Prime (Chess Team Adventure, #0.5)

A puff of dust below marked the spot where Beehive Six-Five finished its fateful plunge. Sigler knew exactly what he had to do next. “Six-Four, get us as close as you can. We’ll do the rest.”


“Roger, Cipher.” The pilot’s voice was steady and professional, without a trace of hesitation. “I’ll try to make it a short walk.”

Sigler switched channels. “Eagle-Eye, do you copy?”

There was an interminably long silence, but then someone broke squelch. Sigler heard several seconds of gunfire, then a cough. “Cipher. Could use a little help here.”

It was Aleman.

“On our way, Eagle-Eye. What’s the count?”

“Two and two.” Two dead, two injured badly enough to be out of the fight. After a beat, Aleman amended: “I think. Having trouble telling which way is up right now.”

“Sit tight, Eagle-Eye. Help is on the way.”

The Black Hawk set down about fifty yards east of the crash site, well out of RPG range, but in between bursts from the M240, Sigler could hear the distinctive crack of bullets ricocheting off the armored exterior of the helicopter. As soon as the crew chief threw open the door on the sheltered side, Sigler’s team poured out onto the desert floor.

When the last man was out, Beehive Six-Four rose again into the sky, and the door gunner continued to hurl bullets in the direction of the muzzle flashes. Sigler’s men broke into pairs and began moving toward the crash using the tried and true individual movement techniques taught to every soldier: three to five second rushes, measured out to the rhythm of the mantra I’m up, he sees me, I’m down… Then drop to the prone, roll left or right, it didn’t matter which as long as you didn’t get into a pattern, and give your buddy some cover fire so that he could make his move.

There was another pair of booms and two more flares appeared in the sky overhead. The enemy probably thought that lighting up the sky would level the playing field, removing the technological advantage of the Delta team’s night vision. And maybe it would do that, but stealth and darkness weren’t the only tools in the Delta toolbox. One Delta operator was easily worth ten…twenty…or even fifty insurgents.

Sigler tried to do the math as he dropped to the prone once more, rolled left, and then squeezed a pair of shots in the direction of a distant muzzle flash. His eyesight was almost back to normal, and he could easily distinguish at least twenty separate jets of flame. Maybe fifty to one was pushing it a bit. He didn’t know how many hostiles they were facing, but it was evident that someone had put a lot of thought into this trap, which meant these weren’t run of the mill durka-durkas sprayin’ and prayin’.

Inside job.

He bounded up and made another rush. He was close enough to the crash site to see men huddled behind the wreck, popping up every few seconds to provide covering fire. Two more rushes would get him there, maybe one if he didn’t stop…he was close enough now that the wreck would cover his approach.

Someone in Beehive Six-Six was working with the enemy. Klein. It had to be Klein. The Company man had sold them out, sacrificed them…but why?

He reached the downed helicopter and went immediately to the nearest man. It was Lewis Aleman. The Delta sniper had his H&K PSG 1 sniper rifle beside him, but his left hand was clutching a Beretta M-9 handgun. It took Sigler only a moment to realize why Aleman had opted to use the pistol; his right hand, cradled protectively against his abdomen, looked like a mass of raw meat.

Sigler took a mental step back and assessed the situation. The Black Hawk sat upright on the desert floor, but the crash had crumpled its frame like a beer can. The doors had sprung open, leaving an open space through the middle, and two men—one wore an olive drab flight suit, marking him as a surviving crewmember, and the other was a Delta sniper—were working the fixed machine gun on the far side. Sigler also saw a body inside, a crewman impaled on a piece of metal.

There were two other motionless forms on the ground outside the Black Hawk. Both wore desert camouflage, torn and dark with spilled blood. Sigler couldn’t tell if they were alive or not. He turned back to Aleman. “Sit rep?”

The sniper grimaced. “Pilot’s alive…at least he was…trapped in the cockpit. Co-pilot has a broken leg…maybe some ribs.”

“Our guys?”

Aleman motioned to the still forms on the ground. “Bell’s hurt bad. Broken back, I think. Martinez is done.”

“Did you get a look at the other side?”

“Yeah. There’s a whole fucking lot of them.”

The rest of Sigler’s team reached the wreck and fanned out to join the Black Hawk’s defenders. Sigler took charge. “Danno, Jess…get that second 240 back in action. Jon, I need an LZ. Casey, Mike, get the wounded ready for transport.”