Terror At Dawn c-21

by Keith Douglass

  0400 local (GMT -7)

  Greenfield appeared to be completely fascinated by the condition of his fingernails as he listened to Tombstone speak. Finally, when the former admiral was finished, he looked up. “Why me?”

  “Why not?” Tombstone asked. “The FBI is more familiar with this sort of operation than anyone else.”

  “I sure am.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Greenfield’s voice.

  “Would you like some more time to feel sorry for yourself?”

  Greenfield finally looked up. “Try again, mister. The only people I feel sorry for are those three who died in the fire. I see those kids every time I turn around. Or I see an adult that looks like they will ten years from now. I’ve seen their pictures in the paper. I know what they looked like. That wasn’t how they looked the last time I saw them.”

  “Then keep it from happening again. Take on the XO billet.”

  “That an order?”

  Tombstone shrugged. “If you want it to be. Call it a request for now.”

  “Try Bratton. That’s more his style.”

  “He suggested you.”

  Greenfield nodded. “That makes sense. It’s to the CIA’s advantage if this goes wrong.”

  “Maybe I made a mistake,” Tombstone said in an entirely different tone of voice.

  “That would make two of us. Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But I couldn’t keep things from going wrong when I was in charge of the operation. You’re asking me to step into the number-two position and take responsibility for your decisions.”

  “No.” Tombstone’s voice was firm. “That’s what happened to you before. I’m asking you to make sure that my decisions and orders are carried out. That’s all. Any shit rolls uphill in my organization, buddy. That’s evidently not the case in the FBI.”

  Tombstone turned and stalked away. He hadn’t gone more than ten steps when Greenfield said, “OK. I’ll do it.”

  Tombstone stopped. “Good. The first thing you do, set up communications with whatever state and local agencies there are around here. Something is going to go down — it’s just a matter of when.”

  Montana Reserve Center

  0400 local (GMT -7)

  Seaman Greg Vincent Hedges completed his security round and was heading back toward the building when he saw a shadow move. He froze where he was, his eyes focused on the spot, and then saw a man moving between the shadows. His right hand went to his belt where he normally carried a.45. In civilian life, Seaman Hedges was with the Butte Police Department. But security patrols at the reserve center were armed with nothing more than a walkie-talkie. He had it riding on his left hip, and he reached out and turned it off, hoping the click the switch made wouldn’t be audible. He slid to his right, finding a shadow of his own to provide cover, and watched.

  There were three of them, all in camouflage and armed. He saw them make their way to the reserve center, unlock the back door, and disappear from sight. Hedges made a slow, careful circuit of the area himself, more skillfully than the three men had done. When he was certain there were no others waiting, he put a truck between himself and the reserve center and pulled out a cell phone. He dialed 911.

  “So which one of those cars out front is yours?” Jackson asked heartily, as though making conversation.

  “The white Toyota.”

  “And the other car?”

  They don’t know Hedges is here. A surge of hope ran through him. “I don’t know. Somebody left it here last weekend.” But he was a little too slow in answering to be believable.

  “Just left it here, huh? You’re not standing a very tight watch if you don’t know who it belongs to.”

  “I haven’t read the pass-down log yet. Maybe there’s something about it in there.” As soon as the words left his lips, Hillman regretted it. Because the pass-down log was sitting right next to his duty log, and the duty log would show that there were two people, not one, in the building. Fortunately, the intruder didn’t appear inclined to want to examine it.

  Just then, Mertz and Thornburg returned. “Ready to go. They leave the keys in the trucks.”

  Jackson nodded. “Good. Let’s get a move on. You, too,” he added, motioning at Hillman. “Load up the weapons and ammo into the deuce-and-a-halves. It won’t take long — half an hour and we’re out of here.”

  Hillman tried to believe that they were going to leave him alive.

  Hedges filled in the dispatcher in clipped phrases, adding, “Tell them I’m in the heavy equipment compound. I don’t want to get shot. Once I see them approach, I will step out in the open with my hands up. I have my ID on me.”

  “Roger, copy all. Units will be responding — what?” The dispatcher broke off as she listened to someone off-line. “There’ll be a slight delay in the assistance, Greg. We have to call in another agency.”

  “Look, I know this is on federal lands, but we’ve got a situation going down,” Hedges snapped. “We don’t have time to wait for the feds to roll out of bed.”

  “From what I can tell, they’ve been waiting for your call.”

  Montana Reserve Center

  0410 local (GMT -7)

  Fear pulled Hillman in different directions. Every time he looked into the intruders’ faces, a shiver ran through him, terminating somewhere about six inches below his belly button. Their faces were not that easy to make out, not with all that camouflage paint. Surely they didn’t think that he would be able to recognize them. Disobeying any order was unthinkable, yet at the same time, he was desperately certain he knew what would happen when they were done. The only reason he was alive right now was to serve as slave labor loading the trucks. When that was done, he could only be a liability to them.

  Finally, the last two shotguns were loaded in the back of the truck. The ammunition had been loaded first to keep it near the center of gravity. At the intruder’s command, Hillman climbed into the back of the truck and helped pull a tarp over the load. It wouldn’t offer much concealment if they were stopped, but it would keep rain off it if a storm came up. Given the moldy, rotten condition of the tarp enclosing the back of the truck, that might be all the protection it had.

  Ammunition. Weapons. Ammunition. Weapons. The thought kept running through his head that there had to be some way to capitalize on the proximity of the two. Grab a shotgun, jam a cartridge in it. No, damn it, he should’ve thought of that when he was loading the ammo and somehow slipped a couple of rounds into his pocket.

  He bent down and tugged on the tarp as though making sure it covered part of the load, his fingers scrambling underneath it and closing on a box of shotgun shells. Two of them watched him, their faces impassive. He tried to pretend he was fumbling with the rope, but couldn’t manage to do it.

  One of them motioned slightly with a weapon. “Quit fucking with it. It’s done.” His words had a resounding finality to them.

  I can grab it and use it as a club. I can get at least one of them before they — no, I can’t. Maybe they’re not going to kill me. That’s why they have the camouflage on.

  They certainly had not been cautious about letting him see their faces. Why didn’t they care, then? The grab for the shotgun was looking better and better.

  The man who climbed up in the truck with him grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him toward the tailgate. “Out.”

  On the ground, the leader of the gang took charge again. “Back in the reserve center. I’m going to lock you in the armory. Somebody will come by eventually to let you out, I guess.”

  A vast sense of relief flooded Hillman. That was it. They would lock him up. It would be hours before his relief arrived, and they would be far away by then. They were probably ex-military themselves and correctly figured that the watch would change at 0800.

  Hillman led the way back into the reserve center, so weak from relief that he could barely walk. The leader followed him while the other two stayed at the truck. Back in the reserve center, he walked docilely to the armory. The so
oner he got there, the sooner they would lock him up and go away. Right now, he could think of nothing beside that.

  As he stepped into the weapons cage, he turned to face the leader. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor to reassure the man that there was no way he could identify him, none at all.

  The leader stepped in the cage with him. In one smooth motion, he drew his.45 and shot Hillman in the head. The young petty officer’s body slammed into the back wall, splattering the pale-green government paint with gore.

  Jackson trotted back out to the trucks, shaking his head in annoyance. The first shot to take the lock off had left him slightly deafened, and the second shot had compounded the problem. Maybe he should have shot the sailor in the drill hall where there was more open space to dissipate the sound. But that wouldn’t have had the same impact on those who found him as the armory would. Or would it? Surely they wouldn’t think that incompetent excuse for a soldier had died defending the armory.

  It had to be inside somewhere, that was the problem. Even in a part of the country that was normally well armed, somebody might be curious about gunshots coming from the reserve center. Jackson experienced a quiet moment of pride that he even thought of that — many wouldn’t.

  Thornburg and Mertz had the trucks started and turned toward the gate. One of them had already snipped the chain holding the gate, and it was pulled open. Jackson jumped into the passenger seat of Thornburg’s vehicle and said, “Let’s go.”

  Thornburg gave him a grin and gunned the engine. He let it idle down and then shifted into first gear. He stopped, squinted, then stuck his head out the window. The grin faded into a scowl.

  “What is it?” Jackson demanded, still barely able to hear.

  “Sirens.”

  Hedges had heard the gunshot and started to break cover and run forward. He knew with sick certainty what had happened, and swore silently at his own impotence. He should have run out and jumped one of them, maybe lured one of them off — somehow, he ought to been able to do something. Even without his gun.

  You couldn’t do anything except die with him and you know it. Wait for the backup.

  He could hear the sirens, marginally louder now, their frequency increasing as they approached. But the trucks were gunning their engines. As he watched, one rolled out and headed for the gate.

  Get to the gate. You can hold it shut, you can, one part of his mind insisted.

  No. You can’t. They’ll simply run you down. No Tiananmen Square standoff with these guys.

  Inspiration seized him. The lead truck would pass within thirty feet of his location, the second one about twenty feet behind it. There was a risk, but not a large one. The shadows covered this portion of the compound and the gate, and all he needed was a little luck.

  He let the second truck pass, took a deep breath, then ran out from the shadows to fall in behind it. Adrenaline flooded his system, giving him the extra energy needed to dart forward, jump, and grab the second truck’s tailgate. He let his arms do the work then, his feet providing traction where they could as the truck picked up speed. He hauled himself into the back of the deuce-and-a-half and slipped under the canvas cover. Inside, it was pitch black, and he prayed that the night was dark enough that the man in front of them would not be able to see him moving.

  He fumbled around in the darkness until he located a box of shotgun shells, then quietly felt under the canvas until he found a weapon. There was no sign that the driver noticed anything was amiss. He caressed the shotgun, feeling a whole lot better about what was starting to sound like a stupid plan.

  Better, but not good enough. There had to be — yes, there was. His fingers closed around a.45 handgun. Now where was the ammo? It took a little longer, but finally he located it. The noise from the diesel engines and the truck rattling covered the sound as he loaded both weapons.

  So now what? He contemplated dropping the tailgate and shoving the rest of the weapons and ammunition out of the truck, rejecting the idea almost at once. Too much noise, and it would pose a hazard for other people on the road. No, better to keep everything all in one place: the perp, the evidence, and the cop.

  Through a small sliding window that separated the driver’s compartment from the rest of the truck, he could see that the distance to the lead truck was increasing. Sooner or later, the driver would notice he was falling behind and speed up. It had to be now.

  In one clean motion, he broke the glass and shoved the business end of the shotgun through it into the driver’s compartment. The truck careened wildly and almost turned over, but the driver fought it back onto the road.

  “Pull over,” Hedges said, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Both hands on the steering wheel, asshole.”

  Either the driver didn’t hear so well or he was terminally stupid. He was already reaching for the handgun on the seat.

  Shit. This isn’t going well. Time seemed to slow, almost stop. The driver’s fingers closed around the gun. It would be an awkward angle, almost impossible to do any aiming, but Hedges wasn’t willing to take any chances. He pointed the shotgun down and pulled the trigger.

  The driver’s arm below the elbow disappeared in a hurricane of blood that blew back through the window, temporarily blinding Hedges. He jerked the shotgun back and jumped, sacrificing any skill or grace he might have possessed in a frantic effort to make it to the tailgate. He bounced off the side of the truck as it went into a spin. Screams of pain and anguish were now audible from the front seat. It was impossible to stand up, and he had only a few seconds before the truck overturned or crashed into a tree. Hedges pulled him himself up amid the shifting cargo, gathered his feet under him, and made one final jump. He hit the canvas cover in the back of the truck, and for a moment he thought he was trapped.

  Then the old, sun-bleached fabric parted, releasing him from the dangerous confines of the truck. He flew through the air, instinct taking over. By sheer luck, he hit the dirt beside the road and tucked and rolled. He took most of the impact on his shoulder and felt something give way. He tumbled through brush, chin tucked, arms covering his face as branches and shrubs tore at him. Finally, what seemed like hours later, he came to a stop.

  Silence. The truck, where was it? He tried to shove himself up, but his right arm wasn’t bearing any weight. He collapsed on his side, rolled over, and tried again. Finally, in the dim starlight, he could see a dark shape further into the brush up ahead. The engine was silent.

  I’ll find him. Find him and kill him for what he did. Hedges moved forward, still running on adrenaline and instinct, vengeance his only goal.

  With each move came the pain, and that restored him to sanity. He had not covered more than ten feet toward the truck before he stopped, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed 911. In the distance, the sirens were growing louder.

  0430 local (GMT -7)

  Any moment now. Abraham glanced at his watch again, reassuring himself that they were still not late, that everything was going according to plan. It wasn’t like him to have a case of nerves during an operation. But then again, he usually wasn’t quite so far from the action.

  Oh, he had no doubt Jackson could pull off getting the ammunition and weapons. They’d done so too many times in the past. Sure, the Army investigated and tried to crack down, but these military facilities in remote areas of the country were little more than sieves. Firepower leaked out of them and into the surrounding hills, and rather than face the embarrassment, the Army simply marked equipment off as lost, expended, or stolen.

  It wasn’t the operation that worried him. It had been the look on his son’s face. He knew Jackson was chafing under the restrictions placed on him, that he longed for greater responsibility within the organization. He had somehow gotten it in his mind that it would take a dramatic gesture to prove himself worthy. Abraham had tried to dispel the notion, stressing the need to remain covert and appear simply as members of the community. While Jackson outwardly agreed with that principle, Abraham knew his son too well to b
elieve him.

  Finally, he heard the dull roar of the truck echoing through the mountains. It was coming closer now, approaching far too fast. It was a decent road, but still, a two-ton truck was an unwieldy monster.

  Moments later, the truck drove by, traveling at approximately sixty miles an hour down the narrow road. Abraham swore and yanked down the microphone from its mount on the ceiling.

  “Red Dog One, this is Red Dog Leader. Interrogative your status?”

  There was no answer. He tried again, this time adding, “Report!”

  Jackson’s voice answered, unsteady as he jounced around in the truck. “No problems. Go ahead and head out. We’ll rendezvous as planned.”

  “Slow down,” Abraham ordered. “You’ll just call attention to yourself going that fast.”

  There was no answer. Swearing, Abraham put his truck into gear and headed down the road after his troops. An old Army adage sprang to mind: Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.

  Highway

  0430 local (GMT -7)

  Thornburg’s headlights flickered wildly in the rearview mirror and caught Jackson’s attention. He leaned forward to stare at the mirror, and then rolled down the window and stuck his head out. “What the hell is he doing?”

  “I don’t know.” Mertz took his gaze off the road in front of him long enough to check the rearview mirror. “Flat tire, maybe. That’s all we need right now.”

  “Are there spares?”

  Mertz shook his head. “I didn’t notice any.”

  Jackson swore quietly. “We better slow down and let him catch up, see what’s wrong.”

  The lights careened off the right side of the rearview mirror and disappeared. “Stop!” Jackson snapped. “Damned idiot. Turn around — we’ll have to go back and get him. I think we can get most of his gear on this truck.”

  Mertz obediently slowed the vehicle and then started to turn. Alarm bells went off in Jackson’s mind. There was no traffic on the road, no indication that anyone but the kid in the reserve center had seen them. But the other car — what if—? “Pull over.”