by AJ Tata
Machine-gun fire chewed the right front fender of the truck as Peyton dove into Matt’s lap, avoiding a spray of bullets that shattered the windows on the passenger side. Without losing control, Matt veered left off the side of the road and into the ditch running alongside.
Matt dove from the truck, pulling Peyton through the driver’s-side door, which afforded them the most protection.
“How the hell do these guys know where we are all the time?” Peyton shouted.
They scrambled into a small culvert that gave them cover from the bullets zipping past them like angry hornets. They were safe, for now, but it was a precarious position. All someone needed to do was get onto the second floor of the hangar, and their location would be exposed.
“Bees, that’s how,” Matt said.
A burst of machine-gun fire spit dirt into their faces.
“We can’t stay here for long,” he said, pushing Peyton into the dirt. “They know we’re here, and it’s only a matter of time before they maneuver on us.”
They moved farther down the ditch and hunkered down against the fire aimed at them from over one hundred yards away. The shotgun was completely useless.
More bullets gnawed at the top of the road that separated them from the flight-line warehouse.
“Bees? What the hell are you talking about?” Peyton asked.
The cell phone rang. It was Meredith.
“Matt, Rampert’s five minutes out with an MC-130. He says it’s a small airfield and wants you to mark it for him.”
“We’re in a firefight here, Meredith,” Matt said. “That airplane needs to land quickly and be careful. Tell Rampert there are about five tangos shooting at us from the west side of the large runway hangar. He’ll need to get a team into the hangar right away. If he has any kind of escort, they can provide some covering fire.”
“No escort right now. Every fighter plane flying right now is protecting critical targets around the country.”
The cynic in him registered immediately that he was not considered a critical target. He smiled and said, “Just give him the intel. He’ll know what to do. Ballantine’s airplane might be in there, too.” He hung up.
They continued to take fire, though it was not well aimed.
He rolled over in the dirt and looked at Peyton lying next to him. She was dirty and tired, but he noticed her steely resolve, which had been consistent throughout their ordeal for the last twenty-four hours. She looked at him.
“What?” Peyton asked.
“You seeing anyone?”
“Come again?” she said, looking up into the top of the mound as dirt spilled onto her face from a burst of machine-gun fire.
Matt shrugged and looked away. As always, when under pressure, he saw no point in fretting over that which he could do nothing about until an opportunity presented itself. They were pinned down and surely the bad guys would run out of ammunition, get bored and give up, or advance upon them. Matt was betting on the third option. Until that time, unsure why, he found himself uncharacteristically attracted to this enigma playing army with him.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“I figured we’d start slowly, you know. Maybe dinner and a movie—”
“I’m talking about—”
A loud explosion interrupted Peyton’s protest.
Matt looked at her and said, “Okay, that’s the diversion. I figure there are three men providing cover fire for one or two others maneuvering on our position. This shotgun is totally useless until someone gets within fifty yards of me. The warehouse is about three times that. I have four shells in this weapon. I’ll use one or two on the attacker or attackers that try to root us out of this hole. That will leave two or three for the enemy in the building. If Rampert gets here, fine. If not . . . well, then, we have to think of something else.”
“Ever consider the possibility that there might be more than a few of these crazies out there?” Peyton asked.
“This is suppressive fire intended to keep our heads down so we don’t see them moving on our position here. As soon as you hear a large volume of fire, it will mean that the team has reached their assault position and is about to move the final distance across the open ground. Probably from the left, over there near the woods. When you hear the fire from the building stop, that’s when you know they are within fifty yards, because they won’t risk shooting their own guys.” Matt pointed at the north side of the ditch, where he and Peyton could see the tips of a wooded area just above the top lip of their protective ground.
She stared at him for a moment.
“No. Not right now. Not really,” she said.
Matt did not seem to register that she was answering his original question about whether she had a boyfriend. Enemy fire picked up intensity with orange tracers whipping overhead.
“Get ready,” he said, lifting the shotgun. “As soon as the heavy fire stops, I’m popping up. If I get hit, you grab the shotgun and defend yourself until special ops gets here.”
Suddenly he could hear only the echo of automatic gunfire rumbling along the valley floor.
“Screw that,” she said, standing with him.
Matt immediately picked up one man moving low, holding an AK-47 at the ready. Matt raised the shotgun, felt two shots zip past his ear, and then dropped the attacker with one shot to the torso.
“Watch out!” Peyton shouted. She spun around and grabbed the AK-47 of another man, who had approached them from the backside. Three shots ripped from the assault rifle, spewing powder and fire into Peyton’s face as she pulled him into the ditch, using his forward momentum as an assist.
Matt spun, placed the shotgun on the man’s forehead, and noticed Peyton was holding the AK-47. It took every ounce of control he had not to pull the trigger, and perhaps he should have, but he saw Peyton standing atop this enemy combatant, taking deep breaths and staring down at the man with frightened eyes. She wanted to kill him. He could see the blood-lust in her eyes.
“Don’t do it,” he whispered.
Those eyes darted toward him and then back toward the Middle Eastern man lying in the ditch, staring at both of them.
“Go to hell,” she said, lifting the rifle.
“Let me ask him a few questions first,” Matt said, lifting his hand and pushing the AK-47 away.
She quickly moved the weapon back and fired a single shot into the man’s head, killing him.
“Damn it! What the hell did you do that for?” Matt shouted.
“He tried to kill you. You should be thanking me,” she said. “Watch yourself.” She pointed her rifle at the grenade in the man’s hand.
Matt looked at the dead man, then at his hand. The grenade, pin still intact, was nestled in the palm of his hand reminding him of how a pitcher might grasp the ball for a changeup. He looked up at Peyton, then over the lip of the ditch.
“They’re jumping in broad daylight,” he muttered.
“What? Who?” Peyton asked.
“Special Ops.” Matt lowered his head again, trying to avoid becoming a target for too long. He moved to another portion of the ditch and reemerged. As he peered over the ledge, he saw four square parachutes deploying dangerously low to the ground.
“They’re landing on the roof,” he said in amazement at the balls of the four paratroopers. While he had done that himself in a previous life, watching it was another thing all together.
He heard four small thumps as the commandos landed on the hangar. Though he could no longer see them, he could visualize their actions. In less than ten minutes, the hangar would be under the control of the special operations forces.
“Let’s move. Maybe we’ll draw some fire and take some heat off the spec ops while they move,” Matt said.
“The least we can do,” she muttered sarcastically.
“Let’s go,” Matt said, leaping from the ditch and dashing toward a small copse of trees to his left. He watched Peyton emerge from their protected space. She was holding the AK-47 and looked lik
e she might have stuffed the grenade in her coat pocket. Interesting.
Matt could hear the stray rounds zip through the trees overhead. They had been seen, but clearly the shooters were not aiming their fire.
“Hear that?” she said.
Rapid gunfire was echoing from inside the building. They were short bursts that Matt knew from experience were typical of close-quarters combat. Multiple shots in short succession indicated surprise and defensive actions. The special operations guys would be using silencers for the most part, so he took this as a good sign.
“Let’s move now,” Matt said, rushing toward the building. This time, there was no fire as they slammed into the side of the hangar, breathing hard.
“Door?”
“Door. I’ll go first,” Matt said.
They slid along the hangar wall until they reached the gray metal door secured by a small hasp and padlock.
“Watch out,” Matt whispered.
He butt-stroked the padlock, which held, but the hasp came swinging free. He kicked the door into the hangar and did a combat roll through the opening, coming to one knee and looking down the shotgun’s barrel. He felt Peyton move into the room and go to his left . . . just how an infantry fire team performed the drill.
“Clear right,” he said, instinctively.
“Clear left,” she responded.
They moved slowly in the darkness of the hangar, letting their eyes adjust.
“Listen,” Matt whispered.
It was the sound of a small aircraft engine cranking.
“That’s Ballantine’s Sherpa. Let’s go,” Matt said, running to the far side of the hangar only to be pushed back by intense machine-gun fire.
Peyton laid down a base of covering fire, but was unclear where she should be aiming. Matt rolled to the right and felt an explosion push them backward. His first reaction was that it was a thermite grenade. He hoped that he was not fighting with friendly forces but didn’t figure they would be down from the upper floors of the hangar yet.
Suddenly the hangar doors flew open. Through the smoke, Matt saw the Sherpa taxiing rapidly along the apron, then lifting off quickly and banking hard to the north.
Running outside, he took two hapless shots at the low-flying aircraft, as if he were shooting quail that had already taken flight beyond his reach. He had done it before and once even got lucky with a long shot.
But not this time.
“You okay?” Peyton asked, jogging up next to him.
“Yeah. That was Ballantine’s plane. But we’ve got to find the special ops before they shoot us.”
“Let’s check out what they destroyed,” she said.
They scrambled to a smoking hulk of scrap metal. The contraption was totally disfigured and nonfunctional. Matt recognized it for what is was immediately.
“No way to tell what that was,” Peyton said.
“On the contrary. You’ve been asking me about this since I met you.”
CHAPTER 27
Franklin County Airfield, Vermont
Matt was thankful that the link-up with the special operations team had been uneventful. Apparently the four operatives who had jumped in had been briefed that he and Peyton were in the vicinity and possibly armed. Colonel Rampert’s MC-130 command and control aircraft had landed, and the special ops commander himself had deplaned to personally inspect the scene.
“Jack Rampert,” the colonel said, holding out a large, leathery paw.
“Matt Garrett,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “This is Peyton O’Hara.”
“Know all about Miss O’Hara here,” Rampert said.
Matt raised an eyebrow.
“Sir,” Peyton said, shaking his hand.
“Got two wounded men,” Rampert said. “The terrorists are dead. I’ve called the FBI. They’re on the scene, blocking the locals from gaining access to this place. I’ve got another crew coming in to do sensitive site exploitation. We also found one weird, scientist-looking dude in the tunnel network down below.”
“Below?” Peyton asked.
“I thought this place felt familiar,” Matt said.
“You’re telling me this is where we were held?”
“That’s right, and that’s got to be none other than Dr. Samuel Werthstein,” Matt said, pointing at the man two commandos were escorting to the back ramp of the MC-130. Werthstein was walking slowly in his white smock, his gray hair disheveled and his hands flex-cuffed behind his back.
“You know that hero?” Rampert asked Matt derisively. “Bunch of damn bees flying around in there where we found him.”
“I know who he is, and depending on what those bees have taught him and what he has given the bad guys, it could be bad news for us real soon.”
“Why don’t we go talk to him?” Rampert said. “Meanwhile, Peyton, I’ve got instructions to send you back to Middleburg to debrief the National Command Authority.”
“No way. I’m going with you guys,” she said.
“Not happening. See that Pave Low helicopter coming in? That’s your chariot,” Rampert said.
“See you when I get back,” Matt said to Peyton. She was standing defiantly, holding her AK-47 as if she were a freedom fighter being told her services were no longer needed.
“This is bullshit,” she said. Peyton turned and walked toward the hovering Pave Low, then stopped. Above the din of the aircraft she shouted, “Be careful, Matt Garrett! We need you back alive!”
Rampert and Matt walked to the MC-130 ramp, pushing through the competing prop washes of the Pave Low and the MC-130.
“Got some clothes for you in the aircraft. Gotta ask you a question, Garrett.”
“Okay, shoot.” Matt stopped at the top of the ramp and looked at Rampert as his radio began chirping. Matt recognized the voice. It was Meredith, evidently calling him from the command center in Middleburg.
“For you,” Rampert said, handing him a small Motorola radio.
“Matt?” Meredith asked.
“Yes?”
“Please forgive me for saying this. I know you’ve got a lot to think about right now, but I just need you to listen to me for a second. Get your mind to a point where you can analyze what I’m about to say without a knee-jerk reaction.”
“Don’t you think there’s a better time and place for this stuff?” Matt said. Through the open ramp of the MC-130, he watched the weakening spring sun begin to touch the New York mountains in the west. The sun was a flaming ball nestling atop the jagged ridge. He looked back at Peyton, who was boarding the helicopter with the assistance of two Air Force load-masters.
“I’m not talking about us, Matt. I’m talking about Zachary.”
“Well,” he protested immediately.
“Drop the attitude, and let me finish.”
“Okay, you have my undivided attention, Meredith.”
“This operator we have in Canada right now, the one we haven’t heard from . . .”
“Okay?”
“Well, you remember that Hellerman told you this in the Suburban yesterday before you left, right? Anyway, Rampert briefed us that his name is Winslow Boudreaux. Ever hear of him?”
“One of the operators, right? But I’m not certain.”
She paused, then said, “I pulled the file on one Winslow Boudreaux because something didn’t seem right when Colonel Rampert briefed us. There was too much mystery.”
“What’s that got to do with Zachary? Did he know him?” Matt looked at Rampert, who was standing about twenty feet away. Rampert tapped his watch to demonstrate his impatience.
“Matt, we never saw Zachary. We never identified him. I think Winslow Boudreaux or someone else is in a grave in Stanardsville.”
Matt let the comment hang in the air for a second, and then Meredith continued.
“And I think Zachary is still alive in Canada. Right now.”
Matt dropped his arm to his side, the radio handset almost slipping from his hand. No way. Then he considered the old Meredith, who would have
only mentioned something of this magnitude for one of two reasons. One, he figured, she thought she was right. Second, she was trying to present him with the opportunity to do something about it. That’s the way the old Meredith, the one he loved and had wanted to wed, operated. She gave him the facts as she knew them, and then let him make the decisions.
“Matt, you there?” He could hear her faint voice near his hand.
“Yes, I’m here. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Thank you.”
It was not so much that he did not believe her. Rather, he was unable to accept that the information was true. His analysis of the information was removed from Meredith totally. He considered her speculation without emotion.
About the time he thought he might want to say something, he heard the unmistakable noise of four C-130 propellers racing. He looked at the aircraft and saw Rampert slicing his hand across his throat, indicating he needed Matt to cut off his conversation.
“I’ve got to go. Rampert’s giving me the high sign.”
“Matt?”
“Yes,” he said, becoming frustrated.
“I do love you. Good luck.”
“I . . . I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
He tossed the radio back to Rampert and then followed him into the bowels of the MC-130. The loadmaster handed him a pair of earplugs, which he needed, but did little good. As he walked along the nonskid, painted aisle, Matt was reminded of his first five jumps from the U.S. Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Since then, he had made hundreds of jumps, both static line and free fall. Toward the nose of the aircraft was a communications pod that he knew was Rampert’s command post.
Along the starboard side of the aircraft were two litters with the two wounded operators. A medic was attending to each. Their wounds appeared serious enough to require intravenous fluids, probably mixed with morphine. Along the port side of the aircraft, Matt saw five body bags stacked like cord wood. The special ops had even secured the two that he and Peyton had killed.
The two other operators were checking their gear and reloading their magazines. One was inspecting his parachute.
