Going Dark (27 page)

“
Abajian
,” Logan growls, using the name like a profanity. “That was his cruise missile, wasn’t it?”

And Tran—his voice ravaged, but his attitude still practical: “Good thing we didn’t stick around and try to get out the front door.”

Amen to that.

Tran is holding tight to his M4, but he’s given up his pack to Leonid. “Tran, you okay to walk?”

“I told you, Shelley, I’m good.”

He sounds like a petulant kid with a sore throat. I hope he’s not bullshitting me.

I know I sound pretty bad too, but I’m still functioning. “Logan, take point. We’ll try for the highway and maybe Papa will have a cab waiting for us.”

“A helicopter,” the old man growls, waving Tran ahead before following Logan on the path beneath the trees. He’s carrying his M4 across his body, ready to use on short notice. “And if not a helicopter, we hijack a—”

One of the fighters screams overhead, west to east, barely above the treetops.

“Move, move!”
My hoarse shout sets off another coughing fit, but I keep going anyway, balancing on my broken foot while holding on to Issam to make sure he doesn’t fall behind. We stagger and stumble and trip down the trail. We put maybe a hundred twenty meters behind us as the jet swings around. On its next pass, it comes in from the south. “Get under cover!”

I drag Issam off the path; shove him into a tangle of dead branches at the base of a tree. “No movement,” I warn him.

The pilot uses his autocannon. Bullets nail the forest, but all he hits are trees. Maybe he knows we’re here, but I don’t think he’s really aiming at us. How could he be? He’s got a fucking mountain in front of him demanding his attention, and judging by his flight path, he’s lining up to put a missile right through the tunnel’s mouth—

Another jet screams into the valley. This one comes in from the east. Huddled on the ground without my rig, my helmet, my handler, without angel sight, I feel weak, blind, and helpless. I struggle to see through the treetops, to understand what’s going on. My overlay records enough to tag the second jet as American. It dives right at the Pakistani fighter. I swear the two almost collide. The American fighter pulls out south. The Pakistani banks away to the northwest with no missiles fired.

What did I just see?

I swear the American fighter just kept the Pakistani from blowing our escape route to dust. Is Abajian on our side after all?

In the relative quiet, I order our little party back onto the trail. We limp and stumble for fifty meters. Then the fighters return. This time they’re above the cloud deck. We can’t see them, but we feel the bone-shaking thunder of their engines. I think there are three, maybe more, undertaking crazy maneuvers. They start shooting, but not at the tunnel we just left behind and not at us. Judging by the sound, they are hunting each other. It’s a fucking dogfight going on above our heads. So close, I’m afraid we’re going to be collateral damage. But then they swoop away. There are explosions, another deafening pass, and then a high-pitched dopplered scream of engines, drawn out and lingering for ten seconds or more.

Through the trees I see a dying fighter plunging toward the ridge on our west, the red, white, and blue air force star logo visible in the gathering light. The fighter hits the ridge and explodes on impact, shaking the earth, shaking my soul.

Have we started another war?

“Oh my God,” Issam says. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

I want to tell him to shut the fuck up, that a terrorist tool like him should not be shocked by violence, but I’m distracted by the sight of the pilot dropping out of the sky beneath a partly open parachute.

I leave Issam and hobble through the trees, tripping and stumbling over deadwood as I strive to keep the pilot in sight, to record the descent with my overlay and mark the point where the parachute passes out of sight. The exertion leaves me gasping, my breath steaming in the cold air.

Another fighter roars in, sweeping the area where the
pilot vanished, firing its autocannon. It makes a single pass. Then it screams away. I think there’s another dogfight in the distance, but no more explosions. Just engine noise, receding into silence.

Logan speaks over gen-com. “You get a location on that pilot, Shelley?”

“Maybe. For damn sure—” I catch my breath. “You and me . . . are going to look.”

•  •  •  •

The trail we’re on is not marked or visible on the GPS-generated map that pinpoints my position, but studying that map along with the image of the descending pilot lets me guess at the drop site—a point I estimate to be at least three kilometers away. If I had an angel, I could confirm it in a couple of minutes.

I could confirm if the pilot is alive or dead.

Probably dead. That’s what I tell myself to forestall disappointment. The chute failed to open fully; a strafing run followed.

We are going to look anyway.

We move out again. I’ve got no way to know the specifics of the political situation playing out around this incident, but I can guess at the general situation. Either the Pakistanis are furious because our mission was carried out without their knowledge or approval, or they are furious that a component of Broken Sky was exposed under their watch, and they want to eliminate all evidence that it ever happened.

We are part of that evidence. The way I see it, it’s just a matter of time until attack helicopters come hunting us, or an infantry squad rigged in dead sisters. Abajian isn’t going to risk another fighter in our defense. So we need to evacuate from this region as soon as we can, but first I need
to confirm the status of the pilot. I won’t leave an injured warfighter behind.

As we continue on the trail, I watch landmarks, and when I think we’re close to the drop site, I take Logan with me, and we go to look.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find the parachute,” Logan says.

That’s all we need to find. If the pilot is in good shape, he’ll be long gone by the time we find the drop site. If he’s dead, we’ll record the scene and move on. And if he’s wounded but unconscious, we’ll assess and figure something out. The most dangerous scenario for us is if he’s wounded and functional. Fighter pilots fly with a pistol secured in a shoulder holster.

“Let’s keep up some chatter,” I decide. “If we talk American, maybe the pilot won’t shoot us.”

We set up search transects using GPS. This lets us blunder through the forest and negotiate the uneven terrain while maintaining a consistent thirty meters between us. We go for a kilometer in a straight line. I pretend I’m okay, but my foot is locked at an awkward angle, my fingers are freezing, my lungs are hot, and I feel like I’m breathing through a coarse, wet rag stuffed in my throat.

After a kilometer, we turn around, shift our lines south, and go again. We try to keep up the chatter over gen-com, but mostly it’s Logan talking, because my voice is getting worse.

We’re reminiscing about our favorite fast food from before the Coma when a voice speaks to me from out of a bush I’ve just hobbled past—not a burning bush, fortunately, although it is rattling with old dry leaves. “Identify yourself.”

American accent. Female.

I freeze, envisioning her with a finger on the trigger. I
don’t want to give her any reason to squeeze. “James Shelley, captain in an irregular militia known as ETM 7-1.”

“Is that Special Forces Operations?”

“Darker.”

Logan speaks over gen-com, “I’ve got her in my sights.”

Do not shoot.

“She’s safe,” he says, “as long as her pistol isn’t aimed at you.”

I make sure the muzzle of my HITR is pointed at the ground when I turn to look at her.

She’s standing behind the bush, dressed in a flight suit and jacket, and carrying a small emergency pack on her back. There’s a compact pistol in her upraised hand, but its stubby barrel is aimed at a corner of the sky. She is Caucasian and tall, close to six feet, with short brown hair. I put her age in the mid-thirties. She’s studying me through colorless farsights resting on a prominent freckled nose. Civilian farsights would have a green light to indicate they were recording. Hers are military field issue.

“It
is
you,” she says, suspicion in her voice, like she still isn’t sure this is a straight deal. “I was told to find you. We’re supposed to be on the same side.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I cough. It’s a wet cough. “You pulled that fighter off us. I think we can be allies for a while.”

“I’m Captain Helen Thurman. United States Air Force.” She comes out from behind the bush and bravely offers to shake my hand.

I have to turn away, coughing—a brief fit that ends when I spit a wad of rotten lung tissue into a patch of snow.

She lowers her hand, eyeing me in concern. “Something I need to know about?”

“Noxious fumes.”

“Sounds like onset of pneumonia.”

“I fucking hope not. But enough about me. Are you injured?”

“I got hung up in a tree. Strained my back. Minor concussion.” She slides her pistol into a shoulder holster. “I’ll live.”

Logan says, “I’m coming in.”

I relay this information to Captain Thurman. “My lieutenant’s joining us. Don’t shoot him.”

“Agreed.”

We both turn at a crackle of dead wood to see Logan approaching through the trees.

She taps her farsights as her gaze returns to me. “Orders are to remain at large until they can pull us out. That might be two to three days. There are a lot of hurt feelings out there in International-land. Under no circumstances are we to turn ourselves in to the Pakistani military.”

“If it happens, it won’t be voluntary. I promise that.”

She nods to Logan as he joins us, taking in his dirt-smeared face, his smoke-stained coat. “There are supposed to be four of you.”

“One of my soldiers is injured. He’s with our local asset. And we’ve acquired a civilian.”

She looks at me. “Identity?”

“I’m going to hold back on that information.”

She’s not in a position to argue, so she shifts the topic. “I’m supposed to hook you into my satellite relay. Command picked up your attempted communication, but they won’t respond on a wild network. They’ll only use a network they can control.”

I look at Logan, who rolls his eyes. That is not how we operate. We use the facilities available to us, and in any case, the EXALT network is a trusted resource. Kanoa must be on a tight leash if he’s following some other protocol.

Thurman dictates the address of her relay, and then a passcode. Gen-com listens for it, transcribes the data, and relays it between me, Logan, and Tran. Twenty-one seconds later, Kanoa links in. “Mission status?”

I’m so relieved to hear him, I almost let him know, but I catch myself in time to preserve my reputation. “Mission accomplished, and then some.”

“Shelley? Is that you? What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Smoke inhalation.”

“Damn. All right. You got a summary for me?”

“Captain Thurman is present,” I say, eyeing her. “I don’t think she’s cleared for this discussion.” Thurman crosses her arms over her chest and glares. She does not step away. “Tran can fill you in, but I’ve got some data for you. You want me to upload?”

“Do it.”

I get the farsights out. Thurman has a cable, so I use that to link to the relay, and let Kanoa handle the download.

“Your vitals look like shit,” he informs me after the data begins to flow. “Tran too.”

I don’t like the reminder, especially with my eyes watering as I resist another coughing fit. “You need to get us out of here.”

“We’re working on that. The political situation—”

The cough I’ve been fighting escapes. Harsh, but it doesn’t last for more than a few wracking spasms. Logan takes over as I gasp and wipe my face on my sleeve. “We have to get out, Kanoa,” he says. “Tran needs to be in a hospital. Shelley too. He’s not going to be on his feet much longer.”

I back up Logan’s argument by saying, “You know this place is going to be crawling with enemy in a matter of hours.”

“We are working on a deal,” Kanoa insists. “But until that deal is concluded, you need to stay out of sight. The president’s reputation is on the line. So, elude the enemy, resist if you have to. Do not give yourselves up.”

“Major,” Logan asks, “do you think you could at least send us an angel?”

“Not in time to do you any good. I’m going to talk to Tran while the download finishes.”

He links out.

“This is bullshit,” Logan says. “We need to get you and Tran to a hospital.”

“Fuck it. Fuck all of them. We’ll get out of here on our own. I mean, we’ve got Papa. A fucking wizard of the dark arts.” I stop my tirade to breathe, hearing a wet gurgle in my throat. “He
will
conjure a helicopter, and when he does, I’m getting on it. I don’t give a fuck where it’s going.”

My rant ends in another coughing fit, which does not improve my temper. By the time it’s over, Captain Thurman has unplugged the farsights. She hands them back to me. “Your data transfer has finished.”

I stuff them back into my coat pocket. “Much more of this shit and I’m . . . I’m going to . . .” I finish in a whisper. “. . . hunt down a Pakistani patrol and
let
them put me out of my misery.” Thurman looks like she’s entertaining second thoughts about the virtue of our company. “Welcome to Existential Threat Management,” I rasp.

“Mission first,” Logan adds. He flips a finger at the sky, on the excellent chance a drone is watching us.

But Thurman takes away the sweetness of defiance. “The Pakistanis took out our drones. We took out theirs. Which means we’ve got a window of opportunity. Until they get new equipment up here, we can move where we like, with no one watching.”

That probably gives us at least an hour, maybe more. Plenty of time for Leonid to work magic. I check my squad map, get my bearings. “Let’s hook up with the others.”

•  •  •  •

On the way, Thurman relays what she knows. “This is a SARS-K region. Permanent habitations abandoned. So
there’s not an immediate danger. On my overflight, the only human presence I picked up was a small party at the head of the valley. I assume that was you.”