Chapter 20 - When the Sky Rips Open
"Adele, do not look behind you. Look straight up," Gordon’s voice crackled through the static, fighting the interference with every watt the Pentagon’s relay station could push. "The Soviet engineers didn't just build a tunnel. It was a ventilation system for a deep-underground artillery complex. There is an exhaust chimney forty yards past your position. It opens onto the northern cliff face—the razor ridge above the storm clouds."
"We have two wounded," I replied, checking Miller's pulse. It was faint, thready. "Hayes can walk, but Miller will have to be hauled."
"You carry him," Gordon commanded, his tone uncompromising, legendary, invincible. "You are the commander of Valkyrie. You leave no one behind. Move your people up that chimney, Adele! Because in seven minutes, the airspace over that valley will no longer belong to the enemy!"
"What did you do, Gordon?" I asked, already hoisting Miller onto my shoulders in a fireman’s carry, my legs screaming in agony as my muscles strained against the weight.
In Washington, Gordon Vance looked across the glass partition toward the Air Combat Command desk. He had pulled three decades of favors, called four active four-star commanders, and bypassed two levels of civilian authorization in under three minutes.
"I called in the debt," Gordon said softly. "Just climb."
We moved. Step by brutal step, Hayes and I fought our way up the steep, winding incline of the ancient shaft. The stone turned slick with wet ice as cold air began to whip down from above. My boots slipped, my fingernails tore against the rock, and Miller’s dead weight felt like an anvil crushing my spine. But every time my knees buckled, the echo of Gordon’s voice pushed me upward.
Finally, we reached the mouth of the exhaust shaft.
We hauled ourselves out onto the razor-edge plateau, eight thousand feet above the valley floor. We were standing on the very crown of the mountain, surrounded by an ocean of roaring snow and black sky.
The air was bitterly cold, freezing the sweat on my face instantly.
"We made it to the summit," I gasped into the mic, dropping Miller gently behind a jagged parapet of stone. "We're on the crest."
"Captain..." Hayes gasped, dropping his rifle barrel toward the narrow goat trail that wound up to the plateau from the western ridge. "Look."
My blood ran cold.
The enemy hadn't stayed in the valley. Anticipating our escape through the old high-altitude vents, two light strike vehicles had climbed the western access road. Now, thirty yards away across the flat sheet of mountaintop ice, eight heavily armed operators were stepping out, their weapons raised.
In the center of the formation stood their commander, holding a heavy .50 caliber anti-materiel rifle, aiming the crosshairs directly at my chest.
We had no cover. We were out of ammunition. Hayes had an empty carbine, and my sidearm had one round left in the chamber.
The lead mercenary leveled his rifle, a cruel smirk visible beneath his ballistic mask.
"Adele..." Gordon’s voice whispered through the comms, but this time, it was strangely calm. "Look at your watch."
"Gordon, they have us dead to rights," I said quietly, feeling the bitter wind whip my hair. "This is it."
"No, it isn't," Gordon said, and for the first time in his life, I heard the faint, terrifying smile in the old general’s voice. "Count to three. And close your eyes."
"One," I whispered.
The mercenary took the slack out of his trigger.
"Two."
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A high-pitched, tearing shriek split the atmosphere above us—not a helicopter, not a drone, but the ungodly, earth-shattering thunder of twin scramjets tearing through the sound barrier at Mach 3.
The entire storm cloud ceiling exploded in a flash of blinding orange fire, and a shadow blacker than night dropped out of the burning sky like an avenging god...