Slater nodded. “I’ll let all the vehicle TCs know that. Once we know we’re G to G, we can radio for the main body to join us.”
“All right. See to that inspection, and I’ll have a word with Victor.”
Victor had no issues with the overall plan of advance into Raven Rock, provided POTUS and FLOTUS would be as well protected as possible. He initially wanted Colonel Gavas to dispatch a scout element ahead of Eagle One to ensure the route itself was safe, which was his prerogative as commanding officer. Hastings talked him out of that, as there just wouldn’t be enough room for everyone to maneuver for safety if things went sideways. Victor relented after a few minutes of discussion. Gavas’s team would hang back and act as a quick reaction force if Eagle One was in sudden jeopardy.
The convoy pulled up to the intersection of Jacks Mountain and Waynesboro Pike. Concrete jersey barriers lined the opposite side of the road with a solid wood line behind it. Jones paused long enough to scan the area for threats before he carefully nursed the MRAP into the right turn onto Waynesboro Pike. Hastings thought that the young specialist might be recalling his fast—and extremely dangerous—turn back in Fairfield.
Hastings looked intently at the navigation system screen in front of him and verified its display with what was on his map. “Next intersection, turn left on Harbaugh Valley Road. A few hundred meters from here.”
Jones led the convoy left at the intersection and down Harbaugh Valley Road. They passed the Fountaindale Union Cemetery sign, which oddly enough, had a smaller sign hanging underneath it that proclaimed “not responsible for accidents.”
“Looks like someone has a dark sense of humor around here,” Jones said.
They continued down the road for another few hundred meters before Hastings suddenly laughed out loud. “Slater, quick! Come check this out.”
Slater once again picked his way forward until he knelt between the front seats. Hasting pointed to the left side of the road, where a large, open field lay. A house sat near the road, apparently devoid of life in the later afternoon sun. Nearby, a small herd of cattle grazed unconcernedly in the field.
“Look—just in case you get an urge to take more C-O-W-S while we’re here,” Hastings said.
“Not bad, sir. I just have one question. Who the fuck issued you a sense of humor while I wasn’t looking?”
Jones slowed the MRAP. Ahead lay an off-angle intersection, with a fenced-in power distribution yard and a road leading off to the left of the vehicle. He slowed the rig to a slow crawl.
“This our turn, sir?” he asked.
Hasting looked out the window, then at his map and the navigation display. “Yeah, this is us. Slater, go ahead and tell them we’re stopping.”
Slater moved back to his seat and began issuing out instructions to the rest of the convoy over the radio.
“Eagle One, move your element forward to my position and fall in behind my vehicle. Advise Eagle One Actual that we are at Site R and will need him to get us inside. Be prepared to exit the vehicles with a team for Eagle One Actual and a team to stay with Diamond. How copy, over?”
“Papa Zero Three, Eagle One copies all. Moving to your position, time now, over.”
Jones moved the small group of vehicles forward and made the left turn onto Harbaugh Valley Road and headed up the hill. Ahead was the entrance to Site R. A twelve-foot chain-link security fence with razor wire along the top on their right and a highway guardrail to the left flanked them all the way to what was clearly a security gate. A small, cinderblock guard shack on the right sat behind an even larger chain-link fence behind the closed gate. Slater examined this from the front of the MRAP and worked the front radio.
“Eagle One, Papa Zero Three. Over.”
“Go ahead, Three.”
“Hang back a bit from the lead vehicles. Wait until I give you a go ahead to move up, just in case this turns into a shit show.”
“Good copy, Zero Three.”
The lead vehicle came to a stop short of the gate, with the trailing vehicles pulling to the sides as much as the roadway permitted so they could provide supporting fire if need be. Hastings’s eyes were glued to the scene in front of him, scanning for signs of life from the guard shack or the surrounding area. The last thing he wanted was to get into a firefight with friendlies over a misunderstanding.
Well, let’s get to it. He reached for the door release when Slater put a hand on his shoulder.
“Let me handle this one, sir.”
Hastings looked back at him. “You think you got this, Slater?”
“Yeah, no problem. Just like trying to get invited into the G Base back during Robin Sage.”
“What the fuck is Robin Sage?”
Slater smiled and shook his head slightly. “Special Forces training, sir. Trust me, it’s applicable.”
Hastings watched Slater for a moment. He wasn’t quite sure what the Green Beret meant, but he felt he understood the gist of it. Slater’s training went far beyond conducting direct action missions, setting up ambushes, and killing enemy soldiers with a sniper rifle.
“Okay. What’s the plan?”
“Easy. I get out and do SF shit. You know, talk to them, win their hearts and minds. The usual. Do me a favor, though? If I get killed, when this shit is all over, have them build a statue of me, just like Bronze Bruce.”
Hastings snorted. Even though he wasn’t Special Forces, even he knew that Bronze Bruce was the Special Forces Memorial statue at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. “Sure. I’ll make sure it gets placed right next to the Rocky statue in Philly.”
Slater frowned. “Golly. Thanks.”
“Okay, Green Beanie. Go do your thing.”
“Soon as we get the go ahead, I’ll give you the thumbs-up and we can bring Eagle One into the picture. If shit goes south, lay down some hate and break contact. I’ll beat feet back to the main body via my LPCs if I am still able to. I’m gonna have the turret gunners pop up before I get down to provide overwatch, ’cause shit might get ugly quick here.”
“Roger that.”
Slater exited the MRAP from the rear ramp and sealed it closed behind him. Before he moved from behind it, he did a quick press check on his M4 and his Glock, ensuring each had a round chambered and full magazines. He checked that the additional magazines on his kit were all accessible. Pre-Combat Checks, or PCCs, were an ingrained, almost ritualistic task for most soldiers. The military version of Phone, Wallet, Keys that most civilians do before they walk out the door. If shit was about to get real, Slater wanted to be as prepared as possible. The last thing Slater did before moving from behind the MRAP was to reach into his cargo pocket, and pull out his Green Beret. He slipped it onto his head, taking an instant to ensure the beret’s flash was perfectly aligned over his left eye. Once satisfied he was dressed for the part, he slowly stepped around the MRAP.
Slater approached the gate cautiously, weapon at the ready, eyes scanning the guard shack and surrounding areas for signs of movement. He stopped short of the gate and just listened for a moment. If someone was in the shack, they had to have heard the sound of the idling MRAPs. After a minute of standing around, Slater got tired of waiting to be shot by installation security or eaten by any reekers in the area.
“Anybody in there?” he yelled. “We’re US Army. We have people authorized to access this facility with us.”
Slater paused and looked around, waiting for a response. A man finally peeked around the edge of the guard shack, and Slater laughed inwardly. The guy looked like an astronaut in a level B HAZMAT suit complete with a self-contained breathing apparatus. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hear whatever the man might try to tell him, as the SCBA muffled one’s voice, even if a voice transducer was in use. Slater slowly raised his support hand from his M4 and waved at the man.
“We have people authorized to enter this facility,” he said, raising his voice. “I know it’s hard to talk with that SCBA on, but can you come closer so we can give it a shot?”
The man looked at Slater and the pair of vehicles behind him. Slater knew what the primary concern was, so he slowly unslung his M4 and placed it on the ground. With both hands raised, Slater moved right up to the fence. He could make out muffled sounds as the man shouted at him from behind his mask.
“Hey, —I can see you’re wearing the Osen-Hunter SHIELD SCBA system. It’s a good piece of kit, and I know it well. But if we’re gonna talk to one another, you need to move a bit closer. I can’t make out whatever it is you’re saying to me.”
The man pointed directly at the turret on top of Hastings’s MRAP. Slater didn’t need to turn to see what he was pointing at.
“No one’s going to light you up,” Slater told him. “If that was the plan, we would’ve done it already. Trust me, if we want to get past this checkpoint, we will.”
After a lengthy pause the man stepped halfway out from behind the cinder block building. He was in fact wearing a full level B contamination suit and had an M-240B machine gun slung around him. Slater knew the man was hesitant to come any closer, at least not until additional support arrived. Just the same, he was getting tired of the kabuki dance.
Let’s just get this over with.
“Look, can you hear me? Wave your hand if you can hear me.”
The man with the machine gun waved his hand slightly. Slater nodded back.
“Good. Listen to what I have to say: I have the president pro tempore with me. Do you know who that is?”
The man stared at him for several seconds, then disappeared behind the cinderblock shack. Slater looked on and waited, wondering what the hell was going on. A short moment later, the man emerged again, only this time he walked behind a full ballistic shield that provided head-to-toe cover. It was basically a full-body level IV ballistic shield on a dolly that a soldier could wheel around. And Slater had used those before too. The man had an M4 now, its muzzle pointed at Slater as he moved towards the fence.
From the comparative safety of the lead MRAP, Hastings watched the scene as it unfolded before him. The rest of the soldiers in the rig had crowded up front, watching the proceedings as well. The turret gunners had their orders; they were to do nothing unless Slater took fire, then they were to start pounding away and not stop until they were out of ammunition or the security picture had changed to something more positive. Hastings had stressed that being trigger happy now would blow the wheels right off the entire situation. Everyone had listened, but now that it was actually going down?
Hastings was nervous himself.
The man cautiously moved toward Slater. When he felt he was close enough to the fence, he stopped and set the shield down. It was capable of standing upright on its own so the individual behind its protection could use both hands.
“State your business,” the man shouted from behind his mask. The SCBA muffled even a loud yell, turning it into a difficult to decipher muddle. Slater knew about that too.
“My name is Master Sergeant Slater. I’m with the Seventh Special Forces Group. I have a group of survivors from several units with me, to include a US Senator. This man is the designated president pro tempore, and we believe is now the acting president of the United States. This individual is also on your access list. We need to get him and his wife inside the compound. I’m requesting access via the Hasty access protocol. We are prepared to present you with the individual’s pentagon access badge and driver’s license, along with answering the duress questions.”
The president had spoken to both Hastings and Slater previously and informed them about the required access protocols that would be in play when they got to Site R. Right now, Slater was hoping the president hadn’t left anything out.
“Who is this individual?” the man shouted back.
Slater frowned. Clearly, the man facing him had no idea who the president pro tempore was. “I’ll tell you what—you tell me who the commanding officer of this facility is, and I’ll tell you the senator’s name and provide you with all requested information. Once it’s safe to do so, I’ll even present the man himself.”
The man behind the shield thought about it for a long moment before replying. “My CO is Lieutenant Colonel Gottlieb.”
Slater’s jaw about dropped. “Gottlieb? Harry Gottlieb? Is he by chance SF, like me?”
“Yes. He is.”
“If he’s the guy I think it is, we go back like car seats. You be sure and tell him Slater from Seventh Group is outside, and tell him I’m here to collect the money he owes me. Also, I’ve got the president’s Pentagon badge and driver’s license in my right pants pocket. You cool with me pulling it out and giving it to you?”
“Place it under the fence and then move back.”
Slater slowly removed the badge and license from his pocket and showed it to the man. He then bent over and pushed them under the fence. Once they were across, he raised his hands and backed up a few steps. The man watched him for a few moments, pushed the shield forward and angled it so he could pick up the documents. In turn, he placed a card on the ground for Slater and moved back away from the fence.
“Move forward and pick up the card. I’ll need an answer to it before I can proceed.”
Slater moved forward and retrieved the item that had been left for him. “I’ll have to take this back to the president and get his answer. I’m gonna let you return to your shack and then I’m gonna move back to my weapon and pick it up. Then I’ll go to the second MRAP and get your answer. I’ll be back in a few. Keep an eye out for me, and don’t get fidgety. I don’t want to get shot today. Okay?”
The man nodded and began carefully walking backwards while keeping the shield between him and Slater. Once he was behind the shack and out of sight, Slater quickly moved to his weapon and walked back toward the waiting MRAPs. He saw Hastings watching from the first rig, and he gave the hand and arm signal for Rally. Hastings acknowledged with a thumbs-up, and Slater started to jog past the vehicle. He headed for the second MRAP farther back down the road, where the Eagle One detail was located. He slowed long enough to allow Hastings to catch up, and the two men resumed the jog to the president’s vehicle. Ground security was already in place, and as the pair reached the rear of the vehicle, the ramp descended. As soon as Slater and Hastings were aboard, Hastings closed it immediately.
Henry and Melissa Cornell looked at the two soldiers expectantly. “Gentlemen,” the president said.
“Mr. President, we’ve made contact with the gate guard,” Slater said. “He’s in the process of checking your documents and, as you predicted, here is the duress card.” Slater handed the president the card the sentry had provided. Cornell opened the outer sleeve and removed the card inside. He scanned it quickly, then looked back at Slater.
“I take it everything went well?” he asked.
“As well as could be hoped for—I mean, I didn’t get shot, and we didn’t get into a free-for-all firefight. The CO of this joint also might be a former Seventh Group guy that I know. So we have that going for us.”
“Let me guess … he owes you money?”
Slater laughed. “How did you know that, sir?”
“Some things never change.”
“I guess not. So what should I tell the guard when I go back, sir? And at some point, you need to know that I’m going to have to present you to him to prove that you exist.”
“I understand that, Sergeant.” He held up the card. “I’m not sure I can legally tell you the response to this.”
“You’re going to have to, sir. There’s no chance we’re letting you out there without some assurances, and the response is how we get those assurances. I know it’s very irregular, but this is how it’s got to be done right now.”
Cornell considered this for a long moment, then nodded. He gave Slater the reply to the duress card that the guard would want.
“Okay, sir. If that’s the response, that’s what I’ll give.”
“So how do you propose we proceed with proving I exist?” Cornell asked.
�
��I suggest we move you up to Captain Hastings’s MRAP when we leave. Once I make contact with the gate guard again, I’ll pass your reply to the card to him. If all is going well, I’ll give Captain Hastings the thumbs-up and you can step out from behind the MRAP so the guard can get a look at you. If that isn’t close enough, I’ll have your detail move you forward in the protective formation we showed you.”
“You’ll have to wear your body armor, sir,” Hastings said. “I’m pretty sure that L.L. Bean get up you’ve got on isn’t ballistically tolerant, and if something goes wrong, we’ll pull you back immediately.”
“Can you make it faster than immediately, Captain?” This came from Melissa. She’d listened to the entire exchange without inviting herself into it until now.
Hastings looked at her directly. “Count on it, ma’am.”
And that was all fine by Slater.
Once again, Slater cautiously approached the gate and laid his weapon down. With hands raised shoulder high, he stepped right up to the fencing and announced his presence with a simple shout: “Guard!”
The guard behind the body bunker appeared and slowly wheeled his contraption back to where Slater stood. He stopped a few feet away, let the shield stand erect, and shouldered his M4.
“Do you have an answer to the duress question?” he yelled through his mask.
“I do.” Slater passed it on.
“Where’s the senator?”
“We’ve got him nearby. You want to see him?”
“Yes, I have to see him.”
“Stand by. I’ll have him brought up. He’ll be accompanied by a security detail. We won’t let him come up unattended. You get that?”
“Move nice and slow.”
Slater nodded and turned toward the MRAP. He gave Hastings the signal, and a minute later the president’s detail emerged from behind the lead MRAP. They were organized around Cornell and they held their weapons at low ready. Drecker was in the lead, and his eyes never left the guard. Cornell was clearly visible, but only for small moments in time.
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 17
