Battlefield 4: Countdown to War Read online

  Kovic kept his NVs flipped up so he looked a bit more human and stepped closer to the driver’s window. The interior smelled of ashtrays and sweat. There was a large fake leather suitcase on the back seat, much like the one his grandparents had brought with them to America back in the thirties.

  ‘Are you ready to take these brave steps to freedom?’

  No words, just a series of rapid nods.

  ‘It’s okay, you can speak to me: I’ll understand.’

  Kovic’s flair for languages was another thing that spooked Cutler who preferred to do all his talking through interpreters.

  Still the inane grin and the shaking. And still Highbeam didn’t move. Kovic took another step towards him. In Pakistan he’d had to strap one guy to a stretcher and carry him after he passed out from fear.

  ‘Shun-kin. Please step out of the car. We are taking you to America. You understand? We are taking you now.’

  What was it that rooted him to the spot where he sat? Last-minute doubts, fear of the unknown? The realisation he could never return home?

  Perhaps the sound of a Yank speaking his native language was too disconcerting. This time Kovic tried English, and a little more urgency.

  ‘Hey, Shun-kin, time to go, okay?’

  The Korean opened the door and stepped tentatively out into the night. Despite the cold he was gleaming with sweat. The inane goofy grin didn’t make him look too bright either. Close up he looked so young – too young. Either the guy was a child prodigy or—

  As Kovic reached forward to shake his hand, the Korean jumped to the left and started to run. Kean, who was nearest, blocked his path.

  ‘Get away from me!’ he screamed in clear English. He pushed at Kean, his narrow frame making no impact on the solid, stocky Marine. ‘You must get away from me! They’ve—’

  Kean almost had him in a bear hug.

  Then Kovic suddenly understood. He screamed at Kean.

  ‘Run, man, run! Drop him! Go! Go!’

  The first detonation, an igniter, came from somewhere on the guy’s chest. Kovic caught sight of it just as he turned to run. The second explosion turned night into day and lifted him off his feet as the force propelled him halfway back to the Sea Hawk. He slammed down on to the road and rolled in the snow.

  Shun-kin was gone, vaporised in the blast. The car was on fire, setting off a third explosion as the gas tank caught. Kean lay fifteen feet from where he had been standing; one arm gone, his face a mask of blood. Deacon, dragging one leg, got to him first. Kean reached up to him, then flopped back. He was gone. Deacon’s face was frozen in shock.

  Tex was at the controls, yelling into the net.

  ‘Kovic, talk to me!’

  The blast had temporarily knocked out Kovic’s hearing, but his mind was in hyperdrive. Shun-kin had tried to run; he hadn’t detonated the device himself. It couldn’t have been on a timer as there was no knowing their exact time of arrival. So someone else with sight of them had triggered it. He whirled round and shouted to Tex to lift off , get out of range. On the ground the helo was a sitting duck and they needed eyes in the air.

  ‘Go round; tell us what you can see.’

  Snow and gravel whipped around him as the Sea Hawk ascended.

  ‘Hey, back here, now!’

  Olsen was yelling and waving, as if Tex would see him in the dark. Kovic moved past him and caught sight of Deacon curled up in a semi-foetal position, holding his chest as if the contents would spill out if he let go. Kovic rushed to him, ripping a tourniquet from the side pocket of his fatigues. His whole torso was a mass of blood.

  ‘Steady now. Don’t breathe so hard.’

  ‘Fuckin’ suicide—’

  Kovic knew Shun-kin wasn’t a suicide bomber. He had tried to warn them, even though he knew he was done for. He had probably saved Kovic’s life.

  ‘Hey, look!’ Faulkner was pointing. The ‘deserted village’ was alive with men moving toward them.

  ‘Fucking ace,’ Olsen spat.

  Kovic grabbed Deacon and hauled him behind what was left of the station wagon, then went back and got his M4. His goggles were gone, swept off by the blast, and his eyes were full of dust. The temptation was to squirt a lot of bullets around and hope some made their target. Better to resist that, try to think, he told himself. He peeled Deacon’s NVs off his helmet and put them on. There were maybe a dozen North Koreans, just black silhouettes against the whiteness, armed with their standard issue Russian RPKs. At least those would be hard work in the dark and snow and he guessed they wouldn’t have NVs or lasers. On the other hand the RPK’s drum magazines would have seventy-five rounds, good for spray and pray. There were no more than thirty rounds in Deacon’s M4; he was going to need every one of those. Seeing movement ahead and to the left, he jumped up and loosed off half a dozen shots. Three Koreans sprawled in the snow with head wounds, pools of blood merging into a huge spilled snow cone. If they were going to get out of this at all, there was going to be a lot more blood.

  Kovic saw a sniper run towards them, then vanish into the shadows. He aimed into the spot, fired and heard a scream.

  ‘Where’s Faulkner?’

  He was staggering towards them in a daze, clutching his shoulder, his weapon dangling uselessly from his smashed hand. Kovic ran and pushed him to the ground while Price covered them. He pulled a bandage from his kit and tore Faulkner’s sleeve away with his teeth before wrapping the arm as best he could. There was morphine in the kit too, but something else now grabbed his attention.

  Olsen was shouting on the net to Tex.

  ‘The fuck you doing? Cover, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘We gotta be outta here.’

  ‘Negative.’ Kovic didn’t need this right now. ‘We got to neutralise all this first. He comes near, he’s a sitting duck.’

  Olsen wasn’t listening. Kovic gripped his shoulder and spun him around. ‘They take one shot at him we are lost, got it? No one comes for us.’

  Olsen shook off his grip, his face contorted by rage.

  ‘You took us straight into an ambush, you fucking moron. You were set up. Your intel was shit. It was fucked up from the off . I’m getting my guys outta here. This mission is officially fucked. I’m taking my guys out and you – can go fuck yourself.’

  Kovic lunged at Olsen but he dodged and slammed his knee into his balls. Then Olsen landed a boot in his stomach, sending him sprawling in the snow.

  And then they heard the deep thrum of the chopper. Barely visible, a grey blur behind the snow like a half tuned television image, the Sea Hawk moved above them. Tex was bringing it back.

  ‘Sayonara, assholes.’ Tex yelled over the radio. It was as if the whole covert thing had gone to his head. His side window was slid back and he was waving his grenade launcher where he thought the NK were positioned. He blasted it as he made his second descent.

  But as Olsen gestured to Price to help Faulkner towards the LZ the Sea Hawk lurched sideways, as if grasped by a giant unseen hand that had reached out of the cloud. The engine revs shot up to scream level as the nose tipped up as if struggling for altitude. The whole machine started to slide sideways, the tail rotor combing the ground right where the Koreans had taken up position. One of the main blades snapped free and catapulted end over end away into the night. Then the helicopter started a slow motion barrel roll and finally slammed on to the ground. Kovic threw himself over Faulkner and Price and Olsen stumbled behind the remains of the station wagon as the helo exploded in a fireball, spraying the area with clumps of disintegrating machinery before erupting into a mushroom of fiery smoke.

  There was nothing to say. They were thirty miles into North Korean territory, their ride home gone, their advantage of surprise non-existent, with a column of flame and smoke rising into the night to alert anyone else in a ten-mile radius who still didn’t already know they were there. Alone, Kovic could maybe have gone to ground, evaded any patrols and tried to make the border. But with two dead and three wounded—

  Olse
n looked at him full of contempt. ‘Another one for the CIA Hall of Shame.’

  Kovic was past anger. ‘You’re the one told him to turn back.’

  Olsen jutted his jaw towards Kovic as if to say, ‘Oh yeah? Bring it on,’ and his mouth opened. For a moment Kovic thought Olsen was forming his next insult, but then he twitched, his eyes swivelled upward, his rifle dropped from his hands and he slumped forward, face down in the snow. Price rushed towards him.

  ‘He’s hit!’

  ‘Sniper! Cover!’

  It had come from high ground to their left, almost invisible behind the snow. Blood gulped from a gash in Olsen’s thigh; if the femoral artery was severed he didn’t have a chance. Price tore at a first aid pack. Kovic ripped the already shredded remains of Olsen’s fatigues, made a makeshift tourniquet and bound the thigh tight.

  ‘Here.’

  Price gave him the morphine. Then they mounded snow over the wound to constrict the blood vessels until they were ready to move him.

  Muzzle flashes and wild revving announced a large open jeep-like truck coming at them down the hill, with a second close behind.

  ‘The fuck’s that?’

  ‘Border force. Kaengsaeng-69, that’s Korean for piece-of-shit-mobile.’

  None of them moved. They were overwhelmed.

  ‘We are so fucked.’

  Kovic watched as both vehicles drew to a halt. ‘Not yet. I want those wheels.’

  He figured he had one advantage; these guys were conscripts, not Special Forces. Nothing like this would have happened to them before. The best he could hope for was to pick off whichever he could and scare off the rest. He aimed the M16 infrared at the driver in the first jeep. Bullseye. The driver flopped out of his seat while his passengers jumped for cover. Kovic followed them through the sight, picking off two more. He might be out of shape but his aim hadn’t deserted him. The remainder jumped into the second vehicle, which took off , fishtailing in the settling snow.

  Kovic ran to the abandoned jeep and jumped in. The engine was still running. He stirred the shift until he found first, brought up the clutch until it bit, then manoeuvred towards the group behind the burned-out station wagon.

  ‘I got you in here; I’m gonna get you out, okay?’

  ‘How?’

  Olsen was barely conscious. Faulkner was better but in shock from his pulverised arm. He closed his eyes, waiting for the morphine to take eff ect.

  ‘Plan B: we go through the military crossing.’

  At Kovic’s insistence, the Chinese had agreed a back-up overland escape route via a disused mountain border post.

  Price helped Kovic load the wounded into the vehicle. He was shaking with fear and shock.

  ‘Now, let’s get out of here.’

  The snow was coming down harder and thicker now, a wind sending it straight at them. Kovic killed the lights and relied on his NV goggles, even though they made the flakes look huge, as if they were driving through a huge, exploded quilt.

  ‘This speed we’re not gonna make it,’ observed Olsen, uselessly.

  ‘Wanna get out and push?’

  In the rear-view mirror, Kovic saw the second jeep had turned and was now in pursuit, gaining on them. So much for scaring them off . He tried to find a higher gear. There wasn’t one and in trying to up-shift he had lost speed.

  As the second jeep drew closer Kovic yelled at Price to fend it off . But none of his shots deterred them. The road was still climbing but it was straight as far as he could see – which was not more than about two hundred feet. The other jeep was now almost alongside. Kovic wrenched the wheel. There was a screech of contacting metal, but the other jeep stayed obstinately on the road. Kovic swiped the jeep again. This time it veered off its path. Its nearside wheels caught in a ditch and it toppled off the road and rolled on to its side.

  The first rush of relief didn’t last. A bend loomed out of the snow, a sharp left with a treacherous negative camber. He pulled hard on the wheel but momentum had got the better of the jeep. It wasn’t going anywhere except straight off the road, where it bounced, rose and bounced again, spilling all of them into the snow before coming to rest in some trees.

  This is so not my night, thought Kovic.

  He flattened himself against the bank and peered at the other jeep. The occupants had righted it and were back on board. The engine fired. It was coming his way. Kovic ducked out of sight as it went by, skidding in the slush. The NK hadn’t seen them go over the edge. He sprinted forward, slipped in the snow, recovered, vaulted into the back of the moving jeep and took aim. The suppressor on his Sig meant the two in the rear seats were gone without the guys up front even noticing, but then the vehicle lurched as it bounced through a pothole, throwing Kovic on to the driver and knocking his weapon out of his hand. The other man up front struggled to free the barrel of an RPK that was trapped between his knees. Kovic smashed his left elbow into the side of the soldier’s head and lunged for the weapon before he could raise it. But the driver, distracted by Kovic’s sudden arrival, let go of the wheel. The vehicle slammed into a post, the impact throwing Kovic head first into the footwell, mashing his chin against the muzzle of the gun. He tried in vain to reach his gun that was now wedged under the pedals. The passenger freed his machine gun and loosed off a spray of fire into the sky that blasted inches from Kovic’s face, numbing the side of his head so that for a second he was sure he had been hit. What an unholy mess, he thought, as he struggled in the tangle of trapped weapons and writhing limbs. He grasped the barrel of the PRK, the heat searing through his gloves, and wrenched it in the direction of the driver just as its owner fired another volley. The bullets perforated the driver’s neck, so many and at such close range that his head almost entirely detached itself and flopped on to his chest. The passenger’s eyes bulged in horror. Kovic saw how young he looked and felt a flicker of pity before he seized the gun from his grip, jammed the butt into his chest and knocked him out into the snow.

  There was still work to do. The semi-decapitated driver’s boot was still wedged firmly on the gas. Kovic seized the wheel – too late to stop the jeep slamming into a low wall and sending him airborne, tumbling over the hood and the wall and into an icy ditch. His nose smashed against a rock and he heard the crunch of splitting bone. On the way down he cursed Olsen, cursed Cutler, cursed the Agency and finally himself for being fool enough to accept the mission at all.

  For a full minute he was immobile. Almost blinded by pain, he struggled to stay conscious, but could feel his brain giving up, shutting down. In this ditch, hidden by the wall, he could just remain and maybe the bad guys would go away . . . the snow could cover him and he’d never be found. It would be so nice and restful. He felt himself sinking.

  Someone was screaming. He snapped back into consciousness, lifted himself a few inches and peered over the parapet where the jeep had come to rest. It was empty. If he could get it moving it was theirs. He climbed back over the wall and jumped in. The wheel was slimy with blood and brain matter. He wiped it cursorily with his sleeve, fumbled with the controls and found the ignition, turned it and pumped the gas. It fired hopefully, then stalled. He turned it again; it fired and stalled again. Price was struggling towards him in the snow pulling Olsen and Faulkner. Together in the swirling snow they already looked like ghosts.

  Kovic finally got the engine going, then revved it and rocked it back and forth until it found grip and reversed towards them.

  He pulled out his phone. There were three agreed text codes: Alpha was mission accomplished, Beta was abort, Gamma was land exfil. He was about to text Gamma, which would alert Cutler to confirm the border crossing – if they made it.

  ‘Fuck this, we’re blown anyway,’ he told himself.

  He dialled Cutler.

  He picked up straight away. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Blown. Two men down plus the pilot. It was a fucking set-up. Highbeam had a surprise vest on.’

  Silence. All he could hear were Cutler’s short qu
ick breaths coming down the line. Kovic wanted to chew him out but that would have to wait. There were more pressing issues.

  ‘We’re twenty miles inside the DPRK. I have wheels, but we need that border post confirmed open. Otherwise we’re talking six dead Marines plus one of yours – on the wrong side of the wire, copy?’

  ‘We’re on it. Go carefully.’ Cutler hung up.

  The Chinese were their only hope now; they better have that border crossing open. But Beijing would also have gone into damage limitation mode, while Cutler would be busy figuring how this was going to play back in Langley and how to cover his ass. But rage wasn’t going to get Kovic anywhere. The cover that the smoke from the burning helo had created was already drifting away.

  His anger gave him a fresh surge of energy. They were going to get in this thing and get the hell across the border and Olsen and Faulkner were going to live, never mind the snow and however many NK were headed their way.

  He helped them into the jeep, which had stalled again.

  ‘Where we goin’, man?’ Faulkner was vague with cold and pain.

  ‘Home. We make the border in this thing, someone Chinese side will scoop us up.’

  No one else spoke. The sight of the two dead men and the burned up Sea Hawk with Tex inside it was fresh in their minds.

  Olsen groaned. ‘Garrison warned me about you. Oh yeah, I know all about—’

  Kovic cut him off . ‘Save it. I got you a ride out. We get over the border, we never have to so much as look at each other again – but until then we gotta make like we’re a team and look out for each other. That way we have more chance of staying alive. Right? Try and keep each other warm. We got a thirty-minute drive ahead.’

  He didn’t wait for a response. He rammed the shift until he found first and the jeep jolted forward. The road was completely hidden under a carpet of white.

  When it was this bad, the only thing was to think about the other bad times he’d gotten out of. The time in Sudan, captured by child soldiers high on smack who’d pushed the muzzle of a rifle up his ass and were arguing about who got to pull the trigger. In Kurdistan, the aggrieved knife-wielding hooker who thought he wouldn’t pay up because the Taliban commander he’d recruited her to sting turned out to be gay. And his first month in China, when an Indonesian arms dealer hung him by his heels from a high rise because he thought he was a rival . . .