The Lazarus Moment (24 page)

There
was a thud and the entire chopper shuddered, rolling again as the propeller
turned, another blade catching in the Y shape of a split trunk, the Seahawk
coming to a halt not ten feet from the jungle floor, completely inverted.

With
Felix and the copilot pressed against the windshield.

The
rotors began to bend. Dawson pointed at them. “They’re not going to hold.
You’ve got seconds!”

The
screeching of metal was almost overwhelming when he heard Felix shout, “Stand
clear!” Dawson and Skerritt stepped back as the silhouette of Felix disappeared
then just his boots reappeared, slamming into the shattered cockpit glass, the
entire frame breaking away and dropping to the ground.

A
sickening sucking sound from the rear of the chopper signaled the end, the
sound all too familiar to these soldiers.

The fuel
had ignited.

The
chopper erupted into a ball of flame as Felix and the copilot dropped from the
opening toward the ground. Dawson and Skerritt surged forward as the flames
erupted in all directions except directly under the chopper, the metal skin
acting as a heat shield. Felix let go of the copilot, either intentionally or
by accident, his arms and legs flailing. Dawson jumped for the copilot, Skerritt
for his man, both breaking the falls with their arms, the force shoving them to
the ground hard, the falls broken.

Dawson
felt hands on his shirt, hauling him to his feet before he had a chance to
catch his breath. It was Niner, grabbing him and rushing him, stumbling, into
the trees as Atlas hoisted the downed copilot over his shoulders in one swift
motion, quickly following them into the dense jungle.

Shouts
and cries filled the jungle around them and it wasn’t until Dawson was at least
a good sixty feet away that he had a chance to recover his balance properly,
Niner hauling him the entire way.

Dawson
stood up, turning back toward the fiery crash site. “Everyone okay?”

There
were shouts of acknowledgement but that was useless, he needed a true count.
“Sound off! Air Force!” Eight acknowledged.
Good.
“Secret Service!” Two.
“SEALs!” Another four. “Seahawk crew!”

“We’ve
got both of them,” acknowledged Skerritt about twenty feet away.

All
accounted for.

Dawson
pointed at the recovery crew. “Check on those supplies. If you can get them
away safely, do it.”

The
dozen men rushed back toward the inferno as Dawson walked over to the SEAL
team, all huddled around Felix. “You okay?”

Felix
took a hand from Skerritt who hauled him to his feet. “Little winded, but I’ll
live.”

“Pretty
stupid thing you did,” grinned Dawson.

Felix
laughed. “I hope my commander writes it up as extremely brave and selfless,
worthy of a medal.”

One of
the recovery team rushed up to them. “Supplies are safe, we’re getting them
clear now but we need more people.”

“Take
whoever you need,” replied Dawson, the man leaving, his shouts echoing through
the trees as he gathered civilians to help with the human chain that Dawson
could see in the firelight.

Yet none
of that mattered right now. He turned to Skerritt. “We’ve got another scouting
party out there, obviously.”

Skerritt
nodded. “You guys took care of the last one, let us return the favor.”

Dawson
smiled.

“With
pleasure.”

Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters, Langley

“That’s him!”

Leroux
pointed at the screen, the footage from Johannesburg accessed only minutes ago.
The South Africans were insisting they handle the investigation, the
administration in Pretoria apparently taking it as a point of honor to tie up
their end of the tragedy, their bungling of the capture already making the
press. Why they hadn’t surrounded the motel before screeching to a halt in
front of it was anybody’s guess, though the prevailing wisdom in the room was
overzealous lack of experience.

Whatever
the cause, Khomenko had escaped, three of his men found dead in the room. Their
photos had arrived and facial recognition identified them as members of Khomenko’s
command in Donetsk.

But the
man himself had gotten away.

Until
now.

On the screen,
the image of a man clearing security looked nothing like the file photo they
had of him, yet it was clear to Leroux who it was. Khomenko could have lost his
hair from the chemo and this man was bald, hiding it with an FDNY ball cap, the
glasses had frames that were large and thick, as if to try and distract from
the shape of the upper portion of his face. Not to mention he was the same
build as the FSB file they had received indicated, and the mustache was
obviously fake.

Who
has a moustache and no arm hair?

The
outstretched arm in the photo was completely free of hair, another confirmation
the man had lost his hair from chemo.

And he appeared
angry.

Like
a man who just found out his plan had failed.

The news
had broken that the President was alive just a few minutes before the footage
was taken, but that was almost an hour ago. Which meant he could potentially be
heading anywhere now, though almost definitely trapped on an airplane.

Fool!

Leroux
watched as the computer confirmed what he already knew, the facial recognition
points mapping on a side monitor, Therrien smacking his hands together. “It’s
him!”

“Excellent.
Let’s figure out what name he’s travelling under and what flight he got on.
What kind of footage do we have access to?”

“Everything
now, boss,” replied Child. “Once the President, or, umm, the Vice
President—hell, I don’t know what to call him. Didn’t he just get demoted?—once
whoever
called, the taps opened.” His fingers were flying over the
keyboard as he talked. He pointed at one of the panels. “Let’s follow him
through the airport and see what flight he gets on.”

They
watched as Khomenko headed for a bathroom, disappearing inside. Child
fast-forwarded the feed for almost half an hour’s worth of footage until
Khomenko finally reemerged, heading directly for his gate, handing over his
boarding pass then leaving the frame as he entered the jetway.

“Where’s
that flight going?” asked Leroux as Morrison entered the op center.

Child
grinned. “Dubai.”

“Do we
have any assets in that area?”

“Yes,”
replied Morrison as he joined Leroux in the center of the room, watching the
footage of Khomenko loop.

“Who?”

“Kane.”

South of Air Force One Crash Site, Mozambique

Senior Chief Chuck Skerritt cleared the last of the civilians then glanced
over at Felix. “Did you see where it came from?”

Felix
nodded. “Yeah, looked like it came from the top of the trees. Bastard must have
climbed to take the shot.”

“Which
direction?”

“No
freakin’ idea. It was all green to me.” He paused for a moment. “Sun was in the
west, so I’d say almost due north of where I dropped. Literally.”

“That’s
where I made it, too.” Skerritt lowered his night vision goggles, the jungle
suddenly springing to life. The others did the same as they advanced, spreading
out so as not to be a juicy target. The sounds of the survivors behind them
slowly faded, as did the roar of the fire from the chopper. The Delta team
along with the other trained personnel were forming a perimeter to protect the
civilians, and it was up to his team to eliminate the hostiles. And now that he
had a bead on their location, the UAV might just be able to help. He activated
his comm. “Nightwatch, Sierra Zero-One, any targets in our vicinity, over?”

“Zero-One,
Nightwatch, we’re showing numerous targets in your area, but there’s a cluster
of six bearing zero-two-zero from your current position. Looks like your
hostiles, over.”

“Roger
that, Zero-One, out.”

He
motioned toward the targets, advancing slowly as he scanned left to right for
movement.

Something
lit up his goggles and he flipped them up to see the streak of an RPG racing
toward them. He surged left, arms outspread, knocking Felix to the ground as
the rocket slammed into a tree, shredding the wood into thousands of razor
sharp shards that blasted in every direction.

He
winced as several pieces bored into his leg.

But the
pain would have to wait.

Gunfire
erupted from the trees ahead, bullets tearing into the ground to his right. He
rolled left, behind a tree, then continued to roll, his FN SCAR Special
Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle stretched out ahead of him, waiting for
the shot.

The tree
trunk exited his field of fire and the muzzle flashes of the AKs ahead of them
were suddenly crystal clear.

He
opened fire.

“Go! Go!
Go!” he shouted, the others to his right and left leaping to their feet and
pressing forward, their own weapons firing. He was about to reach for a grenade
when he thought better of it. It was one thing to toss a grenade in the open,
an entirely different thing to throw it in the forest. It was just as likely to
hit a tree and bounce back at you, as it was to make the target.

Felix
continued to the left, the others to the right as they quickly outflanked their
enemy, pouring controlled bursts on their position from three sides now. Skerritt
ceased fire, rolling back behind the tree then jumping to his feet, peering out
from the other side, his night vision goggles back in place.

He
switched to single shot and took aim.

He
fired.

One
down.

Another
spun around, firing at Felix’s position.

Skerritt
fired.

Two
down.

Another
dropped, then another, his own men continuing to press their advantage using
the trees as cover.

He
didn’t have a shot, the gunfire now down to two weapons, only the muzzle
flashes from behind the trees visible. He rose and rushed forward, taking
advantage of the opportunity, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the enemy
position. He was within twenty feet with still no shot, then ten. His men had
adjusted their fire so they wouldn’t hit him and he signaled he was about to
break right, the right flank immediately ceasing fire.

Skerritt
broke right, rounding the massive tree blocking his shot.

And
opened up on the two remaining men from behind, silencing their weapons.

He
quickly scanned the area for other hostiles, the rest of his team joining him
and taking up covering positions as he radioed in. “Nightwatch, Sierra
Zero-One. What’s our count, over?”

“Six
hostiles down, no other targets in your area. The rest of the readings
scattered as soon as you opened fire. They were all animals, over.”

“Roger
that, Nightwatch. Returning to the main group, out.” Skerritt rose. “Let’s get
back to the group.” He pointed at the fallen rebels. “Grab their weapons and
ammo. If we’re going up against two hundred hostiles, we may need it.”

That
and a miracle.

Burj Khalifa, Dubai

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane moaned in pleasure as Helena, a
Filipino masseuse, worked her magic on his aching muscles. He had just been
extracted from Pakistan, a hellhole if there ever was one, and after lying on
nothing more comfortable than rocks for over a week while waiting for some Al
Qaeda bigwig to show, he was in need of some tender loving care.

Care
that Helena was more than capable of providing.

While
Dubai prided itself on welcoming foreign visitors, there was one thing he would
never risk, and that was getting a massage from a local. The risk of Daddy or
an older brother finding out what she did for a living too great. But the
Filipinos and other foreign workers who poured into these Middle Eastern
countries were completely safe to deal with, and to be honest, he felt sorry
for them.

Especially
the Filipinos.

More
Filipinos worked outside their own country than any other citizens in the
world. Over ten million worked under often horrible conditions, treated as
slaves with few rights, especially in the Middle East. Mostly Catholic, they
were often barred from practicing their religion, sometimes their passports
were seized, they were raped, and when some tried to defend themselves, it was
the innocent who were charged, and sometimes ultimately beheaded.

It was
one of the many reasons Kane hated the Middle East. It wasn’t that everyone was
bad, far from it, it was that he had yet to find a government that he would
consider civilized. There were no democracies here, there were no equal rights,
there was no freedom of the press, and there definitely was no freedom of
religion.

Which
was why when you were here, you were careful.

Dubai
was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. Decades of cheaply pumped oil and
the recent sustained high oil prices had made the country filthy rich, and they
were desperate for international recognition, as was the entire region. All
that oil money had been put to use wisely with the “winning” of the 2022 FIFA
World Cup. Thousands of foreign workers were toiling in the insane heat of the Qatari
desert to build the venues that the well-heeled would enjoy in a few years, most
aware but conveniently ignoring the fact that graft and corruption had chosen
the location and thousands of workers had died for their pleasure.

Foreign
workers had no rights.

He
wondered what Helena’s life was actually like outside of the hotel. Did she
feel safe? Did she fear for her life? Was she free to leave?

Her
fingers reached low, below the towel, spreading out over his glutes.