Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

Major Sam Jameson, at the controls of the lead bird, was just popping up over the final crest of hills when he heard the message. He responded immediately. “Bounty Hunter Bravo, this is Limo Three-One. What’s your traffic?”

“Roger, Limo Three-One,” Beth confirmed, trying to control her voice to filter out the excitement and relief that flooded through her. “We’re at the LZ. What is your timeline?”

The Ospreys clawed for a bit more altitude as the high ground unrolled beneath them, then dropped away into a valley, where a huge man-made structure dominated the far end. “We’re one mike out, and I see the LZ.” The friendly Kentucky twang of the Marine aviator made Beth feel more comfortable. We-uh one mack out, an’ Ah see thuh LZ.

Ledford, kneeling behind a Komatsu lowboy flatbed trailer, smiled when she was finally able to see the pair of planes. “Limo Three-One. Bounty Hunter Bravo. I see you now. Popping yellow smoke.” She threw the grenade as hard as she could. It hit the roadway, bounced and rolled, and belched a spreading cloud of bright color.

“Roger, I see yellow,” confirmed Jameson. “Where are you?”

“Bounty Hunter Bravo and one pax are behind the earthmovers at the west end, next to a blue golf cart.”

Major Jameson altered the angle of approach and set the computers to perform the almost magical transition from airplane to helicopter. The speed fell away from cruising at 277 miles per hour as the nacelles on each wingtip elevated in slow motion up to a sixty-degree elevation, cut to about sixty miles per hour. Then the props were pointing straight up at ninety degrees, and the plane was at a complete hover, hanging in the sky, balanced by multiple computers of the fly-by-wire systems. Jameson nudged the stick to make minor adjustments.

The second Osprey remained in airplane mode to fly cover. Captain Les Richter banked slightly as the bridge came up fast. “Bounty Hunter Bravo, this is Limo Three-Two. Any friendlies down there?” Richter was not worried about small-arms ground fire, which was almost inconsequential to an Osprey, but if he had to make a gun run, he did not want innocent people caught in the .50 caliber shit storm. There was a village several klicks beyond the east end of the bridge, and that was far out of the danger zone.

Beth paused before answering. Better to be honest. “I have no contact with Bounty Hunter Actual,” she said. “I don’t see him topside. Everyone I see on the bridge has a weapon.”

“Good enough,” said Richter, whirling his big plane in closer. “Limo Three-Two will make one recon pass, then cover your extract. If you need help, we’ll hose the place down.”

Kyle heard the transmission. If he could get the Osprey to sweep the bridge, he still might get out of this mess. “Break! Break! This is Bounty Hunter Actual. Consider the entire bridge a free-fire zone!” He was still too far underground for his little radio to transmit properly, and no one heard him. Then another blast of gunfire erupted from down the hall, and he pressed his back into the alcove.

First things first. He had put up with about as much of this being pinned down crap as he cared to endure and was flat out of time. Swanson grabbed his last round M-67 hand grenade, holding it in close to his belly, simultaneously securing the safety lever with his right hand while picking out the pin with his left. He heard the covering Osprey roar by just as he released the safety spoon to activate the four-second fuse.

Instead of stepping out into the line of fire to throw the grenade, Kyle underhanded it across the corridor, where it clipped the opposite wall at a forty-five-degree angle and banked back toward the corner where the gunman was shielded. The metal baseball skittered across the stone and exploded at the man’s feet, blowing him backward, lacerated with metal shards.

Kyle had turned from the blast, but as soon as the concussion passed, he was out of his hideaway, charging for daylight.

AL-MASRI WAS MOMENTARILY FROZEN. At the west terminus of the bridge, a blossom of yellow smoke had flashed on the road and was expanding into a thick cloud that hung like a curtain. Then a plane with propellers like giant windmills dashed overhead, and its prop wash kicked up such a storm of dirt and debris that everyone around him hit the ground, and he turned away, covering his face. Americans! Ayman al-Masri recognized the aircraft as being the futuristic Ospreys, and the Americans were the only ones who had such aircraft. It was not Zionists after all.

“Get up and shoot at them,” he yelled to his small group. “Kill the Americans. Fire at them, damn you. Shoot.” He swatted the nearest one on the head. “Get up and fight or I’ll kill you myself.” The man he slapped got to his feet with his weapon, but his eyes were wide in fright. Al-Masri moved to the next one, screaming over the sound of the aircraft.

A second Osprey had appeared and was gently lowering itself toward the flat surface of the bridge, and he momentarily wondered why the team that he had seen take position down there was not shooting at it. Instead, he watched the two figures emerge from among the heavy equipment and hurry toward the hovering aircraft.

“There they are!” Two of the Americans had somehow gotten into the western column but were finally out in the open. “Kill them now!”

His men were responding, although sluggishly, and a few were snapping off some shots. Al-Masri had a vision of actually destroying an Osprey and watching the Americans burn to death in the wreckage. He pulled his own pistol and ran forward, firing at the big plane. If they could get close enough, there might be a chance.

BETH STUMBLED TO THE rear of the Osprey through the hard wash of the propellers, hauling al-Attas along. The gunner behind the ramp-mounted .50 caliber machine gun jumped down to help her wrestle the prisoner inside. He was used to surprises on these special missions but had never before encountered an operator who was a beautiful, almost petite, woman with short blond hair, and especially one who tossed him the leash to a flex-tied captive whose blue jeans were falling down over his skinny legs.

Ledford gained her footing and ran through the fuselage as fast as she could, feeling the vibration as the Osprey’s rotors turned. Since the machine had never actually touched down, it was already flying, and Major Jameson was just waiting for confirmation from the gunner that the two passengers were safely aboard.

Beth Ledford plunged onto the flight deck and grabbed the pilot’s shoulder. “Don’t lift off yet,” she screamed.

“What?” he yelled back.

“Don’t lift off!”

“We have to. We’ve made our pickup, and now we are getting the hell out of here.”

“You hang right here. Bounty Hunger Actual is coming.”

“Sorry, but he’s on his own.”

“Like hell he is.” She jammed a pistol hard into the ribs of the pilot. “That was not a request. We wait.”

SWANSON BOLTED FROM THE tunnel in a full sprint. The attention of everyone was locked on the aircraft, allowing him to run up unseen behind them. Within ten meters, he was in the middle of the group before someone finally noticed him.

Ayman al-Masri saw movement at his side, thinking that it was one of his men, but when he looked, he was staring straight into a face he knew well from studying intelligence photographs: The strong jawline and cheekbones, the hard gray-green eyes, the light brown hair, and the lithe body matched the characteristics of the infamous American operator Kyle Swanson, who had been causing trouble for years. At that moment of recognition, Swanson punched him in the face with the butt of a rifle and sent the New Muslim Order security chief crumpling to the roadway.