The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (15 page)

He waited another 30 seconds and tried again.
 
As he counted off the seconds, he watched the Russian base.
 
It looked to be the changing of the guard.
 
He glanced at his watch: 0345 hours.
 
It'd been over an hour since they had scouted the base and the Russians were still relatively alert.

And he still couldn't contact HQ back in Colorado.
 
Satellite comms were spotty—one minute he had all the data he needed, the next, it was like he had been thrown back in time to World War II: no comms, no data, no nothing.
 
Granted, the situation was a huge improvement over a week ago, but as it stood, things were frustratingly unreliable.
 

When his team had started this mission, they’d had full contact with HQ all the way from Missouri to South Carolina.
 
Now that he needed to call in the cavalry?
 
Nothing.

He grimaced.
 
Welcome back, Mr. Murphy—you bastard.

Alston leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes for a moment to think.
 
He suppressed a cough—barely.
 
That would be perfect—cover blown by a cough.
 
He exhaled to calm the urge in his chest to cough and felt his forehead again.
 
Definitely a fever.
 
Clock’s ticking Alston.

They couldn't wait for comms to clear.
 
The mission had to go,
now
.
 
The Russians were on high alert, but it had been an hour since the recon and he had to figure most of their men would just be falling back asleep by now.
 
The explosion had been contained, the fire put out, and the base returned to relative peace and quiet.
 
No more aircraft had been spotted approaching.
 

If Huntley was there, the Russians were sure to be antsy to get him out of the country.
 
It didn't make any sense for them to want to stay.
 
Why would they?
 
He frowned.
 
Unless they decided to work up a vaccine here, under our noses, because we expected them to flee.
 
Could it all be a feint?

Intel had suggested that the Russians were working on a cure for the Korean Flu in their own labs.
 
Thanks to the nuclear strike on Atlanta, the super-antibodies that could destroy the virus were found nowhere else on the planet—except in Mr. Huntley’s blood.
 

Without reinforcements, he was left with roughly 100 men between the Marines and his Rangers.
 
He had three V-22 Ospreys under his command, parked about 2 miles away in dense foliage.
 
Each one of them was equipped with a .50 caliber M2 machine gun mounted just inside the loading ramp at the rear of the aircraft.
 
One of them, the command aircraft, also had the experimental omnidirectional Gatling gun mounted under the nose.
 
It made the Osprey look awkward and nose-heavy, but the pilot assured him that it worked just as well as the nose gun on an Apache attack helicopter.
 

Alston opened his eyes and took another look at the airfield.
 
The Ospreys were just too vulnerable.
 
A couple of M2's could make a lot of difference—especially in the air, at night, firing down on a confused enemy.
 
But if the Russians had a couple of shoulder-fired SAMs, the slow-moving Ospreys would be easy targets.
 
If they lost their remaining air-support now… Even assuming that they were able to defeat the Russians and recapture Mr. Huntley, they would be high and dry without transportation back to Colorado.

Alston coughed, unable to hold it back.
 
It was getting harder to take a deep breath without coughing.
 
The thickness he felt in his lungs only emphasized the urgency of completing the mission and getting Huntley back to the labs.

The sensible course of action would be to wait for comms to be reestablished and call in reinforcements to take the airfield with overwhelming firepower.
 
Barring that, they could round up the local citizenry and see if any anyone could help or get word to any National Guard units in the area.

Alston frowned as he watched a group of seven Russians exit the terminal.
 
They laughed and joked, casually strolling past another group heading in from patrol duty.
 

The clock was ticking.
 
Sunrise was only a few hours away.
 
If they waited it would just give the Russians a chance to dig in deeper.
 

Okay, if I’m the Russian commander, I'm probably suspicious.
 
You don't see an explosion like that in the middle of the night for no reason.
 
I've got to assume that the Americans are chasing me—hell, everyone in the world wants Huntley.
 
Or at least his blood.
 

Alston wiped the sweat from his face.
 
He frowned—the fever was getting worse.
 
Can’t let it slow me down.
 
He rolled his shoulders and put himself in the Russian commander’s position.
 
He'd have his men on high alert all night, armed and ready to go, just inside the doors to the hangars and the terminal.
 
He would leave minimal guards outside to draw the enemy in, thinking that it would be easy pickings.
 
Then if the enemy did arrive, he would spring the trap.

Alston stood, his decision made.
 
"All units, this is Actual.
 
Get to your assault positions.
 
Execute Plan B on my signal, acknowledge."

He waited until the last element of the Marines had chirped his radio.
 
Only then did Alston begin to creep back through the undergrowth toward the airfield fence.
 
When he was in position, he changed frequencies to alert the pilots.
 

“Condor, Hammer 2-1 Actual,” he whispered.

A moment later, his radio broke squelch.
 
"
Go ahead, Actual.
"

He blinked in surprise.
 
The radio actually worked.
 
“Execute Valkyrie," he said.

"Roger that, Actual.
 
We will be over target in ten.
 
Condor flight is Oscar Mike."

Ten minutes.
 
They just had to keep the Russians occupied until the Ospreys appeared over the ridge, ready to attack the little airport.
 

Alston used his night vision goggles to scan the northern perimeter of the airfield and spotted the newest addition to the Russian patrol forces outside the target hangar.
 
One of them looked west and had the telltale bulge of night vision equipment strapped to his helmet.
 
The rest stood around smoking cigarettes and talking.

Alston slowly lowered his head and keyed his mic:
 
“All units, Actual.
 
Be advised, I have eyes on an enemy foot mobile with NVG at the target hangar."

"Devil Dog copies all, Actual.
 
Ready to rumble."

Alston took one last scan of the airfield basin and noticed a general increased Russian presence.
 
Where there had been three or four at each position before, now there were closer to eight or nine.
 
Things were going to be a little trickier than he expected.
 
But the arrival of the Ospreys should even the odds.

The timing had to be perfect for his plan to work.
 
Throwing the Ospreys into the fray too early would allow the Russians to concentrate on them first.
 
He intended to maximize their impact by attacking with his ground forces and then use the Ospreys as hammer to his anvil.

"All units, Actual.
 
Execute, execute, execute!"

By the time he reached his hand up to rip down the pre-cut section of fence, he heard Zuka’s rifle and saw the Russian wearing night vision goggles drop to the ground.
 
The others froze for a second and in the space of a heartbeat the entire world lit up.

Rifle fire popped from the thigh-high grass to his left and right.
 
In seconds, the entire Russian squad at the corner of the target hangar was dispatched.
 
He glanced to his right and saw the Marines were pouring fire in from the western side of the base as Zuka quietly slithered through the hole in the fence.
 

Muzzle flashes sparkled like twinkling stars beyond the hangars.
 
An air raid siren began its low, mournful wail on the other side of the airfield.
 
The Russians on top of the terminal scrambled to the four corners and Alston could see with satisfaction they were hesitant to return fire.
 
They had no idea where the attack originated.

Alston wormed his way through the fence as Zuka reached the target hangar.
 
Three Marines rushed past him and met Zuka at the corner of the huge, arched building.
 
They paused and then kicked in the door.
 
Gunfire erupted from inside but Zuka and the Marines advanced without hesitation.
 

Alston got to his feet and kept his rifle pointed at the hangar, ready to assist Zuka should any Russians try and enter behind them.
 
A tremendous explosion obliterated the front of the middle hangar to the east.
 
The glare temporarily blinded Alston as he fell to his knees.
 
He closed his eyes and looked away, dropping to the ground to make as small a target as possible.
 

When his vision cleared, he saw smoke pouring out of the damaged building.
 
A fire truck rumbled through the flames and came to a stop just outside the hangar.
 
Two of its tires were on fire and flames licked at the back of the vehicle.
 
The driver’s door opened and a Russian stepped out before he collapsed to the pavement and lay still.
 
Another explosion rocked the hangar.
 
Alston lifted his night vision goggles, swearing.

Leave it to the Marines to blow up every damn thing in sight.
 
He steeled himself against onslaught of sound around him: the crackle of M-4s, the rapid-fire of AK-47s, the scream of an air raid siren, and the roar of explosions and grenades in the distance.
 

He rushed forward with his own squad of Marines and took the front entrance to the target hangar.
 
He flashed hand signals to the Marines to advance on his three-count.
 
He lowered fingers one at a time.
 
Alston’s heart thundered in his chest as the battle raged around him.
 
He lowered his last finger and the big Marine to his right kicked in the door.
 

Before the door had finished falling to the floor, Alston charged forward.
 
He spun to the left as he entered the hangar and the first Marine behind him spun to the right.
 
They began laying down fire into the rear of the Russian line.
 
The enemy, to a man, faced the chaos outside and presented a target he simply couldn’t resist.
 

On the other side of the hangar, Alston spotted Zuka and his Marines, pinned down in the corner by the very Russians in front of Alston’s squad.
 
When Alston and his Marines opened up on them from behind, the Russian front collapsed in screams and blood.
 
There were no survivors.

"Clear!" called Zuka from the other side of the fallen Russians.
 
The Marines raced through and double-checked each body to make sure they were dead.
 
Alston quickly scanned the sparse hangar.
 
There were a few empty cots, some boxes of supplies, and a Jeep.
 
Otherwise the hangar was completely empty.
 
Huntley wasn’t there.

"Are we good?" asked Alston.

"No survivors, sir," said one of the Marines, wiping his K-Bar on a Russian’s uniform.

"Zuka, take your men and go around back," Alston said. "Loop around the south side of the building."
 
Alston turned and pointed to the Marines that had accompanied him.
 
"You guys, with me."

His radio crackled with reports from Gunny Morin’s Marines as they cleared outlying buildings and entered the hangars.
 
Alston's plan called for all the hangars and surrounding buildings to be cleared first as everyone worked their way toward the terminal.
 

The target hangar was secured and the northernmost hangar on the east side of the airstrip had already fallen.
 
Alston stepped out of the target hangar and could see that the middle and southern hangars were full of Russians putting up stiff resistance.
 
It was time to add some firepower.

"Zuka, head to the south hangar."

"
Hooah
," was the reply.
 
Alston sent his Marines toward the middle hangar that had housed the now flaming fire truck.
 
He paused to release a racking cough.
 
It almost brought him to his knees.
 
For a moment, the fires around the airfield took on different colors and shapes.

Hallucinations.
 
The fever’s getting worse.
 
Gotta hold it together…

He took a quick glance and saw Zuka’s shadowy form, closely followed by the Marines as they raced across the airstrip toward the third hangar.
 
He just needed a little more time.