ON THE GROUND IN CHECHNYA
One by one, Van Buren’s team slipped into the cave while the rover moved forward to catch the guerrillas’ attention. The terrorists aimed their weapons at it, but did not fire; the audio feed picked up muffled conversation as the guerrillas discussed what to do about the miniature beast.
“Couple of people behind them,” whispered Peterson.
Van Buren was the next-to-last person inside. The team moved along the wall, crouching behind a low row of machines and broken crates. The point man stopped behind a pair of molded plastic chairs and aimed his M-4 toward the balcony.
“I can get one,” he whispered.
“Just hold,” said Van Buren. “Let the other team move into position.”
He nudged to the side, trying to locate Kalman. He thought he saw something moving in the dim light filtering in from the outside but couldn’t be sure. He resisted the temptation to run across and find him.
The rover stopped just before the wall beneath the guerrillas’ position, then backed slowly and began making a circle, primarily to draw their attention but also to check through an
area of crates at the back to see if anyone was there. The second team, meanwhile, had entered from the back door and made its way to the edge of the ramp, using a simple scope device to observe the interior.
The seconds ticked off like the long hours of an interminable schoolday. Van Buren took a slow, controlled breath, vision narrowed to the dim viewer of the night-gear monocle. He fought off distractions—the thought of what he might tell his son about the mission tickled him a moment, then disappeared.
“Ready,” whispered Peterson.
“We go on the bang,” said Van Buren. “Shield your eyes.”
The rover slid to a stop. One of the guerrillas stood and started to get down, climbing over the rail so he could go to it and examine it. The arm on the unit clicked, but nothing happened, the lieutenant having trouble manipulating it correctly.
Just pull the damn thing, Van Buren thought to himself. Then bam—the grenade flashed and exploded, a big Fourth of July firecracker going off at the back of the cave. The point man took out the terrorist on the balcony, while Yeger blasted the one who’d jumped down to examine the rover. A second flash-bang, tossed by the team at the ramp, exploded, followed by a pair of short bursts from MP-5s.
Van Buren ran across the open floor, looking for Kalman. Something hard bounced off his back—a ricochet that caught just the right angle—and he felt a stinging numbness in his arm. But he pushed up to his feet and found his man hunkered behind a row of long crates.
In the forty seconds or so that it took for the others to finish securing the hangar, the numbness in Van Buren’s arm spread to his neck, then up and around his face. His legs stiffened and he felt as if he were being choked. He grabbed Kalman by the arm, pulling him toward the mouth of the cave.
What would he tell James?
Van Buren reached the mouth of the cave, where men in space suits fell on Kalman, who was already protesting that he was fine. Someone shouted in Van Buren’s ear:
“Colonel, we’re advised that a convoy of Russian armored vehicles is on the highway roughly one hour away.”
“All right,” said Van Buren. His jaw hurt to move. “We’re wrapping up. Prepare the aircraft. Get the demolitions people in—blow the roof down.”
“Make it quick in there,” warned Peterson.
“Go, let’s go,” said Van Buren. “Where are Ferg and Conners?”
“They’re not here,” said Yeger. “We have two prisoners, two dead men.”
“Outside, get everyone outside.” He turned to go back in but someone stopped him—Peterson.
“Your suit,” she said, pointing. “It’s torn.”
“I’m OK.”
“Over here!” she yelled. There was a strict protocol, and not even Van Buren could avoid it. Medics swarmed around.
“No blood,” said someone.
“Thank God,” said someone else.
“I’m OK,” said Van Buren.
“Hit the back of the vest,” said a medic. “Concrete.”
“I’m all right,” he said.
“Make sure it didn’t get into his skin.”
“No blood.”
“I’m OK,” insisted Van Buren. Dizziness and nausea swirled in his head; he pulled his hood off, breathing the crisp night air, hoping it would revive him.
“I want a board,” said the medic next to him. “Piece of concrete ricocheted and hit your back. Your spine may be bruised.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” said Van Buren, his head clearing. “Did we get Ferguson and Conners?” he asked. “Where’s Ferg? Where the fuck is he?”
“They’re not here,” said one of the sergeants whose team had secured the buildings, then conducted a search. “AC-130 is using its infrared to locate guerrillas. There’s two groups moving out down the road, and all those guys have guns. Ferguson and Conners aren’t here. They must’ve gone out on the plane.”
“Typical Ferg, always looking for another party.” Van Buren walked with one of the medics to a second area, where
he was to shed his gear and take a cocktail of antiradiation drugs as a precaution. “Where’s communications? Somebody get me hooked up to Ms. Alston. Everybody else—let’s go, saddle up. Come on, you know the drill. Go. Go.”