Part Two: One Shot, One Kill.
VIR Day -7.
I am awakened by a swift, vigorous shake on the shoulder.
“Luftennant von Ackerman, the meeting is under way.”
I shake the sleep out of my system and get on the gun that Miller is motioning to. I put my eye to the scope and begin to slowly zoom in as not to blur the sight picture.
A number of vehicles that resemble Land Rovers drive into the center of an arrangement of large folding tables with rifles, gas cans, and three big, green crates that are carrying something that we’re not too sure about. There are many armed men standing about with everything from AK-47s to MP5s, and dressed in everything from thick winter coats to standard BDUs of various camouflage schemes. The vehicles stop in the center of the gaggle and some more armed goons get out of them. From two miles away, it looks like I can reach out and pick someone up with my thumb and fore-finger.
Then a man with wicked, yellow eyes becomes visible. He is bald with a thick, black beard, and a giant, green cigar clamped between his nasty black teeth. He is carrying a large silver case with him, somewhat straining against its weight.
“I think I see him,” says Miller.
His black, leather coat is open revealing a shiny Desert Eagle in a shoulder holster. He hefts the case up and on to one of the tables.
“Yep,” says Miller,” that’s him. I have a positive ID on Peter Inovovich Chekov.”
Miller pats my shoulder.
“Remember what I’ve taught you. Keep in mind variable humidity, wind speed, and direction. At this distance you’ll also have to take the Coriolis Effect into account.”
Bearing that in mind, I return all of my attention to the man in the distance. He opens the case, talking to his obvious customer, and pulls out a large cylindrical object. He hefts it in his hands and tosses it to the man, who stumbles backward slightly, not anticipating the bulk of the spent uranium fuel.
There are small flags on the roofs of the vehicles. Not only are they distracting, but they are also helpful.
“The wind’s getting a bit choppy,” says Miller, out of sight, out of mind,” You can take the shot now and compensate for it or wait until it dies down, but he might leave before then. That’s your call.”
The man with the fuel rod puts it back in the case and two goons come over and remove it from the table. All is going well, Chekov starts to talk, smiling as he does so, probably haggling over a price for his product. The customer, a young buck with a rather French moustache and M60E4 light-machine-gun, responds back with his own talking and some body language, suggesting that he finds the listed price a little high. Chekov’s men start to fill in behind him and other men start to gather around the customer.
Suddenly, my line of sight is blocked by a bright red star. I crank back the zoom and refocus on a big yellow twenty-eight on the engine nacelle of a Mil Mi-28N ‘Havoc’ attack helicopter.
“Ach, where did he come from?” asks Miller,” Patience, just don’t bother him and he won’t bother us. Wait for a clear shot.”
For the first time, I am on line with the cockpit; I can see into the wind screen. I am looking at a small, brown fox girl with a helmet on her head and dark flight-glasses on her face. She moves a small, fingerless-gloved hand at a few controls as the chopper hovers. She cranks over the stick and the helicopter slips right then left and then turns a one-eighty turn and stops facing the meeting.
“Patience,” says Miller,” Don’t do anything stupid.”
The gunship twists left and right a few times and then heads off towards the meeting zone. I crank the scope back to maximum zoom and refocus my eye on Chekov’s face. Apparently something has gone terribly wrong because all of Chekov’s men are pointing their weapons at the customer’s men; all of the customer’s men are pointing guns at Chekov’s men; and Chekov has his Desert Eagle pointed at his customer… who also has his M60 up and at his shoulder. Everyone is yelling at each other, shaking their handguns, or jolting their rifles forward.
The flags suddenly stop moving and go limp.
“It’s now or never, Luftennant, take the shot!”
I pull the trigger. The workings of this massive rifle are similar to that of a tank’s cannon. The shooter holds the frame, which goes over his or her shoulder and the barrel slides back about half a metre, ejecting the spent brass and reloading another 20x102mm NATO round. The flashless powder is anything but smokeless and the concussion of the round causes some truly spectacular miniature dust storms.
The round also generates on hell of a condensation trail. I tack it all the way to the target, elapsed time almost two and a half seconds.
“Bull’s eye!!” shouts Miller.
I don’t see Chekov get hit per se' but there is evidence of what happened splattered all over the ground in the center of the mass of men. There is shock from the customer and his men, all of them just standing around, wondering what the hell just happened, some of them with splotches of bright red blood on their faces. There is more of a response from Chekov’s men, all of them gathering close in a ring formation around their dead leader with the same look on their faces… the boss man is dead.
“I think I saw his arm fly off,” says Miller,” Blood loss and trauma will take care of the rest. Good work, Luftennant.”
Then the tone of Miller’s voice changes, from a congratulations sort of ‘woo-hoo, we did it’ mood to a more deathly serious one.
“Shit they’re on to us!!” He yells,” take out that helicopter it’ll buy us some time!”
I try to find the helicopter approaching us, cranking the zoom on the scope way back to let me view the surroundings better. I find the chopper bearing down on us from the west, full speed, the female pilot practically looking right at us. I ignore her and focus on the left engine nacelle.
The craft is amazingly tough, taking three rounds before the engine gets engulfed in flames. I see the fear on the pilot’s face as she tries valiantly to control the beast. The helicopter begins to lose power rapidly and starts to retreat back towards the meeting area.
“Ha, good shot.”
I remove my eye from the scope and stand up uneasily, walking up the stairs of the empty, shallow hotel pool. Miller stands up and begins to walk back towards our gear against the far wall in a patch of ivy. He gets his rifle slung across his back when there is the sound of a blast behind us; the concussion smashes me against the wall. I turn around right as the helicopter smashes into the windows and tears off a portion of the roof.
“Aw, crap!! RUN!!” I scream at Miller, diving back into the basin of the shallow pool we had set up our firing position in.
The helicopter runs right over me in the pool. The sound of crumbling concrete, twisting metal and shattered glass fills my ears. I keep my eyes closed, expecting to be cut in half by the tail rotor, or what is left of it. I don’t feel the crushing weight until I open my eyes and cough up the thick concrete dust from the depths of my lungs.
The tail wheel of the helicopter is right on top of my chest, crushing my already broken ribs down into my chest cavity. I can feel the warm blood oozing into the newly opened space, and I slowly begin to suffocate.
I hear coughing in the dust overhead, I try to call out but there’s not enough oxygen in my lungs to make it carry, all I can manage is a pathetic little wheeze as I slowly begin to die.
Suddenly, I am stuck with a giant needle in my side. I start to fight back but something grabs me and keeps my hands bound.
“Take it easy,” says Miller,” It’s me, Luftennant. You’ve got a punctured lung… dammit stay still! Or would you like to choke on your own blood?”
I realize in my haze that Captain Miller has pulled out a new innovation in medical technology for soldiers. Bio-foam. A man can carry it around in his field kit and become an instant field medic with a click of the plastic cover and a stick of the needle. It can be used for a variety of reasons, but the most popular use is for sucking chest wounds and punctured lungs like mine. I feel it become one with the tissue of my lung and I can begin to breathe more fully again.
The long, fat needle is withdrawn and I hear the metallic clink of the discarded container as it bounces off of the floor multiple times. I calm down enough to tell Miller that I am fine and can breathe again.
“We’ve got to get you out from under this damn wheel,” says Miller,” I’ll try to lift the boom a little bit, and you try to scoot yourself out.”
I nod patiently, the mass of pressure from the helicopter’s bulk making it hard to breathe let alone talk. Miller moves back to the very end of the tail boom and begins to lift with his legs. A tiny centimeter of space opens up but I take full advantage of it, using every fiber of my furry being to get out of the danger zone. Miller drops the colossal weight right as my tail clears the wheel.
I stand on my own and Miller turns around, shaking his head as he looks at me.
“How the hell did this,” he pounds on the chopper,” happen to you?”
I shrug and lift myself out of the pool, the numbing properties of the Bio-foam dulling the pain enough that I don’t notice it very much. I grab up my rifle, still waiting faithfully against the wall with my canteens and ammunition. As I put on my canteen belt and my cartridge belt, I hear a soft tapping sound from the helicopter.
I turn around. The tapping continues. It seems to be coming from the rearmost part of the canopy. I move to open it, stepping over the stub-wing. As I near it, the tapping becomes more frantic; apparently whoever is inside can see me.
“Standby,” says Miller, nearing me with his USP drawn and ready.
I pull a leaver on the side of the canopy labeled ‘open’ in Russian. There is a dull thud as the locking mechanism unlatches and the canopy pops open about three centimeters, it opens with a soft hiss from the air cylinders as they push it up slowly. It thumps lightly on the remaining ceiling, letting out some wispy grey electrical smoke. It smells like burned plastic and I gag slightly.
A small hand with fingerless gloves comes out of the smoke, trembling wildly.
“Help me,” says a tiny, female voice in Russian.
I don’t even think and I reach into the cockpit. Her legs are injured, as I find out when I accidently brush up against one as I try to cut open her leg straps to free her; she cries out loudly. I cut through the straps and her legs start to swell slightly. Her five point harness is easy enough to release with just a push of a stiff button. She becomes free and I wrap one of my arms around her shoulders and get the other one around her waist, hoisting her up and out of the seat.
I get down off of the helicopter and stand with the vixen in my arms. Miller puts his USP back in its holster.
“Luftennant,” he says,” I know what you’re thinking, and I’m just going to say what I think right now.”
“What do you think?” I ask patiently, the female squirming in my arms.
“One day,” He says, pointing at my chest with an outstretched finger,” that big old heart of yours is going to get you killed.”
I look Miller in the eye, focusing hard on the deep blue iris that can peer into my soul and rip it out my nose. I hold his gaze for a long time…
“But you know we can’t just leave her here, sir” I say.
Miller shakes his head at me for the millionth time in the past two years, knowing that I can’t be reasoned with,” and just how are we going to get her out of the country without broadcasting our whereabouts?”
I formulate the simplest plan in my head,” I’ll carry her,” I say,” I’ve got the stamina to do so; you can scout a route ahead while I stay a quarter mile behind or so. That’s enough distance for safety and not so much that if you get engaged in a firefight that you won’t be waiting on me forever. We can get to the LZ on time, she’s not much more than one-hundred pounds; I can keep up.”
Miller shakes his head at me for the million and first time in the past two years, his arms across his chest.
“Or we can leave her here,” I say,” and you can live the rest of your life knowing that she starved to death up here and was picked apart by crows.”
Miller shakes his head at me for the million and second time in the past two years, “okay Luftennant,” he says,” but if this heads south I’m just going to blame it all on your thick-headedness, got me?”
“Yes sir,” I say with a nod of my head.
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Miller and I keep a radio channel open between us and change it every time we speak to each other, him relaying his position and where to go, and me confirming with him that the vixen is still asleep and not resisting me in any way. As I near the old Ferris wheel outside the swimming pool I have to navigate through the swimming complex and the locker rooms. There’s a dead man in the empty pool whose been torn to shreds by wild dogs over the past few days so much so that I can’t tell if he’s man or Fur, but I just continue at my lumbering pace through the main room. I hop down through a broken section of wall and make my way towards the wheel and realize I’m being confronted by dead bodies all over the place, left and right.
“I take it the Brits were successful?” I ask Miller, narrowly avoiding tripping over a dead German Shepard that has a man’s hand in its mouth.
The crackled response comes over my ear-bud, “what makes you say that?”
“I just got to the fun-fair,” I say plainly, accidently kicking an AK.
“Oh,” says Miller,” then yes, yes the Brits were successful with their part of the mission. MacMillan and Price took down the ringleader six days ago.”
I don’t try to continue the conversation because there’s nothing more to talk about. I look down to check on the brown fox I’m holding and her eyes crack open slightly. They’re the most striking green color I have ever seen, more so than the blue orbs in Miller’s head and I shiver when she looks up into mine. They’re soft as velvet and warmer than the sun could ever be. She closes them again and nestles her head back into its spot against my peck and bicep.
“Don’t worry little one,” I say softly in between breaths,” You’ll never have to be one of their play toys ever again. I’ll get you out of here.”
I nudge a hedge out of the way with my elbow and follow along the outside as per Miller’s instructions. If I follow along my current path I’ll end up at the river and follow it on a northerly path towards Kiev. About halfway there the American Chinook helicopter will land and pick us up and take us to the Luftwaffe temporary base set up in St. Petersburg, Russia where we will be thoroughly debriefed by Both CINC Alfred H. Hughes and his daughter SINC Leona F. Hughes. Maybe I could ask her to join me for dinner that night, just as a nice gesture. Maybe she would like sushi…
Miller was easily a third of a mile ahead of me when I took a bad step. I had moved to step over a possibly live hand grenade and stepped squarely into a small hole, the foot wedging into it firmly. Not realizing what had happened I continued to trot until I fell forwards from the wedged foot. The force of my body weight falling against my firmly wedged foot broke my ankle vertically along the tibia and I fell to the ground sure that I wouldn’t be able to make it out of there. I looked down and managed to free my foot from the hole only then realizing that I hadn’t just broke my tibia and ankle, but also all of the bones that allowed me to stand on my toes like I was supposed to.
“Miller,” I yell into my mic,” I think I just shit all over my original plan!!”
Miller’s voice crackles back,” What do you mean, Luftennant?”
“I just broke all of the bones from my little toes to my goddamned tibia, Miller.” I said,” Unless I get some medical attention it’s going to get infected and blow-up like a fucking puffer-fish.”
A long pause follows,” Can you move any part of your foot?”
“Not at all,” I say, my voice just now reflecting the pulsing pain coming through in waves.” There’s no way in hell I’m walking out of this one.”
“Okay, Luftennant,” says Miller,” I’m coming back to you; sit tight.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning on going anywhere, sir.”
I move the mouthpiece away from my mouth and check on the vixen, which I had tossed out of harm’s way when I realized that my three-hundred pound bulk was coming down. She had landed on her side by a tiny pine tree a few feet away from me. I drag myself over to her and make sure she’s still relatively alright. She coos at me when I pick her up off the ground and nuzzle her into my ghillie. I put my bad leg out in front of me and sit up against the row of hedges, the vixen bundled inside my suit. It’s getting dark rapidly and she’s only wearing a set of OD-green BDUs; if we don’t find a place to set up camp or have the helicopter re-route there is no doubt that she will freeze to death.
I wrap my left arm around her and retrieve my rifle off of my back with my right. I’m a little worried that we may have been followed by some of Chekov’s men, and we don’t need to leave more of our bullets at the scene.
I hear a dog barking in the distance, not a wild bark; a very aggressive domesticated derivative barking of an attack dog. The fur on the back of my neck stands on end for a few fleeting seconds when the girl in my ghillie starts speaking to me in a voice filled with guilt, sorrow, fear, regret, and just a little bit of hope. I look down into the striking green eyes of the vixen and she begins telling me who she is.
Her name is Cherrie Tupelo Tupikov. She is twenty-two years old. She is the oldest of two sisters and three brothers. She is Lithuanian by birth but legally a citizen of Ukraine. Her mother was a forty year old housewife; her father was a fifty year old veteran of the battle of Stalingrad. She is the only survivor of her family.
She was forced into the communist armies when she was seventeen by Chekov himself after his detachment burned down her home town, but not before she got the privilege of being raped by every man under his current command. She was pressed into service as a lowly private working on ‘Hind’ helicopters when she discovered just how gifted she was. When she was eighteen the best pilot in the communist VVS let her in the back seat of his ‘Hind’ to make sure everything was in order. A few minutes after they had gotten airborne the pilot suffered a fatal stroke caused by a clot that had been building in his brain for many years. Unsure of what to do, Cherrie grabbed the stick and without ever setting foot in a training facility landed the ‘Hind,’ and the now dead pilot, back at the airbase she was stationed at.
She continued her work with helicopters from a new perspective, the pilot’s seat. In the past five years she had flown over a hundred combat missions, three different types of helicopters, scored seven air-to-air kills and seventy air-to-ground kills, and had never been shot down. Until today, and from the most unlikely source of danger.
Miller has been standing over us for the past several minutes now, listening to the Russian verbiage coming from the young girl in trickles and drops. Miller doesn’t speak enough Russian to understand what she is saying, though.
“Luftennant,” he says,” what’s your plan now?”
I look up,” Take her. She needs to be put somewhere warm before the sun goes down.”
Miller doesn’t argue with me a grabs Cherrie from my arms. He knows I can defend myself from whoever’s out there.