Chapter 37: The Descent into the Martyrs

The flight was a nightmare of turbulence and low-hanging clouds. The Chinook groaned as it fought the mountain winds, the ramp at the back open to the freezing, damp air. When the "one minute" signal flashed red, the world became a blur of motion.

The gorge was a jagged crack in the earth, filled with the roar of a rain-swollen river. We fast-roped into the darkness, the friction burning through my gloves. I hit the ground and rolled, my radio antenna whipping through the air. Within seconds, the squad was in a tight perimeter.

"Move out," James signaled.

The terrain was a graveyard of slippery limestone and thorny brush. Every step was a gamble. We moved in a single file, the silence of the gorge broken only by the rushing water and the occasional clink of gear. I watched James’s back, his silhouette a constant, grounding presence. He moved with a grace that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his size, his eyes constantly scanning the ridgeline above us.

We were halfway through the gorge when the trap snapped shut.

A flare hissed into the sky, bathing the valley in a sickly, artificial light. From the heights above, the gorge erupted in gunfire. The "Architect" hadn't been fleeing; he had been baiting us.

"Ambush! North and South ridges!" Viper roared.

The world turned into a kaleidoscope of tracers and dust. I dove behind a massive boulder, the impact knocking the wind out of me. My radio was screaming—calls for help from the squads, the distant hum of the command net, and the frantic barking of the pilot who was waiting for my coordinates.

"Lion 6-Romeo! I need those grids!" the pilot shouted over the static.

"Wait! I'm tracking!" I yelled back, my fingers flying over the dials.

I looked out from behind the rock. James was pinned in a shallow depression fifty meters ahead. He was returning fire, but the muzzle flashes from the ridge were relentless. I saw a group of insurgents descending the slope, their target clear: they were going for the Captain.