The Lazarus Moment (22 page)

Red
won’t let us down.

Niner
came out of the trees ahead, carrying the portable satellite gear. “BD, Colonel
wants to speak to you.”

Dawson
frowned. It wasn’t the designated check-in time, which could only mean two
things. Either news so good it couldn’t wait, or so bad it couldn’t wait
either.

His
money was on the latter.

He
hooked the headset over his ear as he stopped, Niner reestablishing contact.
“Control, Bravo Zero-One, come in, over.”

“Bravo
Zero-One, this is Control Actual. I’ve got an update for you and you’re not
gonna like it.”

Gee,
what a surprise.

“Go
ahead.”

“A
massively superior force of over two hundred rebels are moving up the Lugenda River
toward your location. It appears they have commandeered anything that will
float. They definitely know who you are and that you’re alive. They know if
they can get their hands on the President they’re set for life.”

“Any
chance of an air strike?”

“Not in
time. You need to get your people moving, Zero-One, there’s no way the rescue
team will reach you before they do. They’re already almost at the waterfall
where Air Force One is. My guys have you at…no more than two miles from that
location. You need to get the President out of there. Leave the rest if you
have to.”

Dawson
knew that would be a no go. “Negative, his wife is severely injured. There’s no
way he’ll leave her, and he refused to leave earlier, adamant about being the
last one out.”

There
was a pause, Dawson imagining the Colonel expressing his opinion with a few
expletives he didn’t want on the official record. “You’re on the ground,
Zero-One, what’s your assessment?”

“We’ll
have to make a stand. We’ve got weapons and almost a dozen trained personnel.
Ammo is the problem.”

“I’ll see
what I can do. Control Actual, out.”

Niner
looked at Dawson as he handed him the headset. “What’s the word?”

Dawson
lowered his voice. “Over two hundred hostiles heading our way.”

“So in
other words we’re up shit creek.”

Dawson
smiled. “Not necessarily.”

He had
an idea, but they’d need a lucky break.

And time
they probably didn’t have.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Afonso Domingos stood on the prow of the lead boat, silently urging
the small craft on as it struggled against not only the current but the heavy
load of men she bore. Yet they were almost there. They had made excellent time,
especially when news had arrived that it was Air Force One, the plane belonging
to the President of the United States.

Not a
soul had refused the use of their boat, more and more joining their mini-armada
as they moved forward, allowing him to spread the men out and speed up their
progress.

And it
was
only
his men. The villagers that lived along the river were not
welcome. This was a payday for him and those under his command. This one
miracle from the sky would change their lives forever, make up for the
ridiculous concessions that had been forced upon them by the peace accords, and
allow them to all live a life of luxury.

Perhaps
even in the United States.

It had
always been a dream, and it had him wondering what the best course of action
actually would be. If the President were alive, would he receive the reward he
deserved for rescuing him? Or would he simply receive a handshake and pat on
the back? All of the sacrifices he had made over the years had culminated in
nothing but the respect of his men. He cherished that respect, though it didn’t
feed him or put a Jaguar in front of his far too humble home.

He had
dealt with Westerners before, and it didn’t matter if they were white or black.

They
thought they were superior.

He felt
a surge of anger rush through him.

A
handshake and a bag of rice, that’s what they’ll give you!

He
sneered at the falls in the distance.

What
you do today you do for your men, and your family, for generations to come.

His
decision was made. If the President were alive, they’d hold him for a ransom
fit for the king he was.

Or he’d
die, along with everyone with him.

Today he
was in control.

Today he
was superior.

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Lt. Commander Rich Jacobson hacked away at the underbrush, the
Search and Rescue team heading single file through the thick jungle, each man
taking his turn in the lead, the swinging of the heavy blade tiring.

And they
had to keep fresh.

Fatigue
was their enemy, and the hot, humid, dense jungle was working against them
almost every step of the way. The underbrush was thick and they were barely
covering a mile per hour.

If
only there had of been an LZ closer.

They
were still hours away. They could have tried to insert a small team through the
canopy then carve out an LZ, but it would have taken almost as long as hiking
in, the jungle so dense and the area a chopper needed to land safely, huge. And
with the enemy force advancing, it had been decided that every foot the survivors
could travel themselves could prove invaluable. Once the SAR team reached them,
there’d be an entire squad facing the enemy, with two more hot on their heels.

There’s
no way the enemy would confront them.

He had
convinced himself it was the right decision, since it wasn’t his and he had no
choice, though he would have preferred dropping in himself at least to assess
the situation, but that option had been eliminated. With rebels having opened
fire on the rescue chopper that had managed to evacuate one of the wounded, the
President had ordered no more lives risked, which was sort of confusing.

Who
the hell
is
the President right now?

He was
no constitutional expert though he was pretty sure it was the guy he was trying
to save, though the new guy certainly seemed to be in charge.

He
stopped, stepping aside to let the group pass, his shift at the front up.

We’ll
make it.

They had
to. After all, it was the President and his family. The alternative was
unthinkable.

He
flagged down the doctor who was looking none the worse for wear. “I understand
you were able to talk with the President’s physician?”

Lt.
Commander Petersen nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

“The
only severely wounded person I’m worried about is the First Lady. The worst off
made it out before the chopper took fire. I’d like to medivac her the first moment
we can, but with her injuries there’s no way we could risk pulling her up
through that”—he pointed up at the thick canopy—“so there’s not much that can
be done until either an LZ is cleared or we hike them back to the main LZ.”

“Will she
survive that long?”

Peterson
shook his head. “I don’t know. She should, assuming there aren’t internal
injuries we’re not aware of, but these things are always hard to assess on the
ground. The President’s physician believes it’s just broken ribs though her
breathing is labored. He had to re-inflate a lung with a pen. She’s in a lot of
pain and discomfort, but she should be okay, especially once we can get her
some pain meds.” He sighed. “We got lucky from that perspective.”

“What do
you mean?”

“I hate
to say it, but they’re lucky that almost everyone either died in the crash, or
survived mostly unscathed. Can you imagine if we had dozens of people with
severe burns or lacerations?” He shook his head. “That pilot performed a
miracle. The river killed more of them than the crash did.”

“Why’s
that?”

“The
badly wounded couldn’t fight the current so went over.” Petersen sighed. “Such
a waste. If they had just landed a couple of miles upstream or downstream,
another twenty might have survived.” He looked at Jacobsen. “Still, it’s a
miracle that any did.”

Jacobson
had to agree with the man. He had gone into enough plane crashes over the years
to know they could be horrible, the survivors quite often dying later from excruciatingly
painful injuries, their suffering needlessly prolonged because they happened to
be sitting a few seats behind those who had mercifully died instantly.

Thank
God they did that fuel dump.

They had
almost no details of what had happened, and frankly, he couldn’t care less at
this point. All he knew was that he had fifty people to rescue, fifty people to
protect.

They
should just carpet bomb those rebels and be done with it.

The problem
was the distances. They were dealing with incredibly tight distances on a map.
Put his team in open country and they’d be there in an hour. The problem was
the jungle. It was ridiculously thick, the undergrowth a constant struggle. If
the rebels were twenty miles away, there probably wouldn’t be much debate, but
they weren’t. They were only a couple of miles away, and apparently satellite
was showing other small groups in the area that they couldn’t be sure who they
were. Could they be other survivors? Hostiles? Innocent locals?

And if a
bomb went astray, they might end up killing the very people they were trying to
save.

They
were in a Catch-22. Bomb them now when there’s a safety margin and risk
potentially killing innocent people, or wait and hope the SAR team reached them
first.

When it
would be too late to do anything about it should they fail.

And now
there were two hundred more on the way.

This
day just keeps getting better and better.

North of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

“Roger that, Control Actual, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Red
sighed, shaking his head, exchanging glances with the others as they continued
toward the crash site, the rebel force only about five minutes behind them.

“Did he
say two hundred?” asked Jagger.

Jimmy,
sporting a fresh bandage over his arm courtesy of Wings, held up a finger. “
Over
two hundred. And they’re going to be between us and BD if we don’t hurry
things up.”

Red
pursed his lips, glancing to his left and right, the lay of the land pretty
much the same as it had been for the past couple of hours. Trees and more
trees. “Ok, we don’t have a choice. We make a stand. Eliminate them or break
them, but they can’t be allowed to rejoin that new group. We’ve only got time
for one more hit if we’re ever going to join up with the survivors before that
company of rebels reaches them.”

Wings
looked up at the rapidly dimming light. “If we’re going to do this, we’ve got
to do it now. What’s the plan?”

“We’re
going to hit them from both sides this time. Jimmy and Jagger, you two take them
on their right flank, then when they respond, Wings and I hit them from the
left. You hold your fire, they should think you bugged out again and turn their
attention to us, then you open up on them again. Fire at will, fall back if you
have to, but no three shot limit. They all go down. Understood?”

Acknowledgements
all around, Red sending everyone off with hand signals. He and Wings broke
right, putting about a hundred yards between them and the others. He activated
his comm. “Zero-two in position.”

“Zero-Eight
in position,” responded Jagger.

Red took
a knee behind a tree, peering out from behind his cover, scanning the jungle
for movement, sound, anything. It was hard to hear anyone coming until they
were almost right on top of you, the sounds of the jungle so naturally loud it
was actually distracting. And sometimes what was snapping branches and rustling
leaves wasn’t human at all, all manner of creatures great and small calling
this place home.

“Contact,
twelve o’clock.”

Red
looked to where Jagger had indicated, seeing nothing at first, then suddenly
seeing the silhouette of a rebel cautiously advancing, he the unlucky bastard
selected to take point, knowing full well it meant certain death.

More
emerged, soon a dozen in sight. The challenge they faced were the trees. There
was so much cover that a sustained battle might become just that. Sustained.
Their previous encounters had been over in seconds, not giving their targets a
chance to hide, but now that they were going beyond a few shots, and the enemy
was expecting them, this could turn ugly, quickly.

There’re
worse places to die.

The
entire force was visible now. He counted thirty-two, though with them passing
behind and in front of trees as they advanced, it was hard to tell.

Just
keep killing until nothing moves.

He
activated his comm. “Zero-Eight and One-Zero, engage when ready, over.”

“Engaging.”

Shots
erupted from Jagger and Jimmy, their muzzle flashes clearly visible, both on
full auto as they tried to eliminate as many targets as they could. Two down,
three, four, eight, too many to count, the strategy at the moment working, though
the advantage would last only a few more seconds.

The
rebels turned, responding in the one direction exactly as Red had expected, the
MP5s silenced quickly as Jimmy and Jagger took cover.

“Engaging.”

He
opened up on the rebels as they poured fire on his comrades. More dropped, at
least half a dozen before they realized they were being attacked from behind.
Confusion reigned for a moment, some turning to return fire, others continuing
to fire on the silenced position.

“Take
cover!” ordered Red as bullets slammed into their position. The sound of single
shots from two MP5s across the combat zone let Red know both men were still
intact, the enemy fire directed at him and Wings quickly dwindling. “Engage!”