29. Walt
TWENTY-NINE
Walt
Planning continues at a fevered pace, making sure we account for as many variables as possible. No plan is perfect, but we try.
“HALO insertion here.” Sam indicates, marking our drop zones. “Teams exit at 30,000 feet, free fall to 2,500 before chute deployment. Weather window gives us perfect conditions—high cloud cover for concealment, minimal wind interference.”
Ethan takes over, highlighting approach vectors. “Two klicks from the Rufi perimeter to the facility. We hit the ground running. Once on the ground, Mitzy initiates the alarm. That gives five?—six minutes max to reach the target. Alpha team sets up here and provides overwatch while Bravo and Charlie breach the perimeter. Delta maintains our exit corridor.”
The tactical display shifts to show our staged vehicles—a mix of local vehicles that won’t draw attention. SUVs, cargo vans, and even a tourist bus. Everything is carefully chosen to blend in. With the teams engaged at the facility, it’s up to Mitzy and her techs to man the vehicles.
“Guardian transport teams are staged here and here.” CJ marks rally points in glowing blue. “Multiple extraction routes mapped. Once we secure the hostages, we move them to these positions. Mitzy, your team needs to be ready.”
“They will be. My guys are pumped.” Mitzy brings up feeds from the Rufi in position. “The Rufi units will be on chaos patrol, providing support and separating the guards from the hostages.” Their thermal signatures dot the landscape in precise patterns.
“Then we’re ready.” CJ glances around the room, looking for confirmation from those of us gathered. “Bravo and Delta just landed. We’ll meet up with them at the airstrip. Ethan and Max, get your teams on the bus. Mitzy, your team knows what to do.”
“We’re on it.” She gives him two thumbs up.
Two hours later, we’re gearing up for the HALO insertion. The cargo bay of our high-altitude transport thrums around us as teams perform final equipment checks. Through small windows, stars wheel past—bright points in the darkness that will guide us down.
I verify my oxygen system one final time, muscle memory taking over. The familiar weight of tactical gear settles me—plate carrier, comms, weapons all exactly where they should be. Around me, my teammates check seals, verify frequencies, and run systems diagnostics.
“HALO insertion points are locked.” Sam’s voice carries through our comms. “Weather window is perfect—high clouds, wind at 3 knots.”
“The Rufi units have our landing zones mapped,” Mitzy confirms. “Eight units maintaining surveillance from two clicks out. They’ll guide each team to designated rally points.”
I make final adjustments to my jump gear, checking straps and connections I could verify in my sleep. Through the window, Kazakhstan’s steppes stretch endless and dark below us.
“Two minutes to drop.” The pilot’s voice comes crisp through our comms.
“You good?” Forest asks, somehow graceful despite his massive frame in full tactical gear. For some reason, he’s decided to join the teams on the ground, letting Sam and CJ execute this mission from Command.
“Better than good.” I verify my oxygen one last time. “Ready to end this.”
“Ninety seconds.”
The cargo bay door opens with a hydraulic whine, letting in the thin, cold air of aerial heights.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Hold on, Malia,” I whisper into the rushing wind. “I’m coming.”
The jump light turns green.
Wind howls through the open bay door, carrying the bitter ozone scent of high-altitude air. My hands tighten on the frame as I count. One… Two…
I push off into nothingness.
Ice crystals sting my face in the microsecond before my goggles seal. The wind transforms from a howl to a roar, pressing against my body with physical force as I arch into the free fall position. My lungs burn with each filtered breath through the oxygen mask, the thin air barely satisfying despite the pure O2 mix.
Stars blaze overhead, so bright they cast shadows at this altitude. The curved horizon glows faintly—the first hint of dawn is still hours away.
Far below, Kazakhstan’s steppes stretch into endless blackness, a vast, empty void swallowing the horizon. No roads. No towns. No signs of life. Just darkness, broken only by a single, solitary pinprick of light—a cold, sterile glow etched into the emptiness, like a fallen star clinging stubbornly against the void.
Our target.
Dark silhouettes plummet through my peripheral vision—my Guardian brothers maintaining perfect spacing as we slice through the night sky. A flash of hand signals catches starlight: position check, course correction, altitude confirmation. The altimeter on my wrist glows faintly—28,000 feet and dropping.
Moisture crystallizes on my goggles as we punch through a thin cloud layer, the anti-icing system humming as it clears my vision. My body remembers this dance—the subtle adjustments of arms and legs to maintain position, the way my breath syncs with the fall. The ground below sharpens into recognizable features with each passing second.
The altimeter blinks: 3,000 feet. My fingers curl around the ripcord. The team spreads out in a perfect pattern, visible as darker shapes against the stars. At 2,500 feet, I pull.
The chute snaps open with bone-crushing force. My harness digs into my shoulders as free fall transforms into a controlled descent. The wind’s roar cuts off so abruptly that my ears ring in the sudden silence. Only the whisper of air through shroud lines remains as my canopy joins others blooming against the starlit sky.
The last thousand feet pass in near silence. The ground resolves into patches of scrub and rock, terrain features I’ve memorized from countless briefings.
My boots crunch into frozen soil. Knees flex, distributing impact through my legs as the chute collapses behind me. Around me, dark shapes touch down in perfect sequence—the soft impacts and rustling fabric barely audible above the wind sighing across the steppes.
“Clear,” Hank whispers through comms, already stripping his jump gear.
“Clear,” Gabe confirms from somewhere to my left.
Everyone checks in. Acknowledgments come in quick succession as we secure equipment. The material whispers against itself as we collapse chutes into shallow depressions already scoured by the wind.
“Contact,” Forest’s voice carries through comms. “Local patrol, two klicks north.”
“Hold positions,” Ethan responds. “Let them pass.”
The Rufi units materialize from the darkness, their mechanical forms barely visible as they join us. They move with uncanny grace across the broken ground, their advanced sensors sweeping the area in complete silence.
“Rally point secure,” Blake reports. “Ready to move.”
“Check your counts,” Ethan orders softly. “Two klicks to target. Ten minutes to breach point.”
“Like a walk in the park,” Hank murmurs, falling into formation.
“A very cold park,” Gabe adds, his breath fogging in the bitter air.
“Cut the chatter,” Forest rumbles. “Movement west.”
Two kilometers of open steppe stretch between us and the facility. We move out, each team flowing along pre-assigned formations.
“Teams set,” Ethan’s voice barely carries over the wind. “Maintain intervals.”
The bitter wind knifes through layers of tactical gear, carrying the scent of snow yet to fall. Stars wheel overhead as we cross the empty ground, our shadows barely visible against the darkness. My boots find purchase on the uneven ground, each step measured and silent.
“Nine minutes,” Blake reports.
The facility grows more distinct with each stride—hard-edged shadows against the star-filled sky. Floodlights cast pools of harsh illumination, creating a maze of light and shadow. We planned for six minutes, worst case seven, and make it in just over five minutes.
“Teams check in,” CJ calls through the comms.
“Alpha in position,” Max reports in.
“Bravo ready,” Brady follows.
“Charlie on mark,” Ethan calls in our status.
“Delta holding perimeter,” Jenny announces her team’s position.
The scar tissue on my chest pulls tight in the cold. My fingers brush the spot where bullets tore through, the memory of copper-scented blood and Malia’s scream driving my legs faster.
“Final approach,” CJ says. “Go.”
The only change we made to our initial plans was for Mitzy to wait until we are just outside the wire.
Our boots crush frost-brittle grass as we close the final distance. The concrete walls loom closer, exhaust vents breathing steam into the frozen air.
The Rufi units spread wider, their mechanical joints silent as they maintain our perimeter. Their sensors sweep the darkness, invisible to any watching eyes.
“Stand ready.”
The facility looms ahead, its brutal, fortress-like architecture crouched defiantly against the desolate landscape. Steam billows from rooftop vents in a steady rhythm—slow, deliberate—like the measured breath of some slumbering beast poised to wake.
“Mitzy.” Ethan’s voice carries deadly focus. “Light it up. Execute. Execute.”
Inside the facility, alarms wail.