Terror At Dawn

TWENTY-ONE

Greenfield’s radio crackled to life. “Team Leader, Team One. The doors to the barn are open. I see one truck — looks like our target.”

Greenfield scowled. “They’re making a run for it.”

“Sounds like it,” Tombstone agreed. “Where is everybody?”

“We’ve got a couple of routes blocked, but not everybody is in position. At least it’s not dark yet.”

“It’s dark down there in the valleys,” Tombstone pointed out. “With the cloud cover, it’ll be a dark night, too.”

“Team Leader, Team One! They’re rolling, sir. A two-ton truck, headed out from the barn and southbound.”

“Move, people!” Tombstone snapped.

Greenfield changed channels on his radio, and was snapping out orders to the lookouts and strike elements positioned further out. All their careful planning, all their preparation — all gone to shit.

Just when he thought he could stand it no more, Abraham Carter felt a trickle of fresh air on his forehead. At first he thought he was imagining it. It seemed like they’d been in the tunnel for hours and hours, although it could not have been more than fifteen minutes.

There it was again, this time unmistakable. The blackness around him seemed to be softening slightly, and he thought he could see a faint glimmer of light ahead. Yes, it had to be — the end of the tunnel. Energy surged through him.

He picked up his pace, now frantic to be free. The steel toes of his boot bit deeper into the soft ground, his fingers scrabbling over dirt and an occasional stone. The tunnel itself was supported by cross-beams and timbers at intervals, but they had not completely prevented small slides of dirt from caving in from the sides.

The dead, underground silence was breaking up, too. He thought he could hear night sounds, the wind blowing across the entrance, branches creaking, and small animals moving through the brush. And another sound — what was it?

Trucks. Big ones. Jackson.

No. Surely not. They couldn’t be—

The rumbling grew louder, now clearly audible over every noise he thought he’d heard from the outside. It was Jackson and his men, taking advantage of the break in the action to flee.

“Hurry!” he shouted, the ground around him absorbing his words. A chunk of the wall ahead broke off, each particle distinct in the beam from his flashlight. “We have to get out of here.”

The rumbling grew louder. Now he could feel the vibrations through his fingertips and legs where they rested on the dirt. He moved even faster, in his haste kicking dirt into the faces of the men behind him, provoking a spate of curses. He ignored them, unable to concentrate on anything other than the awful possibility now forming in his mind.

The sound was even lower now. The men behind him recognized it and seemed to catch his fear. They crowded up behind him, stamping on his feet and Achilles tendons, trying to push past him in the passageway built for only one man. Panic set in, driving all rational thought from their minds. Trickles of debris came from every direction, and the air was thick with suspended particles. It was harder to breathe. But the light, ah, the light — there it was, clear evidence that safety was just fifteen feet ahead.

Abraham lashed out viciously with hit right foot, kicking the man behind him. He could barely hear the shout of pain over the all-consuming noise of the trucks overhead. It was getting harder to move now as the loose dirt accumulated along the bottom of the passageway, sucking at his legs and hands, trying to embrace him. Sheer terror overwhelmed him. It was like swimming now, and his progress slowed. The cries from the men behind him grew softer as he piled up dirt in his wake.

Suddenly, there was a huge jolt overhead. The dirt rained down, coming in larger chunks now, mixed with rocks, and it hurt when it struck him. He couldn’t breathe.

But he could go without air long enough to reach the entrance if only—

The passage in front of him collapsed, blocking off the traces of light that had been his only hope. He took a deep breath, trying to suck in as much oxygen as he could, and dug frantically at the dirt in front of him. Every bit he removed was immediately replaced by more dirt falling from overhead.

For just a moment, his oxygen-starved brain entertained the possibility of digging straight up, burrowing his way to the surface instead of trying to clear the passageway. But the tunnel was fifteen feet deep here, and one part of his mind knew it was hopeless.

One last violent cataclysm of sound and the remainder of the tunnel caved in. Crushing weight pressed in on him from all sides. It crept into his nostrils and mouth, forcing its way down into his lungs, hard and gritty against his open eyes, devouring him. He tried to scream, but there was nowhere for the air in his lungs to go, not with the dirt pressing in on him. He struggled, still hoping, still believing that he could make his way through it, until the last bit of life faded from his body.

“I am in pursuit of the lead vehicle. He’s made it to the junction and is turning left.” Suddenly, a barrage of gunfire echoed around the mountains, coming to them both over the radio and through the air. “They’ve got automatic weapons!” a man shouted. “Taking fire — we’re hit, we’re hit!” The circuit went dead.

Subsequent reports came in from the other pursuit units. It was the same story in each confrontation. Tombstone’s troops were massively underpowered when confronting the firepower of the militia. The rounds fired by the militia smashed their engine blocks, immediately immobilizing the pursuit vehicles. Had the helicopters been there, they might have been able to stand back and track the vehicles by infrared, but the danger would have been significant.

“Come on!” Tombstone shouted, heading for his vehicle. “They’re not getting away!”

He hopped into the driver’s seat and fired the vehicle up. His second in command plopped himself into the passenger seat, drawing his side arm as he did. “This is not a good idea. A very not-good idea.”

“You’d let them get away?” Tombstone asked, disbelievingly.

Greenfield grunted. “Listen, you heard what happened. They’ve got armor-piercing rounds. Even assuming we can get past the wreckage on the road, what makes you think you’re so invulnerable? This isn’t an aircraft you’re driving, Magruder. It’s a ground vehicle — a tough one, one built for trouble, but no match for rounds designed to take out a tank.”

Tombstone slammed the vehicle into gear and pulled away, tires kicking out dirt. He pulled onto the road and accelerated, heading toward the junction.

Greenfield tried again. “This is a mountain road, not airspace. You can’t maneuver, not with the drop-off on either side. You looked at the map. You know what the terrain looks like. It’s no go, Admiral. It’s a suicide mission, and one that won’t hurt them one little bit.”

Tombstone slammed on the brakes. “So what do you recommend?”

“We get law enforcement involved in it now. They’ve committed crimes — they’re clearly in our jurisdiction. We have evidence — hard evidence — that they are in possession of stolen ammunition from the reserve center. With that, it’s not going to be a problem to find probable cause for a search warrant.”

“A search warrant — lot of good that will do. We get a fancy piece of paper with a judge’s signature on it. Meanwhile, they’re out there with those weapons and ammunition, and by the time we can catch up with them, it’s going to be distributed out to every little group of crackpots in every part of the country. That’s what you recommend?”

Greenfield’s voice was hard. “Welcome to the world of domestic law enforcement, Admiral.”

The truck nosed down hard as the ground sank away beneath it. Mertz shifted into low gear and stomped down on the accelerator. After a heart-wrenching moment, the truck grabbed traction and jerked itself out of the ditch.

“Keep going!” Jackson shouted. “We’re almost out of here!”

Mertz shifted to a higher gear and jammed the accelerator down, achieving a suicidal speed. The road before them seemed to be moving as it was caught in the bouncing headlights from the truck. Mertz hung on to the steering wheel grimly while the violent motion of the truck threatened to throw him across the cab.

The tunnel. It had to be the tunnel. Jackson had walked the path between the barn and the road too many times not to know that there was no ditch there.

Had they gotten out? Or had they still been in the tunnel when it caved in. Jackson felt his world spiraling out of control. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way — it wasn’t!

“Team Leader, this is Viking 709, over.” The laconic voice coming in over the secure portable gear gave every impression that the pilot hooked up with retired admirals wading through brush every day.

Tombstone took the mike. “Roger, 709, Team Leader. Interrogative your position?”

“About five miles out, sir, angels five. You ought to be hearing us about now.”

“Copy five miles — and your weapons load-out?” Tombstone asked.

“Guns, flares — that’s all we have. Team Leader, our skipper just told us to get airborne and chop to your control. Any chance you can fill us in on what we’re doing here?”

“Roger, sure can, Viking. Apologies for the mystery, but we were on an open circuit.”

“And now we’re not.” The pilot’s voice left little doubt in anyone’s mind that he wanted to be filled in and now. Tombstone felt a surge of anger. Just who did this little pup think he was, questioning the orders of—

Okay, okay. This little pup was an aircraft commander who’d launched on his skipper’s orders, but deserved some more information before he started shooting. Fair enough. He probably didn’t even know it was Tombstone.

Tombstone sketched in the situation for the pilot, wondering for a split second whether or not it was possible that this young man was somehow involved in one of the militias. He pushed aside the thought — at some point, you had to start trusting somebody, and it might as well be now.

“Okay, so I’m looking for a deuce-and-a-half,” the pilot acknowledged. “I’ve flown enough ground support to do that. You got someone who knows the lingo?”

“More than one,” Tombstone said. He passed the mike to Greenfield. “As a former Marine, this ought to be right up your alley.”

A new noise caught Jackson’s attention. “Aircraft. We’re okay as long as were under the trees, but as soon as we—”

Suddenly, a large chunk of the road in front of them exploded. It threw up a solid wall of dirt and rocks and shattered trees that momentarily hung suspended in front of them, then fell to the ground.

Mertz swerved hard to the right, trying to avoid it. A tree loomed up in front of the truck and he screamed, hauling the truck back onto the road again. The engine screamed, over-revved, freewheeling, with the tires no longer in contact with the ground. For one long moment, they were airborne. Jackson felt his stomach lurch up into his throat.

They hit the ground with a bone-shattering jolt, landing on the right two tires. The truck hung there for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to remain in that position, then rolled over several times before pitching up against the tree. The engine died, evidently abused beyond its limits.

Silence, broken only by the sound of branches snapping as the truck settled to the ground. Jackson Carter lost consciousness.

He came to a few moments later, and then tried to figure out what happened. He knew where he was, what he was doing, but exactly how they had gone from careening down the road to lying on their side wasn’t clear. He looked over at his companion, still seat-belted in. “Mertz?”

There was no reply. Carter turned toward him, stifling a groan as strained back and neck muscles protested vigorously. The other man was lying against his shoulder harness, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. The left side of his head was smashed. He was not breathing. Still, Carter reached out and felt for a pulse. There was none.

Shit. He settled back against the seat belt holding him and contemplated just remaining there. His legs were almost in Mertz’s lap, and the belt supported him sprawled against the seat. He could think of no reason to move.

The noise of a helicopter overhead brought him back to full consciousness. He forced himself to care about the situation, and reached with stiff fingers to the shoulder harness and belt buckle. It was jammed in position by his weight hanging on it. Swearing, he pulled a combat knife out of its sheath and cut the straps.

He fell down in a heap on the interior left side of the truck, landing on Mertz. For a moment he rested, wondering if his legs would support him. Then, as the sound of the helicopters grew closer, he forced himself to extend his legs. He was standing inside the truck cabin, his head poking out of the shattered right-hand window.

The door. If it’s not jammed—He shoved, putting all of his weight into it, and the heavy metal door complained and moved up. With a resounding thud barely audible over the noise of the helicopters, it fell back against the body of the truck. He grabbed the sides of the opening and pulled himself up, finding footholds on the dashboard and in the seat. Every muscle in his body was screaming that as bad as the pain was now, it would be worse in the immediate future. He ignored it, grateful for the training that enabled him to do so.

Moments later, he was free of the truck. The sound of a helicopter was receding slightly. He took a deep breath of fresh air, smelled the distinctive odor of diesel fuel. A new sense of urgency overtook him. He lowered himself carefully from the side of the truck, trying not to damage his body any further, and hobbled off the path. With each step, his muscles eased slightly. While he could no longer move with the easy grace that he was accustomed to, at least he could walk.

Drake struggled furiously against the bindings, but there was no give to the duct tape that held her hands together and her legs to the chair.

She could hear her cameraman swearing quietly as he struggled with his own bindings.

She had covered too many of these sorts of situations overseas not to know what was coming next. Eventually, there would be a takedown, a violent, no-holds-barred approach on the house. And unless the Americans were a good deal more cautious about it than their contemporaries overseas, there was a good chance she would not survive.

This can’t be happening here. It doesn’t happen in America. Afghanistan, the Middle East, China. Not here.

She heard a quiet movement out front and froze. Any second now. If only she had some way of calling out a warning, of telling them that she was still inside and that the men they were after were gone.

The door in front of her slammed back and bounced off the wall behind it. Men dressed in dark colors were outlined in the door frame. She held her breath, waiting for the first bullet.

The men moved rapidly, spreading out in all directions. One grabbed her chair, dragged it outside, and threw it to the ground. He was fast, so fast — moments later, a knife was sliding along her skin, cutting into the duct tape. He ripped it off her mouth.

“Where are they?” he asked, wasting no time.

“Gone. There’s a tunnel.”

“Do you know where it goes?”

“No. I was only in it for moment. It looked pretty long.”

“Medic!” he shouted. He proceeded to unbind her hands and her legs. “They’ll take good care of you.” With that, he disappeared into the open door.

Two other men approached her, one carrying a small bag. “I’m OK,” she said, trying to stand up.

Gentle hands held her down. “We’ll be the judge of that.”

“Pamela,” a familiar voice said. She turned to see Tombstone kneeling next to her. When had he walked up? She must be more shook up than she thought. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, all at once unable to trust her voice. This wasn’t the first time she’d almost died covering a story, but it was the first time she’d felt so completely violated, so helpless.

“Get her back to the truck,” Tombstone said. “Is there anything you can tell us?”

“Tunnel. About ten men.” Her voice was shaky. She took a deep breath, alarmed at the shuddering that was spreading throughout her body.

“Did they say where they were going?”

She shook her head.

“Anything else you can tell me?” Tombstone asked again, examining her closely. Clearly, he wasn’t used to seeing her shook up.

“No.” Pushing away the two medics, she struggled to her feet, assisted by Tombstone’s hand on her elbow. “Thanks. For getting me out.”

Tombstone kept his hand on her elbow and for just a second, she saw a trace of the man she had once been engaged to, her lover, the man he’d been before he’d lost Tomboy. But it disappeared to be replaced by the new, sterner Tombstone that had emerged over the last several years.

“All right, then.”

He turned to head to the house, but she called out to him. “Tombstone. I meant it. Thanks. And — uh — is my cameraman here?”

“I want live air,” Drake snapped into her cell phone. “I have the whole story — every bit of it. I was there.”

“I understand, Miss Drake.” the long-suffering evening producer said. “It’s a dynamite story. But we’re on live feed from the Middle East right now.”

“Is there any blood? Right now, this second, I mean?” Drake demanded.

“We’re not sure, but it looks like a big strike against some shore stations.”

“I don’t care what it looks like. You know the rule: ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’ And right now, Idaho is a whole lot bloodier than a bunch of bombs hitting sand in the Middle East, at least at this very second. And seconds are what count.”

“Okay, okay. Stand by. We’ll feed you as breaking news in four minutes.”

“Okay, and I want two minutes,” Drake said.

“Shit, no. I got bombs falling over there. Thirty seconds.”

“Ninety.”

“Done.”

Drake snapped her cell phone shut and turned to her cameraman. “On in four for ninety.” He just nodded — he’d worked with her often enough to know that as long as he did his part, she’d be letter-perfect with hers.

Drake shut her eyes, mentally outlining her report. Ninety seconds — thirty better than she’d been willing to settle for, but still not enough time for everything. They’d already uploaded the footage they’d taken from the hill overlooking the Smarts’ and the coverage during her meetings with Carter. There’d be some outside footage of the compound — damn, she needed visuals! Sure, she could stand in front of the camera and talk, but viewers these days went for the visuals, not the talking heads, and there was only so much of the stark landscape around them that they’d want to see.

Just then, she heard someone shout, “We found them. Ten of them, in the tunnel!”

“Any survivors?” Tombstone asked.

“No.”

Ah. She felt a mixed surge of relief and pity that Abraham Carter and his men had not made it out.

If it bleeds, it leads. And just what could be more interesting in the Middle East right now than this?