Chapter 8 - Extraction at Zero Hour
The ramp of the MH-47 Chinook helicopter dropped into a blinding vortex of gray dust and freezing desert wind. The sun had dipped below the jagged peaks of the Syrian-Turkish border, painting the barren plateau in bruised shades of purple, ochre, and shadow.
The temperature had plummeted to eight degrees. The air was sharp, smelling of scorched limestone, cordite, and burning rubber.
"Clear! Clear! Clear!" the crew chief yelled through his flight helmet.
I surged down the hydraulic ramp behind the six-man assault element of Task Force Aegis. Despite General Hayes's initial insistence that I remain at the tactical command center in Incirlik, I wore a lightweight ballistic vest adjusted over my pregnancy, a communications helmet cinched under my chin, and my carbine slung securely across my chest. I had written the evasion plan David was using; no pilot or operator in the United States military knew the blind spots of this terrain better than I did.
Two AH-64 Apaches circled lazily three thousand feet overhead, their 30mm chain guns tracking every ridge and ravine within three nautical miles.
"Assault team moving to the ruin!" Team Leader Captain Miller—no relation to the sergeant back in Virginia, but just as lethal—barked through the tactical net.
We moved across the broken scree, boots crushing loose stones. The ancient stone outpost was a shattered shell. Centuries-old masonry lay scattered in jagged mounds from the earlier Apache strike, interspersed with the burning, blackened hulks of two technical trucks.
A sudden pop of small-arms fire cracked from the high ridge to our east.
*Snap-snap-snap!*
"Hostile sniper! East ridge, elevation forty!" the point man shouted, instantly dropping to one knee and laying down a controlled burst of suppressing fire.
Above us, the Apache banked hard, the deafening *thump-thump-thump* of its rotor blades tearing through the freezing sky. A single burst from the helicopter's chain gun walked across the rocky outcrop three hundred meters up the slope, obliterating the sniper's nest in a shower of pulverized stone and fire.
"Target neutralized!" Miller called out. "Breaching the western annex!"
My heart hammered against my ribs with an intensity that made the blood roar in my ears. I bypassed the rear guard, stepping through the low archway of the ruined fortress. The interior was pitch-black, illuminated only by the infrared lasers projecting from our carbines.
In the farthest corner, behind a collapsed slab of ancient granite, a shadow moved.
A man sat slouched against the stone wall, his right shoulder bound tightly in filthy, blood-soaked field dressings. His military utility jacket was torn to shreds, covered in white limestone dust and dried crimson. He held a captured AK-47 across his lap with his left hand, his finger resting lightly against the trigger guard.
His face was gaunt, his cheekbones protruding through skin blackened by smoke, but his eyes—those fierce, piercing green eyes that had looked across a church altar at me six years ago—were wide open.
"Halt," his voice croaked, barely more than a ragged rasp through cracked, parched lips. "Identify... Falcon..."
I lowered my weapon, tore off my tactical helmet, and stepped directly into the dim beam of the team's illumination light.
"Code Blue Dahlia, David," I whispered, my voice trembling for the first time in thirty-six hours.
David froze. The assault rifle slipped from his trembling left fingers, clattering harmlessly against the stone floor. He blinked, staring at me as if I were a ghost conjured by the fever burning in his blood.
"Elena?" he breathed, his voice breaking. "No... no, it’s a hallucination. You’re in Virginia..."
I crossed the uneven floor, dropped to my knees in the dirt beside him, and wrapped both arms around his neck, burying my face into the cold, rough fabric of his torn collar. He smelled of smoke, gun oil, and sweat—the exact scent I had clung to in that empty bedroom just yesterday morning.
"I’m here," I choked out, tears finally breaking through my iron discipline, burning hot tracks down my cold cheeks. "I’m here, baby. You’re coming home."
David’s good arm came up, wrapping around my back, pulling me into him with desperate, shuddering strength. He buried his face in my hair, weeping silently as his whole frame shook against mine.
"I tried to send the signal," he whispered, coughing weakly. "They ambushed us... they wanted the ledger... I couldn't let them have the files, Elena..."
"I know," I said, gently pulling back to look at him, taking his grime-streaked face between my gloved hands. "We have the files. We have Sterling. We have Julian."
David blinked, confusion furrowing his brow. "Julian? What does Julian have to do with this?"
"I’ll tell you everything on the plane," I said softly, taking his hand and placing it firmly against the rounded swell of my belly beneath my jacket.
David’s hand went entirely still. His eyes widened, looking down at where his calloused fingers rested against the fabric, then back up to my face.
A tiny, powerful kick struck beneath his palm.
David let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh that turned into a sob. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine, his tears mixing with mine in the dust of a forgotten war zone.
"You're... we're..."
"Five months," I smiled through my tears. "A girl. And her father is going to be there when she’s born."
"Falcon Actual, this is Miller," the radio crackled. "Perimeter is secure, but we need to move. Evac bird is waiting on the deck."
"Up on your feet, Chief Warrant Officer," I said, slipping my arm beneath his good shoulder to help him rise.
May you like
David leaned on me, his strength returning with every breath, and together we walked out of the ruins of the dark into the roaring light of our extraction.
***
