SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops VI - Guantanamo (20 page)

Vega grinned. "The bastard, it had us fooled all this time. Probably something overheated and caused the problem. With any luck, it'll get us there."

As he finished speaking, it hesitated and started to run ragged. The port engine spluttered again and misfired, and Vega struggled to keep them level. Nolan said nothing, just watched a master at work. But even a master doesn't win every time. They were going down, and fast. Two faulty engines couldn't keep them in the air, no matter how he juggled the odds.

He looked at the altimeter, which for some reason had started to function, although it was somewhat jerky. It read twelve hundred feet, and the needle was falling back, slowly and inexorably. He looked at Vega.

"What do you think?"

He didn't reply. Instead, he kicked the rudder over and headed for a low range of hills about a kilometer away.

"You're off course," he protested.

"Yeah, I know. You see that high ground? With any luck, the wind currents over there will give more lift, enough for another kilometer or so."

"Right."

He looked at the clouds. They were low and rolling fast across the sky. Heavy rain beat against the Perspex windows, and the wipers failed to sweep it clear, so they only had a limited view every few seconds.

"Get Evers to check our position," he shouted over the noise of the storm.

He went aft to the cabin and shouted the message to the CIA man. He nodded and took out his phone. "I'll come to the cockpit as soon as I know."

Nolan returned to the cockpit and held on as a hard gust threw the plane almost onto one wing.

"Help me," Vega shouted, "I can't hold her."

He pulled his way back to the right-hand seat and grabbed the column. They were still flying at ninety degrees to the horizontal, and with both engines misfiring badly. Nolan helped him wrench the column over, and Vega used a combination of partial flap and elevator to bring them back to straight and level. The engines were getting worse.

"I have to go lower," he shouted, "We could lose the engines at any moment, and when it happens, we'll go down like a stone in this weather. Our only chance is to be almost on the ground, so we can land straightaway. It'll have to be wheels up."

"A belly landing?"

"We don't have a choice. The second we drop the undercarriage, we'll lose our glide momentum, and we'll no nose in."

He stopped as another gust tore into them, and the aircraft skidded across the sky. He corrected, and then Evers appeared.

"We're doing better than I thought, only five kilometers to run."

Nolan looked down, but there was only thick, ominous cloud instead of the lights of the city.

"Stay with us, and keep that satphone working. I want you to call it every few seconds. The compass is out, and we don't have any instruments. We can't even see the ground, so it's all on you. Get to work."

Evers found a place next to a window and switched it on. Almost immediately, he connected to a satellite and started to call their position. They neared the city, and Vega allowed the craft to drop lower. At five hundred feet, they were still in cloud, and he dropped even lower. And then, at three hundred feet, they could see the high buildings of Miami almost touching the belly of the aircraft. Instinctively, Vega pulled up on the column, but nothing happened. They were going down.

"One kilometer," Evers intoned, "His place should be right ahead of us, but I don't know about the strip."

"I see it," Vega said softly, continuing to wrestle with the controls to keep them in the air, "About one and a half klicks ahead. You see the dark line, just past those buildings?"

Nolan peered ahead. It was barely visible, but it was there. He turned to Evers.

"We're going in wheels up. Get back to the cabin and tell them all to prepare. You've heard enough safety talks on airliners. You should all know what to do."

"Wheels up? Fuck!" he murmured, but he disappeared back into the cabin.

"Is the altimeter working?" Vega asked.

"I think so."

"Call it, don't stop. I need to know our altitude."

"Roger that."

They dropped lower and lower.

"One hundred feet. Ninety feet."

He risked a glance ahead, the dark line of the runway seemed too far away, much too far.

"Eighty feet."

"Seventy feet."

Gently, the Cuban brought her lower, pitching and rolling, sliding across the sky, but each time, he brought her back. Then the starboard engine coughed, blew out more smoke, and died.

"Fuel cock off, magneto off. Feather her, quick!"

"Roger that."

He rushed to follow Vega's order. He'd just finished and was looking at the altimeter when the port engine died. It didn't cough or splutter. It stopped.

"You know what to do. Fuel cock off! Magneto off. Tell them in back we're about to hit the ground."

He shouted the warning, and then realized he wasn't strapped back into his seat. He hurriedly fastened the straps. He put his hands back on the column, too late. They hit the ground with a searing crash, bounced, and bounced again, then flopped back down. Their problems weren't over. There was potential for them to worsen.

The Twin Commander slid along the strip, which was saturated with pools of water from the storm. There was no sign of it slowing, and then it started to swing. The stricken aircraft completed a full circle and began swinging around repeatedly. They were looping around in wide circles, like a crazy fairground ride, and heading for a huge hangar at the end of the strip. There was no way they could miss it.

"We're about to hit," Nolan shouted to the people in the cabin, as they completed another giant circle, and the building loomed large in the windshield, "Hold on!"

The crash slammed the breath out of his body, and he held on as the fuselage lifted up in the air. One wing broke off and tore away into the night, taken by the storm. They slammed back down, tearing through the thin aluminum wall of the hangar and coming to rest partially inside. He unstrapped fast and took a quick look at Vega. He was switching everything off to avoid any chance of a fire. Nolan ran back to the cabin.

They were sprawled every which way. Eva was on her knees attending to Evers, who lay stretched out on the floor with blood dripping from a cut to his head. Brad, Will, and Jon-Wesley were groping around for the bags that contained their weapons. Will looked up as he appeared.

"All okay up front?"

"Yeah, we're good. By some miracle we made it. How's Danny?"

"Evers? It's not as bad as it looks. He was unconscious for a couple of seconds, no more. He'll be fine once the bleeding stops.

"Understood. We need to get out of here and get to work. I don't need to remind you where we are. This is Montez's place, enemy territory. As bad as that plane ride was, it'll be a lot worse if we're not ready for him when he comes. And he'll come. We just wrecked his hangar, so he'll be pissed."

Will laughed. "He'll be a lot more pissed when we're done. I hear you, Boss, we'll start getting everything out."

He went to open the passenger door, but the crash had jammed it shut. He kicked at it, but it was solid. He was about to speak when Vega ran into the cabin.

"The starboard engine is leaking gas, and there's a fire started. Probably all part of the problem that caused it to malfunction, but we need to get out before the plane goes up."

"The hatch is jammed," Nolan told him, "We'll need to exit by the forward emergency hatch."

"Negative. The fuselage crumpled all around it. There's no way you'd get that open without cutting gear. It'll have to be the passenger door. I'll grab an axe from the cockpit, and we'll have to break it open."

He ran forward and returned moments later with a long handled axe. Will took it and started swinging it at the door. After a minute, it still resisted, and smoke started to enter the cabin. Vega ran back to the cockpit, and when he returned, his face was grim.

"The engine is on fire. If it spread to the tanks, she'll explode. We have to get out of here fast. If we..."

He didn't finish. A wave of heat hit them, and choking smoke swirled into the cabin. They were seconds from being engulfed by the fire. Nolan had an idea, one chance that might save them.

"We'll shoulder charge the door, all four of us. Will, you and me, side by side. Brad and John-Wesley, push in behind us. Let's move!"

They raced to the far side of the cabin, braced themselves together, and charged. They hit the door with enough force to dent a Mac truck, but it held.

"I felt it give!" Will shouted, "Again."

They moved back and charged, again and again. Five times they crunched into the unyielding aluminum. The smoke and flames that threatened to explode at any moment gave their efforts desperation.

"Last time," Will rasped, his throat sore from smoke inhalation. They could barely see the other side of the cabin, and they only had seconds to live before either smoke or an explosion finished them. Nolan knew there'd be at least one broken collarbone when they added up the damage, but they had no choice. Only survival counted.

"This time. Hit it! Give it everything you have. Smash the fucker open! The door doesn't exist. We're going right through it and out the other side."

His voice was savage, intense, overlaid by the foreknowledge of their impending death. They charged, and this time, they'd have smashed through a vault door. It gave way and suddenly popped open.

"Get out, get out," Vega shouted to Eva, "I'll bring Evers. Just get out of here."

"We need the weapons," Nolan shouted at him, "I'll deal with Evers. Bring the bags."

He brought out Danny Evers and dumped him on the concrete floor of the hangar. They'd lost some of their weapons, damaged in the crash, but they found the AK-47s. The sturdy Soviet made assault rifles had survived almost without a scratch.

The wind had changed, and it hammered at them from outside through the gap the aircraft had torn in the side of the building. It also brought in rain, sheets of rain so powerful it was as if the fire service was hosing them down. It was also enough to douse the fire, and they pulled back further inside the hangar, out of the weather. The Twin Commander still hissed and steamed, but the fire was out.

Nolan went to the gap in the wall and stared out, feeling the torrential rain beat at his body. There was no one, no sign that anyone had noticed the crash and come out to look. This was unsurprising. Only a fool would venture out into the teeth of a near hurricane. He went back inside, into the gloom on the far side of the hangar. He could see the wings of another aircraft.

Will smiled when he heard they were undetected. "Yeah, only idiots like us would go out in weather like that. What's next?"

"We go in. Time to find our Muslim friends."

"If they're there."

"If they're there, right. They have to be there. Nothing else would make sense."

"Unless they've been and gone," Vega offered.

"In which case, we'll go after them. But you're right," Nolan replied, "The bastards could head to New York at any moment. The storm gave us good cover. It'll give them the same advantage. Let's go find 'em. And remember, this is Montez country. His men play hardball."

Ryder gave him a thin smile. "He shall surely be put to death, and all the congregation shall certainly stone him."

Nolan nodded. "Sounds about right, John-Wesley. Kill the bastards."

He looked at Eva, who was staying close to Evers. "We need to go out there and finish this. You want to stay here? That cut looks pretty bad."

Evers looked up. "No way, I've come this far. I'm not planning to sit it out." He got to his feet, and Nolan noticed he swayed as he caught his balance.

Blood loss.

He steadied himself and adopted a determined expression. "I'm ready, let's go."

"Hold it, Tiger," Will grinned, "You'd better carry a weapon. Or were you planning to throw oranges at them?"

He looked sheepish as he picked up an AK-47 assault rifle from the canvas bag, helped himself to spare clips, and tucked a Makarov into his belt. They went out into the night and felt the force of the storm. The rain was driving in so hard it was like being thrashed with whips. They had to hold their hands in front of their faces to stop them from being blinded. The storm had curved around, and they were in the center of a huge vortex, with the full force driving directly at them from the north.

Every step was a huge effort, pressing against the fury of the hurricane-force wind, and the only consolation was that Montez's men would be inside sheltering.

Who would be crazy
enough to attack in such weather?
Nolan grinned to himself,
Crazy isn't the word. Desperate. Yes, that about sums it up.

They'd been handed an operation that most thought was doomed to failure, and the real surprise was they weren't lying dead in a Cuban sugar cane plantation.

For the military, it was the perfect solution. A bunch of wanted men, either they succeeded, in which case they could be rewarded with what rightfully belonged to them, their Navy ranks, their careers, their lives. And if they failed, too bad, but they could tell the Colombians the men who killed their officers were dead.