Terror At Dawn

TWENTY

Tombstone had spent most of the two hours and twenty minutes it took to get to Carter’s HQ on his cell phone. Just as they pulled into their staging area some two miles from the compound, he’d finished scribbling a list of names and phone numbers he’d just gotten from the Navy Reserve Air detailer. He’d smiled slightly as he wrote the names down, the memories of the time he’d served with each man and woman clear and vivid. Better to have those on his mind than Bull Run.

They trekked through rugged terrain, moving slowly and quietly, avoiding the sentries Greenfield’s scouts had found. Bratton had provided no more detailed information, but he’d nodded matter-of-factly as the scouts reported each listening post. Finally, they were in position.

“Are you sure this is it?” Tombstone asked, his voice a whisper.

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?” Greenfield said. He studied the small farmhouse they were encircling. It was too much like the last time, too much like the Smarts’ place.

Like it, but with differences. Cinder-block building instead of wood-frame, with a sturdy two-story wooden barn about a half a mile away. With his binoculars, Greenfield could see fresh tire tracks leading into it. The missing National Guard trucks and weapons, he was willing to bet. There was none of the small, wild rustlings that indicated livestock and other animals somewhere nearby. None of the fresh, pungent smell of them, either. What manure he did smell was old. Whatever this place was now, it was not an active farm.

Cinder blocks. At least it won’t burn.

The house backed up to a stretch of trees, partially sheltered from northern winds by them. There were no lights on, but Greenfield knew in a way he could not describe that whoever was inside was awake and watching them.

“This is it,” Greenfield said, certainty in his voice. “It’s not like last time — this one I’m sure of.”

Tombstone studied him for a moment, seeing the strain in the man’s face. He glanced back at the farmhouse, then at his second in command. For a moment, he had doubts about what he had done, putting Greenfield in this position. Maybe he would have been better off with someone not tainted by the Smart incident.

But no — after this many years of experience in leading men, Tombstone knew when someone was about to crack and when they weren’t. Greenfield was certain of what was inside, and watching him now, the way he moved with quiet competence, the confidence in his voice, Tombstone was, too.

“OK. Let’s let them know we’re here,” Tombstone said.

Greenfield smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. “Call me crazy, but I think they already know.”

“Yeah, maybe. Get the snipers in position. Let’s send them a wake-up call.”

Behind the glass, the windows were boarded up. The first tear-gas rounds fired shattered the glass and cracked the boards, but remained outside the house. Even from there, gas drifted into the house, and the men inside reached for their gas masks.

“They’ll know soon that it didn’t work,” Abraham said quietly. “Be ready.” He glanced around at the faces and saw that they were nervous but determined.

“They took the first shot,” Abraham continued. “I want the rest of the world to know exactly how they conduct their operations.” He turned to the latest visitor to the compound and fixed her with a cold glare. “And you’ll tell them, Ms. Drake, won’t you? Every detail.”

Drake kept her voice flat and level. “Every detail.” Her voice was muffled by a gas mask.

“If they start firing immediately, get your ass down the ladder.” He pointed at the open hatch in the middle of the kitchen floor. “I showed you the back way out — get moving. We’ll be right behind you. We don’t intend to go down like they did at Bull Run.”

For that, Pamela was immensely grateful.

Tombstone swore silently as the tear-gas canisters bounced off the windows and fell to the ground. “Which way is the wind blowing?”

“Away from us,” Greenfield said dryly. “I’ve done this a few times, you know.”

“Yeah. Looks like they have, too. So what’s next?”

“We start talking.” He picked up a bullhorn and handed it to Tombstone. “Would you care to do the honors?”

“Attention inside the house. Abraham Carter, you are surrounded. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up.”

Drake started. Tombstone! What the hell are you doing here? She started to speak, then thought better of it. They weren’t telling her everything they knew. Why should she?

“Back door,” Abraham ordered. One of his lieutenants moved a rug aside and jerked on a metal ring attached to the floorboard. A hatch swung up from the floor. “Down the hole, Drake. And stay back from the ladder. When we start moving out, it’s going to happen fast.”

Drake started to resist, but Abraham reached out and slapped her across face hard enough to make her yelp involuntarily. “I will remind you that the condition of your being allowed to remain here as an observer was predicated on obeying my orders without argument. Now move.” He pulled back the slide on his 9mm and chambered a round.

Pamela glared at him, anger written in every line of her face and body. But she stepped back, still facing him, until she reached the ladder, then proceeded down it. Abraham watched her go, and then turned to the rest of the men. “Tough little thing, isn’t she?”

“Carter, this is your second warning. You have five minutes to lay down your weapons and surrender. Your immediate cooperation is required to avoid serious consequences.”

“Don’t answer,” Abraham said. He examined the firing hole carved out of one board, tried to see if he could see them. They were maintaining good firing discipline, he noted. There was no reflected light, no sudden flaring of matches or cigarette lighters to give them away. Still, once the shooting started, Abraham would know exactly where they were.

He turned to Drake. “They’re bluffing. Right now, they’re trying to decide whether to go with the firepower or simply wait us out. Those are the two standard tactics, that and negotiating. They figure we’ll get low on food and water eventually and start making small compromises to get some. Or they’ll open fire all at once with the heavy stuff.”

“Which approach do you expected they’ll choose?” Drake asked.

“I think they’ll try to wait us out,” Abraham said. “They don’t know where the trucks are yet.”

“And what was in the trucks that is so important?” Drake asked.

“Supplies. Things the movement needs. We went to a lot of trouble to get them to give them up that easily.”

“So is this a suicide mission?”

Abraham shook his head. “To paraphrase General Patton, the whole point of war is not to die for your country. It’s to make the other son of a bitch die for his. That’s why we have the back way out. And that’s how you know that Kyle Smart wasn’t one of us. He wasn’t prepared.”

Abraham picked up a walkie-talkie. “Red Team, Team Leader. Prepare to move out.”

The sound of the diesel engine starting cut through the still night air. Greenfield turned on Tombstone, enraged. “Now you’ve pushed them into trying to make a break for it before we’ve got enough assets in place. I told you before and you didn’t listen — this isn’t a military operation. This is law enforcement. The sooner you get that through your head, the fewer people will have to die because of your arrogance.”

Tombstone turned to him, his face hard and cold. “If you were in the Navy, I would—”

“I’m not. And you can’t. You’re right on the edge of having a fuck-up happen right here, Magruder. Get your head out of your ass and pull your people back. It’s not going to take much for one of them to start shooting to cover their escape. Once one fires, you can kiss your ass good-bye, because the rest will follow suit. And then it’s Bull Run all over again. Do you really want that?”

Tombstone reined in his anger, forcing himself to consider the possibility that Greenfield was right. He had sent men and women to their deaths many times when he was in the Navy, sent them out on missions knowing that the probability of their returning was minimal. Was this any different?

Yes. It was. He was on unfamiliar terrain, not only physically but legally. Only a fool failed to listen to his advisors.

Without a word, Tombstone picked up the bullhorn. “Hold your fire. Weapons down, safeties on. I want a representative from each post back here for a briefing.” Turning to face the compound, he said, “Attention inside the house. Be advised that if you attempt to leave in other than the manner I have outlined, we will open fire. If there are any casualties on either side, you will all be accessories to murder.”

“Accessories to murder — now that’s a laugh. Maybe even a threat,” Abraham said.

“That was Tombstone Magruder,” a voice said from below the floor. It was Drake, speaking up to offer her opinion. “I’d take him seriously if I were you.”

“You know the man?” Abraham asked.

“I do.”

“Get up here.” Drake scrambled up the ladder. He grabbed her and marched her over to the door. “Tell him you’re in here.”

She glared at him, and for a moment he admired her sheer balls. “I won’t. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

He pinched her hard on the butt. She yelped.

He picked up the bullhorn and turned toward the front door. “You hear that, Magruder? That’s a friend of yours — Pamela Drake. I believe you two are acquainted. Be advised that if you opened fire on us, she’ll take the first round and it won’t necessarily be from your people.”

“She knows better than to be in there,” a cold voice answered immediately. “It’s not going to stop me, Carter.”

“Oh, I’m willing to bet it will,” Carter said to the other men. “Let’s up the ante. Gag her and tie her up.”

“No! I won’t—” Drake’s voice was cut off abruptly as a rag was stuffed in her mouth and secured by duct tape. She was tossed roughly into chair, her hands taped behind her and her feet bound to the legs of the chair. She struggled, but it made no difference at all.

“Now we’re out of here,” Abraham said. He led the other men down the ladder and into the basement.

Greenfield groaned. “If they have a hostage, that puts a different slant on things.”

“We can’t let it change anything,” Tombstone said. Despite his resolute tone of voice, there was an anguished look at his eyes. “If we do, then they win every time.”

“Let me call in our hostage negotiation team.”

“Like you said earlier — no time. Something’s going on in there.”

“You cannot take chances with the lives of the hostages,” Greenville said clearly and forcefully, as those speaking to a slow learner. “You cannot. That’s not the way it works in the United States of America. Not my America, anyway.”

“And that’s the point, isn’t it? They think it’s their America — you think it’s yours. The question is who wins.” Tombstone looked around at the rest of the group and said, “I need options, people.”

An Army sergeant stepped forward. “Sir, if we can get a microphone in close enough, we might be able to hear what’s going on. That might help.”

“Good idea. How can you get a microphone up close?”

The Army sergeant turned to study the equipment stacked around them. “Cable, a microphone — get a couple of people to cut me down some small trees, sir, and lash them together. I can get close enough to use them like a boom. It may not work, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Do it.”

Relief surged thought the crowd as pent-up energy was released. To be doing something, anything, was better than waiting. Greenfield watched them work together, improving the makeshift boom on the fly. Twenty minutes later, it was done.

“On my way,” the Army sergeant said. He crept along a gully until he was at the closest approach to the house. Slowly, carefully, he extended the boom, shoving the microphone closer and closer. Finally, he lifted it slightly so it sat against the window.

Forty feet away, men and women crowded around the speaker, hardly daring to breath as they waited for any sound. There was nothing. They listened for twenty minutes, with nothing but silence. Finally, frustrated, Tombstone called the sergeant back.

“Have you done this sort of thing before?” he asked.

The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir. But with better equipment. Still, this gear is good enough to pick up anything going on inside. If you’re not hearing anything, I’d say there’s nobody in there. Nobody can hold still that long without coughing, moving, bumping into something. Especially not men under pressure like this.”

“They’re gone?” Greenfield asked.

“Sounds that way to me, sir.”

Suddenly, something banged against the front door. Slides locked back and rounds were chambered as everyone turned to stare. There was another hard knock from the inside, and a muffled scream as though someone were—

“It’s Pamela,” Tombstone said suddenly. “Pamela, gagged. God, how many times have I wanted to do that?”

“A slow approach, with shields,” Greenfield advised. He motioned to the riot-control gear. “It won’t stop everything, but it may deflect enough rounds to keep you alive.”

“Did you hear the man?” Tombstone snapped. “They’re not there anymore.”

Tombstone could hear Greenfield behind him issuing a flurry of orders, directing the teams to fan out to search for the escaping militants. There wasn’t a lot they could do at this point without air support, but they had to try.

Air support — and why had that fallen through? A sudden, ugly suspicion surfaced in Tombstone’s mind. Was it possible? He turned to Greenfield. “Which Air National Guard unit did you contact for support?”

“The local one. I was trying to arrange it informally, but when that fell through, I tried the Air Force Reserve. They were still bucking it around in channels, trying to figure out the funding.”

“You said a lot of these men have connections to the National Guard. Is it possible that somebody derailed the cooperation on that end?”

Greenfield scowled. “Yeah, it’s real possible. That exact thought occurred to me. I didn’t push it, because the last thing I need in the air is a pilot and crew not really looking for the bad guys. If anything, they could be spotters and reveal our location.”

“You don’t know who you can trust, do you? But I do.” Tombstone picked up his cell phone and punched in a number. He glanced over at the Army communications specialist. “Have you got HF abilities on that?”

“Yes, sir. All I need is a frequency.”

Tombstone reeled off a string of numbers from memory, then said, “Set it up. Let me know when it’s done.” The tech punched in a couple of numbers, then gave Tombstone a thumbs-up. Tombstone spoke into the cell phone. “Navy Detachment One, I need speak to your operations officer. Code Cosmic One.”

There was a stunned silence from the other end; then a young female voice quickly recovered and said, “Code Cosmic One, aye. Wait. Out.”

Tombstone let his hand holding the microphone drop to his side. “Now we wait.”

“What was that all about?” Greenfield asked.

Tombstone gazed at him impassively. “An old friend.”

Jackson was sweating heavily, which alarmed Mertz. He’d never seen Jackson so much as break a sweat under any circumstances.

“Red Team One — execute!” his father’s voice snapped over the walkie-talkie.

Jackson took a deep breath. His voice trembled ever so slightly as he said, “Okay. This is it. I’ll open the doors.”

Commander Michael Fields had duty, and he was taking advantage of the otherwise wasted day and night to catch up on his desk work. He had just polished off four inches of paperwork when a young airman burst into his office and said, “Sir, I need you on the clear tactical circuit. Priority Cosmic One.”

“What the hell?” Fields shoved himself away from his desk and headed for the radio room at a trot. Just why would anyone be calling up at this sleepy backwater training station with that sort of priority? It didn’t make sense.

“Unknown caller, this is the operations officer,” Fields said into the mike. “Interrogative your authority?”

“Fields?” the voice said incredulously, and something in it sounded familiar to him. “Don’t use my name on this circuit, but I think you know who this is. In fact, I think I bailed your butt out of trouble a couple of times, young man.”

“Holy shit,” Fields breathed. Rekeying the mike, he said, “Yes, I think I do know who this is. What can I do for you?” He carefully avoided saying sir or admiral.

“I need two attack helicopters, maybe an S-3, and anything else you can get airborne with guns on it. And I need them now. How fast can you scramble them?”

“This isn’t exactly an attack base,” Fields said. “It’ll take me”—he glanced over at the airman, who was already juggling aircraft spots and crews—“about fifteen minutes if everything works right. We have a training mission just ready to launch, and I can chop them to your control.”

“What composition?”

“Two helicopters, but they’re guns-only capability. An S-3, too. How will that do?”

“The load-out on the S-3?”

Fields glanced at the airman. She pointed at an entry on the schedule and said, “Just guns, sir.”

Fields relayed the information, and was answered with, “That will do just fine.” The familiar voice reeled off a frequency, and said, “We’ll be operating in the clear. Unavoidable, but there’s no way around it.”

“Any chance you have some SINGAARS gear there?” Fields asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” the voice answered, sounding slightly surprised. “I’m not sure it’s configured correctly — give me a channel and a setting. We have the military code-of-the-day information.”

Fields turned to the airman. “Get the communications officer up here. I think we’re just about to jury-rig ourselves a secure circuit.”