Terror At Dawn c-21

by Keith Douglass

  “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.”

  2340 local (GMT -7)

  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.”

  Naval Air Reserve Center, Butte

  2345 local (GMT -7)

  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.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tombstone’s command post

  2345 local (GMT -7)

  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.

  Inside the tunnel

  2348 local (GMT -7)

  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. Pani
c 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.

  Tombstone’s HQ

  2348 local (GMT -7)

  “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.”

  Jackson’s truck

  2349 local (GMT -7)

  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!

  Tombstone’s command post

  2351 local (GMT -7)

  “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.”

  Jackson’s truck

  2354 local (GMT -7)

  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 truc
k 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.