The Line

CHAPTER 22

It was a perfect night for lovers on Waikiki but a terrible night for covert operations. The sea was smooth and flat.

The moon was three-quarters full and reflected off the mirror surface, giving forty-two percent illumination. The sound of the minimal surf on the sandy beach was surprisingly loud.

The submarine lay off shore, due south of Fort Kamehameha, over the horizon so the lights on shore couldn’t be seen. It was submerged, lying dead in the water 100 feet down, ten kilometers from the coast.

On the back deck, a hastily welded hatch opened in the hull, leading into the pressurized compartment — the dry deck shelter (DDS)-bolted to the deck. The two men climbing into the DDS wore wet suits and carried their gear in black mesh bags.

They ran through the pre-operations checks on the vehicle cocooned inside the DDS — the Mark IX Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (SDV). The batteries were at full charge, everything was functioning properly. The Mark IX was a long, flattened rectangle with propellers and dive fins at the rear. A little over nineteen feet long, it was only slightly more than six feet wide and drew less than three feet.

The two divers slid inside, closing the hatches behind them. For the trip in they would breathe off air from the tanks on the vehicle and they hooked their breathing gear up appropriately.

The man on the right spoke into the radiophone which was connected by umbilical to the sub.

“Mother, this is Little Bird. We are clear to proceed. Over.”

“Roger, Little Bird. We read all green in here. Over.”

“Flood and release. Over.”

“We’ll be waiting for you. Good hunting. Umbilicals cut and flooding and releasing. Out.”

The radiophone went dead. With a hiss, water began pouring into the DDS. The pilot worked at keeping the SDV at neutral buoyancy as the chamber flooded. Water also flooded into the chambers inside the SDV where the two divers lay on their stomachs peering out the front glass canopy.

Once the chamber was full, the large hatch on the end swung open. The pilot goosed the twin propellers, and the SDV was free of the submarine, clearing the DDS. The pilot controlled the Mark IX using stabilizers, both horizontal and vertical, added to the rear of the propellers.

The second diver was the navigator and he was currently punching in on the waterproof panel in front of him.

“Fixing Doppler,” he announced over the commo link between him and his cohort. The computerized Doppler navigation system was now updated with their current location and would guide them on their journey, greatly simplifying a task that previously was a nightmare in pitch-black seas. The SDV also boasted an obstacle avoidance sonar subsystem (OAS), which provided automatic warning to the pilot of any obstacles in the sub’s path — essential given that they could see little more than an inch out the front window and would be “flying” blind, trusting to the Doppler and their charts for navigation.

“Course set. All clear,” the navigator announced.

The pilot increased power to the propellers and they were moving, heading due north.

“It’s like a shot in the dark, sergeant major,” Vasquez said.

“They’re not going to come paddling through in a canoe.”

“No, they aren’t,” Skibicki agreed.

“But that’s why we got this, Vasquez,” he said slapping the small black box between his legs. They were seated on the breakwater, just to the west of Fort Kamehameha, facing toward the channel leading into Pearl Harbor. A housing area for Hickam Air Force base was just behind them, but all was quiet, the two having crept in just after dark and taking up their position, easily hiding among the rocks whenever the rare Air Patrol car rolled by.

“According to my buddy in Navy Special Ops we can pick up an octopus farting with this bad boy,” Skibicki continued.

“If they come in, we’ll hear them and we’ll be able to track them. We still up with the commander?” he asked, referring to the Satcom radio in the backpack she had carried.

“I got them six by.” Vasquez considered the situation.

“But why tonight? The ceremony isn’t until—”

“Recon,” Skibicki interrupted.

“No man worth his salt would hit a target without taking a look first.”

He glanced out at the dark strip of water through which generations of fighting ships had passed.

“They’ll come.”

“Running clear,” the navigator said.

“I put us at three klicks off coast. Change heading to three-four-five degrees.”

“Three-four-five degrees,” the pilot confirmed, as he manipulated the controls.

“ETA, forty minutes.”

“Roger.”

The SDV slid through the water, the propellers leaving no trace, fifty feet below the surface. As they got closer the navigator directed the pilot up closer to the surface, at the same time being aware they were getting closer to the coral reefs lying off the shore.

“We have one hundred feet under us,” the navigator announced. Since Oahu was a volcanic island, the hydrography dictated rapid loss of water depth due to the steep slopes.

“Eighty feet.”

“Sixty. We’re near the reefs.”

The pilot slowed their forward speed.

“Forty. I’ve got contact off to the right front. Path still clear.”

The pilot slowed until they were at a crawl.

“Hey, why does the commander—”

“Shh,” Skibicki said, slicing his across his throat.

“I’ve got something.” He listened hard into the headphones.

“Something’s coming underwater. Something small.”

“I’ve got solid contact,” the navigator said.

“Shoreline,” he confirmed.

“New heading, one-one-zero degrees.”

“One-one-zero degrees.” The SDV turned hard right, paralleling the shore to the east.

“What the fuck?” Skibicki muttered. He turned the hydrophone in the water, tracking.

“They’re going east!”

“Not the harbor?” Vasquez asked, shifting her gaze in the indicated direction, even though she knew the vehicle that they were looking for was under water.

“Come on,” Skibicki said, pulling up the cord for the phone.

“We’ve got to follow. Call it in.”

As Skibicki packed up the hydrophone, Vasquez called in the change to their higher commander.

“Easy, easy,” the navigator muttered.

“On my mark. Hold.”

The pilot brought the SDV to a halt, then slowly let them sink down until they rested on the bottom, in-forty feet of water, inside the coral reef off of the edge of Hickam Field, 200 meters off shore. To their front, due east, was the reef runway for Honolulu International Airport.

“Switch to personal air,” the pilot ordered before he shut down the vehicle system.

The two men quickly turned off all the equipment on the SDV. They pushed open their hatches and slid out, pulling their equipment bags with them. Leaving the Mark IX resting on the bottom, they swam forward, toward the shore.

“I’ve lost them,” Skibicki cursed, throwing the headphones down.

“They must have stopped. They’ll be coming in somewhere around here.

Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, pulling out his own set of night vision goggles.

Putting them on, he then checked his MP-5 submachine gun, insuring the safety was on and a round was in the chamber.

He looked over his shoulder. The hangars for the Hawaii Air National Guard abutted the shore, and in the distance the runways of the Air Force base lay straight ahead and those of the international airport were off to the right.

The two swimmers cut smoothly through the warm water, their fins flickering back and forth. The lead man held his computer nav board in his hands, directly under his mask, reading the data off it. There was no visibility and they dared not use lights. He followed the indications on the small glowing screen in front of his face and turned slightly right, his buddy close on his fins.

Skibicki and Vasquez walked past the Hickam Marina, weapons at the ready, eyes open for both the infiltrators and the Air Police. Skibicki saw a dark line ahead, cutting in from the shore — the Kumumau canal and, although he didn’t know the destination, he now knew the route.

It was what he would do.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, sprinting toward the canal.

The two swimmers found the entrance of the canal. It was very shallow, less than eight feet, and they swam just above the bottom. They put their navigation devices away now. There was only one way to go. They followed the’ narrow waterway until it ended, then carefully popped to the surface. They were inside the perimeter of Hickam Air Force Base and the large hangar that housed Air Force One was less than forty feet away.

Caching their swim fins and nav devices, the two men slithered out of the water and began making their way through the six-inch grass toward the back of the hangar.

“There,” Skibicki hissed, spotting the two forms edging over the lip of the canal and melding into the earth. He watched them move toward the hangar, then tapped Vasquez on the shoulder.

“Stay here and keep in commo with the CO.”

He went to his knees, then his stomach and began following the two men.

They were very good, taking their time in the approach, but Ski had done this many times before during his years in Vietnam, and he was better. By the time the two men had reached the dark wall of the hangar, he was less than forty feet behind them.

He paused and watched as they began climbing up the outside wall, using rungs that were welded onto the metal.

Like two dark insects they crept up, then disappeared over the edge of the roof.

Skibicki gave it two minutes, then he followed, grabbing the first rung and scaling the 100-foot wall. When he reached the top rung, he carefully peered over the edge.

The roof of the large hangar was flat, with ventilation ducts spaced every thirty feet. The men were a little over halfway across the roof at one of the ducts.

Skibicki crept over the edge of the roof and made his way to the cover of another duct where he could watch them from a concealed position.

Taking great care, the two men removed the top of the duct noiselessly.

They then took something small and square out of one of the packs they had carried and attached it to the end of a rope. They lowered the object into the duct and Skibicki watched as they maneuvered whatever it was for several minutes, until they seemed satisfied. When the rope came back up, whatever had been on the end was no longer there.

The two men replaced the top of the duct and retraced their steps.

Skibicki held perfectly still in the dark shadows as they passed within ten feet and slipped over the edge of the roof and disappeared.

Skibicki gave it another ten minutes, then moved forward and peered into the duct where they had worked. Directly below was the front, end of Air Force One. On the top of the plane lay the intake for inflight refueling. Skibicki nodded, satisfied that he knew what had happened and made his way back to Vasquez.

“They went back into the canal,” Vasquez reported.

“Give me the handset,” Skibicki ordered.

“The Sam Houston is supposed to be out at sea on maneuvers.

It’s under radio silence as per normal operating procedure so we’re not exactly sure where it is,” General Maxwell said.

“So in other words, it could be doing what Major Watson says it’s doing?” Senator Jordan asked.

“Yes, it could,” Maxwell said.

“What about the soldiers parachuting in?”

“The information about the refueling is correct, but I can find no record of a parachute drop or of any missions to this island by a Combat Talon aircraft. The battalion commander for 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group in Okinawa says all his troops are accounted for.”

“What else?” Jordan asked.

“General Martin is waiting down the hall,” Maxwell said.

“And we still have nothing solid,” Jordan said.

“All right, bring General Martin in first and see what he has to say, then we’ll bring the major in and see what they come up with between the two of them” Boomer had spent a restless night — no word on Trace, no word from Skibicki, and he didn’t feel like he had made the best impression yesterday. In fact, somewhere around three in the morning he had seriously begun to believe that he was insane. It was only the hard plastic of Stubbs’s ID card in his pocket that kept him from going over the edge.

He started as the door to the hotel room swung open and Agent Stewart appeared.

“Senator Jordan wants to see you.”

Boomer followed Stewart down the hallway and into the large office suite occupied by the senator. General Maxwell was also there, but Boomer was surprised to see General Martin sitting stiffly in a chair across from the Senator’s desk.

“Major Watson, I believe you know General Martin.”

Boomer snapped to attention and threw a salute in Martin’s direction.

He was irritated to note that Martin didn’t stand up to return the salute, a severe breach of military protocol that only the three military men in the room were aware of. Boomer knew he was in the shit now and following the senator’s gesture, took a seat at the corner of the desk, closest to Martin but facing both men.

“Major Watson, I’ve been telling General Martin that we seem to have a problem with some military maneuvers going on around this island. I’ve had General Maxwell check things out and he has only been able to discover some limited information. I’ve also discussed with General Martin your allegations about your mission into the Ukraine. General Martin denies knowledge of any of these activities.

“I also informed him of your allegation that there is a secret military organization, which you call The Line, which has been active in the politics of this country for over half a century. General Martin says he has no knowledge of such an organization.”

Boomer felt his irritation deepen with the senator’s lawyerly diction.

You didn’t read people their rights on the battlefield — you fought. He kept his peace, waiting to find out where he was in the engagement being sparred in this room.

“I only felt it proper,” Jordan continued, “to have General Martin here to discuss this situation.” The senator looked down at his desktop.

“I have an appointment with the President in an hour and a half. I hope we can resolve this situation now.”

“There is nothing to resolve,” Martin snapped.

“I do not appreciate being called in here and having to listen to some insane story, which—”

“General,” Jordan gently interrupted, “I appreciate your situation, but I do not have the time to follow proper format at the present, and I would like to get this over with.” He shifted his gaze to Boomer.

“Is there anything you would like to ask General Martin?”

Boomer could see Martin’s face go red at the thought of answering questions from some lowly major. He didn’t understand this setup — why tip your hand to the enemy, even if you’re not sure they’re the enemy?

Having served in the military for half his life, Boomer was amazed sometimes at the different perspective civilians used to face problems.

“Sir,” he said, addressing Jordan, “I’m sure you have already asked all the pertinent questions.”

“Young man,” Senator Jordan said, “you have confessed to us that you have committed two acts that would be viewed as criminal in nature: your actions in the Ukraine, and here on this island in the death of two men.

I would suggest you take a bit more interest in the situation.”

“What do you think he’s going to tell me?” Boomer asked, the irritation plain in his voice. He knew he was so far gone over the line now that nothing mattered.

“Do you think General Martin is going to say, “Well, certainly, I was aware that the Delta Force mission into the Ukraine was designed to kill the NATO inspectors and embarrass this administration’s policy in that matter?”

“Major, you’d better watch your tone,” Martin said. He looked at Jordan.

“As you just said, this man is the one with the problem. He’s the one who has apparently confessed to breaking the law and committing murder—” As Martin ranted. Boomer suddenly realized what was going on. It wasn’t at all what a military man would do.

But Jordan didn’t view this as a military situation — he apparently thought it was a political one. The modern soldier rarely saw his opponent face-to-face. The fight was conducted from a distance. Even if you were in a foxhole four feet from your foe, you didn’t exactly stand up and look him in the eyes. But in politics you always looked the people you dealt with in the eye. It was the way the battle was waged. He realized that Jordan was watching the two of them and evaluating.

All that was fine and well inside this room. Boomer thought, but when the President went out to Pearl on the morning of the seventh they were going to be on very different turf with a very different set of rules.

Bullets didn’t argue niceties. They were final.

General Martin had finished and stood to leave.

“Do you know General Benjamin Hooker, class of ‘thirty, sir?” Boomer asked suddenly.

“He was head of the history department at the Academy for quite a few years.”

Martin paused and looked at Boomer.

“What does that have to do with anything we’ve discussed in this room, Major?”

“I believe General Hooker is a member of The Line, and I want to know if you are in communication with him.”

“You want to know?” Martin asked incredulously. He turned to Jordan.

“I don’t have to put up with this. I have always paid you the utmost respect. Senator, but I do not need to sit here and listen to this crap.”

“I want your word that none of what Major Watson said is true,” Senator Jordan said.

“I said it wasn’t true,” Martin said.

“I want your word,” Jordan repeated.

“As an officer in the United States Army, you have my word,” Martin said.

“I want the Sam Houston to immediately be ordered into port. I want any Army units participating in exercises on Oahu to return to their barracks. You will place all records of Delta Force operations for the past three months on my desk before close of business today. Is that clear?”

“You don’t have the authority—” Martin began, but Jordan cut him off.

“Do you want me to go to the President and get him to order it?”

Martin changed tack.

“Sir, those Delta Force records are—”

“Close of business today,” Jordan said.

Martin nodded.

“Certainly, sir.” He leaned forward and put his hands on Jordan’s desk.

“But I want something in return.”

“And that is?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs pointed at Boomer.

“I want him to go with me now. I don’t want him running around here causing trouble. He’s probably A.W.O.L., and I want him under the custody of the military.”

Jordan nodded.

“All right.”

“Wait a second!” General Maxwell exclaimed.

“You can’t do that.”

Jordan blinked.

“I can do any damn thing I want. Major Watson is military and as such is subject to the uniform code of military justice. We have to turn him over to the authorities sooner or later. I believe this issue has been resolved. I believe it will be best for all involved if we forget about everything that has happened the last several days.”

Boomer was numb. He felt like a detached observer watching everything play out like he wasn’t involved at all.

But when Martin escorted him to the door and two men in civilian clothes and military haircuts slapped handcuffs on him, he knew it wasn’t a dream.

Consciousness returned to Trace on a tide of pain. Her leg throbbed uncontrollably. The pain in her chest was dependent on her breathing, but that being an essential bodily function, it was inevitable. She was flat on her back, and as her eyes slowly came into focus she saw a white ceiling above her head. She carefully turned her head. The room was painted off-white and the cheap dresser and small desk indicated that it had once been occupied by a child. The blinds on the window were closed, and she could see gray light all around the edges. The door opened, and Trace smiled as Harry walked into the room holding a glass of orange juice.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Harry said, setting the glass down on the small table next to the bed.

“How do you feel?”

“Lousy,” Trace said.

“More specifically?” Harry asked as he lifted the sheet and looked at the large white cast. Trace was glad to see that someone had cut open the leg on her jeans, cleaned them and put them back on her.

“Your leg?”

“Hurts like hell.”

“It’s been set. Should heal fine,” Harry said.

“Your ribs?”

“Same. They hurt.” Trace remembered the captain with the ax, and suddenly tears came to her eyes and she sobbed, the movement causing pain to explode and leading directly into a gasp.

“Easy now, easy,” Harry said, cradling her head in a massive hand.

“You been through a rough time, missy, and you done damn well, but we got some more work to do.

The tears and the feeling got to be held off for a while yet.

I know what you’re going through. First time I came back from a mission it hit me hard, but I only let it hit me when I was back, and we ain’t back yet.”

“The diary?” Trace asked.

“Yeah, the diary,” Harry said.

“I got it, and we need to get it in the right hands.”

“I know who needs to see it,” she said. She told him about Boomer and Skibicki and the entire situation in Hawaii and he nodded when she was done.

“Yeah, I know Ski. We served together, and I’ve been talking with him about this.” He rubbed his chin.

“They ain’t got much time. Today’s the fifth,”

“What about Colonel Rison?” Trace asked.

“The colonel’s gone, miss. We got to do this ourselves.”

He stood up.

“Wait a second.” He left the room and was gone for a while before reappearing with a phone in his hand. He plugged it into a jack in the wall.

“I got us a way to get to Hawaii, but we won’t get there until tomorrow.

Do you think you’re up to traveling.”

“I made it this far,” Trace said.

Harry handed her the phone.

“I think you ought to call Hawaii.”

Trace dialed and talked to Skibicki. She was surprised but relieved when he told her Boomer had gone to the authorities.

At least it was out in the open now. She told Skibicki about what had happened at West Point and where she was, then handed the phone to Harry, who walked out of the room, still talking to the sergeant major.

There was no packing to be done. Trace had only the clothes she’d had on when Harry had rescued her, with the addition of the cast on her leg and a tight bandage around her ribs. Harry had pulled up the blinds.

The snow-covered hills of the Adirondacks beckoned outside. It was as abrupt a change from the green of Hawaii as possible and Trace stared out at it, as her mind tried to work over all that had happened in the past few days.

She looked up as Harry came back in the room.

“How did you find me?” she abruptly asked, one of many questions that were flitting about her brain like unsettled demons.

“Find you?” he asked as he handed her the diary.

“At West Point,” she clarified.

“I got back in contact with Skibicki,” he said.

“He told me to put the word out on the NCO network to look for you. The MPS at West Point spotted you and I got a call.

I came there as quickly as possible and waited until you got uncovered.”

Trace wasn’t satisfied.

“Why didn’t you recover the diary?”

“I didn’t know where it was,” Harry said, checking her cast and adjusting a set of crutches for her height.

“Why not?”

Harry paused and looked at her.

“Because I was with the colonel and they knew that. All they’d have to do is snatch me, and one thing I learned a long time ago: everyone talks, all you have to do is apply the right pressure, physical or mental.”

After her recent experience. Trace could most certainly agree with that.

Harry continued.

“I didn’t know where the. letter was that the colonel gave you, but I imagine it was someplace that if anything happened to him, it would get into the right hands. Maybe there were copies of that letter.”

“Where’s the colonel?” Trace asked.

“I took him out of Philly and brought him back here.”

Harry pointed out the window at the snow covered hills.

“He’s buried where he always wanted to be buried. All I know now is we got the diary, and we got to get it to Hawaii.”

“You haven’t been very specific on how we are going to do that,” Trace said.

Harry cocked his head. Trace paused to listen. Even through the walls of the house she could hear a plane’s engine coming closer.

“How are they going to land?” she asked, pointing out at the snow-covered hills and trees.

Harry held out a hand, helping her to her feet.

“You’ll see. Let’s be getting outside.” Trace fumbled with the crutches, but Harry made it easier, tucking them under one arm and lifting her with the other. He’d given her a down vest to put on and she was grateful for it as they stepped outside into the front yard.

A twin-engine plane swooped in suddenly from over the hills to the south. Trace stared in amazement as it slowed and came to a hover directly overhead as the wings themselves rotated up, pointing the massive propeller blades up into the sky. She’d seen pictures of the V-22 Osprey but never been near one in person. It was much larger than she had imagined, and she was impressed with the way it slowly settled down into the driveway, the blades kicking up snow and causing her to duck her head and shield her eyes. The plane had no markings identifying it and Trace wondered who owned it — the last she had heard the military had opted not to purchase the multipurpose craft, a move violently opposed by the Special Operations community.

A ramp in the rear came down, and Harry carried her on board. As he settled her down in the cargo web seating around the inside of the cargo bay, the ramp closed. The ramp swung shut and the pilots increased power, lifting the Osprey out of the snow and into the sky.

As the wings rotated forward, the plane’s velocity increased, and it roared off to the west.

“We’re moving you up to Schofield Barracks,” the agent said as he slapped the cuffs back on Boomer’s wrist.

“We don’t want your friends to get any strange ideas about breaking you out.” Boomer had heard him called Lucas by one of the other men who had been guarding him, and he filed that information for possible later use.

After being brought out of the Royal Hawaiian, Boomer had been taken to a secure room at the small MP station on Port Derussy for safekeeping.

From what he had heard so far, these men knew about him, Skibicki, and Vasquez.

He’d even heard one of the agents say something about Trace in New York.

Boomer had no doubt now that The Line existed. He couldn’t believe Senator Jordan simply taking General Martin’s word. They were all insane with their complacency.

These diplomats were too sure that the wheels of justice and normalcy would turn properly and everything would stay in its correct place, but Boomer knew better. He’d been there on that hillside in the Ukraine.

He knew the men of The Line were willing to sacrifice innocent lives to achieve their goals.

Of course. Boomer reminded himself, he’d been too complacent also.

Waiting a day for Trace to surface with the diary, if that’s what she’d gone to West Point for. Expecting someone else to do something about The Line.

Boomer twisted his hands inside the cuffs as Lucas led him to a waiting unmarked car. He pushed Boomer into the back seat and slid in beside him. Another man in civilian clothes was at the wheel. They didn’t look like cops, military or not, to Boomer. Both men had the hard set to their face that said they were professional soldiers who had seen action. Lucas took a pair of cuffs that had a foot-long chain in the middle and snapped one around each ankle, ensuring that Boomer could not run.

“Let’s go, Mike,” Lucas ordered.

As the car rolled out the main gate to Fort Derussy and turned west.

Boomer tumbled the pieces in his mind: Keyes and the team from 1st Group probably hiding on the north shore; Colonel Decker in the tunnel; the Sam Houston somewhere off shore; General Martin and the Joint Chiefs ensconced at Pearl. Skibicki and Vasquez were now alone against an organization that seemed to be everywhere and know everything. Boomer was afraid to even think what may have happened to Trace.

Boomer looked around. They couldn’t allow him to live.

The thought made more sense than anything that had happened so far on this confused day.

They were on I’ll and shortly made the turn onto H2, which ran up the center of the Hawaii to Schofield Barracks, home to the Army’s 25th Infantry Division. Boomer knew he didn’t have much time to act.

He was surprised when they pulled off the highway well short of the exit for Schofield Barracks. They were on a dirt road that descended off the shoulder of H 1, then looped underneath it next to a stream. An old rusted sign read WAIKAKALAUA AMMO STORAGE TUNNELS SITE. The road was on low ground following the small stream, and the terrain rose steeply on either side.

They passed a long-abandoned guard shack and entered the site. Row upon row of steel doors were cut into both hillsides. A few of the doors were askew, opening into dark tunnels. Others were padlocked.

The entire area looked deserted.

“No one’s going to find you for a long time,” Lucas said as he pulled up. to one of the open tunnels.

Boomer didn’t bother to reply. Days of frustration snapped as he realized the depth of his predicament. He twisted and slammed both hands into Lucas’s face, stunning him. Before he could recover. Boomer looped the cuffs over Lucas’s head and pulled him in, increasing pressure on his throat.

As Mike slammed on the brakes. Boomer used Lucas to anchor him as he lifted his feet up over the driver’s seat headrest, splitting them to the maximum allowed by the chain, and then dropping his feet down on either side of Mike’s head. He flexed his hamstrings, and the chain grabbed hold of Mike’s neck and pulled him up against the headrest.

Boomer tightened every muscle in his body, contracting like a snake as both men desperately struggled against the chains around their necks.

He felt blows in his chest from Lucas while the driver tore at his ankles.

The driver was the smarter of the two as it finally occurred to him after almost twenty seconds of getting choked to pull his gun. The problem was he had his back to Boomer and he couldn’t move because of the pressure against his neck. Mike twisted his arm and fired blindly.

Boomer felt the bullet speed by his face, hearing it impact with flesh.

His face was splattered with blood. Lucas went slack and Boomer maintained his pressure on Mike as he spared a glance to the other side of the back seat. The bullet had hit Lucas in the jaw and taken off most of the top of his head.

Another shot and the bullet shattered the right rear passenger window.

The gun finally fell from unconscious fingers, but Boomer maintained the pressure for another minute against the possibility of a ruse.

Finally, he lifted his legs and brought them back into the back seat.

He went through Lucas’s pockets, ignoring the blood that was soaking his clothes and retrieved the keys for the cuffs. Boomer unlocked himself. He took the gun out of Lucas’s shoulder holster, then the holster itself. A Berretta 92, military-issue.

He strapped it on under his shirt. He checked just to verify — Lucas was carrying a DIA ID card just like the others had.

Boomer got out of the backseat and opened the driver’s door. He checked for a pulse: none. Pushing the body over, Boomer took the wheel. He drove into the ammunition storage bunker between the open steel doors. The car narrowly fit through and he parked inside. He took the leg cuffs with him as he went back out. Shutting the doors.

Boomer locked them with the leg cuffs, then threw the key into the stream.

Orienting himself. Boomer began walking back east, toward the mountains and Waiwa where he hoped to find at least Vasquez, maybe Skibicki. If not — Boomer didn’t even pause in his terrain-eating stride — if not, well then he’d continue on and do whatever needed to be done to stop.