Blood Lines (64 page)

>> 1923 Hours (Local Time Zone)

Remy lay in the grass behind a small outcrop of rock and ignored the pain in his right side. He didn't think he'd taken a bullet, but he had been hit by some shrapnel, and he knew he was leaking blood. The flow wasn't enough to be dangerous or debilitating. He'd been there before.

“Skyview, find me targets,” Remy said calmly as he lined himself up behind the M24 sniper rifle he was using as his lead weapon.

“Targets coming,” the support guy said. “Confirm three. East of your position. One hundred twenty yards out and closing in staggered jumps.”

Remy kept both eyes open as he swung the rifle toward that section of the target area. He didn't focus on anything in particular. Instead he tried to look through his targets, allowing his peripheral vision to track the movements his normal eyesight couldn't see in the darkness.

The men were fleeting shadows. In the night, he couldn't tell if they were American or Vietnamese. He supposed it didn't matter. Either way, they worked for Victor Gant.

He passed up the lead runner as they came in a flying wedge—a point and two wings. If the two men in front saw the lead man go down, they'd go to cover. So he aimed at the man farthest back first, knowing that he could at least have the second shot in the air before the two men heard the sharp crack of the sniper weapon.

He squeezed the trigger, rode out the recoil, and locked on the second man back. By the time he squeezed the trigger, the sound was just reaching the two men. The lead man went down, but the other man behind him spun and sprawled before he could go to ground or find shelter.

The lead gunner took cover behind a tree, but he didn't like where he was and tried to get up and run. Remy squeezed the trigger again. The man crumpled and remained still.

Remy fed more rounds into the sniper rifle and growled, “Skyview, find me targets.”

>> 1925 Hours (Local Time Zone)

“Will,” Larkin said.

“Yes.” Will walked slack behind Estrella and Nita. He kept his eyes open and moving. He carried the M4 in his hands like he'd been carrying it all his life. Hours on the practice fields at NCIS had helped him feel like the assault rifle was a part of him.

“I'm patching you through to Captain Phan,” Larkin said.

He's going to be surprised,
Will thought.

“The two of you need to work out logistical support before you run into each other in the dark,” Larkin went on.

“Agreed,” Will replied. Escaping hostile fire only to be brought down by support troops wasn't a pleasant possibility.

“I'm bringing him on now,” Larkin said. “Captain Phan, this is Director Michael Larkin of the NCIS.”

“I hear you,” Phan replied.

“We've got communications set up and running in the area. We wanted to coordinate my team's exfiltration from the battleground with you.”

“Of course.”

Will admired the Vietnamese military man. Phan could change and adapt with the best of them. His ability to do so while on the fly was impressive.

“Will,” Larkin called, “are you still there?”

“I am,” Will said, then addressed Phan. “Captain, good to have you with us.”

“I see our plan worked,” Phan said. He sounded a little out of breath, and Will could imagine the man hurrying into the area on foot.

“It did. We also found our missing soldier.”

“Then you've been doubly fortunate tonight.”

Will drew a flare from his vest and held it in his hand. “I want to get my people out of here. We're coming toward you and I don't want to get accidentally shot.”

“I understand.”

“I'm carrying a flare,” Will said. “I'm going to set it off in a moment. When I do, mark this position. We're coming straight at you.”

“Skyview confirms there are no hostile encounters between the NCIS team and the local soldiers,” the support guy said.

“Roger,” Will said. “When you're ready, Captain.”

“Now,” Phan said.

Fisting the flare, Will banged the end against the nearest tree. The flare exploded into ruby light that spun shadows over Will. He threw the flare to the right. Bullets chased it across the ground as Victor Gant's gunners cut loose.

Will hunkered down behind rocks with Estrella and Nita, who looked pale.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Nita said tightly. She had her arms wrapped around herself. She hadn't often been in the field and hardly ever under these conditions. “I'll be fine. There's just a lot—a lot of noise.”

“You'll be out of this in another few minutes,” Will said.

“Commander Coburn,” Captain Phan called.

“Yes.”

“We see you.”

“We're actually to the right of the flare. Your right. Behind a stand of rocks.”

“Yes. We have you. We'll be there shortly.”

“Captain Phan,” Larkin said.

“Yes.”

“Did you call in air support?”

“No.”

“Then we've got trouble. Two helicopters just lifted from the brush only a few klicks from you. They're speeding in your direction and will be there within minutes.”

That, Will knew, wasn't good news.

>> 1929 Hours (Local Time Zone)

Savage glee hammered through Victor Gant as the two pilots of the helicopter gunships he'd had lying in wait contacted him.

“Bring 'em on,” Victor crowed. He gazed up at the sky and saw the helicopters shifting back and forth as they sped toward the rendezvous point.

Both helicopters were outfitted with 20 mm rocket pods and .50-cal machine guns manned by expert door gunners. It was more firepower than the NCIS agents and their Vietnamese army unit could deal with. Their trap had just been sprung and turned into a trap of its own.

Victor smiled and watched the helos zip by overhead as he tried to spot the NCIS agents in the darkness. The helo pilots would have an easier job at it because they were FLIR-equipped. The forward-looking infrared devices would pick up body heat in the darkness.

“Hey, Fat Mike,” Victor growled as he watched the choppers sail across the sky just above the treetops, “seems like old times, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” Fat Mike replied.

The dirge of the helicopters' rotors beating the air grew louder.

62

>> Eleven Klicks Outside Qui Nhon, Binh Dinh Province

>> Socialist Republic of Vietnam

>> 1931 Hours (Local Time Zone)

Shel pulled back into the shelter of a stand of tall trees just as the lead helicopter opened fire on his position. He hooked Max by the scruff of the neck and pulled him tight, wrapping both arms around the Labrador's neck to shelter him.

The .50-cal rounds chopped through the tree branches and smaller trees like scythes. Leaves, branches, and trees fell to the ground like the rain that continued to relentlessly pound the jungle. Purple tracer rounds made the bullet streams visible, and they danced only a few feet away.

“Shel!” Remy called over the headset.

“I'm good,” Shel replied as he watched the helicopter swing around his position. “But this guy must have night vision. He's circling my position like he can see me.”

“There's a FLIR mounted on the undercarriage,” Remy said calmly. “He's got your number.”

Desperation filled Shel as he burrowed more deeply into the trees. The bullets struck rocks and threw sparks that flared only briefly before dying. He caught momentary glimpses of the door gunner hanging outside the helicopter's cargo doors. The chopper looked like a predatory insect in the darkness.

“Know what the weakest point on any helicopter is?” Remy asked almost conversationally.

“The tail rotor,” Shel answered. He shifted, dragging Max with him, putting trees between himself and the helicopter gunner.

“Hold tight,” Remy warned.

Even as he moved, Shel saw sparks suddenly dance along the helicopter's tail section. The chopper was moving slowly, so the target wasn't as difficult as it could have been. In the next moment, the tail rotor suddenly swung out of control. The pilot tried to recover, but the chopper started turning circles in the sky. Then it descended and smashed into the trees.

There was no explosion. It just went down seventy yards from Shel's position. By the time he was in motion, the second helicopter had marked Remy's position and was moving in for the kill.

“Hang on,” Shel said. “Help's on the way.” He ran through the jungle, dodging trees and brush. He cradled the assault rifle in both hands as Max loped at his side.

The second helicopter was too far away, on the other side of Remy rather than being between them as the first one had been, so Shel moved toward the downed chopper.

Both door gunners had survived the impact and were struggling to free themselves from the safety rigging. When the first one saw Shel, he reached for his sidearm.

Shel shot the man on the run, stitching a three-round burst from the gunner's hip to his shoulder. The man slumped in the rigging.

The pilot stumbled from the cockpit and brought up his pistol. Before he could use it, Max clamped his huge jaws over the man's forearm and smashed into him, knocking them both to the ground.

The other door gunner turned and fired at almost point-blank range. In his hurry, he missed. Shel spaced a double tap over the man's heart, then tracked a round up between his eyes in case the man was wearing Kevlar.

Shel took hold of the .50-cal machine gun, twisting it experimentally on its gimbal. It still had full movement.

Tracking the .50-cal drone of the other helicopter, Shel turned the machine gun in that direction, found the aircraft, and then lit up the night with tracers. He was wide and low of the helicopter for just a moment; then he tracked the tracers onto the chopper's dark body.

The .50-cal rounds punched through the helicopter's body and marched toward the cockpit. The pilot juked and tried to take evasive action. Shel stayed locked on, knowing the fuel tank was there somewhere.

Finally the tracers ruptured the fuel tank and ignited the gas. In the next second the helicopter became a roiling ball of orange flames and dark gray smoke against the black sky and silver rain. Flaming pieces of the aircraft showered down over the landscape.

“Not bad shooting, Marine,” a gruff voice said. “Looks like I'll be walking out of here.”

Shel spun as he recognized the voice as Victor Gant's.

“But that's okay, because I'm gonna walk out of here knowing I squared things with my son's killer.” Victor Gant stood next to a tree. Only the M79 grenade launcher and one eye were visible.

Shel knew he wouldn't have a chance if he ran, so he jumped back through the helicopter's cargo area toward the open door on the other side. He was in midair when the 40 mm grenade slammed into the helicopter's interior and the explosion engulfed him.