Chapter 7 - The Iron Ridge Defense
The transmission cut out with a screech of static and the distant thud of an explosion.
Marcus didn't panic. The fog of war was a domain he had mastered over three decades of combat. He turned to Clara, who was already calmly moving toward a heavy wooden chest beneath the icon of the Virgin Mary.
“How many sisters are in this compound?” Marcus demanded, checking the magazine of his sidearm and racking the slide.
“None,” Clara said, her voice eerily calm. She hauled open the lid of the chest. Inside lay no holy relics. Packed neatly in cosmoline and oil-cloth were four Russian-made Kalashnikov rifles, tactical web gear, and dozens of pre-loaded magazines. “The prioress passed away three years ago. The others were relocated to an order in Baltimore. I stayed behind. I knew this day would come, Marcus. A woman who ran from Richard Sterling never throws away her weapons.”
Marcus looked at the seventy-two-year-old nun loading a 7.62mm magazine into a rifle with practiced, lethal muscle memory. A faint, grim smile touched his lips. *She truly is my mother,* he thought.
“They aren't here to negotiate,” Marcus said, pulling a combat chest-rig over his jacket. “Sterling knows that if you or I reach a congressional hearing, he faces the death penalty for treason. He’s sent his private army to wipe this mountain clean.”
“Then let them try,” Clara said, racking the bolt of the AK with a crisp, terrifying snap. “This stone was laid in 1912. The walls are three feet thick. They have helicopters, Marcus, but they don't have the high ground.”
Outside, the roar of the two Bell 412 helicopters grew deafening.
Marcus kicked through the heavy timber door leading out to the bell tower stairs. He climbed the spiral stone steps two at a time, emerging onto the open-air observation platform beneath the massive bronze church bell.
Through the driving snow, he saw the tactical assault unfolding. The two black helicopters were hovering fifty yards off the ridge, their side doors slid wide open. Black-clad mercenaries wearing night-vision optics and Kevlar armor were training mounted M240 machine guns directly onto the priory.
Over the helicopter’s external PA system, an amplified voice boomed across the snowy peak, cold, mocking, and unmistakably arrogant:
*“GENERAL VANCE! THIS IS SENATOR RICHARD STERLING!”*
Marcus narrowed his eyes. In the passenger cabin of the lead helicopter, flanked by two armed operatives, sat an elderly man in a heavy cashmere overcoat, holding an aviation headset mic. Senator Richard Sterling had come himself to ensure the loose ends were tied.
*“YOU SHOULD HAVE REMAINED A SOLDIER, MARCUS!”* the Senator’s voice roared through the wind. *“YOU HAD EVERYTHING! RANK, PRESTIGE, MY DAUGHTER! BUT YOU INHERITED YOUR REAL MOTHER’S FATAL FLAW—SANCTIMONIOUS ARROGANCE! THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND BRING CLARA OUT, AND I PROMISE YOU A QUICK COURT-MARTIAL INSTEAD OF A SHALLOW GRAVE!”*
Marcus stepped to the edge of the parapet, clearly visible against the gray sky. He raised his radio to his lips, switching to the open broadcast frequency.
“Sterling!” Marcus’s voice rang out, sharp as a whip. “You sent your daughter to poison an eighty-year-old saint! You betrayed your uniform, your country, and your family! You don't leave this mountain alive!”
In the helicopter, the Senator’s face contorted with rage. He turned to his gunner and slashed his hand across his throat.
*“OPEN FIRE! LEVEL THE WHOLE DAMN PLACE!”*
The M240 erupted.
A stream of 7.62mm tracer rounds chewed into the stone bell tower, sending clouds of pulverized rock and sparks flying into the air. Marcus dropped to the deck, the deafening concussive blasts rattling his teeth.
From the courtyard below, a single, sharp rifle crack rang out.
*CRACK!*
The lead helicopter’s co-pilot slumped forward against the flight controls, his head shattered through the shattered Plexiglas windshield.
Clara stood in the archway of the chapel, firing measured, terrifyingly accurate single shots with her iron sights.
The helicopter pitched violently to the left, its tail rotor swinging dangerously close to the towering hemlock trees. The pilot fought the controls, screaming over the radio as the mercenaries scrambled to re-orient their fire toward the ground.
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Marcus seized the opportunity. He vaulted up from behind the stone parapet, brought up his rifle, and aimed directly for the lead helicopter’s main rotor hub.
***
