Light maintained his sniping position for as long as he could, standing guard while Heavy Duty and Shipwreck ran to the chopper. Air-Tight was down—without more information, they didn't know what that meant. He could be injured, or he could be dead, but right now, they needed adrenaline and they needed to be ready for action more than they needed to grieve.
"I've got one on the roof… no, wait, make that two!" Low-Light's scope picked up a couple of the blue-uniformed guards on the roof. "No Zap, yet."
Suddenly, part of the roof started to creak open. Not the entire roof, just a small portion of it -- about a twenty-by-twenty-foot section.
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"Spirit, follow Snake-Eyes. Roadblock, Tunnel Rat, with me. We need to get in the room and find the bomb. Air-Tight… Air-Tight's beyond our help," Stalker shouted. While Spirit chased after Snake-Eyes and Zap, the remaining three moved on, weapons up, to the lead-lined room. Surprisingly, they found the door to the room already open.
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Snake-Eyes was, Spirit knew from long experience, not the easiest man to catch up with when he was on the hunt. Snake was determined, observant, and fast—Spirit had often thought that, had Snake desired it, he would have been a credit indeed to the teachings of his own people.
That he could catch up with Snake before Snake had caught up with Zap did not bode well for their hunt—especially since Zap was nowhere to be seen. He exchanged a glance with Snake-Eyes as he jogged up beside the commando—there was grief in the line of Snake's shoulders, and frustration.
Ah, my friend.
Spirit had seen Air-Tight's body. Understood that Snake had held him through those last moments. Understood, too, that the one who had killed him likely had superior knowledge of this facility's layout, and undoubtedly was as physically fit as any of them were. After all… he had been one of them, once.
But he knew, too, without vanity, that if Zap were to be found… they would be the ones who could do it.
"Low-Light, staying or going?" Shipwreck shouted, holding on to the side of the helicopter. Heavy Duty was already inside, the nose of his Gatling gun twisting as he armed it.
After a moment's thought, Low-Light muttered, "Staying. Get some for me. I'll keep an eye out for Zap, and snipe him from here if I have to."
Shipwreck chuckled, and shook his head, flashing a thumbs-up in Low-Light's direction. "Better you than me, buddy!"
In return, Low-Light gave him a level look over his scope—and flashed him the finger.
Shipwreck barked out another laugh, and shouted "We're good!" to Wild Bill over the noise of the main rotor. The sailor held on tight as the helicopter's rotors whirred and they slowly started to rise off the roof.
Heavy Duty looked at him over the Gatling. "Low-Light stayin' behind again? One day, we're just gonna forget about him an' leave him behind!"
Shipwreck leaned over and shook his head. Heavy Duty liked to act tough, but he was pretty sure the big man wouldn't leave anyone behind any more than he'd leave his headbehind. "Yeah. They could not payme enough to do his job."
Heavy Duty laughed. "Tell me about it, man—sitting there waiting for the action to pop up and never knowing that it will? No thanks! If the fight's gonna come to me, I'm gonna go get it first!"
Shipwreck grinned in agreement. "Yeah, well, Stalker and the boys better get done what they need to, or else it ain't gonna be a fight coming for us, you get me?"
Heavy Duty laughed, and patted his Gatling. "Just let 'em do what they do… me and my baby, here, we'll take care of the rest!"
----
"Oh, shit!" Stalker muttered.
They'd just discovered why the door was already open.
There, in the middle of an otherwise plain and featureless room, was the nuclear warhead. Someone—most likely Zap, the bastard, Stalker mused—had set it off for detonation. The blinking red numbers read 18:32, and counting down in quick, inevitable ticks. Tunnel Rat's smile flashed in the white fluorescent lights; he clasped his hands together and flexed them, palm outwards, in a long, luxuriant stretch. "Showtime, kids!"
Nicky wondered how many of them were buying the tough-guy act—wondered how many of them had any idea just how fast was heart was going. Well, the good news is, if this baby goes off I won't feel a darn thing, he thought.
----
Spirit was the best tracker that the team had—better even than Snake-Eyes. But despite their skills and the pace at which they were moving, Zap's trail eluded them. Soon, they realized that the footprints that they were seeing in the dusty floor were old and deliberate, not fresh, not those of a man running. They'd lost his trail.
Snake-Eyes crouched to touch the footprints, then glanced up at Spirit, looking puzzled.
"My friend, I know he went this way," Spirit insisted. "We saw him round the corner, and it has been a straight path from there. There should have been nowhere else that he could go." It was as if Zap had vanished.
Snake-Eyes agreed: they'd both seen him turn the corner, and this dead end was up against the wall, framed by boxes. Somehow, he went up, or around, or vanished into thin air. His eyes narrowed and he glanced around them at the enormous crates, the sheer, heavy walls. They'd have heard him if he'd gone up and over: the crates were hollow, and footsteps resonated off them. He ran a hand over the side of the crate, feeling for cracks. What would make a man simply vanish into thin air?
"You think there is a secret passage? As do I," Spirit agreed.
----
"More activity," Low-Light murmured to himself, looking through his scope. "Looks like they see our helicopter moving. Action time." More of the blue-uniformed enemies had stormed onto the roof, taking up arms. They seemed to be focusing their attention on Wild Bill's helicopter, which was rising into the air. Well, they'd have to be pretty damned stupid not to realize that a helo's a threat. At least that crazy Texan was able to fly it down low below radar coverage and land on the far side of this building so they never saw us here in the first place. "I don't see Zap—guess I won't get my shot at him. I'll be picking off grunts and making sure you don't get too hot a reception over there."
"Copy that," Wild Bill replied from his helicopter.
Low-Light controlled his breathing, relaxing every muscle in his body in slow, easy increments, and focused on a target downrange. Knowing he had the advantage of looking down, since he was on the taller building, he felt like he was in perfect position. He liked to challenge himself, and it was always the first shot that was the most difficult. Perfection couldn't be rushed. Low-light never rushed. "Here... we... go... "
The shot sounded loud even over the sound of the helicopter, splitting the night air. One of the terrorist jerked backwards, his mouth open, his head a ruin as he fell.
Low-Light blinked, once, very slowly, and aimed his muzzle just the slightest inch to the left. When he gently pulled the trigger, the next guardsman jerked backwards in a deja-vu parody of his partner.
Perfection couldn't be rushed.
It couldn't last, but it lasted long enough. The outcry of "Sniper!" came too late to keep Low-Light from picking off another guardsman.
They returned fire; he ducked down into cover, smiling faintly. "Three down… another row of sitting ducks to go."
----
"Hey, 'Rat, if you get us out of this, I'll let you date my sister," Roadblock said, matter-of-factly.
"No offense, 'Block, but if she has half the muscles you do and one-tenth of your chest hair, then she could still break me in two. Oh, don't get me wrong; I'm sure she's, uh, 'handsome' enough. But… I'll pass."
Roadblock laughed, loudly, his deep voice rolling through the small room like the rumble of the giant that he was. Tunnel Rat had always kind of liked that about 'Block—that he could be in a good mood even when they were 14 minutes and 17 seconds away from possible nuclear destruction.
Okay, not that they spent a lot of their time being 14 minutes and 17 seconds away from nuclear destruction.
"Not to rush you, Rat, but how's it coming?" Stalker asked. Well, that was Stalker, all right—he took things a bit more seriously than 'Block.
"Well... if you two would can it... " Tunnel Rat muttered, his hands flying over the circuits and cords, tugging, testing, focused.
Stalker got the hint.
----
Click. The pressure plate gave under Snake-Eyes' hand with a soft noise, but far more welcome was the whoosh of a door sliding open.
Got it! He smiled, grimly. It must have been what Zap had used to get away.
It was actually very noisy in the next room. And windy. A helicopter sat on the fifth and highest floor level, but there was a wide panel in the ceiling, swinging slowly open as they watched. It looked just barely wide enough for a small helicopter, but the night sky was dim with light through it. Definitely a getaway hatch.
Zap was a pilot, both Snake and Spirit remembered. He wasn't as good as Wild Bill—not a lot of people were—but his helicopter was sleek and small, not Bill's bigger, bulkier transport. There were several guardsmen in the room, shielding their eyes and stumbling backwards as the helo's blades started to turn.
Spirit immediately pointed to the three soldiers on the ground and nodded, and then he pointed to Snake-Eyes, and, finally, pointed to the helicopter.
Got it. I'll take the bird, you take the foot troops, Snake-Eyes thought. Spirit opened fire as Snake dashed into the room, with Zap's helicopter taking off out of the building.
From what he could see in the brief glance he'd gotten at the situation, it was likely that Zap had two gunners with him. Probably one on each side. And the helicopter had its own twin front cannons. Not good.
Spirit was well aware of the trust that Snake-Eyes had put in him: Snake, despite his speed, was out of cover and running across an open space. If Spirit failed at what he had to do, the three guardsmen on the ground would cut down his friend, easily, with the machine guns cradled in the crooks of their arms.
But he had no intentions of failing, and his hands were steady when he put several well-placed rounds into each of the three visibly startled guardsmen. His only regret was that he wasn't carrying anything heavier than a nine-millimeter; it would take significantly more than that to take out a helicopter.
Snake didn't feel the heat of the bullets passing him, but he saw the three men fall almost immediately. Thank you, Spirit. His attention was all for the helicopter as he passed their bodies: it was climbing up high, and fast.
Snake jumped, extending his body in a long, taut curve, and snatched for the skids rapidly rising out of reach. One hand missed—the other didn't, and the force of gravity yanking at him almost pulled his shoulder from its socket. This isn't a good idea. He knew that his chances of making this work were infinitesimal. But this is for Short-Fuze, and for Air-Tight. He grabbed the skid with his other hand, and looked upwards.
He looked upwards into a muzzle pointed at his head: the side gunner. Snake-Eyes sucked in a sharp breath; the sound of a bullet seemed oddly muffled in his ears.
The side door gunner tumbled out of the side door and barely missed hitting Snake-Eyes on his way down. Snake glanced backwards to see Spirit, 9-mil raised, stance steady.
That was close, Snake thought. I owe you one, my friend.
It was all he could do to hold on, with the helicopter dragging upwards through the air and the blast of wind from the blades shoving him downwards. But just holding on wasn't what he needed to be doing—Snake-Eyes, with all of his strength, started hauling himself upwards.
----
Shit. They had better weapons than he'd thought.
Low-Light's aim wasn't as good, now that he was being fired upon, but his fourth shot still disintegrated a shoulder, and his fifth popped through a knee. But they were really starting to focus their fire: he was going to have to start ducking each time, popping up, taking aim, and squeezing off a shot as fast as he could. Not ideal with a sniper rifle… but at this point, he was a lone, exposed sniper on a rooftop. He'd take what he could get.
Above his head, he heard the crackle and pop of Shipwreck's M-16, the rattle of Heavy Duty's Gatling gun. Several more of the opposition went down, and for just a moment, the fire on him ceased. Thanks, guys. Low-Light felt rushed, and he hated feeling rushed. If this was a shooting gallery, then someone had just put a stopwatch and a target number on him, with that big red "Failure" sign just about ready to flash if he didn't meet his quota.
No way that'd happen. He was a professional, and he'd been at this too long for jitters. He took a deep breath, feeling his nerves settle as he held it, held it—rose, drew a bead on another enemy, and fired.
He didn't need to see his target fall to know he'd hit.
Got another one, he thought, ducking back down and reloading.
----
Wild Bill's helicopter took a few hits from the soldiers up on the roof, but nothing serious. Mostly just a few bullet holes to the fuselage, missing all vital controls.
It was about this time that Wild Bill noticed that out of the hole of the warehouse roof, another helicopter was starting to rise into the night sky. He blew his breath out in a soft whistle—he couldn't tell who was flying it, but that little craft came with a serious set of fangs; front cannons, side gunners.
But… Bill blinked. What the…?
Something -- or someone -- was hanging off the skids of the helo, Bill noticed. Someone dressed all in black.
Snake-Eyes?!
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"Wild Bill, this is Breaker. You probably know this already, but looks like an aircraft just popped out of the warehouse? Just showed up on our radar."
Wild Bill responded. "Enemy helicopter, looks like. Got more guns than we do, and a more maneuverable model than ours. This could get uglier than a chili cookout, pardner."
As Breaker was talking on the radio, Shana asked Firewall, "Do you have any way to track the others? We know Tunnel Rat found the nuke, but what about Snake-Eyes and Spirit?"
Firewall shook her head; she sounded discouraged "No, they're out of our cameras' range. But it's getting ugly in there, Shana."
Shana felt her voice shake. "How… ugly?"
Firewall looked up and met her gaze, cleanly. "Both teams are taking heavy fire. We're either going to have to make the call to vacate the area, because of that nuke, or we're going to have to go in and help them out. And… it's going to be soon."
----
Wild Bill slammed the stick to the side, taking evasive action as bullets crackled at them from the unidentified enemy helicopter. Shipwreck and Heavy Duty didn't return fire—there was no way for them to do anything but hold on tight as the helicopter banked. When Bill racked it up to the left at a steep sixty degree angle, he managed to avoid a few fatal shots but not enough: the helicopter shuddered from the force of the bullets slamming into its hull.
Shipwreck fought against gravity, gripping the handbar with one hand and pointing his M-16 at an opening with another: the other helicopter dodged, breaking off the attack.
Then Shipwreck blinked. "What the—uh… hey, guys? Is that… holy shit! That's Snake-Eyes on that helo! Man, I almost shot him!" All it would have taken was one stray bullet…
Wild Bill glanced back at him for one brief instant. "Yeah. I think it is, but 'Wreck, we gotta do this. If we don't fire on them, we ain't gonna last a minute in the air, and Snakes wouldn't want that either, would he?"
The two helicopters continued to fire at each other, locked in a high-powered duel of metal against metal, spent casings falling in a clattering shower over the rooftops and the street. It was obvious that if the pilots and the passengers had their way, only one of them was going to be flying out of there.
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8:56 remained. If only Air-Tight were here. Nukes are his specialty, not mine. This isn't like dismantling C-4 explosives. THAT, I can handle. Tunnel Rat was sweating, diligently picking through the circuitry. Right now, this task wasn't just important—it was more important than any other task in the world.
----
As much as Low-Light wanted to take a shot at the helicopter pilot, he knew that by staying engaged with the terrorists on the opposite rooftop, he would also keep them from firing at Bravo Team's helicopter. It was a fair trade-off, considering they had more guns than he did.
But the concentrated fire on him was just too heavy for him to keep picking them off with his sniper rifle. It was him against several—okay, many—and no matter how much better he was with his rifle, it was just too bulky, and not fast enough. He set aside his rifle with a wistful pat, and picked up his M-16, his mouth tight. The only thing that was keeping him alive, he knew, was the concrete half-wall in front of him. He wasn't going to give up, but it was really starting to feel like for every enemy he shot and took out, two more rushed to the roof to replace the fallen.
Then he heard the sharp clang of metal behind him, and when he turned, it was to watch the door to the rooftop being kicked out.
The terrorists poured out, and Low-Light watched death streaming up the stairwell for him.
He turned to face it—face them. There was no question of the odds—overwhelming—or the situation—hopeless. He had no cover. No backup. Distantly, he wondered if Wild Bill would have appreciated the situation: like an old western shootout, but this was definitely not one-on-one... and not with six-shooters.
He had a moment to watch. Just a moment. Bullets were flying, and smoke wisped up into the air from the firearms. The flash from the tracers lit up the rooftop around him. Then he raised his arm and sprayed them with his M-16.
The first bullet tore through his right shoulder, and he staggered back against the rail of the roof. Yanking up his wounded arm, he kept firing. Another bullet pierced his left leg, dropping him to one knee. The next one tore through his forearm, his hand spasming uselessly on the trigger. Ah—he tried to shove his weapon into his left hand, but the next bullet ripped through his belly, and the M-16 tumbled to the ground as he hunched over the agony.
Desperately, with a shaking hand – grunting through the pain as his body started to shut down – he grabbed a grenade off his web belt. Why won't my fingers… it took what felt like all his strength to pull the pin, slowly, carefully, hiding it against his body—through the pain, it almost took more than he had to hold the safety lever closed. A fifth bullet struck him. He couldn't feel more than the moment of impact—couldn't have even said where it hit. He looked down and found his uniform matted with blood, both shoulders dripping with it, before the impact drove him in a jolt against the rail. His already tenuous balance slipped, and he scrabbled for the ground, trying to hold himself up with his ruined right hand.
His left hand, holding the grenade, trembled. His shoulders, his knee, his stomach, his hand… the agony was more than a blur, it was a solid mass, edging out thought and drive and reason. It felt like the grenade weighed a hundred pounds. He couldn't—he couldn't—I have to. He looked at the crowd of them, standing in a blurred mass, black edging in on his vision. Then with strength he'd never thought he had, that he'd never thought he'd need, Low-Light jerked back his arm and lobbed the grenade clumsily into the crowd of terrorists.
The moment it left his hand, the last of his balance and the last of his reserves gone, Low-Light fell face forward, twisted, and into a dark, spreading stain of his own blood.