9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Day 2 Karaveht, Tajikistan
Aiden buried his weapons at the eastern edge of the exfil site and the ammo at the western edge. If he went crazy and attacked the evac crew, the distance between the weapons and ammo, along with his bound wrists and ankles, would neuter his lethality. He’d just have to hope no shitkickers stumbled across him while he waited.
He collected the medical supplies from Benny’s assault kit and rummaged through his slain brothers’ ditch kits, gathering all the water, propane canisters, MREs, thermal blankets, puff jackets and puff sleeping bags. God only knew how long before the exfil crew arrived. He’d need to hydrate, eat, and stay warm until they collected him.
He thought about scrounging for firewood, but the mountain tundra provided little fuel, and his leg was bleeding enough to cause concern. Just burying his weapons and collecting the extra supplies had increased the bleeding twofold. Besides, every step hurt like hell.
After unfolding and stacking two of the thermal blankets on top of each other, he sat down and unlaced and pulled off his boots. His tactical pants were designed with easy access zippers that ran from calf to pelvis. If he unzipped both sides and took a knife to the thermal underwear below, he’d be able to treat the wound without removing his boots. But he’d also be stuck wearing his blood-soaked thermals and pants until the evac crew arrived, which would make it difficult to tell if the bleeding started up again after he treated the wound. Besides, the zippers might not even work considering they were slick with blood.
Moving quickly, he stripped out of his blood-soaked tactical pants and bottom thermals. The cold hit instantly. Shivering, he packed the entry and exit wounds with hemostatic granules, working the granules into the bloody holes until the wounds stopped bleeding. He bandaged the injury and eased a fresh pair of thermals and tactical pants over the bulky bandages. The bullet had gone through the meaty part of his thigh, missing both bone and arteries. It wasn’t a life-threatening injury. If he controlled the blood loss and shock, he wouldn’t even need a saline IV or tourniquet.
Most of the water bottles were frozen. He pulled a small camp stove, propane canister and pan from his cold-weather kit, thawed the bottles and tucked the warm water against his side, beneath the layers of warmies. His body heat would keep the water from freezing again. If he ran out of thawed water, he had plenty of frozen bottles piled next to him, along with extra propane canisters for the stove.
Before draping his legs over his cold weather kit to combat possible shock, he sliced off several lengths of 550 cord, wove them together, and bound his ankles. Binding his wrists was more difficult, but a slip knot and a couple of hard tugs on the cord with his teeth did the job.
Three hours after burrowing into the mound of warmies, he awoke to the sensation of warm liquid sliding down his thigh.
“Son of a bitch.” Scowling, Aiden sat up. He nudged aside the thermal blankets and pile of warmies covering his left thigh. Fresh blood gleamed wetly against the white and gray camo of his pants.
Hell. He grimaced. He’d have to unzip his pants and cut through the thermals to treat his leg again. Only this time, because of his bound ankles, he wouldn’t be able to change into dry clothes afterwards. Plus, it was going to be a bitch treating the wound with his hands tied together.
He’d buried his FFK, along with his other weapons hours ago, so he couldn’t use the knife to cut through the thermals. But there was a pair of scissors in Benny’s med kit, as well as an assortment of scalpels. He’d find something to cut through the fabric. Before getting started, he clasped a bottle of water between his bound hands, worked the cap loose and carefully lifted the plastic to his lips—staring at his fingers the entire time. Still no twitching.
Thank Christ.
His rationality seemed intact, too. No paranoia or murderous rage. Not yet, anyway.
The snow had stopped an hour earlier, and the sky had cleared from fluffy clouds to slate gray, not a cloud in sight. When he tipped his head back to take a gulp of water, he noticed a slightly darker pinprick against the wintry sky. He lowered the bottle and took a harder, longer look. The speck, which was barely visible, only stood out because it seemed to move. Hell, it could be a trick of the eye. Except…
He frowned and leaned forward. Was it bigger than it had been even seconds ago?
He tensed. Fuck, yeah, the damn thing was getting bigger as he watched it.
The object was coming from the west. The exfil chopper would come from the north, which made it unlikely this aircraft was his pickup service. But it was some kind of aircraft. It had to be. Its steady, quick progression across the sky spoke of its mechanical origins. But what the hell was it? It was close enough now he should be able to hear it. The roar of its engines or the beat of its rotors. Instead, the damn thing moved like a shadow. Dark and silent.
As it drew closer, it took shape. A giant, sleek, bird-like craft almost the same color as the sky. WARCOM had nothing like this in its hangers. It became clear, as the craft slowed and circled overhead like a giant, predatory eagle, that it was here for him. Who the hell was piloting it? The bastards behind the brutal attack on Karaveht and his team? Were they here to pick up their test subjects?
Hell with that.
Without taking his eyes off the object above, he lurched toward the med kit sitting beside him. He needed something sharp to cut the cords binding his wrists and ankles. The craft’s wings angled up, like a bird on the verge of diving. Its tail rotors lowered and slowed, then reversed, leisurely spinning backwards. It inched slowly and steadily toward the ground. Its exterior color pulsed, shifting between gray and cream, before turning white.
“What the hell!” he whispered. His fingers froze inside the med kit as he watched it descend.
For the first time, he could hear it. Or at least he assumed the low whirring sound mixed with a soft trilling was coming from the craft. How bizarre. It even sounded a bit like a bird. Within the whirring and trilling came the occasional chirp. Also like a bird, the damn thing’s wings and tail rotors were flexible rather than immobile. How the hell could it fly like that? Or lift off? Or land? What aerodynamics would allow this thing to even exist in the air? The hull pulsed between gray and white a couple more times before bleaching out completely. When it finally settled onto the ground, its exterior was a perfect match for the white, wintry tundra surrounding it. Like a chameleon, it had blended into its surroundings.
He closed his eyes, then lifted his bound hands and pressed them against his eye sockets. Obviously, he’d gone crazy. There was no way this mechanical bird could exist…or fly…or land. His insanity had simply manifested in a different direction—weird-ass hallucinations rather than rage, paranoia, and violence. But when he dropped his hands and opened his eyes, the craft was still there. He glanced at his fingers. No twitching.
The faint whirring and chirping fell silent. The tail rotors stopped moving.
He went back to rummaging through the med kit, opting for a scalpel rather than scissors. If he hadn’t gone crazy, if that damn thing was real, he didn’t want to be stuck here on the ground, helpless, while whoever manned that craft disembarked.
Assuming the thing was real and wasn’t a figment of his infected brain.
The wings of the craft folded down and back, tucking neatly against its side. His fingers closed over a narrow scalpel. He fumbled with the instrument, until he got it positioned beneath the cord, but his transfixed gaze never left the strange object now sitting still and silent in front of him.
Damned if the thing didn’t give new meaning to the military slang of bird . It looked eerily like some metallic, prehistoric avian. Even the front of it—which had to be the cockpit—was slightly bulbous and elongated, with one dark slant of an eye curving across the exterior of the cockpit.
It was probably a good thing his hands were tied, and his weapons were out of reach. For all he knew, regardless of his brain’s imaginings, the craft in front of him was the evac Black Hawk with the hazmat team. At least with his hands secured and his weapons out of reach, he wouldn’t be able to attack them.
There was a scraping, grinding sound like a helicopter’s cargo door sliding back, followed by the heavy thumps of multiple boots hitting the ground. A squad of huge men decked out in tactical gear and armed to the gills rounded the corner of the craft. Their rifles were up, gloved fingers light on the trigger guards. Most of the men stopped at the sight of Aiden’s dead teammates. Rifles swept the surrounding area, only to lower again.
“Sweet Jesus,” a voice said, the southern drawl thick with shock. The dude’s helmeted head turned toward Squirrel’s sprawled, faceless form.
It had been close to three years since he’d bunked with the dude, but he recognized the slow, lazy drawl of Seth Rawlings. The knowledge he recognized one of the men who’d arrived in the possibly imaginary aircraft struck him dumb. Was Rawls a figment of his infected brain too?
“What the hell happened?” A harsh, gritty voice asked from his right.
It was Mackenzie’s voice, his old commander. Aiden’s gaze swung in that direction. He would have recognized that stance anywhere. Knees locked, shoulders back, hands on his hips. Arrogance and dominance in every muscle of his body.
Well, fuck, his former crew had swooped in to rescue him. Aiden’s throat tightened, and he avoided looking at the corpses surrounding him, the visual reminders of his current crew, the ones he couldn’t save.
“Is this what Benioko saw in that dream you told us about?” One of the other men asked, his helmeted head slowly turning as he considered the carnage.
Aiden recognized that voice, too. Cosky. His brother-in-law. Fuck, he’d just talked to the bastard the day before. Or, at least, he’d heard him speaking over Kait’s phone.
What. The. Hell?
The guy Cosky had questioned shook his helmeted head. “No…” Another slow, methodical shake of the helmet. “This is not what the Taounaha spoke of.” He paused before adding, “Yet he advised we hurry. Perhaps this is why.”
Aiden recognized this voice as well, the rich, yet controlled tone of it. He recognized the way the speaker moved, too, as he headed across the clearing. Fluid and powerful. He was staring at Wolf—his half-brother.
It made sense that both these men would bleed into a hallucination since they were family, or close to it. Perhaps he was dreaming.
But fuck, this felt too real to be a dream.