Enemy at the Gates by Vince Flynn & Kyle Mills

Author:Vince Flynn & Kyle Mills [Flynn, Vince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2021-09-13T16:00:00+00:00

26

SCOTT Coleman tried to ignore the voice and hang on to sleep. In his dream, he was driving a tractor through an endless field of wheat. Complex patterns came and went across it, written by an intermittent breeze that also tossed the hair of the woman riding next to him. Sonya Voronova spoke, but not in the bland midwestern accent she’d worked so hard to perfect. And not in the Rocky and Bullwinkle Russian accent that she reverted to when she was joking. Instead, the sound that came from her was the gruff southern drawl of Joe Maslick.

“Scott! Wake up!”

He finally opened his eyes to see the former Delta operator’s face hovering above him.

“What?”

“We’re picking up something on the cameras.”

“Let me guess. Down in that death gully to the east.”

“Yeah. How did you know to pump up our capability there?”

Coleman threw the blanket off and stood. “A little bird told me.”

“Mitch,” the big man grumbled.

Getting dressed wasn’t particularly time consuming. In situations like these, Coleman tended to sleep in his fatigues. He slipped into a pair of boots carefully lined up near the bottom of the bed.

“What’re we looking at?”

“At least fifty men. The one in the lead dug up and cut that wire you had us bury and now the rest are forming on him.” He glanced at the real-time image on his phone. “Not sure what’s going on. Visibility’s shit because of all the trees. They seem like they’re in a huddle or something.”

Coleman reached for his own phone and scrolled through various video feeds and sensor logs. It was indeed hard to figure out what they were doing. Passing something around maybe? Assault rifles all around, but nothing heavier visible. Bunched up like amateurs.

“So, they’re basically sitting on top of that wire?”

“Right. At the bottom of the gully.”

The steep two-hundred-meter climb ahead of them had taken Charlie Wicker seven and a half minutes to cover, full-gas and under ideal conditions. But the assholes weren’t Charlie Wicker and Coleman had the power to make conditions less than ideal. A lot less.

Maslick touched his earpiece for a moment, listening to someone talking over it.

“We have more contacts west.”

“How many?”

“Looks like four. A hundred yards out. They might have handheld rockets. Hard to tell for sure.”

A diversion. They’d make a lot of noise while their main force attacked up that gully. Or so they thought.

“Pull our guys off the west wall. Those berms should be enough to handle a few rockets. Tell Wick to take a few men outside the perimeter and get in position to neutralize those assholes. Not until I give the signal, though. I want them to do a little shooting first.”

When Coleman reached the east fence, Maslick had already climbed to the top. Dirt had been tamped into a path behind it that allowed fast movement from sandbagged gun placements set up every twenty feet.

Not that they’d likely be necessary.

Coleman jogged to something that appeared to be a massive chain gun but was actually a water cannon.

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