by Ken Goddard
The soldier was still screaming and thrashing around in the darkness, and Henry Lightstone was feeling on the ground for his goggles and the transmitter, when the beams of two flashlights converged on his face.
"LIGHTSTONE? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE?!" a familiar voice yelled out as he tried to shield eyes.
Oh yeah, definitely Grynard.
"HENRY, YOU IDIOT!"
What?
Karla?
What the…?
In that brief instant during which those two remarks aimed at Henry Lightstone filled the air, the wild-card agent sensed Wintersole coming to a dead stop, and turning in his direction with the M-16 raised… and he dived for the transmitter suddenly visible in the shifting beams of the two flashlights, thumbed the A and B switches as a pair of 5.56mm rounds kicked up dirt and rocks mere inches from his head, then rolled away as the nearby barn erupted in a bright flash followed by a violent explosion that sent hundreds of pounds of rotten board fragments, dirt, and rancid, decomposing chicken manure flying in all directions.
Henry Lightstone had a brief glimpse of First Sergeant Aran Wintersole being flung to the ground by the force of the manure-bag-contained MTEAR detonation (and at least a few pounds of C-4 that Mike Takahara evidently missed, because Lightstone couldn't imagine any kind of a training device, military or otherwise, creating an explosion like that), and then… once he managed to get his night-vision goggles back on… the amazing sight of the Chosen Brigade, Natasha Marashenko and the other members of Charlie Team, FBI Agent A1 Grynard, and his colleagues all staggering to their feet dripping with clumps of decomposing chicken manure.
Lightstone was continuing his desperate search, this time for the M-16 assault rifle that his attacker had lost, when someone — a feminine voice? He couldn't tell — began screaming "CANVASBACK! CANVASBACK!"
The furious voice of First Sergeant Aran Wintersole snarled in Lightstone's earphones.
"One-one to Fire Team One, target one-sixty-degrees relative is Special Agent Henry Lightstone… and he's got one-four's transmitter. Get that bastard, now!"
Realizing that the remaining members of Wintersole's hunter-killer team effectively surrounded him, and were very close to trapping him, Henry Lightstone abandoned all thoughts of finding the lost M-16.
Instead, he ran.
Chapter Fifty-three
The first fifty yards were the worst because Henry Lightstone knew he remained well within the hundred-percent kill range of a trained Army Ranger armed with an M-16 assault rifle. He scrambled on his hands and knees at several points, then threw himself sideways on two separate occasions, to escape the seemingly endless, short bursts of 5.56mm rounds coming at him from all directions, shearing off fragments of bark, branches, and rock that flew into his face and tore at his clothing as the projectiles whipped past his head.
Somewhere in the background, he thought he heard the sound of 12gauge shotgun and high-velocity pistol rounds, but he was much too busy trying to stay ahead of the shadowy figures working very hard both to keep up and to circle around in an effort to cut him off to worry about such things.
But as he got deeper into the woods and the thick pine and fir trees became more plentiful, the short bursts of 5.56mm rounds came further apart, and nowhere near as close, which gave him hope… and he continued to run, now driven by the sounds of boots scattering small rocks and crunching lightly on the thick carpet of dried pine needles, forcing himself to ignore his aching legs and burning lungs.
At one point, he heard a feminine voice start to ask something — but Wintersole immediately cut her off with an order to maintain radio silence.
Halfway to his goal, Lightstone paused to rest, taking in deep breaths to fill his lungs and replenish the oxygen debt in his rapidly fatiguing muscles. As he did so, he could hear the muted sounds of other heavy breathing in his earphones.
That's why he didn't want them talking with each other, Lightstone realized. I can hear them… which means they can hear me, too. Shaking his head in frustration, he quickly flipped off the microphone switch.
But as he did so, the first of the oncoming figures appeared in his night-vision goggles and immediately sent him off running again.
As he ran, Lightstone stayed on the winding path because he'd only traveled the route once before and figured this offered the least chance of spraining an ankle on a loose rock or unseen branch. He briefly considered circling back and trying to catch one of the trailing soldiers by surprise to acquire one of the M-16s, but immediately abandoned the idea, knowing that if he stopped — or did anything at all instead of run — he wouldn't stand the slightest chance against the team of professional soldiers who trained together, leapfrogging, surrounding, and killing multiple armed targets with Swiss-watch-like precision.
Instead, he continued to run, stopping only briefly every few minutes to check his compass and gather his remaining reserves… until, finally, he emerged from the tall stand of old-growth trees, crossed a shallow stream, and sprinted up a long incline to the edge of an open field.
He paused briefly at the top of the slope, looked back, saw two of the dark green figures materialize at the edge of the forest, and then, with the last remnants of his strength, staggered toward the darkened warehouse.
First Sergeant Aran Wintersole lay prone at the top of incline with the barrel of his M-16 assault rifle extended, waiting until the two members of his fire team signaled that they were in their proper flanking positions. Then he directed the figure lying next to him to set the crosshairs of her target scope on the slightly open side door of the warehouse nearest their location.
She did, and shook her head.
"I'm getting a diffuse heat source, but no movement," she whispered while continuing to scan the front of the warehouse with her IR-heat-sensing target locator.
"Wait a minute," she corrected herself. "I've got heat and movement. Looks like it's coming from the gap between the siding and the floor."
"How many?" Wintersole demanded.
"Two… no three, at least three targets. Definitely three."
"Where?"
"Far front corner of the warehouse, opposite side from the open door, in close to the main roll-up door," the communications specialist reported confidently.
Using hand signals, Wintersole quickly informed one-two, his heavy-weapons specialist, of the location of the three targets inside the warehouse, and ordered the corporal and his team to take the near door and go in hot while he and his team stayed outside to pick off the expected runners.
Once the Ranger first sergeant verified that everyone was in place, he signaled "Go!" with his raised right hand.
As Wintersole watched with professional calm, the Rangers took the door without hesitation. The roar of automatic weapons fire filled the night air as the lunging and rolling soldiers sent overlapping streams of 5.56mm rounds into the front and side corrugated metal walls of the building.
Then came the distinctive sound of full magazines replacing empty ones.
And then dead silence, broken only by a softly whispered, "Oh shit."
Another distinctly feminine and near-panicked voice whispered, "Help, I'm stuck."
"One-two, give me a sit-rep!" Wintersole immediately ordered.
Another period of silence.
"We've got a… a situation… in here, First Sergeant," the team's heavy-weapons specialist whispered in a shaken voice.
"Get us out of here, First Sergeant," the feminine voice pleaded.
"One-two to one-one, request permission to withdraw," the heavy-weapons specialist whispered.
"Negative, one-two. Hold your position," Wintersole ordered. "Do you have Lightstone?"
Another long pause, then a soft, "I don't know, First Sergeant."
First Sergeant Aran Wintersole blinked in disbelief.
"Then go look and see, Corporal," the hunter-killer team leader ordered in a slow, very clear, and definitely threatening manner.
A much longe
r pause followed this time.
"We can't, First Sergeant."
The unimaginable words from arguably the toughest member of his Ranger hunter-killer recon team brought the combat-hardened first sergeant immediately to his feet. He charged toward the partially closed side door of the warehouse, reflexively thumbing the selector switch of his M-16 to full auto as he did so.
Once at the side door, Wintersole paused, M-16 at the ready position, and motioned to one-seven on the other side of the door opposite him. Without hesitation, the young soldier dived in through the doorway, sending a stream of 5.56mm rounds streaking over the heads of the other hunter-killer team members and punching through the far side wall of the warehouse… then rolled to the floor, automatically ejecting the empty magazine as he reached back for a full one with his left hand.
The instant he heard one-seven hit the floor, Wintersole slammed the door aside with his shoulder and lunged through the doorway, finger tightening on the trigger of his M-16, ready to kill the first thing that moved… and then stood, stunned and uncomprehending, as he stared at the incredible scene before him.
"Oh my God…" one-seven whispered, but Wintersole ignored him, feeling a very unfamiliar fear-induced chill run through him when he saw the hundreds of slowly moving eyes and legs glowing in varying combinations of bright red and iridescent blue in the bright green viewfinder of his night-vision goggles… and then the six, much larger bright eyes glowing in the far corner of the warehouse by the roll-up door.
But as the hunter-killer team leader moved toward the hundreds of slowly moving, bright red and iridescent blue creatures, he began to put it all together.
Snakes and spiders?
Then he stepped on something sticky.
What the hell…?
At that moment, a deep voice with a distinct, South Carolina accent called out from outside the front roll-up door of the warehouse.
"THIS IS SPECIAL AGENT LARRY PAXTON OF THE U.S. FISH AND WILDLIFE SERVICE. WE HAVE THE WAREHOUSE SURROUNDED. THROW YOUR WEAPONS OUTSIDE THE DOOR, AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEADS!"
"BULLSHIT!" Wintersole roared as he spun and emptied the thirty-round magazine waist high across the front wall of the warehouse.
Ordering his troops to maintain their positions, Wintersole calmly knelt on the concrete floor, reloaded his weapon, and waited.
"What do you think?" Larry Paxton asked. With a Smith amp; Wesson 10mm semiautomatic pistol clenched tight in both hands, he was crouched next to the largest tree he could find among the meager collection surrounding the warehouse parking lot.
"Definitely sounded like a 'no' from here," Bobby LaGrange replied from his prone position next to the adjoining tree. The retired San Diego Police homicide detective aimed the 12-gauge pump shotgun held tight against his shoulder at the main roll-up door of the warehouse.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, too."
Sighing to himself, the Bravo Team leader slowly stood up, positioned himself in a barricade position next to what now — thanks to the barrage of bark-shredding 5.56mm rounds that had come flying in their general direction — seemed like a very small tree, yelled out, "OKAY, IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL ABOUT IT," and then carefully and deliberately fired two 10mm rounds into the metal wall of the warehouse.
The crash of breaking glass immediately followed the sound of punctured sheet metal… and then, some moments later, a high-pitched scream.
"GIVE UP YET?" Paxton called out.
Dead silence.
"I SAID, DO YOU GIVE UP YET?" Larry Paxton repeated.
More silence.
"IN CASE YOU'RE WONDERING, THOSE YELLOW-EYED THINGS ON THE FLOOR ARE CROCODILES, THE TARANTULAS HAVE FANGS LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE, AND EVERY ONE OF THOSE DAMNED SNAKES IS POISONOUS… ESPECIALLY THE TIGER SNAKES AND THE DEATH ADDERS. AND NO, I AIN'T GOT NO IDEA AT ALL
WHAT I'M AIMING AT," Paxton tried hopefully.
No response.
"Give them another shot," Bobby LaGrange suggested sensibly.
Muttering a heartfelt curse, Paxton raised his 10mm semiautomatic again.
Two more rounds punched through the corrugated metal, followed by more breaking glass, another high-pitched scream, and some extremely heated profanity.
Moments later, four M-16 assault rifles sailed through the side door and clattered on the ground.
Wait a minute. How many were there? Five or six?
Henry Lightstone stood at his barricade position behind a nearby tree, trying to remember exactly how many figures he'd seen following him in the woods and then entering the warehouse.
They started out with seven at the training compound. Boggs had one-four under control, and I took out another one — broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder — which leaves five. Right.
"That's only four, Wintersole," Henry Lightstone spoke into his reactivated collar mike. "I want them all, or I'm tossing in a flash-bang."
Following a brief pause, a familiar voice echoed in his earphones.
"Lightstone?"
"Special Agent Henry Lightstone of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service to you, First Sergeant," Lightstone replied tersely as he cautiously moved toward the side of the warehouse. "Boggs already told you you're under arrest, and Larry wasn't kidding about those snakes being poisonous, so toss out all your weapons and get your people out here, now!"
After another brief delay, the fifth rifle came flying out the side door, followed by four camouflaged figures with their hands over their heads.
Henry Lightstone took up a barricade position by the side door, holding Woeshack's 10mm Smith amp; Wesson at the ready, with Bobby LaGrange standing guard with the shotgun, while Stoner, Takahara, Woeshack, and Paxton moved in, collected the M-16s, and took the four young Rangers into custody, quickly handcuffing their wrists behind their back, and laying them face down in the middle of the parking lot.
Then Lightstone backed away from the building, and into the middle of the parking lot to give himself a better view of the front roll-up and side doors with his night-vision goggles while Takahara and Woeshack assumed blocking positions on the back sides of the warehouse.
"Come on, Wintersole, get your ass out here," Lightstone finally spoke softly into his collar mike.
"Why don't you come in and get me, Henry?"
"What's he saying?" Larry Paxton demanded in a hushed voice as he came up beside Lightstone.
Lightstone reached down and shut off the collar mike.
"He wants me to go in there and get him."
"Forget that crap." Dwight Stoner held up one of the flash-bang grenades he'd taken off one of the Rangers. "Let's toss this in and we'll see how fast he comes out."
"Shit, don't do that!" Larry Paxton whispered urgently. "You'll blow out every piece of glass in the damned warehouse, and every snake and spider in there'll get loose!"
"How about we turn the lights on so we can at least see him," Lightstone suggested.
"Can't." Paxton shrugged apologetically. "I had Mike shut off the main and then cut the feed lines coming out of the panel to make sure these guys couldn't turn on any lights and figure out real quick that we weren't in there."
"What about flashlights?"
"We've got six of them," Stoner replied sheepishly. "But they're all in the warehouse."
"Wonderful," Lightstone muttered, then grew silent when he heard Wintersole chuckling in his earphone.
"Come on, Henry. Just you and me. We'll have some fun, see what kind of Ranger you would have made."
"What's he saying now?" Paxton demanded.
"Son of a bitch is getting impatient." Lightstone looked down at the four Rangers sprawled facedown and quiet in the almost pitch-black parking lot. "Hey," he whispered, "what happened to their night-vision goggles?"
"They weren't wearing any," Dwight Stoner replied.
Lightstone quickly knelt and rapidly searched all four of their captives before pulling Paxton and Stoner about twenty feet away.
"The bastar
d had them take the goggles off before they came out," he informed his teammates in a hushed voice. "Same with the communications gear and the red-lensed flashlights they were carrying. Military thinking. Don't give up any resources that the enemy can use against you. I've got this one set of goggles, but what about our stuff? Don't we have any night-vision gear?"
"Nope, just Mike's spotting scope." Larry Paxton was starting to look thoroughly frustrated now. "Look, how about Dwight and I take the far door and go for the flashlights, while you guys keep him pinned down?"
"No deal." Lightstone shook his head. "This guy's a Ranger first sergeant. You go in there blind, and he'll tear your throats out before you even see him."
"Come on, Henry." Wintersole's voice reverberated in Lightstone's headset again. "Just you and me. If you try to get tricky and bring your friends in too, you know I'll kill them… and you'll have to live with the fact that it was your fault for the rest of your life."
"That's it," Lightstone muttered as he ripped the earphones off his head and threw them on the ground.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Larry Paxton demanded.
"I'm going in there and arrest that son of a bitch."
And before the Bravo Team leader could say or do anything else, Henry Lightstone ran toward the warehouse… picked up speed as he approached the almost completely closed side door… then slammed it open with his shoulder, dived into a forward judo roll as the door swung shut behind him… and came up in a semi-sitting position with the Smith amp; Wesson extended in front of him in a double-handed grip.
The incoming roll threw his night-vision goggles off kilter, and Lightstone quickly readjusted them so he could see clearly.
What he saw made his flesh crawl.
With no starlight to enhance his view in the almost-total darkness of the warehouse, the sensors of the new-generation light-vision goggles picked up only IR and UV fluorescence.
