it, his hands moving, his feet pushing. He’d always been physically strong, enjoyed exercise and good ^health, been a good athlete as a young man—but he had never enjoyed climbing a free rope. Hand over hand now, up, toward the chopper.
A third Elite corpsman Was rappeling down, a look of bewilderment in his eyes, a burst of sub-machinegun fire from the ground, his body jackknifing, then spiraling downward. Rourke kept climbing.
The fourth KGB man on the fourth rope. He slowed his descent, stopped, John Rourke throwing his body weight, catching the Elite corpsman full in the face with the sole of his boot, the man screaming as he lost his handhold, a sickeningly audible crack as the body bowed unnaturally back and death filled the eyes, the back broken.
His rope still swinging, John Rourke kept climbing, his arms numbing, hands aching, but only a few feet to go.
Above him, hanging out of the open fuselage door, an Elite corpsman leveled an assault rifle.
Rourke’s right hand went to the Scoremaster in his belt, already cocked and locked, submachine gun fire coming toward the man in the door from Paul on the ground, the man tucking back, but Paul only buying time. To hit the man, Rourke knew, Paul could only have shot through and not around him. But it bought a second, Rourke stabbing the Scoremaster upward. The Elite corpsman was in the doorway again, firing. John Rourke fired, then again and again and again and again and again, the Elite corpsman’s body twisting, then
tumbling forward, impacting Rourke’s own body as he fell past, Rourke’s left shoulder feeling on fire as he sagged away and hung for a moment suspended only from his left hand. The Scoremaster was still in his right hand. It was let go of it or die. He let it go, shouting, “Look out, Paul!”
Rourke’s right hand slapped upward, grasping for the rope, and as his right hand caught it, the helicopter began moving, violently upward and left, Rourke’s legs impacting the upper branches of a pine, part of his left snowpants leg torn away, a shower of snow covering him.
A second chopper and a third, flanking the machine to which John Rourke clung, were closing fast, mini-guns opening up, great tongues of yellow flame etched across the swirling gray that washed over the night’s blackness. Rourke curled his right leg around the rope, but still the strain on his hands and arms and shoulders consumed him, his teeth clenched against the pain.
The helicopter banked sharply and slipped closer to the treetops now; Rourke’s legs and torso slammed into another of the pines, then dragged through it, more of his arctic gear shredding under the impact, branches hammering at his face, tearing the hood from his head. Mini-gun fire again, so close his ears rang with it, the treetop over which he was dragged disintegrating under its impact, a shower of pine needles and snow washing over his face. Rourke averted his eyes, wrenching his right arm upward along the rope, his right fist bunching around it, his feet slamming into more of the high branches, more of his snowpants torn away.
Rourke’s left fist moved along the rope, then his right again and his left.
Mini-gun fire, so close that he felt some of the rounds cutting the air near his face, his teeth clenching, his fists balling tighter to the rope.
His right fist moved, then his left, then his right and his left again, the rope biting into his thighs, his fingers stiffening.
The helicopter from which he swung was going for
elevation, the G-forces against him pushing him down, his hands fighting to keep their hold. And then the gunship dove. Rourke’s face was twisted against the pressure of wind and gravity, but he felt the corners of his mouth rising into a smile; the Soviet pilot’s cleverness would be his undoing. As the chopper dove straight for the treetops, the restraining pressures of the climb were reversed and Rourke could move more easily along the rope now, at times the rope more
A third Elite corpsman Was rappeling down, a look of bewilderment in his eyes, a burst of sub-machinegun fire from the ground, his body jackknifing, then spiraling downward. Rourke kept climbing.
The fourth KGB man on the fourth rope. He slowed his descent, stopped, John Rourke throwing his body weight, catching the Elite corpsman full in the face with the sole of his boot, the man screaming as he lost his handhold, a sickeningly audible crack as the body bowed unnaturally back and death filled the eyes, the back broken.
His rope still swinging, John Rourke kept climbing, his arms numbing, hands aching, but only a few feet to go.
Above him, hanging out of the open fuselage door, an Elite corpsman leveled an assault rifle.
Rourke’s right hand went to the Scoremaster in his belt, already cocked and locked, submachine gun fire coming toward the man in the door from Paul on the ground, the man tucking back, but Paul only buying time. To hit the man, Rourke knew, Paul could only have shot through and not around him. But it bought a second, Rourke stabbing the Scoremaster upward. The Elite corpsman was in the doorway again, firing. John Rourke fired, then again and again and again and again and again, the Elite corpsman’s body twisting, then
tumbling forward, impacting Rourke’s own body as he fell past, Rourke’s left shoulder feeling on fire as he sagged away and hung for a moment suspended only from his left hand. The Scoremaster was still in his right hand. It was let go of it or die. He let it go, shouting, “Look out, Paul!”
Rourke’s right hand slapped upward, grasping for the rope, and as his right hand caught it, the helicopter began moving, violently upward and left, Rourke’s legs impacting the upper branches of a pine, part of his left snowpants leg torn away, a shower of snow covering him.
A second chopper and a third, flanking the machine to which John Rourke clung, were closing fast, mini-guns opening up, great tongues of yellow flame etched across the swirling gray that washed over the night’s blackness. Rourke curled his right leg around the rope, but still the strain on his hands and arms and shoulders consumed him, his teeth clenched against the pain.
The helicopter banked sharply and slipped closer to the treetops now; Rourke’s legs and torso slammed into another of the pines, then dragged through it, more of his arctic gear shredding under the impact, branches hammering at his face, tearing the hood from his head. Mini-gun fire again, so close his ears rang with it, the treetop over which he was dragged disintegrating under its impact, a shower of pine needles and snow washing over his face. Rourke averted his eyes, wrenching his right arm upward along the rope, his right fist bunching around it, his feet slamming into more of the high branches, more of his snowpants torn away.
Rourke’s left fist moved along the rope, then his right again and his left.
Mini-gun fire, so close that he felt some of the rounds cutting the air near his face, his teeth clenching, his fists balling tighter to the rope.
His right fist moved, then his left, then his right and his left again, the rope biting into his thighs, his fingers stiffening.
The helicopter from which he swung was going for
elevation, the G-forces against him pushing him down, his hands fighting to keep their hold. And then the gunship dove. Rourke’s face was twisted against the pressure of wind and gravity, but he felt the corners of his mouth rising into a smile; the Soviet pilot’s cleverness would be his undoing. As the chopper dove straight for the treetops, the restraining pressures of the climb were reversed and Rourke could move more easily along the rope now, at times the rope more
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