EndWar

Back inside Calgary Tower, Sergeant Marc Rakken sent two of his men forward, told them to use their rifles’ attached grenade launchers.

He’d been ordered to cause minimal damage to the tower. Well, tell that to the troops up there, four on the top landing now, dishing out a steady stream of rifle fire punctuated with the occasional smoke and fragmentation grenade. The Russians had already destroyed several landings that the team had strung ropes across.

Another explosion rocked the stairwell, and suddenly three of Rakken’s men tumbled by, having been blown off the stairs. Two had probably been killed by the explosion, but a third had keyed his mike as he fell, screaming at the top of his lungs as he plummeted to his death.

“Sergeant, we can’t go on,” cried one of his grenadiers.

Rakken, his face covered in sweat now, the MOPP gear practically suffocating him even as it protected him, could stand no more. “Sparta Team!” he barked loudly. “Follow me. We’re going in!”

With the civilian geeks huddling behind their shields to the rear, Rakken pushed past the others and pounded up the stairs, firing steadily until he neared the final landing.

All four Spetsnaz troops were positioned there; reacting instinctively, Rakken pumped off a grenade from his rifle’s launcher.

Three, two…

He hit the deck as the burst rumbled hard through the concrete and steel above.

Before the smoke cleared, he was back to his feet, thundering up to find two of the troops blown apart, a third missing his legs, the fourth lying on his back, half his torso gone. He groaned and reached out to Rakken for help.

Rakken answered his request with a bullet.

“Sparta Team, clear up here, come on up.” He checked the door leading into the observation deck and souvenir shop: locked, of course.

He called up his engineer to blow the door. As the charges were being set, he returned to the civilians, told the guy known as Nimrod One that they would need to clear the observation deck first before he could allow them to enter. The guy understood but urged Rakken to hurry.

After issuing another SITREP to Captain Welch, Rakken checked in with the engineer: good to go.

“Fire in the hole,” warned Rakken.

With an appreciable bang, the C-4 blew the door from its hinges, and as the gray smoke rose, Rakken and his men charged onto the deck, a huge, circular-shaped room with panoramic windows offering a wide view of the city lights. The souvenir shop was in the middle, obscuring some view.

Two Spetsnaz troops burst from the shop, firing at Rakken and his men as they fanned out.

Rakken returned fire as he dropped to his gut and propped himself up on his elbows.

One of his men shrieked in agony. Then another. Yet there were no sounds of gunfire.

Rakken reached down to the belt at his waist, withdrew his Blackhawk Gladius, activated the thumb switch. The brilliant light pushed back into the shadows to find an unmasked Spetsnaz troop brandishing a large combat knife.

He was slipping up behind one of Rakken’s men.

Rakken screamed out—

But the knife came down into the back of the man’s neck. His man shrieked and fell, either dead or incapacitated.

Rakken bolted to his feet, one hand detaching his own mask as he charged along the windows, firing and dropping the guy. Then he whirled at the sound of more gunfire on the other side of the deck.

He made a mad dash along the windows, spotted three more Russians firing ahead at his men.

Dropping once more onto his belly, he used the laser designator in his helmet to target the exposed necks of each man and delivered one, two, three shots.

Blood and brain matter flew, and two men collapsed, but he’d missed the third. That troop turned back.

Just as Rakken was about to fire again, a metallic clang caught his ears.

He glanced to his right.

A grenade hit the floor and rolled toward him.

Just beyond it, the second team was moving in, along with the civilians, who were running toward him.

“Get back!”

He threw himself on the grenade.

Just as it went off.

Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men raced in the truck down 97^th Street, unaware that one of the Ka-29s had wheeled around until a pair of rockets tore into the asphalt behind them and exploded.

The two operators seated back there leapt over the side, just as a wall of flames filled the pickup truck’s rear window.

Then, as the truck reached the next corner, Vatz hung a sharp left turn—

Just as another rocket hit, blasting them up onto two wheels.

Beethoven shouted something but Vatz’s ears were still ringing from the explosion.

They hung there for a million-year second until the truck slammed hard onto the passenger’s side, safety glass shattering. They slid up onto the sidewalk, caromed off a building, then sideswiped a light pole before coming to a screeching halt, engine still running, glass still tumbling, flames crackling from somewhere outside.

As smoke began to fill the cabin, Vatz coughed and unbuckled. He called out to Beethoven, whose head was bleeding but who was conscious.