by AJ Tata
He spotted the flashing strobe, grabbed it, and shut it off immediately. Moving up the stream about one hundred meters, he found a small rock outcropping he could slide under. He checked his night scope on his M4 and braced it against a small rock.
Boudreaux was ready for whoever might come; he would wait to take down Ballantine. Perhaps he would find the operations center first. He figured the command node was probably in one of the mines or caves that he had seen.
As he rested and recalibrated his next moves, he had another flash, blinding him. There was desert, sand, heat, guns, and a face. What was the face? Was he just seeing the target photos of Ballantine that Rampert had prepared? Or was this something from his memory surfacing from another time and place?
CHAPTER 20
Boudreaux’ eyes moved to the sounds of leaves rustling about twenty meters away. During his short rest, his hands never left the butt stock of his M4 carbine. Peering through his scope, he watched two squirrels dart through the brush.
He looked at his watch. It was just past five in the morning; 0500 hours, he translated. Military time for a military man. More firecrackers were popping now, flashbulbs bursting with photonegative images appearing briefly in their wake and fading just as quickly. Uniforms, weapons, men shouting, gunfire, a young man with a radio, someone named Slick, palm trees, rice paddies . . .
Reality. He had been hiding and resting for an hour. It would be another hour before the sun would rise, so he snapped his night-vision goggles onto his headset, then watched a small deer nose its way past him, stop, stare at him with large eyes, then move slowly toward the lake. He could see the lake shore one hundred meters below him. A beautiful calm morning was about to dawn, just like . . . Just like what? What exactly was it just like? His hand scraped the dirt. What is happening? So far he had been executing his tasks with machine-like precision. “No emotion, no mistakes”—that was what they had told him.
But the darkness and morning tranquility settled over him like it had another time. He vaguely pictured soft, rolling hills that gave way to mountains—gentle ones that rose subtly from the foothills. There was a stream, with rocks. But where was it?
He slowly moved from the rock crevice, less than an hour until the sun nosed over the horizon. What the military called “before morning nautical twilight.”
Boudreaux picked his way past the stark trunks of the pine trees, sometimes finding more space between the trees than he was comfortable with, increasing his chances of being detected. He listened to the Canadian morning sounds that joined the rhythmic echoes of his breathing. Animals were awakening and so, he figured, was his prey. He counted his paces as he strode, tying a knot in a cord hanging on his equipment for every one hundred meters. He had nine knots so far. He checked his global positioning system, a small on-demand, illuminated watch-like piece of equipment he wore on his left wrist. He was within one hundred meters of the third objective area, according to the data he and Colonel Rampert had preloaded into the system.
He stopped and went down on one knee. His fingers flexed around the grip of his weapon. He had a mental image of his objective. He pictured a small cavern built into the face of a wooded hilltop. He looked up and scanned the higher ground to his front. Through his night-vision goggles he detected a faint shimmer of light, undetectable to the naked eye, sneaking beneath a dark spot in his display.
He moved quietly, one foot over the next; a hunter stalking his prey. He was acutely aware of everything that moved, the slightest twitch of a branch in the wind, the turn of a chipmunk head away from an acorn in its grasp. He was also aware that if he had been detected near Ballantine’s cabin that the objective area would be at a heightened alert status, whatever that meant for this particular group. He moved to the west of the lighted area in order to come down on the objective from higher ground.
Echoes of a past too soon forgotten began to ring in his ears.
CHAPTER 21
“We may have a visitor,” Ballantine had spat into the phone.
Chasteen placed two guards at the only entrance to the mineshaft that housed their command center. One guard was outside of the entrance in a makeshift fighting position that provided clear observation of any approach. The other guard positioned himself directly inside the mineshaft opening in case the first position was compromised.
Chasteen felt his adrenaline surge. All of the preparation was manifesting itself today. First, the three successful attacks, and now he had received an intruder alert. And this was only the beginning.
He walked slowly along the worn AstroTurf, ducking to avoid the low crossbeams in the shaft. He looked at a series of television screens, all displaying footage of the attacks. Scrolling news bars shouted from beneath the talking heads: al Qaeda suspected in attacks. . . . Terror strikes U.S. again. . . . U.S. unprepared for attacks. . . . More than 500 confirmed dead in Metroliner crash. . . . Casualties unknown in Minneapolis and Charlotte. . . . Thousands believed dead.
Two radio operators sat at a small console, monitoring radio transmissions and recording significant events into small laptop computers that fed into large-screen displays the size of big-screen televisions in sports bars.
The interior of the shaft reminded Chasteen of a high school locker room, both in size and smell. With only one ventilation shaft, air circulation was meager at best. He took a deep breath of the stale air and studied the map hanging on the wall. The U.S. map had red stars covering large cities and key chokepoints where specific actions were to take place this week. He noticed the radio operator had placed three green stars on the map. Green was good. It was a go.
He took another deep breath, and the stale air made him think again of the ventilation shaft. Why did they only have one shaft? And why was it tucked around a corner, out of the normal path of the air circulation? Surely they could cut another hole in here.
With that thought, he decided to walk outside to check on the guard and get some fresh air.
Boudreaux low-crawled, sliding only a few inches at a time to the top of the hill. Checking his global positioning system, he found that the grid coordinate registered within plus or minus five meters of his third objective.
Sliding his hand forward, he felt metal protruding from the ground. He was concerned it could be a mine, but knew it was probably something less dangerous. He let his fingertips dance gingerly on the protrusion while he slowly turned his head to view the device. With his free hand, he refocused the monocle on his night-vision goggles. What he found was the outline of a metal leg of some type. It appeared to be a base leg, holding something up. He followed the leg upward and saw twigs and leaves covering a round, metal object.
Boudreaux slowly moved his hand and found the other two base legs, then traced his hand around a metal dish. It was a satellite dish, he knew that much.
He was in the right place.
He found the wires connected to the dish and followed them, continuing to low-crawl as he did so. Suddenly the wires dived down through some sort of hole. His goggles detected light skidding up at him. He closed his goggle eye and noticed that the light was barely discernible, noticeable only through the lens of his night-vision device.
Boudreaux removed his knife from its sheath and probed downward, following the path of the wires. His knife struck something that gave, then resisted. He felt it with his hand and determined it was a screen of some type, loosely installed. Removing his Leatherman from its pouch, he opened the pliers function and secured the screen, pulling upward slowly. It gave, and soon he had lifted the screen away from the hole.
His hand retraced the wires and now struck what felt like cloth loosely secured, perhaps to block light. He removed his night-vision goggles, allowing a minute for his right eye to regain its night vision. Once again, he used the pliers to pinch a small piece of the cloth near a corner. He slowly removed the fabric and laid it next to the wire mesh. A dim light, just bright enough for him to see that the tunnel led into a larger area, shone through the hole
.
What he saw was a two-foot square cut into the ground that gave way to a larger earthen tunnel. He carefully lowered his body into the hole, feeling secure once his feet found purchase on the firm bottom. He gave himself a minute to adjust to the new sounds around him. There was only one direction to go, so he stepped carefully that way.
His M4 at the ready, Boudreaux turned a corner and saw two men wearing headsets. One man had his head buried in what looked like a notepad, writing something. The other man was staring at one of several televisions lining a wooden shelf directly above them.
To his left, Boudreaux noticed a slight movement produced by a third person. He was dressed in camouflaged fatigues and was holding a pistol. Boudreaux raised his M4 and fired a single shot into his skull.
With mild amusement, Boudreaux noticed how quickly and quietly the man slumped to the floor. He immediately aimed his weapon at the two headset-clad men, one of whom was turning toward the slight noise created by the interior guard. Wasting no time, Boudreaux double-tapped the turning man, then with robotic precision eliminated the remaining target.
That’s all they were to him: targets. Rampert had drilled into him time and time again that the enemy was not a living human being but a target, just like the wood and paper targets he practiced with in the Fort Bragg shoot house. See. Shoot. Move. He did so with machine-like accuracy.
He did a quick survey of the area, taking in data such as the five television stations on various news and weather channels, a row of communications equipment, maps of the United States with large red and green stars dotted on certain cities, and a chart. The chart was white poster board with the word Predator written at the top, followed by 18/18 and Fong Hou. A listing of city names ran down the left side. Realizing he did not have much time, Boudreaux pulled a small radio out of a pouch on his belt. He typed in a code and then a digital message:
Target No. 3. 3 EKIA. 5 SATCOMS. 5 TV. News/weather. Chart—Predator 18/18. Fong Hou. EOM.
His message indicated that at the third objective location he had killed in action (KIA) three enemy personnel. Also, he had found five means of satellite communications, five televisions that were indicating news and weather, and a chart bearing the words he had typed.
He had no idea what Fong Hou could mean.
After typing EOM, meaning “end of message,” Boudreaux scanned the city names, mentally trying to log most, if not all. Then he saw one name than made him stop: Charlottesville, Virginia.
His eyes lifted slowly to the map next to the chart. He saw several stars spotted around Virginia, but one star was distinctly separate from the others. This star was larger and seemed to have been traced many times over, almost obsessively. He walked slowly toward the map, staring at the dot with an inexplicable awe, transfixed. Almost catatonic, oblivious to any danger around him, he nearly pressed his nose to the oversized map tacked onto the support beams.
Represented on the map, the state of Virginia was a large triangular shape about the size of a mailbox. He could see cities, roads, and relief features indicated on the map. He saw the star next to the city of Charlottesville, and then his eyes followed Route 29 north to a small town called Ruckersville. He traced, intuitively, a road to the west to a small town called Stanardsville, which had been highlighted with a yellow felt-tip pen several times.
About the time he heard a noise coming from his left, Boudreaux noticed the word kill written next to the circle.
Then it all came back to him.
CHAPTER 22
The sound of a door opening in the dark alcove across the musty mineshaft did not give him time to contemplate the fact that he had suddenly realized his name was not Boudreaux.
He looked away from the map and stared into the dark corner from which the noise had come. He stepped slowly to the side, finding cover behind wood beams next to a plywood shelf that held a row of Internet switching devices.
His heart raced, pounding in his chest like a war drum. His memory had washed over him in a massive wave of recognition, but had left his initial purpose for being in the mineshaft clear, like a rock amidst the current.
The door opened partially and then stopped against something on the floor. He saw that the body of the guard he had just killed was blocking access to the mineshaft. He raised his M4, sighting along the crack between the door and the frame. The outline of a head looked down at the body long enough for “Boudreaux” to fire a shot from his silenced weapon. The head kicked back from the force of the bullet and led the body to the floor.
He kept the weapon sighted along the door, expecting others to come streaming through.
But his expectation was unrealized.
Chasteen tossed his cigarette aside about the time the guard tumbled back toward him.
“Quit screwing around, eh?” Chasteen said, pushing him aside in irritation. The body slumped to the floor. Lifeless. “Sloan?”
Bending down, Chasteen lowered his face toward Sloan and in the dim light noticed the bullet hole squarely in the center of his forehead. Expert shot from an expert marksman. He wondered whether one of the radio operators had killed him or if someone else had infiltrated their hideout.
Chasteen pulled his Glock from its holster and stepped carefully toward the door. Hearing a slight rustling behind him, he stalled.
The cold steel pressed against his neck made him freeze. He started to bring his hands up.
“Visitor,” Ballantine whispered in his ear.
“Shit, you scared me,” Chasteen said, dropping his hands and sighing in relief. “Sloan is dead. Probably the others in the shaft as well.”
Ballantine seethed for a moment, long enough to refocus his mind. Who was this intruder attempting to disrupt my part of the plan? He knew that everything else hinged on this phase of the operation.
“You cover the front door. There’s only one other way in, the satellite shaft. Did you have that covered?”
Chasteen dropped his head. “Never occurred to me.”
Ballantine’s heavy gaze fixed on Chasteen, who knew he had made a critical mistake.
Eating his anger, Ballantine immediately went into planning mode. “You stay here and move into the front in about a minute. I’ll drop down through the shaft.”
“Right.”
Ballantine circled around the hill to the small opening where he figured their attacker had entered. The camouflage had been disturbed and the access screen removed. The intruder had entered through this approach.
Lowering himself into the hole, Ballantine kept his eyes focused on the lighted area around the corner. Upon getting his footing, he raised his pistol as he slowly moved to the edge of the wooden support beam to view what was waiting for him inside.
The man who knew his name was not Boudreaux heard the noise from his left, but perhaps a bit too late. He saw the door move again and now had to contend with possible threats from two locations.
The first bullet whipped past his head before he heard the sound of the pistol explode in the cavernous mineshaft. Going low instinctively, he knelt on the floor, finding himself thinking it odd that they would have AstroTurf inside of this place.
He saw three naked florescent lights suspended from a beam and felt absently for the night-vision goggles hanging around his neck. Remembering he had four full magazines stored in his outer tactical vest, he quickly fired a single shot into each light, shattering the thin glass and bringing on near darkness. The televisions behind him cast a flickering glow across the mineshaft, making it more difficult to detect movement. To remedy that situation, “Boudreaux” snapped off five more rounds, one into each television, leaving him to deal only with the dim liquid crystal displays from the Internet-switching devices and radios.
“Are you here to kill me or all of my equipment?” a voice called out.
“Ballantine?”
“Yes, I’m here,” Ballantine said, a faint hint of recognition registering in the back of his mind.
“Then I’m here to kill y
ou.”
“Well, I count four bodies already, so I presume you are very good at what you do.”
“That’s why they sent me. Seems you’re a bad man, Mr. Ballantine.”
Boudreaux felt the first drop of sweat trickle down his forehead and fall onto the dusty, green grass beneath him. A radio behind him squawked, causing him to turn.
“Signal base, this is Viper. Operations in zone two ready to begin.”
A second shot from Ballantine’s Glock nicked his shoulder, drawing blood. He winced in pain, disappointed in himself for becoming distracted, losing his focus.
“Did I get you, my friend?” Ballantine asked.
He knew he had been close. But he was taking his time because he was trying to place the voice. He had heard that voice before. But where?
“Just a scratch. It pales in comparison to what I’ve already done to your televisions, not to mention your friends,” Boudreaux shouted across the room.
“Who sent you? The Americans? The Canadians? Who?”
“I wish I could remember,” Boudreaux quipped, half-jokingly.
Chasteen was moving slowly along the interior wall of the mineshaft perpendicular to Boudreaux’s line of sight. Ballantine used two quick strobes of a small flashlight to gain Chasteen’s attention, indicating to him to slow down. Ballantine wanted to develop the situation a bit before they killed the intruder. The voice was from a distant past. It was an unpleasant reminder of something, but he wasn’t sure what.
“Tell me, what is your name?” Ballantine asked. “Please enlighten me before you dispatch me the way you did my friends here.”
Boudreaux thought for a moment, unsure of what to say, primarily because he knew that he had two names. It was an amusing interlude to an increasingly strange situation. He found himself recognizing the voice or inflection, or both, of his primary adversary. There was a slight French accent mixed with the more guttural Arabic tones. He knew there was another attacker inside the mineshaft and figured him to be working the wall, which Boudreaux could not see clearly. But it was the voice and the elusive cockiness of the man who had fired the wounding bullet that intrigued him.
