An escape tunnel was cut in the hardened sedimentary rock that opened out into the far corner of the yard in case the safe-room overhead door wouldn’t open or the house was on fire. When the house foundation was poured, four inches of concrete covered the tunnel out to where the satellite dish was mounted and the cables returned to the house.
The safe room was the selling point for Hunter and Lynche after the attempts on Duncan’s life. Hunter called it the basement in a town that had none. It was the perfect place for his arsenal, telephone, emergency, and survival items, including a gas mask. All those items were across the room in the dark.
The shooting stopped. Hunter’s heart pounded in his chest and ears, and he remained frozen in place as if any noise he made might reveal his location. He stayed hunched over the stairs in the darkness when a man’s voice reverberated through the reinforced door.
“Not here,” he said in Arabic.
Hunter was shocked. Spanish would make sense, but Arabic?
He reached to the other wall of the staircase and backed silently down to the bottom step.
“What’s that?” someone asked in Arabic.
A second later, Hunter heard the door’s T-handle being pulled. The inch-thick deadbolts held. Keeping one hand on the wall, he crept away from the stairway, though he was several feet from his weapons safe.
An AK-47 erupted. The noise was deafening in the rocky chamber, as the man above unloaded his magazine into the door. Hunter closed his eyes and jammed fingers into his ears, as copper and lead slammed into the steel and Kevlar door.
All was quiet again. Hunter opened his eyes, expecting to see beams of light spilling down from perforations in the door, but it held. The men above, conferring in Arabic, were agitated, and Hunter wasn’t able to understand their rapid garbled speech.
He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, while phosphenes danced to the rhythm of his pounding head. Arabic? he wondered. He listened for any sound and sniffed for signs of smoke.
He decided to leave. If those men had Kalashnikovs, they might also have fragmentation grenades or dynamite. He pressed the button on his Maglite, and light flooded the room.
He reached for the phone on the computer desk, but the line was dead. He set the light on the weapons safe and punched a combination into the keypad. The LCD read Open.
He slowly depressed the lever, trying to open the safe quietly, but it clicked loudly as the locking mechanism retracted. As he opened the door and reached for his AR-15, someone above shouted in Arabic, “Down there!”
More gunfire came. The sound was deafening in the chamber. Hunter’s hands moved from his weapon to a pair of sound suppressors. The relief to his ears was instantaneous. His sense of urgency to leave the safe room and run elsewhere was tempered by other decisions.
He reached for his favorite weapon, the Kimber1911 Custom on the top shelf, stuffing it against the small of his back. Two full clips of .45 ammunition went into his rear pocket, as he grabbed another full clip for the AR-15 and shoved that down the front of his pants. He picked up the AR-15, slid the charging handle aft to chamber a round, and allowed the bolt to slide home.
After a pause, he decided to take the night-vision goggles, slipping the strap over his head.
“Gas mask?” he mumbled. “Gas mask!” He removed it from the pouch at the bottom of the safe and placed the strap over his head.
Bullets pounded the overhead door, as he closed the safe and reset the lock. Snatching his flashlight, he saw the first beams of light suddenly spill down through holes in the door. Three AK-47s roared, sending bullets into the safe room, as he ducked and ran down the escape tunnel. A beam of light illuminated his way, as bullets ricocheted behind him.
The firing stopped. Hunter raced forward as fast as he could, but, with light entering the chamber behind him, he wouldn’t reach the end of the tunnel in time. He was trapped. All they had to do was fire one of the AK-47s down the tunnel, and he was dead.
The opening at the end was in sight. Twenty feet to go, and all he heard was the sound of his feet and his labored breathing. Five seconds later, he reached the small vertical concrete pipe and turned around, turned off the flashlight, got on his belly, and aimed the AR-15 down the tunnel. The only sound was his ragged breathing.
He waited for the attack of a fusillade of Kalashnikovs. His eyes and ears strained for any hint of light or movement, as the smell of cordite wafted through his nostrils.
A glance at the luminous markers on his Rolex showed only five minutes had passed since he entered the house.
Three Middle Eastern men stared incredulously at their weapons. In their zeal to hunt down and kill their target, who apparently escaped into a room under the house, they completely depleted their supply of ammunition while trying to chip away at the concrete footer of the safe room entryway.
When they realized they held empty guns, one said in English, “We must go.”
They slung their weapons over their shoulders and drew Russian 9mm Makarov Parabellums from their holsters. One man led the other two from the bedroom. They hurried single file from the house to the far side of the compound. In seconds, they were over the high wall, assisting each other to safety.
US Border Patrol agents didn’t anticipate a firefight that night. When agents were sent to investigate the seismic sensors that went off near the Hunter property, two USBP Broncos and an airborne Air Operations helicopter were dispatched.
The helicopter was still two miles away, but the crew was able to identify the Border Patrol vehicles moving around the rear of the compound through their FLIR. The sensor operator in the left seat keyed his microphone.
“Three men left the back of the house,” he told the men on the ground. “They’re coming your way from the southwest corner of the fence. They’re carrying pistols and have slung automatics.”
The men in the Broncos hit the men with spotlights. An agent demanded over a bullhorn that they stop and put down their weapons.
“Alto! Abandonar sus armas!”
Momentarily blinded, the three men in black fired their Makarovs at the lights and the amplified voice.
The helicopter sensor operator saw hot bullet traces in the FLIR and immediately called over the radio net, “Agents under attack by at least three men. Backup needed at the Hunter ranch!”
Bullets crashed into the windshields, and two random shots took out one of the spotlights, as the drivers responded to their partner’s high-pitched entreaties of, “Backup! Backup!”
Soon, twelve USBP four-wheel-drive vehicles, a pair of Texas Department of Public Safety Crown Victorias, and three of Del Rio Police Department’s finest officers converged on the Hunter property. The helicopter provided eyes in the sky, radioing to the ever-increasing number of law enforcers the location and direction of the three men as they ran to a Bronco-like vehicle a few hundred yards away from the compound on a nearby access road.
The three entered the truck and tried to drive away. FLIR captured the heat of the men inside and the increasing intensity of the engine compartment. Other vehicles converged. The getaway vehicle wasn’t moving very fast. All four sidewalls were punctured by bullets. Soon, the getaway truck was surrounded by headlights and spotlights.
A Texas State trooper used his megaphone and told the men to put down their weapons and get on the ground.
All three men bolted from the truck, rushing toward the loudspeaker as they fired pistols and shouted, “Allahu akbar!”
Hunter remained in the escape tunnel, certain the intruders had given up trying to get at him, but he didn’t want to return down the tunnel for fear of booby traps.
He dropped the NVG case and gas mask bag, turned on the flashlight, and looked at the top of the barrel. Steps made of rebar went upward. He stood on the second rung and slid a single restraining bolt free from a manhole cover, which remained in place by a simple counterbalance mechanism. Taking another step up, he placed his shoulder against the cover and pushed. Whatever hel
d the old cover stuck gave way on the third try, and it opened like a one-sided flower in bloom.
As he cautiously raised his head above the edge, he saw the satellite dish and stars overhead. The sound of automatic weapons fire came from the north. Then all was quiet but for the sound of a hovering helicopter.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER ONE
1400 August 5, 2002
Naval War College, Newport, Rhode Island
Duncan Hunter showed his retired military ID card to the gate guard, who reviewed it suspiciously. After returning the dark-blue card, the guard provided verbal and hand directions to the appropriate parking area.
Hunter drove away from the guard shack, negotiating the black truck and trailer combination through the concrete Jersey barriers. An old, bright-yellow Corvette racecar rested atop the road-weary trailer. After successive right turns and up a short hill, he reached an elevated, nearly empty parking area for about 100 vehicles.
Since it was Sunday, parking was easy, and he took a slot that allowed him to pull straight ahead and depart easily. As he stepped from his truck, a short, round woman wearing heavy spectacles and a long, drab dress walked past the front of Hunter’s truck.
“Excuse me, Ma’am. Could you direct me to where I need to check in?”
The woman paused and turned, her eyes going from the car to Hunter. She pointed at the large building near the bay. “Hunter, two oh four.” She turned and walked away. She was in a hurry.
Taken aback, Hunter called, “Excuse me, Ma’am!”
The woman paused, slightly exasperated, and asked, “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but how’d you know my name?”
Confusion showed on her face. “What’s your name?”
“Duncan Hunter.”
She chuckled. “Duncan, you need to go to Hunter Hall, room two zero four.”
He flushed with embarrassment. “Thank you very much.” Reaching into the truck, he extracted a black Zero Halliburton briefcase from behind the driver’s seat. When he stood, she was gone. “That lady might be big, but she’s fast.”
At the entrance to Hunter Hall, the guard behind the bulletproof glass rejected Hunter’s military ID and demanded he surrender his civil service ID card. He buzzed the double doors, and Duncan walked in.
Immediately inside, he saw a large brass plaque. Admiral Henry Kent Hunter apparently served on the USS Missouri in the Great White Fleet’s circumnavigation of the globe from 1907-1909 and distinguished himself during World War Two. “Doubtful he’s any relation,” murmured Hunter.
After checking in and receiving a room assignment, Duncan walked to his living quarters for the next eleven months. Having stayed at several substandard BOQs during his active service days, he expected the worst. Adjacent to the Navy’s Preparatory School, the nondescript, three-story building labeled Number 7 didn’t inspire confidence.
He walked up three flights, found room 307 was the corner suite, unlocked the door, stepped in, and was shocked by the spacious, two-room suite’s large picture window. After dropping his luggage onto the sofa, he walked to the window and looked at the NWC complex and Narragansett Bay with the Claiborne Pell Bridge in the distance.
He inhaled deeply. “Hunter, you are one lucky dog.”
After several trips up and down the stairs to transfer his personal effects from the truck to his new room, he changed into PT clothes and headed out for a run around the base.
Two old aircraft carriers sat in the distance. Hunter ran toward them, noting the scenery along the way.
Twenty minutes later, he stood at the bow of the two unknown carriers. It was almost fifteen years since he flew his Phantom off a carrier. He smiled softly. “I wonder what other surprises this place has in store for an old grunt?”
He turned and jogged into the sunset.
CHAPTER TWO
0700 August 6, 2002
Connelly Hall, Naval War College
The President of the Naval War College, Rear Admiral DiFilippo, was introduced. The lithe man in white with the gold epaulettes walked across the dais to the lectern.
“Good morning and welcome to the Naval War College.” “I’m very pleased to see the 527 men and women who represent the finest minds this nation has to offer, as well as those from the fifty-five maritime nations around the globe. You’re at one of the US Navy’s best locations. The Naval War College is the finest of war colleges. You’ll soon see the faculty and staff are the best of the service war colleges.
“The Naval War College is where the United States military does some of its finest thinking. You’re here, because you’re a proven commodity. I can say without hesitation that your being here means your service thinks enough of you to give you the education you’ll need for your next promotion and assignment. While here as a student, you’ll help the Navy define its missions. With our international partners, you’ll strengthen our maritime security cooperation with other countries. You’ll learn to think strategically, and you’ll be pushed to think critically.
“This is a very special place for our international students. For as long as the Naval War College has been teaching US officers, it also has a distinguished track record of producing world leaders. Six graduates of the Naval War College have gone on to become heads of state, and seventeen graduates have gone on to become their navy’s chief or staff or our CNO equivalent. Over 150 international students have gone on to attain flag rank.
“No other war college in the world has this track record of excellence. Our international students are some of the brightest, most-distinguished leaders their country has to offer. The friends you make here will last a lifetime. You’ll be surprised where your travel takes you. We hear stories all the time that NWC graduates somehow gravitate toward each other in the most-unusual locations at the most-interesting times. Make the most of your time here and get to know your international students in your seminars.
“Your country has invested a great deal in you to get you to this point, and we’ll need you more today than you realize. Today we’re in a new, unprecedented war against terrorists and extremists. This is an ideological conflict we face against murderers and killers who want to impose their will on free peoples. These are the people who attacked us on September 11. “Some of you have recently returned from the battlefields of Afghanistan, and we’ll learn from you. This is a new war. The stakes are high. Once again, we have to change our strategic thinking to fight and defeat these new enemies.
“I’d like to introduce you to your class President, Captain William McGee. We’re honored to have Captain McGee, as he recently returned from Afghanistan. Get to know him and the others who recently returned from the fight. The United States Navy is the most-professional, advanced navy the world has ever seen, and the men and women of the Naval War College are determined to keep it that way. Enjoy your time here. Make the best of this opportunity.”
“Attention on deck!” was shouted from the rear of the auditorium.
As the assembly of the men and women of the class of 2003 stood and rendered honors, the President of the War College and his entourage departed the dais.
Duncan Hunter glanced at the Navy captain sitting alone in the front row. The heavily muscled SEAL wasn’t tall but imposing and distinguished. His white uniform didn’t hide the massive black biceps and sculpted physique of a professional bodybuilder. The gray flattop and small, round glasses fit an unlined face that exuded confidence and intelligence. His movements were slow, methodical, and his alert eyes took in everything, missing nothing.
Near the rear of the auditorium, among the fifty-five foreign naval officers, Lieutenant Commander Zaid Jebriel, Royal Saudi Navy, and Commander Nassar Athamneh, Royal Jordanian Navy, paid particular notice to the US naval officer in the front row. Both men wrote down the name Captain William McGee in their notebooks.
CHAPTER THREE
0745 August 6, 2002
Naval War College Newport, Rhode Island
“As officers, we
serve the pleasure of the President. What does that mean? Anyone want to define the difference between the Oath of Enlistment and the Oath of Office for Commissioned Officers?” asked the instructor, Dr. Randy Norton, as he abruptly started class.
Half a dozen students still stood, trying to scramble to their seats after the inevitable tentative introductions and first hints of cliques forming. Three international students from Kenya, Colombia, and Rumania were left to themselves. The three Army lieutenant colonels sat together. The three Marine lieutenant colonels sat together at one end of the U-shaped arrangement of tables. Three Air Force lieutenant colonels sat together, and two of the three US Navy commanders sat together. No one talked to the commander with the warfare specialty pin identifying him as a SEAL, and no one talked to the civilian. No one could understand why a civilian was at the Naval War College. Hunter, trying to speak to the SEAL, was leaning over when the instructor asked his question. Folded name cards gave away everyone’s identity.
Duncan raised his hand.
“Mr. Hunter?”
“Officers swear they will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Enlisted men and women swear they will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over them.”
“Excellent. That’s absolutely correct. The President can’t fire members of Congress, but can he fire air traffic controllers who go on strike?”
“Congress critters are elected and can’t be fired by the President. Nearly everyone else in civil service serves at the pleasure of the President.”
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