The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,124
the plane as quick as you can. Go!’
She swung the cases on to the jetty, then clambered up. Baxter hopped on to the structure with considerably more grace. Arms straining, she scurried along the pier. The Alabaman moved at a backwards trot behind her.
‘Movement in the woods!’ yelled one of the men on the shore. ‘South-west!’
Tony looked past the derelict buildings, seeing shadowy figures ducking between the snow-laden evergreens about a hundred yards distant. Three, maybe four men – which meant the rest of Sevnik’s squad would be moving in from a different direction. ‘Suppressing fire!’ he ordered. ‘Get to the plane!’
Spence drove Qasid towards the pier as the other two men opened up, firing three-round bursts into the trees. The shots weren’t intended to kill, simply to force the approaching Russians to drop and find protection – preventing them from shooting back. Bark splintered, white powder exploding from the drooping branches. The soldiers scrambled for cover.
Tony checked on Bianca and Baxter. They were halfway along the jetty, Baxter still watching the shore. ‘Tony!’ the ex-Marine shouted, gesturing with his rifle.
More figures in the trees, these emerging from behind the buildings to make a pincer movement along the lagoon’s edge. Baxter fired a burst in their direction. The Russians hurriedly pulled back.
‘Come on, move!’ yelled Tony as Spence and Qasid passed him. The remaining two men backed towards the pier as they unleashed bursts of fire into the woods.
‘Reloading!’ said Levin, ejecting a spent magazine. He crouched behind a pile of mine debris and fumbled for a replacement. Fallon reached the jetty.
‘Levin, hurry up!’ Tony yelled as he climbed on to the wooden structure to start his own retreat. Another look back. Bianca boarded the plane, Baxter pausing to untie the mooring rope. ‘We are leaving!’
Levin finally loaded the new mag. He popped up to fire across the cutting, then raced for the jetty.
One of the Russians in the woods shot back, his Kalashnikov on full auto. Some of the rounds were tracers, lines of green fire streaking like laser beams across the tracks.
Homing in—
A shot ripped through Levin’s left shoulder with a spray of blood.
‘Man down!’ Tony cried, seeing him fall. ‘Cover me!’
He opened up with his SIG at the shooter, who ducked into cover. The men on the jetty also fired, Baxter and Spence aiming at the soldiers behind the buildings while Fallon put down more suppressing fire on Tony’s target. Tony ran to the fallen man. ‘Can you move?’
Levin had dropped his gun, his free hand clamped over the bloody wound. ‘I – I think so.’
Tony hauled him to his feet. ‘Get going – I’ll give you cover. Run!’ He picked up the G36 and backed up, firing into the trees.
Baxter pulled the last loop of the mooring line free. ‘Get that asshole aboard!’ he shouted to Spence, who forcefully shoved Qasid through the hatch before turning to continue shooting. ‘Tony, come on!’
Tony fired one last burst – then his rifle clicked empty. He dropped it and ran, quickly catching up with Levin and pulling him with him.
Baxter retreated into the plane, the others following suit. Despite their suppressing fire, retaliatory gunshots rattled from the shore. Bullets clunked against the Beriev’s hull. Bianca shrieked, flattening herself on the deck and shielding her head. ‘Get moving, go!’ shouted Tony, waving furiously for the plane to set off.
In the cockpit, Adam saw him and pushed the throttles. The engines rose in power. The float on the seaplane’s starboard wing would have hit the pier if he had simply gone forward, forcing him to engage reverse thrust and back the thirty-ton jet away from it.
Still hauling Levin with him, Tony reached the open hatch just as it slipped from the end of the jetty. Hands dragged them inside.
‘They’re aboard!’ Baxter yelled to Adam, before leaning back out of the door to resume firing. ‘Get us out of here!’
Adam pushed the port engine’s throttle further forward. The extra power on that side drove the aircraft into a slewing turn, its tail swinging towards the shore. Ice crackled under the hull. He looked through the side window. Was the float clear?
A hailstorm rattle of bullets told him that it would have to be. He closed the thrust reversers and pushed both throttles forward. The Beriev’s nose tipped upwards like a surging speedboat before the water’s drag on the aft fuselage slammed it back down in an explosion of spray. Shouts came from the cabin as people were thrown off their feet.