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  Stan was in New York. Wait—was that this week or next week? Gotta find a phone. No way they could have hit New York. Our air defense is too good. Maybe it was last week? Shit. Need to find a phone.

  The acid simmered in his stomach, and Nick suddenly felt like he had to vomit. His vision started to blur in front of him, but it cleared as he blinked rapidly. His legs felt disconnected from the rest of his body, but thankfully, they were still walking forward, heading…somewhere. Nick hoped they knew where to go. He suddenly became aware that Daniel had been speaking to him for at least a couple of seconds.

  “You think, boss?”

  “Huh?”

  “About New York. Think it got hit?”

  “Makes sense. Look at this place, Daniel. It’s fucking chaos. Something big had to have happened,” Nick said, nodding in front of him.

  Soldiers were running around seemingly at random. Hundreds of combat boots pounded against the pavement just outside the motor pool, but not one of them looked like they knew where they were going. One Marine, a Major, stood with his back against the motor pool’s wall, staring up into the sky.

  Probably just feel like they need to be moving. Doing something. Then he realized he was doing the exact same thing. He had to focus—worry about his brother later. Priority one had to be finding out what was going on.

  Finding someone to talk to would be nearly impossible. Command and Control was sure to be swamped, and the communication channels were probably still full of a lot of panic and fear instead of information.

  Well, most of them, Nick thought, toggling the radio on his vest. He didn’t know if there were any Special Forces Operators on Channel 1-9 Victor in range, but it was worth a shot.

  “This is CO 4-7 Echo SRF. Anyone monitoring?”

  “Four-seven, this is Briggs, 2-4 STS. I read you five by five,” the response came back instantly.

  Nick searched his brain. Two-four STS sounded familiar. Air Force. Search and Rescue guys.

  “Briggs, this is Lieutenant Morrow. Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Rumors only. Brass is calling any Special Forces operators on Justice to JSOC’s tracking station. You’re on 1-9 Victor, so I assume you’re Special Forces.”

  “That’s correct, 2-4.”

  “Get to JSOC tracking double-time. Know where it is?”

  “Old auto shop?”

  “That’s the place. Like I said, I’m Briggs. Tech Sergeant. Look for me outside. I’m on my way there now.”

  “Copy that, Briggs. Me and my people will be there in five minutes.”

  Nick looked over his shoulder at his crew.

  “All right, folks. Follow me. We’re being called into what I hope is a briefing.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t hate some answers right about now,” Daniel said.

  * * *

  The JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) Tracking Center wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye on a normal day. It just looked like a closed-down auto body shop. There were no signs or insignia on the outside to identify it as anything worth looking at.

  However, the main entrance had been replaced with a heavy steel blast door, and the old garage doors had been completely concreted over. Nick guessed the building’s roof and superstructure had been similarly reinforced, as the building was designed to stay standing even if bombs leveled the city.

  Today, though, the hypothetical passerby would have noticed something was definitely up. Personnel in uniforms of all types—black BDUs, woodland camo ACUs, olive-drab flight suits, dark blue coveralls—massed in front of the huge blast doors. It was chaos, but an orderly chaos, as Nick saw units of similar uniforms start grouping together.

  Call Cedric’s cell phone, his brain told him. He’ll know where his father is. Nick realized he was sweating, though it wasn’t particularly warm out—even for early spring, it was chilly. Again, he forced his brain to calm down and start thinking rationally, linearly.

  “Who’s this guy we’re looking for?” Peter asked as they scanned the crowd.

  “Briggs. Tech Sergeant. Air Force,” Nick answered without turning his focus away from the soldiers milling around in front of him.

  “That’s me,” a voice came from his left.

  Nick turned and saw a young, tall, powerfully built man with short black hair standing next to him. He wore Air Force woodland BDUs and had a backpack hanging from one shoulder.

  “Lieutenant Nick Morrow, 47 Echo SRF,” Nick said.

  “Sir,” Briggs said, snapping a salute.

  “So what’s the deal here, Sergeant?”

  “Don’t know yet, sir. Call went out about fifteen minutes ago for all Special Forces to meet here. We’re just waiting on someone to open the door.”

  “Where’s your unit, bro?” Bryce asked.

  “We’re based out of Bakal Air Base in Chelyabinsk. I got sent down here to drop off some Intel we found ourselves holding.”

  “You’re out here on your own?” Mary asked.

  “Seems that way.”

  The blast door suddenly clanged open, and a man in Air Force blues with graying hair stuck his head out. Nick recognized him as Captain Jason Black, a man he’d met in that very building the year before. Black was involved somehow in satellite intelligence, he remembered.

  “All right. All Special Forces, inside now! The rest of you, go find your units. We’re short on time here, so let’s move it!” Black hollered.

  Nick followed the crowd inside, making sure to keep his people and Briggs in sight. As the large front room of the JSOC tracking center filled up, Nick estimated there were about 200 operators crammed into the small space with him and his crew. Black stood on a chair at the far end of the room next to one of the center’s larger plasma-screen displays. He slipped an earpiece into his ear and said something Nick couldn’t hear. A few seconds later, the screen flickered on. Colonel Sawyer Ross’ image appeared.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Colonel Sawyer Ross, JSOC Commander, Eastern Frontier,” Ross said.

  The image shook, and everyone in the room (who had since fallen silent) could hear an explosion on Ross’ end of the line.

  “Apologies for the quality of the transmission,” Ross continued. “Firebase Zulu is currently under attack by a large North Korean force, but we’re holdin’ our own. I know you’re all anxious to know what the fuck is going on, so here’s what we know so far.”

  If the North Koreans were pushing toward Zulu, it had to be a big move. Nick worried about the rest of his crew back at Zulu. He knew Ross and the other operators would take care of them, but he would have preferred to be there with his full unit.

  As Ross took a breath, Nick looked around. None of the hundreds of soldiers moved or even seemed to breathe. It was deathly silent in the huge room.

  “Approximately thirty-five minutes ago, at 0918 Eastern, New York City was attacked by a converted Chinese airliner flying under a spoofed Lufthansa transponder. They dropped thirty canisters of Soman over the eastern edge of the city. Prevailing winds carried the gas over the entire island.”

  Holy shit, Nick thought. They really did it. They really hit New York.

  “What kind of casualties are we looking at, sir?” a soldier in unmarked black BDUs piped up.

  “Unknown at this time. Death toll is feared to be almost total.”

  His breath caught in his throat, but he wasn’t the only one. Gasps and murmurs sounded around the room. That’s more than ten million people. Stan. Find a phone and see if Stan was one of them.

  Nick ground his teeth together and forced his brain to concentrate. He looked at the monitor in front of him without blinking, focusing on every word that came over the line from Colonel Ross.

  “At almost the same time, Chinese, North Korean and Renegade Russian forces started hitting any Allied installation they could reach. We’ve got reports of heavy casualties, but for the most part, our air defenses have them under control,” Ross continued. “Which leads me to why I’ve called
you all here. We have several assets we need to pull out of Eastern hot zones, and the Special Forces here are a little busy trying to stay alive at the moment. That leaves you people as the next closest.”

  Captain Black hopped off the chair and headed to a desk as Ross continued.

  “I have assignments for each of you. I know a lot of your units aren’t up to full strength—partner with other operators to get the personnel you need to accomplish your missions. Captain Black will be handing out each of your assignments. Nightstalkers, if you’re in the room, sound off.”

  “Right here, Colonel,” an older man in an olive-green flight suit said. He had more than ten identically dressed men standing with him.

  “Gentlemen, meet the 160th SOAR. They’ll be choppering you to your destinations. Good luck.”

  The screen flickered off.

  Captain Black stood back on the chair, this time with a handful of data cards.

  “When I call your unit, I need the senior officer to come get your assignment. Let’s move quick, people. Time’s a factor in all of your missions. Four-Seven Echo!”

  Nick made his way through the front of the room. Black handed him a data card and caught his eye.

  “Lieutenant. If you survive this one, have Chris Lee give me a call,” Black said before grabbing the next data card.

  Chapter Eight

  Gun Fury

  “What’s the job, boss?” Daniel asked as Nick returned to his unit.

  “One where we’ll need a medic,” Nick said.

  “You’ve got one,” Briggs piped up, hefting his pack and following Nick toward the blast doors.

  “You’re a medic?” Peter asked.

  “Parajumper. Air Force talk for Combat Search and Rescue medic,” Briggs said.

  “Good, then. Bryce, go snag us one of those Nightstalker pilots. We need to get going ASAP.”

  “On it, boss.”

  “Folks, I’ve got to let you know, from what I’m reading here, this one’s not going to be easy,” Nick said as he skimmed through the mission parameters on the command screen embedded in his uniform jacket.

  “When are they, though?” Daniel said.

  “Lieutenant? Chief Warrant Officer Hale, sir,” the pilot said as he and Bryce approached. He was a little older than Nick, and his hair was just starting to go gray.

  “Chief,” Nick said, leading his crew outside. “Where’s your bird?”

  “Depends. How many you got?”

  “Six.”

  “Seven,” Christopher said, jogging down the street to catch up with his unit. “Come on, boss. Don’t make me hitch a ride back to Zulu with some grunts or something.”

  His convict BDUs were gone. He was now wearing regular Marine BDUs, though with no nametape. He had a Staff Sergeant’s rank insignia on his sternum and a pair of M4s slung over his back. Nick caught his friend’s eyes, and Christopher winked at him. Despite the horrible news they’d just heard, Nick smiled a little.

  “Hey, Chris! Good to see you, man. Did you hear?” Peter asked.

  “New York. Yeah. I heard,” Christopher said quietly.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. Christopher looked over at Nick and raised an eyebrow, and Nick suddenly remembered he’d told Christopher about Stan’s trip to New York. Without needing words, Christopher’s message was clear—you all right?

  Nick nodded quickly. He knew it was a lie. He wasn’t close to all right, and Christopher probably knew too, but he didn’t push it. Nick almost wished his friend had pushed it, as that would give him an excuse to yell at someone. He almost yelled anyway, but managed to keep his voice in check.

  “So, we on a job, then?” Christopher asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll have to fill you in on the chopper. Which is?” Nick said, turning to Hale.

  “This way, sir.”

  Just hold it together. Get through this job, find some way to call back stateside.

  Nick waved one hand in the air, indicating that his people should fall in behind him and Hale.

  * * *

  “We’re short on crew chiefs, sir. Anyone who can fly is flying,” Hale said as Nick and his crew loaded into the Black Hawk sitting in what had once been a city square.

  “Peter, Bryce, think you can handle those miniguns?” Nick asked.

  “No problem.”

  “Good, ’cause it looks like we’ll need ’em,” Hale said, slipping on his headset and heading for the pilot’s seat. “I got traffic saying we’re not going to have a boring flight down. Russian and Chinese choppers, plus plenty of ground forces that’ll want to blow us out of the sky.”

  “Lovely,” Christopher muttered.

  “Rest of you, grab a gun and help ’em out if we encounter resistance,” Nick ordered, strapping himself into a seat near the window and checking the M4 slung across his chest. His thoughts about his brother were still there, but the impact was fading a bit as he ordered his crew around, checked his ammo. Heading into probable combat was disturbingly calming at that moment.

  “Preflight checks in progress. We’re wheels up in five, sir,” Hale called.

  “Just enough time to lay out the mission,” Nick said. “We’re heading southeast, guys, so you know this can’t be good.”

  “Heavy resistance is a given, then,” Mary said, pulling back the bolt on her M4.

  “Correct. There’s a forward research station a bit north of Neryugn. My info doesn’t say what they do there, just that we’re to extract a civilian mathematician named Henry Eaton.”

  “That’s a pretty hot area to send a civilian into,” Christopher said. “We got our asses kicked at Neryugn last year. And I mean bad.”

  “The outpost is small, and it was supposed to be under the radar. Command’s got a very quick distress call saying they were under attack, and they have some intel that our target might be injured. That’s why you’re here, Briggs. Well, that and to patch up any new bullet holes we add to our collection.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “My plan is to have a couple of us rope in while everyone else covers us from the chopper. With any luck, we can find the guy and be out in a couple of minutes. I have the schematics for the outpost on my screen, and it’s not too big.”

  “Assuming he didn’t freak out and run,” Christopher said.

  “Man, I hope not,” Nick said.

  “Ready to rock and/or roll, Lieutenant,” Hale called from the pilot’s seat.

  “Let’s ride, then. Everyone, heads on swivels. Pilot’ll have enough to keep him busy without looking for hostiles.”

  Keep busy, the more rational part of his brain told him as he checked the ammo in his rifle. Lock everything down. You start worrying too much, you’re just going to get everyone killed.

  The Black Hawk’s rotor blades spun up, lifting the huge helicopter into the air seconds later. Nick looked out the open side door at the setting sun as they climbed higher into the darkening sky. It would get dark quickly this time of year, and that meant they’d be flying mostly by instruments. His father had told him stories about Nightstalker pilots, though. As their name suggested, they lived for flying at night. Nick slipped his headphones on as the helicopter rapidly gained altitude.

  “We’ve got a bit of a tailwind heading toward Forward Research Tiger,” he heard Chief Hale say through his headphones. “We’ll make it there in about an hour and a half, but it’ll be less fun coming back.”

  “We won’t be heading back to Justice,” Nick told him. “My orders are to proceed to Firebase Zulu as soon as we complete our mission.”

  “Copy. That’s easier on me anyway.”

  As the Siberian countryside blurred below him, Nick took stock of their weapons. They had Daniel’s sniper rifle with 30 rounds, Peter’s IAR with a little more than 300 rounds, and six M4s with about 150 rounds between them. Nick and Christopher both had Glock 50 sidearms, but those only held 15 rounds each. In a firefight, they’d only last a couple of minutes.

  Nick motioned to Christop
her to come closer.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “We’ve got an ammo situation, unless you have a bunch of 5.56 I don’t know about,” Nick said.

  “Sadly, no. Just what you see on me. I’d guess no more than five-hundred rounds total.”

  “That’s about what I’m estimating. Poke around the chopper here and see if you can find anything. Also, see how we’re set for minigun ammo.”

  “On it,” Christopher said, unhooking his harness and heading back into the chopper.

  The next half hour passed quietly as the sun slowly disappeared. Outside, the sky was almost black. Nick had Mary trying to get a connection on her netbook, seeing if she could get a line back to the States. So far, nothing.

  Christopher came back and sat next to Nick. He held up both hands, and Nick got the message. No extra ammo.

  “Miniguns?” Nick asked.

  “Full up.”

  “Well, at least that’s one bright spot.”

  “Getting something on comms, Lieutenant,” Hale radioed from up front. “Might want to have a listen.”

  “On my way,” Nick said, taking off his headphones and moving to the copilot’s seat. He found the copilot’s headset and put it on. Without taking his eyes off the darkening sky in front of him, Hale flipped a switch on the center panel.

  “Fox Company is taking heavy fire! Request any friendlies in the area to assist!” the voice screamed in Nick’s ears. It was a young voice, full of panic. He heard explosions and gunfire in the background.

  “Where’s that coming from?” Nick asked Hale.

  “About fifteen miles ahead, sir. It’s the 26th MEU, Fox Third Platoon. From what I can tell, they’re all alone out there, and they’ve got Russian Renegades pounding the shit out of their position.”

  “They’re on our way?”

  “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  Nick wanted more than anything to tell the pilot to land half a mile out, that he and his unit would proceed in on foot and bail out the stranded Marine Expeditionary Unit. He knew he couldn’t stop, however. He had orders, and his time was already short.

  “We can’t stop and assist, but fly us over them slow and low as you can without getting us shot down. Pete, Bryce, you guys copy?”