Precipice: V Plague Book 9 (10 page)

There was
nothing unusual about the flight in the Hind.  We lifted off and headed
directly northwest.  I didn’t know the area well, but remembered from
looking at maps that Mountain Home Air Force Base was in that direction. 
I assumed that’s where we were heading, and on arrival I would be transferred
to a fixed wing aircraft that would take me to Seattle.

The interior
of the Russian helicopter was even more stark and austere than an American
helo, if that was possible.  I was familiar with the Mi-24, able to
recognize one by sight or sound as well as knowing many of the craft’s
operational capabilities, but this was the first time I’d ever been in
one.  It may not have had any creature comforts, not that I’ve ever been
in a front line military vehicle that did, but even from my seat on a web sling
I could tell it was powerful.

We gained
altitude quickly, the roar of the machinery as deafening as any Huey or Black
Hawk I’d ever flown in.  For as large as the helo is from the outside it
was surprisingly cramped in the troop compartment.  More room for fuel,
ordnance and armor I supposed.  Colonel Grushkin sat on the far wall,
facing me, and our knees nearly touched. 

Immediately
next to me sat a large Spetsnaz trooper.  Our shoulders routinely bumped
from the motion of the helicopter in flight.  The remaining three soldiers
were squeezed onto a short bench that folded down from the rear bulkhead of the
compartment.  All of them were already in the mode that’s normal for soldiers
around the globe when they’re catching a ride and have nothing to do.  The
three on the bench all had their eyes closed, heads gently bobbing up and down
as they dozed. 

The guy next
to me had a thousand yard stare, facing the exterior door but not seeing anything. 
I noted that even though I was restrained he had made sure all of his weapons
were on the side of his body farthest away from me.  That told me a lot
about him.  Told me he thought like I did.  Just because a prisoner
is restrained doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous if you let your guard down.

I looked up
when Grushkin tapped me on the knee, meeting his pale blue eyes.  He was
holding out a headset, apparently wanting to talk to pass the time.  I
leaned forward and he slipped it over my ears and adjusted the microphone so it
was directly in front of my mouth.

“Can you
hear me?”  He spoke over the intercom, his voice clear due to the system’s
noise canceling.

“Yes.”

“You were
surprisingly easy to catch for a man with your background.” 

I wasn’t
sure if he was gloating or not.  The expression on his face was
unreadable.  I hadn’t heard a question and didn’t feel the need to explain
myself to this man.  He sat watching me, examining me, for several minutes
before speaking again.

“Where is
your wife going?”  He finally asked what seemed to be an innocuous
question.

“Probably
the closest shopping mall,” I said, not about to give him any real information.

“As would
mine,” he laughed briefly.  The smile never reached his eyes.  “Where
is Senior Sergeant Igor Valinski?”

So that was
Igor’s last name.

“I don’t
know who that is,” I lied.

“I think you
do,” he said, fishing in the breast pocket of his uniform blouse and extracting
a small cigar that looked like it had been hand rolled from rough, dark
tobacco. 

He took his
time finding a disposable lighter in his pants pocket and then made a short
production of getting the stogie lit.  Vile smelling smoke immediately
began to fill the troop compartment.  None of the Spetsnaz troopers
reacted in the slightest and the pilots studiously ignored one of the big no-no’s
of flying in a military helicopter.

“I think you
know him very well,” Grushkin said, meeting my eyes through a haze of blue
smoke.  “You met him in Los Alamos where he was with the traitor Irina
Vostov.  What I want to know is whether or not he’s still alive.”

I met the
man’s stare, trying to decide where this was coming from.  Was he trying
to find out about Irina and the conspiracy in Russia to topple President
Barinov?  Or did he have an axe to grind with Igor?  Or was it
something else?

One thing
about the Special Forces community in America is that the line between NCO and
Officer is pretty blurry.  In fact, in my humble opinion, most SF NCOs are
better qualified to lead men than many officers in the regular ranks. 
This says a lot about the type of person who becomes an operator, and as a
result it’s not uncommon for strong bonds of friendship to develop across the
ranks. 

But I had no
idea if this was how things worked in Russia.  Probably, which would go a
long way towards explaining the Colonel’s interest.  Or maybe he was just
hoping to kill two birds with one stone and get enough information out of me to
find a traitor.

“I killed
him,” I finally said, getting my answer at the involuntary look of surprise and
pain that flashed across Grushkin’s face.

“Explain,”
he said after a long pause in which he ignored the smoldering cigar in his
hand. 

He leaned
forward, coiled and intense.  I guessed that at the moment the only reason
he hadn’t pulled out his pistol and shot me in the head was because of his
orders to deliver me to Barinov.  I shifted slightly in my seat and rolled
my shoulders that were aching from having my hands restrained behind my back.

I tried to
think of a reason to lie, but other than due to the fact that he was a Russian
invading my country I couldn’t come up with one that would benefit me.  So
I told him the truth.  Not in great detail, but I gave him enough to
satisfy his curiosity.  When I finished speaking he leaned back in his
seat and nodded.

His reaction
wasn’t what I expected.  Anger or profound sadness, or perhaps even denial
would have seemed appropriate reactions to the news, but as far as I could tell
he was smugly satisfied.  I didn’t understand what game he was playing.

“Five
minutes,” a voice spoke over the intercom. 

It was the
pilot giving a heads up that we were nearing our destination.  Three
small, square windows were set in the hull of the helicopter, above the side
door, and I glanced out the closest one.  Flat grasslands stretching away
to mountains was all I could see at first, but as the aircraft descended I
caught sight of a ribbon of asphalt that looked like an Interstate highway, a
small town slightly south of it.  I was almost certain we were coming in to
Mountain Home Air Force Base.

Shifting
again, I rolled my shoulders and adjusted the position of my hands. 
Colonel Grushkin had lost interest in talking to me and reached out and removed
my headset.  We were losing altitude fast and he barked out something in Russian. 
The big Spetsnaz sitting next to me nodded and straightened his legs out across
the compartment.  Grushkin turned his head to see into the cockpit and
began speaking to the pilot on the intercom.

The Hind was
slowing and I knew we were less than a minute from touchdown.  My seat-mate
arched his back forward to stretch, lifting his arms over his shoulders and
tilting his head back.  That was when I struck.

A small
piece of rough metal protruded from the bulkhead my seat hung from.  I had
noticed several other spots around the interior of the helo that looked like
they had been sloppily finished and was glad none of the Russians had thought
to make sure I wasn’t seated near one of these locations.  They were
probably so used to the quality of Russian manufacturing that they didn’t even
notice things that would have never made it past a quality inspector in the US.

While I’d
been sitting, talking to Grushkin, I had been working the nylon flexi-cuffs
against the metal nib.  It was surprisingly sharp and my restraints had
parted about the same time I’d confessed to killing Igor.  Since then I’d
been waiting for a moment when I wasn’t under intense scrutiny.

Whipping my
right arm forward I drove my elbow into the exposed throat of the Spetsnaz next
to me, feeling his larynx crack and collapse under the violence of the
impact.  Continuing my momentum, I braced my back against the bulkhead as
I raised my feet and kicked across the compartment.  The soles of both
boots struck Grushkin directly in the face, slamming his head into the steel
wall behind him.

As he
slumped unconscious or dead, I didn’t care which, I spun and shoved the injured
trooper into the laps of the three men seated along the rear bulkhead. 
They had responded quickly to my attack, one of them with his pistol already
out and up.  As their comrade’s body struck them, the weapon discharged
but I had no idea where the bullet wound up.  Following, I rammed against
the already injured Russian, using his bulk to pin them to their seats as I
continued attacking.

Hand to hand
fighting in a confined space is nasty business.  There are no Marques of
Queensbury rules about how to fight like gentlemen.  It’s much simpler
than that.  Inflict more damage than you take, as quickly and violently as
you can, and hope you survive the encounter.

I was
punching, fast and hard with one hand as I tried to grab the big knife that was
sheathed on the boot of the first Russian I’d attacked.  Absently I noted
that fists were striking my head and face and arms, but I didn’t really feel
them I was so jacked up on adrenalin.  That’s normal.  I’d feel them
later if I made it out of this.

There was
another pistol shot and I felt the impact against my chest but knew I hadn’t
been shot.  The round had gone into the Russian’s body I was using to gain
an advantage and I had felt the kinetic energy from the round because I was
pressed so hard against him.

Feet braced
against the deck as I pushed in with all my strength I finally succeeded in
drawing his knife just in time to deflect a blade that would have skewered me
like a bug.  The three Russian troopers were shouting and struggling
against the weight of the body and when I deflected the blade I slashed forward
and buried it in the throat of the one seated in the middle. 

Yanking it
back, a gout of arterial blood came with it, splashing across my arm and onto
my face.  The Russians had stopped shouting now, fighting for their lives
with grunts and hisses of exertion.  The pilots finally reacted to the
commotion, the deck suddenly tilting sharply as they headed for the
ground.  I needed to finish this before they could join in, but as the
aircraft banked I lost my traction on the steel floor, all of us winding up in
a pile of flailing, punching limbs.

I felt a
sharp tug on my left shoulder.  It didn’t hurt, but I know what being
sliced open by a sharp knife feels like.  It would hurt like hell later,
if there was a later.  The helo was still turning and an arm smashed into
my face.  Grabbing it I pinned it against my body and stabbed twice, fast
and deep, into the exposed armpit. 

Shoving the
limb away I turned in time to take a fist directly on the nose.  I felt my
nose break, again, and fought against the pain that blossomed in a white
explosion behind my eyes.  The fist came again and I saw it just in time
to lower my head and absorb the impact on the front of my skull.  I heard
bone break and hoped it was bones in my attacker’s hand, not my head.

Twisting
away from a limp body that was partially pinning me I scrambled on the blood
slicked deck, winding up on top of the last Russian.  He was the smallest
of the four, but was wiry and strong as hell.  I stabbed for his chest but
he caught my hand at the last second, holding me with a shaking arm. 

I pressed
hard and tried to get my body weight behind the knife, but I couldn’t push it
the last few inches.  He had gotten his second hand locked on my wrist and
was trying to turn the blade away from his flesh.  Using my free hand, I
began raining blows on his head, but they had about as much effect as banging
on a rock.

Changing tactics,
I fumbled for a grip on any part of his face.  I wanted to cause him
enough pain to weaken his resistance and end this before I was shot from behind
by a pilot, or the Colonel regained consciousness and weighed in to the battle.

I tore his
ear free of his skull, but he didn’t react other than to grunt and start
raising his knees to deliver blows to my lower back.  I forced a finger
into his nose and ripped a nostril open.  He grunted again and twisted his
head away, struggling to get leverage to reposition my knife hand.  Still
fumbling on his bloody face I felt my thumb slip into his right eye socket and
savagely squeezed as I used the power in my shoulder to push harder.

There was a
moment of resistance from his eyelid, then my thumb pushed past and I felt a
pop as his eyeball ruptured and my entire thumb disappeared into his
skull.  He screamed and his grip weakened.  With a surge of force, I
buried the knife to the hilt in his throat.

The
immediate threats were neutralized, but I didn’t have time to rest.  As
the Russian died I felt a hard thump as the landing gear hit the ground. 
Shoving bodies aside, the first weapon I found was a short-barreled AKM
rifle.  Snatching it up I released it from the sling wrapped around one of
the Spetsnaz’ shoulders and got to my feet.  I nearly slipped and fell
when I stood.  There was an entire lake of blood covering the smooth steel
deck.