Red Hammer: Voodoo Plague Book 4 (24 page)

No matter how good you are, or think you are, there’s always
someone out there that’s a little better.  Maybe a little younger, or maybe
just smarter and faster.  Either way, I felt like an idiot when I heard the
Russian sniper’s voice.  While I was busy looking for his spotter he’d managed
to circle around behind me without making a sound.  The son of a bitch moved
like a ghost.

“Be rolling over.”  He ordered.  I resisted the impulse to
make fun of his poor English.  He hadn’t shot me right off so there was nothing
to be gained by antagonizing him.  Instead, I released my grip on the rifle and
rolled over to face him. 

He wasn’t a big man, no more than five and half feet tall
and very thin.  This was obvious even with the ghillie suit he wore which
masked his outline and features.  The Dragunov rifle he was pointing at my
chest looked huge in his small hands.  With the long sound suppressor attached
to the muzzle it was nearly as long as he was tall.

I’ve worked with a few snipers over the years and they are
truly a different breed of men.  Solitary, except for their spotter, they are
typically deep thinkers with the patience of Job.  They will lie in wait for
their target, sometimes for days on end, in situations that anyone else would
find intolerable.  To them, intolerable is missing their shot.  This ran
through my head as I lay there looking up at the muzzle of the Russian rifle.

“They shooting patrol?”  He asked, meaning the rest of my
team.  There was still fighting below, but it sounded like there was only one
AKMS still firing.  I hoped that was one of the soldiers with Vostov that was
still shooting, not the patrol.  The firing was sporadic and sounded like mop
up.

“Fuck you, Ivan.”  Was my only answer.  A confused
expression crossed his face.

“Segrei.  No Ivan.”  He said.  God help me but language
barriers could be fun if someone wasn’t pointing a high powered military rifle
at you.

The firing below had stopped and I saw in his eyes when he
made the decision to shoot me.  I also saw movement in the dark behind him.  I
shifted my eyes, expecting to see the spotter who had probably been watching me
sneak up behind him and warned him via radio.  But a moment later I realized it
wasn’t a spotter.  It was two females, and they were coming fast.

He saw my look, but ignored it at first, probably assuming
it was a feint.  He must have seen something else when I recognized the females
because he whipped around, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder.  He snapped a
shot off immediately and I moved while he was occupied. 

From the corner of my eye I saw the first female’s head
explode.  To have turned and fired in the same motion, that was one hell of an
impressive shot.  He shifted aim and fired again, the second female crashing to
the ground at his feet, what remained of her head almost on the toes of his
boots.  He didn’t step back or make any movement other than to give her a brief
glance.

By this time I was 5 yards away behind a two foot tall pile
of rocks, rifle up and locked onto him.  He turned back to where I had been and
froze the instant he realized I wasn’t there waiting for him to kill me.  The
entire engagement with the two females had only taken about five seconds and he
had thought I would have stayed rooted to the ground.  Not the first time I’ve
been underestimated, by a long shot, and I’m not complaining.  Go ahead. 
Underestimate me all you want.  I’ll stick a knife in your ribs then twist it
while you’re trying to get over your surprise that I didn’t do what you
expected.

Only I wasn’t close enough to use my knife.  I settled for
pulling the trigger.  The rifle was in burst mode and three rounds punched into
his chest in a fraction of a second.  He fell back, landing on top of one of
the dead infected, Dragunov flying out of his hands and clattering on the
rocks.  I stood up and walked over to look down at him, rifle ready.

He wasn’t dead, yet.  Blood was already soaking the front of
his shirt and red, frothy bubbles were forming around his lips.

“Sergei.”  He rasped.

“Go to hell, Sergei.”  I said, firing a round into his
head. 

In the movies, this is where the guy who just pulled the
trigger stands there, staring down at the man he just killed while he carries
on some internal dialogue.  Always seemed stupid to me.  If I want to think
about the man I killed, I’ll do it somewhere nice and safe.  Standing here in
the open, infected running around, Russian planes not far away – this was not
the time or place for introspection.  It was time to run, and that’s exactly
what I did.

“Sitrep.”  I called on the radio as I started down into the
canyon.

“Red force eliminated.  No casualties, one injury.”  I
recognized Martinez’ voice.

“Copy.  I’m on my way to you.  Get our ride ready to go.”  I
panted back.  I don’t care how good your conditioning is, running at 7,300 feet
above sea level when you aren’t used to it will make you pant.  A mile and a
half up in the air takes some getting used to.

I used the pavement when it was going in the direction I
needed to travel, but mostly I was scrabbling my way down the steep canyon
wall.  By the time I approached the idling MRAP, my hands, forearms, ass and
legs had more than a few cactus thorns in them.  Ignoring the pain I called out
on the radio that I was coming in, gave them a moment to make sure no one shot
me when I just appeared out of the dark, then ran up to the vehicle.

They were waiting for me, ready to go.  Martinez was back
behind the wheel, Vostov and the other two Russians crammed into the rear
compartment.  The MRAP was sitting on the pavement and they had driven the
damaged Humvee in between the rocks and loaded the bodies of the patrol into
it. 

Yanking open the passenger door, I jumped in and told
Martinez to get us the hell out of there.  She headed deeper into the canyon
and I turned to look at our passengers.  Captain Vostov was bleeding from a
through and through bullet wound in her upper thigh, but it was in the meaty
part on the outside of her leg, well away from the femoral artery or her
femur.  Igor had already pushed her skirt up and was cleaning the wound.  She
grimaced in pain as he squirted the Russian equivalent of Betadine into and
through the neat hole.  Area clean, he numbed her wound and started suturing. 
Face white with pain and covered in a sheen of sweat, Vostov looked up at me.

“I always thought my legs were my best feature.  Now…”  She
joked as Igor struggled to keep sewing as Martinez cranked us through a hairpin
turn.

“Trust me.  With legs like those, no one’s going to care
about a couple of little scars.  They’ll just make you more mysterious.”  I
don’t know why I said that.  Why I cared how she was feeling.  Guess I can’t be
an asshole all the time. 

“Did she survive?”  She looked at me and smiled, pushed
sweat dampened hair out of her eyes and pointed at the gold wedding band on my
left hand.  It was the only possession The Reverend hadn’t taken when I’d been
captured in Tennessee.

“I don’t know.”  I answered, not knowing why the hell I was
having this conversation with this woman.  “I haven’t seen or talked to her
since the day before the attacks.  I was not with her when it happened.”

“Why weren’t you?”  She asked, gasping when Igor’s needle
hit a spot that hadn’t been numbed properly.

“I was working.  Opposite end of the country.”  I didn’t
feel like going into the whole long story.

“Why aren’t you trying to find her?”  She rolled up onto her
hip so Igor could work on the exit wound on the back of her leg.

“I am.  Or I was, until some fucking foreigners decided to
invade my country.”  I stared at her.  She stared right back, not flinching
away from my gaze.

“You know I’m going to do something about that.  I just killed
five of my own.”

“I know.”  I said, the anger that had been building
evaporating instantly when I thought about being put into the position of
having to kill your fellow warriors when they were being duped just like
everyone else.  I couldn’t imagine it.  I felt for her and her two comrades. 
They were choosing to do the right thing, even if it meant doing some bad
things to accomplish their goal.

“Where will you go from here?”  She asked me.

“I can’t tell you that.”  I might trust her to a degree, but
that didn’t mean I was born yesterday.

“I understand.  Maybe this will help you.  I recognize the
pilot badge on her uniform.  What does she fly?”  She asked, gesturing at
Martinez.  Igor tied off a stitch and dug out a flashlight to check on his
work.  I thought about the question and couldn’t come up with a reason not to
answer.

“Helicopter.”  I said, looking up when the MRAP hit a big
bump then made a left onto a smooth, straight road. 

“Good.  Then I have a parting gift for you.  There are six
Stealth Hawks at Kirtland.  They are scheduled to be loaded aboard Antonovs and
flown back to Russia in a couple of days, but for now they are sitting in a
hangar on the southern edge of the base.  Hangar 41.”

Stealth Hawks are a completely updated version of the Black
Hawk, incorporating all the lessons about stealth aircraft that America has
learned in the past 20 years.  These are what was flown into Pakistan to get
Bin Laden.  They had been kept very secret, never flying during the day
anywhere near civilian eyes.  Quiet operating, low radar profile and a minimal
heat signature for heat seeking missiles to lock on to, one of these would be
just the ticket to get us out of New Mexico.

“How do you know I’m not going to leave one of these little
babies behind at Kirtland?”  I asked, goading her a little, but also testing
her response.

“You gave me your word.”  She answered with a strained
smile.  Igor was sewing again.  “If I couldn’t judge men, I wouldn’t be much
good at my job.  You’ll keep your word.”

I nodded, not really wanting to acknowledge that she had
nailed me.  Am I that transparent?  Maybe she really is that good of a judge of
character.  Not that I have a good character, by any means, but I don’t give my
word lightly.

“Captain, there should be a crossroads about two kilometers
ahead.  Please stop there and let us out.”  Vostov called out to Martinez who
looked around at me with raised eyebrows.

“Do it.”  I said.

The next two klicks when by quickly, Martinez bringing the
MRAP to a stop in the middle of the intersection.  Looking out the windows all
I could see was dark desert in every direction.  Not even a road sign told me
where we were.  Igor and the other soldier opened the rear doors and stepped
out.  They had already matched up the keys I’d given them with the appropriate
SADMs and they lifted those out and stacked them on the side of the road.

Vostov started to stand, letting out a gasp of pain and
dropping back onto her ass.  I moved around the three remaining stacked bombs
and helped her to her feet.  Jumping down to the pavement I turned and lifted
her down, setting her gently on the road.

“Turn right here and stay on the road.  In a few miles you
will pick up the river.  Follow it all the way into Albuquerque.  I trust from
there you can find your way to the air base.  You will want to switch to a
civilian vehicle as soon as you can.  We are not interfering with civilians as
long as they don’t cause us any problems, but this truck will draw attention you
do not want.”  She waved at the big, ugly vehicle.

“You’re man will be able to land and pick you up here?”  I
asked, looking around at the desolate terrain.

“Yes.  His father is my uncle’s friend, and also very
powerful.  No one will question what he does.”  Her teeth were starkly white in
the weak moonlight.

“I really am sorry my country has done what it has done.  I
know the death of a few men in the Kremlin cannot make amends, but we’ll see
what can be done once they’re out of the way.”  She continued.

“Be sure your uncle knows what happened here, tonight.”  I
said.  “When he’s in control, we’re going to be calling him for help.  If he
really regrets what happened, he’ll answer when we call.”  She nodded
agreement.

“One more thing, Major.”  I was turning to get back into the
MRAP, but stopped and looked at her when she spoke.  “The timing of the virus
is not a precise science.  More people will turn.  Many more.  Any that haven’t
been vaccinated.  It would be good if you took the vaccine sooner rather than
later.  One CC, IM.  In a muscle.  It burns like acid, so be prepared.”

I stood looking at her for a moment longer before nodding
and turning back to the waiting truck.  I climbed in the back, shutting the
doors behind me and asked Martinez if she’d heard the instructions on how to
get to Albuquerque.  She answered that she had and stepped on the throttle.

Checking on Scott I was happy to find he was breathing
normally.  His color was good and I expected he would have one hell of a
headache when he woke up.  Glancing around, a glint of light caught my eye and
I looked closer at the top of the bomb where Vostov had been sitting.  Three
small syringes, still in their sterile wrapping, sat waiting for me.

While Martinez drove I opened the box that contained the
vaccine and stared at the four vials.  They were labeled in Cyrillic, but I was
able to figure out that each contained 25 CCs of liquid.  In for a penny, in
for a pound.  I opened the three syringes and one of the alcohol pads that Igor
had thoughtfully included.  Cleaning the rubber seal on the top of a vial, I
inserted the first thin needle and extracted one CC of the colored liquid.  I
repeated the process until I had three injections ready to go.

I don’t know much about medical procedures, but I do know
that if you’re going to get a painful injection into a muscle that will hurt,
you’re better off taking it in the glutes.  Figures.  Taking it in the ass,
again.  Oh well.  Never one to hesitate to go first, I stood up, unbuckled and
dropped my pants.  Twisting around as much as possible I cleaned a spot on my
right cheek, took a breath and stuck the needle in.  The needle itself was
small and thin, about the same size as I remembered from getting my annual flu
shot.  It didn’t hurt. 

I pressed the plunger and forced the vaccine into my body. 
For a couple of seconds, nothing other than a slight pressure at the injection
site.  For a couple of seconds.  Then, someone jabbed a red hot knitting needle
into my ass.  And started twisting it around as molten metal flowed into my
flesh.  I’ve had about every injection, vaccination or inoculation that the US
Government and civilian medicine can devise to keep me healthy as I traveled
the globe.  None of them came close to this.

I stood there stoically, resisting the impulse to piss and
moan about the pain.  I’ve never been one to see the point in dramatizing my
pain.  It doesn’t make it hurt less, it just scares the hell out of the guy in
line behind you.  Well, let me take that back.  I have been in lines where I
did a good job of acting like something was incredibly painful, just to mess
with the guys coming behind me.  Hey, I never said I wasn’t an asshole.

I rubbed the spot, hard, and after about a minute the pain
began to subside.  The burning had spread to most of the right side of my ass,
but it was bearable now.  I gave the injection site another swipe with the
almost dry alcohol pad and pulled my pants back up.  Buckling them I glanced up
to see Martinez looking at me in a mirror.

“No problem, Captain.”  I said.

“Whatever you say, sir.  But I don’t know what was more
fun.  Watching a Major drop his pants, or seeing a big, tough Green Beret
grimacing in pain from a tiny little shot.”  She grinned and turned her
attention back to the road.

“Captain, has anyone ever told you that you’re not funny?”

“No sir, never.  I usually have them rolling in the aisles.”

“Smart ass bitch.”  I mumbled under my breath with a grin.

I started fumbling with Scott’s belt buckle, looking up when
he spoke. 

“I’ve heard about you Army guys, but you could at least buy
me dinner first.”  Everyone’s a fucking comedian when the bullets aren’t
flying.  I smiled back at him, happy to see him awake even though he looked
like hell.

“Hell, Tech Sergeant.  I’m surrounded by Air Force.  When in
Rome…”

He smiled back and used his good arm to unbuckle and I
helped him work the trousers down far enough to expose his hip.  A quick swipe
with alcohol and I stuck the needle in and pressed the plunger.

“Fuck me!.”  He said quietly a couple of seconds later. 
“What the hell did the goddamn Russkies put in this?  Battery acid?”  He
couldn’t reach the injection site to rub because it was on the same side of his
body as his broken arm.  I wasn’t about to sit there and rub his ass for him,
so he dealt with the pain by trotting out some inventive curses.

“OK, Princess.  Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s time
to show me your ass.”  I said to Martinez.  She slowed, pulling onto the gravel
shoulder a moment later and shifting into park, leaving the engine idling. 
Climbing out of the driver’s seat she worked her way to me, turned her back and
lowered her pants to the bottom of her ass.

“Be gentle with me, sir.  It’s my first time.”  She said. 

Scott snorted, then let the guffaw out as I cleaned a spot
with the last alcohol pad.  I stuck the needle in and pressed the plunger.

“Chinga tu madre!”  She said a couple of seconds later,
reaching back and vigorously rubbing her ass.  “I retract any disparaging remarks
I may have made about the Green Berets.  That hurts!”

“Company coming.”  Scott said, instantly making us forget
about the injections.

Scott had sat up on the bench, trying to find a way to
squirm around and use the bench to massage the sore spot.  Sitting up, he had a
good view through the damaged windshield.  I bent to see around Martinez as she
quickly pulled her pants up.  Less than a mile in front of us were five sets of
headlights coming our direction.  Had to be Russian military.  Civilians don’t
travel in tight convoys like that.  They also don’t travel with a helicopter
pacing them, providing air support and a bird’s eye view.

“Have we passed any trails or turnouts?”  I asked Martinez,
making sure the vial was safely back in the foam cutout before storing the box
in my pack.

“No, sir.  Nothing.  We can head out cross country, but
there’s no breeze.  We’ll leave a dust trail that will be noticeable.”  She
answered, slithering over equipment and back behind the wheel.  “What do you
want to do?”

“Turn us around.”  I ordered.  “Our new Russian friends back
there will have a hard time explaining what they’re doing on foot in the middle
of nowhere.”

Martinez got us pointed the other direction, careful to keep
the big tires on pavement and not create a dust cloud that would alert the
approaching troops to our presence.  Facing back north she pressed on the
throttle, driving faster than I was comfortable with in the dark, but then we
didn’t have much time.  We reached the crossroads quickly, Martinez jamming on
the brakes and bringing us to a halt with a slight squeal of the tires.  I
popped the latch on the back doors and hopped out onto the pavement, looking
around.    

Vostov and the two soldiers were already running towards the
MRAP, each of the men shuffling along under the weight of the SADMs.  Vostov
reached me first, limping up as she favored the leg with the bullet hole in it.

“We see them.”  She said.  “Thank you for coming back.  The
first patrol or the sniper must have gotten a message out.”

“Can you bluff them?”  I asked.

“Yes.  If the story matches the circumstances.”

I got Martinez out of the driver’s seat, and after loading
his two bombs in the back, Igor slid behind the wheel.  Vostov joined him in
the front, stiffly climbing into the passenger seat.  Martinez and I climbed
into the back and joined Scott where he had moved onto the floor.  We were
crammed in like sardines, Martinez sitting on my lap with her legs extended
across Scott.  The other Russian slammed the door and took a seat on the bench,
rifle across his lap, pointing in our direction but not directly at us.

“I sure as hell hope you’re right about her, sir.”  Martinez
mumbled to me as she shifted her weight off the sore side of her ass.  With her
on top of me I couldn’t do the same and the pain was an unwelcome distraction.

“Me too, Captain.  Me too.”  I answered, then we all shut up
as Igor put the vehicle in gear and turned us back around.  Vostov said
something in Russian and he turned the headlights on and accelerated down the
road, directly at the oncoming convoy. 

It only took a couple of minutes for us to meet them, Igor
braking gently and bringing the big MRAP to a stop straddling the line down the
middle of the road.  I looked through the windshield and saw a row of Humvees
completely blocking our progress, each of them with a manned machine gun
pointed at us.  The helicopter came into a hover directly over us and a
spotlight turned night into day. 

At a command from Vostov, Igor opened his door, stood up on
the running board and started shouting at them in what sounded like angry
Russian.  Of course, all Russian sounds angry to me.  A voice shouted back and
Igor grew animated, shouted louder and waved his arms in a motion that was
telling them to get out of his way.  

None of the Hummers moved, and after a moment three men
approached.  Two carried rifles, not quite aimed at Igor, but only a few
degrees off target.  The one leading them didn’t have a rifle, only a holstered
pistol.  I hoped he didn’t outrank Vostov.

The officer walked up to Igor’s side of the vehicle and I
could see the variety of colors and insignia on his uniform.  My knowledge of
Russian uniforms was rusty as hell.  I hadn’t done any formal study of their
military in a lot of years, more years than I cared to acknowledge, but I was
reasonably sure he was a Captain in the Russian Air Force.

He started to speak to Igor, but Vostov barked out a rapid
fire stream of Russian and he moved to her side of the vehicle.  She opened the
door and stepped down, doing an admirable job of disguising her injury.  She
pulled an ID case out of the now dirty lab coat she still wore, opening it and
flashing it in front of his face, talking a mile a minute in an aggressive
tone.  I recognized the Russian words for the full name of the GRU, and also
recognized the word for prisoners.  She continued to hold the wallet open as
she started waving her arms, voice growing even louder. 

The Captain had stiffened when he’d seen what I assumed was
her GRU ID.  As she grew louder he pulled himself into a rigid position of
attention.  Vostov paused in her tirade, barked out a single word and slapped
her wallet shut, returning it to her pocket.  The Russian officer held himself
at attention for just a moment, snapped off a salute and turned to bark orders
at his men.  Two of the Humvees moved, opening up the road and Vostov gave the
man a glare before climbing back in the MRAP and slamming the door.

Igor was already back behind the wheel and floored the
throttle, roaring through the opening in the roadblock and narrowly missing two
Russian soldiers who had to jump for their lives.  A full minute passed while
Vostov leaned forward to watch in the outside mirror.  Finally she relaxed and
turned to me.

“No one wants to interfere with a GRU operation.”  She
smiled.  I was relieved to see the Russian sitting in back with us lower his
rifle so the muzzle was pointed at the floor.  He met my eyes and winked.

I was impressed with her performance, but then Russian
soldiers are just like soldiers everywhere else in the world.  When confronted
by an angry officer that happens to belong to a very powerful intelligence
unit, you don’t ask questions.  You mind your own business and hope to God the
spook didn’t write down your name.

As we approached Albuquerque, we began encountering more
Russians patrolling in captured Hummers.  Twice we were stopped, but Vostov
showed her ID and the soldiers couldn’t apologize and wave us on about our
business fast enough.

“With that magical ID, why didn’t you want to just ride to
the base with us?”  I asked her after the second time we were questioned.

“Because now I’m drawing attention to myself.  And it will
be noted that I came through security at the base with a captured American
vehicle and three prisoners.  If my superiors happen to notice, which is
definitely possible, I will have a difficult time explaining my actions and
where you are.”  She answered.

“But it does not matter.  Because of my uncle, they will be
afraid to take any action against me without concrete evidence.  They may start
an investigation, but like everything internal to the GRU that is political, it
will take weeks.  Well before that, if everything goes according to plan,
things will change at home and I will be untouchable.”

“And if things don’t go according to plan?”  I asked, but I
already knew the answer.

“Then I will be arrested, tried, convicted of treason and
shot.”  She answered more calmly than I thought I could have if I were in her
shoes.

The conversation died out and within ten minutes we had crossed
the outer edge of the city and turned off the highway, following signs that
pointed the way to Kirtland AFB main gate.  When the gate was in sight, Vostov
spoke to the two men in Russian.  They nodded and she turned back to the
front.  The man in back with us moved his rifle back into a guarding position
as I felt us slow for the gate guards.

My legs were asleep from the pressure of Martinez sitting on
me.  She turned to look at me and I could see the fear in her eyes, but also
resolve.  Like me, she still had her pistol, hidden in her clothing.  Unlike me
she also had several blades concealed on her person.  I knew she had one
strapped to each forearm and I could feel the one in the back of her pants
digging into my leg.  Scott looked like he was dizzy and in pain, but ready to
fight as well.

I was proud of these two.  They thought like warriors.  If
things went bad, they would fight.  There was no possibility of surrender to
the Russians.  But if we had to fight, I needed my legs to function.  Wrapping
my hands around Martinez’ slender waist, I lifted her, spread my legs apart and
lowered her to the metal deck between them.  Pressure off, the pins and needles
hit as normal blood flow resumed.  I flexed the muscles in my legs and swiveled
my feet around, loosening the joints.

A moment later we came to a stop and Igor opened his door to
speak with the guard.  Ballistic windows are wonderful, but it sure would be
nice if they could figure out a way to make them open like normal windows.

There was a question in Russian from the guard and I could
see three more men standing in a semi-circle to our front, rifles ready.  I
suspected there were more behind us.  Also, it was more than likely that the
Russians had something pointed at us with enough power to penetrate our armor
and turn us all into pulp.