Chapter 11

A gloomy twilight had settled over the world outside the helicopter by the time we were nearing our destination in the south of Russia. We hadn't needed to come down at all thanks to the chopper's long-range fuel tanks, and we'd shared the five hours of piloting between us, watching the terrain below change from barren desert to pine-covered mountains.

During the times I had the controls, I'd kept one eye on the pilot. I'd searched him and the cockpit for weapons, and dumped those I found into the cargo area at the back of the chopper.

I'd instructed the pilot to stay in his seat unless told otherwise, and he'd obeyed perfectly so far, sitting sullenly or dozing while he waited for his next shift at the controls. I'd seen him mulling over whether it was a good idea to try and overpower me without weapons at the start of the flight, then decide against it. He wasn't an idiot.

He had the controls again now as we flew low over a mountainous region of Russia, its slopes and ridges clad in thick evergreen forest. The sun had just dipped below the mountains to the west, and I could see no sign of any buildings or a landing site below.

Then we flew over a tree-lined ridge and I saw the large building complex nestled into a shadowy valley between mountains.

This was it.

The chopper's radio crackled into life and a male voice spoke over it in Russian. "Chopper A05, what is your number and intention? Over."

I glanced at the pilot. He was gripping the controls with white-knuckled fingers and his face was beaded with sweat.

"Answer him," I said.

The pilot swallowed dryly. "Nyet."

The man's voice came over the radio again, repeating the question as we got closer to the complex.

I aimed my gun at the pilot. "Answer him now."

The pilot flinched, then reached for the radio switch, speaking into the mouthpiece of his headset. "Base, this is Number 570" – he glanced at me, then spoke faster – "requesting you shoot down this chopper. I've been compromised. Enemies onboard!"

There was a crash as I punched the radio, ending the call. Not that it mattered now. The damage had already been done.

I should have seen it coming.

I tore off my own headset and ripped away my seatbelt harness, dashing into the cargo area. I hit the button to open the side door of the chopper and cast around for a parachute as it opened, letting the cold air rush in.

The pilot saw what I was doing and threw the machine over onto its opposite side. I slammed into the wall, then rolled to the floor as he temporarily righted the craft.

We saw the missile arcing towards the chopper at the same time through the cockpit window. The pilot seemed to freeze in his seat. I leapt up and threw myself out of the open door.

The helicopter exploded.

The shock of the blast slammed into my falling body in a wave of heat and searing pain. My view flashed between the flame-filled sky above and the fast-approaching trees below as I tumbled through the air.

I curled myself into a ball, arms raised to protect my face and eyes, seconds before I crashed through the trees and everything went black.

Consciousness returned slowly, like the sensation of rising up out of deep water. Only, what waited at the surface wasn't the relief of a breath of air.

I groaned weakly as I became aware of the pain that wracked my body, lying in a twisted heap amongst the dirt and broken fir branches of the forested slope. Something hot and sticky coated my back beneath my shirt, and trickled from my nose.

I tried to draw a breath and gasped at the pain it caused, triggering a fit of weak coughing. A metallic-tasting liquid filled my mouth.

That was bad.

My foggy mind tried to comprehend what had happened as I looked up at the trees. The fall hadn't been very far, and the trees had broken my impact with the ground. My jump didn't explain my injuries, so what did?

I found the answer as I raised my head enough to look down at myself.

Shrapnel.

Deep crimson stains covered the torn material of my pants and right shirt sleeve in multiple places, and I could see the shards of metal responsible through a few rips. The bulletproof vest I wore had saved most of my torso from harm, save for the unseen injuries to my back and the long sliver of shrapnel that had punctured not only the side of the vest, but also my left lung – if the shallow rattle of my breaths were anything to go by.

For just a moment, I was lying beside an icy river at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding out into the snow from the severed stump of my left arm. Then I was back in the present, determined that this time I was going to move, that I was going to get myself out of this situation and be alright.

With that goal in mind, I gritted my teeth and tried to roll over onto my uninjured side.

Pain exploded throughout my body at the movement.

I screamed, unable to contain the sound, and then coughed, choking on blood as I collapsed onto my back once more, lesson learned.

I rested my head back on the ground and tried to ignore the pain as I contemplated my situation. I couldn't have been out long or I'd already be dead – and death was still the most likely outcome here. Superhuman physiology didn't equal immortality.

I drew in another gurgling breath and coughed again, spitting out blood. I wasn't afraid of death, or saddened by the prospect of it. The pain dominated those emotions. But I did wonder what my failure would mean for this mission. Hopefully the others would track the chopper somehow, find the base in the valley, and finish the mission.

At least I'd tried to. There were worse ways to die.

It was almost completely dark under the trees now. It was getting harder to breathe, and I lacked the strength to cough anymore. Dark spots swam about in my vision and my head felt light. Death wasn't far off.

The sudden, blinding beam of light from a torch shone into my eyes and I blinked. A shout sounded and I heard rushed footsteps approaching.

A young man crouched beside me. The light from the torch in his hand was dazzlingly bright. "Ty menya slyshish'?" he asked. Can you hear me?

I don't think I could have answered if I wanted to. My eyelids felt heavy and I wanted to close them, to sleep.

Another man appeared, standing beside the first. He was a mere blur in my fading vision. "Get him in the truck," he ordered in Russian.

"He's almost dead," the first man replied.

"I don't care. Just do it."

"Da, General."

He began to lift me with his hands under my arms and the surge of pain was too much. I closed my eyes and passed out.

AN: So, as with Iran, I've tried to do my research thoroughly for the Russian facts in this fic. If I've got anything wrong, let me know. :)