The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(3)

He closed his eyes and forced back the bile rising in his throat.

Once he was sure he wasn’t about to throw up, Hammond gave Krantz the intel he needed to kill Maxwell White.





CHAPTER THREE


Northern Iraq


Captain Clayton White grabbed his harness as the HH-60G Pave Hawk search-and-rescue helicopter darted straight up, then banked steeply to the right while the pilot did his best to evade another burst of machine-gun fire coming from below.

“Damn it!” yelled an air force staff sergeant, one of the two pararescuemen seated across from White. “I hate it when they do that.”

White wasn’t a big fan of being shot at either. But it came with the job. White and his team of eight pararescuemen—or PJs—supported by two Pave Hawks and their crewmen, were the only rescue team positioned to cover the battlefield of northern Iraq and Syria, which encompassed over 150,000 square miles. And today, White’s team was the best hope of survival for two marine pilots who had been forced to crash-land their SuperCobra attack helicopter in ISIS-controlled territory after sustaining significant battle damage. The closest marine TRAP—Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel—team, usually tasked to cover the southern part of Iraq, was too far away to give the two stranded marine aviators a realistic chance. The TRAP team’s MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft had the range, but by the time they could get to the pilots’ location, it would be too late. ISR—intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance—provided by a Reaper drone had confirmed that three ISIS technicals were racing toward the downed American chopper. Typically open-backed civilian pickup trucks or four-wheel drive vehicles, technicals had mounted weapons systems like machine guns, light antiaircraft guns, or even antitank weapons. And troops. Fast and maneuverable, technicals had become ISIS’s de facto cavalry.

White willed the Pave Hawk to go faster. They all knew what awaited the downed airmen if they were captured by ISIS.

“I have comms with Major Steck, sir,” the copilot said to White. “Call signs Bandit-One and Two.”

“Okay,” White replied. “Patch me through.”

A moment later, the copilot gave White a thumbs-up.

“Bandit, this is CSAR-One, how copy, over,” White said.

“CSAR-One, this is Bandit-Two. You’re loud and clear. How far are you?”

The copilot, who was still listening to the frequency, showed four fingers to White.

“We’re southeast of your position, four minutes out.”

“Good copy, CSAR-One. Please note Bandit-One is in bad shape. His legs are pinned under the flight instrument panel.”

“Is Bandit-One conscious?” White asked, his mind racing ahead toward a multitude of possible scenarios.

“He’s been in and out of consciousness since the crash,” Bandit-Two replied. “But when he’s awake, he just mutters some incoherent shit.”

“CSAR-One copies,” White said, keeping his voice smooth and steady despite the constriction in his chest. “ETA is now three minutes. CSAR-One out.”

Damn. The three incoming ISIS technicals were going to be a problem. With Bandit-One’s injuries, White’s team wasn’t going to be able to pull off a quick in-and-out rescue prior to their arrival. It was going to take some time to extricate the marine from the SuperCobra’s cockpit. The last thing White wanted was to get jammed into a firefight across open ground with an unknown number of ISIS combatants. The .50-caliber machine guns likely mounted in the backs of their vehicles could lay down an incredible amount of firepower and would shred him, his men, and the two marine pilots to pieces. With no QRF—quick reaction force—in the vicinity, it was on him to find a way to secure the crash site.

“You guys all set?” White asked the two PJs.

One of the PJs had a tablet on his lap that was linked directly to the Reaper drone’s feed. He had a worried look on his face, which was never a good sign. In White’s true-to-God opinion, United States Air Force pararescue jumpers were not only the best-trained technical rescue medical personnel in the world but also fearless warriors. Only the most resilient and focused airmen became PJs or combat rescue officers. The pipeline to enter this elite group was one of the most grueling in the military. It lasted two to three years and boasted an 80 percent attrition rate. Trained and efficient in everything from mountain climbing to free-fall parachute operations, PJs and combat rescue officers were also skilled deep-sea divers and capable of entering and clearing an enemy compound. So, if one of White’s men was worried, there was indeed a source of legitimate concern that needed to be addressed.

“Talk to me,” he said to the PJ holding the tablet.

“It’s not good, sir,” the PJ replied, handing over the tablet. “The technicals are only ten clicks away.”

White looked at the screen. His man was right. The ISIS vehicles were making good progress. The Pave Hawk would reach the crash site before the technicals, but White’s team would only have a couple of minutes to complete the rescue. It wouldn’t be enough time.

“Two minutes out,” the copilot said, craning his neck toward White. “What do you want us to do?”

White had to come up with some sort of a plan. And fast. The fate of the two marine aviators rested in his hands.